Super Poll: Which is the better management team?

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.

MVP! MVP! MVP!


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

ESPN!


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

http://www.espn.com/blog/boston/red-sox/post/_/id/51129/big-papi-in-their-rear-view-will-yankees-fans-moon-david-ortiz-in-bronx-finale

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.

PAPI MOON HERO: "ALL SYSTEMS ARE GO"

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.


REMEMBER: 
IF YOU DON'T WANT TO DROP YOUR PANTS...
 
IF THERE ARE LITTLE KIDS AROUND,
OR IF THERE ARE COPS AROUND,
OR IF YOU'RE JUST NOT THE PERSON WHO DOES HEROIC STUFF...

YOU CAN STILL TAKE PART.

STAND,
TURN AROUND,
BEND OVER,
AND POINT TO YOUR BUTT!

STAND! TURN! BEND! POINT!

S.T.B.P.

NOBODY GETS OFFENDED.
NOBODY GETS ARRESTED.
NOBODY GETS HURT.
PAPI WILL KNOW... 
AND THE WORLD WILL SAY...
THIS WAS OUR FINEST HOUR.

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.

WE LOOK FORWARD TO "SEEING" EVERYONE THERE.

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?)

Yoan Moncada... SLOOOOOOOOWLY, I TURNED...

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.

Wow


The past 24 hours have been astonishing in the world of www.MoonBigPapi.com.  

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.

TURN, BEND AND POINT. 

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. 

TURN, BEND AND POINT. 

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

TURN, BEND AND POINT. 

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.

THE MOON MISSION MAKES LATE NIGHT

BIG PAPI TO NYC: MOON ME

"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 Fivethirtyeight.com 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 screen...is 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?

Friday, September 23, 2016

How should we respond? Well, gee, that sure is a toughie...


Dear Discerning Readers of IIHIIFIIc:

I have tried to keep a relatively low profile on IIH when it comes to promoting MoonBigPapi.com.  I don't want to be thought of as swinish when it comes using IIH's bandwidth to promote a cause that's near and dear to me.

HOWEVER.  

I was pushed over the edge today when I read this article in the NY Post:

Perhaps the alert readers of this blog have already seen it.  From the article:
The Yankees may want to think about reworking their upcoming tribute to retiring rival David Ortiz.
Gee, ya think?  What on earth could we possibly do?

At the end of the article, the author lamely concludes:
Now, the person who is in charge of planning for the Yankees may want to start digging out some old Orioles highlights, just in case ... After all, turnabout is fair play.
Well, that sure would be a hoot!

Apart from that killer idea, the Post's journalists seem stumped.  Any alternatives the Yanks might have for taking action just aren't obvious to them.  No newspapers around here have ever reported on an idea that outsiders have found newsworthy.  It's like the New York papers are suffering a gotham-sized anal-cranial inversion and the only people in the loop are out there in the hinterlands.  We've been waiting, day after day, for NY beat writers to alert the locals to our cause.  You know, actually to be journalists.

True Yankee fans understand that other, lesser teams can only view their success through the prism of the Yankees.  Other teams show Yankee highlight videos ... when they Yankees aren't even there.  Is some MORON at the Post really suggesting that the Yankees should do the same and show Orioles videos?


Well, we true Yankee fans will just have to think really hard and come up with another idea for getting revenge.  Maybe the NY Post and the NY Daily news will pick up on our vibe.  Maybe they know how to click a link.

Maybe the Yankees will win 11 out of 10.


It's time to look at next year... again

Ten games remain, and as Brett Gardner says, we must win 11. Moreover, we must run the table on Toronto, Boston and Baltimore - three flat-out superior teams. We're more likely to lose 11. The only bright spot: It should be over before Masahiro Tanaka tries a suicide outing and wrecks his elbow for next year.

Next year... 

Those words... We heard them last year, and the year before that. Next year... they're becoming the staples of YES Network propaganda, which touts the Yankees without mentioning the opposition. That's dangerous, because even without Big Papi, Boston is an ascending power. They could win this year and next. They have Bogaertes (age 23), Bradely (26), Betts (23), Benintendi (22), Shaw (26) and Leon (27) - all rising, and they'll add Yoan Moncada - (that name again... GAHHHH.) They spent two whole years retooling. Our "rebuilding" plan lasted one weekend, and if - as rumors suggest - we'll empty the farm next winter for Jose Fernandez, we might end up hanging it all on one elbow.

Unless Food Stamps Hal uncrosses his legs, opens his fanny pack, takes out his purse, works the combination lock and counts out some pennies - and signs some looming international mystery guest, we're left hoping that Brian Cashman can rob teams in trades. Good luck. It took us four years to dig this hole, and without a cash infusion from El Cheapo, we could be sitting here next September 23, needing to win 11 out of 10.

Obviously, there will be changes. But right now, let's look at 2017...

The batting order

Ellsbury cf (he'll be 34)
Gardner lf (ditto)
Sanchez c
Bird 1b
Castro 2b
McCann dh (he'll be 33)
Gregorius ss
Judge rf
Headley 3b (he'll be 33)

I suspect either Gardy or Ellsbury gets traded, because they have both become the same middling player with different contracts, and neither is on the upswing. McCann could go. It depends on whether Atlanta has anyone to offer. Nobody beyond Vladimir Putin will take Headley, who was outhit this year by four ex-Yankee third-basemen, each peddled away by Cashman - Martin Prado (.308, 7 HR), Eduardo Nunez (.287, 16), Adonis Garcia (.270, 14) and Yangervis Solarte (.284, 15) - in three cases, for next to nothing. We have Headley for two more years, and nobody ready to take his job in 2017, unless Cito Culver (.263, 1 HR at Scranton) starts juicing, or Brigadoon Refsnyder learns third-base. Maybe an asteroid will destroy us all, and it won't matter. La-dee-dah!

Let's face it: 2017 will depend on Sanchez, Bird and Judge and maybe the fast-tracked OF Clint Frazier, who hit .228 at Scranton. (I don't know why Tyler Austin seems to have already vanished from Joe's binder, but it's a bad sign. Once the Yankees sour on a guy... see Yangervis Solarte, Edwardo Nunez and Adonis Garcia...) If they all hit, we have something. Of course, if Boston signs Eduardo Encarnacion...

Starting Pitchers

Tanaka (unless we do something stupid and he hurts his elbow next week)
Sabathia (his final year)
Pineda (his final year with us)
Cessa/Severino/Green
The adult male population of Scranton

Bullpen

Betances
Warren
Clippard
The adult male population of Scranton
(Maybe we sign Aroldis Chapman?)

About signing Chapman? It'd be nice, but I don't get this infusion of hope by the Yankee media outlets. Somehow - (I suspect it's because they own their media) - the Yankees have managed to convince their fan base that frugality in itself is a victory. We're supposed to root for Hal Steinbrenner to make more money, not so he can buy players, but so he can plow it back into the partners, who can then buy politicians and even more media. It's a perfect circle, and let's give them credit for gaming the system. Old George was an anomaly: When he wanted a player, dammit, he went out and got the guy. Hal won't do that. He's too smart, and we're supposed to actually support such policies. How did we get this way?

The days of the Yankees quickly improving via free agency are gone. This is our team. We need 11 out of 10, and frankly, it won't be the last time.

Thursday, September 22, 2016

There are 74 hitters with more home runs than the Yankee team leader

Carlos Beltran has 22.

He's 11 behind Robinson Cano.

For whatever it's worth...

Our current RBI leader, Starlin Castro, ranks 84th on the MLB list.

At 69 RBIs, he's one ahead of Yangervis Solarte, three above Eduardo Nunez, and eight ahead of Adonis Garcia. He's 21 RBIs below Robbie, seven behind Melky Cabrera, and four behind Russell Martin.

Our top batter, hitting .278, is Didi Gregorius. He ranks 61st in MLB.

Our top base-stealer, Jacoby Ellsbury, with 18, ranks 27th.

Brett Gardner leads the Yankees in pitches per plate appearance, with an average of 4.08. He ranks 31st in baseball.

John Sterling National Memorial Pledge Drive Update! $0.00 Raised!

I came across this today and decided to re-post.  Thank you for your continued support.


The 2016 Yankee hitting stats are a disgrace

The recent debacles against LA and Boston produced a few amazing sights. For me, it was like traveling back in time to that mythic era when gods roamed the base paths. I saw batting orders where players actually hit higher than .280 - with - get this - 25 to 30 home runs! I'm talking about Ruthian lineups, in some cases with multiple hitters actually batting above .300!  Amazing! How do they do it? They must be juicing, right?

Soon, we will award the 2016 IT IS HIGH PLASTIC LUMBER AWARDS to the most offensive Yankees and - wherever he is, Arturo Lopez must wish he could still lace up the cleats and mount a comeback. He'd fit right in on this team.

In fact, nothing signifies the 2016 Yankee collapse more than the embarrassingly anemic batting stats - an excess of mediocrity that simply cannot be blamed on Joe Girardi. With the year winding down, the Yankees are chasing the kinds of statistical milestones that star players achieve before the all-star break. It's pathetic.

Some examples? How about home runs.


Yep. Two months after being traded, Carlos Beltran still tops the team... with 22. Twenty two.

If Gary Sanchez continues on his tear, he might lead the 2016 Yankees. (I love Sanchez but hope he is not being set up with impossible expectations, that - no matter what he does next year - will leave some fans feeling disappointment. This is a very real concern.) 

Keep in mind, the Yankees play in what most fans view as a bandbox. Currently, second on the Indian Point Power Outage Report is Starlin Castro, who is hurt and thus will top out at 21. Twenty-one.

Folks, there is a reason why Didi Gregorius hits cleanup. Until Sanchez arrived, we had no HR threat, whatsoever. The Yankees... no home run threat, whatsoever. 

Okay, let's look at batting average.


Our top man is Didi, who is slumping. (Sanchez and Beltran don't have enough Yankee at-bats to qualify.) He is our only hope to hit that astronomical .280 (two-eighty) mark. Castro stands at .273. Both Ellsbury (.262) and Gardner (.258) would be lucky to reach .270. And the list of players who simply stank - A-Rod, Tex, Aaron Hicks, Aaron Judge, et al - remind us of the late 1980s. Pathetic.

Runs batted in?
How depressing is this? We might not have anybody drive in a measly 70 runs. Didi is our best hope, with 67. Our current outfield - Ellsbury, Gardy and Aaron Hicks - has 118 RBIs... well below Edwin Encarnacion's 128.

W.A.R.? (Wins Above Replacement)

Okay, I haven't the slightest idea how they get this number - a red flag on anyone who uses it in arguments - but let's give the geeks their due. The Yankee leader in W.A.R. - (what are you good for? absolutely nuthin) - is Gardy, at 3.0. (Sanchez also has 3.0; I have no idea why it's so low, probably because he hasn't played in enough games. But this is what you get with a geek stat.) 

For W.A.R., Gardner ranks 67th in all of baseball. Sixty-seventh. Our best player... sixty-seventh.

Seriously, we cannot blame everything on Girardi.

Wednesday, September 21, 2016

The Triple-A Championship is Named After Underpants


The Triple-A National Championship our boys won last night is actually The Gildan Triple-A National Championship, its naming rights held by a Canadian manufacturer of boxer shorts you have to dry clean made by starving Haitians under "some of the harshest working conditions anywhere in the global apparel industry." Their workers in Honduras and the Dominican Republic endure similar treatment.

Predictably, the company thinks as little of the tax collector as of the seamstress. According to the Toronto Star:
[Gildan] has declared more than $1.3 billion (U.S.) in income over the last five years but has paid only $37.9 million in tax, according to its corporate annual reports. That is the equivalent of a 2.8 per cent annual tax rate.
Glenn Chamandy, president and CEO, told the Globe and Mail he long ago adopted his grandfather's motto: “In business, you don’t make money, you save it.” 

Funnily enough, Gildan has been ranked by Maclean's Magazine as one of their Top 50 Socially Responsible Corporations as recently as 2014. 

Our congratulations go out once again to the RailRiders, the Yankees and Minor League Baseball!

The year of giving back

Come on, let's take that fantasy journey... drink the Kool-Aid...  O, wow! The colors...

The Yankees have 12 games left, and we are just three losses below Baltimore for the away-field wild card joy buzzer, so - YES - we can still win it! We win all 12, and then run the table in the playoffs... the greatest Yankee comeback in history. It'll make the Bucky Dent season look like canned sardines. Hell, it'll be the Greatest Comeback in World History. Bigger than Nixon. Bigger than post-war Germany. Bigger than the Christ resurrection, dammit, bigger than Mickey Rourke winning the Golden Globe for The Wrestler. Damn, it'll beat - um - the 2004 Redsocks? Wait a minute. I need more Kool-Aid. Glug, glug, glug. OK, we win the next 12, then roll through October, and we'll exorcise the demons from this down millennium and restore the universe to its rightful balance. Right? FUKKIN MICKEY ROURKE! DAMMIT, MICKEY CHARLES ROURKE!

Excuse me. I gotta go soak my head in a bucket of ice water.

I'm back. OK, we just dreamed of the Greatest Comeback in World History. Now, let's discuss the One True Reality of the 2016 Yankees, emblazoned into our heads over the last two weeks:

Every time we won a few, we turned around and lost a few. All season long. We'd win a couple, raise hopes, then lose a couple and piss on them. Most recently, we won seven in a row, puffing up like a tropical guppie. Then... ka-boom: We lose six of seven, putting us here... fourth in the AL East... where we belong, I guess.

Moreover, the recent series against Boston and Los Angeles exemplified our charity work. Whenever we scored a few, our pitchers quickly gave them back.

So look... we might get hot against Tampa. Right now, I'm not sure the Rays could beat the Scranton-Wilkes Barre Railriders. But whatever happens, we'll give it back. We are six games above .500. I'd say that's about right. Summer ends today. Autumn will go quickly. (Moon Big Papi!) Then comes the long winter.

And here's a pin for the sex doll balloon fantasy: According to the Internet, Brian Cashman is supposedly one of four GMs hot for Jose Fernandez, whom the Marlins will put up for auction this winter. To get him, we would bundle most - in not all - of our best prospects, and don't think for a minute that it couldn't include Gary Sanchez. These days, the price for a 25-year-old ace is astronomical, and we would be bidding against Boston, which somehow seems to have more prospects and more money than poor old Food Stamps Hal.

With or without Sanchez, we would trade a boatload of young talent for a guy who has thrown a lifetime of pitches over his first four years, and who has already undergone Tommy John surgery, and if that doesn't sound like a typical Cashman cash-back debacle - (remember Jeff Weaver? remember Javier Vasquez?) - then what the hell does? In fact, we would simply be returning to our usual slovenly, craven, big-contract malaise. You could say we were restoring the Yankiverse to its rightful balance, eh? We're already moving in that direction. (Yes, the Billy Butler signing did spook me.) Wait a minute, where's that Kool-Aid? I need a drink.

Tuesday, September 20, 2016

VICTORY IS OURS

Scranton-Wilkes-Barre RailRiders defeat El Paso Chihuahuas 3-1 to win AAA Championship!!!


Chris Parmelee: HR, 3RBI
Clint Frazier: 2-4, 1R
Jordan Montgomery (W): 5IP 6H 1R 1ER 0BB 5SO
Giovanni Gallegos (SV): 1IP 0H 0R 0BB

Fireworks via GIPHY

Boxcars & Snakeyes


The torture just wouldn't end.

We need a slogan for this four game series ( debacle) against Boston.  A commitment and resolve as strong as that of Israel, " NEVER AGAIN !"

Each game allowed the Red Sucks to come from behind and win.  They had no fear of ( temporarily) trailing the Yankees. In fact, I think the Boston players relished it.  Like letting the speed horse lead the race until the final turn, then breaking his spirit by gunning past him down the stretch.

I could feel the presence of this oncoming humiliation.

For four straight days, Boston wiped dog shit from their shoes onto our brand new school khakis.  And we went into class smelling awful, enduring the giggles and shame of all the girls who fought to sit as far away as possible.  Finally, the school nurse is summoned and we sit in our underwear while the janitor opens the wash room with the old machines used to clean the rags.

Even he was laughing.  But he did admonish and say, " son, no matter the consequences, if those assholes ever come near you again, you must attack.  Take their fucking eyes out if you have to. But you cannot be victimized again, or you will be haunted as weak forever.  Even the fat, ugly girls won't like you. "

We have to make someone pay, and this time, it can't be the back up trainer or buffet chef.  Cashman and Girardi are responsible.  This is America, and the laws do not apply to the super rich, so Hal cannot be indicted.  But the overpaid GM and Manager are killing this franchise.

Time for new blood.

This cannot ever happen again.  Death before dishonor.

Local Bargain Jerk is now the most famous Yankee fan in the world

He crushes it in an interview with Boston Magazine. 

Ten questions that absolutely MUST be asked in the Presidential debate

1. Will either of you moon Big Papi?

2. This goes to Mr. Trump. You weigh 237 pounds, which puts you on the edge of being declared "obese." Will your big fat ass deter you from mooning Big Papi?

3. To Secretary Clinton. You are sick and frail, and you might die at any moment. Would you be worried about bending over and falling, and thus be unable to moon Big Papi?

4. Where do both of you stand on the First Amendment rights of Americans, patriotic Americans, who want to fulfill their Constitutional duty to moon Big Papi?

5. Would you pledge right here to never impede an American's fundamental right to moon a Redsock?

6. This is for Secretary Clinton. You have called Mr. Trump's supporters a "basket of deplorables." Does this mean you would not accept one as a fellow mooner of Big Papi?

7. A question for Mr. Trump. Should Muslims be allowed to moon Big Papi? Also, would you try to deport an illegal alien who shows the common decency of mooning Big Papi?

8. For both candidates: Who will pay for your vast, ridiculous public projects, and will there be money left over to moon Big Papi?

9. One of the most important decisions will be in appointing the Supreme Court. Will your selection contain a litmus test regarding his - or her - willingness to moon Big Papi?

10. I'd like to know how each of you personally have reacted to past moonings. Would this in any way affect your future ability to moon Big Papi?

Fifty Thousand Moons: The Big Papi Farewell Poem

We will moon him from the bleachers.
We will moon him from the stands.
He will think our butts strange creatures
From some weird exotic lands.

We will moon him from the boxes,
Where the richest are assigned.
Full autumnal equinoxes,
Fifty-thousand grand behinds.

We will moon him from the upper decks,
Way up there in the sky,
He'll see fifty-thousand hammy specks,
Each moonbeam shouting, "Bye!"

We'll moon Big Papi all the night,
Show all our nooks and crannies.
Into his brain we'll burn the sight
Of fifty thousand fannies.

We will moon him in the lower tiers,
Where cheeks doth shine quite proudly,
We'll moon him as we sip our beers,
And often, farting loudly.

We will go down in the hist'ry book,
Our tickets will be keepsakes!
We'll never know a greater look
Than fifty-thousand beefcakes.

We'll moon him at that certain time,
When Papi waves, "Goodbye now."
No cop shall charge us with a crime,
He'll merely wink an eyebrow.

We'll moon him for posterity!
To show the world what's right,
Though some will cry, "Vulgarity!"
They'll know we won the night.

O, it shall be one glorious scene!
A gathering of the masses!
No greater use shall e'r have been,
For fifty-thousand asses.

Monday, September 19, 2016

Executive Brian needs a sit-down with Manager Joe

Along with showcasing a decade of bad executive decisions, the dismal 2016 Yankees exposed a fault line between the front office and manager Joe Girardi.

In early August, after Hal Steinbrenner had essentially conceded the season by trading our three best players, Girardi still refused to accept the new reality. He claimed the Yankees were in a pennant race - not just for the last measly Wild Card slot, but for the AL East itself, a ridiculous notion, though it made him seem scrappy and irrepressible, a Don Zimmeresque presence in the trenches.

And dammit, Joe did his job. He wiggled and waggled, and wrung three weeks out of a carcass of a season. The Yankees made a brief run, before being cruelly undressed by far superior teams, the Dodgers and Redsocks. (If you look at the ages and hitting stats of LA and Boston, you realize we are at least two years from competing.) Today, it looks so silly. But until last week, we were actually still drinking the Kool-Aid.

For three weeks, Joe managed World Series seventh games, a steam of Groundhog Days.  It worked until it didn't. Eventually, he realized our lineup still hibernates, and that Dellin Betances can't throw 50 pitches a game.

But last night, Joe was still blathering from his bunker. If the Yankees can win all their remaining games - hey, you never know: Maybe war, famine and racism will end, too.

I say it's time for the towel. It's time to look up at the ref, sink back into the canvas, and let the man count to 10. There is no shame in dealing with reality.

It's time to set down the binders and play the kids. As Trump would say, "What the hell do we have to lose?"

There's talk today that Starlin Castro's tender ham-hocks might not be so tweaked, after all. He could maybe play next week against Baltimore. And Luis Cessa, now well beyond his planned innings limit for the season, might wrangle three more starts. Ellsbury might hurry back. Meanwhile, Gardy can patrol center.

Why bother?

Is there a reason to subject CC Sabathia to another game? (Yes, if you think the Yankees want to hurt his shoulder and use it as an excuse to opt-out of his 2017 contract.) This is why the rosters have been expanded. This is why the world made Blake Parkers and Kirby Yateses.

Let's honor our veterans. Tell Billy Butler that we thank him for his service, and he should go home, all expenses paid. Don't allow Gardy to splatter against a wall. Play Tyler Austin, Mason Williams and bring up Jake Cave. Give Tex a few final at-bats, and a nice ceremony than David Ortiz. Don't even bother Brian McCann. What if someone tears a knee? This is no time to lose a trading chip.

There is no race. It's over. There was a dream, and now we have awoken from it. Only one thing remains in 2016.

We must moon Big Papi.

Sunday, September 18, 2016

Oh, the humanity


It's too late, and we're about to do too little


This weekend reminds me of the same September weekend of 1978 except, as El Duque says, "We have become the Red Sox."

On that weekend of September 15-16-17, 1978 the Yanks took the first two games of the series and more or less put the final nails in Boston's coffin.  If you recall, we had swept a 4-game series from them the weekend before.

The Red Sox came back and walloped us 7-3 in the final game, but it was too late.  It was sort of like throwing a rock at the bigger kid after he's beaten the crap out of you and he's about halfway home and not thinking about you anymore.

I know that it was a 3-game series in 1978 and this one is 4 games, but I predict we'll beat the Red Sox tonight.  My reasoning is: The bigger kid has beaten the crap out of us, he's halfway home, and he's not thinking about us any more.

Note:

I hereby resend (correction as per comments: rescind) any previous request for the New York Yankees to win a game this weekend in Boston.

I call upon the Redsocks - clearly, our superiors - to thrash us... handily, brutally, savagely, like a rented gerbil, when the two teams play this evening on national teevee.

I regret the error of ever suggesting that the Yankees might take the series or even win one game. I apologize for misleading anyone into thinking likewise.

That is all.

We have become the Redsocks

Watching yesterday's game - while always knowing we would lose - it hit me...

They do everything right. We do everything wrong.

They regularly pull the plug on losing seasons. For us to finally do it this year, it took a humiliating sweep in Tampa. Otherwise, we would have larded up with veterans and still be playing Gary Sanchez down in Scranton.

They bench or demote expensive free agents who don't cut it: Rusney Castillo, the Panda... It doesn't matter how much they're paid. They disappear. We go a full season with Stephen Drew or Mark Teixeira, even if hitting .198. Too expensive to bench.

They spend on international talent, regardless of the luxury tax. Yoan Moncada is on the way. We have nothing like him. Wait... check that: We have Billy Butler.

They kept and restored Fenway Park, the cathedral they fill with excited fans. We tore down our Westminster Abbey, Yankee Stadium, and replaced it with a steak house/disco monstrosity where the seats are too expensive for regular fans.

They have Betts, Bogartes, Bradely and others - already stars. We have Billy Butler.

They fire front office personnel. They hold management accountable for its failures. Our owner runs a country club.

They are in a position to win their fourth World Series in this millennium, and be better in 2017. To realistically contend next year, we will have to empty our farm system of the prospects we're so proud to have acquired recently.

We are the Redsocks.

Moon Big Papi.

Saturday, September 17, 2016


R.I.P., W.P.

W.P. Kinsella - who wrote one of the greatest baseball books of all time, "Shoeless Joe" - has been called back into the cornfield.

Tonight, somewhere in Iowa, Moonlight Graham and J.P. Salinger will play catch under the stars.

Can we win one game? Just one?

I give up.

We're ditching the wild card, the division race, the post-season, blah-blah-blah - even that fake marketing ploy, "the Baby Bombers," (which is nothing without Aaron Judge.) It's all over but the mooning. (That's for Sept. 29.) We won't win our last 15. Hell, we probably won't win eight. We are now a tomato can. This week, in Tampa, we will play our brothers in the three-game series to crown AL East Tomato Can of the Year. Folks, the Billy Butler Era is here! From now on, all we can do is give Boston one last flea bite, maybe a touch of Zika?

Which raises my plea to the universe... to the team... to Girardi... to Cashman... to anybody with a syringe or good liquor... to the unnamed juju god who happens to be answering the phones this weekend...

Can we win one game in Boston? Just one? Is that too much to ask? 

Just one. I'm not asking for the moon. (That's for Sept. 29.) I'm not asking for a 2-2 series split. Nope. All that hopey, upbeat, excitement whooey - it's out the window. I'm thinking microdose. One stinking game. It doesn't have to happen today. I'd actually rather it be tomorrow, as a parting gift. One stupid, rancid, stinker of a game.

Hey, universe, divine entity, random chance, whoever you are... is that too frickin much? 

To Joe, I say circle the wagons! Today, play the munchkins. How about that pitching line last night! Pazos, Holder, Shreve, Yates, Heller - yeah, that's the ticket! Altogether now, everybody... PazosHolderShreveYatesHeller! PazosHolderShreveYatesHeller! We dazzle them with no names. Can't we pull somebody else from Scranton?

Better yet... to Cash, I say, let's sign Nick Swisher and pitch him today! That would save all our arms for Sunday. One game, seriously, that's all I want. One game.

To the juju god on duty... Dude, WTF? Are you really going to reward the team of Curt Schilling? Do they have something on you? Pal, it's time to stand up. One game, buddy. One stinking game.