There is no such thing as a "slight" discomfort. And for Jazz Chisholm, a twitch on a pitch could not have come at a worse time.

Last night, perched on 3B after a belly-flop slide, Jazz Chisholm didn't protest being taken out. Everybody knew he was done for the night. As he disappeared into the bowels of the dugout, the question was whether he was checking out for the month of May. 

Nothing's been said. Chisholm is in pooh-pooh mode. The Yankees call it a "right flank discomfort," which sounds like what the Conservative Party in Canada is facing. The Death Barge says Jazz has a "potential right oblique injury." 

An undiagnosed right-cabbage patch wheedle.

A non-catalogued, flaring French seam carbunkle.

A non-urgent, soft-tissue sidesaddle twitch distortion. 

In his postgame monologue, Aaron Boone described Chisholm as being "in pretty good spirits." Yeah, I bet. "He just told me, 'I'm fine...' We'll see what we have, but we're not gonna do anything immediately." 

So... now what?

First... public denial. Cooperstown Cashman's go-to move is to soft-talk the issue, thinking he'll sound less desperate in trade talks. They'll wait for The Scan. What Chisholm says doesn't matter. The Scan is what matters. If nothing shows up, he might miss the weekend. If there's a thingy...  

Four weeks, minimum. Worst case, 10. 

Last night, they replaced Jazz with the lingering disappointment, Oswald Peraza - who has all of five hits in 2025, batting .167. He's in his 4th season with the Mother Ship, a career BA of .217. It's hard to remember his 2022 month of September, when he hit .306 and seemed fated to take SS the following spring. You'd think he's 30. Actually, he's a month shy of 25. 

Nobody is done at 24. It's just too soon. But this could be Peraza's last chance with the Yankees. Over those four years, he's gone from being the future Didi Gregorius to the next Tyler Wade. He's never hit. He's always hurt. This is it.  

Or maybe it's DJ LeMahieu's final shot. Two days ago, DJ needed a cortisone shot for his hip. Bad omen. It pushes back his rehab assignment at the precise moment when he's most needed. The Yankees could use DJ's glove at 2B. It's no time for a career existential crisis, but that's what he's facing.  

Or Jorbit Vivas. Yes, Jorbit Jose Vivas. The lone Scranton Railrider to be hitting over .300  - (he's at .322 with 2 HRs and 5 stolen bases, though thrown out four times.) Vivas - 5'9" tall - is also 24. Two weeks ago, "the Bit"was called up, only to ride the pines until getting sent back. He still has yet to experience an MLB at-bat. (He bats LH, so maybe a platoon with Oswald?)

Or let Chisholm try. This is dangerous. Yank fans have been hoping he'd snap out of an April slump. He seemed on the verge. This tweak could not have come at a worse time for Chisholm. It's his contract year. His long term future rides on putting up numbers. If he misses a month - or two - the pressure to perform will be heavier than ever. This is the stuff of lost seasons and truncated careers.

Last night, it looked so innocent - so momentary - a twitch on a pitch with an itch... life's a bitch. Eh?   

An Above Average Haiku Tuesday ~ One for the Birds, Edition !

    Rotation Weirdos

    Every Five Days We Wince

    Thankful for Max Fried

Is Cody Bellinger going to snap out of this fog?

In all of American team sports, baseball regularly brings the worst moments of singular humiliation: 

At least three times per game, as a batter marches to center stage,  the piercing eyes of 50,000 critics judge his right to breathe, to take up space, to exist. As he arrives, his worth is flashed electronically in symbols large enough to be read in outer space.

Last night, as the Death Barge stumbled for nine useless innings in Baltimore, those humbling scoreboard figures revealed:  

1. Three Yankees hitting below .200.

2. The cleanup batter with one HR on the year (in the opening series, no less.)

3. Their No. 3 hitter a washout, with a lowly OBP of .282. 

On that note, let's discuss Cody Bellinger. 

Thus far in 2025, if he were a movie, he'd be certified "Rotten." He's hitting .194. (Over his last seven games, a tepid .235.) This followed a great spring training - .423 with 4 HRs - leading the team in meaninglessness.

He's only 29. If he were a movie, he'd star Florence Pugh.  

Last year, he hit .266 with 18 HRs - a rather large drop from 2023 (.307), when he won Comeback of the Year - and the Cubs cut him loose. 

Right now, the most optimistic thing about Bellinger is that April is over. But even that comes with a caveat: Over his career, April has been his best month - .278 with 37 HRs. In his best years, he got off to great starts. This is - well - one of his worst. 

It's too soon to worry, I suppose. But if he were a disease, he'd be the avian flu. The Yankees cannot afford a full-on Babadook season from the guy targeted to hit third.   

Bellinger was supposed to protect Aaron Judge and play 1B if Paul Goldschmidt crapped out. (Goldy is hitting .361, though with only 1 HR; last night, his drive to CF was snatched over the wall. Tough luck.) 

Look: We all expect Bellinger to heat up and sashay confidently in the nightly catwalks to home plate. Remember: his old man, Clay, was a lug nut in the great Joe Torre teams. He won't hit below .200. But can he do .270? (Note: Over the last four games, he's 4-for-14. Hope?)

The Yankees started 2025 with a lefty-leaning lineup, revolving around Bellinger and Jazz Chisholm. Both have been disappointments. That said, the Yankees are in first, and Mayday is almost here. Bellinger will either heat up - or he won't. If he doesn't, expect a long summer. Ben Rice and Trent Grisham are diversions. There is no Plan B.

He makes millions for sucking and the boobs in the seats should shut the f*ck up

 

The tears we should be shedding for this poor, beleaguered millionaire, according to Blake--the pitching coach who can't, and should be totally focused on getting this guy's head straight. As opposed to his changeup.

Those people paying hundreds of dollars to witness a Williams meltdown (including the questionable food and ridiculously priced drinks) should just be happy Hal allows them entry. How dare they voice their displeasure if a player's performance is consistently lousy. 

Blake essentially wants the audience to help him do his job. I find this condescending on a Ruthian scale.

Yes, I feel badly for Devin. He's been a hotshot wherever he is, and now this. It has to really screw with your mind, and as Yogi said, baseball is 90 percent mental. The other half is physical. This is why God invented pitching coaches and sports psychiatrists (not psychologists, we need the heavy hitters of the mental game).

The bottom line is, it was a stupid trade. Weaver was and is our closer. What did he do to lose that job? Nothing. Just Cashman being Cashman. And we lost Durbin, to boot.

 

Boone is an idiot, yes. But on the other hand, he's probably just following orders. Which didn't work at Nuremberg and doesn't really work here. But who else is going to hire him? I don't think there's another GM as egomaniacal and prone to wrong moves as Cashman. Maybe there is. 

If you know who that is, can you please get in touch with him and tell him how obedient and trustworthy ol' Boone the Goon is. And put in a good word for Blake while you're at it.

The View from Olympus.

 Our Peerless Leader's musings on whether or not Aaron Judge is a Yankees "Immortal," got me thinking, and I hopped on the horn to The Master, who as everyone knows has direct hot lines to Olympus, Valhalla,  Brahmaloka, and our Blue Heaven.

He was able to convey to me the Genuine Yankees Immortals, all ten of them. (And no, he's not on the list—by his own insistence. The Master, an insatiable fan of Spinal Tap, insisted that his ranking be, "eleven.")

So here we go. Not just the very good, not just our favorite players over the years, not just those inducted into that shame hall of fame in the boonies. The Ten Yankees Immortals, ranked in order:

1. Babe Ruth.

Quite a surprise, I know. 

The most important athlete in modern history, by my reckoning. He brought baseball into the big time, and by taking baseball big time, he took American sports big time, and by taking American sports big time, he took all the sports in the world big time.

And despite MLB's constant, idiotic attempts to diminish him, he remains the greatest major-league player of all time. Period. 

No one has ever both hit and pitched at the level The Babe did. (Perhaps one of the great Negro League stars—specifically Martìn Dihigo, who pitched and played even more positions than The Babe was greater, but sadly—horribly—we'll never know.)

When it comes to hitting, The Babe holds every significant, lifetime, power- hitting batting record not broken by cheating juicers. He is still one of only two men to ever hit 60 home runs in the course of the first 154 games of a season, and hit .342 lifetime. In addition, he was generally a capable outfielder with a strong arm, stole home 10 times in his career, and routinely bunted for hits when necessary. 

It's true that while Ruth did not pitch for the Yankees, save during constant, in-season exhibition games, and end-of-the-year goofs with the Yanks (in which he was 5-0 with 2 complete games, incidentally), he was the best left-handed starter in the majors for Boston, and ran up a record, 29 2/3 scoreless innings in the World Series, a mark that stood until it was broken by—spoiler alert—another Yankees immortal. 

Ruth's own record might have been extended even more, but he had entertained himself the night before by smashing summer straw hats on a train—a popular little boys' activity of 1918, which also says so much about The Babe. He was a Rabelaisian figure in all ways, larger than life, more fun than life, better than life—not to mention Shohei Ohtani.

Adjectives: "Ruthian."

Greatest moment: The "called shot," 1932 World Series. But also hit the very first home run in the very first Yankee Stadium, and the very first home run in the very first, major-league all-star game.

Products: The Baby Ruth Bar, supposedly named after the daughter of President Grover Cleveland...when it was started by the Curtiss Candy Company, 16 years after her death, in 1920, the same year The Babe went to New York. 

MVP Awards: 1923. For most of Ruth's career, baseball did not have a formal MVP Award, or they had one which you could only win once. 

Deserved MVP Awards: 13. Boston, 1918-1919); New York, 1920-1924; 1926-1931.

Rings on his fingers: 10 pennants (Boston, 1915-16, 1918; New York, 1921-23; 1926-28; 1932); 7 world championships (Boston, 1915-16, 1918); New York, 1923, 1927-28, 1932).

Deserved World Series MVP Awards: (They didn't give out such things in his day.)  1918, 1923, 1927-28.

Media: Two movies: The Babe Ruth Story (1948; dir. by Roy Del Ruth—no relation!—starring William Bendix, Claire Trevor); The Babe (1992; dir. by Arthur Hiller, with John Goodman, Kelly McGillis, Trini Alvarado). Both bombed, deservedly so. The Goodman one was a little better—though you really should consider salads when you have to lose weight to play Babe Ruth.

Nicknames: About a million of them. "The Bambino," "The Sultan of Swat," "The Wizard of Wham," "The Big Bam," for starters. Oh, yeah, and then there was "The Babe."

Quotes:  All quotes about Babe Ruth are great. Two of the best: "All the lies about Babe Ruth are true," teammate Waite Hoyt. "From 'One Old Cat' to the last 'At Bat,' was there ever a guy like Ruth?"—from the October 2, 1927, New York Times poem, "Was There Ever a Guy Like Ruth?" by John Kieran, sportswriter and all-around genius.

Ruth himself, on surveying the original Yankee Stadium for the first time: "I'd give my left nut to hit one out of this place."

Coming soon: Yankees Immortal No. 2!

Jubilant mutterings on what should have been a three-game sweep

Every Sabbath should be like yesterday.

No stress. No Babadook moment. Thou shalt doeth no work. Just fat leads, comfy couches and cold beer. We blew up a hate-filled division rival, boosted our lead in the AL East, and won twice, not once. I could use a year of Sundays like yesterday, the last one of April.

But today, in an alt-universe, we'd be posting the trad thumbnail of Ryan McBroom, the IT IS HIGH patron saint of sweeps. It would have happened but for Devin "Eleven" Williams, who blew Friday night without retiring a batter, lifting his ERA above 11. 

Look, it's too soon to Christie Noem him to El Salvador. And in a bizarre way, it's almost comforting to clear a bad month from his bowels - the opposite of how Aroldis Chapman and Clay Holmes tortured us in recent years: Riding high in April, shot down in May. Could Williams be operating in reverse? Let's hope. 

Because if he's truly cooked, if we got a dud in the deal, our bullpen will inevitably self-immolate. We need from Williams about 60 innings and an ERA around 2.40.  

And if he could have held Toronto Friday night, we'd be celebrating McBroom today. Other thoughts... 

1. I wonder if Vladimir "I hate the Yankees and will never play for them, wait, I WOULD play for them if they paid me a shit-ton of money; wait, NO, I'll never play for them because I love Toronto" Guerrero Jr. - when he went 2-for-9 in the series, was reacting to Trump's post: Vladimir: STOP!

Well, he did homer against us - his second of the year! Yep, number 2. 

We all know he will someday play for the Yankees. It will happen when he cannot get around on fastballs, when his BA dips below Luke Weaver's weight. I wonder if it might not happen far sooner than anyone expects?

2. Ben Rice is slowing: 3-for-25 over the last week, His average has dropped 32 points, to .259. Maybe it's my imagination, but he still looks tough at the plate. He's hitting balls hard. They're landing in gloves. 

Look: We always knew Rice wasn't the Unicorn. He was just a pleasant surprise. With Giancarlo Stanton returning - someday? - and DJ LeMahieu knocking on the door, Rice's time in the leadoff Paul Lynde Center Square might be closing. I wouldn't count him out. But the next few weeks, against Baltimore and Boston, will heavily decide the course of his season. 

At some point, the Yankees must find him a position - either 1B or C. You cannot DH a young player. It's not fair to him. The question is whether Rice will learn a slot in NYC or Scranton? 

3. Yesterday, multiple hits from Anthony Volpe and the Martian - the pair on which the Yankees are most heavily betting the long term future. 

Volpe went 5-12 against Toronto with a HR, raising his BA to .228 - a 30-point jump.

Jasson Dominguez went 4-11, a jump of 19 points, to .238. 

What does it mean? Fuck if I know. But take Aaron Judge out of the equation - he is otherworldly - and these are our two most important players. If they tank, it will be years before replacements arrive. 

4. Clarke Schmidt bounced back from a crapola start - five runs in four innings, against Cleveland - to shut down Toronto. Close your eyes and imagine Schmidt pitching well this season, and there is a solid path to the pennant. We have yet to see what Schmidt can do in his career year, and there is every reason to believe it is now.  

Fingers crossed. Now, how about a McBroom against Baltimore! We could knock them out, really fast, before they even know it. 

Rain

 And no internet.

Someone tell Spectrum that the Internet is out, and my critical messages to the Yankees are endangered. If I cannot get through, if you hear nothing from me, tell Boone to implement Fried Option B. 

Lives depend upon it. 

Meanwhile… rain.

My dinner with Hal

Imagine my surprise when the email arrived, inviting me to dinner at a secret Tampa location with the most powerful man in the Yankiverse, Harold "Hal" Steinbrenner, himself.  

I've been a critic of "Food Stamps Hal" for more than 20 years, going back to the days of Carl Pavano. Friends warned me about going. “He’s the Yankee Antichrist," they said. "He’s Syd Thrift. He's 'Halligator Arms.' He approved the trade for Lance Berkman. He let Robbie walk. He cheaped-out with Bryce Harper. He lost Juan Soto!” Still, after long contemplation, I decided that hate gets us nowhere - we must talk to Ownership, even if it has committed unspeakable crimes against Yankeehood. 

Soon after, I found myself entering an opulent living room, where several of Hal's lieutenants had gathered. I saw Brian "Cooperstown" Cashman, Michael Kay, Randy Levine and most of the YES team. We small-talked about Clay Bellinger. But conversation ended at the sound of slippers coming down the hallway. Everyone rose as Hal entered the room.

He wore a tan jump suit with NY insignia and gave me an enthusiastic hug, which, frankly, caught me off guard. It was a warmer greeting than I normally get from Alphonso, and it came with a disarming slap on my back. I joked, awkwardly, that I was surprised to see him in tan, a color I associated with Milwaukee. He laughed boisterously. Suddenly, he seemed so kind, so human. Here I was, poised to meet the monster who brought us Jacoby Ellsbury, yet this warm, adorable man in his sweat suit was clearly something different.

He led us into the dining room and gestured for me to sit next to him. Levine quickly grabbed a large slice of gouda cheese, prompting Hal to whisper, with an eye-roll, “He’ll be bound-up and shitting like the last paying fan on Jazz Chisholm Basketball Jersey Night." That got me. I nearly had potato chips coming out of my nose. Levine, chewing, asked what was so funny? Hal said, “I was just reminded of Jesus Montero's love of ice cream sandwiches." That got the biggest laugh of the night — and believe me, there were lots.

But it wasn’t just a succession of hilarious one-liners. Hal was inquisitive, asking me many questions about myself. Was I happy? Was I sad? Was I "cool" with what was "going down?" I expressed my fears about Devon Williams blowing saves, while Clay Holmes starts for the Mets. Hal said he could "grok " it. “When the ninth inning comes, I just switch to the Weather Channel," he said, mirthfully. That's when I realized: If only our IT IS HIGH commenters could see this warm and lovable side, they might have a different opinion of the man.

Two hours later, dinner was over, and Hal escorted me to the door. “Sir," I gushed, "You're not the cheap-ass monster I thought you were." 

"Indeed," he said, wisely. "We disagree on trade and spending, but we can still like each other.” With that, he presented me with a ball autographed by Zolio Almonte. We hugged. Barely holding back tears of gratitude, I walked out into the night. From deep in the house, I could hear the Weather Channel. 

SATURDAY! SATURDAY! The effing JOHN STERLING SHOW premieres on 770 WABC!!!

The Master joins the WABC lineup, home of—I swear to God—Roger Stone, Joe Piscopo, and Tony Orlando, at 4:00 Saturday! 

Live radio

Archived podcast

 Preview:

Aaron Judge deserves to be nicknamed after a planet

Have you ever wondered why you're here? Ever asked about the meaning of life? Inquired about why you came on line, after all that's happened before you? The big bang? The dinosaurs? Homo sapiens? The dawn of civilizations? And now this, whatever the fuck is coming?   

Well, I think our job is rather simple. 

We're here to behold Aaron Judge. In the next life, be it heaven or hell, they'll ask us in the cafeteria line if what they've heard is true. Was Judge as good Ruth? As good as Bonds? As good as they claim? 

Our job will be to testify.  Yeah. In fact, he was better...  

So, here we are: I can't believe we must go through this, all over again, with Judge.

We need a new nickname - or rallying cry, or catchphrase, or gaseous bleat - that adequately expresses the joy of being a Yankee fan during Judge's time on Earth. 

The "All-Rise" salute had its moments. And The Master bellowed about "Judgian blasts" in a voice so full of glee that it bordered on sexual.   

But in recent weeks, Judge is even out-revving YES, the second greatest hype machine on the planet, after Fox News. 

Of course, nobody knows how long Judge can keep hitting .400. In the modern age, nobody hits .400. Nobody. Frankly, if Judge bats .330, he'll chase the Triple Crown. What he's doing right now is anarchy: He's making a mockery of stats that form the bedrock foundation of baseball. He's doing this while sandwiched in a lineup between two geezers, producing numbers that don't belong to humanity.   

Soon, he'll hit a speedbump. Nobody dominates a modern sport in the way he is currently doing. In fact, it's hard to remember that last year, he hit 58 HRs, drove in 144 runs and batted .322 - and it wasn't his career season. He's 32. This could be it - his masterpiece - and we get to watch. 

Which brings me back to today's central thesis. What do you call the player who crashes through all previous ceilings, from Babe to Barry - and who simply is too good to be lumped in with the shaved monkey populations of Earth? We've already used The Martian. With respect to Jasson Dominguez - who I doubt ever wanted that nickname - Judge should have been called The Martian. 

But but BUT... there's time to remedy the situation. 

Judge needs to be named after a celestial object. Some suggestions:

The Jupiterian. It's easy. Instead of Mars, we go bigger. The problem: It's too derivative of Dominguez. Also, it's a tongue-twister. 

The Sun. I like the all-everything California vibe. But it implies that Judge is the son of a great player. If Cody Bellinger provided Judge's numbers, he could be The Sun. Doesn't work.

Alpha Centari? Closest star to the sun. I like the "Alpha" part. Needs work. Nah. 

The Big Dipper. Not bad. But it makes us think he still chases balls in the dirt. He's over that. 

Europa. The smallest of Jupiter's moons. Believed to have a vast underground ocean, which might harbor life. But people will assume he's from Europe. 

Ganymede. Largest moon in the solar system. Probably too big to support life, as we know it. I like this, though. Got a ring to it. 

There are others, all kinds of gods and titans. I can't believe we have to go through this again. Greatness is a hassle, eh? 

With draft day here, NYC ponders its annual essential question: How will the Giants screw it up this time?

Today is Joe Don Looney Day, commemorating the most aptly named draft pick in New York Giants history. Looney Day annually bestows hope upon the hopeless, joy upon the joyless and appreciation among those Yank fans who are lucky enough to ignore pro football, as they realize how considerably worse their sporting lives could be.

As a mediocre athlete, I lived my life in fear of being drafted in the first round by the Giants. 

If you're lucky enough to not give a shit about "Big Blue" - which has traditionally been associated with the Yankees (the Mets and Jets forming a similar alignment) - here's what you've missed over the last 12 years.

2013: 7-9 (3rd of 4)
2014: 6-10 (3rd of 4)
2015: 6-10 (3rd of 4)
2016: 11-5 (2nd of 4)
2017: 3-13 (4th of 4)
2018: 5-11 (4th of 4)
2019: 3-12 (4th of 4)
2020: 6-10 (2nd of 4)
2021: 4-13 (4th of 4)
2022: 9-7-1 (3rd of 4)
2023: 6-11 (3rd of 4)
2024: 3-14 (4th of 4)

Horrible, eh? Meltdowns, every third year. If you were trying to destroy a sports franchise, you'd be hard-pressed to match this.

And tonight, the Giants draft 3rd, once again raising the saps of their fans. Draft Day has become, by far, the biggest date on the Giants' calendar. Every year, we draft high, choosing to forget the Rocky Thompsons, the Kadarus Toneys and Looneys of yesteryear. 

(Fun Facts: Joe Don was once named by NFL Films as "the most uncoachable player in history." He skipped team meetings. He punched out coaches. He followed a guru. He once said, "If practice makes perfect, and perfection is impossible, why practice?" I hereby challenge all of you all to answer that essential question.)

(Seriously, for all of Looney's lunacy, he might have simply been ahead of his time, a future flower power child of the 1960s, up against the crew cut, pro-war, military minds of NFL coaching staffs.) 

Nearly every year, in their own way, the Giants honor Looney. Six years ago, they used the 6th pick to select a QB. They blew it. Three years ago, they had two picks in the Top 10. They blew it. Tonight, they'll draft third. Let's face it: They'll blow it. The only question is, how? My guess: They'll draft a 7-foot-tall defense end who turns out to be two dwarfs, piggyback, in a trench coat.

Well, let it rip! We're talking about an ownership that regularly does the impossible: It makes the Steinbrenners look good.

But but BUT... this is a Yankee fan blog. And let's face it: Our heroes have also blown their share of first rounders. In fact, concerns are swirling around the fate of our 2019 first pick - Anthony Volpe, who might be in a minor spring funk, or he might be facing an existential career crossroads. 

Volpe is the Yankiest Yankee on the Yankees. He only knows the Yankee organization.  He hails from the NYC area. He's been anointed to replace a legend, Derek Jeter. He plays hard, always hustles, never misses a game, and - despite the end to the beard ban - has chosen not to grow facial hair. That, my friends, is a Yankified Yankee.

But, fuckme, he's batting .198, and his four HRs came in the first five games (including the 20-6 rout of Milwaukee.) Ever since, he's been awful. Yesterday, he fanned four times. He's swinging raggedy, lunging for balls. He needs a night off. 

Like tonight.

Happy Looney Day, everybody. Joe Don died in 1988. His memory lives on. Enjoy the free time.

The bottom of the Yankee batting order is a wipeout.

It's hard to say what best epitomized last night's Yankee tragicomedy,  but I hereby nominate this sorry swing by Anthony Volpe, ending the 8th with two runners stranded. 

Look carefully. Savor the pain, as if wriggling a bad tooth. The ball lands a foot off the plate, with Volpe flicking like Lee Trevino from a sand trap. Strike three. Inning over. Threat extinguished. It's still April, too soon to push the red button. But we can start worrying about Volpe. It's year three. It's later than it seems.

I won't pin last night's loss on Volpe. The entire batting order - save Aaron Judge and Ben Rice - did next to nothing. (The lone hit, a single, came from Paul Goldschmidt, whose one HR came on March 29,  the 20-9 laugher against Milwaukee.) 

We keep waiting for someone, anyone, to step up, before Judge cools.  In theory, Cody Bellinger and Jazz Chisholm should start hitting. In reality, we might be witnessing the horror of a meltdown season. What if Volpe, Austin Wells and The Martian are simply not the future stars we sought? Add an ever-flailing Oswaldo Cabrera, and this lineup resembles the LA Angels during their wasted Mike Trout washout seasons.  Gaze into the abyss...

Scattered notes on last night:

1. Somewhere out there - in a place that calls itself Somerset, though it is actually Bridgewater. New Jersey - DJ LeMahieu began his rehab. He went 3-3 with a HR, playing 2B for five innings. Good for him. We can close our eyes and dream, right? Still, he's two weeks away, at least - if he doesn't tweak something. And last year, he hit .204 with 2 HRs. He's 36. It's New Jersey. And it's a long, hard road back. 

2. The Master, John Sterling, is going to host a talk radio sports show on Saturdays. At last, hopefully, we will know his Homer Hollers for the new Yankees, right? Maybe. You can't predict radio, Suzyn. 

3. Yesterday, Giancarlo Stanton took batting practice. Hooray. My question: Did he run the bases? The best line about Stanton I've heard came in yesterday's comments from HoraceClarke66: 

"Giancarlo is a month away, and always will be." I think he nailed it.

4. Statistically, the Yankee starting rotation is the 4th worst in baseball. Congrats to all. Eventually, this deficit will kill the Yankee bullpen. We can blather about young arms on the farms, and maybe delude ourselves into thinking the Yankees have a magical touch, but we are already past the Carlos Carrasco Phase and heading into the Allan Winans Countdown and then, Brandon Liebrandt, Charlie's kid, who is 32. 

It's later than it seems. 

Heads Up for Netflix Subscribers: Leaving April 25th

 

We stumbled across an excellent documentary on Yogi Berra last night on Netflix .  It's sentimental and a bit of a tear jerker but, boy, it's good.

Beyond Yogi's story, told mostly by his family, there are great appearances by Derek Jeter, Willie Randolph, Joe Torre, Hal Steinbrenner, Suzyn Waldman, and a host of others you don't want to miss.

I hadn't seen this biopic discussed here on IIH and it leaves Netflix on April 25th, so this might be your one and only heads up. It's well worth your time.

An Above Average Haiku Tuesday ~ What, We Worry? Edition!

  NO POPE.  NO HOPE?  NAAAAAH !  

  DON'T JUDGE THY GLEYBER, CORE BORE  

  CASHDICK SPLASHMAN REIGNS !  

The Yankees have a black hole in the middle of their lineup. Could DJ LeMahieu bring relief?

Last night, the Death Barge found momentary relief from the Lost Legion of the Batting Order - otherwise known as the bottom half. 

Jasson Dominguez whacked a 445-foot HR, and Jazz Chisholm hit one that traveled just far enough. Didn't matter, though.  The game was outa reach and, basically, stayed that way. 

Thus far in 2025, the Yankee offense is simple: 

You have Aaron Judge, and everyone else. 

Judge leads everything, even when umps steal a HR, as they did in Tampa. If Judge tweaks a gonad - (I shudder just to write it) - the Yankees would instantly become a sub-.500 team. (Despite his .372 BA, Paul Goldschmidt hasn't homered since the Milwaukee Torpedo Massacre, and Ben Rice remains a small sample all star.) 

Let's face it: If you're here, you enjoy self-torture. Thus, let's savor the output of Anthony Volpe, Cody Bellinger, Jazz Chisholm and Austin Wells - the ocean's lost trench. With all respect to Haiku Tuesday, here's a short rhyme.

               The Bore Four

Volpe, Bellinger, Chisholm, Wells!
A cavalcade of Yankee hells!

Of nights in raunchy, bleak hotels!
With ever-present sewer smells!

Right now, slumps and icy spells
Bellinger, Chisholm, Volpe, Wells!

But but BUT... help might be coming. This week - tonight? - Mr. Fundamentals,  DJ LeMahieu, will launch a minor league rehab mission, recovering from his latest tweak. Say what you will about DJ: He's still DJ. Yeah, he's 36. Yeah, it's not 2021. But he deserves a shot. (And, frankly, there's nobody else.) Unless he tanks in Somerset - or tweaks something anew - (the most likely scenario) - DJ should join the Mother Ship by mid-May.

How could he affect the lineup?

1. Platoon with Oswaldo at 3B. This is almost a sure bet. Cabrera has fielded the position decently (despite some troubling recent issues with throws), and he's hitting .302 (1 HR, 5 RBIs.) He deserves to play against righties. But Boone has only allowed him 7 ABs thus far against LHs. He's already platooning, sorta. I'd bet DJ plays most of his rehab at 3B.

2. Pinch-hitting for The Martian, Wells, Bellinger and/or Ben Rice? This would require DJ to hit. But Giancarlo remains a month away, and the Yankees already face a crisis from the right side. There is a need for LeMahieu, if he can fill it. 

4. Platoon with or replace Jazz Chisholm at 2B. Not sure about this. For one thing, I believe Chisholm will soon snap out of his slump, and the problems will be moot. For another, such a move would royally piss him off, and I'm not sure how that would affect him. It's the Red Button that says "Self-Demolition." But DJ's best position was always 2B. And Jazz did play 3B last year.

Whatever the case, in the late innings, it wouldn't hurt to have DJ coming out of the dugout. If he could just give us a month of what he once was... it sure would solve some problems. 

Fishy in Florida.

 

Bill Jenkinson, the incredibly thorough and meticulous chronicler of Babe Ruth's career, pointed out in his wonderful book, The Year Babe Ruth Hit 104 Home Runs (Carroll & Graf), that for much of Ruth's career, he had to put up with a rule whereby the ump could deduce whether a ball hit all the way out of the ballpark would eventually come down fair or foul.

This rule, unsurprisingly, seems to have basically applied to The Babe alone. But apparently it really happened. An ump would squint at a ball disappearing out of the Polo Grounds and assert that, when it came down in Westchester somewhere...it would've been foul.

That doesn't even excuse yesterday's bohos, especially home plate ump Adam Beck, who somehow couldn't see Judge's Ruthian shot disappearing through the trees.

But that call—and scorekeeper Bill Mathews' unprecedented, late change to spoil a no-hitter—bring to mind the dangerous game that Rob Manfred's MLB of Gimmicks continues to play.

By so thoroughly embracing gambling, baseball—and all other professional sports in America—have invited back in the room the devil that Babe Ruth did so much to vanquish from our midst. That is, the fear of a fix.

I'm not making any accusations here. No doubt, Mathews—who actually robbed a pitcher of a no-hitter with a similar bad call back in 2011—just has trouble seeing things the visiting team's way. Umpire Beck...should probably take a trip to the ophthalmologist, next town he's in. Hey, wearing glasses is no disgrace!

But there will be a time when someone's going to question whether bizarre calls and reversals like these stand to benefit someone. Someone who doesn't make a major-league salary, and has just had his wife's cousin make a bet not even on the final result of the game, but how many hits the starting pitcher will allow, or whether Aaron Judge will hit a home run.

So easy to do it now, right on your phone! As all those game-time ads keep telling us (and whatever did happen with Shohei Ohtani's translator and that $16 million?)

Again, that's not what happened Sunday. Just put it down to pure tomfoolery and literal myopia. But it could happen next time. Very easily.

“I am absolutely flabbergasted, ladies and gentlemen. The official scorer here at Steinbrenner Field, a man by the name of Bill Matthews, has changed the Simpson E-3 into a hit while the Yankees were in the dugout. Just, unfathomable. You call it when it happens. You don’t wait three innings for it to go by. It’s just unbelievable."

I hate myself for saying this, but Michael Kay has a point. 

Sorta, anyway. 

Yesterday, a no-name Tampa official scorer's decision to change an error into a hit - two innings too late, in a potential no-hitter by Max Fried - still smacks of a home job. The ultimate YES man, Kay, was righteous in his fury, though wrong in his self-pleasuring delivery.  

Listen: There exists a secret, underground ledger of unwritten codes, which guide sporting events in the same way that the druids control our weather. 

These iron-clad rules can never be acknowledged without threatening the sanctity of our games. They exist in the minds of players, fans and juju gods -and are easily understood, certainly more so than the infield-fly rule. 

When ignored, they leave a historical stain on home plate - or, more often - the  one-yard line.

Who has not screamed bloody murder over a last-second, football pass interference call, when a QB has simply launched a ball into the end zone, hoping for a flag. All too often, the refs comply, setting up an easy FG that reverses the outcome.

Or, worse: On that final play, an offensive tackle gets flagged for holding, a penalty that could have been called on every single play. Suddenly, the ball is moved into field goal range and - poof - they played 60 minutes... for nothing. 

Who has not railed against the Fates when a shooting guard puts up a last second 3-pointer, missing the rim, only to be gifted three free throws - to win the game - again, on the type of call that was ignored for 59:59 minutes?  

Happens all the time: A great game gets decided by a ref's questionable decision. On instant replay, maybe the call is justified. But in the final record, the one kept in our hearts, it's a travesty. 

Yesterday's Yankee game falls short of "travesty." That's where Kay's indignation turns into self-pleasurement. (By the way, no one in this world - maybe with the except of Trump - is happier than Kay, when he's discovered an issue to rail against.) 

Still, imagine the fury today across the Yankiverse if Fried's a no-hitter had been lost by the official scorer's 8th inning change of mind. 

In the final ledger, Michael Kay's rambling rage will be remembered for its  inconsequence: Fried's quest ended with an honest single. The Tampa wonk did not cost anyone his place in history. 

Kay did not need to be "flabbergasted." In the end, the scorer's change was defended by, of all people, Aaron Boone. 

But but BUT... that decision should not have taken two innings to overturn. To be announced in the 8th, crushing Fried's quest - folks, Kay was right: 

That truly, utterly, completely, formally... sucks.  

It wasn't pass interference or illegal formation. It wasn't a penalty kick. It was just one meager play in an afternoon that, I suspect, Fried will remember forever. 

And so will Bill Matthews. 

With Caleb Durbin now in Milwaukee, the Yankees can no longer claim they gave up nothing for Devin Williams

 

Nestor Cortes remains injured, but Caleb Durbin - a cog in the winter trade for closer Devin Williams - is now playing for the Brewers. 

The Yankees love to proclaim themselves "winners" in every trade.  With Nestor out and Durbin at Triple A, it was an easy gaslight. Now... 

We'll see... 

The BRAIN Wishes Everyone out there a Happy, Happy Easter !

Cashie's Choice.

 

Last season, the biggest shot heard 'round these parts, anyway, was Pete Alonso's series-winning blast off Milwaukee Brewers' closer Devin Williams, he of "Airbender" fame.

After the season, the 30-year-old Alonso, a fan favorite in NYC, could have been had for a song, a one-year, "let's see how you do" contract.

Instead, Cashie signed the guy who gave up that titanic shot.

Given a choice between Bobby Thomson and Ralph Branca after the 1951 playoff, Cashman would've signed Ralph Branca.

Given a choice between Carlton Fisk and Pat Darcy, Cashman would've signed Pat Darcy.

Given a choice between Michael Jordan and Bryon Russell, Cashman would've signed Bryon Russell.

Given a choice between Peyton and Eli Manning, Cashman would've signed Cooper.

Of all Cashman's problems in ever putting together a championship team on his own, he struggles most in coming up with a decent pitching staff. Once again, we see why.

The silver lining? Unlike Cashie's most disastrous decisions, Airbender Williams is only a one-year commitment. He can trot on back to Milwaukee, or wherever, come 2026. Don't let the air bend you on the way out.

Yankees greet their first truly soul-crushing meltdown of 2025. Now what?

So, whaddaya say? 

I mean, we've been here before. Many times. And, yeah, they blew it. 

In Super YES-Mo. On George M Steinbrenner Field. On Easter Eve.  

A brutal, felony-grade, mind-boggling Yankee loss. 

Worst of the season, thus far. A defeat for the ages, a butchery, with a stark, four-word message for 2025:

No lead is safe. 

Nope. We're there, again. It's not even May, but the bullpen is barking, and the Yankees are a collective WTF?, finding creative ways to blow a game.

With a four-run lead, Boone calls on the closer. Oswaldo muffs a grounder. Devin Williams can't throw strikes. In the 10th, we can't move a runner. Then, the obligatory walk-off HR. 

The first incontinent, incoherent, sickening, out-of-body loss of 2025. 

Look, no closer is perfect, right? It's a long season. Williams was too good in Milwaukee to be this bad. Right? Please say yes. Assure me... he can't be this bad. Right? 

Over the last seven years, between Aroldis and Clay Pigeon, the Yankees have been blessed with lights-out closers through April and May - until the vampiric Boone sucks the juice of life from them. This year, something's wrong. Already, Williams looks like Katy Perry in outer space. He was supposed to be the answer. His ERA is now 9.00. And the message is loud and clear...

No lead is safe. 

The Yankees can pile up runs. Their starter can go six innings. A game can seem to be on ice. But it means nothing. No lead is safe. 

Instead of starting hot, and fading from overuse, our closer looks like a dud. 

Please, tell me he'll straighten out. He can't be this bad, right? It's a long season. A year of ups and downs. But for now... no lead is safe.  

Everything old is new again.

 

How nice for the Yankees to spend a weekend in beautiful little Steinbrenner field, official capacity 11,026 (though it seems to be sold out at 10,046)! The Rays are currently playing in the first ballpark to be named for an individual since the Mets decided to rip down Shea Stadium—named for the incredibly menschy and beloved William Shea—and name the new one for the financial institution that has repeatedly cratered the economies of both the city and the country.

No Casey Stengel Park? Jackie Robinson Stadium? Ah, well. With Fred Wilpon in charge, I guess we should deem ourselves lucky that it wasn't named for Bernie Madoff.

The Mets themselves recently visited one of the new minor-league parks, named for some company of the grifters we have instead of decent health care in this country—one that currently hosts the Nomadic Athletics. 

(For those of you not familiar with modern anthropology, the Nomadic A's are a small tribe that, dressed in their colorful native costumes, migrates across the North American continent. They have recently started back toward the East Coast, which they are expected to reach again sometime in the 23rd century.)

Their lovely, Sacramento ballpark, above right, seats all of 10,624, though it can hold as many as 14,014, including those who wish to gambol on its bucolic grass berms.  

As far as I can make out, these two parks are the first major-league stadiums to hold fewer than 15,000 fans since at least 1910, and possibly going back to the 19th century. Even raggedy-ass, gimcrack stadiums like the Yanks' original Hilltop Park, in Washington Heights, or Chicago's West Side Grounds, had larger capacities than these neat little, minor-league gems.

Nor are these merely stopgap measures for two franchises feckless enough to run out of options after their previous extortion demands came to nought.

No, even the parks they plan to move into, someday, Tampa Bay's Gas Plant Stadium (I'm not making this up)—

—and the planned, Ann-Marget Stadium on the Las Vegas Strip, next planned stop for the Nomads—

—will only hold "approximately 30,000" and 33,000 fans, respectively. 

(I'm kidding about the name of the new Las Vegas Stadium, of course. Nobody in MLB or Vegas has enough class or imagination to name a park for Ann-Margret. Instead, the name will change everyday, in honor of the biggest winner at the craps tables the night before.)

Sure, these architects' renderings may look like some vision of The Millennium—appropriately enough for Easter weekend—but they will be the smallest new, major-park ballparks built in over a hundred years.

So what gives?  

MLB, it seems, is joining the rest of America in going virtual. 

Virtual baseball joins virtual reality government, bitcoin, AI-generated term papers, etc.. No need to actually go to the ballpark—where all the seats will be way too expensive anyway, and perhaps completely bought up by corporate sponsors before the season starts. 

(Don't think so? Look at how Broadway is compensating for all those small theatres these days: with $600-$900 seats becoming routine. The smaller the pricier!)

For the rest of us...who knows? Maybe we'll be able to see it on the ol' TV...maybe not, considering how many games are now on streaming, or whatever. Chances are, we'll just have day-of-game, internet gambling options sent to our devices, so we can bet on each pitch. 

Maybe, in big cities like ours, they'll even set up mechanical baseball diamonds outside corporate internet headquarters. Those of us unable to get into the teeny, unaffordable ballparks of The End Times, can watch the mechanical runners move from base to base.

Just like they did 130 years ago.

The Ozempic Yankees are doing it with defense, defense, defense...

A geezer tenet of baseball states that if you cannot hit your weight - (unless you're Cecil Fielder) - your time in the limelight won't last long.

For now, using that metric, the fates of several Yanks could look rather tenuous. Consider the Ozempic Scale of Spring Yankeehood: 

Jazz Chisholm
Weight: 184
BA: .160.

Cody Bellinger
Weight 203
BA: .177

Austin Wells
Weight: 220
BA: .182

Anthony Volpe - 180 lbs and .197 - barely misses this list. But lately, he's been rather anemic - fanning one-third of the time and stifling complaints about his infamous torpedo bat. 

But but BUT... 

Over the last five games, the Ozempic Scale can go out window with the bathwater. The Yankees have won losable games via defense, defense, defense!  If that keeps up, the '25 team will look vastly different from the homer-happy unit that was hyped throughout spring training.

Last night, several Yankees made great defensive plays:  

Volpe, a Jeteresque pivot and throw to 1B on a grounder into shallow left field.

Bellinger, a sliding stop in the LF corner that could have easily rattled around into a triple.

Paul Goldschmidt, a perfectly executed rundown with a man on third. 

Trent Grisham, snagging a drive off the CF wall, throwing perfectly to Volpe, who launched a strike to 3B Oswaldo Cabrera to nail a sliding runner. 

These are the kinds of plays that haunted the Yankees all last year - by our opponents. Last night, you could see the spiritual boosts felt by Carlos Rodon and Mark Leiter Jr., raising their emotions rather than draining them, as Gleyber Torres' stunning mental lapses did throughout the spring of 2024. 

What a difference a play makes.

Listen: The BAs will rise - (though we can worry about Wells, who fell off a ledge last fall and has not returned.) Volpe is showing great defense, and the entire team is following suit. Unless The Martian is in LF - (and he has improved) - the Yankees show no glaring weakness defensively. And if/when DJ LeMahieu returns, we should not fear his glovework.  

Defense. It's nice to have one. And it's why we have won five straight. 

Game Thread - Yankees √s Rays ˙4.18.25˙1-3˙5.48

With games like last night, dare we believe in Oswaldo?

April is crazy. (The month, not the exotic dancer who flirts with you at the bus stop.) 

In April, Coachilla summons all the world's supermodels to a giant meth lab in the desert. In April, Druids gather to shake sticks, heartland villages wash away,  Jack Nicholson celebrates birthdays, and the IRS hoists people - generally, poor people - by their ankles and shakes them. 

The month begins with April Fool's Day, a salute to boldface lies, and ends with May Day, the international cry of distress. You cannot trust anything you see - especially stats. For example, today's HR leaders are Aaron Judge and Shohei Ohtani Tyler Soderstrom and Cal Raleigh, and next week, the NY sports world will learn the answer to its most pressing existential question: 

How will the Giants and Jets manage to fuck up another draft? 

Last night in Tampa, our spring headquarters, the mysterious Oswaldo Cabrera continued to lay claim to - at least for now - the month of April. He homered and singled, and he has basically done everything we could ask to hold the 3B position, an audition that will soon end. 

Three events are coming for Oswaldo, and all are cruel. 

The first is the month of May, when Oswaldo's career average plummets 50 points below April, (and not much better in June - see chart.) 

The second is whether Oswaldo is still a switch hitter, or has that ship sailed? Lifetime, he is 1-for-1 batting RH against right-handed pitchers - (a rather small sample, eh?) -  and 5-for-17 (.294) batting LH against lefties. Not exactly a consensus? 

Either way, the Yankees seem to have given up on Oswaldo batting from the right side, which raises his third obstacle...

DJ LeMahieu. 

Deej has been out since March with a calf strain, which came while healing from a wrist strain - armbone connected to da legbone - and, frankly, I'll believe he's back when he's in the daily lineup, and not one moment sooner.  

But - probably - in about three weeks, LeMahieu will be holding down 3B against lefties. The question is whether Oswaldo can hit enough to justify a platoon, or will DJ take 3B fulltime (a potential re-enactment of Josh Donaldson, Chase Headley, Kevin Youkilis - nostalgia 3B tours.)

The Yankees prize Oswaldo's ability to play everywhere, which is sorta like appreciating Kim Kardashian for her tiny feet. He is an excellent utility man. But is that it? Either Oswaldo keeps hitting, or he could - at 26 - be an end-of-the-roster lug nut, with a career ceiling made of concrete. 

Nobody wants DJ to get hurt. Again. But it's time to light the candles for Oswaldo. Right now, he is earning a full shot. But May 1 is coming. Mayday. 

Game Thread: Home Away From Home

 

The most enjoyable back page of 2025 may have just landed

Ladies and gentlemen... moms and dads... children of all ages... henchmen and henchwomen... beekeepers... malingerers...  we at IT IS HIGH proudly direct your attention to the .jpg - or .png, or .pdf, whatever - to your immediate right. Gaze upon it. Touch it. Enjoy the self-pleasure of every pixel, every word of divine truth. We salute you, O, Daily News!

For the record, the screamer headline sorta clanks. The lesser font tells the story. 

Judge goes deep, pushes average to .409 in win over K.C., as 0-for-5 Soto K's 3 times in 10-inning loss to Minnesota.

Listen: If the asteroid hits today, I'll go out smirking like a twice-tazed protester in an MTG town hall. 

Last night, the almighty Aaron Judge went 3-3 with a walk and his game-winning 7th HR of the season. He's tied for 2nd behind Tyler Soderstrom of the Anywhere' A's; he leads the majors in batting average (.409) and is also tied for 2nd in RBIs, with 21. 

All this in a month that, for Judge, has traditionally been icy. Over three frigid nights, he utterly destroyed KC. Tonight, he goes home to warm Tampa, to an outfield he's known for 10 spring trainings. This could be his career season and, please, let that sink in, because he's already notched two of the greatest seasons in Yankee history. 

Of course, everything depends on his health. If he can play 150 games, he could not only win a third MVP, but set another HR record, maybe win a triple crown, a Pulitzer, Nobel Prize and Heisman Trophy. And one person in my fantasy universe would know this more than anyone. 

His name is Juan Soto, and he will remembered for as long my dementia allows for the contract he wheedled out of Stevie Cohen, and the disgraceful mercenary disloyalty he gave the Yankees, after they offered him everything but a luxury box, which wasn't enough.

Yes, I accept that ballplayers must feed their families, and that they have a limited window to make their fortunes - and on the IT IS HIGH Scale of Evil, they'll always finish second to the fat cat, hell-bound owners. But when the numbers on your contract are closer to Infinity than Ground Zero, it's worth asking whether loyalty and friendships matter a whit. To Soto, they obviously don't. He went for the money, every last thin dime. That's the way it is, I suppose. 

But wealth comes with back pages like today's.  

Today, Soto is hitting .231 with 3 HRs and 7 RBIs, a total beaten thus far by Anthony Volpe, Jazz Chisholm, Cody Bellinger and The Martian. The number on his jersey - 22 - is more successfully worn by Ben Rice (.273 with 5 HRs.) 

Of course, this won't last. Soto sits in the middle of a powerful lineup, and his numbers will grow. He is a great hitter, even if sees fewer belt-high fastballs. Whatever. Today, Yank fans should rejoice. The Mets spent all their money on a giant, who turned out to be two dwarfs, piggyback, inside a trench coat. If the asteroid hits tonight, let's go out grinning. 

And if Soto thinks about it - (maybe even a little too much?) - maybe he'll wonder if .231 is a glitch - or the new reality, fostered by a nation of Yankee fans throwing rancid, burning juju at him. And it's here to stay. 

The tabloids and Yankee My Pillow News Networks have found a narrative, at least for April: The greatness of Aaron Judge and the overvalue of Juan Soto. 

Yeah. A small sample size. A pipe dream. But fukkit: It sure feels good.