Saturday, October 1, 2016

Remembering Teixeira: A tribute from April 2015

(IT IS HIGH rememebers 2015)

If only we can beat the Mets,
If Boston loses Mookie Betts,
If A-Rod somehow hits a bunch,
And Carlos Beltran earns his lunch...
Our team could finish in the black,
Not wither at the warning track.
We'd actually have a bold attack...
If Tex is really back.

If C.C. salves the wounds of time,
If Didi turns out worth a dime,
If Headley brings a few clutch blasts,
And Masahiro's elbow lasts...
Then we can add another plaque,
And dance like Strahan with a sack,
No cleanup slugger will we lack...
If Tex is really back.

Ah, but dreams! they're known to drift,
Like fielders in an over-shift,
And spring's a time to see rebirth,
But fall is when teams rule the earth.
Let's savor every vict'ry snack,
And cheer his every home run whack,
We'll all be high, like smoking crack...
If Tex is really back.

As Gary Sanchez slides, the question looms: Who is he?

If the season ended two weeks ago, Gary Sanchez would have hit .325, fluffing his feathers for AL Rookie of the Year.

If the season lasted another two weeks, he might finish at .265, the Gardner-Ellsbury Blue Line of Bland.

Mired in a 1-27 slump, with a disturbing propensity for passed balls, Sanchez has been morphing from Johnny Bench into Ron Hassey. Don't get me wrong: With the rifle arm, he still looks like our bedrock catcher for the next decade, maybe even a future CF plaque. But lately, he's lunged at balls below the frost line and lashed at heaters at his nose. The league found a wet Willie in his swing, and until he adjusts - well, he hasn't. And we should worry that by suddenly becoming the new "Face of the Yankees," Sanchez thinks he must hit every ball to Pakistan.

Above is a quick glimpse into Sanchez's last four minor league years - HRs, RBIs and averages highlighted. His future his in these numbers - unless Sanchez gets homeritis. Fortunately, as a righty, he shouldn't get drunk on the RF porch, which claimed the Grandyman, Ellsbury, McCann, Giambi and half of Tex.

Look at his numbers. With guidance, Sanchez should bring us 30 HRs and .265 - and I'll take it. But somebody - hello, A-Rod? - has to rein in that swing. Somebody - Alex, are you there - has to remind him of the discipline he showed through August. If somebody - yoo-hoo, number 13? - saves him from the supermodels and entourages, we may someday look back at 2016 as the year the Yankees turned the corner. Of course, the fear remains that we bundle prospects for a quick 2017 sugar high of Country Breakfasts and Fat Elvises, rather than keep getting younger. If we nurture the farm, we could win it all in 2018. Gary Sanchez might not hit third on that team. But he surely would be a key.

Friday, September 30, 2016

Placeholder for a Post Mortem

I'm not dead.  I'm not in the county lockup.

I'm on a train hurtling up the corridor to my home in New England.  My connection is crappy ditto my travel machine ditto my mood.

Many people on the train are headed back to Boston.  They're wearing Ortiz jerseys.  They're talking about how great the game was.  I'm about to do something unpleasant in their presence.  Make of that what you will.

It's not saying much, and I'll write more later, but for now, let's just say that the principal objective of the mission did not come to pass.  I'm still sorting out the reasons why.

Interestingly, the best part of the Moon Big Papi evening was that a great bar I once found in the Bronx was found again and is still truly a great bar.

Bartender: What can I get for you?

Me: (looking around not seeing any taps, forgetting that it's bottles only in this place)

Me: What kind of beer do you have?

Bartender: We keep it simple.  Bud or Bud Light.

Me: Ok.  I'll have a Bud.

(millisecond pause)

Me: No wait!  I changed my mind!  Bud Light! 

Bartender: (looking at me to see if there's a part of my shirt collar he can grab so he doesn't hurt his hand while throwing me out on the sidewalk)

Me: Sorry. I'm just being a dick.  I'm good at it.  Please give me a Bud.

(time passes; we drink beer)

Enormous Black Customer (walks up next to us and barks at the bartender): Vodka and Coke.

Bartender: I'll get to you after I serve these white people.

Bartender (turning to us and speaking in a voice as sweet and solicitous as Alfred the Butler): Three more, fellas?

Me: Jesus!  (prounounced more like "Sheeeeesus!")

Enormous  Black Customer (looking at me): I've been coming here since 1970.  He's always the same.

Bartender: (serves Enormous Black Customer a Vodka and Coke in a pint glass.  The contents of the glass are clear with a high thin cloud of Coke floating near the top.  He does this before getting our beers.  He was just being a dick. Seems he's good at it, too.)

My Friend: (Eyes wide at all that's just happened -- i.e., the Enormous Black Customer being told he'd be served after the white people are served and then being given a beach pail full of vodka, which he's now knocking back like ice-water on a hot day.)

Me (to Enormous Black Customer, watching him drain his bucket of vodka): This is why I love coming here. Everybody gets it. We're all just having fun, nobody's getting bent out of shape, and everybody will be here tomorrow.

Enormous Black Customer: We take care of each other here.  You need something, it's here.

My Friend (to me): I don't understand how this place makes money serving drinks like that.

Me: Speaks with Enormous Black Customer, a Master Electrician and Viet Nam veteran for 90 minutes.  He has three daughters, I have four.  We commiserate.  His youngest daughter won't leave the house.  She's 24.  It's time already, you know what I'm saying?  She's got a good job but she won't leave.  I think her mother secretly wants her to stay.  You know how women are with their youngest.  I suggest that, every night, after he comes home, he should wear nothing around the house except neon orange Speedos.  Like this.  (I mimic doing the mambo and waggle my hips.)  She'll get the message, I tell him. He roars laughing and claps his hand on my shoulder.  See?, he says, It don't matter about black or white, we're all the same.  I say, yes, our unifying bond is that the thought of their father walking around in orange Speedos disgusts ALL daughters.  Trust me, you do that, she'll be out of the house poco-poco.  He roars and claps his hand on my shoulder again.  I'm having a great time.  It's like the fun we used to have in the old Yankee Stadium.  I could stay here all night.

But I have to leave, because we're on a mission.  We walk up River Avenue to the non-game....

I'm still on the train.  More updates will follow.


Yankees give Papi a painting, when they could have given him history

Seriously, a painting? Like he's got a bare wall? Where will it go? The garage?

A painting. No set of steak knives? Cuff links? Aroma Therapy Briquettes? Something from the Sharper Image catalog? (Leave the price tag, so he'll be impressed.) A painting?

No mass mooning.

At least, on TV, Papi mooned New York.

Last night, the Yankees won a game that epitomizes life: At the beginning, everything seemed so important; by the end, it was meaningless farce.

They gave David Ortiz a painting. If the TV coverage is any indicator, most fans stood, some didn't, everybody clapped, and nobody was seen giving Papi a sendoff he could never forget, and stop laughing over - a mass mooning to go down in the the "anals" of history.

So, as I say, he gave us one.

Frankly, I've seen most emotional farewells given to pizza delivery men, depending on how stoned the recipients were. All the while, the YES Publicity Patrol blathered about Hal Steinbrenner's incredible generosity - (they're worse than Rudy talking up Trump) - and the heroic "assroots campaign" to moon the man was never mentioned.

A painting? Really? How about:

1. An old Yankee bullpen car. (I know they're out there. Last winter, I saw one in Sarasota, Florida.) Let him drive the world, surrounded by the Yankee logo. Hah.

2. The tattered remnants of that Ortiz jersey they dug up under the new Yankee Stadium, back when it was under construction. If you remember: Some Redsock infiltrator attempted to hex the new stadium by burying Papi's uniform under the foundation. Frankly, I say we should bulldoze the park and start over, because the guy clearly buried another one. That would explain everything.

3. A fan-based mass mooning. Or "ass mooning." Today, I'm awaiting a first-hand report from Local Bargain Jerk - the 2016 IT IS HIGH Fan of the Year, by the way - on what happened. He's probably lashed to a seat, wearing a hood, heading to Git-Mo for breaking the esteemed Yankee Code of Personal Conduct (which never applied to Mel Hall and Chad Curtis, eh?). Nothing was mentioned on TV.

(I should note that I couldn't make it to the game because my wife and I were donning clown costumes and lurking in the woods near Syracuse, luring children to our candy cove. Bad night: It rained.)

And yes, though it was Big Papi's finale, let's face it: We are preparing to say farewell to a bunch of Yankees this winter.

Soon, everything about 2016 will be in a garage.

Thursday, September 29, 2016


I'm on a train to Yankee Stadium so I can't get fancy with graphics, but we're featured on

In other breaking news, I wore my baggiest pants and cleanest underwear today.  I have also turned down a request from a journalist to "come to my section with a film crew".

I told them there are enough nude pictures of me on the Internet.

Updates will continue.


Well, I nevah! Myrtle, have you seen what those, those hooligans intend to do? I'm absolutely vivid, Myrtle! LIV-ID! Why, I think I'll go clutch my pearls...

Imagine those starched and staged Redsock fans, reaching for the Calgon Bath Oil Beads this morning, as the MOOVMENT grows.

Toady, he greatest Yankee fan in the world - our own LOCAL BARGAIN JERK - conducted an on-line conversation with ESPN, otherwise known as the Redsocks' Fox News. Stay tuned.

Meanwhile, "Mr. Jerk" - as he is known in the Boston media - says it's ALL GO FOR TONIGHT.







It's "show" time, boys and girls!

Because I'm a lame-o and I can't stay awake -- ever -- I fell asleep during last night's game.

I woke up this morning and my girlfriend, who isn't a baseball fan, said "The Yankees scored 5 runs in the 9th inning!"  She couldn't believe it.  I couldn't believe it.

I logged in to my emails and received this photo from a friend who was at the game:

I'll share the words from his email because they're classic and they illustrate what it means to be a Yankee fan:
The photo was taken during Big Papi's last at bat of an 0 for 4 night.  It was an epic walk-off granny from Tex. 
The shitty weather ran off a lot of disgruntled Yankee fans.  The Blosock fans were gloating loudly until they were slapped down and put in their place.  It was epic.  I'm still smiling. 
Moon on!
P.S. I also just noticed that before the game, in the Comments field of my score card, I wrote "Moon Big Papi Eve." 
I couldn't allow these treasures to go unshared.  I decided to work them in to some last-minute instructions for the Moon Big Papi website.


A glorious, magnificent Yankee moment... squandered

Last night, Tex came through.

Surely, you know by now that Mark Teixeira's golden, 2-out, 9th inning grand slam stunned Boston and dropped a big brown loogie into their pennant-clinching punch bowl - (along with magnifying the primal fear that their $11 million per-year closer cannot close.) Bravo. Here-here. This was a magnificent Yankee moment, one of Tex's Top 10 over his seven years in Gotham. He's been up and down - lately, down - but was always a great teammate, a solid citizen, a positive soul. Even with a batting average on the Interstate, he remains one of my fave Yankees. Next season, I hope he joins YES or stays in some capacity.

But let's be real. It didn't matter. Too little, too late. The horse left the barn. The cat was out of the bag. Too many cooks spoiled the broth. Uhhhh... It was water over the, um, the early worm got eaten by the- oh, fukkit: Once again, the Empire is an October no-show. Another star is retiring, and once again, the front office failed to build a team that could give him a post-season.

We failed Mariano. We failed Jeter. We failed Andy. Last year, we finally made a one-game wild card - a chance to make the post-season - and we couldn't score a run. This is the fourth straight year we will watch the playoffs at home. In this decade - perhaps one of the worst in Yankee history - we haven't touched a World Series. Without a massive cash infusion this winter - and frankly, there aren't the free agents to justify it - we will open 2017 spring training as a tomato can. (Yes, we have promising prospects, but so does every other team in the AL East. Does the name Yoan Moncada strike a note?)


OK. I've got a grip.

We at IT IS HIGH often get criticized - rightfully - for rampant negativity. I often peer through the wrong end of the microscope. I admit it. But we weren't always this way. Give us a winner, and you'll see a different outlook. As Giambi once said, they only boo because they want to cheer. Truer words never spoken.

But as we reach another dead season, I have to wonder:

Under what metric can the Yankee front office be considered successful?

The only answer I can offer: The owner must be making a lot of money.

The billionaire owner must be making a lot of money.

Last night, Tex came through. It was a glorious moment. It should have gone down in Yankee history. But let's be real. It didn't matter.

Only one thing matters now... MOONING BIG PAPI.

Wednesday, September 28, 2016

The Universal Language

He wants it to happen.


The past 24 hours have been astonishing in the world of  

First, David Ortiz released a gracious article in which he gave a shout out to our cause.  This, in turn, opened the floodgates for a previously skittish NY media.  We've been mentioned in a few NY Post articles, CBS Sports, and almost countless Boston media outlets.

I will tell you that it was positively SURREAL to be sitting in my living room last night listening to the announcers on NESN talk about us just before Big Papi's second at bat.

We've had about 10,000 new visitors to the site as a direct result of the above.

The best part -- really and truly the best part -- is that everyone gets it.  They get that it's fun.  They get that it will be monumental.  I can't tell you how much it warms my heart that Big Papi said in his pre-game interview:

"That moon thing.  Can you imagine?  If it happens, I want to make sure I have my cell phone in my back pocket."
I also got an email this morning and it also made my day:
Just hearing about this today. This is great! 
I love the website and the energy behind it! Can't make it to the game, but I'm married to a Red Sox fan, so if it's all the same to you, I'll just moon her! Bottoms up!
For everyone reading this, if you had no plans for tomorrow night, get on StubHub now and buy some seats.  This will be more fun than you've had in years.  Be there.

Yankeetorial: It's almost time to make history

Ladies and gentlemen, lads and lassies, boys and girls of all ages, fellow wearers of the Midnight Blue...

I come to you in mega-reality, without any gassy undercurrent of hype, to bathe naked today in the rancid pickle juice of truth...

We stand at the precipice of the most important moment in modern Yankee history.

Thursday night, Yankee fans must do what the franchise will not.

We must take things into our own hands - things like our butt cheeks. We must pay tribute to David Ortiz in our own unique and astonishingly memorable way.

We must moon Big Papi.

Listen: This is not public indecency. This is not lewdness or pornography. If you don't want to drop your pants, then don't. Just TURN, BEND AND POINT TO YOUR BUTT.


This is not criminal lewdness. This is hilarity. This is fan direct action. This is childish - yes - and crazy, of course. But it will go down next to Ducky Medwick being pelted with veggies in the 1934 World Series - except no one throws anything, no one gets hurt. This will go down with the White Sox' Disco Demolition - except no one blows anything up, no one gets hurt. This will go down with Bernie serenading Jeet in Boston - except it doesn't drip with false sincerity... and last 90 minutes, nobody gets bored. 

This will be the first new universal tool of fans since the inception of The Wave.

Here's what's crazy: Papi even wants it. He will laugh. He will cry. It will become part of his legend. He understands what miserable Redsock trolls - the kind who cannot even enjoy a winning team - don't get: That a mass-mooning of David Ortiz will be forever remembered... fondly.

The Yankees won't mention it. They are a country club franchise, which is run with the puritanical zeal of your pearls-clutching Aunt Edna, the one who recites passages from Donald Trump books over Thanksgiving dinner. Last night, Michael Kay wouldn't even say the word "moon." He edited Papi's statements to suggest Ortiz talked about being "booed." Yes, the Yankees want no part of bootless and unhorsed fans. They want no silliness. They want millionaires who'll sit quietly until the scoreboard instructs them to cheer. Fans should never embarrass the franchise. That would bother Aunt Edna.

So Thursday night, let's do something crazy.

If you're squeamish about showing your butt, then don't. Just turn around, bend over, and point. 


Fifty thousand people... turning, bending, pointing... he'll get the message. 


It will a photograph for the ages. TURN, BEND AND POINT.

Last night, when Ortiz came up in the ninth, those weren't boos you heard. That was the fans yelling, "MOOOOOOOOOOOOON." Let's make history.

Tuesday, September 27, 2016

David Ortiz's farewell: Don't forget to print out a poster to bring to Yankee Stadium!

Don't forget to print out your mini-poster (or big poster, if you have a large-format printer) to bring to Yankee Stadium for Big Papi's farewell series.

You can hold up the sign while waiting for you opportunity to moon him.



"Let me tell you something. If 50,000 people moon me, I promise you two things. First, I’m gonna laugh so hard I might start crying. Then when the tears dry, I’m gonna step up to the plate and try to hit the ball all the way to the choo choo train."

UPDATE: moonbigpapi responds.

Yankees win game nobody watched

A future Yankee Classic? And I missed it. Go figure...

Last night, the entire free world was watching the season opener of Real Housewives of Orange County on Bravo, where Michael and Kelly finally faced off over their relationship. Today, you can choose your news feed to decide who won the fight, because everybody watches through their personal fun house lenses, but while America was gorging itself on bluster, holy crap! The Empire finally fought back!

Note Tex's glance toward Jason Grilli, just before the ball lands, prompting the aborted bat-flip. This HR tied the game in the ninth. I wish I'd been watching, but I jumped ship when the debate began - uh, between Michael and Kelly, that is. I couldn't bear to sit through another Yankee loss, coupled with Blue Jays' taunts and the mooing crowd. So... it's on me: I missed a great Yankee comeback, maybe the best of 2016, and maybe Mark Teixeira's last home run. So... let's preserve the moment forever, or until Google lowers the boom.

With regard to Michael and Kelly: You know that it's all about sex, right? He's not getting enough. That's why, in the beginning, he constantly interrupted her, yet kept his composure. Later, he clearly became sexually aroused. I think it was her red pants suit - like waving a red towel at the bull. He got erect and charged her. He started yammering about her stamina - in bed, of course. I think he wanted to have a toss right there. You know how reality stars are. All they think about is sex.

With regard to Dellin Betances: I wish there was a way to let him get repeatedly laid for the rest of the season, and spare him from another meltdown. He's on the verge of spending the winter reliving ninth inning nightmares, and P.T.S.D. is not a healthy thing. If he gets a quick inning, maybe they should make that his final outing. (And why in the world would the Yankees pitch Tanaka again, when he's recovering from an arm issue? That would be insane.) It's clear that Cashman must find bullpen help over the winter, and either Hal empties his wallet for Aroldis Chapman, or the Yankees will have to trade away practically everything they got from Cleveland for Andrew Miller - and what would be the point? If they must trade prospects for a closer, why the hell did they bother to trade the best one in baseball, to begin with? Betances needs help. Let him rest and find him a good woman.

Now... if Kelly could just ditch Michael - kick him out - Dellin could winter in Orange County. Would that work? Who knows? But they'd get ratings.

Monday, September 26, 2016

Nine MORE questions that absolutely MUST be asked in tonight's Presidential debate

1. On Thursday night in Yankee Stadium, when David Ortiz steps to the plate, will either of you show the guts and moral decency to do the right thing for all Americans, to set aside petty political disputes and the rank grade-school tribalism that threatens this country... to unite with all your countrymen... and MOON BIG PAPI?

2. This question goes to Tubby, the orange whale with the Dacron graft: Mr. Trump, will your excessively obese butt, which looks especially large when compared to your tiny hands, deter you from showing the courage to MOON BIG PAPI?

3. This goes to the google-eyed robot with the Fibrillator, Secretary Clinton, hello? Excuse me? Can you look at me? Oops, sorry, you are looking at me - will you be alive Thursday night, and if so, will you have the strength to stand up, turn around, bend over and MOON BIG PAPI?

4. This goes to each of you, though what's the point? Where do you stand on the 2nd Amendment rights of true, gun-toting Americans who simply want to drop their troughs - revealing the AK-47s and hell-fire percussion grenades strapped to their patriotic thighs - and MOON the despicable, potentially illegal alien - hell, he's Hispanic, what else do you need to know? - called BIG PAPI?

5. Will you both pledge right here and now never to undermine our basic mooning rights, as outlined in the First Amendment... our Freedom of Peach?

6. This is for Secretary Clinton. Excuse me? Set down the smelling salts. Turn your good ear toward me. Thank you. Um, you called Fatty's supporters a "basket of deplorables." Does this mean you would refuse to join these beloved white power, third-grade-educated, dog-whistle racists in the one deed that would forever justify their worthiness.. and to MOON BIG PAPI?

7. A question for the clown - and by the way, sir, I thank you for taking time out of your busy schedule, missing a night when you could be lurking in a North Carolina forest, luring children to your candy hut: Should Hispanic, Muslim or black Yankee fans - you know, anyone who won't vote for you - be arrested for MOONING BIG PAPI, considering that under your diseased plans, the cops will already have stopped and frisked them ten times before they get to the stadium?

8. For the two of you - though I'm getting tired of this - who the fuck will pay for all this bullshit? Mexico? Monaco? Roger Ailes? And will there be any money left over to mount a decent campaign to save America... and MOON BIG PAPI?

9. This goes to - oh, who gives a damn - Lester Holt, you answer it, and we'll vote you in: How did we get to point where the only person in the world who can lose to Donald Trump happens to be the Democratic choice? And the only one who can elect Hillary Clinton is her opponent? How did this happen? I'm so sick of this election that - seriously, now, Lester... why the hell don't we MOON BIG PAPI!

The biggest fear: That Jose Bautista is showcasing himself for a Yankee contract

This weekend, watching Jose Bautista once again kill us, it hit me:

This winter, watch us run out and sign the bastard. 

Of course, we will! It'll be instant gratification. It will make perfect Steinbrennerian sense. There's a gene pool symmetry here: It will prove Hal was not adopted. And, basically, it will be the absolute worst thing we can do. Thus, count on it.

Keep in mind, we've done this before. All it takes is a rotten team. We tore up A-Rod's contract and then lashed ourselves to him, like Ahab to the whale. We ditched A.J. Burnett for two flea market Elvis lamps. We signed Carlos Beltran to three years, Brian McCann to five and Jacoby Ellsbury to seven. We've made some of this millennium's worst signings, yet some writers still praise the front office in day-glow awe, because they hover over the scrap heap like a Pentagon drone. (The problem with rating Brian Cashman is never knowing where he ends and Hal begins. He's made nice deals - Didi, Swish, Pined-um... let's leave leave it at Didi, Swish. But then he signs Chase Headley for four.) So why not sign Jose Bautista? I mean, when you list the reasons of why it's such a bad, terrible, awful, horribly wretched idea, well, we must do it.

1. We will lose our top draft pick. These picks are not fodder. Boston never seems to miss on one. Of course, we'll claim our system is stocked, so it doesn't matter if we draft another Andrew Brackman. The Yankee-owned media, which rubber-stamps every move, is an enabling force to be discussed at another time - (like every day, all winter, right?)

2. Bautista will be 36 next year. Good luck with that. Do we need another guy who'll be pushing 50 by the time he leaves? Of course, we do! Say, how about Country Breakfast Butler? (Wait, we could rename Bautista "Country Sausage!" Our lineup would be called "The Old Country Buffet.")

3. He'll want at least three years. Of course, he will. We'll live Beltran all over again. And yes, Carlos hit well this season. But do you remember year one? Remember him perched in right? He's watched more balls drop than the late Dick Clark. Remember how a full-time DH limits this team? Let's bring in another statue!

4. He's hit .233 with 20 HRs. Yeah, Bautista missed time with injuries. That's what happens to guys old enough to date Zsa Zsa Gabor. (News flash: She's still alive - age 99 - turns 100 in February.) The point is, we already have guys who hit .230 with 20 HRs.

5. He'll be a giant block of concrete tied to our feet. We have one hope: That someone - maybe Greg Bird, maybe Aaron Judge, maybe Clint Frazier - evolves into a star. Bautista's contract will demand 500 at-bats, every one coming at the expense of the future.

6. It's another money drain. I hate to mention money, because Hal has more than most third-world dictators. I'm all for any Steinbrenner pissing away money, but when Hal makes a bad deal, he takes it out on the team. Two winters ago, if we had signed Max Scherzer, we could be squaring our rotation for the playoffs today. Instead, we signed Headley - because of the Beltran/McCann/Ellsbury fiasco.

Whatever happens will come down to whether Hal accepts slow improvements - or demands instant gratification. The Redsocks slow-cooked their resurrection. They'll be really good for a long time. If we pull the plug on our youth movement - pushing to win in 2017 - once again, Jose Bautista will have killed us.

Sunday, September 25, 2016

Just when you thought it couldn't get worse

Yankees are now 3 games above .500.

Sad day

Wow. Jose Fernandez... terrible news.

You say tomato, I say tomato

You say tomato, and I say tomato.
You say potato, and I say potato,
Tomato, potato, tomato, potato...
Let's call the whole thing off.
George and Ira Gershwin

You may leave here
For three days in space,
But when you return,
It's the same old place.
- Barry McGuire

Shove all your problems under the rug,
Then you wonder where the smell came from.
- The Descendants

When they come for me,
I'll be sitting at my desk,
With a gun in my hand
In a bulletproof vest
- Catch 22

You'd think I could learn
How to tell you goodbye,
'Cause you don't bring me flowers anymore.
- Neil Diamond

I've got nothing to say, but it's okay
Good morning, good morning...
- Lennon and McCartney

Saturday, September 24, 2016

Nate Silver's Ranked
'Baseball's Savviest (and Crappiest) Bullpen Managers'
And the Results Will Enrage You!

This is ancient, as the internet reckons time--four days!--but here goes:

Huh. Torre was best. Girardi is tied for second-best. 

After winding us up, fivethirtyeightdotcom adds:
Perhaps surprisingly, we found that bullpen management — good or bad — doesn’t actually affect a team’s overall performance all that much. 
Discuss! Or don't. It's a free country!

Yankee fans help giants fan?

I am stuck in Venice beach California.  In a rental.

Does anyone know a sports bar in the area, or some devious method of using the Internet, to watch the Giants/Skins game tomorrow?  It will,start at 10:00am here, for Cripe's Sake.

Bloody Mary's and a greasy burger...and Eli on the aperfect way to beat a hangover.

Many thanks.  Or, I'll simply drown myself.

After riding a crest of youth, Girardi turns to the veterans...and everything collapses

It was the best thing that happened all season: The owner agreed to rebuild... The Yankees held a garage sale, promoted kids from Scranton, youth revived the team, and we actually contended for a few weeks. It was beautiful. For one brief, magnificent interlude, we were young and winning.

Then the Yankees returned to style. For me, this devolution took the of Billy "Country Breakfast" Butler. Now, I recognize that I am unfairly targeting my rage upon one player, and that Country Breakfast is simply a symbol of the Yankee rot. He's gone 8 for 21 for us, not bad. But we're 1-6 since Country Breakfast arrived from the scrap heap. One and fukking six. And the moment we plugged County Breakfast into our lineup, we became an old, tiresome, pathetic team. We traveled back in time to the days of Vernon Wells and Alfonso Soriano, back to Pronk and Overbay, back to the rank awfulness of obese players with morbidly obese contracts. One and six. From the time we brought in County Breakfast, we have deserved every loss we got.

Last night, in the dying embers of a 9-0 blowout, we saw Tyler Austin for the first time since September 15, when he went one for three with a double and a walk. He'd been in a slump, but seemed to be fighting his way out. Then, he vanished. Same with Rob Refsnyder. We haven't seen him since last Sunday in Boston.

Now, I recognize that both have critics - neither set the Yankiverse ablaze, but the beauty of this team was supposed to be that we get to see these kids in an actual pennant race. We could know if they have a future. Well, clearly, Girardi has decided no. He'd rather play Country Breakfast. And you know what? Maybe it's Girardi who needs to go.

For whatever it's worth, I have never on this blog called for Girardi to be fired. Never. There are voices here who do it all the time. Not me. I've been a Girardi guy. I think he's a great leader and clubhouse stabilizer, who doesn't enough credit for the heart that he brings. But he has now gone through three terrible years, and you know what? I think the man is mentally fried.

The great fear Yankee fans should have is that, come winter, the team empties its farm system for veterans, and starts accumulating more Country Breakfasts, which other teams are delighted to let go. We'll absorb old, fat contracts and players five years past their sell-dates. The problem isn't that that they Yankees don't spend enough: It's the players to which we are lashed. It's been bad decisions at various levels - all near the top.

Lately, I guess we were getting a glimpse of whether this young kid, County Breakfast, could hit in a pennant race. Another reason to be excited for the future, eh?