Since that infamous trade deadline day, when the Yankees’ roster turned over like we’ve never before seen, the team’s clubhouse resembles more of a night club than that of a mortuary.
Gone is the sterile emptiness of teammates ignoring one another; the dull murmur of TV’s playing nonsense in the background.
Credit it to the play of the Baby Bombers, or the sensible acquisitions by the front office, but even the elder statesmen of the club, namely CC Sabathia are hanging footloose and fancy-free as Drake plays over the loud speaker system.
The camaraderie of this bunch is electric.