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.