But I have a creepy feeling about Aaron Judge starting today in CF.
I remember Mickey Mantle, and the storm drain that derailed his excellence.
Hopefully, today is just another fun day at the ball park.
And Judge, being such a great athlete , will prove his abilities even more.
Maybe he should wear number 7, just for the day. To add to the merriment.
I don't like anything about this.
In the battle for March, another fine Yankees article in the Times today, but also one about soccer. Regarding one Jack Cork, the only Premier League midfielder to have played every minute of every game so far this year.
In the course of this, Cork has apparently run or walked all of 227.4 miles, or more than 7 miles per game. It is an accomplishment so immense that, as the Times subhead notes, "It Challenges The Mind."
Except it doesn't.
Those 30 games Cork put in took place over about six months. Which means a little over a mile a day, something that about half of this city routinely runs and walks, even in just getting to one place or another. Throw in practices, friendlies, and other games...and we're still talking the average workout for maybe a million or two New Yorkers.
I know, I know. They're not playing Premier League soccer. Just dodging murderous traffic, street lunatics, potholes, and falling trees in the parks.
For the year: Soccer 48, Yankees 38. For March, Yanks 23, Soccer 21.
—Clint Frazier, DL, concussion.
—Aaron Hicks, DL, intercoastal waterways.
—Greg Bird, DL, foot fell off.
—Jacoby Ellsbury, o-bleak pull. Plus flu.
UPDATE: Ellsbury reported severe sniffling and a jammed pinky last night. Status doubtful.
UPDATE: Ellsbury over sniffles and pinky, but feels "all headachy." Status uncertain.
UPDATE: Ellsbury's head is much better, thank you, but is suffering from "a boo-boo." Status extremely precarious.
UPDATE: Ellsbury boo-boo has cleared up, but the indigestion is back. Oy. Status gaseous.
UPDATE: Ellsbury feeling overwhelmed by sense of existential angst. Reportedly wonders what's it
all about, Alfie, and does not know where he's going to, or if he likes the things that life is showing him, or if, when he looks behind him, there is no open door. Status existential.
Six little outfielders, nothing here to fix,
Then we get caught by the intercostal Hicks.
Five little outfielders, they're getting pretty slow
Which one will be the next to go?
—T.S. Eliot
That was about as complete an Opening Day romp as I've ever seen.
Everybody hit. Not just Stanton, but pretty much everybody. We scored six runs even with Gardner hitting scorchers hot enough to light up Smoak, and a couple more hits taken away by Donaldson. Happ also pitched pretty well, I thought. Didn't matter.
Most encouraging, Judge had a couple of terrific at-bats after looking bad on that first strikeout.
Everybody hustled. Neil Walker would've stolen a run with a heads-up play, had we not been robbed on the video replay (How does that happen?).
Everybody fielded. We looked amazingly sharp for Opening Day. Good plays by Austin and Walker at first. Great play by Wade, just when Betances was blowing up. Didi looked like a vacuum cleaner out on their turf. Sanchez looked comfortable and competent.
Everybody pitched. Well, almost everybody. But seriously, Severino looked terrific. The pen was strong.
Ma Boone managed. Smart move on the quick hook for Luis.
Things to worry about:
—Toonces, of course. But I preferred this Betances, at least getting the ball in there, better body language, and coming back to get Donaldson. Not hopeless.
—Was it just me, or was Severino losing a lot of velocity near the end? Maybe just a case of building up strength through the season.
—Sure, the anti-Direct TV ghouls had a fun new ad, and the YES Network's "Nine-Man Booth" was fairly funny. But where was Irritabella, the IBS lady???
I can't tell you how bad the omens were looking while I was scurrying around doing errands this afternoon, trying to get back in time for the game.
My local library branch was running a big display on the Titanic. Huh? Not only a colossal disaster of a highly overrated vessel, but one that happened in April, 1912—just as Fenway Park was opening in a world championship, Red Sox year. A year in which the Yankees finished a miserable last, in their
last season in Hilltop Park.
Next, I see a bulletin on one of those new phone charger monoliths: "Happ homers in first at-bat." WHAT? Okay, they meant the Happ on the Cubs. But still: that can't be good.
Still worse, the guy at my local newsstand was reading a Hindi-language with a headline that read, I kid you not:
"Rastunek dla watrophy."
Right? I mean, who wants to look at that on Opening Day?
Worst of all, there was some ragged looking, middle-aged guy—much like me—who was lying on the sidewalk, having suffered a fall or a stroke of some sort. The EMT guys were dealing with him, but right next to his head was small blotch of blood—and a Yankees hat.
He seemed to be all right. But once they got him in the ambulance, there was the bloody Yankees cap,
lying on the pavement. The driver picked it up delicately, and deposited it in the ambulance, too.
Not good, am I right?
Then the game began.
In his excellent post, "Fifty Years Ago", HoraceClarke66 posed the following thought-provoking question:
So that SI from 1968 got the pennant winners right, but only 4 of the remaining 18 spots in the two leagues.
Only 11 of the 20 teams drew over 1 million fans, and only St. Louis and Detroit, the pennant winners, drew over 2 million.
The highest AL team payroll was $605,000, total, for a Boston team that drew nearly 2 million fans. The Yankees drew almost 1.2 million, and had a payroll of $409,000—almost a quarter of it going to The Mick—meaning they made a healthy profit, too.
It's unimaginable that any team did not make money, even the Senators, who drew a little over half-a-million fans, but paid out only about a quarter-mill to their players.
SI listed the salaries of the Cards' starting lineup, which, with Gibson, came to all of $565,000. All told, the Cards paid out $651,000—and drew $1.7 million just in "advance sales," after their World Series win the year before.
It was a different world. The Cardinals had been christened "El Birdos," because they had all of two Hispanic players on the roster, Orlando Cepeda and Julian Javier. Gibson threw 24 complete games, and was NEVER relieved on the mound by his manager. Denny McLain won 31 games.
What will the game be fifty years from now?
Did anyone else read the Daily News baseball preview piece about how Ma Boone's wife, Laura Cover, has done outstanding work rebuilding Haiti for years? And that in the course of this, she adopted two local boys who have now been in the Boone family for years?
And that she also used to be a Playboy model.
I mean, the man has married a former Playmate who is also smart enough and big-hearted enough to spend her spare time working for the mandated of the world, and making them part of her family.
Can anyone truly doubt that this guy has the JuJu to compete with ODUMODU?
Among other things, the guy has turned a devastating, freak off-field injury into a managing gig in the Bronx. He's even luckier than Lucky Cashman. And then there's Laura, of whom we are in awe.
I feel fine.
One thing I don't like is opening in Toronto.
That's always struck me as prime Odumodu territory, Dr. Balogun's playground. A weird park atmosphere, usually full of bitter Canadians who sit there sullenly, too polite to really jeer, but hating us all the same.
I seem to remember Sheffield the Elder once injuring himself running out a triple on that idiotic turf of theirs.
And of course there was the awful 2003 opener there when that idiot Ken Huckaby decided to slide into third base in full catcher's gear and put Jeter out for 40 games. For which Huckaby then demanded an apology FROM Jeter, and went on doing so for years.
I also don't like that we're opening on Maundy Thursday.
"Maundy" comes from Christ's command to "Love one another," and especially the poor and downtrodden.
Exactly what I DON'T want to do is love the poor and downtrodden in baseball—especially those pretending to be poor, which is pretty much every other club we play.
Why, did you know that when playing on Maundy Thursday, our record is—
I have no idea. Nor do I know what it is on Good Friday, Black Saturday, Easter Sunday or Monday, or on any of the days of Passover.
But I don't like it!
I recently came across something I have saved for 50 years: the Sports Illustrated, baseball preview issue for the 1968 season. It is physically bigger than today's SI, much better written, its design more arresting and unusual.
The cover features a sliding Lou Brock, and inside it correctly predicts that the St. Louis Cardinals and the Detroit Tigers will win the last ever, single-league pennants. It also mentions that the season will be delayed due to the murder of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., and picks the Yankees to finish tenth and last.
Hey, things could be worse, both in our little band of brothers, and the wider world.
This spring's SI features Judge and Stanton on the cover, which may be just in the New York market, but it concludes, "New York is arguably baseball's best positioned team, with a championship caliber roster, payroll flexibility, and a top farm system."
Amen.
I have been following them since 1966, and I have to admit, I have never seen a deeper Yankees team. Not in 1998, when the fielded the greatest team ever, and brought up Roy Hobbs in September. Not in 1977, when our back-up outfielders were Jimmy Wynn, Paul Blair, and Roy White, who had led the AL in runs scored the year before. Not ever.
Yep, losing Greg Bird was a blow. But unlike last season, we won't have to watch Chris Carter turn in the worst performance by any Yankee regular since Charlie Smith.
Instead, all we have lined up to fill in are Tyler Austin, Neil Walker, Miguel Andujar, Billy McKinney, and Old Nassau Ford. I would bet one or more will break through.
Yep, it's highly possible that Walker's back will break down at second. All we'll have there is Tyler Two, and the Gleyber, and if worse comes to worse, Kyle Holder, who really came on this spring.
Think Drury will be a bust? Well, then there's Andujar again. Oh, and what about the Toe?
I haven't even got into how we have about five spare outfielders, injuries to Red Thunder and the Ever-Injured Ellsbury notwithstanding. Hell, even most of our injuries have been lucky this year, forcing Cashman to hang on to guys he might have disastrously traded away instead.
But what about pitching, you say? Well, yeah, pitching.
That 1968 Yankees team didn't finish 10th. It surprised everyone and finished fifth, with a winning record, despite an all-time, MLB record low .214 team batting average, and just 536 runs scored, a number this year's team is likely to match sometime in July.
How did they do it?
Pitching. And the 2018 Yanks' starting pitching is their weakest spot. But look at all our leading rivals this year. Each one seems to have a couple of formidable arms up top—then they drop off a cliff. And their pens just aren't as deep.
Were you terrified by the Indians' pitchers last postseason? Or the Astros', at least outside the park where every pitch they threw was an automatic strike? Which makes it all the more imperative we end up with the best regular-season record, seeing as what shameless homers the umps have become.
But we have as much depth on the mound as anyone, and probably more, and lots of good young arms still on the way up.
I'm sorry, I've tried my best to see how this Yankees team will crack, and of course it could, but I just don't see it—not with much of the AL and even our NL foes tanking to rebuild. I'm sure that Cashman will do something stupid soon, but even he seems to be on a colossal run of luck lately.
Call it skill. Call it the luck of the eights, that lucky Chinese number. 1998-greatest team ever. 1978-greatest comeback ever. 1958-comeback from a 3-1 Series deficit against a formidable Braves team. 1938, 1928-utter domination, and World Series sweeps, the last with Ruth and Gehrig turning in the best ever, 1-2 Series performance. Five pennants, five World Series titles, with a 20-5 record.
That's JuJu that I don't see even ODUMODU or his evil henchman, Dr. Balogun, overcoming.
I'm going high, calling 112 wins, something that really disturbs me since it goes against every grain of the professional pessimism that I have carefully cultivated for years. Of course, they probably won't win that many games, but 104-106 is very likely, and I'm willing to grab the high total, period.
For the record, my picks are:
Yankees Cleveland Astros Washington Cubbies Bums
Sox* Twins* Angels Metsies* Milwaukee* Colorado
Blue Jays Pale Hose A's Phillies St. Louis Arizona
Orioles Royals Mariners Braves Pittshburgh Giants
Rays Tigers Rangers Jeters Redlegs Padres
Sox over Twins Mets over Brewers
Yanks over Sox Nats over Mets
Stros over Indians Dodgers over Cubs Yankees over Washington
Yanks over Stros Nats over Dodgers
As that 1968 SI noted, in reviewing the 1967 season, it was "one of those vintage years, the kind that remind you that baseball in its subtle and often laconic ways is still a thrilling game of sudden action and intense climaxes."
May it remain ever thus.
Kepner, that is, not Cobb.
Yesterday, I berated the NY Times for not running a proper baseball preview, only to discover that those sneaky petes on 41st Street were doing it today.
It's not exactly in the tabs' league—just two pages, no special focus at all on the local teams (mentally and spiritually, the Times floats somewhere in the ether, above all time, space, and dimension—but still, full predictions. And all by Tyler Kepner.
They are, mind you, a little weird.
Among other things, Kepner expects the Orioles to beat out the Red Sox for second place in the AL East, and a wild card spot. On the basis of what, you ask? Why, because of Kevin Gausman, and Andrew Cashner (their free-agent acquisition with the 42-64 lifetime record), among other things.
I know, I know. I was thinking the same thing: could this be another Kevin Gausman? And never mind that their lights-out closer will miss at least half the year with a ruptured Achilles:
"...it would be no surprise if Manager Buck Showalter finds a way to squeeze this team into the playoffs for the fourth time in seven seasons."
Ah, so we're relying on the magic of Buck now! Well, I'd sooner go with the magic of ODUMODU.
I respect Buck, too, but I think Casey Stengel was the greatest manager who ever lived, and when he didn't have the horses, particularly the pitching thoroughbreds, he didn't win. Buck won't, either.
Ty picked the Astros to repeat, which is perfectly reasonable, but based in part on his claim that they "got better" in good part by picking up Gerrit Cole—someone I feel will be what Cole would've been for the Yankees, which is subtraction by addition.
AND...the Times did pick the Yanks to win their division over the Red Sox, which is rather like the College of Cardinals picking the Protestants in the Thirty Years' War.
More importantly—it counts for the fifth straight, unanswered Yankees article, and puts our yearly total at, Soccer 46, Yanks 30. We're closing the gap!
I was working a job for the Fatman, down in Florida, and when I got the goods, I was supposed to bring it to his suite, at the Fontainbleu.
That's where I found him, sweating worse than the Pronk running out a single, despite the seersucker. Behind him stood his gunsel, Wilmer, sneering worse than Rudy Giuliani when the Snakes beat us down in the desert.
"By God, sir! You have it, sir! Let's see!"
I put the package down on the table before him, and in about two seconds he had cut away the twine and newspapers with a knife he produced out of nowhere. There it stood: a statue of a bird, covered in black shoe polish.
"That the dingus?"
"By God, sir! The 'dingus,' sir! Oh, you are a character, sir!"
By that time he had already shorn away most of the Brogan juice. The bird looked completely different now, shining head-to-foot with jewels.
"What is it?"
"The bird, sir? Why this is the stuff that dreams are made of!"
"Good. Now for my pay."
He looked very pleased with himself, as he gestured to Wilmer to step forward.
"Indeed, sir. Ten thousand, as we agree. Wilmer here, who is like a son to me, will take you down to the back alley via the freight elevator, so no one will see you. We must be discreet, sir, and it is a very discreet spot down there. A perfect place to give you what you have coming, sir. Bwaha. Bwahahah."
Something didn't seem right about the whole set-up. Wilmer was grinning like a Times editor who's just found a new Afghani sport to cover, and there was something jutting out prominently in his overcoat pocket.
Then I got it. That thing in his pocket hadda be a pipe. He had it, and he had it bad.
It all made sense now. Having Wilmer give me the envelope, the deserted alley out back. No wonder he was grinning like that. The poor bastard was dying to get outside and get a smoke.
"Now, let me make sure that you have followed all our arrangements to the letter, sir. You told no one you were coming here, correct? And you have no identification of any sort on your person?"
"Nope."
"Excellent, sir, excellent! And you did not take public transportation of any kind to get here?"
"No. You know, it was the strangest thing: somebody stole my Ford a couple days ago, but this morning I looked out, and there it was! They even had it washed and detailed, and filled up the tank. And in the backseat—I found the dingus."
"A remarkable story, sir! You are a most remarkable man. Now, if you will go with Wilmer here, you will get your just reward—"
"Now just a minute here," I told him, hauling up my bag. "I got some other things you might be interested in as well. Here's a drury I managed to pick up for next to nothing. It's official, too: you can see the brand on it."
"Very impressive, sir. Not that I knock it, but I'm afraid that I am not in the market—"
"Now hold your horses! I brought you an actual Walker, as well. They were just giving it away at the Metropolitan."
"By God, sir! What on earth would I want with a portrait of a man grown old before this time, clutching his back? What is the meaning of cluttering up my suite with this old junk?"
"Well, you never know what you'll need in this business. I mean, here's an old linder I picked up the other day. A little rusty, I know—"
"Balderdash, sir! Can't you see I have the Bird? And over in that display case there: an original Gleyber! See how it shines! Why would I ever need anything else?"
"With all due respect, you never know when lightning will strike out of a clear blue sky, or when something will just go flying out the window—"
"Ridiculous! Why do you continue to palaver like this? Can it be that you still truly do not understand that you have been set-up? Hornswoggled, duped, put on the spot? That you are about to put out the big light? You are an imbecile, sir! An idiot!"
It happened so fast then that I could barely comprehend it. The lightning bolt hit the Bird dead center, frying it just as black as it had been with the shoe polish on it. Wilmer jumped back out of the way, but he hit the display case when he did, and sent the Gleyber flying out the window.
Damned if he didn't dive after it. Got it, too, and wrapped it close to his chest. But when he tried to get a grip on something solid, he was just clutching air. The Fat Man looked like he might explode.
I was looking at the linder again.
"You know, this really is shot," I said, and tossed it out the window. I heard a weak moan from below, and looked out.
"Well whattaya know? Landed right on him! What are the odds? Maybe I should go down there and see how your son's doing—"
"Leave him to the rats!" the Fat Man snapped.
"But doesn't he have my money?"
"There's a safe on that wall, under that wedding photo of Joe and Marilyn," he said, running a handkerchief over his face. "The combination is 4-18-23. Inside you will find more jewels, gold bars, and cash than you can carry."
I opened it. He wasn't kidding.
"Why, this is too much—"
"Take as much as you want! It's just a small down payment. I can't afford NOT to have a man with your luck on a permanent retainer. Now, come sit over here—closer—I want to tell you about your next assignment."
I did as he said, sitting just across the table from him. He leaned in even closer, looking more frightened than I had ever seen him. He glanced all around the room again, before he said a word.
"Tell me, my friend, what do you know," he whispered, before taking another look around, "of those who practice the dark rituals of...ODOMODU?"
So, the Times ran its mighty baseball preview section today.
It was all of one page, consisting of an entire, sentence-long introduction, and included absolutely no predictions as to where any team might finish, or any analysis of them whatsoever.
Instead, it focused on statistical milestones various players might reach (Jogginson Cano, 2,500 hits!).
The lead one of these? Albert Pujols might get to 600 home runs and 3,000 hits. This was illustrated with a huge picture of Pujols, surrounded by the other men who have done it—Willie Mays, Henry Aaron, Barry Bonds, and Alex Rodriguez—dancing around the gigantic Pujols figure, holding hands.
I am not making this up.
In a year when the Yankees are loaded for bear and the Mets are fielding a surprisingly interesting team, we get statistical tidbits, focused on the doubtless juiced, over-the-hill slugger for a team an entire continent away.
But hey, c'mon! The Times had to run a massive, two-page spread on the training facility where Russia's athletes are built, complete with photos. Over a month after the Olympics have finished.
Nonetheless...there was enough on the Twin Towers, Judge and Stanton, in the baseball "preview" to count for a Yankees article. Combined with a big piece on Gary Sanchez improving his catching techniques by Billywitz, plus a short piece on the Greg Bird's Myster-o Injury, that qualifies for 3 entire, unanswered Yankees articles, their best one-day showing this year.
That closes the gap to Soccer 46, Yankees 29, on the year, and Soccer 19, Yanks 14 in March.
If I were major-league position player right now, my number-one demand to my union would be this: expand the rosters.
Few ideas have less of a chance of becoming reality. But as the thrilling battle over who will be the 13th pitcher on the Yankees this year reminds us, it's necessary.
13 pitchers? That means 12 position players for 9 slots, and given the automatic need for a back-up catcher, we're essentially talking two reserves.
That might have been all right back in, say, 1936, when the Yanks' starting infield—Gehrig, Lazzeri, Crosetti, Rolfe—averaged 148 games in what was a 153-game season that year. But not today.
Frankly, I question the need for 13 pitchers. But they look to be here to stay, and as such have wiped out such animals as the third-string catcher. Such pitching-heavy rosters are like an invasive monoculture in nature. They wipe out variety and color in the game. Getting to the 26- or 27-man roster is what the game's analytical geniuses should be clamoring for.
Instead, we are talking about Judge batting first. Hey, at least that led to Billywitz getting to write an actual piece of baseball analysis this spring—the first one, I think, he has turned in all year.
Unfortunately, the Times also ran a piece on Landon Donovan, the most boring soccer player in recorded history, yesterday, so Soccer maintains its healthy lead: Soccer 46, Yankees 26.
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