The Son becomes the Father and the Father becomes the . . . . WRONG ! Resurrection Day Game Thread

 Statistically Speaking . . . He's around.  He's always around.

Jazz Chisholm phones one in. Did he just summon the juju gods?

Stop me if you heard this one.

Guy walks into a bar. Bartender says, "What'll'ya'have?" Guy deliberates, takes his time, slurs the reply. And the Yankees lose.

Not exactly Maury Amsterdam. But last night, if you watched the ninth, or if you looked at social media today, you know that the juju gods emerged to blemish, if not threaten, the Yankees' 7-1 start, best record in baseball. 

It happened innocently. Two No outs, Yanks up by three, nobody on. Snore. Guy hits a routine grounder to second. Jazz grabs it, deliberates, takes out his phone, texts his mom, scratches himself, checks email, wipes his ass, then tosses a rainbow to first. The Marlin, busting ass, beats it. WTF? Game should be over. Instead, the roof early caves. Seven batters later, tying runs on base, the Marlins finally lose. By now, X is a prison riot: pitchforks and Bimbofication pix. What shoulda been an enjoyable, come-from-behind win ends in an existential crisis for a critical player. 

A teachable moment? Or time to punt? Some points to ponder.

1. Chisholm is a special case of arrested development. He was born in Nassau. When he was 2, his gramma started teaching him to hit. At age 12, he was sent to a sports factory in Nebraska, where he played everything. After high school, he went to a baseball academy. You wonder. Did the Guy ever have a childhood? 

2. Two years ago, when the Yankees appeared at the Little League World Series in wondrous Williamsport, Jazz befriended a 12-year-old fan. In their conversations, captured on video, you could see the joy of a new friendship, a little kid getting a chance to meet - in this case - the little leaguer. They are said to still be in touch (though that might be p.r. myth-making.) Kids...

3. Last week, when Jazz was mic'ed for an inning on network TV, you could see his absolute delight in being out there, in front of the world. He's still a kid, taking it all in. I'm not saying this is bad. But he's not Paul Goldschmidt. And the thing about little kids: They can get down on things. They can think nobody cares. Can the Yankees afford to have such a person at one of their most important positions?  

4. Jazz hasn't exactly been lighting up the box scores. He's 6 for 33 (.194) and is tied for the team lead in strikeouts (12, with Aaron Judge.) Last night, he went 0-5, was having a certifiable bomb of a night. But he has been running wild on the bases: his 4 SBs are tied for the most in baseball. 

5. Now and then, you wonder, "What would Billy do?" (And the answer is, you donne wanna know." It's scary, what Billy Martin might have done. For starters, he might have trotted out Bobby Meachem to finish the game, forcing Jazz to leave in a rain of boos. Elston Howard might have had to separate them in the dugout. (Or maybe Reggie, wouldn't that be delicious?) That's not Boone's style and, to be honest, that's probably a good thing. Let him chew his gum. The last thing we need is a regional dispute that escalates into World War III. Especially when you're leading the AL East by three and you're five up on Boston. 

6. Like it or not, the Yankees have nobody to replace him. Technically, I suppose Amed Rosario would get the call. But if you want stress over grounders, he's your man. Anthony Volpe should return next month. If Jazz doesn't have his act together by then, there's your change. But two winters ago, we traded the guy who would fill that position: Caleb Durbin is 2-for-25, batting .080, for Boston. 

7. Today, the Marlins are throwing a RH pitcher named Chris Paddack, and his ERA is 18.00. (Exactly the kind of numbers that make you expect the Yankees to get shutout.) A righty. You'd expect Jazz to play. He will hear some boos. He needs a big game. A big game, and he will ascend. It's a big day for resurrections, I hear. 

Weathers I'm Right, or Weathers I'm Wrong. Weathers I find a place in this world, or Never Belong ◊ Game Thread

 

I've gotta be Me, I've gotta be Me

What else can I be, but what I Yam

So, so sad.

 

The Yankees are off to a great start, but do we dare dismiss the Unknown Unknowns?

Best in the AL East. Best record in the AL. Best record in baseball. Best team pitching (1.16 ERA). Best with the robot umps. Second best in stolen bases (11, behind only Milwaukee.) Four games up on Boston...  

Six wins in seven games. 

God in his heaven, right?

Well, maybe. Unfortunately, as we all know, what matters remains in a distant galaxy - far, far away and a long, long time from now, aka "October."  Can this team finish 2026 with six of seven?

And what of the world? As we drift into another war, I'm recalling 2001 and the late Donald Rumsfeld, a classic character in humanity's troubled recurring history: Old men sending young men off to war. Rummy spoke of "known knowns" and "unknown unknowns," and I made a pretty penny by setting his words to poetry.

There are known knowns.

There are things we know we know.

We also know there are known unknowns.

That is to say,

We know there are some things we do not know.

But there are also unknown unknowns

The ones we don't know we don't know.

Lately, I'm imagining old Rummy checking the headlines and chuckling, way down there. Yesterday, two young U.S. pilots were shot down, and you could go back to the days of Cheney & the Rumster to remember the horror of seeing one of our boys held captive by an enemy we helped create. 

Ah, but this is a Yankees blog. Forgive me. Let's stay on topic.

THE YANKEES' CURRENT KNOWN KNOWNS. 

1. Aaron Judge will hit 50 HRs.

2. Giancarlo will miss at least two months with injuries.

3. Max Fried will be the staff ace.

4. Cody Bellinger will play solid LF.

5. The middle of the lineup, from 2-to-5, will function as our own Strait of Hormuz for opposing pitchers.   

6. The bottom of our lineup, from 6-to-9, won't deliver squat. 

7. The bullpen will eventually crack from the strain.

8. The wild card will be our salvation.

THE YANKEES' CURRENT KNOWN UNKNOWNS.

1. The ceiling of Cam Schlittler.

2. The returns of Gerrit Cole and Carlos Rodon.

3. Anthony Volpe.

4. Minor league pitchers Carlos Lagrande and Elmer Rodriguez.

5. Scranton's mystery OF: The Martian and Spencer Jones.

6. Does Bednar last a season?

THE YANKEES CURRENT UNKNOWN UNKNOWNS.

Damn...  this gets scary. What happens in July and August, when the front office feels compelled to make its trades?

Six of seven. They say a win in April is just as important as a win in September.

Unless you consider the things we don't consider...

The Bronx – April III – Yankees √s Marlins – Will Warren Win ? Will Judge Find His Swing ? – Will Boone Swallow His Blow ?

While the world roils, the Yankees celebrate opening day.

So, here we are. 

Opening day in the House that Rudy Built.  

One game up in the AL East, with only 156 left.

A staff that has yielded six runs in 54 innings.

A looming cupcake caravan - the Marlins, A's, Rays, Angels and Royals - until Boston on April 22. 

Leading MLB in umpire-torturing ABS overturns.

MLB's second highest BA (among qualifiers): Giancarlo, at .500. 

The MLB leader in saves: David Bednar (with 3).

"Original" Ben Rice, with an OPS of 1.289.

In first, despite Aaron Judge batting .160. 

Trump threatening to bomb Iran into the stone age.

A government that prefers Kid Rock to Bruce. 

A country that - oh, hell with this. 

Why bother? You get the picture. The Yankees are winning, and nobody wants to hear me whinny about Brian Kashman Patel. We all should just shut up and enjoy April, the month of Yangervis Solartes and tornados, when every team is a contender and - besides, whatever we do this month will be eclipsed by the looming slumps of July and August, when the lineup's advanced age goes from Advantage to Liability.  

Why fret over August and September? It feels like they'll never get here. What will happen is what always happens: We will wake up around the July 31 trade deadline, with the Yankees is a few players shy of a wild card slot, so a bunch of prospects will be loaded onto a bus and sent to Pittsburgh or Milwaukee, or wherever the front office believes will be safe from immediate embarrassment. 

We will wake up on one of those endless summer days and realize that everything has changed, and the tomato cans of April, the teams that valued youth over creakiness, are ready eat our lunches. As for the world? Here's what the poet, Charles Bukowski, said...

"sometimes, you've got to kill 4 or 5
thousand men before you somehow
get to believe that the sparrow 
is immortal, money is piss and
that you have been wasting
your time."

Okay, it's opening day and, frankly, we're doing better than we had a right to expect. June looks a hundred years away. A lotta shit is gonna fly. Better enjoy this while we can. And how 'bout that Giancarlo!

Requiem for a Morning Glory.

 

So word came a few days ago that Ken Clay had passed away at the age of 71. 

Many of us here will remember Ken Clay, one of another generation of can't-miss pitchers from the 1970s who the Yankees—even before Brian Cashman's day—managed to squander in bad trades and bad decisions.

Is there anything sadder than a promising young pitcher who never makes it?

Ken Clay was supposed to be one of those unstoppable young talents. He had an up-and-down minor-league career, but he seemed to have figured it out early in 1977, going 5-1, 1.68 at Syracuse. The Yanks brought him up.

The "morning glory" epithet came from George Steinbrenner. May the failings of his son never let us forget what a first-class, gigantic, ignorant prick mad old George was. He was quick to get off similar barbs aimed at other young pitchers who displeased him. 

There was his unforgettable characterization of Hideki Irabu, as a "fat, pus-sy toad." I think it was Jim Beattie he accused of "spitting the bit"—like "morning glory," a term for an underperforming horse. But then, his players were always just so much more horseflesh for George, creatures that existed for him only in so much as they pleased or failed him, imbued with personalities that existed only in George's head.

Then there was Billy Martin, who never met a young pitcher whose arm he couldn't ruin.

Unsurprisingly, Ken Clay never flourished in the Bronx Zoo. But he did have his moment of glory. In the first game of the 1978 ALCS, with Martin gone (for the time being) and a rational human being running the club, the Yankees found themselves desperately short of pitching. 

The club had just finished its astounding, comeback run from 14 behind Boston, capped by the one-game playoff in Fenway. A lot of people thought they might be done for the year, that incredible rally a good enough moral victory. When they pulled into Kansas City, all they had to throw out there against a strong Royals team, seething for revenge after two straight, heart-ripping playoff losses, was a young rookie named Jim Beattie, who had never so much as pitched a complete game.

Beattie was a little wild that night, as who wouldn't be in such a situation. He walked five, but gave up only two hits, and going into the bottom of the sixth, somehow the Yanks had a 4-0 lead. Beattie was soon over 100 pitches, though, and out of gas. With two on and one out, Manager Bob Lemon turned to...Ken Clay.

Clay was lights-out. He gave up a sacrifice fly to the fearsome Hal McRae, the first batter he faced, then got Al Cowens to end the inning. In the seventh, he gave up a walk, but induced no less than George Brett to ground out and end the frame. Reggie Jackson soon put the icing on the cake with a three-run blast, and Clay finished the game, 3 2/3 innings without allowing a hit. The Yanks were on their way to a second straight world championship.

That was about it for Ken Clay, in the game, and his life, sadly enough. After an awful 1979 season, he was traded to Texas for Gaylord Perry, and out of baseball after 1981. He never seemed able to adjust. Repeatedly convicted of theft, grand larceny, and forgery, he had spent at least seven years in prison by 2012. 

Some make the transition to real life with all its shortcoming. Some don't.

Jim Beattie—dealt away in another stupid trade, this one for Ruppert Jones—ended up having some very decent years...in Seattle. Tippy Martinez and Scott McGregor, shipped to Baltimore to pick up insurance for a 1976 race the Yanks already had well in hand, ended up having excellent careers...for the Orioles.

A pitcher who was thought to have an even brighter future than any of them was Gil Patterson, another young righty who fell victim to the Yanks' longtime indifference to common sense when it comes to developing young arms. 

Patterson went a combined 16-4, 2.44 at two levels of the minors in 1976, conquering Triple-A at just 20. The next season he was brought up to the big club, and astonished everyone.

After he struck out 8 Red Sox in 5 2/3 innings of a losing effort, Carl Yastrzemski called him one of the best young pitchers he had ever seen, and said his stuff was harder to hit than Nolan Ryan's.  

But Patterson's arm was already throbbing with pain, after having been used on a cold minor-league night, or for one inning too many by Billy Martin. The stories vary. Gil Patterson tried everything he could to come back, even teaching himself to pitch lefthanded. But he was done.

George Steinbrenner, in one of his moments of grand largesse, discovered Patterson parking cars at a Fort Lauderdale restaurant in 1983, and offered him a job "coaching for life" in the Yankees system. "Life" ended the next year, when Gil Patterson refused to keep a sore-armed Al Leiter out on a minor-league mound. Leiter eventually became a major-league star, of course, and called Patterson, "one of the best pitching coaches anywhere."  

Patterson got to the majors again as a coach, and was widely lauded—even beloved—by people whose careers he didn't save. Despite having his greatest dreams dashed, he was able to hang on, bring out the best in himself, have a life worth living. 

We all react to adversity in different ways. It's never easy, but it's best to try to hang on to that person inside you, despite of what society, or a bloated blowhard like George Steinbrenner, or a sad, warped psychopath like Billy Martin might think of you.  

Call this a homily for Maundy Thursday.

Let's see if we can bring that down

Earlier this week The Athletic published its survey of baseball fans' optimism, ranked by team. We Yankee fans came in at 22nd (!) out of 30, between the Marlins and the White Sox. Yes: We have slightly less optimism than the Miamiphiles, and a hair more faith than the Pope. 

The green bar represents the percentage of optimistic fans; the orange bar represents IT IS HIGH. 

 

It's not Judge, Gio or Jazz. Within the Yankiverse, everything swirls around Ben Rice, and the juju gods of product endorsements are starting to take notice

 O, to be Ben Rice! 

Perched nightly in the geological and spiritual center of the Yankiverse - that is, two hitters behind Judge & Belli, and two ahead of Gio & Jazz -between Scylla and Charybdis, the Yankees' Strait of Hormuz. 

Last year, that fivesome hit 163 HRs, of which Rice contributed 26, which was, fun fact, his age.

Thus far in '26, every time he steps to the plate, something is cooking - and it's not necessarily rice. Often, the pitcher is peeing himself from having survived the game's greatest hitter and one of its cagiest. (Imagine, a batter who chokes up with two strikes.) Or it's not urine at all. He's halfway through the carwash, scrambling to plug the spray.

Rice may be the first Yankee-grown star whose entrance to the NYC pressure cookier was rescued by the newfangled stat of exit velo - that is, by miles per hour, rather than outcome per at-bat. He hasn't as Wee Williie once said, "hit 'em where dey aint." Nope. He hit 'em where dey is - often at a well-placed 2B or RF, that is, unless the ball leaves the park. Cuz dey aint in the bleachers.

Yesterday, in the win over Seattle, Rice went 2-3 with HR and a walk. Thus far, he's hit in every game. Woopie-doo. It's fucking April 2, fer kricesake. The YES team, famously known to gaslight young stars, has gushed over Rice's improved defense at 1B. But, honestly, it's not Micheal Kay blather. The guy has put in the work. He's made himself a legit 1B. 

And now, his future has been blessed - or at least acknowledged - by the juju gods of product endorsement. Rice has signed the most perfect sponsorship deal since George Herman gulped down his first Baby Ruth. He's endorsing Ben's Original Rice, which - ironically? or mockingly? - is owned by the Mars food company, which must surely be aware of Jasson Dominguez. You have to wonder: Could The Martian, at 23, exactly where Rice was four years ago, someday get a Mars Bar?

And why stop there? Surely, other Yanks deserve product endorsements. 

Max Fried Chicken. 
Ryan AccuWeathers
Jake Angry Bird
Paul Gold Bon Skin Lotion Goldschmidt
Elmer's Glue Rodriguez 

(Yikes. That bit sure ran too long. Should've quit after Fried.) But - wait, back to the Yankees - down in Scranton, The Martian homered yesterday! His first of the season. (He's 5-for-17, hitting .294.) He's no Paul Blair, in fact, he spectacularly blew a fly ball in game one, a video that went viral. But we cannot give up. In spring training, the guy hit .347 with 4 HRs. He was right up there with Spencer Gifts Jones (Wait... is Spencer Gifts still a thing?) who - sadly - struck out four times yesterday for Scranton. (Ugh. So much for that fantasy.) 

Last week, we put Ben Rice's HR total as a tie-breaker for the 2026 IT IS  HIGH predictions contest. That's because, until further notice, he sits in the center of the Yaniverse. So, have a dish of Long Grain! O, to be Ben Rice.

Cam Can, Cam Can, Cam Can, right Cash? ? I pity the (April) Fool ! (game thready thingy)

 

Yank fans better enjoy this, because it cannot last.

 Another shutout. Another stress-free ninth. 

How crazy is this?

1. We're winning without production from Aaron Judge. Last night, he blinged an 0-4 - which normally means the team falls apart. Instead, the heart of the order came through. 

2. Max Fried looks unbeatable. Last night, he skated. He's 32. Last season, his 2.86 ERA and 19 wins - most in AL - amounted to a career year. Could he beat it?  

3. Even the comedy team of Headrick & Hill finished with a poetic flourish. 

Headrick & Hill
To Victoryville! 

4. Who needs a bottom third of the lineup? Last night: a healthy 0-12. 

5. Giancarlo seems to be running wild. Last night, he took second on a wild pitch that barely skipped away, then head-butted the ball from the SS's mitt. It was the kind of play that usually costs him a month on the IL. Listen: He'll soon get hurt. We all know this. But it's nice to see him go for broke.

6. I keep saying this, but the April schedule offers a string of tomato cans. There is no reason why the Yankees should not be in 1st around May 15, when Carlos Rodon could return. (With Gerrit Cole on the brink.)  

7. It's almost - well - I don't wanna jinx this, but - criminey! - it's almost going too good. There. I said it. Should we be worried? Jeepers, yeah. I mean, there's gotta be a correction looming. For the rest of this season, the Yankee staff will not throw 3 out of 4 shutouts. This is not the 1964 Dodgers. But we have one option: Enjoy it, while it lasts.

8. Over the years, West Coast trips have haunted us. Maybe the way to exorcize those demons is to start the year there, get it out of our system? 

9. I sorta feel sorry for MLB umpires, who are watching their reputations get shredded by the new ABS system. They are also losing control. (Everyone thought the robot umps would end rhubarbs and ejections; if anything, they seem to be contributing to them.) I wonder if there won't be a backlash against the murderous, flesh-chopping machines. Nobody is challenging their scoreboard displays, which do NOT show the travel of a ball across the three-dimensional plane. Are we seeing true balls and strikes, or are we seeing simple mechanized versions of the strike zone, which do not make them necessarily better than the human component. Thank you for your attention to this matter. ED

PS: According to late report, Carlos Rodon tweaked a hammy during his rehab, and it will probably mean missed time. Seriously, and this isn't a knock on Rodon, but is anybody surprised? Of course it was gonna happen. The Yankees simply do not go through an entire spring training without injuries. 

Tuesday Game Thread Caption Time – Seattle Edition – Goodbye March !

Fried Funk or did Boone Fart again ?

Overturned calls are fulfilling and fun, but ABS cannot rescue the Yankees from IBS

 
Last night, in ghastly cold Seattle, where hamstrings can snap like a babysitter's chewing gum, the Yankees continued their communal feast/revenge tour on human umpires, via ABS, the new Automatic Balls and Strikes reality. 

They overturned five close calls on pitches, to be christened by The Athletic as the MLB team most likely to benefit from ABS. 

And it led to... drum roll, please... a run.

Yep. One run. All night. Five overturned calls. Five second chances. 

One stinking run. 

Listen: Every season is full of games like last night, dive-bar cocktails of well shaken hope, mixed with bitters of dread. You coax a dutiful start from your fourth starter, a guy with microscopic expectations, and then, as the innings burn off, you forget your pregame vow of apathy, and you start to believe the Yankees might steal a game... which then slithers between your fingers, with Scott Proctor, Adam Ottavino, Ian Hamilton Paul Blackburn on the mound. Forget ABS. It's IBS we should fear. 

As always, it's the little things. Jose Caballero getting picked off first. The bottom of the lineup going 1-12. The bullpen, creaky from overuse in San Francisco. 

Irritabelle, from
another era

A West Coast time zone, too late to be accepted as reality.

Listen: There will always be games like last night. They're actually quite common, maybe 15 per season. As soon as you get hopeful - and they reel you in so delicately that you don't even know they're doing it - they slap a walk-off single and slam the door.

Five overturned calls. One run. 

I wonder how long the Yankees will maintain an advantage with the ABS system? (If, in fact, they truly have one at all.) Yes, they have veteran hitters and, yes, they have two catchers skilled in the art of framing pitches. But they just pissed away a decent start from Ryan Weathers and five overturned calls. So much for that great, season-opening, self-congratulating win streak.  

Two more games in Seattle, then a relatively easy schedule through April. Cupcakes and tomato cans. And perhaps an advantage to exploit. But they better not have more games like last night. And they better watch those hammies.

On an off-day for the Mother Ship, down in Triple A, The Martian and Mr. Jones start hot

Yesterday, while the Yankees cruised the coast, up to Seattle - the city of Windows '95 - the Railriders of Scranton were shivering in Buffalo, Bronze winner in the 2026 Golden Snowball contest for upstate NY cities. (Note: It was won by Syracuse, the UCONN women's basketball program of snowfall, with 141 inches - or 11.5 feet.) 

After being frozen-out on Saturday, Scranton played two against the Buffalo Bisons, a farm of hateful Toronto, the Gainesville of Canada. 

Fortunately, our two most promising hitters, Jasson Dominguez and Spencer Jones, seem to have avoided an early Cashman Derangement Syndrome slump. At least, not yesterday. Here's what the kids did:

Jasson Dominguez: 3-for-8, three singles, an RBI, one K.

Spencer Jones: 3-for-8, a HR, 2 RBIs, 3 Ks.

Oswaldo Cabrera: 0-for-7, 3 Ks. 

Yanquiel Fernandez (an interesting 23-year-old Cuban OF castoff, via the Rockies): 1-for-8, a HR (his 2nd on the season), 3 Ks.

On the mound, Carlos "Radar Love" Lagrange pitched 4, fanned 3, gave up a run.

It's too soon to say nuthin. (Not that that ever stops us.) At least Dominguez and Jones are not mired in a hitless funk, depressed from being in Buffalo rather than the Pacific Northwest.  

Tonight, Ryan Weathers pitches. God knows how he'll do. If spring training showed anything, we're in trouble. To get Weathers, the Yankees went Flo - they bundled their home, life and car insurance - a full package of prospects. In Tampa, he pitched 17.1 innings and gave up 17 earned runs. If you're doing the math at home, for your own sake, stop.  

For Weathers, the Yankees paid heavily, then pretended they didn't, doubling down with Cat-4 hype. Ever since, he's been The Babadook. Thus far, our starting rotation has been otherworldly. We know this cannot last. And if Weathers doesn't start showing something, calls for Lagrange are going to increase. 

Technically, these April games matter. Spiritually, I'm not so sure. But tonight could be telling... 

Yesterday was just another day in the City by the Bay . . .

Started off like any other Saturday . . .

Rode on the Oracle Ferry - docked at the Ballpark . . . 

Everything seemed welcomingly familiar . . .

It was all "getaway day" business for the Yankees Players . . .

Chad Whitson may need to reevaluate his life choices . . .

Yankees Sweep !  Took the ferry back home . . .

This was the first time in seven years that I went to a Giants home game.  I would always go to see the Yankees play in Oakland so there was no reason to go see baseball in San Francisco.  The concession prices were easily 40-50% more than they were in Oakland in 2024.  (That is a huge difference in cost.)  Plus it was the first Fiesta Gigantes Saturday of the season. Every Saturday home game the Giants "celebrate latino culture" by featuring live music and entertainment before, during and after the game.  It was crazy, festive and loud in between innings.  Then, once the game was over the Yankees players and staff were quickly herded off the field by Jason Zillo and were gone.

When The Singularity arrives, and humanity is eradicated, the automatons might view Saturday's Yankee game as the fulcrum point of history.

Saturday, on national TV, veteran home plate ump Chad Whitson did humanity no favors.

And the game of baseball changed, forever.

In last night's 3-1 Yankee win over San Francisco, seven Automatic Ball and Strike challenges reversed calls by umpire Whitson. One, in the 3rd, turned a called-third strike on Trent Grisham into ball three, leading to a walk and a run. Another, in the 9th, nearly led to a Giants rally. Whitson started the game as its Supreme and Undisputed Boss. He finished looking like a castrated flyspeck, a vestigial organ perched ornamentally behind the catcher.

Never again will home plate bullies - the mistake-prone Richie Garcia or the arrogant "Cowboy" Joe West - decide the outcome of ball games. 

From now on, the faceless, lifeless eyeball of A.I. - the HAL 9000 of sports: ("I'm sorry, Dave, I'm afraid I can't do that") - will overturn calls that were accepted for more than a century.  

From now on, a K is not a K, until the ABS challenge is complete. 

And damn... here's the rub: 

I dunno if we should celebrate this... or fight it with all we got.

Soon, every stat, every outcome, every disputed play that was to eventually become a vagary of the game... they'll be gone. Someone will hit .400. Or a pitcher will throw back-to-back perfect games. Everything we once took for granted will be subject to review. Baseball history is no more.

This week, the Yankees swept SF. But the real winner was The Machine. For now, teams are allowed only two wrongful challenges per game. That rule will not hold. After all, why should a bad call in the ninth - or any time - be allowed? 

Every fan remembers at least one at-bat - a called third strike in the dirt, or a bases loaded walk, right down the middle - so botched by the home ump that we screamed at the TV and kicked the puppy, and - frankly, we will take the outrage to our graves. Never again, right? Well, we'll soon get our wish. 

But I wonder: Did baseball just kick humanity in the balls?

No Kings Day – San Francisco – 03/28/26 – ABOVE AVERAGE IS IN DA'GIANT HOUSE

WHAT WILL WARREN DO TODAY IN THE CITY BY THE BAY ?

 

"The dogs bark, but the caravan moves on."

 

Among the many things that Stephen A. Smith knows nothing about is, obviously, baseball.

Smith's random jeer at Aaron Judge the other day—after the Yankees won their opener, 7-0—referred to Judge as a "Goliath of a man," as if Judge's physical size should give him some invincible advantage in the game.

Yet there's a good reason why nobody remotely Judge's size has ever played major-league baseball at this level before, and it is that being very tall and very large confuses home-plate umpires and affords crafty pitchers all sorts of weak spots to hit if they can.

Someone who actually knows something about the game would understand this. But of course, Stephen A. Smith knows nothing about baseball.

Smith also tells us that in, "Too many moments," Judge "comes up considerably and conspicuously small"—clearly implying that the Yankees' Opening Day contest against a mediocre team not in their division or their league is a big moment.  

Anybody who really knows anything about the game of baseball knows that this "moment" was only considerable or conspicuous because a big corporate media sponsor decided to "buy" Opening Day and festoon it with all sorts of ads for its other, decidedly mediocre products.

But then, Stephen A. Smith knows nothing about baseball.

"Everybody around him came up big but him," Smith told us—as if we really needed Judge to, say, whack a finishing, three-run homer that would have turned a 7-0 game into a 10-0 game.

Anybody who really knows anything about baseball knows that it's great if the whole team is hitting, and that if the big kahuna doesn't get a poke that day, probably all the better, because it's all the more likely to come in a game where you really need it. 

As it did for Aaron Judge, in the very next game of the season.

But then, how was Stephen A. Smith supposed to know that? Stephen A. Smith, after all, knows nothing about baseball.  

The Contrarian feels that we really shouldn't hold this against Stephen A. Smith because Stephen A. Smith is not really supposed to know anything about sports. Because even though Stephen A. Smith appears constantly on channels and in shows, and on all sorts of other forums that claim to give us first-rate sports analysis, he is really just an "entertainer"—much like a rodeo clown, or a burlesque house tumler, or maybe the current president of the United States of America, which is a position that Stephen A. Smith apparently now aspires to.

Okay. But true wit proceeds from knowledge. 

Even the most foul-mouthed, obscene and transgressive of entertainers—say, Robert Smigel's Triumph, the Insult Comic Dog—manage to strike a deeper vein, if they are any good.  

Last week, on Stephen Colbert's show—canceled, in an unprecedented move, by the proto-Stephen A. Smith who currently resides in the White House he has so foully vandalized—Triumph went through his usual, filthy tirade...and ended by saying how Colbert was being canceled "for financial reasons only."

Smigel was willing and able to mock the powers that be throttling what used be the "Tiffany Network" of television, by dismissing their excuse for blatant, craven censorship. 

It was speaking truth to power—as opposed to what Stephen A. Smith prefers to do, which is to spew insults from a place of ignorance. 

Judging by what the American people now seem to prefer in a leader, Mr. Smith should be a lock in 2028.

 

 

Undefeated, untied and unscored-upon! Yanks could celebrate an Easter of Tomato Cans

Let's face it: Over the first two games, it wasn't certain if we were playing the San Francisco Giants, the team of Willie Mays, or the Jersey Giants, of Brian Daboll. Two remarkably stress-free victories over a team that played a 3B at 1B, and a DH at 2B. It just didn't seem real. Maybe, it wasn't.

Next up - after SF tonight - three in Seattle. Do they still have Jay Buhner?

Then three at home against lowly Miami. 

Then three at home against the homeless A's. 

Three against Tampa at George M Field.

Four against the Angels, LA's ugly sister.

Three against KC. 

The first four weeks resemble a march of animated tomato cans. It will be April 21 before the Death Barge faces a truly hateful foe - Boston, Houston and Texas will be lined up - and there is no reason why the Yankees should not be leading the AL East.

You almost don't want to say anything, or write anything, for fear of upsetting the bingo board. The Yankees can be their own cupcakes. But but BUT... 

1. If Max Fried and Cam Schlittler are for real, the chances of holding the pitching staff together until Rodon/Cole return suddenly look much better.

2. Hot or cold, Judge and Giancarlo still scare the hell out of opposing pitchers. 

3. In Scranton, the Martian went 1-5 (one K), and Spencer Jones 1-4 (Two K's.) Oswaldo played SS and went 1-5 (two K's.) And the pitching staff threw yet another shutout. 

Monday, Will Warren starts game three. It's one of those horrible West Coast starts, at 9:05 p.m., where everything seems out of kilter. Warren had a great spring, was the Yankees best starter. No jinxing here. Let's see what happens.

The Yankees are undefeated - just like Boston, Baltimore and Toronto. No tomatoes to be had.

Boone wants to give the platoon guys a chance to play

 

The media narrative on Aaron Judge is loathsome and tired.

Yesterday, midway barker Stephen A. Smith did what he is paid to do - create flames from broken wind - and the mere fact that you are reading this proves that he succeeded.

On that note, I apologize. 

The Yankees just enjoyed the most pleasurable 24-hour stretch in memory, beating up on the hapless, itinerant San Francisco Giants in a laugher victory that started Wednesday night in the second inning. Thanks to opening day schedules, we've had a full day to gloat, to imagine Cy Young awards and breakout seasons, and to bestride the planet like the colossi of truth and wisdom that Yank fans are known to be. 

It's all downhill from here. 

That said, let's enjoy this. The Yankees clobbered SF, even if Netflix was more self-absorbed with celebrities eating hotdogs than with the actual game. (I'm still wondering: No Sydney Sweeney?) And yesterday, that one game was being used to validate an entire winter of standing still, a front office strategy that remains only partially cooked. 

But, of course, that's only a fragment of the Yankee narrative. The larger, easier and more slow-moving plot line involves Aaron Judge. By now, even those self-isolating natives on that North Sentinel Island, off in the Pacific, the ones who kill Christian missionaries on contact - even they know that Judge, in the opener, went 0-5 with four strikeouts. 

It's a development that had to be reheated on every cultural burner because, well, Judge is Judge and the Yankees used to be the Yankees.

So, Stephen A. Smith - who is running for president, they say - went on a 90-second bender about Judge failing in big moments. This is the world according to anecdote - to the reality of podcasts. We all remember when Judge swings and misses. When he uncorks that massive lunge, when he swings through fastball, he is the Babe, he is Mickey, he is Roger, he is Reggie and he is A-Rod, because you don't get to fully appreciate the greatness of a player unless you also tag along when he fails. 

Two weeks from now, when Judge leads the league in every slugging category known to mathematics, Stephen A. Smith - who is running for president, they say - won't issue a retraction. And nobody will care. He'll be onto something else, creating flames from broken wind. 

For posterity: The predictions are in, and most of you foresee Yankee Doomsday

Here they are, everybody: Your predictions for 2026. Clip and save.

                              Reg Season Wins     Ben Rice HRs   Gerrit Cole W’s

Stang                                104                           49                     19
Oliver Tiberius              100                          34                      13
Mildred Lopez                  94                         33                      13
Vampfella                           94                         26                      14
Rufus T. Firefly                 94                         32                      12
DickAllen                            94                         29                      13
Carl Weitz                           93                          28                      11
Doug K                                 93                          23                       8
RtotheE                                93                         30                      10
Jaraxle                                  93                          36                     14
Kevin                                    93                          35                      14
Above Average                  92                          30                     12
Gary Frenay                       92                          37                     12
Hinkey Haines                  92                          29                    10
Publius                                92                           26                     8
Bern Baby Bern                91                           29                   13
Pgpick                                 90                           27                   10
Doctor T                             90                           26                     9
JM                                         89                           32                    15
Copelius                             88                           27                    13
el Duque                             86                           36                     9
Scottish Yank Fan          85                            19                      7
HoraceClarke66              83                            31                      4
BTR999                              83                           25                      9
Hammer of God              83                           27                      8
Der Kaiser                         82                           18                       7
13 Bit                                   79                           23                       7

So, it's official: The World Baseball Classic totally messed up Aaron Judge, and Netflix doesn't know how to interview anybody

 

You could foresee it, when they named him Captain of Team America. 

Captain? Here, you had a veteran lineup, full of stars, and the last thing it needed was somebody acting like King Tut. He didn't ask for it. They just anointed him.

(Maybe they should have named Tarik Skubal "Admiral." Maybe he would have pitched one more game?)

Early on, they asked for a speech. He hemmed and hawed. They were like wedding ushers, banging spoons against the snifters. They demanded a speech, which he botched. 

Their reaction: More hype. Heavier praise, grander accolades, more crapola. Now, he wasn't just the best player on the Yankees, or the best hitter on Team America, or the best slugger slugger in baseball. He was the best ever, the greatest of all time, and we should open the Hall now, rather than wait. 

Then came his final game in the WBC: 0 for 4 with three Ks and enough stranded runners to win the tournament.

And then came last night's new incarnation: A return to California as the prodigal son, and poster boy for a Netflix cultural power grab. 

And here's what America saw: 

Bad Aaron. 

Yep. We saw Judge, lunging at balls in the dirt, watching strikes right down the middle, unable to check faulty swings, then trudging back to the dugout, bat in hand, turning once to acknowledge his hopelessness. 

The Judge we've seen, off and on, throughout his career. 

The dirty little secret about baseball's greatest player: He goes through stretches where he couldn't hit your Aunt Gladys's fastball with a tennis racket. It's a lucky game when the Yankees can absorb a Judgean 0-for-5, and still win. And really, let's be thankful that, last night, he didn't waste a 9th inning HR to make the score 8-0. Those are the events that drive Yank fans crazy. 

Judge will come around. But clearly, the World Baseball Classic - and the overbearing hype of playing opening day in his geographical back yard - has messed him up. 

As for Netflix, what did you expect? Everything was hype. Everything. 

At one point, around the 5th, they wheeled in Rob Manfred, the Commissioner of Hell, to be interviewed by CC Sabathia and Hunter Pence, swooning like OAN interns at a Melania photo-op. They were literally giggling with anticipation, claiming to have stayed up the previous night - I'm not making this up, they had been like first-night college freshmen, going over the pig book - thinking of great questions to ask. Then Manfred sat down, and the interrogation began:

Do you remember your first Opening Day?

My God. They didn't ask about rule changes, which now happen every season. They didn't ask about the impending lockout next winter, which threatens the future of baseball. They didn't ask about expansion, or salary caps, or A.I. umpires, or elbow surgeries, doctored bats, lost statistical frameworks - whatever you wanted to hear about - they didn't ask it, and their reaction to whatever Manfred blathered was to act the San Diego Chicken oogling a cheerleader. 

Insert sigh here.

Well, here's what we can say about last night.

1. We won.

2. Judge got it out of his system.

3. It's over. 

First place in the AL East, baby. Check it out!

Game Thread – San Francisco, CA – Opening Day – Caption Away

 "I'm so sorry Aaron but they just won't trade you here."

Goodbye Cruel World, It's Opening Day

The gods place bets with loaded dice
And all our earthly dreams betray,
But listen to one clown's advice,
Goodbye, cruel world; it’s opening day.

The politicians scrounge for power,
With consequences we shall pay.
But somewhere, it's our finest hour,
Goodbye, cruel world; it's opening day.

Our weary age is full of war,
The daily news brings dark dismay,
So surf the dreams worth living for,
Goodbye, cruel world; it’s opening day.

-- el duque, 2008 --

Project 2026: It's time for 10 cold-hearted predictions

Get down everybody! Hear those sirens, off in the distance? See those flashing lights? They're not drones. They're not missiles. They're gopher balls. They're signs of what's coming... 

The restart of the clock. 

The reboot of time.

The impending new reality.

Get away from the windows.

Ten Predictions of What's Ahead...

1. The Yankees - aka Our Antiques Road Show - will win 86 regular season games, enough to secure the final wild card slot. This will result from a second-half infusion of Gerrit Cole, Carlos Rodon and Clarke Schmidt, along with one rising young starter. (I'll get to that later.) 

2. Ben Rice will break out, make the AL all-star roster, and play an honest 1B. He will hit 36 HRs and bat .280. His opportunities will come after Paul Goldschmidt tweaks a gonad, forcing the Yankees to trust in youth. 

3. Cole will win 9 games. Due to occasional poundings, his ERA will hover around 4.00, but when he's on, he will show dominating command. 

4. Aaron Judge will suffer, as the cops say, multiple contusions and lacerations. He'll play about 100 games. Without him, the Yankees will play below .500. He will still hit 40 HRs and lead the team in offense. (Giancarlo, of course, will be injured 3/4 of the season. That's no prediction. It's just fact.)

5. When Judge goes down, Spencer Jones will be promoted from Scranton. He will take over in CF, with Trent Grisham moving to right. Jones will hit 21 HRs in about 50 games, becoming the new version of Joey Gallo/Shane Spencer/Kevin Maas. Yank fans will adore him, until he goes 0-15 in the postseason.

6. The Martian, aka Jasson Dominguez, will start slowly in Scranton and then fall into a deeper funk when the Yankees bypass him to promote Jones. He will be traded at the deadline for bullpen slop, probably to a team in the NL West, as far away as possible. There, he will cobble together a decent career, though he'll never the next Mickey Mantle, as he was so horribly touted. Someday, long after he is a memory - (as we shall be, too) - the Martian will be remembered for his  nickname and his fate: Just another a good-looking prospect who was eaten alive by the Yankee pressure cookier. 

7. The Yankees will finish third in the AL East, behind Boston and Baltimore, both of whom made a commitment to youth, which finally paid off. 

8. The Yankees will unveil a hopeful threesome of pitching prosects: Cam Schlittler, Elmer Rodriguez and Carlos Lagrange - the greatest potential trio since Ian Kennedy, Phil Phranchise and Joba. One will suffer elbow issues, one will disappoint, and one will excel. If you're lucky, you get one out of three. If. You're. Lucky. 

9. Jose Caballero will play a dutiful SS until mid-June, when he is replaced by Anthony Volpe. The new Volpe - featuring a new bat and rejiggered stance - will hit for two weeks, then fall into the floundering pit where he always ends up. By September, the SS will be Ryan McMahon. (Of, if we're lucky, George Lombard Jr.)

10. The Dodgers, of course, will win it all. They'll outlast the Mets in the NLCS, the de facto world series. Why would anybody think differently?

Play ball. (And get your predictions in.) 

WE'RE NUMBER THREE! WE'RE NUMBER THREE! WE'RE NUMBER...oh fuck it

 If, if, if...every team, every year, could be great. If. If everyone hits, if all the pitchers are lights out, if baserunners and fielders don't make a lot of mistakes and dunderheaded plays, if the manager had a brain.

He could while away the hours, conferrin' with the flowers, consultin' with the rain. And his head he'd be scratchin' while his thoughts were busy hatchin', if he only had a brain.

And you know, he makes out the lineups himself, so we know who to blame for not having a brain.

If I was 20 years old and had a 100 mph fastball and 98 mph slider and could hit .450, I'd be playing big-league ball.

If you can keep your head when all around you are losing theirs and blaming you, you'll be a man, my son. Or something.

Don't ask me, ask Kipling. As Slim Pickens said, I'm working for Mel Brooks.