Wonder City.

 

Sorry I'm overdue on this, but I owe it to Doug K., especially.

So finally, when it comes to sports, at least, New York went from the City of Losers to the City of Wonder.

Having been a Knicks fan since 1968, I was true overwhelmed. What a season! What a series of comebacks! What a run!

And what a truly likable team, despite its awful bridge troll of an owner.

Is this good for New York in the long run? 

I doubt it. Now Dolan will never let his odious MSG incarnation be budged from where it squats like a poisonous toad above what could and should be a fabulous train station. 

The local minions of the Vampire-in-Chief are already moving in to tear the neighborhood apart and no doubt make untold billions with sweetheart federal contracts of one sort of another.

Is this good for the Knicks in the long run?

Again, I doubt it. This will undoubtedly give Dolan—already someone who has been ripping off the taxpayers for decades—carte blanche to pump as little money as possible into his teams, while jacking prices up even more. 

For what you can reasonably expect...look at the Garden's other tenant, after the Rangers finally snapped an even longer championship drought—54 years—and since have gone on a new streak of 32 more seasons of futility.

Is this good for your New York Yankees?

Nope. Unlike any other, red-blooded American male, HAL will not feel in the least envious of the adulation poured down upon Dolan and the Knicks, or likely to spend another dime trying to match their achievement.

And the Knicks' season no doubt makes Brian Cashman feel absolutely justified in all his inane statements about how the postseason is just a crapshoot. The Knicks had an up-and-down regular season, finished second in their division and third in their conference...then managed to avoid, thanks to luck and attrition, all of the teams (Boston, Detroit, OK City) that seemed most likely to beat them in the playoffs.

If the Yanks can just get Judge back in time for October...and Fried, and Stanton, and Cole rounds into shape (again), and some young gun emerges in the bullpen, and The Martian is for real, and SOMEBODY can catch and hit .220, and...and...and...

No, not gonna happen. Baseball is not basketball. Among other things, any team in the MLB postseason that manages to get up 5-10 runs in game after game—the equivalent of the leads the Spurs had—will not, cannot simply give it up by playing like idiots (even, ahem, if our boys did just that in the Infamous Fifth Inning of the Fifth Game).

But hey—all of that is the long run, and as the great Harry Hopkins once said, in the long run we are all dead. 

Better, in our precarious age, to celebrate the unexpected gift the Knicks have given us, their incredible

heart and smarts and abilities, their coach and their general manager, their insistence on being...unwavering.

Thanks to them, our city is looking pretty good just now.

If only we could believe it...

 

Boston has crapped the bed.

But New York will soon be coming.

Suddenly, the Yankees look lost. And this is about the time they fell apart last year.

Okay, let's get this over with:

Gerrit Cole hadn't looked this mystified since the last time he motioned for Anthony Rizzo to cover first. 

Bada-boom. 

There. It's done. It's over. Last night, Cole - no longer the Yankee staff ace, but still the Yankee staff face - experienced an old-school whuppin', a trouncin', a thrashin' - (we can throw words on this like wood pallets on a bon fire) - a beatin', a whackin', a wallopin...' He was Frankie Montas, Manny Banuelos, Andrew Heaney, the cast of Lost, the Solid Gold Dancers, the U.S. Congress, the White House reflecting pool, the San Antonio Spurs... whatever.  He pitched 4.1 innings, gave up 9 hits and 5 earned runs. He's now 2-2, with an ERA of 3.62, but but BUT... ignore his first two starts - a magical 12 scoreless innings - and, dear God, you do not want to calculate the ERA. Nope. Stick with the Thesaurus. He's been raked, pillaged, plundered...

And - insert sigh here - we knew this would happen. 

Listen: This isn't Netflix. Sigourny and Charlize are not coming. No superpowered stranger will return to save humanity. This is reality TV, and the cast of Lost is, well, lost.  

The problem: Cole had two great starts, so we ridiculously penciled him back in as Ace. Then came the crash. 

He's now started six games, pitched 32 innings and given up 5 HRs. Last night, the defense didn't exactly help him, but - OMG! - it could have been worse. Every inning, Cole was on the ropes. He doesn't look like the Cy Young starter who once dominated. Honestly, he looks like a guy at the end of those ropes. 

Which brings us to The Question: Can Cole - like Catfish Hunter, Justin Verlander and other greats have done - reinvent himself for a final incarnation? 

Face it: The old stuff isn't working. And if Cole falters, there is no stud pitcher in Scranton ready to replace him. The only replacement might come in a trade - a Cashman trade - need I say more?

Even scarier thought: It's June - when the Yankees last year fell apart. 

It may be happening again.

It's been 23 days since Aaron Judge went out with a fractured rib - (31 since Judge's last HR.) He probably has another month to go. 

It's been 11 days since Trent Grisham tweaked a hamster. Likewise, he's probably halfway to recovery. 

Meanwhile, the Yankees have turned their lineup over to The Martian, Spencer Jones and - mostly - Jose Caballero, playing multiple roles like Peter Sellers in Dr. Strangelove. Displaced from SS by the enigmatic prodigal son, Anthony Volpe, Cabby's recent OF appearances have been tough. Bad throws. And though he has 17 stolen bases, he's been thrown out 7 times - a 28 percent failure rate. Ouch. (FWIW, Jazz is at 15 percent failures.) 

It's been three days since the Yankees scored more than three runs in a game. Time after time, in critical at bats, they hit first-pitch pop-ups, or take called third strikes - sometimes challenging the call - as Volpe did last night - only to be embarrassed when the entire ball turns up in the zone.

Three straight losses - against tomato cans Cincinnati and Detroit. Three is a speed bump. But four is a streak. Lose tonight - and facing Skrupal for the final game - and history is repeating itself. We all could be standing on the mound, pointing to first. Bada-boom.

For Father's Day, Yankees disappoint their dads and send warning sirens across the Bronx

 

The Babadook arrived yesterday, around 4 p.m. E.D.T., while chess master Aaron Boone was playing perhaps the Yankees' worst-fielding outfield in this millennium. 

In LF stood utility infielder Max Schuemann. In CF, it was displaced middle infielder Jose Caballero. In RF, designated hitter Jasson Dominguez. (Apparently, the late Smokey Burgess was unavailable.) Together, this wondrous collection of talent and despair concocted an authentic Little League triple, a tragedy of foul-ups that put a Reds batter on third - from a soft bouncer up the middle.

Impossible, you say? Here's how they did it. 

A Red with the A.I.-generated videogame name of Spencer Steer hit a bouncer up the middle. Second baseman Jazz Chisholm glided over to snag it. Instead, he waved at it, saying, "Get into center, Mr. Ball!" Shortstop Anthony Volpe trotted over and said, "Hello, Ball. I hereby wish you safe passage through our Straits of Jeter." In short centerfield, Caballero picked up the ball and said, "Where do you want to go from here, Ball?" He then fired it toward second base, 10 feet over Chisholm's head, to a place where pitcher Camilo Doval should have been backing up. But Doval was elsewhere, shouting, "Where are you going, Mr. Ball?" The ball rolled all the way to the backstop, while Steer ran to 3B. He later scored, of course.  

Embarrassing, you say? Not really.  

I mean, this happened on a day when the Yankees went 0-for-9 with runners in scoring position, in a series where - when their baserunners weren't getting picked off - they went 2-for-32 in RISP situations, when they lost two of three games, at home to the worst team in the National League Central, which had been decimated by injuries.

I don't know what the Yankees have against their dads. 

But sirens should be sounding across the Yankiverse, because as the team heads to Detroit, the Tigers are shopping Tarik Skubal. Having watched the Knicks trade a century of first-round picks - and win the NBA championship - should anybody NOT expect the Yankees to deal away their future for three-month rental?

Be afraid. Be very afraid. And good luck to you, Mr. Ball!

Hooray for Jazz Chisholm, striking a blow for father's everywhere: HE WILL NOT CUP-ITULATE

Friday night, NYC sports fans took a stark turn from their wild celebration of the 2026 Knicks, as Jumbotrons and phones across the globe suddenly showed Jazz Chisholm, writhing at home plate like a 5'11" slab of bacon.

He had just taken a foul ball to the bilge pump, a pain that withers the hearts of all men everywhere, except in the Yankee dugout, where his teammates were nervously grinning. 

The poor fellow could barely hobble to the clubhouse, where he'd spend the next 12 hours icing down his joystick. 

T'waz a moment frozen in time - and pain. Today, of course, the nattering nabobs of the nanny state want every player, everywhere, to immediately don plastic cups, clamping down on our God-given freedom to romp across fields of blooming nipples. It raises the ultimate question for modern man:

To cup, or not to cup?

Do you wear personal armor, knowing it might protect your billiards from a seeing eye grounder, or a surgically applied tag at home plate. But nothing can save you from a Paul Skenesian 102-mph direct hit? In simple terms, the system will not protect you.

So, do we go free, assigning the safety of our precious family jewels to the whims of the fates and juju gods?

For me, it's all about the C-word.

The Chafing. 

Yes, in the matter of cups, the unspoken question down the ages remains: 

How much chafing can a guy endure?

I'm talking about fiery rings of redness that no ointments or baby powder can sooth. I'm talking about pure, unadulterated chafing: With each step, each movement, the region where your groin intersects with the outside world becomes a volcano of spouting pain, until the skin around your domain seems to be bathing in acid. 

Yes, I suppose if you endure the chafing long enough - until the skin is like the underside of a Naugahyde recliner - the pain will subside. Maybe.

Honestly, I don't know. I was never able to make it.  

It's the chafing, Mr. Kurtz. And I hereby nominate Jazz Chisholm for some award in the Manoverse. He has chosen not to run the bases in a plastic codpiece the size of a bear trap? No way. He is going to let his spirited onions run free. And he is sending a message to us all.

Life, my friends, is not meant to be lived in a cage. You cannot protect yourself forever. Get out and expose yourself to the world - discreetly, of course. Let your seeds be sown where they are not planted. And in the case of Jazz, steal more bases! 

And happy Father's Day to all. 

Game Thread - Swoon da Twentieth – 2026

 OK – OK – OK

THIS ONE IS THE LAST ONE

UNTIL SWOON 25TH

Those were the days...

 

Shout out to our happy warriors today, and a message to HAL

I see AA has preloaded a game thread. This is not it.

If this were a World Cup, the Yankees would be advancing to the knockout round. Ten ponderings of the current reality.

 The Yankees enjoy a two-game lead (loss column) over hateful, jealous, petulant, frugal, ever-scheming Tampa, which squats in its putrid dome, awaiting the next hurricane.  

But but BUT... compared to the World Cup events, which bring gigantic walls of noise, Yank fans seem almost indifferent to the team's success. What's behind this nonchalance?

Fear, of course. And existential dread. 

Ten reasons to hold your cards close.  

1. We been here before. Midsummer meltdowns have become commonplace in modern Yankee lore. Last year, right about now, we lost six straight, tumbling into 2nd place, where we languished into October. 

2. The Knicks have sucked all the optimism from NYC. Didja hear Mamdani's speech? My God. It was beautiful, full of memories for a team he's supported all his life. It's comparable to Joe Torre's three-Kleenex, 2014 Hall of Fame induction speech. 

3. Secretly, we want to freeze Cam Schlittler into cryonic suspension. That way, he could emerge for Game One of the playoffs. We're three months away. Plenty of time for a tweak or a twiddle. Too much time, in fact.

4. Our success comes from beating tomato cans. We have MLB's best record against losing teams. Not so good against the cream. Bad omen.

5. We're over-stretched with injuries. Somehow, we filled the void left by the loss of Judge and Grish. In a strange way - for example, Goldy's golden opportunity - the injuries may have helped. But we're at our limit. 

6. And the injuries never stop. Especially for a veteran team. Just sayin...

7. It's too early to draw conclusions about Spencer Jones and Jasson Dominguez. Neither has sucked - (and we worried about The Martian in RF) - but it would be nice to see one go on a tear. 

8. Lowly Boston is still in the race. They are 13 games below .500 - but only 6.5 out of the postseason wild care. So profound is the state of mediocrity in the AL that the Redsocks are still alive. That scares me. It should scare everybody.

9. Our bullpen canl blow any lead. The Circle of Trust is Fernando Cruz, David Bednar and Brent Headrick. After that, you've got a better chance of sailing a redneck Trump flotilla through the Strait of Hormuz.

10.  In Scranton, George Lombard Jr. strained a finger and will miss a few weeks. Damn. He had just started hitting. But Oswaldo Cabrera, in his last three games, is 8-for-13, boosting his average 20 points, to .260. It would be an emotional moment if he returns. I really hope he doesn't get traded. A fan fave.

After this weekend, the days start getting shorter.  Enjoy the sunlight.

Remembering Lou Gehrig, born on this day, 1903. Pictured here in his audition for Tarzan, 1936.

[image or embed]

— TCMFanatics (@tcmfans.bsky.social) June 19, 2026 at 7:44 PM

Game Thread – Hopefully Schlittler Silences Lowder – 06/19/26

 FELLOW FELLOWS:

THIS WILL LIKELY BE THE LAST

GAME THREAD FROM ME

 UNTIL

THE 25th OF SWOON

PLEASE 'O' PLEASE

PLAN ACCORDINGLY

 

Jazzy signage

 

Let's Be Hopeful for Jazz

 When I was a sophomore in college,  a senior teammate at a Lacrosse practice took a hard shot to the gonads from a midfielder.  My teammate ( we later learned ) was not wearing a cup, similar to Jazz Chisolm's lack of protection last night. 

I can tell you this;  that injury required surgery and cost him the entire season. 

We always tend ( or try ) to laugh off these embarrassing "dings" and usually that works. Most often the injury is painful and debilitating, but fleeting.  Not in the case of my teammate. 

We can only hope that Jazz's " ding" will be of the fleeting nature. 

Thoughts and prayers for our second baseman. 

Close Enough for Jazz

 The Yanks have a slugger named Jazz

A second baseman possessed of pizzazz
An inaccurate swing
Racked a ball in his bling
Now he's shopping for cups, rumor has.

Last night, as Jazz Chisholm writhed in pain, the Yankee announcers surrendered their rights to free speech

Last night, enroute to a bullpen meltdown - (Cam Doval? Are you serious?) - a terrifying glimpse into the state of free speech in America played out at Yankee Stadium home plate. 

As Jazz Chisholm lay writhing in the dirt, victim to a foul that clipped him square in the balls, pearl-clutching YES announcers Ryan Ruocco and Paul O'Neill simply refused to say what happened. 

Remember the old rules about swearing on TV? They're gone. We now occupy a world where politicians say "fuck," and nobody bats an eye. Good grief, yesterday, the President nicknamed U.S. Sen. Jon Ossoff from Georgia - Os-jerkoff.  Are you worried about the loss of decorum? Listen: That ship has sailed. Yet the two Yankee announcers danced around Chisholm's situation like ballerinas, taking for a solid five minutes without ever saying aloud what happened. 

Moreover, when Chisholm left the game, still in agony, both announcers acted surprised, denying verbal comfort to a fellow human being, one who was clearly suffering a pain that links modern man to prehistoric Neanderthals, and which - now and a million years ago - cuts to the heart of the male experience. 

They could not bring themselves to speak any of these words...

Balls
Testicles
Gonads
Cojones
Nuts
Bollocks
Genitals
Ballsacs
Ta-tas
Nads
Crown Jewels
Giggleberries
California Raisins
Weather Balloons
Seed bags
Cosmic Cubes
Queenmakers 
Happy Chandeliers 
The Straits of Hormuz

Free speech? What's that? Instead, they talked about talking about what they couldn't talk about - what Ruocco later called a "region" they could not discuss. And remember: This is cable TV, where even white bread Anderson Cooper has been known to swear. Of course, they showed video replays of Chisholm being neutered. They showed Boone, smiling through a grimace. They showed teammates laughing. They showed Chisholm's face, a mask of bottomless anguish. The poor guy took one square on the oysters. Today, those ping pong balls must be as flat as beer coasters. I'm feeling it, just writing the words.

Let's hope Chisholm doesn't sing falsetto for the rest of 2026. And come on, YES: How about joining the modern world! If a ball mashes some poor soul's testicles, for God's sake, say what happened. 

And by the way, bringing Doval into any close game is like kicking yourself in the nuts. I didn't think that was possible. But what do I know? Excuse me, just thinking about it, I gotta ice down my "region." 

Game Thread - 06/18/26 - Your New York, uh, like, you know - Yankeebockers !

The Yankees are baseball's hottest team, and nobody cares

Today, the Yankees can wake up in the city that never sleeps and see, firsthand, what it's like to be king of the hill, A-number one, top of the heap.

Tomorrow, they can watch how America coalesces around a national team that isn't - in its essence - another sporting manifestation of megalomanic money.  

Today, the Knicks will parade down the Canyon of Heroes for a rally at City Hall, and the world's little town shoes will be melting away. 

Tomorrow, the USA soccer team plays Australia in Seattle, showing the Yankiverse what unconditional fan loyalty looks like.

As the Yankees grow their lead in the AL East - now three up on Tampa - diehards are beginning to whisper the most perilous question of all: 

Dare we dream?

I mean, we're winning without Judge. Without Grisham. Without Giancarlo. Cole and Rodon are pitching well. Rice and Bellinger are for real. Goldschmidt is a Godsend, Clarke Schmidt will eventually return, and even Volpe has played well, lately...

Dare. We. Dream?

The answer, my friends, is... NO. 

They'll blow it. Of course, they will! This mini-winning streak - even without Judge - will simply lead into a devastating collapse, as soon as we stop playing AL Central cupcakes. 

I refer you to the most important Rule of Juju:

IF YOU HAVE GOOD FEELINGS ABOUT YOUR TEAM, KEEP THEM THE FUCK TO YOURSELF!  NOTHING IS EVER GAINED BY TALKING UP YOUR TEAM. ALWAYS STAY NEGATIVE.

Think of it this way: Speak ill of your team and, if they collapse - (as Yank teams have done since 2009) - you've merely burnished your reputation as truth-talking doomsday prophet, who sees through all the fake positivity. 

And if your team happens to succeed, you can claim that it was your caustic negativity that sparked the game-winning juju. 

One unspoken part of today's parade will be the unbridled belief - no, the absolute certainty that OG's game four put-back happened all by itself. Not a chance. Everyone knows his hand was guided by a million doubting Knicks fans, all of whom never stopped believing that their team would lose.

Today, along the Canyon of Heroes, the Yankees get to see how New York responds to greatness. Tomorrow, in Seattle, and throughout the entire World Cup, they can learn how whole countries react. 

But remember: Stay dour.  

A Tardy Game Thread - 06/17/26 (whoopsie)

 

Last year's most intriguing Yankee prospect is this year's most intriguing Yankee

Forrest Gump famously compared life to a box of chocolates: 

Ya never know whatcher gonna git... 

Hardy har har. Fetch me a new Depends. Somehow, such crapola masqueraded as folk wisdom back in 1994, seven years before the birth of Spencer Jones.

These days, when Jones comes up, ya always know whatcher gonna git: 

The Second Coming of Joey Gallo. 

In other words - a walk, a strikeout or a home run. 

In 53 plate appearances this year, Jones has 30 times achieved what stat-focused Gammonites call "the three true outcomes:" a HR (Jones has two, belting one last night), a base on balls (he has seven, adding two last night) or a whiff (he has 21, adding one last night.) In his brief flirtation with MLB pitchers, Jones has brought the three true outcomes 56 percent of the time. (Up slightly from his output at Scranton; in 185 plate appearances, he had 13 HRs, 25 walks, 60 Ks - 54 percent.)

Last night, Jones' 2nd inning homer tied the game. His 3rd inning, bases-loaded walk (after an unsuccessful White Sox pitch challenge), seemed to unhinge the Chisox pitcher. In the 4th, his walk helped push us to a 10-1 lead. Honestly, who cares what happened later? The game was a joke. 

So, let's get to the central question: Is Spencer Jones what the Yankees need?

Spoiler alerts: 

a) I dunno.
b) It's too small a sample size to draw a conclusion.
c) At the July 31 trade deadline, we'll probably have bigger needs.

This we know: When Jones steps up, nobody runs to make a sandwich. 

Last night brought Jones' first HR at Yankee Stadium. You sense that, if all he does is hit mistakes, he could blast 30. (Last year, in the minors, he hit 35.) He can play CF, a slot that will almost surely be open next year. (Trent Grisham will probably sign elsewhere.) But do we need another HR-hitter? We already have at least four (Rice, Judge, Goldy, Giancarlo, when he returns.)

So...  we end up back with Joey Gallo. Why? Why? Why? In his final days - as a Yankee, at only age 28, Gallo was certifiably rancid. Over two years with us, he fanned 194 times in 501 plate appearances. His three true outcomes ran at 58 percent. He was booed at home. His fielding suffered. He was a human reflecting-pool algae outbreak. When he came up, it was Sandwich Time.

But but BUT... in his prime, at age 23, with Texas, Gallo was an All-Star. Twice! Over two seasons, he hit 80 HRs, with an OPS well over .800. The strikeouts didn't matter. In fact, Gallo had a reputation as a grinder, a guy who drove pitchers deep into the count, running up their pitch totals, and so what if he struck out: An out's an out, right? 

If Jones gets hot, over the next three weeks, while Grisham recovers from his tweaked gonad, he could easily become the most interesting Yankee. By Aug. 1, he could be massive trade bait. Or a massive disappointment. 

I say, what if he's for real? The guy can play CF. I say, pick a chocolate, any one in the box. Maybe it's not the cherry that you wanted. But is there such a thing as a shit-filled? Try the kid. How bad can it be? 

– Your Official June 16, 2026 New York Yankees Game Thread ! –

 

Aren't those just the two sweetest things !?!

"If the Knicks did it..." could NYC be this year's city of champions?

It's too soon to say whether the Knicks' championship will usher in a new winning reality for New York , as a "City of Champions" (TM). But not long ago - like, 30 days ago - in the category of world sports domination, NYC was right up there with Peoria, Elmira and Gary.

Back then - four weeks ago - the Yankees and Mets seemed forever cursed, the Jets and Giants remained permanent abominations, the Rangers and Islanders perpetually sucked, and the Knicks were - well - not the Nets. 

Today, as the city prepares for a ticker-tape celebration - is there such a thing as ticker tape anymore? - a harmonic convergence has propelled Jim Dolan over Hal Steinbrenner, Jalen Brunson over Aaron Judge and the other Knicks into iconic territories once roamed by Mariano and Jete. 

Get used to it. The Knicks will be New York's Number One team for at least the next year. It won't matter if they fall apart in 2027. It will be a long, long time before another local team inspires the crazed love and loyalties that are abundant across the city.  People are singing on subways and while standing in lines - which is what New Yorkers do for most of their tortured lives. The cast of Hamilton burst into "New York, New York" following the show. The city is going nuts, as Bill Murray said in Stripes - "dogs and cats, living togehter!" Not since Bucky, Reggie, Thurman and Catfish has a New York team wrought such happy bedlam. 

 So, you gotta wonder... 

Are the Yankees taking notes? Because they could make a similar playoffs run. Could Volpe become a worthwhile SS? Could Judge come back with a great autumn? Could Giancarlo contribute anything? Ben Rice? Cam Schlittler. The Martian. Homer Jones. 

Is there anybody out there?

While Kay and Cone pondered Chappell Roan, the Yankees finally take a series in Toronto.

 First, let's say it aloud: 

The American League is a disgrace. 

It is the Atlantic 10, the USFL, Double A, straight-to-home video, "Dark Horse" (the Nickelback tribute band), Pauly Shore, low-dose Sildenafil, and cauliflower-crust pizza.

It is socks-in-crocks, vintage Naugahyde, Kirkland Vodka, Mar-a-Lago eyebrows, hair extensions, sneaker lifts, and every Brentwood B-lister who suddenly won't leave the house without a Brunson jersey.

If the season ended today, two sub-.500 teams would make the expanded AL Playoffs, where nearly contestant gets a participation prize, as Peter Marshall used to say, "the home version of Hollywood Squares."

Nearly halfway into 2026, Boston - 11 games below .500 - should be contemplating a trade deadline teardown, yet the Redsocks sit comfortably, a mere five games down in the wild card race. They can pleasure themselves through July and still have time to get hot and win a championship.

Never has an MLB regular season seemed so irrelevant. Baseball has become the NBA, without the adrenaline shot of the Knicks. Right now, two AL teams - the Royals and Angels, (neither making the above chart) - are true lost causes - the worst teams in the worst divisions of the worst league in its worst year. 

The outcomes barely matter. Yesterday, at one point, a tight game in Toronto became so irrelevant that cultural historians Micheal Kay and David Cone carried on an extensive conversation about the singer, Chapple Roan. This came after Kay - heretofore a notorious debunker of the pop scene - proudly identified the song "Pink Pony Club" as a walk-up clip. This prompted Cone, an expert in the eighties/nineties punk scene, to ponder the amazing cultural revelations from his broadcast partner. 

Michael Kay is onto Chappell Roan. What's next? Wet Leg? Clavicular? 

Wait. I've gone off topic. What were we discussing? O, yeah... the quality of the American League. Well, it's not a glitch. It's a marketing plan. We know how the owners feel about selling substandard products: It's great! Send out lousy teams, have them play in Sacramento, force other cities to build new stadiums, and use the regular season - from April to October - to cull a few teams from the race. You've got parity and profits. So... keep on dancin' at the Pink Pony Club. 

gAmE tHrEaD – sWoOn fOuRtEeEnTh, 2o2sUx –CoNgRaTuLaTiOnS kNiCkS !! !!! !!!!

 

The Yankees have taken first place in the AL East. And nobody cares.

As everyone knows, the Miss America First-Runner-Up must serve as a year-long backup to the pageant's victor and - God forbid! - if something happens to the reigning champion of charm, the First-Runner-Up shall immediately assume the icon's backbreaking roster of duties, whatever that is. 

Today, the world champion 2026 Knicks own the heart and soul of New York City. 

Rightfully.

By a mile. 

In fact, sometime next week, they will transverse that mile, more or less, along the Canyon of Heroes, a stretch that hasn't been fully toasted since 2012, when the Giants, under Eli Manning, shocked not only the world, but Tom Brady. 

Frankly, the explosion in Knicks popularity is staggering. Who knew that Taylor Swift is a rabid fan, living and dying on each Knick free-throw! Travis Kelsey better watch out. If Jalen Brunson calls, the wedding could be off. The Knicks have overwhelmed the mysterious manhole sewer squads and could even replace Pizza Rat (in a good way) as Gotham's greatest icon of survival. This is their year, maybe their decade. Brunson is the new Jeter, the new Manning, the new Reggie - dare we say it - the new Mick. Every other NY team can only watch and see what mayhem looks like. 

It's a battle for First-Runner-Up.

Even if the Yankees win the '26 world series, they probably cannot chase down the Knicks in the race for tabloid back page supremacy, as shown the left. For posterity, here's how they ran it today.

Note: If the Mets could somehow catch fire and win it all, they could out-Cinderella the rest of the field and win a shitwad of back pages. But the Knicks will still be popular next fall, when their season begins. The Giants and Jets? They won't come close. And the rest of the field is desolate.  

Here are the unofficial 2026 midyear rankings for New York's Team, including their most recent world championship. 

1. Knicks (1973 - no, 2026!)
2. Yankees (2009)
3. Mets (1986)
4. Giants (2012)
6. Jets (1969)
6. Rangers (1994)
7. NJ Devils (2003)
8. Islanders (1983)
9. Nets (Never)
10. Liberty (2024.)

(Note: The WNBA's explosion in popularity came after 2024, when Caitlan Clark graduated from the NCAA. The 2024 Liberty didn't get the attention they deserved. They only won three tabloid back pages, all year.)

So, the Yankees are in first, Giancarlo is newly tweaked, the Martian has landed, and - who expected this - hardly anybody cares. How 'bout them Knicks!

Swoon Thirteenth Game Thread – WHAT'S REALLY on OUR MINDS . . . . . .

 

Remember that logjam in the Yankee outfield? It's over.

In case you missed it last night - choosing to watch plucky upstart Team USA beat the mighty world power, Paraguay - while running to second, Trent Grisham grabbed his nut sack and checked out of the months of June and July. 

The Yankee brain trust calls it "Hamstring Tightness." The Yankee fan base calls it "Business As Usual." Of course, we all must wait until the newly gelded Grisham rises from bed and moves to pee. From there, it's a question of weeks... or months. 

Once again, we are traveling the Yankee Circle of Dread:

Be healed. Be horrid. Be hot. Be hurt. 

Repeat as necessary. 

So will disappear Grish, the hottest Yankee, until - well - the All-Star break? The trade deadline? By then, rest assured that a new wave of injuries will take over. (Watch yourself, Belli. Beware, Ben.) 

Two weeks ago, The Athletic published a thumb-sucker study that said the Yankees, Mets and Orioles are baseball's most injury prone organizations. Since 2024, the Yanks top the field in games lost due to Injury List designations. The story came down as Aaron Judge awaited scans of his fractured rib. 

So here we are, as always, waiting for mystery re-enforcements. 

Aside from Tommy John situations, I'd argue that hammies are the nastiest issues. They're a certain six-weeks in the Ice Bucket Challenge, and they bring continual false hopes. Remember "Setback Sevy" Severino? There's nothing more dangerous than a player who is itching to test his hamstring, absolutely sure that it's good to go. Grish is 29. He better take his time.

In this case, Yank fans will, at least, get their wishes granted. We will soon see an outfield of The Martian, Belli and Spencer Jones - (Hey, can we nickname him for the old NY Giant star receiver, Homer Jones?) 

Since Grisham accepted the Yankee Qualifying Offer last winter - ensuring that Jones and the Martian would spend April and May in Scranton, we have waited to see what the two most interesting prospects in our farm system have to offer.

Soon, we will see everything. 

And in our hearts, we know what will happen.

Horrid. Healed. Hot. Hurt. Repeat as needed.

Game Thread Flashback – 2022 – (Hey - I really enjoyed El Duque's opening post today)

Bullpen

Bullpen (To the tune of Blackbird)

and with apologies to John Lennon and Paul McCartney

Blackburn pitching nowhere near the ninth.
Hoping for ground balls and shallow flies.
All your life…
Giving up a three run and letting the game get tied.

Jake Bird pitching nowhere near the ninth.
Hoping to command electric stuff.
All your life…
We are all still waiting for an outing that’s not rough.

Blackburn why?
Jake Bird why?
Do you both give up RBIs?

(Music)

Blackburn why?
Jake Bird why?
Are you where strong outings go to die. 

(Music)

Doval pitching nowhere near the ninth.
Cranking up a pitch to one-oh-two.
All your life…
No one knows where it is going. Especially not you.

We are stuck with all three and there’s nothing we can do.

We are stuck with all three and there’s nothing we can do.

We are stuck with all three and there’s nothing we can do.

Before he'll accept a trade to the Yankees, el Chapo wants an apology. Here's one.

Our dearest Aroldis,

Hope you're staying cool. For some reason, when I think of you enduring these 90-degree days of late, I get flashbacks to the Johnstown flood. 

Anyway, I see on the Interweb that you're still a bit miffed over how those mean old Yankees treated you, back in 2022. I couldn't agree more. You deserve an apology. 

It's hard to believe that those creepy management toadies fools left you - a great pitcher - off the Yankee playoff roster, simply because... 

a) you were getting regularly bombed. 

b) you were unable to throw strikes.
c) you let a new tattoo get infected, sending you to the IL.

and d) you missed a mandatory team practice. 

Why, the gall! The unmitigated gall! 

Not only that, but after the tattoo thing - and who doesn't have enough of them - those simpletons handed the closer role to Clay Holmes. And then, they had the nerve to suggest they did it simply because a few players hit walk-off HRs, leaving you to stand on the mound, smirking like Mr. Sardonicus, in much the way you must have looked after shooting up your ex-wife's garage, back in your madcap salad days, back when your trails of sweat didn't conjure comparisons to the 2021 Fukushima nuclear plant tsunami.  

I'm sorry, sir. O, how sorry I am! 

I'm sorry that your feelings were hurt by the bad people with the desks. And now, now, as the Redsocks prepare to dump trade you to - um - I'm sure that somebody, anybody, somewhere, will be delighted to hand their fate in 2026 to a petulant, 38-year-old toddler, who hasn't pitched a full season in the last four years. And it will soon be time to change venues once again.

Surely, I speak for the Yankiverse when I beg your forgiveness, allowing you to return to the team you so artfully destroyed in the early 2020s. Why, it would be like old times, watching you walk the first few batters! Maybe we can stage a reunion with Jose Altuve! Or Rafael Devers! Or Mike Brosseau!

O, well. I understand that you are a proud man. On that note, I hope you stay in Boston, to give the youngsters a role model. And next year... maybe the Mets? We can only dream.

With the Knicks overcoming their curse, maybe it's time to revisit the Juju Rules, starting with the first and most important one of all

"DO YOU BELIEVE IN MIRACLES?" I answered, "NO."

It's fair to say that every half-cogent NY baby boomer remembers where he or she was on the afternoon of Nov. 22, 1963, when the news came down: The president had been shot. The president was dead. The world had changed. You were no longer a kid...

For New Yorkers, next came the night of Feb. 22, 1980, in the sleepy Adirondacks town of Lake Placid. There, as the final seconds counted down, the immortal Al Michaels shouted, "DO YOU BELIEVE IN MIRACLES? YESSS!" as the USA hockey team somehow beat an all-world lineup from Russia. A moment frozen in time. We remember where we were.

For hardened NYers, there was the night of Nov. 18, 1985, when Lawrence Taylor hit Washington QB Joe Theismann so hard that he changed the dynamics of football, making Left Tackle the most important position on the line. Taylor broke Theismann's leg, a brutal blindside, and his frantic gestures for help were probably the greatest act of humanity in his violent career. We remember where we were.

There are other moments. 

Of course, Sept. 11, 2001, when the World Trade Center fell.  

Oct. 12, 2001, Derek Jeter's flip play at home plate, to nab Jason Giambi's brother. 

Nov. 8, 2016, Election Night, as the country chose Donald Trump. 

March 27, 2022, when Will Smith slapped Chris Rock during the Oscars.

July 13, 2024, the assassination attempt on Trump.

And then there is last night, when the Knicks - down by 29 - inscribed themselves into the cultural history of Gotham... and Hollywood. We will never forget where we were when OG Anunoby's hand soared in from outer space to score the winning basket with one second on the clock.

I certainly will never forget where I was.

In bed, sleeping. 

I'd watched the first half, seen enough. I trundled off to the Land of Nod, thanking my stars for not going whole-hog onto the Knicks/celebrity bandwagon. Nope. I reminded myself - they're still the Nixx, guaranteed to disappoint - be it against Reggie Miller or Wemby. They hadn't fooled me. And I was going to get a good night's sleep, maybe waking up only once to pee.

So, today I wear the shame of disbelief. My gravestone will say, "COWARD WENT BEDDY-BYE, MISSED KNICKS' COMEBACK." 

Do I believe in miracles? No. (And now, having made my bed, I must do it again in Game 5. The juju worked. Forget FOMO. I am a lost cause.)

Today's Game Thread – Car'Loss and Volp'EEEEE ! ! !

The Catching Conundrum and Other Stories

 

With the neck injury to Austin Wells, one that will be difficult if not impossible to truly come back from, the Yankees need a catcher. 

But who and from where? There are very few quality catchers left, not only in the Yankee farm system, but throughout baseball and there is a very good reason...

It’s a crappy job. The worst in baseball.

Crouching the whole game, wearing extra padding on 90+ degree days, taking foul balls off your head and bounced balls in the nuts, having to react in a millionth of a second to a 100 MPH fast ball thrown by a guy like Carman Doval who has NO idea where it’s going and, if it gets by you and the runner scores from third... people blame you.

Who needs that kind of aggravation?

Let’s face it, kids don’t want to be catchers anymore. Not even the bottom heavy, tough, slow ones.  

Speaking of... Last year’s MVP  candidate Cal Raleigh “The Big Dumper”  is shitting the bed this year, hitting a paltry .161 this year and is currently on the IL.  

Just an aside, after 2333 MLB at Bats Raleigh's lifetime BA is 222.   That’s Lloyd Hanes territory.

---

I spent the morning drinking Old Overholt and looking for solutions to the Yankees catching situation and to baseball's as well but all I could come up with, and it's long term is... people need to impregnate more Molinas. 

The real issue isn't finding catchers per se, it's finding catchers that can hit. 

It's kind of inexplicable. Why aren't catchers better hitters? 

They see more pitches than anyone else by a lot. Well over one hundred a game. They see the spins. They gage the speeds, Track the movement of the ball... 

Is the issue that their gloves are so big that they only need to approximate where the ball is going to end up? Whereas with a bat being off, even by as little as a quarter of an inch is the difference between a hit and pop up.

Even if this is true you'd think they would walk more because they should be able to tell what pitch is going to be a ball right out of the pitchers hand. 

I can't figure it out.

---

Wemby knew that the league couldn't call a flagrant foul. 

Why? Because he already has one on the books for an earlier dirty play.  

His next one carries an automatic one game suspension. There is no way that the corrupt and shameless NBA commissioner would suspend him during the finals.  Consequently he was freed to be as dirty as he wanted. 

International marketing face of the league. 

Think Othani and gambling. 

Hard to be a fan of anything these days. 

--

Jose Ramirez...  clone or unacknowledged child?  No other explanation. 

---

The Knicks face a staggeringly powerful juju curse. Ten warnings from The Abyss.

Our world exists to be discussed by twosomes. Vladimir and Estragon on the hill. Charlie Brown and Linus in the pumpkin patch. John and Suzyn in the booth... 

O, to be a fly in the MSG owner's box Monday night, as drooping eyelids and long, liquid breaths suddenly changed conversation into soliloquy.  

On that note, here's mine: Ten singular thoughts on the NYC condition, which now faces existential dread.

1. Soul-crushing Knicks owner James Dolan launched a massive curse Monday night, when he hosted Donald Trump. You don't invite the vampire into your house. This was a juju atomic bomb, from which the Knicks will not recover. In every game thus far, the Spurs have improved. Tonight, a blow-out.  

2. Gotta think the Yankees - watching NYC go bonkers over the Knicks - must imagine themselves riding down the Canyon of Heroes in a pandemonium of good cheer. If (and when) the Trump-stricken Knicks fail, the city will grow even more rabid for a world championship.

3. JM is right. (See below.) This cannot go on. Anthony Volpe is not hitting, and his defense grows shoddier by the day. This is Year Three of the Volpe experiment. It's not working. The guy plays hard, hustles, cheers his teammates: It's not a failure of character. But either Jose Caballero (or Max Schuemann) takes over at SS, or George Lombard Jr. should get the call. As for Volpe? I doubt he'll be a Yankee after July 31.

4. I just realized something scary: Next year, we will be watching the '27 Yankees.

5. Spencer Jones' massive HR last night, his first in MLB, did something rather rare: It scored two runs. Throughout his minor league career, Jones has been streaky. Could he start something? And could his HRs come with runners on base? 

6. Tampa won last night, maintaining their one game lead in the loss column. It's too early to play scoreboard. But until the Yankees pass the Rays, they're in the wild card ghetto. 

7. Jose Ramirez just kills us. Game after game. Guy is 33, he looks like a college dorm refrigerator, and he has 24 stolen bases. Twenty-four. Tied for the MLB lead. He hitting only .241, but no other MLB batter scares me more. Twenty-four SBs? WTF? 

8. Yankee bullpen held up heroically over the last two nights. But you can feel it burning out. Multi-inning saves in early June? That's how you develop Scott Proctors. Today, Carlos Rodon needs to go seven. But he's on a pitch count, too. We can't go on like this.

9. In June, Ben Rice is hitting .231 with one HR. He's pressing. I think Rice was benefiting from the Post-Judge Sigh Derangement Syndrome: The pitcher just faced the game's biggest slugger, so he relaxes. Rice jumped on mistakes. Now, he follows Trent Grisham. Aint the same.

10. Gerrit Cole's facial expressions last night were troubling. He looked genuinely concerned over his inability to secure strike three. You wonder if he has fully adjusted to his new, post-surgery reality.  He will. Eventually. I think. Maybe...

And now, a carefully considered, deeply researched, and meticulously presented analysis of our shortstop

Jesus fucking Christ, Volpe is terrible. 

He can't hit. He can't field consistently. David Cone says he works sooooo hard, he's really trying. I'll say he's trying. He's the most trying player on the goddamn roster.

He is now batting .190. McMahon is showing some signs of life, outhitting the hometown failure, while our catchers still can't hit for beans.

This can't go on. Volpe is getting worse, just as he has for three years now. And there's no injury excuse this time.

Boone is an idiot. Cashman is incompetent. Poor Volpe is just not a major leaguer, maybe he never will be, and what the Yankees have done to him by pushing him to this point is criminal.

Game Thread – Tuesday Swoon Ninth – 202SUX

Dear Influencers of the Yankiverse (You know who you are.) Enough with the Judge-replacement theories

Lars Nootbaar? Byron Buxton? Adley Rutschman? Your momma? That's it! Enough! We're done here! You're either stupid, or you hate America! Turn off the microphone, darling! This is over, Piggy! 

What? Huh? You're still here? Oh, I get it. You were watching the Knicks, anyway. Enough with the trade talk! Enough!

Ever since Aaron Judge went down with the bum rib - ribberty-bibberty! - the interweb has been bubbling-over with ridiculous, clickbait trade rumors, none of which make sense, aside from displaying the warped minds of people suffering from Volpe Derangement Syndrome, which has rotted our peanut-sized brains.

Listen: The last thing the Death Barge needs to do right now is trade what's left of our farm system for a two-month outfield replacement, or a rent-me veteran shortstop, or a catcher in the final throes of his contract. There is no reason to package whatever talent we have left in Scranton, or Somerset, or the back alleys of Tampa, for an OF who, come September, will simply add to the bottleneck of clogged baseball arteries. 

The Yankees have one play, one...

With Judge out, probably through mid-August, they must give Spencer Jones and Jasson Dominguez full-scale opportunities to show what they've got - even if it's nothing.

And yes, the means watching Jones attempt to hit with a stance that looks like he's taking a dump while practicing goat yoga. He's curled up and struggling like the way Clint Frazier once did, before the Yankees pulled the plug. Jones has a vicious, violent, uppercut swing, and when he does finally connect, it will be a 450-foot blast with an exit velo that causes David Cone to giggle another punk tune from the eighties, but I'm wondering if, instead of Blondie, we'll be seeing the reincarnation of Ron Kittle.  

Last night, Jones went 1-4 with three strikeouts, swinging through curve balls the way Trump goes through Diet Cokes. Fortunately, most of the Yankiverse was watching the Knicks game. And more fortunately, the Martian will soon return from his rehab in Scranton. From there, either Jones hits, or we go to Plan B: Jasson Dominguez, for at least another two weeks. 

After that, I suppose we can try Yanquiel Fernandez, a stepped-on former Rockies prospect, who has 13 HRs in Scranton, plus a cannon-arm. What we don't need is Nootbaar. Or Buxton. Or somebody that rips apart the current reality. 

Don't get me wrong. The Yankees will need bullpen lug nuts. Last night, they used an unsustainable eight pitchers to beat Cleveland. Had they not scored two runs in the 10th - if the game had, say, gone into the 11th or 12th, they would have either needed to cut into the rotation, or sent out a position player to pitch. (And they had run out of position players, as well.) You can't use eight pitchers per game.

And you can't trade the house for a two-month replacement. You hear me, Piggy? You just can't. Huh? The Knicks lost? WTF? How do I get outahere?