Tribe 2, Yankees 1 (Cleveland leads series, 2-0)

Oh, man, just as you think you've seen it all.

The nation saw the Joba we know, the Joba who closed out the seventh.

Relieving the magnificent Pettitte start (7 1/3 innings, zero runs), Joba came in, eighth inning, two on, one out.

Five pitches later: two more outs, end of the seventh.

Then the eighth.

And the plague, during which every mosquito off that diseased lake seemed to congregate at the pitcher's mound.

The back of Joba's neck looked like a scene from a cut-rate horror film, circa 1978: Bugs.

Joba's sweat, his youth, and the precise moment when the swarm was at its worst was his own perfect storm.

Even after a walk, a wild pitch, a run-advancing hit, and a screaming line drive straight at Menk, the game came down to Grady Sizemore being one foot faster than a second bug-induced wild pitch coming back to Posada on a perfect bounce, and Joba there to apply the tag.

So: 1-1.

The next two innings were pro forma. Mo Rivera. Bugs? Freaking bugs? The Hammer of God could snap off his cutter with a brass band playing in his ear. Looking almost half-asleep, Rivera worked around a passed ball, a bogus hit batter, and sundry other distractions, for two more shutout innings.

And then, the eleventh.

Yeah, let's face it. The whole Yankee post-season is based on no more than four innings of crucial relief per game: two from Joba, two from Mo. Everyone else should pay their way in.

Ahhhh. We go to Game Three.