Game Thread – 09/11/202∂

 

"I plead the Fifth!"

—"Point of order! Point of order, Mr. Chairman! Those lobster tails were foisted upon me by a very friendly server!"

—I see, Mr. Clarke. So how many did this fair maiden 'foist' upon you first?

—"Um the first foist was only, uh, one. One extra."

—For a total of TWO lobster tails, then. But did you not, in fact, RETURN to the crustacean counter?

—"Uh, well, yes."

—I suppose that charming wench made you do THAT, too?

—"Well, she was very nice..."

—And how many lobster tails did you have THIS time?

—"Um, I ordered...two."

—Two MORE lobster tails! And how many did she FOIST this time?

—"Uh, one. Just one! More."

—I see. So add them up, gentlemen! That is FIVE lobster tails in all! Five! And three of them even before the foisting! Have you NO decency, sir? At long last, have you NO sense of decency at all?

—"Uh, no. But, you know, they were free."

—And did you dip these foisted crustaceans into melted butter?

—"...i did..."

—And we have not even turned to the steak! How many pieces of THAT did you have?

—"Only two. They were very small. As were the lobster tails. Tiny, tiny little tails. Like those on a kitten."

—I see. And now may I turn your attention to the Candy Wall—

—(sobbing) "Oh, not that! Please don't go into the Candy Wall! I plead the Fifth! I plead anything! Just don't tell them!"

The real highlight, of course, was being so close to the action. (I swear!). McMahon is really a wizard with the glove. I was determined to get him fielding a hotshot, but of course, could barely get my phone up before the ball was in his mitt or past him. I have a newfound respect for sports photographers, as these shots might indicate. 

Meanwhile, L'Shana Tovah to those who celebrate, and may we never see another 9/11.

A glorious night in the Bronx leads to a solemn day in Manhattan. Ten Takeaways

For the record, Anthony Volpe does not qualify as a prodigal son. He never squandered an inheritance. He never renounced his family. And until last night, he never returned with much more than a fart. 

After last night, who does not feel an escape from Volpe Derangement Syndrome? Trouble is, we've been here before. 

Which comes next, the happily-ever-after? Or the morning after?

Ten Musings from last night.

1. Volpe's slam reminded me of what's been missing since early May: John Sterling's beloved homerun calls, which had become a Yankiverse parlor game. In case you forgot, here was The Master's first-ever call for a Volpean blast:

"Anthony Volpe! A spettacolo oggi! Ohhh the fox socks one to left!"

2. Ridiculous, right? Cringey? Still, Sterling's moments of pure joy conveyed a grand, eloquent innocence. And it has me wondering:

Would it not be a great gesture for Michael Kay or Dave Sims to remember Sterling with home runs call for each player - especially those who were on the team during The Master's final incarnation. (Thinking Judge, Grisham, Rice, Wells, Volpe...)

3. Yes, some would find this as blaspheme. Not anyone could do it, but Kay could, leaning into his own longevity with the organization. He'd have to make it clear that it was a remembrance of John, not an attempt to steal his bit. But with every HR call, people would remember the tradition begun by Sterling.

4. At the least, come next May 4, the anniversary of Sterling's death, could Yankee announcers celebrate him with homer calls? Dunno. But I do know this: You cannot predict baseball, Suzyn.

5. Regardless of what happens next, it was truly satisfying to watch Volpe's grand slam and curtain call. Plot twists are a major reason to follow this show.

6. Cams showed Jazz Chisholm wildly cheering Volpe's HR. Good for him. But it had to hurt. If Volpe hits over the next two weeks, Jazz becomes a platoon player.

7. On a night of hope for misgiven prospects, Jasson Dominguez botched a ball in RF and looks headed back to Scranton. For The Martian - (that nickname is starting to carry a twinge of mockery) - 2026 looks like a total loss. Like 2025 was.

8. MLB did the Yankees and Mets no favor by scheduling a subway series on the weekend of 9/11. It smacks of trying to exploit the city's pain. This weekend, the Mets can play with abandon, for simple redemption. If they lose, who cares? Meanwhile, the Yankees face a pennant race.

9. Max Fried's inability to last four innings is a real concern. We've got Schlittler, Cole and - gulp - Rodon? Yikes. Somehow, I see Will Warren pitching in a critical situation.

10. The Colorado Rockies look like a terrible team - and next season's pennant winner. One reason: An ascending 1B named TJ Rumfield, whom we gave away for Angel Chivilli. I recognize that Rumfield was blocked on the Yankee roster. But I'm amazed at how they never seemed to give him the time of day. You win pennants with great 1B. And Colorado might just have one.

G'bye

 

 

Everybody's high on consolation

Everybody's trying to tell him what is right for him, yeah

Boonie tried to bore him with a sermon

But it's plain to see that they can't comfort him

 

Sorry, Brian, for the imposition

He thought he had it, he had the strength to carry on, oh yeah

He needs a drink and a new position

Now it's up to Shelley, ooh, what will be

 

He's gone, he's gone

Oh he, oh he

He better learn how to face it

He's gone, he's gone

Oh he, oh he

He'd pay the devil to redo it

He's gone, and he's gone

Oh why, what went wrong?

He's Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack ! Game Thread – 9/10/2∂

 

Just a touch of Brian in the night.

 

We don't need the latest edition of Anthony Volpe to be Reggie. All we need is for him to be Brian Doyle.

Doyle was a Kentucky boy, drafted in 1972 by the Texas Rangers, who had bounced around their farm system for five seasons, until Texas traded him to the Yanks along with Greg Pryor—destined to be another journeyman middle infielder—for Sandy Alomar, Sr., in 1977.

By then, Brian Doyle was best known as the younger brother of Denny Doyle who, with his quintessentially Boston name, had gone to the Red Sox in 1975 and boosted the Sawx into the World Series, hitting a completely unexpected .310 in 89 games...before receding into the wallpaper of mediocrity that was the rest of his major-league career.

(Bill Lee later blamed Denny for making an error and failing to complete a DP that would have ended the sixth inning of Game 7, with the Sox still holding a 3-0 lead. Most other people blamed Bill Lee for being a horse's ass and throwing an eephus pitch to the next hitter, Tony Perez. But that's another Boston trauma story, heh-heh-heh.)

Brian didn't look capable of conjuring up even those 15 minutes of fame (and infamy). A decent but not spectacular glove, he could and would play anywhere in the infield. A slap hitter, he never hit more than 4 home runs in a minor-league season, generally batted around .250. 

Early on it looked as though he might have some speed, but his base-stealing ability quickly diminished and then was gone. During his call-up to the bigs in 1978, he attempted all of three steals, and was thrown out every time.

That call-up came about because the Yankees, stumbling through the first half, came apart physically (as well as psychically, under Billy Martin). Doyle filled in as he could, but did not provide much. 

Used mostly as a late-inning pinch-runner or defensive replacement, he managed all of 10 hits in 54 plate appearances—every one of them a single. He also drove in no runs and drew no walks, making his batting line a statistical anomaly:  .192/.192/.192. 

Then came his moment. The Yanks held a reed-thin, one-game lead over the Red Sox, in their epic comeback from 14 1/2 games back, going into the last weekend of the regular season. They were hosting Cleveland, which would finish a distant sixth that year, but in the Friday night game they were wasting a terrific pitching performance from rookie Jim Beattie, trailing 1-0 going into the bottom of the 8th (Sound familiar?)

Cliff Johnson led off the inning with a walk against former phenom David Clyde. Fred Stanley ran for him, and Mickey Rivers, playing the forbidden dance of small ball, bunted him over. Then Willie Randolph hit a high chopper to third. He beat it out—but pulled the dreaded hammy racing to first.

It was Brian Doyle's moment. Maybe it was in the genes somehow. Maybe the Doyles were like certain, monocarpic flowers, that bloom only once, at night, under an exact phase of the moon, then never again.

Doyle went in to run for poor Willie. The Yanks pulled it out as Thurman, Reggie, and Sweet Lou Piniella hit three straight singles (Those 1978 Yankees could beat you big and beat you small.)

Doyle alternated at second with Chicken Stanley for the last two games of the season, the heart-stopping playoff up in Boston, the four-game ALCS win over Kansas City. He had 2 singles in 7 at-bats vs. the Royals, drove in his first major-league run, drew his first major-league walk. Steady, but not spectacular.

The World Series looked to be much the same. Doyle started twice, and had a single in the first four games.

Then, Brian Doyle bloomed. 

In Game Five, he went 3-5, with a walk, as the Yanks lined 16 singles and beat LA, 12-2, without so much as hitting a home run. In Game Six, he was 3-4, including 2 RBI, and his first major-league double, which tied the game at 1-1. The Yanks were never headed, wrapping up the Series with a 7-2 win.

The World Series MVP went to Bucky Dent, as well it should have, Bucky batting .417 with 7 RBI, and fielding brilliantly. But Brian Doyle finished at .438, turning 4 DPs in the field, and making no errors.

That's all we need out of Anthony Volpe now. No, not .438, but steady, error-free play in the field. Make the plays you need to make, stay within yourself, bang a few timely singles, turn a DP or two, and it's all good. 

That's it. Just a touch of Brian Doyle in the night. Do that, and we will sing your praises down the years.

Lo and behold, after striking out on previous attempts, Anthony Volpe has yet another chance to claim his Yankee heritage

Remember that intoxicating fog of hope we used to lustily breathe every spring?

The Martian? Homer Jones? Uncle Ben's Rice? Oswald & Oswaldo? Estevan Florial? Volpening Day?  

Remember the stars we were promised - Sevy, Nasty Nestor, the Kraken? - and how, as soon as we came to believe, they were suddenly replaced by the G-Strings - Giancarlo, Gleyber, Grish and Gallo...? 

Wellp, here we are - September going on forever - losing sight of Tampa and flicking off Boston - and we're back to that eternal Vince Lombardi Rest Stop, near rollicking Ridgefield, awaiting one more shot at a new Yankee heritage. 

And, gulp, is this real? 

At SS, George Lombard Jr. 

In CF, Spencer Jones.

Somewhere, anywhere, Ben Rice.

And now, at 2B, Anthony Michael Volpe, the pride of Morristown. 

(Note: After viewing this list, it occurs to me that Jasson Dominguez might not be far behind. Yankee OFs - especially those over 6'7" - should be careful with their hamstrings.)  

It's taken 140 games and six months, but that glorious wave of youth we've heard about since 2022 is finally within sight, thanks to Volpe's recent power surge in Scranton and Jazz Chisholm's hyper-extended thumb. 

That sprain might not only end Chisholm's season but crush his remaining time as a Yankee. Last night, after Chisholm's injury was disclosed - (Jazz hits the 10-game IL with 18 to play) - Jose Caballero (hitting .071 this month) took over at 2B. But as soon as the Yankees announced Volpe's recall, the juju gods began weaving their Lady MacBeth/Cashman machinations. 

Volpe returns with a BA of .240 and 1 HR, a rather dreadful OPS of .660 and a lame SB/CS ratio of 7/4. The big surprise of the trade deadline was that he didn't end up packaged with a wide-receiver and sent to some corn city backwater. And frankly, the biggest reason why Volpe remains a Yankee is probably that nobody else wanted him enough to part with a pencil sharpener.  

But but BUT...  he's hit 10 HRs at Scranton, on a tear of late, and here he is - back and receiving what few failed Yankee prospects ever see: 

A fourth shot at redemption.  

In the movies, he learns the power of love from manager Woodie Harrelson and becomes a Yankee legend. Dunno about that. But once again, it's Volpe! Bring it on! One more time, we shed our caustic disillusionment and face the fact that we are insufferable believers. One more time. Could it happen?

I will follow HIM. Follow HIM wherever HE may go . . .

We are officially tired of winning.

34 straight.

Lost amongst the tumult of Judge's return last night, your New York Yankees won their 82nd game of the 2026 season. This ensures that the team will have compiled its 34th consecutive, winning season—29 of those under the direction of You-Know-Who.

It's also why various, half-engaged sportswriters, and (possibly disingenuous) GMs keep insisting that they don't understand why Yankees fans have any problem with Brian Cashman:  

"He always wins!"

Yes, he does. At least in the regular season. And less and less.

The core of the first 14 of those winning seasons, of course, was built by other men—men who had already reeled off 2 pennants, a World Series win, and 5 straight winning seasons.

And since 2013, the Yankees have won the division title only 3 times—a figure which, after they fall short again this year, will mean just 3 times in 14 years.  

Every other team in the AL East has finished first as well in that time, with a certain bunch in Boston winning 4 division titles, and going on to take 2 World Series championships. 

The Yankees, you'll recall, have won just 1 pennant and zero World Series since 2009. 

When they fail to win it all again this year, they will have gone 17 seasons without an October title, closing in on the all-time franchise record for such futility, set at its beginning, from 1903-1922, when for the first 12 of those 20 seasons they were owned by one of the biggest gamblers in the country and the most corrupt police commissioner in New York City history (which is saying something).

Cashman's Yankees will make the playoffs for the 10th time in those last 14 seasons, aided greatly by an ever-expanding field, now up to 40 percent of all teams in major-league baseball.

Yay.

Well, hey. Better winning than not. And Cashie's assorted defenders and sycophants know where the real blame lies for the failure to make or win another Series: us.

That's right, US. 

We "demand" the team be good every year, depriving Svengali Cashman of breaking the team down and rebuilding it into the juggernaut they know it would be.

Yep, that's true.

I mean, we all know that New York is all about second best, right?  If you can't make it here, like the song goes, maybe you should try for a participation medal.

After all, it's not like the Yankees relentlessly exploit the championship traditions of the team to sell more tickets, for ever high prices.

And it's not like the taxpayers have given the Yankees another, heavily subsidized park to help with the terrible burden of meeting a big payroll. A park, that is, from which they excluded tens of thousands of regular fans in favor of the super-rich. 

Nope.

I remember that the most recent of Cashman's defenders pointed out in the Times that, unlike some other franchises, the Yankees don't hang banners around their ballpark celebrating their every playoff appearance—just their World Series wins.

That's the ticket. Just lower your standards, give thanks for every win, and keep smiling. Above all: Keep. Smiling.

Judge, last year's batting champ, is back. But where have all the hitters gone?

Great seeing Aaron Judge back last night, even if all he did was watch two 3rd strikes and hit a fly to the track. (Boston lost, so we grabbed a game.) His singular presence created space for Heliot Ramos to hit a 3-run shot, salting the win over mighty Colorado. (That's a joke.) 

Still, something looked wrong.

It was the Jumbotron. It showed Judge's batting average at .248, surely a mistake, right?  

No mistake. Back on May 31, when Judge went down with a fractured rib, he was hitting a meager .248, worst of his career. Over his last 15 games, when he was said to be playing in pain, his BA fell from an early season high of .273. 

Today, a .273 average would put Judge in in the AL Top Ten. But in May, at .248, he was having a nightmare season, 83 points below last year.

In 2025, Judge hit .331 - 20 points above runner-up Bo Bichette of the Blue Jays. Five AL batters finished above .300. In the NL only Trea Turner of Philadelphia made the cut, at .304. 

WTF? Where have all the Pete Roses gone? If you're a geezer like me, you might recall 1968, a year of massive political unrest, when Carl Yastrzemski won the batting title at .301, the only AL hitter over .300. Averages were so low that, over the winter, the lords of the game voted to lower the pitcher's mound, a change that endures to this day.  

So, we've been here before. Still, it's worth asking:

MLB, WTF?

There are multiple answers to this existential question. 1) Today's hitters swing for the fences. 2) The days of hitting guru Charlie Lau, master of the slap single, are long gone. 3) Frankly, nobody gives a shit about BA anymore. It's OPS, or WAR that matters. The only time you hear about BA is when somebody like Judge, or Yordan Alvarez of Houston, challenges for the Triple Crown.

But but BUT... one thing has changed in 2026. Today, a pitch can be challenged and recalled by almighty A.I. scanners, baseball's version of Flock traffic cameras. If they show a curveball with one micrometer touching the far corner, it's a strike. 

I believe MLB's new pitch challenge system has expanded the strike zone to the point where hitters are cowed by strikes that used to be balls. 

Pitching was always the art of optical illusions. Whitey Ford fooled not just the hitter, but the ump. Today's challenges - a rousing success to most critics - have eliminated many ball/strike rhubarbs and even kept Aaron Boone in games. But WTF happened to the hitters? 

Well, they've been adjusted out of the game.

What if baseball, instead of requiring one iota of the ball to touch the zone, required the entire ball inside the zone? How many extra HRs would it bring? How high would batting averages spike? It would not be a minor tweak. It would be a remodel, and it could happen through some strokes on a keyboard. 

Such adjustments are in the hands of the Commissioner and his merry band of billionaires. They are locked in on one mission: To make more money. 

In that regard, I wonder what the strike zone will look like next year (if there is a season.) From now on, there should be a new name for the batter's box. It's Pandora's Box.

DON'T FøøKING DIVE, AARON ! Game Thread . . .º9/º8/2∂

 

Judge returns to an unsettled and spooked Yankee lineup. He has one job.

Ladies and gentlemen, lads and lassies, children of all ages... 

I direct your attention to the perplexing set of numbers to your immediate right. If you or a loved-one is prone towards leakage or speaking in tongues, I suggest that you avert your eyes from this bottleneck, the official Yankee batting stats for the last 30 days.

It shows a lineup that YES sideshow barkers have for three months assured us was on the verge of breaking out. Any day now, the Yankees would start percolating, and the team would chase down Tampa, which leads by four games with 19 to play. 

For three months, ever since spiritual leader Aaron Judge went down with a splintered rib, we've heard how the Yankee ship was ready to fly. Austin Wells would recover his stroke. Jazz Chisholm would heat up. Spencer Jones would learn, and Ryan McMahon would, well, do something. All they needed was Giancarlo Judge.

Well, guess what...

It's been happening all along. It just didn't matter. Consider Wells. Over the last 30 days, he's hitting .224. People, that's no slump. That's Austin Wells. If we're lucky, he hits his weight and strides blindfolded into a few belt-high meatballs. As for Jazz? Believe it or not, Mr. Lollipop has been hitting .303. Remember how Paul Goldschmidt, at 38, looked five years past his milk carton sell-by date? Statistically, he's had a solid four weeks. 

The numbers suggest the Yankees have hit. But we all know better. 

The problem wasn't a dearth of hits. It was our inability to hit when it matters. 

A few times, in games out of reach, the Yankees have unlimbered on dead-armed bullpen lug nuts and a Boston position player. But load the bases with nobody out and something would go blooey. Nobody in our batting order forced other managers to prepare for, two innings in advance. 

Tonight, that changes. Hopefully.

Tonight, that massive Yankee payload of pressure returns to the big bat that's been missing since May. As a result, every Yankee should not only see more hittable pitches but feel less like the world depends on them.

Over the next 30 days, Aaron Judge does not need to hit 10 HRs. 

He just needs to hit when it matters. That's all. 

P.S. I direct your attention to Hoss's piece below. Brilliant, as always.

"The Great DiMaggio."

 

Hey guys, in view of the fact that there's no game tonight—and in view of what we may be seeing tomorrow night, I thought I'd burden you with an excerpt from my latest tome, due out next March from the good people at Knopf.

                                                                 June 28-30, 1949

Up in the Elysée Hotel, Joe DiMaggio had made an interesting discovery.  For months, he had been going quietly mad. Lying awake until five in the morning, wondering if he was done. Smoking endless cigarettes and sipping endless cups of coffee until his ulcers screamed, neglecting the steaks that Toots Shor sent over. Feeling guilty each time he cashed a new paycheck. Watching baseball on the snow-drenched TV, he even convinced himself that he had lost his eye, and couldn’t tell balls and strikes anymore. 

Dr. John Bennett, the orthopedist who operated on his bone spur had told him it was “a mysterious kind of thing.” One night, Joe might go to sleep and awake the next morning with no pain at all. But day after day, the heel felt like hell to walk on, felt warm to the touch.

Then one morning, it didn’t. Just like the doctor said: he put his foot down on the floor, and it felt fine. The heel was cool to the touch.

Joe snuck out with Gus Niarhos, the Yanks’ third-string catcher, and took batting practice until his hands were blistered and bloody. He found that he could dig in again.  Niarhos hit him a few flies, and the Dage was able to haul them down with no pain. The next day he played in the Mayor’s Trophy exhibition against the Giants, and was cheered to the rafters. He popped up four times, but nothing hurt. After the game, the team left for their series in Boston. Joe, still weak, stayed behind.

At lunch the next day, Toots Shor, urged him to go: “You look better strikin’ out than any of those crumb-bums hittin’ the ball.”

DiMaggio hesitated. He was not going anywhere, much less to Boston, to look foolish. But here was a chance to show up the new manager he loathed, show up his great rival on the Sox, Ted Williams—show up his little brother, Dom, Boston’s centerfielder. He caught the 3:15 flight to Logan Airport, arrived in the locker room and announced imperiously to a reporter—and not to Stengel—“Yeah, I’m going to play.”

Casey swallowed his annoyance and penciled him in fourth. His teammates were delighted—but some of them noted that the Sox were starting a fast, wild rookie named Mickey McDermott whom he hadn’t seen before, and cautioned him against playing. They didn’t want DiMaggio to look bad, either. But their fears only stoked his ferocity.

Almost 45 years earlier, another Yankees star had gone up to Boston against his manager’s better judgement, in the hope of pulling out a pennant. The move had backfired disastrously. But Joe DiMaggio was not Happy Jack Chesbro. He was an avenging immortal, swooping out of the sky to shower wrath upon his enemies.

Across the field, the Red Sox watched him walking with a limp, noticed the special padded shoe he wore with the spike removed from the heel, and were not impressed. One of them opined that DiMaggio wouldn’t be beating out any infield hits.

“You don’t know him,” lectured Joe McCarthy, who appeared to have fallen into a deep pall with DiMaggio’s appearance, Priam spying Achilles walking out of his tent. “You watch him the first time there’s a chance for an infield hit.  You watch how he runs.”

What followed was the crowning glory of Joe DiMaggio’s career. He got down two strikes to young, hard-throwing Mickey McDermott in the first inning, then fouled off six pitches. Finally, the rookie made one a little two good, and Joe lined it into left for a single, sparking a three-run rally. 

In the second, he took McDermott over the green leftfield wall for two more runs. Phil Rizzuto jumped up and down at the plate in excitement as he waited for the Dage to score.

Up in the stands, there was a stony silence. The Yankees’ bench, by contrast, was in fighting trim, outraged when Sox third baseman Johnny Pesky knocked Rizzuto silly trying to break up a double play. In the eighth, DiMaggio retaliated, ploughing into Sox shortstop Vern Stephens, tumbling him head over heels. In the ninth, the Sox still had a chance win, but Ted Williams hit a colossal, 400-foot fly to centerfield…where Joe DiMaggio hauled it in to end the contest.

The Dage had led his team in every aspect of the game—and he was just getting warmed up. The following day, the Sox got off to a 7-1 lead behind Ellis Kinder, one of their best pitchers. DiMaggio brought the Yanks back with a three-run smash to deep left-center, then won it in the eighth with a two-run homer. 

Casey came out of the dugout, salaaming in tribute as he crossed the plate, and this time not even the great man seemed to mind his clowning. In the lockerroom, the Yanks were celebrating as if they’d won the World Series, Joe laughing and joking with everyone.

Early in the final, Sunday afternoon of the series, a small plane appeared over Fenway, pulling a banner that read, THE GREAT DIMAGGIO. No one had to ask which one. The Sox started Mel Parnell, one of the very few lefties who ever learned to pitch consistently well in Fenway Park. It didn’t matter. DiMaggio hit a three-run homer in the seventh to clinch a 6-3 Yankees win, finishing with four home runs and nine ribbies on the weekend...

Seen on Facebook. Too good not to share.

 There are others like us.

Click on the picture to enlarge.  It's worth taking a moment to study the detail.

Four weeks left. Nineteen games. Humanity awaits. And here comes Judge...

It will happen Tuesday, around 3 p.m. The Yankees will post their starting lineup against Colorado. Within milliseconds, the news will ricochet across the globe.

Batting second, playing RF, will be Aaron Judge. 

The internet will stop. Social media will explode. Disbelievers will say it's A.I. slop - (or A.L. slop, considering the state of the league) - and that Judge belongs in a minor league rehab assignment. The gushingly hopeful among us will note that playing the Rockies - 33 games below .500 - amounts to a minor league rehab. 

Judge's presence will tweak the Yankee order, like a burst of high-octane gasoline. He'll be sandwiched between lefty hitters - Ben Rice, Cody Bellinger and Luis Garcia Jr. Heliot Ramos will take a seat. And someone - probably Jasson Dominguez - will board a bus to Scranton.

Around 7:05 p.m. the stadium's notorious Bleacher Creatures will launch their roll call. They will scream with a doomsday fury, creating a stadium-wide cascade of noise. Immediately, Judge will doff his cap, hoping to quell the explosion. It won't matter. They'll keep chanting his name, anyway.  

Around 7:15 p.m., in the bottom of the first, Judge will come to bat. Everyone in the stadium will already be standing. The sound will be heard across NYC.  

He will probably make an out. It's not easy to return after three months. But the crowd will understand. What matters is that he will be back. 

If the Yankees have any chance of catching Tampa, they must sweep this series against Colorado. There is no alternative, no Plan B. And Tuesday's game won't hinge on Judge. He'll likely play five innings and then be replaced by Ramos. It's a long, long drop. 

But but BUT... if Judge catches up to a fastball, if he connects, if he launches a high drive to the seats... Yankee Stadium will levitate 20 feet into the night sky above Gotham, signaling hope for humanity and an end to war. 

If he homers, floods will recede, wildfires will end, the super el Nino will cool, and the price of gasoline will drop by a dollar. Angels will appear in the White House reflecting pool, the juju gods will hoist their glasses to drink, and somewhere, Gloria Steinem will be dancing with Mitch McConnell. Our long national nightmare will be over.

We will have survived. 

La Cole'lage, pt deux – ø9/ø6/202∂

 

Jones is here to stay. The Martian is here for a moment. Could Volpe get here again?

Yankees won. Thu-u-uh Yankees won... 

Actually, you could say the Padres lo-s-s-s-s-st, as their pitcher, Robbie Ray, walked the bases full and then some, gifting a rally that even the '26 Yankees - kings of the eternally stranded - could not botch. 

Takeaways:

1. I cannot recall an injury being so cheerfully toasted across the Yankiverse than Trent Grisham's unholstered hammy. It's not about Grish. It's about the guy who should replace him.

2. Since spring training, when he hit .367 with 6 HRs, Spencer Jones has been our fantasy CF. With him, we run barefoot through a field of erect nipples. But lately, it looked as though he'd be relegated to late inning defense, if not the mud fields of Moosic. 

3. Now, with Grisham on the IL, Jones has three weeks to secure CF, his Wally Pip moment, no looking back. Damn. That's all we wanted. Screw the Ks. Jones is hitting .245, with 9 HRs in 197 ABs, and we haven't seen a legitimate tear. He's gotten big hits off tough pitchers. Last night's two-out double caused Ray to implode, walking the next three, breaking open the game. Jones did it. Grish wouldn't have.

4. Re: Grish. The best part of his injury is that it's nothing permanent. No career implications. Hammies come and go. In two months, Grish will be a free agent, and he can sell himself without the caveat of a torn whatever. It's a hamster. Wish him the best.

5. Last night, the Martian reappeared, though he's surely gone when Aaron Judge returns, in a few days. In Scranton, he had lifted his BA to .283, after a horrible start. (Depression?) He has 7 HRs. We must remind ourselves that Jasson Dominguez is 23, two years younger than Jones. He won't play CF, but he is still viable.

6. Meanwhile in Scranton, the prodigal son, Anthony Volpe, went 1-3 last night with a stolen base (and a caught stealing and a pickoff; brain fart baserunning.)  It's time for the Yankees to try something crazy. At Triple A, he's hitting .273 with 11 HRs, and he's been hot. Could they put Volpe at 2B against lefties and see what happens? 

7. Yes, Jose Caballero deserves a shot. He outplayed Volpe throughout the first half, only to be replaced by George Lombard Jr. But Cabby can platoon at 3B with Ryan McMahon. Somebody needs to spell Jazz Chisholm against tough lefties. (Last night, it was Cabby.) I know, pleading Volpe's case is a tough hill to climb. But he's 25, same age as Jones. 

8. Jazz says he wants to return to the Yankees next year. That's nice to hear. But it isn't gonna happen. The ship has sailed.

9. Last night, Carlos Rodon seemed to be throwing harder than usual. He nearly blew it in the first, then overpowered the Padres. Dare we believe?

10. Game is at 4:10 p.m. Almost an Eastern time. 

A GAPPER . . . DEEP IN THE HOLE . . . . WAY, WAY BACK . . . . .

 

  

Clown Team.

Unless you actually observe the 2026 New York Yankees throughout a game, it's impossible to comprehend just what a weird, lackadaisical, and downright foolish non-effort they put into so many outings. Just be sure to take your blood pressure medication first—and don't expect any actual laughs.

A few observations on last night's two hours-and-thirty-two minutes of torture:

—First, the good news. With any luck, The $22-Million Man, Trent Grisham, has played his last inning as a New York Yankee. This guy should never have been anything but a back-up—certainly not a starting centerfielder and lead-off man on the same ground (all right, it was across the street, but still!) that Mickey Mantle and Joe DiMaggio once trod. 

Sorry, Duque, but I don't care how limited Spencer Jones may be as a CF. He cannot possibly be worse than this.

—At least Grisham had the sense to take himself out of the game with a hamstring injury. One wonders, though, just when this hammy occurred.

Was it feeling tight before the game? Did he tell Aaron Boone about it? Did Boone play him anyway? Did he pull it while ineffectually chasing a routine pop fly. just when it looked as though Max Fried had brilliantly worked his way out of a jam? 

It sure didn't seem like Grishman endured some sudden injury. It looked as though "Mr. Cool" played CF as he always does, positioning himself way too far back, getting a bad read on the ball, and making only the most desultory, unenthusiastic trot possible after a pop up that should never have been a hit. 

Bring up Kelenic, bring up The Martian. They could not possibly play worse than this.

—Unsurprisingly, the Yankees turned in another awful effort at the plate, this one against Walker Buehler, a starter who entered the game with a 4.66 ERA and who has not pitched consistently well since 2021.

The Yanks managed only a Ben Rice home run off him, and just 4 total hits in the first 9 innings. 

—The Yankees struck out a total of 15 times last night, giving them 1,303 for the 2026 season, with 21 games remaining. 

That is an average of a little over 8 a game for the year, which means they probably won't break the all-time team record of 1,482, set in 2021, or top the 1,463 strikeouts they ran up in 2025, or the 1,437 whiffs they managed in 2019. 

But you never know. All they have to do is up their average to 8.5 Ks a game, and they could set a new, negative record.

—Breaking it down, Cody Bellinger struck out three times, while Jones, Luis Garcia, Jr., George Lombard, Jr. (now at just .244), Heliot Ramos, and Austin Wells, each fanned twice.

—Unable to hit the ball, you would think that the Yankees might—might—at times have resorted to a bunt or two, in order to move runners along in a very close, low-scoring game.

—You would be wrong. The Yankees DO NOT BUNT. Period. No matter what. The Padres' pitchers could have ordered their infielders to sit on the ground, as Satchel Paige sometimes did during exhibition games, and the Yankees would still have swung for the fences.

—Instead of bunting, the Yanks tried to advance by stealing. They did this against a catcher, Luis Campusano, who throws out 32.5 percent of baserunners trying to swipe that extra base—well above the league average of 23.5

But remember: STATISTICS ONLY COUNT WHEN THEY SUPPORT WHAT THE YANKEES ALREADY WANT TO DO.

—When Spencer Jones plated the go-ahead run in the 10th with a single off Mason Miller, the best reliever in baseball, then hustled to second on the throw home, the Yankees were up, 2-1, with no one out and another runner on second.

Rather than try bunting him over, though, Manager Boone insisted on having Spencer try to steal third. Even though Grisham (despite that mysterious hammy) and Jazz had previously been gunned down at second by Campusano.

—Jones was thrown out at third, of course, while Heliot Ramos K'ed for a classic, strike 'em out, throw 'em out DP.  Ramos is hitting .134 as a Yankee, with 23 K's in 80 plate appearances. But whatever you do, DON'T BUNT.  

Jazz Chisholm, who was going to do...what, exactly? Hit a sac fly? He has all of 18 in his major-league career...then took a called third strike.

—None of this fully conveys, however, just how weirdly unengaged and sloppy the Yankees looked.

Jazz, of course, played the whole game in someone else's pants, and managed to lose his hat fielding a routine groundball to second. Is he now trying to imitate Willie Mays in hopes of getting that big contract?

—Cody Bellinger continues to be one of the most baffling disappointments on the season. Besides his three strikeouts, he seemed to actually crumple at the plate while checking his swing. 

The Man of Glass almost lost the game a little later when he turned the wrong way on a routine flyball to left, just managing to right himself and turn it into a circus catch. 

—Austin Wells, still at just .188 with another 0-3 day, nearly managed to lose the game in the bottom of the 9th, when he dropped a pitch and looked the wrong way for it, allowing a runner to advance to third. Was the whole team dropping acid?

—David Bednar managed to pitch out of that jam, but that only set up that staple of every Yankees fiasco: the Bad Aaron Boone Pitching Decision.

—When Fried was pulled after 5 2/3, Boone brought in Will Warren, four days after Warren's dominant, seven-inning win over the Red Sox. After walking the first batter, Warren got the last out of the inning then cruised through the next two frames, retiring seven hitters in a row and throwing just 28 pitches.

—This is just how the Yanks talk about using their extra starters in the pen during the postseason, so why not leave Warren in for another inning, in a 1-1 game?

No could do. Instead, he lifted him for Bednar, who gave us his usual, gutty inning...and then the overworked Blackburn, who gave up the game. 

This is not to get on Blackburn, who has pitched very well for us, but on the Yankees' pitching philosophy which is, as always, "Throw 'em til they break."  

Be a clown, be a clown, be a clown...

 

  

Grisham pulls a hamster, and the last pop fly - shoe, I mean, shoe - may have just dropped

Stop me if ya heard this: 

Guy walks into a bar. Bartender says, "Wallit be?" 

Guy says, "A catchable pop fly. Make it a double." 

Badaboom. Shoulda stopped me. A Samuel F.B. Morse Punch Line: Telegraphed. And lately, every Yank fan in captivity has known what was coming. 

Somewhere, somehow, a hamstring was about to bark.

Now, with a month left in regular 2026, Trent Grisham might be done. 

While most of us were sleeping - (Alphonso, on the West Coast, was self-immolating like a drummer for Spinal Tap) - Grish left last night's game in the third, shortly after a pop fly dropped in front of him, scoring a run that would eventually kill our night. (Yanks lost 3-2 in 10.)  

Always liked Grish. The Snidely Whiplash mustache. The breakout 2025. The great circle routes in centerfield. Suzyn's radio hubby, Dave Sims, called him "Mr. Cool." (It didn't stick.) This season, the tread on his tires could not pass a state of Alabama motor vehicle inspection, if such a thing existed. All year, he's been a slow-motion replay, unfolding in real time. Lately, he's been in a 4-for-44 tailspin, a super el nino of doom, with a season BA of .218. Last night's hamster twang probably sealed his Yankee fate.

If ever there was a reason to stick Spencer Jones in CF and throw away the key...  that time has come. 

Not even Aaron Boone can look away. 

Frankly, the Yankees may have nobody capable of providing quality defense in CF. Cody Bellinger might apply, but that would require yanking him out of LF, (where his recent throw home won a game against Boston.) Rob from Peter, pay Paul. 

Jones is a natural corner outfielder who gets slow reads on flies, and nobody wants to even think of a doomsday collision with Aaron Judge. They have no pure CF on the roster. (Cashman recently signed Jarred Kelenic, 27, a former Mets first round pick, to play CF in Scranton. Last night, he played his sixth game for the Moosic Marvels - his third organization this year. He's 7 for 28 in Scranton. Just sayin.')  

Depending on the medical scans, Grisham's Yankee era is probably over. That one-year contract he accepted last winter came to define our off-season plans. And all year, be it Jones or The Martian, attempts to find a replacement CF went nowhere. Now, there is no excuse, no reason to look elsewhere. 

That guy in the bar. It's Jones or nothing. Make it a triple.

Blackburn loses in the Dead of Night . . .

 

 

 

 Comments not publishing seems to be a widespread issue affecting Blogger blogs today. I think all we can do is wait for Blogger to notice and do something. In the meantime, I'm pretty sure all you commenters are entitled to post, so if you have anything today that can't wait, I guess creating a post -- even a single line of text -- would be the way for now. 

No idea why Comments are off. I've tried a few, humdingers, and they don't show up. 

I blame Biden. 

 Is Blogger preventing anyone else from commenting? I hit "Publish" and it don't.

On a day of California dreaming, Yanks cut Tampa's lead to three.

All the trees are brown
And the sky is grey...

Last night, while the Death Barge grooved down California State Route 1, the Pacific Coast Highway, Tampa phoned it in against Texas, and the Rays' loss-column lead in the sickly AL East has shriveled to three.

It sorta doesn't matter, because the AL remains a league of bumpkins and butchers. The Pope's White Sox, leaders of the AL Central, are seven losses behind the Yankees, five behind Boston. And Houston - in a summer of AI slop and 110-degree afternoons - is nine behind us. Nine. The ever-cheating Astros are three above .500. The final wild card slot could go to a sub-.500 team. This year is a joke. 

Some takeaways from the bus ride to the Plymouth of the West.

1. George Lombard Jr. should return this weekend. Turns out, young guys heal. Who knew? Should be interesting, as he's had a rare opportunity to rest and reflect upon the incredible changes - and inhuman pressures - heaped upon him over the last month. Lombard needs an error-free weekend to chase away the demons that seemed to be taking root back east.  

2. Lombard and Spencer Jones are the new Future of the Yankees (TM.) 

3. On behalf of the former Future of the Yankees (TM), Anthony Volpe homered last night in Scranton, on YES. He went 3-4, playing 2B. He's hitting .267 in Triple A. (While I have you, The Martian went 0-4, hitting .274.) Remember Volpe and Domiguez? Seems a million years ago. 

4. There's infield chatter of Volpe playing 2B next season, during the lockout. Hell, during a lockout, I could play 2B.

5. Trip to San Diego conjures another chance to imagine the last eight years, if Old George had not devoured so many overcooked, marbled steaks and lived another 10 years. (He was 80 - Trump age - when the Reaper came.) 

6. It was 2019 when Manny Machado, on his free agency tour, visited NYC to seduce the Yankees into a contract. Cooperstown Cashman and Food Stamps Hal hid under their beds and let the phone ring. Manny wanted to play in NY, his wife's home town. Happy, wife, happy life, right? 

7. Close your eyes and imagine the Yankees with Machado for the last eight years. Instead of Josh Donaldson, Miggy Twobags and Geo Urshela - instead of wandering a 3B desert, we'd savor a guy someday going into the Hall with a Yankee cap.

8. Over eight years in SD, Machado has hit 218 HRs and batted .268. This year, in a down season, he has 24.  

9. And let's not forget Bryce Harper, who also courted the Yankees in 2019. Close your eyes, and the Yankees could have a fistful of rings. Instead, it's Cabby and Ryan McMahon.  

9. Tonight, Max Fried. Tomorrow, Rodon. Why is this not inspiring confidence? And Sunday, we face Michael King. Wow. Another item to reimagine.