"Do you think we'll play today?"
The question pierced the silence, but only for a moment. The quiet which it received in return was an all too stark reminder that not only did no one know whether a game would be played, but no one had any control over the situation either. The future may have already abandoned them, but these Yankees would have to wait hours to find out.
The room felt cold. Teammates huddled near one of the corners, futilely trying to keep a fire kindled with spare rolexes. And Kindles.
"You know those aren't flammable, right?"
Not right. Well right, but no one would admit it. Everybody hates that guy anyway. Phil Hughes ripped out the latest William Kristol opinion piece and tossed the rest of his Weekly Standard into the flames. Derek Jeter discussed his prognosis with team medical personnel. His leg was fine he assured them. Fine enough to kill anybody who comes near it, or who suggests he take a day off. Everybody hates rain.
Girardi, sensing that his team was losing its collective grip on reality, tried to pull them back from the brink.
"Man, tomorrow sure is going to be a nice day!"
The intensity of the glares suggested strongly that Girardi return to his office. Who could think of tomorrow when it was today that was being stolen from them? What kind of monster would even express such a reminder of the team's current hopelessness?
"That's it, I'm going out there!"
They were all thinking it. But the rain, it wouldn't let up. Drop after drop, the relentless celestial torrent refused to give. Refused to let through even a smattering of daylight. The days were already shorter. This felt like the shortest.
No one was going to brave the elements. Not today. Tough talk aside, a room full of proud, professional athletes, launchers of mammoth home runs and blazing fastballs, had been undone by perhaps the most common meteorological event known to man: rain.