Hi Yankees? My name is Karen and I'd like to speak to your manager.

You did it. You actually did it. I’m a Millennial named Karen who has took the brunt of all the old-school Karens being, well, Karens and always said, “Not me. I’m not that Karen. I’ll never be that Karen.” But you’ve gone and done it. You’ve turned me. I am now that Karen and I’d like to speak to you about my experience as a fan of your team…

How. Dare. You? Do you not see the interlocking NY on your uniform, sir? Do you not understand the history of your organization? Do you not care how embarrassing your players look right now?

See, back in my day, the New York Yankees were warriors. They towered over their opponents and put fear in their bats and had them shaking in their cleats. Grown men like Paul O’Neill kept the folks who made water coolers in business, not afraid to show emotion. David Cone would pitch until his arm fell off. Jorge Posada used his bare hands to hit the ball a mile. Derek Jeter hustled on every play, was allergic to losing, and played hurt time and time again. Andy Pettitte glared down hitters under his cap and never shied away from the big moments. Mariano Rivera didn’t need to throw at a man’s head for intimidation. He simply broke men’s bats with one pitch.

We had ballplayers. Now we have boys playing a man’s game. Aaron Boone is a puppet, as Brian Cashman holds his hand up Boone’s butt and controls his every move and speaks every word. Our players can’t play hard for more than a day without tightening, pulling, or straining any kind of muscle. We’ve lost the skills you learn in baseball as a toddler, like “see the ball, hit the ball,” or what every PE teacher would force upon you in stretching. Whatever happened to stretching? We have boys in grown men’s muscular bodies built to go tackle a quarterback, but not sprint to first base. Built to win a tire flipping contest, but not built to hit with runners in scoring position. Built to hit the occasional home run 500 feet, but not built to just make contact.

Built using straight-up glass.

Did you know the year Paul O’Neill retired he still stole 20 bases? Jeter played a lot of baseball on such a serious bone bruise in his ankle that it literally shattered mid-game. David Cone pitched a beautiful six-inning, angry to even come out, game the first time back after an ANEURYSM.

Take it back further, Bobby Murcer had the game of his life including the winning hit just hours after his best friend and teammate, Thurman Munson was buried…

This year is really hard, and what I am trying to remember is that these guys are human beings and I’m sure living in this weird, alternate universe that is 2020 has not been easy on them either. Before the season even began, I wondered how much it would affect their play, their bodies, or their abilities. But never did I wonder how it would affect their hearts to play. As competitors and professional athletes, I assumed being on the field is exactly where they’d want to be. I assumed they’d want to give fans, who may have had the worst year of their lives, what they need to see - their team fight like hell to win in a world that is losing. I assumed if healthcare workers could work the frontlines for months on end on their tired, weary, feet fighting Covid-19, these players could play through tight calves and hamstrings. I assumed wrong.

They are simply following 2020’s lead in sucking, and I guess it couldn’t be more fitting.

Perhaps there’s still time to turn it around give us something to celebrate before the year’s end, but should I even watch to find out? I’m a Karen after all, so I have to boycott something, right? I don’t know how this works.

Gosh, my name sucks.

Shape up, Yankees! Don’t make me speak to you again.

PS. It should be noted that all the above trash talk omits the always amazing and perfect DJ LeMahieu... #DJLMforPresident.