LA or Toronto? Hollywood or Greater Buffalo?
You'd think it'd be easy. Didn't rabid Rudy Giuliani, supporting Boston in the curse-lifting 2004 world series, claim you're supposed to root your division? That sure clanked.
Fact is, rooting for the 51'st Staters would be a slam dunk, except for the Boston-like hatred of Blue Jay fans, who chanted "F-- the Yankees" when they weren't even playing us. They hate us for the hell of it. Maybe it makes them feel better, as beer-swilling simpletons.
So, who do we support? Baseball's biggest spender? Or its 2nd most hateful (after Boston, of course.) Let's go to the videotape.
WHY ROOT FOR THE DODGERS:
1. If they win, Food Stamps Hal should feel more pressure to open his fanny pack. LA will have proven that - yes, you can buy championships. I'm tired of Hal poormouthing. The Steinbrenners have the money. They simply choose not to spend it. With the Dodgers as reigning champs, maybe Haligator Arms will feel more compelled to do something. Maybe it will give him a rash. (This is what I've been lowered to: Hoping the owner gets measles.)
2. Mookie Betts. Despite his Boston heritage, I sorta like the guy. Future Hall of Famer. Great teammate. Plus, his image on a Jumbotron drives Redsock fans into a frenzy. Hey, juju gods: Wanna blow gaskets in Boston? Have Mookie win a game by hitting a grounder through Vladimir's wickets. Buckner Redux. Wouldn't that be wonderful?
3. Baseball needs to address the fairness of one team annually luring the major stars from Japan. Right now, the Dodgers have an open pipeline to the spice islands, spawned by the deferred luxury tax payments somehow baked into Shohei Ohtani's contract. Trump's DOJ should indict Ohtani. Mortgage fraud? Classified docs? Let's go.
4. Vlad Jr. The guy hates us with the heat of a billion suns. We can return the favor.
WHY ROOT FOR THE JAYS.
1. Hey, it's Canada, fer kricesake. Nicest neighbors on the planet. How did we get on their shit list? If the Jays win it all, maybe it will spur Americans - and You Know Who - to ditch this ridiculous frost in relations. Dear God, we gotta face these people in hockey. Why rile them up?
2. IKF. Every time I see Isiah Kiner-Falefa, I'm reminded of 2022, when we had him, and what a jollygood fellow he is. Then I ponder where we'd be if he were our SS this year. (He hit .262 over about 431 ABs, stole 15 bases.) An upgrade over Anthony of Joeygalloville.
3. Okay, as long as it's not Boston, maybe you should back your division. Besides, we can sign Bo Bichette and, next year, chant "F--- the Jays."
4. Don Mattingly. Wait. Cancel everything I've said. This is the reason. This is the only reason. Donnie needs a ring.
The checked swing never homers.
Catch flies, instead of swatting them.
Let your bat do the talking, and each crack shall be heard.
Benches are carved from wooden mitts.
To capture the wild pitch, hide behind its plate.
The warning track never cries wolf.
Someone pays for every stolen base.
Beer in the dugout ensures bad hops.
Paint the corners, and opposing batters must stand in them.
If your arm is sick, doctor the ball.
Big outs come from little ones that slipped away.
To crush a ball, kiss it goodbye.
Manufacture a run, and you’ll appreciate each ingredient.
The rhubarb is always sour.
Send pitchers to the showers, and you’ll clean up.
Measure a blast by distance, a bunt by damage.
Bases can get loaded on highballs.
The lights-out pitcher brightly shines.
The wheelhouse is no place to hang a curve.
Chin music silences the banjo hitter.
A blown save remains unsatisfied.
Circus clowns make circus catches.
Ducks on the pond often lay goose eggs.
At some point, everybody chokes up.
The shortest route is always going the distance.
Three up, three down… equals nothing.
The fatter the pitch, the more hide for tattooing.
On the seventh game, God watches.
 |
| Should we send an A.I. video of dropping feces on Toronto? |
Soon after the Tokyo Dodgers beat Outer Buffalo in the world series - probably ate next week - Michael King will opt out of his contract with the Padres and head to free agency.
King, whom the Yankees dealt to San Diego for the one-year blood rental of He Who Shalt Not Be Named, will turn 31 in late May.
Thus, this upcoming auction represents his best - and maybe final - chance to cash out with the lake house and old folks pontoon. Considering that he's from Rochester - ancient Yankee fan territory, sorta our Donbas - the lone obstacle to King signing with Food Stamps Hal Steinbrenner is - well - Food Stamps. Hal never wants to pay "antique" prices for what he believes should be garage sale furniture.
And if Hal gets into a bidding war with Steve Cohen, I think we all know who will win.
Nothing puts a gleam in the eye of P.T. Cohen more than stealing popular ex-Yankees. Close your eyes, and it's easy to imagine both King and Luke Weaver pitching for the Mets, while the Yankees counter with some Cashman-found, Freddie Garcia, small market retread, obtained in a disastrous trade. (I fear watching Caleb Durbin play for many years in Milwaukee, while Devin Williams - whom the Gammonites viewed as a Louvre-like steal - disappears into the NL or AL Central.)
Last year, King was one of baseball's best pitchers through his first 10 starts. Then he pinched a nerve, missed a month, and returned for one start, when he hurt his knee. A near total washout. He finished with a 3.44 ERA over 73 innings. The Yankees ought to start with King, and then start stockpiling relievers. This might turn out to be the last winter in which the Yankees can use their money. (Next winter, an excruciating labor work stoppage is almost assured.)
No Kings? I say, just one. Michael. Wait... is Mel Queen still available?
For better or worse, some takeaways on the current state of Yankeekind.
1. Seems like a year since the Death Barge crapped out against Toronto. Remember...hope? The government shutdown would be solved, the Middle East would be solved, Katy Perry's quest for love would be solved, and the Jersey Giants beat the Eagles! Now? Well, Katy's still happy. Maybe Meat Loaf should have sang, "One out of four aint bad?"
2. Surely, Yank fans will root against the Dodgers. I certainly will. They are ruining baseball with their absurd spending, their cooking of the books, and their Japanese pipeline - a huge advantage over the rest of the world. But here's the rub:
It should be the Yankees doing it.
If any team is going to embody evil, it should be us. To watch Food Stamps Hal pull out his pockets and wave his empty purse at street urchins - we should at least be detested. The Japanese Babe Ruth should have played in New York, in the House That the Japanese Babe Ruth Built. But Hal always has a shiny 25 cent piece to bestow upon his face base, and here we are, once again ,on the outside, looking in.
3. How 'bout them Jersey Giants! You know, for a moment, for a sliver of a time - maybe two seconds - I thought they might win their third game in a row and actually be headed in the right direction. My bad. I'm too old for this. I drank the Skattaboo tea.
But the loss in Denver still does not beat The Fumble.
4. I suppose everyone expects the Dodgers to win. Why wouldn't you? They had so many ace pitchers this year that they literally coasted through the regular season, just planning for October. As for Toronto, I'm sorry, but Kevin Glausman is not Madison Bumgarner. It's hard to imagine they are doing this with arguably their best player - Bo Bichette - in rehab.
5. If there is any reason to root for Toronto, here's one: Don Mattingly. The only problem is that every time I see Mattingly in a Jays cap, it reminds me that the world is completely out of whack. Yesterday, Hoss wondered if we are in Hell? Damn straight.
6. I see pix of the White House being bulldozed, and I'm reminded of Yankee Stadium, 18 years ago. I don't care about the disco, the steak house and the self-flushing urinals. You cannot replace history. When I hear Trump talk about the need for a ballroom, I think of how the Yankee ownership talked trash about what was still the greatest venue in sports. Remember how they demeaned it, as they sold off every chunk of concrete? I'm sorta surprised Trump isn't auctioning off the doorknobs. (I'm sure he will, soon.)
7. One of the saddest elements of the last two weeks has been the Yankee front office congratulating itself on a winning season, and basically saying that nothing needs to change. Mike Harkey was the problem? My God, how can they not read this room?
8. I do believe the Yankees were one player away. One more measly win, and they would have taken AL East and a first-round bye, with home field advantage. One stinking, measly victory. And it all came down to Hal's refusal to open his purse last spring when, say, an Alex Bregman was politicking for a one-year, prove-himself deal. There were free agents to be had. Hal pinched his fanny pack.
9. Dodgers in four.
10. Yankees in 10. Years, that is.
The Yankees' season come sputtering to an end in the same way it has for most of the past 25 years...and our general manager holds a press conference to cheerfully announce that we will keep doing the exact same thing, in the exact same way.
The Mets were even worse this year.
The Giants just surrendered 33 points in the fourth quarter after shutting out their opponent for the first three quarters—only the second time anything like that has happened in the history of the NFL.
The Jets have yet to win a game.
The Rangers get shutout every time they play at home, threatening to break an NHL record.
What is it with all these records of futility? It seemed like every time we looked up this season, we were told that the Yankees had performed their worst feat of hitting or scoring since some moment in 1912, or maybe 1908.
And then, of course, there is our manager—the first one in Yankees history to manage for eight seasons without ever taking a ring.
We can only guess what the Knicks, Nets, Devils, and Islanders have in store for us.
Which leads me to one simple conclusion on this Mickmas, holiest of all holy Yankee Days, birthday of the Commerce Comet himself: we have all died and gone to hell.
How else to account not only for the complete collapse of our sports teams here in Loser City—or how the Yankees are openly ridiculed on national television—but also how we ended up with an attorney general who looks like a car hop waitress and will gladly indict anyone alive upon orders?
How else to account for the imminent death of newspapers, magazines, motion pictures, and television?
How else to account for the army in our streets, chasing after immigrant delivery boys to see if they have their papers?
How else to account for a president who, in response to a nationwide protest against him, gleefully tweets out a fantasy video of him dumping shit on people from an airplane?
Nope. There is no other explanation. We are in hell.
And look! It's the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse!
Young, strapping, massive, bloated with potential, the future Pride of the Yankees... Jesus Montero.
That September, 2011, after hitting 18 HRs in 106 games for Scranton, Jesus reached the Promised Land - Yankee Stadium. It was a time of hope, barely two years out from our last world championship. The team was on its way to winning the AL East, and here was this man-child catcher, one of baseball's brightest prospects, knocking on our door.
I will never forget his fourth game in the majors, an overcast afternoon against Baltimore. Alphonso was visiting, and though we were out in the boondocks of upstate NY, beyond a TV signal, we somehow finagled the game on a laptop. Missing it was not an option, so we hunched over the small screen. We had to see Jesus, this shiny new object... the future.
For five years, since he signed a massive contract at age 16, we had waited. The Yankees had outspent everyone, including all of Venezuela, and Montero had smashed his way through the system, making all the Top 10 prospect lists. He was a generational hitter, and he was here.
That day, to our drinking delight, Montero hit two home runs. The Yankees beat Baltimore 11-10.
Montero went on to hit .328 with 4 HRs in 18 games. He so impressed the Yankees that he was added to their postseason roster, and he singled twice in two plate appearances against Detroit - which beat us in the ALDS.
We made it through that November imagining the "Baby Bombers," a wave of future stars that included Gary Sánchez, Dellin Betances, Manny Bañuelos, Tyler Austin and Austin Romine. Yeah, we crapped the bed against Detroit, but the future looked rosy.
Then Brian Cashman traded it away. Cash dealt Jesus to Seattle for Michael Pineda and somebody named Jose Campos. And suddenly, the future stopped flirting.
Well, 15 years later, we're still dealing with Cashman and his trades, most notably his eternal quest for what he calls his "Great White Whale," the pitcher who leads the Yankees to a championship. Fifteen years of Captain Ahab.
It's funny when Yankee-haters mock us for criticizing Cashman. But how can we not? He's the single person most behind the Yankees' epic world series drought, and it's the trades of youngsters like Jesus Montero that long ago robbed us of hope and innocence.
And here's the saddest part. Montero crapped the bed in Seattle. He never hit, he got caught using PEDs, he showed up to camp overweight and, at one point, was ridiculed by minor league coaches as the "Ice Cream Sandwich." A colossal failure.
I'll always wonder: If the Yankees hadn't traded him, could it have been different?
Jesus Montero died last week. Car crash. Venezuela. Not sure if he had any money leftover. Evidently, they were publicly seeing donations for his medical bills. Very sad. He was 35.
Condolences to the Father and Holy Ghost.
Imagine: Leading in the bottom of the 8th, five outs from victory, then surrendering five runs, punctuated with a grand slam. For Yank fans, such an event falls beyond our capabilities to fathom.
It's like calling upon Jake Bird, Allan Winans and, finally, a position player, to nail one down. Or bringing out Nestor Cortez for the first time in two months, to face Shohei Ohtani in a World Series. It's as if the ghost of Edwar Ramirez just returned from the Canadian North Pole. Or as if Fernando Cruz and Mark Leiter just gave up nine runs without recording at out. (This happened in September.) If Scott Proctor were here, he'd have burned his mitt at home plate.
So, so sad to watch the Yankees' season-long bullpen collapse happen to our fine friends from the Polite Buffalo, the Evil-Hateful Jays. Something about a bullpen meltdown magnifies the impending PTSD of defeat. Three reasons:
1. It always reflects on the manager. (See BOONE, AARON.) If he'd left in the starter, who knows? Managers aren't supposed to blow games. In It's a Wonderful Life, they say that whenever a Christmas bell rings, an angel gets her wings. In this life, whenever a bullpen collapses, the manager loses a nut.
2. It devastates the afflicted pitcher. Often, especially in October, you're dealing with a hearty bullpen lug nut, a season-long eater of innings. He's a trusted bar of soap, a bracing shot of whiskey, a jolly-good-fellow that nobody can deny. He worked his way into the Circle Of Trust. (Every manager has one.) And look - LOOK! He just got torched. On Star Trek: The Next Generation, the first thing a bad guy used to do was always punch out Worf. By that, he showed everybody that he was tougher than their toughest guy. In this case, Toronto brought in their Worf, and the Gorn just dropped him.
3. It revives the other team. Suddenly, everybody knows: You can't hold a lead. You can't close the deal. You had them, and you botched it. On The Patty Duke Show, this would be the moment when everybody at the sock hop realizes that it's Cathy, who adores a minuet, not Patty, who loves to rock'n'roll, a hot rod makes her lose control. Once they know who's really pitching, it's fukinay over. Tonight, Seattle will be playing on stilts.
Yank fans know the feeling. Barely two weeks ago, we were suddenly vaulted into a Bizarro universe where Camilo Doval was the ray of hope, and Luke Weaver - honest, trustworthy Luke - was the pariah.
Nothing burns like a bullpen meltdown. And Toronto just crapped one.
So, so, so sad.
Listen: You don't wanna make my Personal Life Vendetta Shitlist.
In fact, in this world, here are the top 7 worst Personal Life Vendetta Shitlists to find yourself on:
10. Taylor Swift. (You'll get a song written about you.)
9. Fox News. (Round the clock coverage of your wart.)
8. Joe Biden. (You'll be forgotten.)
7. Peter Thiel. (You'll be labeled the Antichrist.)
6. ICE (Next stop, Somalia.)
5. Saudi Prince Bin Salman. (Bone saw.)
4. Jeffrey Epstein. (You don't wanna to be on any of his lists.)
3. Donald Trump. (You'll get indicted.)
2. Mine. (You'll get beaned.)
1. Vladimir Putin. (You'll accidentally fall out of a window.)
That said, I have one takeaway from watching my enemies this postseason:
We should thank the juju gods for not having to be humiliated again by the Dodgers.
Watching their all-star team steamroll the NL - well - let's celebrate our early exit.
I won't complain about how the Dodgers spent $313 million - $50 million more than the Yankees - on payroll, and how that number actually ignores the deferrals made on Shohei Ohtani's contract, which amounts to a cooking-of-the-books that Old George could only have fantasied.
I won't whine over how the Dodgers buy pennants, and world championships, or how their pipeline to Japan's greatest stars - three straight years, the best players went to LA - gives them a huge advantage.
Nope. I won't complain. Not a peep. For 100 years, the Yankees used their money advantage to dominate baseball. Now, it's the Dodgers. Let's just be glad we don't have to get embarrassed.
Listen: Had we gotten past Toronto, and then Seattle, we'd only have been more humiliated in the end.
The gap between the Dodgers and Yankees - hell, between the Dodgers and everyone - is long, deep and dark. Be glad we're done. They can't hurt us any more.
And if I happen to get indicted and sent to Somalia, where I fall out of a window, you know why.
Why did they play Volpe over Jose Caballero in the playoffs?
Aside from saying that Brian and Boone are incompetent morons. That's a given. I'm trying to get my head around their thinking from a financial standpoint because, as we all know, the bottom line for the Yankees is the Bottom Line.
Despite this they played a hurt guy over his superior replacement during the playoffs.
Why?
I get playing him all year if he's your guy but, and I'm talking financially here, doesn't Hal make more money if the team advances?
Once the Yankees get past the trade deadline that's all the money they are going to spend on players for the year. So, financially, isn't the next goal to maximize their value?
You know, WIN?
Advancing in the playoffs means both additional attendance and TV revenue. Beyond that, the Yankees get to live live off of the "Historical Value" of a championship team. Bobble heads, caps, jerseys, bringing them all back for a "special day" etc.
It doesn't make sense... financially.
It doesn't even effect Volpe's value long term because the team could just say the benching was due to injury and the surgery in the off season backs that up.
So for the last time... why? What could possibly be the reasoning?
Lemme get this straight, in an A.I. way...
So, we're told now that Anthony Volpe will probably miss opening day, rehabbing from shoulder surgery on the tweak that wrecked his and the Yankees' 2025 season.
Excuse me, while I process this...
Apparently, the Yankee Brain Trust will soon gather to plot a course for 2026. The team will consider Jose Caballero and/or Oswaldo Cabrera as SS placeholders, while Cashman prays for the sudden maturity of George Lombard Jr., and combs the scrap yards and recycling bins of The Damned.
Volpe should return in May, raising a question for the storied franchise:
Now, what?
For three hard years, we've wanted Volpe to become a great Yankee. And - honestly - I think something is in there. The guy is a fighter and a solid teammate. But we're heading into winter with four basic Volpe memories:
1. Strike one.
2. Strike two.
3. Strike three.
4. Return to dugout.
The Jersey Giants have Cam Skattebo.
The Yankees have Anthony Scattered Boos.
So, what are we supposed to think about Volpe? Three possibilities...
1. He's a tough kid, a gamer, who played in pain.
2. He's an idiot, who didn't disclose his injury to coaches.
3. He's a victim; the team knew he was compromised and ruined him, by sending him out night after night.
Obviously, it's all three.
Volpe played in pain, a page from the John Madden School of Gonad Tweaks. Unfortunately, MLB isn't the NFL, and while he was filling the role - and protecting his job - he was also killing this team.
On May 3, when Volpe dove for a ball and felt his shoulder pop, he was hitting .233. That followed a month of April, when he hit 5 HRs. (Note: On trajectory for a Chisholm-esque 30.)
Here's what's weird: Right after the injury, Volpe sorta improved. He hit .246 in May, his best month of 2025. (But he hit only one HR.) Then, the floor dropped out.
In June, he hit .205.
In July, .172.
In August, .191.
Worse, his fielding degraded. There was a stretch when he couldn't seem to throw to first, and folks were remembering Knobby.
When you realize that one fukking measly extra Yankee win in 2025 - just one! - would have...
a) won the AL East
b) brought a first-round bye
c) won home field advantage in the playoffs.
And then you think of Volpe shitting the bed all summer, thinking he was doing us a favor... well, fuk me.
The problem was magnified by the collapse of the Oswalds - Cabrera and Peraza - the pair that once-upon-a-time might have replaced Volpe and solved the problem.
The loveable, always-smiling Oswaldo Cabrera broke his ankle on May 12, sliding into home. He was hitting .246 with one HR, but holding down 3B defensively. You had the feeling, it was his position to lose. (I also had the feeling that Oswaldo could play SS, if need be.) Then, snap, he was gone.
Meanwhile, the perpetually grimacing Oswald Peraza was a folding into a stone cold Triple A flunky. He'd once compared favorably to Volpe, but his bat and glove had disappeared. Peraza, hitting .152, was dumped off to the Angels at the trade deadline for a handful of magic beans. (Something called "Wilberson de Pena" and "future considerations.") He finished the year at .164.
My god, WTF happened to Peraza? Three years ago, he looked like a future everyday SS. By August, he was a DH/1B, a pug boxer in a flophouse gym.
Ah, but now we're getting into management, which is a lost cause. It's like Democrats complaining about Kash Patel: Nobody in power is listening, and the angrier we get, the more they giggle.
If Brian Cashman had done what he does best - that is, combed the recycling bins and found a veteran SS -the Yankees could have allowed Volpe to heal and - who knows? - we might still be playing.
One victory. Just one.
So... in case you're scoring at home, a recap:
Nobody cares what we think. Management bet on a nicked-up Volpe, and that's Chinatown, Jake. The fans booed Volpe in his final appearances, trudging back to the dugout after another strikeout. He might be done in NY. What a sad image. What a terrible outcome. And what a colossal fuckup!
If there was such a thing as accountability, somebody would lose his job. Ah, but that's another subject for a cold, dark winter.
The night is bitter
The stars have lost their glitter
The nights grow colder
Suddenly you're older—
So it's over at last, not only the season but the postmortems.
The Yankees didn't win it all—something most of knew would happen. They didn't return to the World Series, either, something most of us also expected, nor did they win the division, or a hundred games, or do anything else of note.
Without the extended extended-wild card system putting the Top 40 percent in the playoffs, the Yankees season would have quietly ended weeks ago—and not much the worser.
The team couldn't win when Judge was hurt or slumping. They couldn't win in the postseason when Giancarlo took a year off, even though Judge came through. Well, hey, that's a tiny variation!
The shortstop we all knew couldn't hit or field well enough to start for a winning team, had another wretched year. Fortunately, for our general manager, he got hurt as well, so that baked-in excuse will keep him in the Bronx until he goes the way of all Gleyber.
The washed-up first baseman we got cheap did no better than the cheap, washed-up first baseman he replaced. Our catcher of the future looked like our every catcher of the recent past. Jazz ended the year yawning openly and staring in perplexity at his glove.
The pitching staff, starting and going, was threaded with huge holes. So what's new?
What do we have to look forward to?
The local football teams are already a combined 2-10. Once again, the Jets have brought on a coach wound way too tight for the vicissitudes of New York City.
The Giants seem to suddenly have hope, due to their quarterback with the splendid name of Jaxson Dart. Dare we foresee a 2030s where he is stepping out with our shortstop-of-the future, Dax Kilby, the Mantle and Gifford of their time? The Ax Brothers?? Maybe, "The Ax Men"???
Well, maybe. More likely they'll both flourish elsewhere—as those two QB discards from NYC, Sam Darnold and Daniel Jones, are doing right now. (Have our football teams been taking pointers from Cashie and friends?)
The Knicks made the conference finals for the first time in almost 25 years, and promptly fired their coach. (The Liberty, providing more proof that the women are catching up to the men, fired their coach, too, one year after winning their first ever, WNBA title.)
Here it is only mid-October, and the Rangers have already been shutout three times at home and are the verge of a new NHL record for that.
Two years ago, they compiled the most points in the NHL. Last year, they didn't make the playoffs. This year, they are chasing some of those amazing, 100-year-old-plus, non-scoring records that we were told the Yankees kept breaking earlier this season.
After the Rangers, well, there are the Devils and the Islanders. The names seem vaguely familiar, but indelibly attached to other decades, in the distant past, like the monikers of six-day bicycle racers, and silent movie stars.
The Nets? They have reached the black hole of sports in their Goniff Arena, beyond the reach of any meaningful comment whatsoever.
That great beginning
Has seen a final inning
Don't know what happened
It's all a crazy game...
Sure is, especially here in Loser City.
Oh, I know that Doug K. is right, and New York is not "Loser City" when it comes to most of my fellow citizens (Though maybe we should wait to see how this election turns out.) .
Yes, yes, I know: I have no idea what it's like to live in Kansas City, Miami, Cleveland, Wherever the home teams have fled or just plain stink, year in and year out.
At least, in those places, the fans don't have to put down major money just to hear some front-office gibbon like Lonn Trost or Randy Levine or Brian Cashman tell you that you've never had it so good.
It's lonelier and tougher...
But not for the nepo magnates who run our teams. They are surrounded by huge, comforting piles of money, and courtiers and fawning "reporters" from the sports media they largely own, telling them all the time what a great job they are doing.
Well, time to get watching our other local clubs make Brian Cashman and the Yankees look good by comparison. No doubt, another five months of watching losing like that, and we'll be chomping at the bit for Opening Day.
1. They do not practice fundamentals. Beneath them.
2. They have squandered Aaron Judge's greatest seasons.
3. Their farm system is far more depleted than they admit.
4. As long as the Mets lose, they face no consequences for failure.
5. Hal fears being yelled at by Cashman.
6. Because they own their own media, they never face real criticism.
7. They will not win a world series in this decade.
Above Average's post inspired me...
The Dodgers and Mariners might end up grappling in the World Series, but let's take comfort in knowing that the Yankees - with three players whacking more than 30 HRs apiece - won baseball's true title:
The regular season Team Home Run Derby.
Neither Trent Grisham (.235) or Jazz Chisholm (.242) chased the batting crown, but both contributed to the most important Yankee stat: Homers. Grisham hit 34, Jazz hit 31.
But with the exception of - say - Aaron Judge (and maybe Cody Bellinger), whenever a Yankee player strode to the plate this year, they were swinging away!
So went the '25 Bronx Bombers - MLB's Three True Outcome all-stars.
First in HRs. (274)
First in walks. (639)
Third in strikeouts. (1,463)
(They finished first in slugging percentage [.455] and tenth in batting average. [.251])
In the recent postseason, the Yankees had six players - Judge, McMahon, Volpe, Bellinger, Chisholm and Rice - tie for the team lead in HRs... each with one (1). As a team, they finished sixth in HRs, tied with Detroit.
As of this posting, they are fourth in '25 postseason strikeouts (with 66 out of 235 ABs).
Look... I get the Yankee HR thing. The franchise is synonymous with sluggers - Ruth, Gerig, Mantle, Maris, Jackson, Judge. One year, when old George tried to win with speed, I recall Whitey Herzog saying the Babe would be spinning in his grave.
The Yankees are supposed to lead Creation in HRs. This season, they hit about 80 more than their AL East torturer, the Blue Jays. But if you live by the HR/W/K continuum, you die by it, as well.
The Yankees lost to Toronto because the Blue Jays relentlessly served singles into the outfield and, with the exception of one game, they didn't botch plays in the field.
So, as the days grow shorter and the winds turn colder, another slugging Yankee team has gone home, and the banjo hitters play on. I wonder if, in our lifetimes, the Yankees will figure out what everybody else knows: It's the little things that win rings.
The Home Run Derby happens in July. Nobody cares about it in October.
El Duque’s all too accurate foretelling of the Yankees off
season plans the other day left me empty and angry. Is there no way out of this morass?
In the past I’ve suggested they bring in a Feng Shui expert
like Marie Kondo to help remove all objects that block energy and don’t spark
joy – principally Aaron Boone, Brian Cashman, and Gleyber Torrez. Went one for
three.
OT: Did anyone else catch the look of disgust on lifetime cheater A.J. Finch’s face after Gleyber’s at-bats in their win or go home game against the Mariners?
Fun times.
Bonus: Who else here knew that the Tigers were going to lose
the second they saw Tommy Kahnle enter the game?
--
I’d like to see a similar purging of the team’s negative
crap but as the post Rufus shared proved, beyond a shadow of a doubt, the real problem is Hal and he ain’t going
nowhere.
So what’s a mother to do?
It doesn't matter how desperately the Yankees need to change all
management, Brian and Aaron Boone stay. Sigh.
This year they tied for the best record in the AL and last year they made The Series.
Boone stays.
BTW there’s a nice article on a potential replacement in Shelly Duncan in today’s Yanks Go Yard.
Wishful
thinking.
So assuming that Hal and Pals ain’t going anywhere let’s
look at some doable moves…
Volpe Needs To Be Gone
We all know this but here's the thing... This might be possible. Doesn’t matter how much the front office believes in him. He is being booed off the field. The only thing he is elite at is getting undeserved at bats.
It’s gotten so bad that when he makes a slightly above average play he is praised in the broadcast booth like he’s Ozzie Smith. Like we should take a picture of it and put it up on our refrigerator.
Bottom line, he is openly despised by a large portion of the fan base. Gleyber level stuff.
But the real reason? The REAL bottom line.
While the Yankees are not in the business of winning championships they are in the business of selling merch. Volpe no
longer does that.
This is a life size cutout of Anthony Volpe. According to Fathead (the official MLB licensee)
“Crafted with attention to detail, the Anthony Volpe size
cutout captures the essence of the player in action. Its sturdy foam core
construction ensures durability, while the vibrant print brings the athlete to
life. This isn't just a decoration; it's a tribute to your passion for baseball
and the New York Yankees. Let your fandom shine with this unique piece that
celebrates the energy and excitement of America's favorite pastime. Elevate
your space and show your support for Anthony Volpe and the Yankees in a big
way.”
The player in action? It looks it’s capturing the essence of
him watching a third strike right down the middle of the plate.
The first run sold out. There won’t be a second.
The Yankees will move on.
Jazz Needs To Be Gone
More than his errors in the field, the boasts that fail to be backed up, and his horeshit demeanor, Jazz can be summed up by one act, The Yawn.
Hopefully his “historic” 30-30 year will have some value in the trade market. Hopefully more value than his limited edition Next Stop bobble head. Can’t wait to see the next one.
GENERAL MANAGEMENT TIP #1 - Trades
The Yankees should only trade for guys in the minors or
proven winners. The Red Sox added Bregman and turned it around. Likewise Springer
with the Blue Jays.
No more trades for Marlins or Rockies. The team should only acquire players
who have winning in their DNA. They are
better off with a lesser player who knows how to win than a 30-30 guy like Jazz
Chisolm who clearly does not.
GENERAL MANAGEMENT HOT TIP #2 - Free Agents
No more future HOF players who come here for their final
year(s).
No explanation needed.
Speaking of players past thier prime I’ve noticed a pattern
when watching the YES broadcasts. They
do bumpers that show a photo of player who played for the team they are
playing that day and then a photo of them playing for the Yankees. In pretty much every one of them the Yankee
photo shows an older, slower,
version. Doesn’t make them bad per se
but it’s interesting that it’s never the other way around.
Volpe for anything. Jazz has real value. Bullpen help plus a high end minor league player? Whatever, getting rid of both of them is addition by subtraction. It's a start.
By this time next year, it'll be five misses in 15.
First, they're gonna stick with Volpe. They'll say he played 2025 hurt. George Lombard Jr. won't be ready, and they won't wanna spend big on a free agent SS. So it'll be Volpe. And he'll suck.
They'll re-sign Trent Grisham. The Mets or Dodgers will outbid us for Cody Bellinger, prompting a panicked Hal to bestow an 8-year, Aaron Hicks-level deal upon Grisham. And he'll suck.
They sign some aging 3B to a Josh Donaldson contract. And he'll suck.
Gerrit Cole will return in July. He'll be pushing 36. He'll suck.
Aaron Judge will face nagging injuries that reduce him to 90 games and 30 HRs. He'll still be great. But without him, they'll suck.
2. Collect the table scraps, aging stars past their prime, and overpay for them.
3. Chase the "White Whale," Cashman's annual pitching target, buy trading a package of young players; explain that none were actual prospects, but that the Yankees cleverly outmaneuvered other teams into thinking they are.
4. Leave at least two gaping holes in the lineup, with the understanding that the front office will "make some deals" at the August 1 trade deadline.
5. Repeat, over and over, until the YES announcers have memorized it, that none of the young players who were traded were actually ever part of the franchise's plans.
🤬
Late to post it, but saw this on the interwebs (which one of you wrote it?):
Hal Steinbrenner is the problem.
The rot in the walls. The soft-spoken accountant running a cathedral like a regional bank. The man who inherited an empire built on ego, obsession, and fire — and turned it into a moderately successful real estate holding with a ballpark attached. He doesn’t love baseball. He never did. And that’s why the Yankees have become what they were never meant to be: ordinary. Yankee Stadium is now just a wine and cheese factory with a baseball field in the middle. .
The proof isn’t subtle. It’s printed in Inside the Empire.
@BobKlap
asked Hal, point blank, if he loved baseball. And Hal — the owner of the most storied franchise in American sports — couldn’t answer. He stammered, deflected, meandered through a vague soliloquy about “responsibility” and “the business of the game,” then pivoted to talk about finances. That’s not love. That’s contempt disguised as composure. Every fan in New York felt it immediately: he’s not one of us. He doesn’t burn.
George knew. That’s what makes this all so tragic. The old man saw it coming. In his later years, he was so unimpressed — so disgusted — with Hal’s temperament that he originally gave control of the team to his son-in-law, Steve Swindal. George thought Swindal had his drive, his hunger, his fight. Then came the divorce, and the plan unraveled. The team reverted to Hal — the one Steinbrenner who never wanted it. And from that moment, the fire went out.
Under Hal, the Yankees have become the picture of high-functioning mediocrity. A 94–95 win machine that dies the same polite death every October. Six postseason appearances in seven years. One pennant. Zero titles. Boone’s been here eight seasons, the longest-tenured Yankee manager in the championship era without a ring. Every man before him — Huggins, McCarthy, Stengel, Houk, Torre, Girardi — delivered glory. Boone delivers process. He survives because he mirrors Hal: polished, calm, unthreatening. Leadership by sedation.
The 'baseball crapshoot' is an accountant term for bullshit. The Yankees are outclassed every year.
Even Derek Jeter couldn’t take it. Many reported that Jeter left the organization frustrated not by analytics or talent, but by tone. He saw what fans now feel — the absence of pulse. The edge was gone. The urgency was gone. Winning had been replaced with “hoping.” The language of hunger replaced by the jargon of restraint. “Get in and give ourselves a chance,” Hal likes to say — the mantra of a man whose life’s work is minimizing discomfort. Jeter was raised under George’s law: losing meant rage, not rationalization.
Under Hal, it means an insultin social media post 'thanking' the fans.
You can see it everywhere. Ninety-four wins, another early exit, and another press conference about how “anything can happen in October.” Other franchises — Houston, Atlanta, Los Angeles — bully variance. The Yankees negotiate with it. They talk about efficiency like that’s a virtue. It’s not. It’s a cope. Champions impose their will. Hal’s Yankees ask permission.
This is what happens when you hand a legacy to someone who treats it like a liability. The Yankees were built to terrify. Now they’re designed to reassure. Hal governs like a man who wants to make sure no one yells at him. He respects the luxury tax the way priests respect Scripture — as if breaking it were a sin instead of a strategy. His father saw that line as a toll to drive faster. Hal sees it as a leash to keep himself from feeling.
He cares more about the bondholders than the Bronx faithful.
Your father is turning in his grave. He didn’t build the Yankees to be a brand. He built them to be a kingdom — loud, impossible, immortal. His ghost must look down at this PowerPoint dynasty and weep. He once said that second place was just “first loser.” Hal calls it “a good season.”
The Yankees’ problem isn’t bad luck or bad players. It’s a bad philosophy — a failure of nerve, a collapse of standard, a drought of love. When the man at the top doesn’t love the game, no one beneath him can play it like it matters. You can buy talent, you can buy tools, you can’t buy belief.
As Jocko Willink says, it starts at the top. It always does. The Yankees don’t lose because of analytics, or depth charts, or the bullpen. They lose because their owner treats greatness like an optional expense. They lose because their culture reflects a man who hesitated when asked the only question that ever mattered.
Hal Steinbrenner doesn’t love baseball. He loves running it responsibly. And that’s the whole story. The stadium still gleams, the food is better, the fear is gone — and George’s ghost is pacing the halls, wondering how his empire turned into an internship.
The Yankees don’t exist to be efficient.
They exist to make other men question their gods.
And until the man in the owner’s box remembers that, the Bronx will stay silent.
Sell the team, you ignoramus coward
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