Typically, a late season series with the Yankees is reason to board up the windows, unscrew some vintage Nightrain and put the local authorities on notice. But tonight, as we begin a three-game series in the city that even Snake Plissken wanted no part of, we’re the ones in the driver’s seat.

The Yankees need to sweep. And even if they do, they’ll still stand five games behind us with one month left to play. Not an impossible margin to overcome by any stretch, but considering their recent, woeful play and Chandler Bing’s latest meltdown, it just doesn’t seem too bloody likely.

With a night’s rest under our collective belts and the memories of that steamrolling in Chicago still fresh in our heads, we need to go in and effectively crush whatever spirit might still exist in Yankee Stadium. I’m talking Ortiz kicking it Luke Cage style with a chain for a belt. Timlin with a surgical mask and pliers chasing Joba Chamberlain around the outfield. Beckett sitting in front of his locker before tomorrow’s game and softly explaining that he’s going “people hunting.”

Pressure? We feel no pressure. We have come to cry havoc, let loose the dogs of war, and hear the lamentations of your women. Also, we will very likely kick over the cart with all those Jeter Beanie Babies. Because we’re that kind of crazy.