Allan Winans is set to pitch tonight! Ten fun factoids about the Koufax of Scranton

Kong v Godzilla. Ali v Frazier. Winans v Lodolo. (As in Nick.) 

That's tonight's matchup against the Cincy Reds. Thanks to a right oblique strain to Ryan Yarbrough - (et tu, juju gods?) - the Yankee pitching grinder today will promote RH starter Allan Winans from The Electric City (aka Scranton), where he has been unstoppable. 

This could answer - definitively, in the year of 2025 - whether excelling at Triple A matters one stinking whit. Because Winans deserves the call. 

Winans, pushing 30, has been spectacular in the Anthracite Capital. Over 9 starts, he has posted an 0.90 ERA. - giving up only 5 earned runs. 

Is he our fifth man? Can he succeed in the majors? Who is the real Allan Winans?

Some fans will tell you there's nothing exciting about a guy like Winans. They come, they fill a roster for a week, and they disappear. Parts Unknown. Well, I disagree. 

Here are Ten Fun and Interesting Factoids about our newest Yankee!

1. In two years of MLB time, over 40 innings with Atlanta, Allan has a 7.20 ERA. 

2. In his major league career, he has one win. 

3. He hails from Bakersfield, California. 

4. If he makes it big, he'll join Sigrid Valdis as one of the most famous natives of Bakersfield. 

5. Sigrid played "Hilda," Colonel Klink's sexy secretary, on Hogan's Heroes. (See right.)

6. Her real name was Patricia Annette Olson, which sounds a lot more like Bakersfield.

7. In 1970, she married series star Bob Crane on the set of the TV show. Co-star and future game show host Richard Dawson served as best man. 

8.  In 1978, Crane was bludgeoned to death in Scottsdale, Arizona; his murder remains unsolved.  

9. Patricia/Sigrid moved to LA and died in 2007 due to lung cancer. 

10. In 50 innings at Scranton, Winans had 59 Ks!

Back From Paradise.

 

Dear Peons,

What can I tell you? I thought the lobster tails were fine, as always. Also the shrimp and the crab claws. But the prime rib slices? They were beyond compare! Truly wonderful. I only wish all of you could have been there. Maybe next time, some of you could carry my Sedan chair.

Sadly, all of the above was true. Except for the Sedan chair, of course. You actually have to walk into the Legends Suite, if you can believe the effrontery. And the "peons" part. Alas, we are almost all of us peons in this America of runaway wealth. 

Weirdly enough, thanks to the beneficence of my friend and my brother-in-law—and to the beneficence of their banker—it was the least money I've spent at a ballgame in decades, not drinking anything alcoholic. All of $10, spent solely on a program the size of the old Montgomery Ward catalogues, if anyone remembers those.

Which recorded an often frustrating but ultimately rewarding game, as you saw. Judge—who, yes, was that close to our seats—continued to flounder (Does anyone know why he didn't go home on that flyball? Was it the coach who held him?). Good as the pitching was, big hits were few and far between.

And then...an unexpected hero arose, from where you would never expect to find him.

I'm talking about Gary Sánchez, of course. Once he entered the game, victory was assured.

—Did Ma Boone again try to squeeze one out too many from his fading starter, only to see him give up a leadoff double? AGAIN? No matter. The next batter was Gary Sanchez, who struck out on three pitches.

—Did Ma Boone insist on running his stupid, run-on-contact play with Jazz Chisholm on third and the whole infield in? AGAIN? No matter. The throw beat Chisholm, but Gary Sanchez dropped the ball. 

—Did The Airbender look a little shaky? No matter. Gary Sanchez was there to strike out AGAIN in the ninth.

Hey, I kid, I kid. The real hero, of course, was Jazz Chisholm...who took out the Orioles' starting catcher, and forced the entrance of...

Never mind. 

Jazz really did have a wonderful game. And hey, props to Boone for greenlighting him and turning the whole game around (just as I assured my friend's daughter that Chisholm would surely be taking on 3-0). 

Good for Boone. Good for Jasrado. 

But thank goodness that Gary Sanchez was there!

 

Game Thread - Pre-Noon, on the 22nd of Swoon - Look into the eyes of a Master

 

Energized by Old George, the Rays just keep creeping closer

Home  attendance 2025

 George M. Steinbrenner Field has an official capacity of 11,026, making it one of MLB's largest spring training facilities. It's a perfect facsimile of the old Yankee Stadium, built down to the foul poles to resemble the original House That Ruth Built.  

Last year, the Tampa Rays drew an average of 16,515 fans per home game at the ridiculous and now decapitated Tropicana Field. The few who attended games rattled around a domed stadium that could handle up to 45,369, but usually left entire sections empty. Jeez. A paying fan could spread out, put his feet up, occupy a whole row. 

This year, with the Trop out of commission - Hurricane Milton tore its roof to shreds last October - the Rays are playing before a packed stadium - Steinbrenner Field - drawing an average 9,832 per game. That's nearly a sellout. 

The city has balked on building a new stadium, because nobody came to the old one. The franchise might be sold to a Jacksonville billionaire - (they're all billionaires, these days.) Nobody really knows the fate of the team. 

But one thing seems clear. 

They are gaining on us.

The Yankees have nearly squandered the seven-game lead they held on May 28. In the month of June, they are 9-10. They lead the AL in attendance - 1.6 million fans, thus far - but, damn, they cannot seem to shake Tampa. And soon, the Rays will start experiencing what few Tampa ballclubs have ever known: Sellouts.

 We next play Tampa on July 28. They have a 21-year-old 3B, Junior Caminero, who has 18 HRs. The have a utility infielder who leads the AL in stolen bases. Their starting rotation is all in their mid-20s. In the month of June, they are 13-6.

The Yankees outspend them. The Yankees outdraw them. The Yankees out-hype them. But the Yankees cannot seem to shake them. 

Sometimes, you have to simply sit back and reflect upon the crazy world that has somehow come to be. Donald Trump is president. We're in a war. And the next World Series could be played before a crowd of 11,000 in a stadium named for Old George. 

It could happen. 

Is that weird, or what?

Why Donaldson sucked

 An article in the Times explains it all (quite a bit down on the home page, what with the Iran bombing and all...though there's not a peep about Bibi laughing and saying, "Sucker!"):

"Mr. Donaldson said that his wife and daughter had both developed congestion and a lingering cough while living in the home. Environmental testing uncovered what the lawsuit described as extensive and widespread infestation of Chaetomium mold and Aspergillus mold throughout several key rooms in the house. 

"Mr. Donaldson also complained that the main floor of the house was infested with ants and that squirrels had infiltrated the home through a hole in an exterior wall, and had been living in a bedroom ceiling. Some showers did not work, and the pool was littered with shards of tile and concrete from a botched repair job, the lawsuit said.

"When the landlord sent workers to the home to deal with the issues, they disrupted Mr. Donaldson’s sleep, according to lawsuit, which noted the importance of rest to a professional athlete."

 

Yeah, but aside from that...

Game Thread - The 21st of Swoon - Boone's Line-Up Machine Revealed !

 

0-for-24 with fielding and baserunning gaffes, Anthony Volpe faces the Babadook. (Or is it Roger Repoz?)

Remember Roger Repoz? Big, strapping outfielder. Came up in 1965. Hit 12 dingers. Had the "R-R" alliteration thing. Plus the "Roger" thing. Everybody knew his destiny. He was the next Mick.

Eventually, Repoz hit 82 HRs and carved out a somewhat successful career in California and then Japan. But his name endures. And whenever a Yankee prospect gets anointed as the "next" Catfish, or Goose, or Reggie, or whatever - the next somebody - the silent presence of Roger Repoz stalks our world. 

Because it's it's starting to define Anthony Volpe. 

Ever since that afternoon in 2023 - "Volpening Day," when the Yankees made the former first-round pick their starting SS - an invisible cloud has loomed. 

The Next Jeter. 

That year, age 22, he played 159 games. Like Jeter. In 2024, he made it 160. Like Jeter. As a rookie, he hit 21 HRs. In year two, he revised his swing and raised his BA 35 points. He won a Gold Glove. He became the infield lodestone. Everything pointed to a great career. A son of Jersey. The signature number 11. He was the future, and 2025 would be his launching pad. 

Welp, maybe not. Lately, when Volpe steps to the plate, you feel the weight  of a thousand million disappointments. Over the last week, he is 0-for-24, and there is not a rally he cannot kill. His botched DP grounder cost us a game against the miserable Angels. His attempted steal of 3B helped blow one against Boston. Last night, time and again, he came up with a chance to effectively win the game. He always failed.

His average has fallen to .228. You wonder how much farther it will plummet. Almost worse, as a sign of his desperation, Volpe has stolen 8 bases and been thrown out 7 times. That's terrible.  

The wandering eyes of the Yankiverse - always lighting upon The Next Big Thing - may be shifting. In Double A Somerset, another former first-round pick, George Lombard Jr., has become the new hope. 

Lombard - the lone Yankee prospect on most Top 100 lists - tore up high Single A, batting .329, before being promoted. At Somerset, over 40 games, he's hitting a meager .213. But there are signs. Three nights ago, after making a dazzling defensive play from short left field - the announcer invoked Jeter - Lombard hit his 2nd HR. He is a hitting streak away from becoming the Next Yankee Hope.

Listen: There will be no next Jeter. There was never a next Mickey, or a next Yogi, or a next Mariano. There will never be another Judge. Great stars don't clone well. But their enduring presence can chew up a young player. And maybe Volpe's time will come in another city, where he can just be himself. Repoz found himself with the Angels and the Yakult Swallows. Sad, in a way. Victorious, in another. 

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