There is no algorithm for desire.

 

"Money, money changes everything.

I said money, money changes everything.

We think we know what we're doing,

We don't know a thing.

It's all in the past now,

Money changes everything."

    —Cyndi Lauper

All right, here comes my inevitable, grumpy old man post. But something makes me think there really aren't enough grumpy old men around the New York Yankees these days.

There's also not enough to be said about the general shitshow that the Yanks put on last night. But I want to riff off some research the Estimable Carl J. Weitz did for us all yesterday, regarding the Yankees' biggest free agent pick-up of the off-season—the main man who was supposed to compensate for the loss of Juan Soto.

"[Max] Fried has made four trips to the injured list due to blisters on that finger during his time with the Atlanta Braves, going 23 days between starts in 2018, 12 days each in 2019 and 2021, and 18 days in 2023, which included a gap between the regular season and playoffs.

"Every case is its own thing,” Fried said. “Definitely didn’t want to do too much where I wanted to catch it, hopefully before it became a real big, big deal. It was definitely uncomfortable enough to the point where I didn’t want to risk more, and it was going to affect my pitches. So, yeah, just the next couple of days are going to be big in just being able to evaluate how long I need.”

Treatment has only a limited impact.

“There are different creams and modalities and things that we can do to try to help speed up the process, but at the end of the day, it’s just letting the skin heal,” Fried said.

He's heard the stories about how future Hall of Famer Nolan Ryan soaked his fingers in pickle juice at the behest of Mets athletic trainer Gus Mauch.

"I’ve tried a little bit of everything,” Fried said, "every wives’ tale, every piece of equipment that has been available. I’m willing to try anything to try to just speed it up and try to keep it away.”

Uh, boy.

"Creams and modalities and things"? 

This is not the way a human being should talk, much less a major-league pitcher. 

"Every case is its own thing"...for the same blister on the same finger? Uh, yeah.

Max Fried is a 31-year-old starter who has never thrown more than 185 innings in his nine-year, major-league career. He has spent that entire career pitching for two of the best-hitting teams in the sport, yet has never won more than 17 games, and that back in the halcyon days of 2019, when life was sweet and oh so mellow. 

Max Fried has, to date, made nearly $54 million in baseball salary alone, and he is absolutely guaranteed to make another $203.5 million, even if the new Trump Coin cryptocurrency knocks the economy down to Great Depression levels.

It is a dull cliché to note that this will make him one of the very wealthiest individuals who has ever lived. But...this will make him one of the very wealthiest individuals who has ever lived.

Foolishly, I had assumed that his limited performances each and every year were due to some combination of MLB's arm-saving innings limits, and MLB's arm-killing pitching techniques.

But no. 

Like Ringo Starr, after playing 16 straight takes of the original, 27-minute version of Helter-Skelter, Max Fried has blisters on his fingers. Actually finger. 

But never mind. As we all know, following that amazing session, Ringo was never able to play the drums again set out on a 30-city tour. Or maybe he just took the next day off and did some drugs.

The point is, when you're being paid a king's ransom (really, no king was ever ransomed for that sort of money, but never mind) to perform every few days...you have to perform. Particularly when everyone is being charged a king's ransom to watch you perform.

Hey, it was one thing when ol' Slingin' Sammy Slopster went out there and got battered all over the park because of some arm problem. Back to the (literal) farm he went, and the dudes in the bleachers—half of whom were probably betting on the other team—could swallow their nickel admission.

Now? "...creams and modalities" don't cut it.

Hey, is it unfair for me to turn the spotlight—and the tomatoes—on Fried, who has been one of the Yankees' very few bright spots this season? Of course it is.

Is this solely Max Fried's fault? Of course it isn't.

Do we think that Brian Cashman, in negotiations with Mr. Fried, said something to him along the lines of, "We've noticed that you had a lot of trouble with blisters in the past, and we hope you've fixed that. But if not, our crack training team has come up with a tested, surefire way to speed the healing process?" 

Do we? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Nope. 

We can be sure that, in yet another, dispiriting American collusion of rich men, no one was so impolite as to raise that little issue.

"Money? The money can always be taken care of in one way or another. Written off on your taxes, or fobbed off on the public through another increase in the rat dog prices. We have an algorithm for that."

But it's not just about the money.

Blisters are not exactly a new thing for pitchers. They've been struggling with them at least since Candy Cummings snapped off the very first curveball. Creams, modalities, and old wives' tales aside, somebody must've come up with something. 

Or, y'know, pitched through it.

What's lost here is the understanding that the heart of sport is desire. It's what keeps us coming back to the ballpark, no matter how pricey the tickets are, or how many rat feces there are on the hot dogs.

Ballplayers have long been at least fairly well-paid. Charlie Keller was making pretty good money, for 1941, when he walked up to the plate in the ninth inning of the Tommy Henrich game, with what was probably an ankle fracture. He banged a game-winning double off the right field fence. Joe, Joe DiMaggio was making great money for 1949, when he flew up to Boston with a heal that looked like it had been sewn together by Dr. Frankenstein, and ran amok amongst the Fens. 

Derek Jeter was making "richest in world history" money when he dived into the stands in Yankee Stadium. It wasn't about the money. It was about the desire—something that neither Hal Steinbrenner, nor Brian Cashman, nor Mr. Modalities seem to quite understand. 

Yes, money changes everything. Except for that. There is no algorithm for desire.

But hey, what do I know? No doubt, the safe thing is for the Yankees and Max Fried to save themselves for the postseason, right? Where...Fried, for all his well-restedness and healed blisters in Atlanta, was a lifetime 2-5,  with a 5.10 ERA. 

Uh, boy.