Next year, and then the year after... watch out

Friends, Romans, Yankeefans, lend me your ears;
I come to praise Cashman, not to bury him;
The trades that men make live after them,
The wild card is oft interred with their bones,
So let it be with Cashman… 

Okay, big announcement here: I, el Duque, solemnly swear that - regardless of what happens next Tuesday - there shall be no further complaints whatsoever about Cashman's deadline deals - not a whimper, not a whisper, not a whelp, not a whinny! Radio silence. I shan't lash out or belch bile. I'll be proper and respectful. I'll kneel and pledge fealty. 

Oh... okay, if we lose, perhaps I'll mention the trades now and then, in passing. Casual references. And if Blake Rutherford wins the MVP someday, maybe I'll feel compelled to note that he brought us a .205 hitter who peaked in the Toms River Little League. Okay, if we lose Tuesday, I might say something - you know, a gentle, good-faith ribbing between us sunlit fans.  

But today, nothing. Unlike the Gotham Gammonites and paid YES cheerleaders, who seem determined to jinx this team, I'm staying hushed. Still, if I read another story about how the Yankees could "surprise" everyone in the post-season - (people, it's not a "surprise" if you're predicting it) - I'll personally pie Rupert Murdoch the next time he emerges from his underground crypt. These writers keep suggesting there is reason and justice - something beyond happenstance - in the nine-inning season that is about to take place. The truth is, we could play the Lehigh Valley IronPigs in a one game wild card and piss it away in the eighth with our two "closers" on the mound. But no matter what happens, we must remember this: A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is still a sigh, the fundamental things apply, as time goes by.

And here is a fundamental thing: It's been a good year. If any of us were offered a home field wild card and potential rookie-MVP, we'd have signed up without a hitch. And regardless of what happens next Tuesday, we are looking at a young team that is capable of winning multiple pennants, if not a handful of rings. 

We saw it yesterday in HRs by Aaron Judge, Gary Sanchez and Greg Bird, the threesome whose arrival this year was dented by injuries (Sanchez), nagging malignancies (Bird) and a tropical depression (Judge.) The Yankees possess three of the game's most promising sluggers - three, four and five in our batting order - through the next decade. (Note: If Bird's numbers over the last 30 days were projected over a season, he'd have 35 HRs and 105 RBIs.) Up the middle, we have Didi Gregorius and Starlin Castro (who could even be traded) - and Aaron Hicks. Then come the intangibles: Clint Frazier, Glyber Torres (top prospect in baseball, according to one ranking), Miguel Andujar, Billy McKinney, and the Tylers - Austin and Wade - a group from which at least one solid regular should ascend. Two years from now... Hicks, Didi and Castro are 29; Judge is 27, Sanchez and Bird are 26, and Luis Severino? well, he's turning 25. Tell me this team doesn't win something. (And in case you were wondering: Two years from now, Manny Machado, is 27, and Bryce Harper, 26.)

I don't know WTF will happen Tuesday. But 2017 was a good year. We were never supposed to get this far. We are playing with house money, and the only "surprise" is that 2018 arrived early. Don't let the homer courtiers convince you that the Yankees are some secret team, a "wild card," so to speak. Let's enjoy this ride, even if it only lasts nine-innings. But next year, and the year after that, we should not have to play a one-game season. This is our last wild card, dammit, for a long, long time.

Poetry Fever: The Limerick edition

From Doug K.

There once was a man named Girardi
Whose binders decide who will starty.
Doesn’t matter who’s hot
Or what number’s their spot
If in Vaudeville, “Start Laurel. Sit Hardy.”

John Sterling has signature calls
When someone goes over the wall
They’re clever and fun
But I’m waiting for one
That’s sponsored by a local mall.

A. Judge and Sanchez and Bird
Hit HRs at a pace that’s absurd
They reach the top deck
Till the balls just a speck
And the carom can scarcely be heard.

El Chapo can hit one-oh-two
And there’s not much a batter can do
Still it’s over the plate
And the ball comes in straight
So, it goes out at 122.

So the Bombers can print playoff tix.
Cause we’re well on the way to be fixed.
Yet it’s Cashman we’ll blame
If we lose the one game.
I’m not ready to root for the Knicks.

When Aaron Judge gets hot

Thar's many a way to judge the Yanks
To love them or to not,
But trust me, boy, thar's hell to pay
When Aaron Judge gets hot.

It might not happen in July,
And August oft brings rot,
But son, you'll kiss ten balls goodbye
When Aaron Judge gets hot.

We cannot know the final frame,
Uncertainty? A lot!
But bet the Yankees in the game
When Aaron Judge gets hot.

It looks like we'll face a well-rested Minnesota

Okay, let's just say it: Screw the AL East. Boston won. We won't overtake them. From now on - as it's been for the last month - everything hinges on what happens a week from tomorrow, Oct. 3. 

The heat wave will have ended. That night, it will be cool and clear - the low near 48, says AccuWeather. We will almost certainly play the Twinkies, a team we recently routed in a three-game sweep. See in that whatever you wish. It doesn't matter. If we win - and thus make the post-season - Brian Cashman's deadline team face-lift worked. If we lose, it didn't - though if any of Kaprielian, Rutherford, Fowler, Littell or Mateo develop into a great star - well - we'll have plenty of rage time to revisit that assessment.

So here's a moment: I stand here today with nothing to say - no seethe in my cabbage basket, no sputter in my bile. What difference does it make, even to one who believes in juju, as I do. Our whole season is about to come down to one fucking single four-hour event. Every pitch, every batted ball, every ump's call, will be magnified by 162. The year could hinge on a nubber towards third, or a pitch that grazes the plate but gets called outside. Apparently, Luis Severino will start for us. It looks as though the Twins will not have to stave off Los Angeles - the Angels conveniently collapsed on their own - and thus can bring out past Yankee-killer Ervin Santana. Which pitcher will gain from having recently seen the other team? I have no clue. 

Of course, baseball often comes down to the one-night climax. It's called Game Seven of the World Series, an event that, by then, has been already defined by unforgettable heroes and goats. The Wild Card is different. The Wild Card is the battle of also-rans, a speed-dating session with destiny. Last time we played in one, Dallas Keuchel pitched 6 innings of 3-hit ball, and Chris Carter - you remember Chris? - walked three times for Houston. Masahiro Tanaka gave up a run early, and the game was over, just like that. (Writer snaps fingers, spits on floor, shakes head wearily.) One night. Gone.

Which Aaron Judge will show up? Which Chapman? Which bullpen? Which set of juju gods? The ones who guided Rafael Devers' bat to smash a two-strike El Chapo fastball into the left-field bullpen? Or the ones who fanned Hanley Ramirez with the winning runs on base? Which Yankee team will we see? The ones who swept the Twins, or the ones who were run out of their home park by Cleveland? They say hurricanes are unpredictable, but I'd say we've gotten quite good at projecting where the sledge hammer of nature will fall. But The Master is right: You cannot predict baseball, Suzyn. And with the nine-inning eight days away, there is nothing to be said, and I am helpless to say it. 

Deciphering the Girardi Sequence

This we know: The past is prelude. Stocks rise, then collapse. Taylor Swift falls in love, then blows up. You take a good dump, and a day later, your constipated again. This time of year, it may be sunny and pleasant, but out there in the Atlantic, a tropical depression is eating steroids. 

Over the last month, the Yankees have regularly interspersed short winning streaks with a loss - and sometimes a full-scale, Grade F, pungently ripened clunker. You know a Yankee clunker: Our opponent takes an early lead. We load the bases several times without scoring. Our bullpen implodes. We go three innings without a hit. They shut the door. In the ninth, we bring the tying run to the plate. He strikes out. Clunkerola. 

So the question is, based on what has happened thus far, what will the One Game Season - aka the Wild Card - serve up?

Since September 1, here is the Girardi Sequence:

Loss. Win. Blowout.  Blowout. Loss. Win. CLUNKER. Win. Blowout. Blowout.  Loss. Win. Blowout. Blowout. Blowout. Blowout. Loss. Win. Win. Blowout. Loss. Win...

Under the sequence, here is how the rest of the season, beginning today in Toronto, will unfold.

Blowout. Blowout. Loss. Win. Blowout. CLUNKER. Win. Blowout. 

Wild Card game... Blowout! 

Yes, as you see, we currently hold a proper trajectory entering the Nine Inning Season. But here's the rub: A loss today or tomorrow would dramatically alter the sequence, perhaps sending us into the "Selig Series" at the tail end of a mini-streak - ripe for a loss. 

The real key will be losing a clunker - I mean, an all-out shit show - to Toronto on the final weekend. We need to get the clunker out of our system. And regardless of how good it feels, we must NOT go into the Wild Card on a little mini-winning streak. We need to win the final game, but not the final three.

Next up: How long will the GOP go before the next try at health care?

This is now a Bruce Maxwell fan blog

From the @sfchronicle’s Santiago Mejia, here is A’s rookie Bruce Maxwell becoming the first MLB player to take a knee for the anthem: pic.twitter.com/q8QVY9hW15

— Susan Slusser (@susanslusser) September 24, 2017 

San Francisco Chronicle story

Last night's game reminds us of the randomized danger and chaos of the Wild Card

Entering last night, I felt total, Schwarzenegger-level confidence in our 2017 wild card-bound juggernaut. Sure, we knew the Blue Jays would play hard; that's because they're poor sports. But Hurricane Jose Bautista is 35, going on Betty White, their sickly lineup has too many Goins on not enough Gomes, and - hell - those health care-crazy Canadians are already tailgating for the hockey season. We were on a Calgary stampede, roaring to the finish line, ready to clinch the prestigious, limited edition, wild card home field advantage crown of bronze.

Then comes a well-delivered pineapple, a colonoscopic reminder of all the shit that can roll our way in one single, measly, stupid game.

After six months of daily grind, the notion that your team's fate shall boil down to one rotten, stinking game - one dice roll, one stiff breeze, one cutting of the cards - shrinks my gonads to the size of a Doanes pill. If our pitcher gets cramps while theirs eats his "Wheaties"... if the home plate umpire stretches our strike zones and squeezes theirs to the size of Hitler's heart... if our home run misses the foul pole and theirs grazes the paint... so many variables. What if in the third inning, young Byron Buxton's testicles finally drop, turning him into a Reggie? Jeez... one game.   

Now, I can imagine one game deciding a football or basketball season, because over 60 punishing minutes, the raw, brute force of hunger will usually prevail. But there is a reason why the lords of baseball went nearly 100 years requiring five or seven game series to decide a championship - why they scorned the one-game, winner-take-all. And last night, we received yet another glimpse of how fast things can go south in a nine-inning season.

Of course, we won't let Masahiro Tanaka near our wild card game. I'm not even sure he should see the playoffs, period. He is 12-12. His ERA is 4.94. If he pitched on the West Coast, home run balls would fly so far into the Pacific that we'd think Kim Jong Un was testing rockets. But it's not just Tanaka. What about Dellin Betances? If he cannot throw strikes, a three-run lead is a joke. And what if our defense decides to, as it does some nights, hold soccer practice on a few ground balls, or if our big hitters get flashbacks to the home run derby?

For years, I have argued that baseball should return to the 154-game schedule - giving pitchers more rest and resetting HR records back to the Ruth era. It would allow the wild carders to play a best-of-three series over the final weekend. That, or eliminate the final wild card slot. But hell... neither will happen. There's money involved.

So get ready, folks. One game. And last night, we saw just how bad one game can be. 

Let's go there: The Yankees are one Trump tweet away from disharmony and distraction

This we know: Trump roots for the Yankees. We've seen him in the box seats, sipping Viagra-laced Ensure shakes with Bill O'Reilly. We've seen him in Ohio, waving perogies in front of Paul O'Neill. When Trump retires each night, Randy Levine brings him his slippers, tail wagging with delight. Trump loves Johnny Damon. Trump likes Hank Steinbrenner. The only Yank to draw Trump's ire was A-Rod, who the team pretends doesn't exist. And one of these days - possibly next week - Trump is going to tweet the Yankees into a Colin Kaepernick debate.

It'll will happen one morning, while Trump is Gorilla Gluing his headpiece into place. Fox & Friends will air some Joe Buck-infected playoffs-hyping segment, sending Trump to his tweeter, (the one without Spellcheck.) Maybe he'll retweet an altered GIF of Dellin Betances beaning Hillary Clinton. Maybe he'll pose over a plate of Chinese egg noodles to honor Masahiro Tanaka. Whatever he does, it will hit the next news cycle like a Caitlyn Jenner sex tape, and here's the rub: The Yanks will gain nothing. 

Immediately, millions of Yankee haters will find new reason to spew their home-brewed bile - and dangerous juju - against us. But among the tobacco-chewing 4 in 10 who live with Trump bumper-stickers attached to their foreheads, nobody - not one - will renounce his Yankee hatred. It just doesn't work that way. 

Yankee haters despise the Yankees with the heat of a billion suns. A positive Trump tweet will be a mosquito bite upon their infinite rage and fury, and yet it will thrust their freshly poisoned stickpins into our juju doll genitalia. Moreover, if Trump turns up in a luxury box with Rudy and Rupert, or Hannity and Colmes (R.I.P.) - hell, even if it's with Chuck and Lurch de Blasiio - he will create a cat-5 diversion beyond anything Joe Girardi has ever quelled by taking Meredith Marakovitz to a pizza parlor. 

Immediately, reporters will ask each Yankee his opinion on Trump. Some will Jeter it, saying nothing and looking completely ball-less. Some will bite. Either way, it's a lose-lose. We'd be better off if Kim Jung Un tweeted us; we'd condemn it and be done. This is a tear in the Yankiverse waiting to happen.

I know what you're thinking: Trump hasn't tweeted on us thus far, so why worry? Listen: Summer is over, and winter is coming to Winterfell. If the Yankees reach the actual playoffs - beyond the Wild Card - the long slumbering pro- and anti-Yankee forces will mobilize nationwide, like an army of the White Walkers. Most fans will fall in behind long-suffering Cleveland and flood-stricken Houston, the game's clear powerhouses. But Trump will not be "presidential" and wish good luck to all. He'll throw in with Hal and Randy, Hank and Lonn, and leave the rest of us sitting in that coal mine next to the dead canary. 

We don't need distractions. But a big one, an unforgiving one, could be just around the corner. Sad.

Yankees Honor the Holidays

Sandy Koufax sent me this card today, and I was reminded that there was no game.

The Yankees kids are all home from school today ( maybe ), so they are cooking a meal together, for families and friends.

Brisket is at the top of the list.  Followed by noodle pudding ( Lokshen Kugel) , challah bread and plenty of wine from the Napa valley 9 in my case).

Tyler Wade needs a rest, anyway.

Enjoy the day.

What will it take to install safety netting? Now we know.

The answer was always there: 

It would take a little girl getting hit in the face by a 100-mph line drive and being carried from the stadium by a terrified grandfather. 

It would take two teams of grown men kneeling to cry into their hands, as paramedics swabbed blood from the seats.

It would take public anger.

Or... will it take something worse? 

Swept away, the miracle Twins lost no ground

Imagine how we'd be howling today if the Evil Empire just capped a critical, late-season, three-game sweep with a blowout loss? 

Right now, I'd be driving the sound truck through Joe Girardi's Westchester neighborhood, demanding he be deported to Chicago. Alphonso would be handing out Tiki torches. The Yankiverse would be mobilizing into a finely tuned strike force, and Hal Steinbrenner would be in hiding. 

But if we'd blown all three to the Twinkies, we'd still be a game up on them with less than 10 left. And that's where Minnesota stands this morning - one up on the wingless Angels, who lost to Cleveland, 6-5.

Here's a fact: A huge chasm exists between the AL's fourth and fifth best teams. It's possible the final Wild Card slot could go to a .500 team... though it won't help us in the one-game season.

It's coming down to who do we want to face, Ervin Santana or Garrett Richards?

Against us this week, Santana went 5.2 with 7 hits and gave up 2 earned runs. It was by far the best Twins pitching performance in NY.

Richards returned from injury on September 5 and has started three games for the Angels. He has pitched 13.5 innings and given up 4 runs, an ERA of 2.00. In his last two outings, he went 5 innings each time, pulled for pitch counts. He's a veteran.

Treading water now... waiting to see who steps up... no outfield collisions... no foul tips off the ankle... waiting...

If it's bad, they're always "former Yankees"

Raul Mondesi is a former Yankee in the way that Paul McCartney is a former member of the Fireman. 

Behold, the "former Yankee's" career.

Ten reasons why we don't want to face Minnesota in the Wild Card

1. You can't beat the same team every single time.

2. They smacked around Luis Severino today.

3. Next time, their rookies won't be awestruck by our hookers.

4. The winner must play Cleveland. (And remember what happens in Cleveland.)

5. Nobody expected them to be here; they have nothing to lose.

6. We still haven't figured out Ervin Santana.

7. Fearsome lineup with Allison, Oliva, Hrbek and Killebrew.

8. Loni Anderson is from Minnesota. (It's true!)

9. Do we really want to oppose Al Franken?

10. It's not like the Angels are any good.

Could lowly Texas still sneak in? The schedule gods could have a say

Many fans have come to believe the one-game, winner-take-all, Bud Selig-crafted Wild Card breathes life into the regular season. 

These people are fools.

I do get their argument: The Wild Card adds intrigue to September, almost guaranteeing a "race" to the end. And it provides a clear incentive to win your division, as opposed to settling for second place. Today, for example, without that final, away-field slot, the Yankees and Diamondbacks would sit securely as wild carders, and baseball would have no close race, whatsoever. 

In a nutshell, here is why I hate the rule, and why you should, too. 

If humanity lasts long enough, the Wild Card ensures that someday a sub-.500 team will win the World Series. 

Think it won't happen? I bet you didn't think Trump would happen. We've seen everything, but our World Champs always won more than they lost. Live long enough, folks, and it will happen. Pink Lady and Jeff happened. Vanilla Ice happened. This is nothing compared to them.

Statistically, the worst team to ever win a World Series is believed to be the 2006 Cardinals, who finished five games above .500 in the regular season. They were not a Wild Card team. They won the sickly NL Central, which is what makes wild cards even more terrifying.

To win a division, you simply must beat three worse teams. Add the two wild card slots, and - jeez, Louise - anything is possible. But the loser-champ probably won't come this year, at least not in the NL, where Milwaukee - 11 above .500 - is still a game behind the final slot. In the AL, well... it could.

Here are schedules of the three last AL wild card contenders. (Yes, I add Texas to this generously.)

Twins (5 games above .500): Yankees (1), Tigers away (3), Indians away (3), Tigers home (3).

Six patsy games v Detroit, and by late next week, Cleveland will be phoning them in. Likely record: 7-3 (assuming we beat their sorry asses tonight.)

Angels (2 above): Indians home (2), Astros away (3), White Sox away (4), Mariners home (3)

Gist: Seven pasties, five against contenders, too soon for phone-ins. Likely record: 6-4. They face Cleveland and Houston - tough. 

Rangers (2 below): Mariners away (2), A's away (3), Astros home (3), A's home (3).

Gist: Eight patsies, plus three last week phone-ins. Holy crap. They could go on a 9-2 run and push Minnesota down to the wire! 

Of course, any rotten team can play spoiler. Who knows what the Tigers and A's can do, especially with kids up from East Podunk. But if I could choose, I'd take the Rangers' greased schedule. 

As for us and them?

Redsocks: Orioles away (1), Reds away (3), Blue Jays home (3), Astros home (3.) 

Gist: Seven pasties, plus an intriguing three-game playoff prequel v Houston. If I were a Boston fan, I would hate that final weekend. You don't want the Astros coming in and leaving its scent on your dugouts. Still, watching Baltimore fold this week took the starch out of us. Two weeks ago, Buck mangled Boston, and I started feeling sorry for him. Now, this? He needs to win tonight, or he's back on my shit list.  

Yanks: Twins (1), Blue Jays away (3), Royals home (1), Rays home (3), Blue Jays home (3).

Gist: After the Twins... NBP - Nothing But Patsies! Unfortunately, the Rays and Jays are spiteful emissaries of hate, capable of launching bean ball wars. They will play us to the bitter end, maybe even ignite a brawl, if Dellin happens to accidentally behead someone. 

It sure would be nice to pressure Boston to that wipe-out weekend, forcing them to sweat. And if Buck coaxes a win tonight, they go to uncharted Cincy with Dustin Pedroia and his new nose job. But let's not kid ourselves: It's all about the one game wild card. Frankly, it always was.

And that's another reason to hate it.

Wild Card Magic Number

The Future We Hung Onto.......

The Yankees have traded a lot of prospects recently, including Seattle's top-hitting outfielder.

But we have kept two gems who are battling for ROTY.

As of this morning:

- Tyler wade has a higher batting average than Greg Bird.  

-  I am talking .148 to .147.

True, Tyler doesn't have the power.

Where does Cashman find these guys?

We may not catch Boston this season, but the future is ours.

The Yankees are keeping the hidden gems.

Mm-mm, a nice, mouth-watering plate of poached crow

Okay, let me pretzel myself to the juju gods and praise Mr. Jaime Garcia - the most famous "Jaime" since Jaime the Robot (that's a date mark, no?) - for pitching into the sixth last night and officially welcoming the Twinkies to Metropolis.  

Right now, if we face Minnesota in the one-game, winner-takes-all Wild Card, I can imagine Jaime coming in to face Joe Mauer with the bases loaded, (although that would mean trouble for Sevy.) If we beat the Twins again tonight, they could be tied for the final slot tomorrow, with the Angels on the rise. Clearly, we have no recourse but to root for the Yankees. Our DNA will not allow anything else, without the colon starting to back up... even though it might be in our best interests to let Minnesota have that final glory hole.

There is one intangible worth noting: Miguel Sano, the Twins 3B, who's been out for a month with a bum shin. He's supposedly coming back soon. Sano has 28 HRs - two against the Yankees, both drilled like root canals into our psyche. If Sano returns, I'd almost rather take our chances with California. We owe the Angels some long-term payback. 

And speaking of "owing" people, it's time for me eat crow on several Yankees, a meal I'm happy to begin. Listen: This is a Yankee Fan Id web site, which means we celebrate every win and mourn every loss - unconditionally. On every level, the most important question always remains: What have you done for me lately? When players slump, they get derided. But when they come through, we must shower them with love. So let's start with the most mocked Yankee of all, a man known by his terrible contract...

Jacoby Ellsbury. In the last 30 days, he is fifth in the AL in hitting - that's 26 for 72, and .366. Suddenly, he looks like the old Redsock we thought we were getting. Last night, he stole two bases, one on an instant replay reversal, which only makes it more sweeter. Over the last month, his on base percentage is insane - .471 - and his revival came at a critical juncture - when china doll Aaron Hicks went out with yet another injury. (Remember when Ellsbury was supposed to be the fragile one?) I wonder how far Ellsbury can go, and deeper in my lizard brain, I'm plotting his off-season trade. But right now, he's a damn tough out. This may be his NYC finale. If so, he's going proudly. (And, who knows, maybe it'll be Hicks that disappears for a starting pitcher?)

Chase Headley. He's hitting .302 over the last month - with 5 home runs (as many as Todd Frazier, by the way.) No matter who we face - lefty or righty - it's hard not to imagine Headley in the lineup, either at 3B or 1B. Through June, the guy's name was shorthand for disappointment. I started calling him Head Casely, and figured it would stick. No more. If you could remove the month of May, when he hit .166, he'd be near .300. (Overall, he's now at .281.) Damnit, he came back. 

Aaron Judge. I became hyper-critical of this guy, basically because I had too much spiritual investment into him. Thirty home runs in half a season? I feared falling in love. The emotions he conjured, the feelings he unearthed - it was like - I wanted to move in together. I was ready to pop the question. I said, NO, THIS JUDGE'S CHAMBERS, THESE FEELINGS INSIDE MY HEART, IT'S TOO EARLY. HE'LL JILT ME. HE'LL BE UNFAITHFUL, HE'LL END UP IN OAKLAND, AND I'LL ONLY HAVE SCATTERED PICTURES OF THE DREAMS WE LEFT BEHIND, MISTY WATER COLORED MEMORIES... I wanted to go slowly. And then, suddenly, everything went wrong. Over the last two months, whenever I saw him, I saw betrayal. I saw another Jason Maas, or Kevin Maas - whatever, you know, a Maas! - the next Shane Spencer or - gulp - a Roger Repoz. He never smiled. He walked away. Lately, he's been flirting again, buying me flowers and flashing that gap-toothed grin- ooh, be still yee stirrings of my heart! Last night's homer was purely Judgian - from the centerfield camera, it looked like a pop-up - and just kept going. I'm starting to believe again. But the great defining moments of our relationship have yet to happen. They will come in the next three weeks. He loves me, he loves me not... I MIGHT END UP WITH A RING!

Okay, yeah, you too, Aroldis, I'm eating crow. Toddfather? Well, maybe. It's up to you. But you know what, the Yankees won last night, and it's delicious. MORE CROW, PLEASE! ANOTHER HELPING! MORE!