Sad. And Bad.

 

There really is a great cruelty in sports. Particularly in what I would call the irretrievable moment, where some trivial mistake you make—just once, in the fraction of a second—can become something you never live down.

It has happened to players from Bill Buckner to poor, tormented Fred Merkle of the New York Giants in 1908, both of whom made blunders that they could never live down despite otherwise long, outstanding careers. Mistakes of a moment that would forever after be associated with their names. 

This is entirely unfair. And that's the way it is.

It's possible that Judge will get a shot at redemption for his repeated failures in the postseason—and above all, for his fatal flub in the fifth inning last night (will it go down as "The Miss-Judgement"?).  Others have. Ralph Terry was considered the goat of the 1960 World Series for allowing Bill Mazeroski's 9th-inning homer in Game 7...only to turn it around in 1962, and win the Series MVP, retiring Willie McCovey to win a 1-0 Game 7 against the Giants.

But Ralph Terry was just 24, playing on a perennial pennant-winner with those 1960 Yankees. What's more, he merely a serviceable, back-of-the-rotation starter when he gave it up to Maz, and not even the Yankees' ace in 1962. No one was counting on him to be the hero.

Aaron Judge, by contrast, is already 32, and tied for another eight years to a Yankees team that looks to be going nowhere but down. He is probably about to become an AL MVP for the second time (and it should be the third). Many consider him to be the greatest player in the game today—which is saying something, as many now consider this to be the era of the greatest players who have ever lived.

I have been surprised, while out flogging my book, to discover fans—even older fans—who dismiss the idea that any players of the past would have even a fighting chance against today's faster, harder-throwing behemoths. They are convinced that no one has ever before thrown such deceptive pitches, so hard—or driven them so far. 

"Aaron Judge may have just had the greatest season ever by a right-handed hitter!" I've read more than once on the internet. 

Did he?

Hey, it's a nice break having fans not believing that they was all giants in them days. But have we gone too far the other way?

Do we really think that Ty Cobb or Rogers Hornsby or Joe DiMaggio or Henry Aaron or Willie Mays, for cryin' out loud, never had as good a season as Aaron Judge just did? Not Josh Gibson or Martín Dihigo, or any of the other, great Negro League stars?

Or could it be that in the delusion of the present, we have fooled ourselves?

I don't necessarily doubt that today's ballplayers are bigger and faster than they have ever been. That they do throw harder, or that they have better stuff. But they also seem to break down much more easily, despite vastly superior training and medical care.

And as Yogi may or may not have said, "Ninety percent of this game is half mental." Like the fox and the hedgehog, players of the past knew how to do many more things, while those today tend to know one big thing—and often one big thing only.

They were taught how to do things like hit to the opposite field or pitch a complete game or field a ball, that simply aren't much valued anymore. Most of all, they were drilled to a fare-thee-well in fundamentals, and knowing what the situation was on any ballfield, and what they should do next. 

All qualities clearly lacking in what is already the Yankees' notorious fifth inning last night. 

I don't mean to just get on Judge. He mostly played a superb game last night, drawing a walk and lashing a double after his flub, as well as the home run and the near-home-run that preceded it, and making that terrific, running catch up against the centerfield wall.

Yet he will never retrieve that moment, when it looked as if he might just go back to LA and lead the Yankees to the most outrageous upset of all; a feat that would have cemented his reputation, once and for all, in New York and everywhere else, as one of the greatest there ever was.

Instead, it was all lost, just because he took his eye off the ball for a moment. 

I feel very bad for Judge, who seems genuinely likable (as far as we can tell about any player), and easy to root for. Afterwards, even though he kept playing well, he looked like a motherless child, the shock obvious in his eyes. It was a moment for a manager or a teammate to go over to talk to him. I hope that happened, though I didn't see any indication of it.

I think the fans, who tried to cheer him out of his slump on the team's return to New York, will be forgiving in the end. But that moment—that fatal moment—can never be captured again.

There's no forgiving baseball.

 

  

Bad. And Sad.

 

In the end, it was very much Brian Cashman's team. 

No, The Brain did not make the Yankees infield forget how to make plays they probably mastered in Pony League, and no, he did not make Aaron Judge lose a flyball in the lights of the luxury boxes, or whatever happened there (More on Judge later.).

But it was very much Cashman's team. It was right there before us, as Aaron Boone likes to say. On the field you could literally see the difference.

The Dodgers had Mookie Betts, future Hall-of-Famer, brilliant, all-around, throwback player who can start almost anywhere on the ballfield, and whose hustle in a game his team was losing 5-0, sparked the Dodger turnaround. 

We had the fraud the Red Sox traded him for, Alex Verdugo, who despite a couple of nice plays in the field was just as dismal as he was at bat all year, striking out to end the Series.

The Dodgers had Freddie Freeman, the Series MVP and another, future Hall-of-Famer who would have broken records if he'd had the chance to target that right field porch in Yankee Stadium.

We had Anthony Rizzo, the first baseman we signed instead. A nice guy by all accounts, a former champion with a heroic story of overcoming cancer, but someone who has been a physical wreck almost since he joined the Yankees, sustaining one devastating injury after another. He should not have been playing first this Series, but there he was, as real as Bill Buckner—ending his Yankees career with 112 consecutive at-bats without a homer, and contributing to the worst fielding meltdown in World Series history.

Both Verdugo and Rizzo were classic, Cashman bargain ducks, retrieved for his master, Hal Steinbrenner, like a good water spaniel and dumped at his feet. So what if they weren't championship caliber anymore? They were cheap, weren't they?

As Hammer has pointed out, most of the rest of the Yankees...were merely playing out of position. But then, positions aren't something that Cashman, a fervent convert to analytics, doesn't much care about, either.

Remember about 20 years or so back, when Billy Beane's Oakland Athletics would make the playoffs on what we were told were his brilliant mastery of analytics? On-base percentage was everything, and the likes of fielding or fundamentals simply didn't matter. And then, every year, the A's would lose in the playoffs thanks to...fielding and fundamentals.

The Yankees have become that team. 

The A's had the excuse of being a small-market franchise with a tiny budget (though really it was the roids as much as the stats that powered them through the season). Cashman has no such excuse. 

Yet here we are with yet another Yankees team that can't hit in the clutch, can't come up big in October, lacks the necessary role player or two to get over the top. 

Yes, the Dodgers are a much better-constructed team, and their owner has a more financially innovative front office. But they had been so overwhelmed by injuries that they were distinctly wobbling last night. I actually felt a pang of pity for Ohtani, playing with a dislocated shoulder, when Cole struck him out with high fastballs he couldn't touch...just before disaster hit. 

The Yanks had been fortunate in their draws the entire playoffs, and now L.A. was on the verge of going under; their best starters mostly on the DL, their relief corps visibly fraying. 

Faced with this, the Yankees...went 1-10 with runners in scoring position, and left 12 men on base.  And then came the fifth inning, when the character of this team was fully exposed. 

Including, I'm sad to say, the character of their manager. 

It wasn't enough that Boone stuck to his usual, idiotic lineup, in which Jazz Chisholm was inserted in the four spot, separating Judge and Stanton. Nor was it enough, this World Series, that Boone continued to make pitching moves as if he were scratching off a lottery ticket. 

It was in that already infamous fifth inning that the skipper failed his team most.

After Betts' hustle and Rizzo and Cole's brain freeze, the game was still just 5-1. This was the moment for Aaron Boone to call time, hustle out to the mound, gather everybody around him, and say something like, "Hey, I thought it was me who was supposed to cover first base." Or maybe, tell the filthiest joke he knew. 

Something.

Instead, Boone—who to become manager passed all of Cashman's written tests on modern baseball, in a nine-hour interview process—stayed in the dugout, where he would remain for almost the entire rest of the game. Standing in one corner, seemingly talking to no one on his obviously shellshocked team, periodically burying his face in his sleeve.

Afterwards, Boone talked about how sad it was for him, never to go home for the year after having celebrated. That is sad. How good of him to share his feelings.

As for Cashman...well, there are always the number to get back to. Maybe, somewhere in his heaps of data, he will happen upon a team with a soul. But I doubt it. 

 

"Death, oh death, where is thy sting?"

 In one inning, the Yankees hearts were torn out and the Dodgers' hearts were restarted.

The Yankees began the game in glorious form. A flurry of homers from expected, and unexpected, sources.  The early 5-0 lead inspired confidence and hope.  Fans began  to believe in the impossible. 

In the other dugout, fear and uncertainty were creeping in. The thought of returning to LA was in the air.  And worse, the idea that they could blow this and be scapegoats forever.  Doubt was surfacing.  You could read it in the players' faces. 

And then it happened.  The worst inning of baseball in Yankee history.  Physical and mental errors in a "must win" game of the World Series.  All Boone could do, like the millions fans watching, was observe in disbelief and agony.

When it was over, a 5-0 lead had become 5-5.  One of the biggest comebacks in World Series history. 

The team in the dugout along the third base line was jumping like kids on a trampoline, while the other was asking for aspirin and chicken soup. A kind of Covid had struck them. 

It was over.  You could see it in their faces.

And this fan, for perhaps the first time all season, got it right.  

He knew it was over and he walked away from baseball.

I still don't know the final score.

Getting the band back together

Who needs Soto, anyway? Look at the old friends we can sign now that we've reached the offseason!

Rob Refsnyder is available, and he's only 34!

Hey--so is 34-year-old wily veteran, Andrew Heaney! Whoo whoo!

Lance Lynn is 38, full of vim and vigor--and cheap, I bet!

Harrison Bader, the Big Boot. It'd be a real kick to re-sign him at 31!

Holy shit, Frankie Montas! The 32-year-old magician of the mound!

Luis Severino, our own Sevvy, is also only 31...going on Cy Young!

Two words: Caleb Ferguson, and he's only 28!

How about a nice veteran arm to help stabilize the pen? Yes, Aroldis Chapman is available! At 37, he's got plenty of time to shoot Brian's garage and sweat gallons of perspiration!

And if not him, David Robertson, the old pro, is 40 and ready to come home! In that village where centenarians eat yoghurt, 40 is still young!

Kyle!!! 35 and hitting his stride!

Gary Sanchez--32 and hitting occasionally! (Gonna need a new number, big guy!)

We don't need no stinking batting average. Not with 31-year-old Joey Gallo returning to the fold!

Gio!! 'Nuff said!

Go for it, Brian!!!

Let's get them back where they belong--at the lovely cinder block home of baseball's greatest team of all time...with an amazing 1 World Series title in 24 years!!! (And 26 championships played in an old stadium that was actually magical...)

And let's not overlook our new old manager, Buck Showalter!! At 68, he'll whip this team into shape with some old-time religion!

We can do it! We can get all of them back in pinstripes!

Man, I can't wait until April

A few things need to be said

• That inning had a strong whiff of Black Sox. Does anyone know where DraftKings was lurking while the Yankees were stepping on their own dicks? I know, I know: Judge already has all the money he'll ever need, and more. But is it enough? And even if it is, Volpe and Wells aren't exactly raking it in, and Judge is their fearlessly protective captain.

• Congratulations to John Sterling for not having to endure cross-country travel to attempt calling a game (or two!) in the MLB stadium with the loudest piped-in rah-rah shit. Over the weekend I heard him raise his voice in anger for the first time ever. Triggered by the rah-rah racket, he bellowed, "IF IT WOULD JUST STOP FOR A MINUTE!" 

• Thanks to John Sterling for giving us these weeks to say goodbye after last spring's too-abrupt retirement. And gratitude to him for pressing on when, over the last two nights, the voice of the New York Yankees sounded worryingly hoarse. Be well, John, and may you enjoy a long retirement brimming with show tunes, soap operas, autobiographies of long-dead celebrities, cocktails, steak dinners, and no Yankees at all. 

Did the Yankees just deliver their worst postseason game in history? (And other fanciful thoughts of Oct-Over.)

So, it's done: The 2024 Yankees clown car rammed into a trainwreck, causing a dumpster fire. We won't watch anymore. We won't suffer anymore. The monsters are gone. It was just a scary movie. 

Day-after reflections...

1. The best team won. Hands down. The Dodgers showed superiority in every category, including hitting, fielding, pitching, running, spending and cooking the financial books (See Ohtani and Yamamoto.) They are the world champions, and the Yankees can't even blame the umps or juju gods. A wide chasm separates these two teams. 

2. This was the Yankees' season, and they blew it. No matter who they sign or re-sign, the Yankees will be worse in 2025. And if they don't keep Juan Soto, they will be much, much worse. There is no cavalry coming.  

3. Yank fans will never see Aaron Judge in quite the same way. His failures ran the length of October - a month of Weekends at Bernie's - and that botched fly will haunt him for the rest of his life. Last night will never go away. And the collapse began with Judge dropping a Little League pop. A massive balloon popped. It will never be the same.

4. A different vibe surrounds Giancarlo Stanton, though not necessarily in a hopeful way. He had a great October, which means next year, they'll run him back out there, the same-ole same-ole. We'll ride him downwards like Slim Pickens on the nuke, investing the season on a guy who cannot run. You can survive a week, maybe a month, with such a player. A season? Nope. Doesn't matter. We're going to slog another season on the Stanton treadmill. Exciting, eh? 

5. Today, the talk radio hounds of hell will be unleashed. I say, light up those phone lines! Let it rip. Let the anger, the venom, the acrimony become Soto's final memories of NYC and propel him to the Dodgers, or the Angels, or the Blue Jays - anybody but the Mets, who will probably bid highest. (When you think of the makeover, imagine Dorothy asking, "And Soto, too? And the good witch responds,  "And Soto, too.") This we know: Food Stamps Hal will not outbid the world for another hitter. This shall be Robinson Cano times ten.  A cold, dark era for the Yankees is about to begin.

6. Likewise, Gerrit Cole will never shake the fallout fleas from his failure to cover first base. Jeez. If he runs, if he does what every Little Leaguer is supposed to be taught, the Yankees get out of the inning, and they almost surely win the game. Yes, Anthony Rizzo,should have/could have charged the grounder, but he didn't, leaving Cole to stand there for eternity, a lawn statute pointing to the restroom. What an embarrassment. For the rest of his life, whenever a ground ball is hit to a first baseman, he will think of last night. 

7. Food Stamps will feel pressure to fire Aaron Boone, but I doubt there will be any changes at the top. It's sort of a thing with Hal - not seccumbing to fan outrage. And, honestly? I'm not sure it matters. Last night the Yankees simply had nobody in the bullpen that Boone could abuse. (That said, I wonder: What did Marcus Stroman do to piss off Boone, because he seemed a more viable option than Holmes/Kanhle/the cast of Glee.) 

8. I'm trying hard not to blame Anthony Volpe. He's just 23, and, clearly, the Yankee future. (Not sure that's a particularly an optimistic thought.) Next season will wrap around Volpe and The Martian, Jasson Dominguez, whose fielding is already the stuff of nightmare. Dominguez looks like 30 HRs and 200 strikeouts. He's not Soto.   

9. So, no parade down the Canyon of Heroes, eh? I could go for a Walk of Shame along the Canyon of Feces. Game of Thrones got it right. And John Sterling will never forget his final Yankee game. What a disaster. What a send-off. 

10. Damn... I'm just so, soooo tired of the Yankees. I don't think I've felt this sense of Groundhog Day mediocrity since the mid-1980s. What a terrible end to the season. Okay, winter, bring on the cold. 

Words fail me.

 

Child of Destiny, Baby of Fate

 Hunter Walker sent us this fab skeet, adding "I was in the bleachers last night. The Volpe bomb hit right at section 237. His gift to the creatures. Beautiful."

I have a mutual friend with WORLD SERIES HERO ANTHONY VOLPE's dad. Over on Facebook, Mr. Volpe is posting photos including this shot of Yung Anthony in a Yankees outfit. The other one is him with his godfather wearing a Yankees hat on the day he was born. He was born for this moment!!

[image or embed]

— Hunter Walker (@hunterw.bsky.social) October 30, 2024 at 9:14 AM

It aint over.

So spake the Prophet, Lawrence Peter: "It aint over, 'till it's over." And it aint. Over, that is. The fat lady haint sang. The cows haint come home. The fires aint out, the Four Horsemen haint appeared, and the end haint happened... yet.

So, tonight, with the ventilator still rattling, the Barge will seek one more win, one more chartered flight to LA, one more chance to save democracy - damn, it's supposed to hit 80 today in Gotham - and one more golden night of summer.

Ten ponderings of the unponderable...

1. Last night's five-run, 9th inning saved Luke Weaver from a three-inning save, seriously undermining his chances of pitching tonight. Weaver is a unicorn, a captured chunk of starlight, a gift from God. Donno how he does it. Most relievers are hulking, gorilla-bodied golem who should play OT for the Steelers. Then there's Weaver. Donno how long he will last, or what deal he made with Mephistopheles, but here he is. I hope the Yankees next year make him a starter, a la Michael King. And I hope they tear up his contract and write a new one. I love this guy.    

2. Because of Gleyber's 9th inning HR, the Yankees tonight have a relatively fresh bullpen, including Weaver and the unbaked: Jake Cousins, Tommy Kahnle and the mysterious master of illusion, Marcus Stroman, whose appearance shall signify the Rise of the Beast and Boonian End of Times. Seriously, I wonder why Boone hasn't tried Stroman, because - hey, Mark Leiter Jr.? - you never know. But I don't think it will happen now, unless a game goes into the 12th. 

3. Had to imagine how the Yankees scored 11 runs with the meat men - Soto, Judge, Chisolm, Stanton - going 3 for 15 with one RBI. Against KC and Cleve, the bottom of the lineup was a coffee grinder, stretching pitch counts and sphincters. Last night, it finally awakened against LA. The Fox team is obsessed with Aaron Judge's slump. It was our last five hitters who'd been killing us.

4. Didja see Austin Wells postgame interview? They asked how he prepared for the game, and he said, "Just screw it." Advice from the juju gods?

5. Big chasm between how the world sees Gerrit Cole - and how Yank fans do. Yeah, we love him, cherish him - he's like our pet collie - but all season, you never knew which Gerrit would show up. Tonight, he could be lights-out - or get booed. We all know this. And we all understand that tonight, his time in NY will be defined.

6. Damn. We finally beat Dave Roberts. Once. 

7. Joyous moment for Anthony Volpe. He's had it rough, constantly being compared to the guy at the Fox Sports podium, even as the announcers lament how unfair it is. (But they do it anyway.) Next year, I predict Volpe won't suffer such treatment. Not that Fox or YES will have changed: Instead, they'll just fixate on how The Martian isn't Mickey.

8. Tonight is the Yankee finale for Soto, Gleyber, Verdugo, Holmes, Kahnle, et al. We've gone through a lot together. This will be surprisingly emotional. Whatever happens, I hope they all get nice sendoffs. (Yes, even Doogie. It won't be the same next year, watching him with a beard.) 

9. Add John and Suzyn to that list. I tried to listen last night but couldn't synch their radio feed to the Fox Sports video. Somebody should make an app for that. I realize that Suzyn could return next year, but I don't think it will happen. End of an era. Twilight of the gods. Following the Yankees will never be the same. Years from now, we'll try to describe them to grandchildren, or strangers on subways, and we will never do them justice. A winwarble? What was that?

10. Whatever happens, if we win tonight, the 2024 Yankees can leave with heads high. Delete that Game One gopher ball to Freddie Freeman - a pitch Nestor should not have been called upon to throw - and these teams would be tied. Damn. But if we take it back to LA, they'll know they were in a dogfight. 

Small victories. But but BUT... it aint over.  

Final note:

As I understand it, when a ball lands in the stands, it's fair game between the player and fans. I accept that an out could be called - though, seriously, that ball was in the stands - but I wonder if the fans deserved to be perp-walked out of the stadium. For now, they rank up there among the greatest IT IS HIGH Yank fans of all time - Number One being the fans who put the nails on Ed Whitson's driveway.

Yankee Tickets

 I offered my four Yankee World Series tickets ( just behind dugout, on first base side ) for auction. 

My top bid on EBay , so far, is $1.29 for the four.

The tickets are for game 5.

It must be faced: If the Yankees lose tonight...

 

An Above Average Haiku Tuesday ~ "We're all fine . . . We're all going to be OK" ~ Edition!

 

O Captain, my Captain... for the 2024 Yankees, the end is near

O Captain! my Captain!

Our fearful trip is done,
The ship has sprung a thousand leaks,
The prize we sought is gone.

    The end is near, the drums I hear,
The bleachers steadily clearing,
The faithful weep; in sight, a sweep,
Juan Soto disappearing.

But o, Boone! Boone! Boone!
Bring gallon jugs of wine,
For deep on deck my Captain lies,
Struck out, oh for nine.

Close your eyes. It won't be long. Ignore the burning sensation. It will go away. Do you see the white light? Follow it. Soon, you will find peace.

Soon, this fever dream - 2024 - will be gone. You will feel no more pain. The Yankees will scatter, gone to homes and families, and cold winds will arrive. Your thoughts will turn to gardening, or stamp-collecting, whatever people do after their team has been swept. 

Yes, I know, I know... a tiny voice inside you wants to fight, to rage against the darkness. Do not succumb to this. Somewhere, far away, in a happier universe, the Yankees will win four straight, resetting the Curse of the Bambino after 20 desperate years, retaking the world from Dave Roberts and Jose Altuve and - oh, god - Boston, horrible Boston. Dream of being in that place. It exists, somewhere out there, I truly believe this - just not here.

Nope. After tonight, all we'll have are Boone's certainty that Aaron Judge showed some good swings in his final at-bat, and appears ready to snap out of his slump, any day now. 

After tonight, all we will have are photographs of Juan Soto in a Yankee cap, as he prepares to join the Dodgers, or the Padres, or the Mets, or Toronto - or whatever team is willing to shell out for a future Hall of Fame outfielder. Ah, but we will have Caleb Durbin, who hit .287 at Scranton, and looks like a solid candidate to replace Gleyber!

After tonight, it will be over. So let me print for the last time in 2024, the best juju we had in an unfriendly time. Tonight, this is who we face.

FLAME (I mean) GAME ON !!!

 He's "Convicted"

Genius at Work!

Think you're smart enough to work for the New York Yankees' Crack Analystics Department (CAD)? Take this simple quiz and find out!

Pitcher A—let's call him Clarke Schmidt—has the following splits on his 2024 regular-season record:

Home:  8 starts, 2-2 record, 4.50 ERA

Away:   8 starts, 3-3 record, 1.39 ERA

Clarke Schmidt should start:

A) At home

B) On the road

C) Wherever the genius, Brian Cashman, thinks he should start

If you chose "C," you were correct!

Let's try another one.

Pitcher B—let's call him Carlos Rodón—has the following splits on his 2024 regular-season record:

Home:  14 starts, 9-2 record, 3.11 ERA

Away:   18 starts, 7-7 record, 4.69 ERA

Carlos Rodón should start:

A) At home

B) On the road

C) Wherever the genius, Brian Cashman, thinks he should start

Oh, I'm sorry! It was a trick question. Carlos Rodón should never start again anywhere, ever!

Thanks for playing, and we'll see you back here in a few weeks with a new analytics quiz, when we ask:

The New York Yankees should sign:

A) Juan Soto

B) Pete Alonso

C) Whoever costs Hal Steinbrenner the least money from his incalculable fortune.

Thanks for playing!

 

You probably all know this, but....

 The Dodgers' owner plans to add Juan Soto next season. 

Just saying. 

Hoss Talks About "The New York Game"

This past weekend and next weekend, Bardball.com is/will be interviewing IIH,IIF,II...c'er Kevin Baker about his fascinating new book, The New York Game: Baseball and the Rise of a New City.  The book delves into how in the mists of the Civil War and the Industrial Age, Gotham created the game we know today and shaped it through the 20th century.

Some of the things I learned in our very short discussion:

• Charles Ebbets' middle name was Hercules.
• The creation of the Abner Doubleday/Cooperstown myth by AG Spaulding was meant in part to separate the game from its origins in the city, a place of ethnic diversity, social mobility and Catholics.
• Doubleday was chosen by Spaulding because they were both Theosophists.
• The Brooklyn Dodgers were once called, among other things, the Bridegrooms.
• The Dodgers were named the Trolley Dodgers fully 15 years before there was even a subway.

Next week Kevin and I will talk about the iconic rivalry between the Yankees and the Dodgers, the personalities involved, and its sociopolitical importance. And also, that despicable Waler O'Malley.

You can read our interview, fully displaying Hoss' wit and erudition, at Bardball.com here:

http://bardball.com/2024/10/27/the-new-york-game-baseball-and-the-rise-of-a-new-city/

I also posted it in the Bardball Substack, which I think everyone should be able to read here:

https://bardball.substack.com/p/the-new-york-game 

Hoss' book is now available from Penguin Random House. Order it at your local bookstore or from Amazon! I am eagerly waiting for my copy.

Tonight, the madness and pandemonium of New York must rain down upon mellow LA

There comes a moment in every fan's life when he or she - (or they) - must go Timmy-in-the-well, Lassie-barking mad, and charge wide-eyed directly into the jaws of Hell. 

Tonight is that time. 

Tonight, the Dodgers' team of Chippendale robots needs to encounter a life-changing, cultural pipe wrench of pure demonic chaos - a horrific hurricane of sounds, sights, tremors and terrors, unlike anything they ever experienced against the Mets. 

It must begin before the first pitch is thrown, and from there, it must become alive and bio-electric, a sentient being created from the agony of a billion fans after 15 years of squandered hopes. 

Tonight, every moment must be the one after Nettles stabbed the liner, after Reggie jacked his third, after Leyritz bombed Atlanta, after Boggs donned the horse, after Yogi charged Larsen, after Mantle put down Barney Schultz. 

Yes, those events happened in another stadium, one we stupidly tore down and gaslight ourselves to this day, pretending otherwise. But tonight, it doesn't matter. 

Tonight, the Yankees must create a new reality, a new mass hysteria, in this relatively unsoiled ballpark.

The Yankees must call upon the full, grotesque pandemonium of NYC: Pizza Rat, Times Square Elmo, the squeegy-men, and the ghost of Gerald Ford saying "Drop Dead." Tonight, the Yankees must channel the everything bagel of Gotham. 

We all know the reality: 

The Yankees either win tonight, or it's over. 

Lose tonight, and they'll fall in four, swept by a superior team whose billionaire owner wasn't afraid of spending the money he's too rich to ever miss. 

The Yankees need a game from Clarke Schmidt, the vastly underpaid starting pitcher who has only played for one organization in his pro career. Same with Anthony Volpe, another home grown Yankee. And the Captain, whose fantastical legacy is now teetering. 

Tonight, the Yankee Stadium crowd needs to act like a Yankee Stadium crowd. 

It's up to you, New York, New York.

Yanks tie record!

 

Here on the Mr. Bill Show, there is good news!

Last night, your New York Yankees tied a major-league record: it was their 11th straight game of their playoffs decided by 3 or fewer runs. Only the Philadelphia Phillies, in winning the World Series in 1980, have managed this, winning an insanely entertaining series against the Astros, then topping the Royals.

Hey, lots of narrow losses!  We're getting close!

Another, more damning stat, gleaned from the Estimable Keefe: the Yankees have not beaten a team that is not from the woeful AL Central since our white-knuckle, skin-of-our-teeth victory over the Baltimore Orioles, in the 2012 ALDS.

A weird sort of stat from me: the Yanks have now lost a franchise-record, 8 consecutive games in their last playoff series of a season.

That is, in this World Series they've lost 2 straight. In 2022—their last playoff appearance—they lost 4 straight to Houston. In 2021 they lost their single, Wild Card game to Boston, and in the 2020 they lost the last game of their Covid ALDS to Tampa Bay.  

8 straight losses in their last round.

They have become baseball's greatest living example of the Peter Principle. 

 

 

Yanks encountering Judge dread, but but BUT... this aint ova. The Dodgers came to NYC last week, but they aint seen nothing like what's to come.

Welp, here we are, back to where it began. We're those kids in The Blair Witch Project, when they discover they've been hiking circles in the forest and won't escape this movie alive. We have reached the Babadook, that manic curse of runaway nerves that has consumed Yankee lineups for 15 years. We are lost in the haunted woods of October.

Since April - our best start in this generation - we've awaited (and dreaded) this moment, the world series, wondering how we'd do when everything mattered. Now, here we are, wondering if we'd have been better off not getting here, not embarrassing ourselves on a national stage.

Monday night, Aaron Judge will hear chants of "MVP! MVP!" as the throngs seek to re-set his tilting statue. But if he keeps lunging at pitches - and he might - the cheers will lessen, settle into a din, and then, at the torturous end, maybe bring scattered boos that Juan Soto will surely notice. 

We've seen it happen. We've seen postseasons so horrific, so poisonous, that they not only cost us the current October, but they roll over into next year, and further. 

When we see Judge trudge back to the dugout, we see the ghosts of A-Rod, Grandyman and Swish. When we see Clay Holmes walk the leadoff batter, we see Aroldis, Flash Gordon and Tanyon Sturtze. We see Octobers so dreadful that they will accompany us to our graves. We see a haunted past, which turned on us in 2004, and which remains un-exorcized.   

Those are the stakes, my friends. If we lose two more games, not only will 2024 be a disappointment, but it could set up a future crossroads for Yankee decline. We can cheer Giancarlo Stanton's revival, but how does a legless, 35-year-old fulltime DH fit into 2025? That's another matter. Two more losses, and a massive roster upheaval will begin with a sour taste on our tongues.

But but BUT... (as stated above)... This. Aint. Ova. No, it isn't. We can still win this thing.

How can I say this? Why am I shilling for Cashman and Boone? Did they get to me? Have they kidnapped a loved one? Am I on some exotic drug, or am I wearing a shock collar? No. Hear me out. This. Aint. Ova. Why?

1. Judge will hit. Eventually. We all know this. If we win Monday, it means an extra game for him to snap out. It's a six-day, long-distance game of chicken. We need to stretch out time, make every minute last 63 seconds. And we can do this. Grinding out time is one of this team's greatest skills. All we need to do is slooww... thinnnnnnngs... dowwwwwwwwwwn...  

2. Somehow, last night, our bullpen held. Donno how, but it did. I think we're done with Carlos Rodon, who should have never thrown another pitch after the score became 3-1. If Rodon pitches again, it's on an inning-by-inning, batter-by-batter basis. That said, I like Clarke Schmidt. And maybe I'm nuts, but I believe Marcus Stroman, maybe even Nasty Nestor, will return for redemption. 

3. Then there is Ohtani. Who knows how this affects this? Great teams often rally when a star goes down. Not only that, but Ohtani wasn't exactly killing us. I love how we'd thrown him out at second. But if he's hurt, that's one less major stress point per every third inning. And if he's compromised, maybe he goes 0-for-10? 

4. I like that we made it a game in the 9th, and that - in the end - they were clutching life preservers. Jose Trevino whacked that ball, he's just not Freddy Freeman, that's all. Long flies are what you get, when he whacks one. But we made them sweat. 

4. The NYC haunted forest is here. We can run the table. The Dodgers think they saw the full madness of NYC last week. Nope. They aint seen nothing like what's to come. This is a Yankee crowd, in Yankee Stadium, with everything on the line. And like us, they've been thinking about this series since February. This sounds stupid, I know, but we've got 'em where we want 'em. 

Game thread: The Enemy Within?

 

"Judge looks awful at the plate."--Pinstripe Alley "No shit."--JM

He's picked a hell of a time to relive this season's April and May. 

"Everyone" says he's too good, he'll come around, he'll break out. Oh, yeah? 

He doesn't have a month or two to straighten himself out. He either does it tonight, or I say, bench him. Let him work with his personal batting coach for a bit. Or let him play defense, have Stanton DH for him, and let the pitchers bat. Maybe they can at least bunt.

This makes me very sad, but I mean it. Can we use Grisham? Put the Martian out there, regardless of his defense? Can we pinch hit for Judge if he comes up with men on base? 

Sure, I know this is all crazy talk. Sacrilege. Ugly. Maybe horrible juju. Certainly something nobody wants to say out loud.

But right now, the guy is a millstone around our necks. He doesn't want that. He wants to win. He wants to hit clutch home runs in the postseason, like Stanton. But...he can't. Never could.

It's been, what, nine years that he's been playing in every postseason we've had? Isn't that enough of a tryout?

 

3 Hours 39 minutes ......

 Don't hold me to exactitude, but that's how long the game took by my wobbly watch and hazy eyes. 

All to end in agony.

And it was that word with which I began today's WORDLE ( and earned a "PHEW" -  the last gasp before failure).

We did see it all.  A brilliant ( 6 inning ) start by Cole.  More exceptional defense by Verdugo, another huge HR by Giancarlo, and Soto in high gear. Rizzo making one of the best catches a first baseman can make, and providing leadership all night. And flash from Jazz.

But we also saw enough failure ( lackluster fielding by Gleybar, lack of speed in RF to reach a fly ball triple,  bases left full without " the game changing" hit, and the Russian roulette of our bullpen to assure a game always on the brink.

At the last moment, our hope went dark and we were left with frustration, pain. loss and bitterness.  Another big game we win if one more out can be secured.  The wins we always got with Mariano.  

This will happen again, tonight in Dodger Stadium.

Once more, into the breach.  Fuck 

Oh, no! The Yankees just suffered their worst postseason loss...in eight days!

Extra innings, in a crucial World Series game. The Yankees' bullpen was running low, but their manager still had options. Inexplicably, he chose to bring in an erratic starter who had not pitched in a month. Sure enough, minutes later came the walk-off home run that turned the whole Series around.

I'm talking about Game 4 of the 2003 World Series, of course, on October 22nd, when Jeff Weaver, who had pitched his way to a 5.99 ERA and had not thrown more than 1 inning in a game since Sept. 12th, and none at all since Sept. 23rd. 

Was a time when terrible Yankees losses in the postseason echoed down the decades, they were so few and far between. Grover Cleveland Alexander coming in to fan Tony Lazzeri with the bases loaded, and Cookie Lavagetto breaking up Floyd Bevens' no-hitter and winning the game on one pitch, and don't get me started about that damned Mazeroski! 

Now? Yankees losses in October come fast and furious, numerous nut-twisters even in the same postseason. We hadn't lost a game as bad as last night's...since the week before in Cleveland.

Over the course of The Cashman Captivity, what is most striking is how the losses seem to repeat themselves. Unless we are trapped in hell or The Twilight Zone, this should indicate something. 

Submitted for your consideration: under Brian Cashman, the New York Yankees have suffered the vast majority of the worst losses in their postseason history.

By this I mean, in part, the literal worst losses: 9-1 and 15-2 (Arizona, 2001 World Series); 10-3 (Boston, 2004 ALCS); 6-0 (Detroit, 2006 ALDS); 12-3 (Cleveland, 2007); 8-0 and 10-3 (Texas, 2010 ALCS); 8-1 (Detroit, 2012 ALCS); 7-1 (Houston, 2017 ALCS); and 16-1 (Boston, 2018 ALDS). 

In case you lost count, that's 10 separate losses by 6 or more runs. Put the straight numbers out there, and it looks like this: 9-1, 15-2, 10-3, 6-0, 12-3, 8-0, 10-3, 8-1, 7-1, 16-1. I doubt if your New York Yankees lost 10 such postseason blowouts in the previous 98 years of the franchise.

But I digress. By "worst losses," I'm talking metaphorically, of course. I mean the most gut-wrenching, pineapple-inserting, mind-blowing losses in the team's history—the sorts of losses that you still think about twenty years later.

Many years ago, I read with sniggering voyeurism both Roger Angell and Pete Gammons going over how the Boston Red Sox' worst defeats over the decades, all seemed to run together in one long nightmare.

But no need for such schadenfreude any longer! Now, Brian Cashman—a sort of one-man, virtual-reality machine of disappointment—has enabled us to live through such an endless film loop of defeats for ourselves.

The all-time horrors, of course, the ones that will never be forgiven or forgotten, came in Game 7 of the 2001 World Series and Games 4 and 5 of the 2004 ALCS, with Joe Torre refusing to acknowledge that Mariano Rivera could be overworked—and refusing to pitch around David Ortiz. (Not to mention bringing in Esteban Loaiza in extra innings with the score tied—a triple crown to go with the Weaver and Nestor calls to the bull pen). 

There's also Mike Mussina failing to hold a 6-1 lead against the Angels in Game 3 of the 2002 ALDS—and Mike Mussina failing to hold a 3-1 lead against the Tigers in Game 2 of the 2006 ALDS.

There's Randy Johnson failing to win with 7 runs in Game  3 2005 ALDS, and The Little Unit failing to beat Kenny Rogers in Game 3 of the 2006 ALDS.

There's a bedeviled and confused Joba Chamberlain, devoured by midges, walking the Indians to victory in 2007, and there's Jake Cousins, bedeviled and confused by the enormous apple in his throat, walking the Dodgers to victory last night.

There's Nick Swisher, butchering a ball in right field in the 2012 ALCS against the Orioles (just minutes before Derek Jeter had to be carried off the field), and BOTH Gleyber Torres and Oswaldo Cabrera butchering balls at second base to hand the Dodgers a win last night.

Always the same mistakes. Always the same shortcomings, repeated over and over and over again. The wrong relief pitcher at the wrong time. The bumbling fielder. The clueless manager. The stupid economies that leaves us one player short, each year and every year? (Anthony Rizzo over Freddie Freeman: another great Hal & Pal "savings.")

Then there's Alex Rodriguez, failing again and again and again in the clutch, come October. We had to recreate him, too, with our new head case, who I shall call only, Mr. Bill, at least until he gets an actual big hit in the playoffs. 

Once upon a time, the idea that another team in October would have walked someone, anyone, in order TO pitch to our residing superstar—our Babe Ruth or our Joe DiMaggio, our Mickey Mantle or our Reggie Jackson or out Derek Jeter—would have been inconceivable. And if they had, they would have paid for it. 

I know, I know:  that's one we can't blame on Hal & Pal. But it's part of our wonderful new Yankees era—one that we're about to compound by letting the guy they walked, walk. 

Now that's something new!

Ohtani 1, Judge 0. With a gut-punch and a million botched opportunities, the marathon begins.

Okay, the bright side: One game in, we've already suffered that inevitable, soul-devouring Yankee defeat - the certainty for every postseason series. 

Yeah. It's done. You can breathe again. Check for wounds. We're still standing. We're still here, (though I don't remember getting that BORN TO LOSE tattoo?)

Yeah, overnight, we inched closer to The Precipice. Another fiasco like last night, and we'll be candidates for cafeteria creamed-corn and rec-room canasta. But no matter what happens, it'll soon be November, with America's beckoning future of peace and prosperity.  

Yeah, we lost. But if you came here to watch me pee myself, sorry. We lost quickly, efficiently, with enough mortification to last an entire October. This will be a brutal series. Between now and Halloween, both teams will face the Babadook. 

Yeah, last night was a crusher. But here's the thing: 

At this point, they all are. 

Had it been a 12-2 laugher, we'd still be yowling. It turned out to be a walk-off grand slam with a million untaken paths to victory.

Two Dodger runs set up by fielding gaffes.

An intentional pass to bring up the lunging Aaron Judge with the bases full, so he can launch a pop-up. (I'm sorry, but "Captain October," he's not.) 

A reverse Jeffrey Maier HR fan-grab. 

A slightly botched grounder by Oswaldo. 

A long list of squandered moments: The great start by Gerrit Cole. The HR by Giancarlo. The five-out save by Luke Weaver. The rise of Jazz Chisolm as an agent of chaos. The Jeterian catch by Alex Verdugo. All of which led to nothing.

Frankly, I'm glad Freddie Freeman homered, rather than a walk-off single. The grand slam hurts more, cuts deeper, and I wanted the Yankees to feel it. I watched the entire Dodgers celebration, picturing the Yankees in their gloom, doing the same.  

Most teams never recover from a loss like last night. Worse, tonight, it's Yamamoto, who channeled Koufax the last time we saw him. It's not hard to imagine the Yankees returning to NYC down by two. But I'm telling you: We've seen worse. 

And we just flushed the worst out of our system. 

Why am I not depressed? Simple. As Yank fans, we're used to playing in the world series, right? We do it every October, right? This is nothing. This is a mosquito bite. We've been here before, right? Seriously. We're gonna win this thing. (But where did that tattoo come from?)

As big day arrives, polls call series between Dodgers and Yankees a dead heat

 

The question is whether LA will accept a NY victory. 

Play ball.

So it begins...Round 12 of the Yankees vs. the Grays/ Bridegrooms/ Superbas/ Robins/ Dodgers/ FuckfacetreasonouscorporatescumbagabsconderstoLaLaLand...

World Series Number 12—five more than any other two teams have played against one another. Number 12, going back to 1941 (above).

It's Hugh Casey's third strike getting past Mickey Owen, and Old Reliable Tommy Henrich racing to first base...Peter Reiser losing the ball in the later afternoon cigarette gloom...Gionfriddo going back back back back and making a one-handed catch against the bullpen Oh Doctor Well I'll be a suck-egg mule! As Joe DiMaggio kicks the dirt...It's Cookie Lavagetto breaking up Floyd Bevens' no-hitter and winning the game on one at-bat...Joe Page, the Gay Reliever, leaping over the bullpen fence to staunch the Dodgers...Branch Rickey telling Larry MacPhail I don't like you, sir, don't like you at all Dan Topping punching out MacPhail in the hotel kitchen...Tommy Henrich (again) with the walk-off for Allie "Superchief" Reynolds...Mickey Mantle (still 20!) homering off Joe Black and singling off Preacher Roe to win Game Seven at Ebbets Field for Bob Kuzava...Billy Martin running amok and grabbing Jackie Robinson's pop-up to win it for Bob Kuzava...Oisk setting the Series strikeout record with 14...Sandy Amoros racing over in left field to grab Yogi's flyball and win it, for once, for Brooklyn...Jackie stealing home and Don Larsen's perfect on the field of lengthening shadows as The Mick homers and grabs Gil Hodges long fly and Jackie hitting the ball over Country Slaughter's head and Don Newcombe leaving Ebbets in tears a year before everyone else did...

And it's Sandy Koufax setting the Series strikeout record with 15 even if The Mick does go long on him (once) and Joe Peptone losing the ball in the white shirts at Chavez Ravine...It's Reggie Reggie Reggie three straight pitches as the Bronx burns...Bucky Dent and Brian Doyle running amok and Bill Russell cursing New York...It is Bob Lemon pulling Tommy John and Mr. May and Mad King George benching Reggie and getting punched out in the elevator and apologizing to the people of New York for the Yankees when all he really needed to apologize for was his big fat boorish self.

It's 8-3 in our favor, but only 2-2 since the Fuckfacetreasonouscorporatescumbagomalleyians absconded to Natural Disaster Land, and we owe them one, we surely do.

Play ball.

It's time to fearlessly - yes, juju be damned! - make our predictions for the coming Yankee/Dodger apocalypse

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