Pride? Yankees?

 

Pride of the Yankees. Uh-huh.

 

But why should they be proud? 

 

After all, these are the Yankees who play under a manager who does not dare make a move with the approval of his general manager, who does not dare make a move without the approval of his owner, who inherited this team and could not care less if it wins or loses, as long as the money keeps rolling in.

 

These are the Yankees who play in a stadium built with the people’s money, but constructed entirely to exclude working people in favor of the rich and disinterested, and to rip off all who set foot there, or even watch on TV.

 

These are the Yankees who play in uniforms that are patched up as much as possible with sponsors’ ads, on their way to being the equivalent of NASCAR drivers, including helmets that bear the name of a German "workwear" company. 

 

These are the Yankees who, like all other teams, will soon be wearing ugly, affected “City Connects” uniforms that have nothing at all to do with cities or connecting to anyone, only with palming off more gear on idiots.

 

These are the Yankees who play in a sport that welcomes as many teams as possible into the playoffs, so it will become the crapshoot that Brian Cashman dearly wishes that it was. A sport that claims it wants parity even as it relegates one city of fans after another to years of planned losing and abject misery.

 

These are the Yankees who keep starting players even when after they fail over and over again—who, in fact, keep playing them all the more simply because of the money they make.

 

These are the Yankees who employ legions of coaches and instructors and trainers, who can never make anybody better, or well.

 

These are the Yankees who do the little things bad, and the big things worse. Whose lesser players are generally complete flops and whose “superstars”—including the Billionaire Bust Bros—never produce in the clutch.

 

Pride?

 

How, exactly—and from whom—would this Yankees team have ever learned pride?

 

From a sport oriented solely to making as much money as possible, much of it from gambling?

 

From a franchise that dedicates itself first and foremost to ripping off the people of the city where it plays? Or from the city leaders who allow them to do so? Or from us citizens, fans and non-fans alike, who sit back and allow our elected representatives to sell us out, and never hold them responsible?

 

How would these Yankees ever have learned pride from any of us?

 

Damned if I know.

 

A day of reckoning is here

 

I hate to be a Floyd Chicken Little. Really. There's nothing worse than a fan who assigns way too much significance to one series, one game, one at-bat. It's stupid. What happens today will not dictate the final standings in the AL East. It's just another game. Sort of. 

But today, we will learn whether the 2024 Yankees are the best team in the AL, as their record suggests, or a .500 team that plays .500 ball against another .500 team. Are we better than Boston, or not? 

If we can't beat the raggedy  Redsocks, at home, after taking the first two of a series - well - what suggests this team will suddenly find its stride and win in the postseason? 

Pitching? Ha. Timely hitting? No way. Tradition? C'mon... 

Likewise, today, the sad and disappointing NY Football Giants play the exceptionally sad and disappointing Washington Commanders. It's sort of a litmus. If they cannot beat Washington - well - it will be long and woeful season. Another long and woeful season. 

Certainly, a lot will happen between now and Nov. 1, when MLB is finished, and the NFL is reaching midseason stride. But I cannot help but believe that - by then - we will look back and realize that what happened today told us all that we needed to know. 

I beg to differ.

 

Yes, Flouncy Cole came up small again today.

No, he is not a big-game pitcher.

But we knew that.

Infinitely worse: yet another, inexplicable failure at the plate.

Five hits, five walks, and two errors by the BoSox, who pitched a guy named Bayan Bello, with a 4.70 ERA.

One run.

This is the worst, clutch-hitting Yankees team I have ever seen. This is the most disengaged, uninspired, generally lifeless Yankees team I have ever seen.

Wait, did I say "inexplicable failure"? Silly me. 

The Yankees were playing a day game after a night game. And it was hot.

You can't expect young men averaging over $10 million for their half-year of work to get up for playing on an afternoon after they played the evening before. Especially when it's warm out. 

Let's just hope they can find their way to the Stadium tomorrow. Or maybe not.

  

Cowardly Move Sinks Yanks....

 Gerrit Cole, the Yankee's ACE, showed his yellow stripes today.

" There is no crying in baseball" but, apparently, there is cowardice.   This is the first I have ever seen of it. 

Cole, who is regularly raked by Raphael Dever's of the Red Sox, gave him an intentional base on balls, in a close game, with no one on base and no outs.  What's to lose?

Cole's growing awareness that the crowd was horrified, rather than impressed, caused him to walk the next batter, and then the floodgates opened. 

When Cole slithered off the mound it was 7-1 Boston, and the stage was set for a loss tomorrow as well.

I think the entire Yankee team was horrified. How much respect just washed down the sewer?

The event whitewashed away the stupidity of Jazz getting picked off for the third straight game. Jazz was stupid, not cowardly.

It left the stadium empty of energy and hope.  No one bought a beer the rest of the game. 

Our star pitcher was afraid to pitch to Devers.  He is now a 6-5 on the season. 

To me, he is lost forever. 

This was carnival stuff. 

Game Thread ~ Big Game . . .

 

With their season at stake, it's time for Boston to turn to their ace, Chris Sale. Wait... huh...? They don't HAVE Chris Sale? Hmm. That's too bad.

 

Okay, everybody... this is it. 

It was a bumpy ride, but we have reached our destination. Kindly check your bags from the stow-away, and be careful, as objects may have shifted during flight. There is no more waiting - no more arguing, pleading, wailing... check the vomit bags... but have reached Rainbow's End.

Since the wintery day when we traded four players for Juan Soto, then added three more for Alex Verdugo, 2024 has been an all-or-nothing flight: Five key players on one-year deals, and everyone aware they might be gone after Nov. 1. 

The Death Barge played a strategy: Now or never.

We started hot, built a lead, then fell into a funk that has lasted - well - dare we think it ended this week against KC? Whatever. Here we sit, three up in the AL East with 14 left, including three against Voltimore. But if we finish off Boston, today or tomorrow, then have a little winning streak, we can put the O's out of striking range.  

Can we win at least one of the next two? For the sake of children, everywhere, let's put suffering Boston out of its misery. 

Or will we fall back into that spiral of losing the last two games of each series? 

Damn. It's been a slog. Nobody will ever confuse this team with the 1998 Yankees, who won 114 and swept poor San Diego. But here we are, the end is in sight, and the home field advantage is ours to take.  

Last night, we kicked Boston square in the nuts. In the sixth, you could sense their fratboy fans planning their playoffs rotation. Then, ka-boom - thank you, Mr. MVP - they were knock-kneed and peeing themselves. For the first time in 2024, they know it's over. And for the next month, they can suck on hearing the name "Chris Sale." 

Yeah, it's been a slog. But it's nearly over. We gotta win today. That's all. Win today, and Boston goes to sleep. And if we can't - if we lose the next two - well, brace yourselves for what's coming. And get out the vomit bags.

Game Thread ~ Its Friday the 13th ~ Beware the YoukillusVerdugo!

 

Good news, everyone!

Batting helmets are getting ads!

"You know, you're not going so good yourself."

 

I first became aware of Steady Eddie Kranepool in 1967. He was playing first base for the Mets, the same position as our resident demigod, Mickey Mantle, and wearing the same number, 7.

This seemed like yet another, pathetic Mets imitation of the Yankees. An incredible bit of chutzpah, even, as if their ersatz Mick could be anything close to the real thing.

Then, two years later, the Yanks were still struggling in fifth place, The Mick was gone, and Ed Kranepool was hitting a home run in the World Series.

It was, sadly, only a fleeting highlight in the career of Ed Kranepool, the Last of the Original Mets. 

To be fair, Ed Kranepool's career had other ups, as well as downs. It was, all in all, one of the odder major-league careers—or really, several different careers, one after another.

There were the wunderkind years when, after breaking Hank Greenberg's home-run record at James Monroe High School in the Bronx, young Eddie got $85,000 to sign with the new kids in town. He made his major-league debut that same year, only 17 years old—so young that he was confined to sitting in hotel lobbies on road trips, chaperoned by Mets press secretary, Tom Meany.

At 6-3 and 205, he looked like a slugger coming off the bus, and he slammed balls out of the Polo Grounds in batting practice. In games, though, he was more of a slap hitter, which was a skill not complemented by the fact that he ran like a man in cement overshoes.

"He's only seventeen, but he runs like he's thirty," manager Casey Stengel told the press, then damned him more with faint praise: "He doesn't strike out too often."

It was true, he didn't, especially for a raw kid. He never kayed more than 71 times in a season—but he also never hit more than 16 homers, or ever played anything more than a barely adequate first base or left field.

Still, it looked as though Kranepool might be slowly but surely learning his game in the majors—the hardest way to do it. He made an All-Star team in 1965 (Hey, somebody from the Mets had to be on it.), then came the Miracle Year of 1969.  

But...by 1970, Ed Kranepool was sent down to Tidewater, interrupting a miserable season in which he hit only .170 with the big club. He looked washed up. Still just 25,  he already seemed to have lived a lifetime in the majors.

He rebounded from that, to his infinite credit. He finally made that slap hitting his calling card, batting as high as .323 in one platooned season, making another World Series with the Mets, setting the club record for pinch hits.

Then, at just 34, it was all over. He had played 18 seasons in the bigs—and he couldn't even smell 40.

Regrets? He had a few.

"If I could have seen ahead in 1962, I would have signed with another club.  There was a lot of frustration through the years," he said, with typical frankness, years later.

His second thoughts were evident even then, with an attitude that often bordered—or more—on surly.  

"What do they want? Why don't they just get off my back?" he groused about the amazingly supportive Mets fans.

The Mets brought Dodgers legend Duke Snider—another classic sourpuss—back to New York near the end of his career, in part to work with the young guys like Ed Kranepool. When he tried, 18-year-old Eddie told the Duke of Flatbush:

"You know, you're not going so good yourself."

Well, what can you say? 

He was brought up too fast, and he had grown up hard, his father killed fighting in France four months before he was born, his mother working and scrimping and saving to make ends meet. If a better attitude might have helped him more, can't we all say the same thing for when we were 17?

RIP, Ed Kranepool. You were no Mick, and no Duke, but who is? And how often these days does anyone get to be the last of the original anythings?

With 15 to go, Yanks sit atop the AL with "a concept of a plan." Five takeaways.

Well, here we are, an eye-blink away from October after a summer of floundering, somehow sporting the best record in the AL. 

Wasn't it yesterday that Verdugo flopped in LF, opening the dykes against Baltimore, and assuring the entire Yankiverse that 2024 would end in horror? (A feeling, I must add, that has never dissipated.) Yet here we are. Best record in the league. Third best in baseball (behind Philly and the Dodgers.) 

And it's all heading to - well, fuck if I know? - a massive convergence of social, cultural and political forces that will peak in early November, with or without the Yankees. Of course, it's all just crapola. No matter who you root for, in sports or politics, on The Morning After, your car will still need new brakes, and that pain in your big toe will still be gout, not an ingrown. And the words of the Prophets are written on the subway walls, and tenement halls...

"I have a concept of a plan." 

Story of my life. 

So, here we are...

1. Somehow, with spit glue and rubber bands, the Yankee bullpen is holding. But it's like a tin roof in a raging hurricane. The next gust might take it. Every game, every inning, every at bat, every pitch, you wonder if this will be the moment when everything flies away. 

There is no way for a Yankee fan to feel secure with a slight lead. It doesn't matter who is pitching. Someday, when we remember 2024, we will cringe from the trauma that was inflicted upon us by this bullpen. They didn't blow last night. But tonight... who knows?

2. Two walk-off wins in a row? Seriously, I wanna believe. But who dares to think this team has a destiny beyond killing our hearts and hopes in the 9th inning of some postseason soul-crusher? That's what a faulty bullpen does to you.  

3. Jazz Chisholm nearly blew last night's game, getting picked off first in what should have been a big inning. We all want Chisholm to be a star, but he has made some glaring base running blunders - (the other day, he stopped at third, despite the coach waving him home) - the kind we generally associate with Gleyber. 

I think of Chisholm as an agent of chaos on the bases: He clearly psyches out the pitchers and catchers. But that chaos seems to extend in both directions.

4. Aaron Judge's HR drought continues - weirdly, as he seems to be hitting the ball hard. No more talk about chasing Ruth, Maris, or himself. Still, I'm done worrying about Judge. One of these days, he'll heat up. The only question is whether he can carry us us through a couple 11-10 games? 

5. Tonight, the Yankees will squeeze more money from their base, with the game broadcast on Apple TV. Many fans - most? - will not be able to watch without a paid subscription, raising an existential question: 

Just how greedy do they have to be?

Last winter, when they were drawing up schedules, they had to know this would be a wild weekend in the Bronx, potentially the biggest series of the season. So what did they do? They sold away the rights, to pocket a little more cash.

I remember a time when Old George, for all his flaws, would waive the viewing restrictions for big games, often against Boston. That won't happen again in our lifetimes. And MLB wonders why young people won't sign on? I'm the biggest Yankee fan you'll ever know, but none of my kids, now adults, follow the team. And I  am proud of their decisions. 

Very sad.

With three weeks left, the Yankee Ownership Team has achieved its objective

Tonight, Boston visits Gotham - the battle of clam chowders - seeking to salvage a rather abysmal Redsock season. The frat boys sit four games out in the Wild Card and, to worsen matters, the Tigers - one game ahead - are the AL's hottest team. 

Boston will face the usual Bronx welcome - boos, taunts, threats to family and maybe even a fly-by C-cell battery. The September finale used to bring fights - on the field and in the stands. When the suits drew up their 2024 schedule, they surely didn't foresee Boston two games above .500, and - to be fair - probably didn't expect the Yankees to be (with Cleveland) atop the AL.

And, fuck, neither did most of you. With 16 games left, the Death Barge will probably finish 2024 with 91-to-95 wins. As the partial chart to the right indicates, eight of you are in the running for IIH 2024 Poster Child, depending on the last three weeks. (I predicted 86 wins. So much for that.) 

But before tonight's hysteria begins, let's take time to congratulate the Yankee front office/ownership team: They have achieved their Primary Objective for 2024: 

Stay relevant until October. 

That might seem a modest goal for a storied sports franchise, but last year, relevance was a bridge too far. Then, on the weekend of September 14th, the Yankees hit Boston with a 73-73 record, grinding toward 4th place in the AL East, 19 games behind Baltimore. We were a traveling shit show. 

So, shine up the participation trophy. The Yankees are guaranteed to play through the second week of October, guaranteeing sellouts and media self-worship. Like most of you, I see good and bad in that. It's been 10 years since the Yankees spent like the Yankees, and for all their success this season, it's hard to imagine our bullpen holding leads in mid-October. This year will likely end with a walk-off hit and opponents celebrating at home plate. In the end, that would obscure everything, raising heartaches, as Altuve's 2019 shot still does.  

But for the Ownership Team, it doesn't matter. This year goes down as a success. Yes, they want a ring. The Yankiverse grows angrier every failed season, and I suspect that Hal must sneak through the kitchen in his favorite restaurants, for fear of receiving a soup shower.  

But it doesn't matter. As Bill Murray would chant, it just doesn't matter. 

For the people atop the Yankee shit pile, mark the 2024 objective as ACHIEVED. 

Game Thread ~ Keeping with the Universal Theme . . .

Send this man money or he will shoot our team.

 

Saw the guys took another night off last night. Can you blame them? I suspect they all wanted to rush home early and catch the debate, or maybe they were weighed down by the thought that it was the eve of 9/11. 

Who's to say? Beautiful, pre-fall evening, great weather, full house of fans to play before, a pennant race churning...who could get inspired by THAT?  

Anyway, some of you may be old enough to remember this, from National Lampoon:

It became a classic (and now I've probably screwed myself with our mysterious blog censors forever. Oh, well.)

Anyway, I was reminded of this while trying to deduce how the Mets could have acquired, just this year, an entire battery that your New York Yankees could very much use. Not only is Luis Severino, now the Queens Team's top starter, but their back-up catcher, one Luis Torrens.

Who is this Mr. Torrens in our Tale of Two Luis? The Yanks originally signed him out of Venezuela as a 17-year-old, back in 2013.  He started to climb his way up the Yankees' farm system, but was plucked away by Cincinnati under the dreaded, Rule V draft in 2016.

After that, it's been the usual roller coaster ride for baseball lifers. Torrens suffered a couple of major injuries (one of them in a benches-clearing brawl), and bounced in and out of the major leagues. Finally, at the start of this season, he ended up...back with us.

There he was, down in Scranton, hitting .279 with five homers by the end of May, when we sent him off to...the Mets.

Well, must've been a helluva deal, no? 

No. Except for Hal Steinbrenner.

The Yankees actually SOLD Torrens to the Metsies, for an undisclosed amount of cash. And over in Queens, the (still 28-year-old) Luis has excelled. Three homers and eight doubles in just 105 at-bats, .732 OBP.  Best of all, though, is his play in the field. He has thrown out 65 percent of all attempted stealers (the NL average is 21 percent). The Mets TV guys kvell about his defense whenever he plays.

Hey, but we have Trevino the Framer!

Really, this is the living end. Hal Steinbrenner needed MORE money??? While we are not permitted to know the amount he got for Torrens, it cannot have been anything very large. Put another nickel on the already extortionate charge for rat dogs, you big nepo doofus, and keep a valuable back-up catcher!

It is much harder, of course, to blame Hal & Pal for giving up on Setback Sevvy (Though why he was given a large, multi-year contract when already hurt escapes me. Probably escapes Pal, too.)

But again, even through his many years of comebacks and declines, the Yankees could never decide, Okay, time to cut our losses and just trade the guy, if only for the usual magic beans. Same with the other Luis.

The bottom line with Hal Steinbrenner, as ever, is the bottom line. This idiot probably picks up pennies from the sidewalk. He seems so desperate for money he should be on that "I need cash now" commercial. He...

Aww, never mind. Just please don't shoot the damned dog.

 

It's getting to be time for Yankee stars to shine.

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

 

Boris Karloff as the Frankenstein Monster during a charity baseball game in 1940. That is Buster Keaton behind the catcher's mask. pic.twitter.com/5qrb1yaOf7

— Classic Horror Films (@HorrorHammer1) September 10, 2024

An Above Average Haiku ~ Korova Milk Bar Edition!

 

Leaving Home

I was at the game last night as part of my "Farewell NY" tour, I'm headed back to CA, my time in NY at an end, and was hyper aware of the idea that, aside from one more game with my cousins at the end of the month, this was pretty much it as far as attending Yankee games goes. 

As much as I dislike the current stadium, and I say current because I'm sure Hal has one more bilking of NY left in him. Probably in 2041. 

After all, "Customers attending Yankee games uh.. I mean fans, need and deserve a stadium with gambling kiosks and immersive goggles at every seat. Our customers... uh fans, need to experience what it's like to be at the plate in order to fully engage with the product uh... game."

But I digress...

As much as I dislike the current shopping mall / Vegas hotel homage to a non existent team, it is still Yankee Stadium and the Yankees, such as they are, play there. 

So, my mind kept leaping back and forth from its current iteration to times spent sitting behind pillars and eating popcorn out of Yankee themed megaphones. Getting Phil Rizzuto's autograph because the press box was once an open area. Being called a huckleberry by him for daring to ask him for it but getting it any way. 

The mid-seventies. Out of college for the summer along with a bunch of Yankee fan friends and no place on earth we'd rather be than in the upper deck, stoned, and watching what to me is still my favorite Yankee teams of all time. Flinging Reggie Bars. Seeing Chambliss hitting a game winning HR in the 9th in 1976 that presaged the one he would hit in the playoffs. Yankee Stadium an oasis of green and endless possibility, even as the Bronx was burning. 

The eighties and nineties when a visit home meant a pilgrimage.

In the 2000's taking my son, first to the actual stadium, then to the current one. Showing it to him like I lived there. Like a part of my old neighborhood. Because that's how the stadium always feels to me. Like I'm home. 

Last year, doing the IIHIIF meetup and getting to hang out with and talk to so many of you. Bringing back how it felt in the seventies to watch a game with a bunch of friends. 

And, last September watching my uncle, my late father's twin brother, get honored as the Veteran of the Game. Getting to stand on the field, if off to the side, as a packed house out cheered for him and by proxy, for all the remaining WW2 vets. A guy who, as a kid, rode his byclcle down the Grand Concourse hoping to catch a glympse of Joe D. The stadium was his home too. 

And so, last night I went and I decided to put aside all the negativity and the all too accurate assessment of this year's team and just enjoy watching baseball. Yes Gleyber made bad plays. Rodon almost melted down... you all know the drill.  Hey, they won.

More importantly, I got to see, for perhaps the last time live, the best baseball player I have ever watched regularly, in Aaron Judge. 

I got to watch a future Hall of Famer, Juan Soto and got to witness what I hope is the the actual beggining of a long and great career as The Martian took his place in the lineup. 

And then there was watching Austin Wells continue his emergence and sensing that, when all is said and done, he will be my new favorite Yankee.

But what I really got to see... was me. From age eight to age sixty eight with all of life's visisitudues. Still loving the game. Still cheering. Still walking around the building like it's my home.  

One last time. 

Have Yank fans seen the last of DJ LeMahieu? And nine other takeaways from last night.

 1. There's no humane way to say this. Yesterday, the Death Barge pulled the plug on DJ LeMahieu. He probably won't be back. Maybe never. His 2024 numbers are staggeringly bad: .204 with 2 HRs, and coupled with a clear decline in fielding. Awful. 

The Yankees have him for two more seasons, at $15 million per. Next winter, he might be held up as the poor-mouth excuse for not signing Juan Soto. 

I still recall the clutch HR he hit against cheating Houston in the 2019 playoffs, which led to Lil Altuve's walk-off on Aroldis. Damn. Maybe he'll come to Tampa next February, conjuring the usual crapola of spring renewal. I'll try to believe it. But he's in a four-year slump. Generally, careers don't survive them.

2. Was last night the official coming out party for Austin Wells? YES flashed a graphic comparing his 2024 to the rookie seasons of Yogi, Thurman, Bill Dickey and - gulp - Gary Sanchez. He's right up there with the - um, gulp - greats? If Ben Rice can return to catching - he seems the type who can - we could be set at that position for years. 

3. After receiving massive condemnation, the Yankee bullpen has thrown 13 straight zeros. (Four came from converted Nestor Cortez.) It's nice to see zeros. But nobody's kidding ourselves here. No lead is safe. No lead will ever be safe. As currently constructed, this is not a world champion bullpen. 

4. WTF, Baltimore? This was gonna be their year. They had the great young catcher, the game's biggest prospect, the team of ascending stars - and they're following the spiral of Toronto in recent years. Despite our horrible August, they never gained on us. Crazy. Over the last 30 days, Adley Rutschman is hitting .193, and Jackson Holliday, in his second go-around, is .178. Did we overestimate them? (Note: We still face them in three games late this month.) 

5. So, we blew out KC - like old times, right? But if the Yankees have shown anything this season, it's that they can run ice cold at a moment's notice. How can you ever feel confident about this team? 

6. Isn't it fun to see The Martian in CF, flanked by two greats - an OF that could play together for years. Close your eyes and dream. Last night, it worked. 

7. Funny how when a player faces a career threat, his bat perks up. So it is with Alex Verdugo. Fine with me, especially when teams throw RHs against us. But we're at the point of the season where a guy's numbers, flashed on the JumboTron, tell us everything. Verdugo sits at .237, with a lame 12 HRs. I like the guy. I really wanted him to succeed, and maybe he'll whack a few against Boston this weekend. But his time has run out.  

8. Long ago, we'd look at Bobby Witt Jr. and see him someday in pinstripes. But we haven't had those feelings in this decade. Close your eyes, and you see him playing for the Dodgers, or maybe the Mets. 

9. Seth Lugo tonight, v Stroman. We're ripe for a loss, and then a rubber game that sets up another series loss, after we took Game One. I'm sorry, but you can't NOT think of it.

10. Anthony Volpe got in last night as a pinch runner. He's played in 143 games, out of 144. He could use a rest. And it's nice to see Oswaldo out there. The guy seems to have finally figured out MLB pitching. They mustn't let him die on the vine. 

Batting Sixth

 

I don't get it.

 

Another weekend, another failure to score more than 6 total runs in a series or homer even once, playing a mediocre team in a bandbox ballpark.

Another game lost on a silly error by silly Gleyber Torres, well on his way to his second straight year leading all AL second basemen in miscues. He also led all AL shortstops in errors, when he played that position, with 9 in the shortened, 2020 Covid season. He is also on track for his 3rd season in 7 with more errors (17) than home runs (12).

He also looks most games as though he is trying to remember the words to "Wichita Lineman."

Incredibly, Gleyber has only 2 homers and 6 doubles in the 39 games he's played since July 24th. He has driven in only 17 runs in that time, 12 of them coming in just 5 games, meaning that in the other 34 contests, he has just 5 ribbies.

In that same time, Gleyber has also raised his batting average from .232 to .247, so I suppose this might be interpreted as an attempt to rein in his swinging for the fences, particularly once he became our leadoff man, and to concentrate on getting on base. (He also has a relatively constrained 28 strikeouts and what is—for him—an impressive 23 walks in this time.) 

But by no means could Gleyber be considered an on-base machine; indeed, his OBP has increased only from .308 to .325 in this time. So what's the deal?

Turning to The Vertiginous One, Flopsie has hit exactly 1 home run since July 6th. In that same time, he has exactly 9 doubles. In those 49 games, he has 11 RBI.

Nor can this be blamed on more circumspect hitting. Flopsie's BA has dropped from .246 to .235 in that time and his OBP from .300 to just .295, as he has 19 walks and 35 strikeouts. Plus, of course, contributing the most disastrous error of the season thus far.

So is this analytics, or snot?  

Where the hell is the supposed, analytic payoff of swinging for the fences all the time? Half this Yankees team—or more—couldn't find a fence with a radar system, never mind a batted ball. They couldn't reach a fence if they were following Tom Sawyer with a bucket of whitewash. They couldn't find a fence if they were reading the words to "Don't Fence Me In."

(Thank you! And please remember your waitresses—they'll remember you.)

All of this endless malarkey about the Yankees' supersmart, brainiac understanding of the new game, and they have maybe three real power hitters on this team, in Judge, Soto, and Wells. With two of them slumping, they're lost.

Just as the Yanks' "Gas Station" fueled up only broken arms and broken careers, their version of "analytics" churns out player after player, year after year, who can hit for neither average NOR power.

I say it's snot.

An empirical probe into the surgical use of elementary reverse juju in competing NY athletic organizations

 

I apologize in advance, if this gets a bit too technical for some of you. Generally, I strive to "dumb down" the scientific "stuff" that "goes into" each post on IT IS HIGH. For many of you - aka "the general public" - the routine avalanche of "gobbiltygook" is simply "too much."

Of course, regular readers - you know who you are - have no problem leveling the tackling dummy of independent research. Most importantly, you know when I - and others here - purposely say bad things about the Yankees - our heroes - in order to spur action by the juju gods. 

Listen: It is one of the saddest tasks in my life, occasionally having to badmouth the Yankees, and even call them names, such as Clay Pidgeon and Flopsie Verdugo. I take no pleasure in this, but it simply must be done. 

For example, yesterday, I suggested there was no way that the Yankees would sweep the Chicago Cubs, merely based on how the team has folded like a Hershey's wrapper over the last two months in pressure situations. In doing this, I was adhering to the fundamental Rule of Juju: 

Nothing good ever comes from speaking positively about your team. Always stay negative.

Remember: As long as you panned them, if your team loses, at least you were right. And if it wins, you can take rightful credit for compelling the juju gods to take action.

In my daily work this season, whenever I speak ill of the Yankees, there is a purpose behind each carefully chosen verb, adverb and adjective.

Which brings me to the "other" team in New York that has haunted my life. 

I am referring to the NY Football Giants.

Under no circumstances do I want anyone to think that when I criticize the Giants, I am merely working the refs of juju. No sir. 

When I say bad things about the Giants, I am striving to speak the Universal Truth about the most pathetic human organization on this planet. No group, not in the farthest big-footed mountains of New Zealand or the volcanic burn fields of Iceland, is there a grouping of human beings as sordid and pure crapola as the Giants.

Yesterday, I spent 45 minutes trying to tap into a Giants game on TV - (I was in Philadelphia for family shit) - without paying a surcharge because - well, it's the fucking Giants - and when I finally figured it out, they were down by 20 points, and why bother? 

We can rightfully complain about Food Stamps Hal and Cooperstown Cashman, but they do not compare with John Mara and Steve Tisch, the rancid owners of the Giants, who are the arguments for billionaire euthanasia. 

For the record... When I bash the Giants, there is no juju involved. It is an expression of pure, felony-grade bile.

And make no mistake: The Giants flat-out suck.

FINAL NOTE: Whoever signed off on those horrible uniforms should be shot. 

Game Thread ~ Remembering that other "Donnie Baseball"

 

Yank fans wonder: Is this a movement or just a moment?

f

Hot news from the booths: Quarreling John Flaherty and Michael Kay have patched things up. They've reunited and it feels so good. Also, John Sterling is unretiring for the playoffs. That could mean solving the mystery of the long-awaited HR call for Jazz Chisholm, which had been in line for a doc series on the History Channel. 

The end of 2024 is in sight, and however horrific is turns out to be, we will have our beloved sports voices calling plays, as the ship submerges, and the waters converge overhead.

Moral from Saturday's victory over our friends, the Cubs, (who throughout history have never hurt  us): When our pitchers hurl a complete game shutout, we probably will win. 

So, we're back in first, jockeying like pollsters in the Presidential race. Honestly? I dunno what to think. But if Gerrit Cole can't shut down an offense that's clearly in the dumpster, maybe we have no ace, as we have no closer. And if you replace the 9th hitter with Jasson Dominguez, who led Scranton to a 19-0 bombing of the Syracuse Mets last night, you've got at the least  an energy boost.

One thing about this team: When it wins, it looks unstoppable. And when it loses, it looks horrible. Soon, Aaron Judge and Juan Soto will start hitting. That should carry us through the middle of the month, past Boston and into Voldemort. We have three against the O's, in our house. By then, I suspect The Master will be back, and our booths will be harmonious. Or maybe we'll just go on a losing streak and erase whatever hope we foolishly foresaw. I dunno anymore. This team has broken me. 

Well, pop the f'in' cork

 

And so the Yankees clinch about the only thing they are likely too this year: their 32nd consecutive, winning season. Still not at the club record of  39 (1926-1964), but not too shabby—and far better than I thought they would do this year.

What's more, it means that, out of the 122 seasons that your New York Yankees have existed thus far, they have compiled 100 winning seasons, 21 losing seasons, and 1 .500 season. And yet we complain, we rage, we rant, we rend our garments, gnash our teeth, and howl at the moon.

Of course we do. How the hell else can we keep winning?

We give everyone their props—for about 30 seconds. Now get back to work, you bums.

Game Thread ~ Thinking back on better times . . .

 

Yanks win critical game one. Now, they certainly won't lose the next two... right?

 

Congrats to the second place Yankees, current leaders in the AL Wild Card chase, for winning yesterday.

A great start by Luis Gil. A lights out bullpen. A big RBI by Aaron Judge. A fine game, had by all!

Obviously, we're all thinking the exact same thing:

Sweep.

Right?

Actually, no. What I'm thinking is that they will probably lose the next two, because that's what this team does. 

Surely, we won't lose the next two, right? I mean, that just cannot happen in a pennant race, right?'

Last Call for The Judge

 

It is, of course, unfair to blame any part of this dog's breakfast of a season on Aaron Judge. For much of the summer, he was our only hope and sustenance, putting together one of the most marvelous major-league seasons ever—especially considering how little help he had. It goes without saying (but I'll say it anyway): if every Yankee played like Aaron Judge, it wouldn't much matter who was meandering out of the bullpen late in the game.

That said, this is his last chance. 

There are 22 games remaining in the Yankees' season, plus who knows how many (or how few) in the playoffs. For all that he has accomplished, for as great as his career has been, Judge needs to play those games as even he has never played before—or his legacy is likely to be much more one of failure than triumph. 

Is this fair? Of course it isn't. But it's what we can expect to happen.

The feeling was already in the air, even before this season, that—great as he is—Aaron Judge is not "clutch." 

There's that .211 batting average in 44 postseason games, and the lack of some huge, signature, game-winning home runs in the late innings. There are the whispers that too many of his homers come in garbage time. And falling into the worst slump of his career now, as he has, just as the glimmering bauble of a ring seems there for the taking...doesn't help.

This is unfair, too, of course. Judge this year just set a record for first-inning dingers. And considering the Yankees' bullpen can any time really be considered garbage time?

"Clutch," is the most ineffable of qualities in baseball. The Sabremetricious don't believe it exists at all. And certainly, even the very greatest have failed in the clutch. 

Carl Yastrzemski made the last out in the three most important games of his career. Willie Mays never had a good postseason at the plate; Ted Williams hit .200 in his only World Series. Dave Winfield was labeled "Mr. May" for years, until he found redemption in Toronto. Reggie Jackson got fanned by Bob Welch (the first time around).

Ty Cobb, Mickey Mantle, Barry Bonds, and Derek Jeter have all failed—sometimes—in the clutch. Even Babe Ruth and Mariano Rivera have come up small when it counts big. Hey, it happens.

Still. 

The fact is that Aaron Judge—always susceptible to injury—will be 33 at the beginning of next season. The fact is that his window of opportunity with this Yankees team is swiftly closing.

Gerrit Cole may not be on this team next year. It is more and more likely that Juan Soto, his companion in crime, will be gone. Still worse, Gleyber Torres and Alex Verdugo probably won't be.  And who knows what Cashie will do to undermine Jasson Dominguez next? 

For all that Hal & Pal might want to keep the Yankees in a steady state, always contending for a wild-card spot but never quite winning it all, we are getting close to the point where the team will crumble, and the dreaded "rebuild" will be announced—Brian Cashman's last-ditch move to save his job.

Seeing how Cashman has handled draft picks and minor-league development over the last 25 years, the rebuild is likely to take a lot, lot longer than even the eight years that Judge has remaining on his contact. And you can bet dollars to crypto doughnuts that, sooner or later, both the Knights of the Press Box and then the fans—all egged on by the front office—will start blaming Judge's huge, "albatross" of a contract for that.

That won't be fair, either. But it will happen.

What can Judge do to escape all this calumny?

Well, he can play. He can turn in a pennant race and an October like we have rarely if ever seen before. He can play like Yaz down the stretch in 1967, like Jeter in the 2000 Subway Series, like The Babe and Larrupin' Lou Gehrig in the 1928 Fall Classic.  

He can play like there is no tomorrow—because there isn't, not really, not for him. He can play like everything in the world depended on it—because it does, at least in this crazy little corner of the Yankeeverse, where only a grand, glorious, thrilling ride to a ticker tape parade is likely to bring back Soto and Cole, and get Hal & Pal to grudgingly give us maybe the greatest outfield ever assembled. 

He can play like his entire legacy—and all of our future hope and enjoyment in this silly game to which we have already invested so much—are at stake. Because it is.

It's all on him. 

Is that fair? 

Of course not. Who said anything was fair? Now go out and make yourself a legend.

  

 

 

Yank fans experience joyous night with no defeat, no humiliation, no field of screams. Are we in heaven? No, it's the Bronx.

What an enjoyable night! No blown save. No stranded runners. No botched flies. No bases loaded GIDP. No blowout. No lost series. No gut punch, no bellowing at the TV, no YES excuses, no Boone postgame follies... I mean, what a concept! 

A night off from this unfolding Yankee disaster. 

Wait... do I sound brusque? Disagreeable? Cynical? My sincerest apologies. That's the last thing I'd want - unpleasantness. Why, with a mere 22 games left, this Yankee club is a lock for the postseason. Not only that, but John Sterling says he'll return for the playoffs. 

Both games. 

Oops. There I go again. Surely, our heroes will give us three or four games, until the bats go poof and the bullpen implodes. As we've seen for the last two months. 

Since July 2, the Yankees have a sad record of 26-27, a game below .500. Fortunately, this meltdown was masked by a complete collapse of the once-proud AL East. 

Since July 2... here are the records.

Baltimore  27-29
Yankees 26-27
Redsocks 25-30
Blue Jays 24-29
Rays 26-29

Yikes. Turn it off. What a hellscape. Basically, the story of 2024 is that the O's and Yankees got off to torrid starts, and then treaded water, while the AL East went to sleep. This is a pennant race? No. It's My Dinner With Andre. 

But but BUT... last night did bring some fun. I watched the Scranton Railriders clobber the Syracuse Mets, 11-5. The Martian went 3-4 with a HR and 2 RBIs. He's hitting .313 at Triple A. Not that it matters. The Yankees won't promote him until it's absolutely certain that he cannot statistically qualify as a rookie in 2004. That way, they'll squeeze out an extra year of contractual control over him. I guess you could say that's a canny decision, right? I mean, it's a cutthroat biz. Prince Hal can't just give money away, right? He's gotta make ends meet, right? 

So last night, instead of Gerrit Cole, we got Cody Poteet. He pitched into the third inning, gave up 2 runs on 5 hits. Bring him up, Cash! With those kind of numbers, he's ready to close.  

Maybe I'm just still intoxicated by last night's sudden freedom. No bullpen meltdown. No strikeouts. Unfortunately, tonight, everything resumes, and if the Yankees are lucky enough to win Game One, we all know it will simply lead to blowing the next two. 

Seriously, would it be too much to ask that, over the final 22, we do better than 11-11? 

Desire.

 

The day after Don Larsen's perfect game, the Brooklyn Dodgers tied the 1956 World Series at three games apiece when Jackie Robinson stroked his last major-league hit, over the head of Yankees leftfielder Enos "Country" Slaughter, to walk off a 1-0 win in ten innings, at Ebbets Field.

After the game, on the bus back to Yankee Stadium, Billy Martin confronted manager Casey Stengel, and voiced what a lot of the Yankees were thinking:

"If you're going to keep playing that National League bobo out there, we're going to blow this series."

Casey supposedly asked Billy what he would do instead, and was told: 

"You better put Elston out there. And you better put Skowron's ass back on first base."

This was not entirely fair to Country Slaughter—a lifetime .300 hitter and Hall-of-Famer, who had hit .350 in that World Series, with a homer and 4 RBI—or to Casey, who wasn't playing Howard because Ellie had been hospitalized with strep throat through the first six games. 

But Casey listened—and he made his own, bold move for Game Seven, starting Johnny Kucks, a young righty, over Tom Sturdivant and even the great Whitey Ford, who had won his last start against the Dodgers.

Casey knew that Ford often got beat up in cozy Ebbets Field, with its short fences and the Dodgers' largely right-handed lineup. Kucks, on the other hand, was a groundball pitcher who had won 18 games on the season—but none for five weeks.

Need I tell you what happened?

Howard came off his hospital bed and hit a double and a homer. Skowron hit a grand salami to clinch the game. Johnny Kucks pitched a three-hit shutout, collecting 17 groundball outs.

Now that's a Yankees seventh game!

Cut to July 13, 1977, one of the most shameful nights in New York City history, the evening of the blackout riot.

The Yankees didn't care—they were in Milwaukee, scuffling. They'd just lost a hideous game, 9-8, and were in third place in the AL East. 

Lou Piniella and Thurman Munson took it upon themselves to go see George Steinbrenner in his hotel room that night. They were doing this to try to persuade George to make Billy Martin stop harassing Reggie Jackson, and just stick him in right field and the cleanup spot.

Piniella and Munson—obviously—were no fans of Reggie. Neither was Graig Nettles, who backed their move. But they thought something had to be done before the whole season went down the drain.

Hilarity ensued, as Billy Martin, next door to George's room, heard voices and assumed, of course, that people were plotting against him. He banged on the door, and demanded to be let in. George told Lou and Thurman to hide in the bathroom, lest they be discovered. Billy insisted on looking in the bathroom.

The upshot was...they all had a four-hour confab, before Billy said that, okay, he would do what they wanted.

He welched on that promise, of course, for another three weeks, while the Yanks went 11-10 and dropped to five games back, still in third place. Then he gave in, and started playing Reggie in the four-spot and, usually, right field.

The Yanks went 40-13 down the stretch, and the rest is history.

Why do I bring all this up?

Because there was not one leading Yankee player on those teams—or, indeed, on the other 25 world champions or 38 pennant winners in the club's history—who would have sat silently by while their managers, say, brought the same flailing twit out to blow leads in game after game after game. 

Or while he let better players sit on the bench, game after game after game.

Or while their general manager decided to use the stretch pennant run as a time to teach a new acquisition how to play a new position. Or to refuse to bring up the best prospect the team had in its organization, even though he was knocking the cover off the ball in Triple-A.

But not now. 

Now we hear nothin' from nobody, and the thought inevitable arises that this, too, is a key to our dear Yankees' unbearable shittiness of playing...which is that maybe they just don't care all that much. Maybe they are quite content to go along with Hal & Pal's yearly slouch toward a wild card spot, while never putting together a team that could actually win again. 

Maybe they feel a little short, shall we say, in the old desire department?

I dunno. But if I have to watch our own collection of dear old fucking bobos play like this much longer, I'm going to change the channel.