I could live with Indians v. Cubs, but Jays v. Dodgers might be in our best interests

An Indians fan once asked, what is my second team? I asked WTF? He explained how Clevelandonians have been so relentlessly beaten over the centuries that the fans often picked a second team, one that might actually win something. I said he should choose the Yankees. (This was 1999; I'd never make that suggestion now.) He became testy, turned a bit potty-mouthed and said the Yankees are his 29th team, and so the conversation turned to UFOs and shape-shifting lizard aliens. (After all, this was a Cleveland fan.)

Being the nice guy that I am - and also wishing to thank the Clevelandites for gutting the Redsock Nation before Columbus Day, I find myself nearly designating Chief Wahoo's tribe as my second team. Likewise, I'm sort of rooting for the Cubs because a victory would end this stupid "Curse" crapola, once and for all. If the Cubs win, Chicago will go crazy, scores will be killed, buildings will fall into the lake, and the very next day, everybody will wake up with their cars needing the same brake job as before, and they'll slowly realize that all pro sports championships are elitist-based fraudulent lies, and that they will soon be forced to watch meaningless seasons of a repugnant, soul-less, mercenary-empowered game that nobody - certainly not me, DEFINITELY NOT ME - gives one flying, hamstrung hoot about. Fuck dat.

But... here's a thought:

If Toronto wins the big golden turd, it will up the price tag on Edwin Encarnacion, the free agent slugger most likely to become an evil Redsock this winter. It will tie up more of John Henry's money. Right now, Boston fans will tell you over and over, again and again, and then over and again - how incredibly smart they are - how they have $28 million coming off the books due to Papi's retirement, and that Encaracion will fit their lineup like a condom, and how with Moncada, a full year of Benentendi and Encaracion, they will be even better in 2017. And damn, they might be right. (I don't foresee the Yankees chasing Encarnacion, unless they scrap their entire youth movement. We're much more likely to chase a closer.)

So here's the deal: If Toronto wins, their billionaire owner will feel more pressure to keep Encarnacion, and his price will rise. Boston might have to give him a seven year deal, which will eventually haunt them. If Toronto wins, Boston will pay more... or walk away.

Likewise, a Washington world championship would probably up the price on our Bryce Harper, who grew up wanting to play for the Yankees. Cashman seems to be streamlining our payroll structure to coincide with Harper's 2020 free agency. Frankly, I hope we don't tie up our entire franchise onto one player - it has a whiff of Rickie Henderson II - but if Harper is tired of losing in Washington, he might want to join the Yankees, who should be on the rise around 2019. Wouldn't it be nice to have Harper in an outfield with Aaron Judge and Clint Frazier (assuming they both turn out as we hope?)

Best scenario: Jays v. Dodgers. Or am I missing something?

The WAR Yankees

Generally, I distrust voodoo stats. They're like the numbers hurled in a debate: made to jump through hoops. And none seems less trustworthy than W.A.R. - Wins Against Replacement, whatever that is - a cooked-up casserole of lesser stats with a formula that reads like the federal tax code. It resembles the QB rankings of the NFL - (Huh, Eli Manning is having a good year? Who knew!) - or radio's Arbitron ratings system, the most daft accounting method for any industry, anywhere. Nobody really understands these numbers, and there's no justification for using them, but - aww, Hell - everybody does, so let's go to W.A.R.

Here are the 2016 Yankees W.A.R. rankings at each position, with a minimum 300 at bats. (Thus, Gary Sanchez doesn't make the cut. For the record, if included with his small sample size, Sanchez ranked 4th among MLB catchers - incredible - but noteworthy anyway. Trouble is, he was so steadily falling at the end, and we still don't know where a full season would place him.)

The rankings:

c McCann 15th
1b Tex 33rd
2b Castro 27th
ss Didi 16th
3b Headley 15th
lf Gardy 4th
cf Ellsbury 14th
rf Hicks 29th
dh Beltran 6th

Clearly, these W.A.R.s reflect the utter mediocrity of the 2016 Yankees. We land in the middle, right where we belong. We suffered three big craters - Tex, Hicks and Castro - of which two should be gone. Thankfully, Tex is retiring. I cannot imagine Hicks getting another 100 at bats without a dramatic improvement, and Castro's low ranking is sort of a surprise. (I think it's because 2B is now a major offensive position, and he sucks at On Base Percentage.) 

In the outfield, Brett Gardner is the surprise. He is still a grinder, though his lack of power and stolen bases should worry us. He is probably just holding the slot until Aaron Judge, Clint Frazier, Mason Williams, Tyler Austin - or somebody - moves in. He or Ellsbury will probably be traded, and what we get depends on how much contract Hal is willing to eat. The truth is, we probably won't get much, unless they are bundled into a huge deal, the kind that generally terrifies us.

Finally, there is Headley. Whenever I think of Headley, I see him shaking his head, as he jogs to the dugout following a popup. I cannot help but think Ronald Torreyes would have had a better full year, if were hadn't been lashed to the whale of Headley's contract. At the end, Girardi was playing him more and more. There are whispers of Castro moving to 3B next spring - he certainly has the arm - but it's just rearranging deck chairs, right? And the Yankees clearly think Rob Refsnyder is a Scranton yo-yo.

There will probably be an earthquake of a trade. Frankly, I dunno know what else to do, because we don't have a 3B prospect ready for prime time, and we haven't developed one in 20 years. If Headley played on the 1999 Yankees, he'd be Scott Brosius, and we'd love him. On this team, he's just another nothing burger whose most formidable stat is his 4-year deal, which ends after 2019. Yeuch.

Not that I'm complaining. Nope. Not me. The Redsocks have gone home, and I'm happy as a lark. Ha-ha. Surely, we will see improvements next year at 1B and RF - two of our problem areas. But we still have to figure out 2B and 3B. The fact that Yoan Moncada plays both positions doesn't matter. Nope. Not one bit.

This Time The Yankees Must Change Their Policy

I had a difficult time dealing with the fact that we swept Boston, at home, and they still wound up celebrating their spot in the playoffs on Yankee hallowed ground.

So I got out of town, and headed for the left coast where everything is meaningless.  Cool and funky, but meaningless.

After a few too many nights of sipping crown royal in the Firehouse Cafe (Venice Beach ), Imwoke up to read that the election in November here is far more than the one that pits fascism vs. democracy.  There is a California proposition to legalize maryjane, just as they have in Colorado.  So the prospects look far brighter for the economy and the citizenry.

With this uplifting possibility now gripping my outlook, I began to watch the playoffs.  I really worried that the rainout day in Boston could be a momentum changer, and it nearly was.  But watching PAPPI go away with a home field loss helped a lot.  What did irk me, was the minimal coverage of Boston fan faces when that last fly ball was caught.  The tv people just suck and understand nothing.m who gives a crap about endless shots of grown men jumping up and down with rally caps spurting cheap champagne?  And by cheap, I mean it was Korbel.  You could read the labels.

What Yankee fans craved was the look of despair and pain on the faces of the creepy Boston faithful. They were suffering.  The agony of defeat can be worse than what Yankee fans have suffered for the passed several years, and that is ennui.  Boredom.  Nothingness.  Show me the pain, damn it!

And now to my point.  As I watched the playoff teams...all of them...one common difference to the Yankees is evident, aside from the talent gaps.   The predominance of fur faces and outrageous hair.  The Yankees are the last "White Bread" team in the sport.  Anyone notice Hunter Pence?  Anyone even recognize Andrew Miller?

The Yankees can't win with the clean shaven, crew cut look anymore.  They need fur and dreadlocks. Big time.

My fear is that owner Hal has no testosterone and, therefore can't tolerate it in others.

We have to make this change.  It is time.

World bids Hub fans adieu... and let's all do the same for our Redsock leaning pals

It's over. Not such a bad year, after all.

Finally... we can ditch Aaron Hicks. Why would we want a Jackie Bradley Jr?

At last... we can push for Mookie Betts to win MVP. He'll demand more money.

All those years they'll be tethered to David Price... we now can cherish them.

And Big Papi... who thought Cleveland would be the ones to moon him?

Welcome, Redsock fans. Your call is very important to us... Please stay on the line for the next available service representative... Your expected waiting time is... ONE HUNDRED THIRTY FIVE DAYS AND TEN HOURS - Thank you for your call... Welcome, Redsock fans. Your call is very important to us...

Also, let me take a moment to thank the Juju gods for answering my plea. I vowed to not complain for the rest of the year, if Boston was swept. Thanks to their swift and effective work, my lips shall not posit one negative thought for the rest of 2016. Nope. Nothing from me. If the Yankees trade the city of Trenton for Vernon Wells' pool boy, I'll stay bubbly. Hell, they can vote Brian Cashman into the Hall of Fame, no grumbling from this end. I'm doing whippets. Yoan Moncada? It's just a funny word. No carping about the Yoanster. Where's the spray cannister?

Oooh, oooh, Jumpin' Jehovahzat! I just got an idea! We should send a consolation email to all our Redsock-leaning friends, encouraging them to stay upbeat. Let's crowd-source this puppy. Any ideas? Remember: It's gotta seem honest, so they can't really tell how giddy we are. Here's a first draft. Feel free to improve this:

Hey (Insert name),

Wow. I just heard the news (Note: This should be sent next week.) and immediately thought of you. What a bummer. When something like this happens, sometimes, you almost wish your team didn't even make the playoffs. So sad. Really... I just feel bad, so I wanted to reach out. You guys should keep your heads held high. It was a great season, and you shouldn't feel one iota of sadness. Boston is the best team in the AL East, hands down, and you guys got really screwed by the umps on that close call at second. (Note: To my knowledge, there was no close call at second.) Don't feel bad. Not one bit. You've still got Joe Kelly coming up from Pawtucket, and I think Rusney Castillo is also going to be really good. (Note: They're sick of both players. Is it too late for a Daniel Bard reference?) I'm saying 2017 will be the Year of the Panda. (Note: They hate being reminded of the Panda.) See you in Florida. Pitchers and catchers... right around the corner! Go socks!

Hahahahaha... any improvements?

So much for the Giants saving this horrible year in New York sports

If a tree falls during a network telecast, and nobody tuned in, did it make a sound? That's today's Orange Sunshine micro-dose question. Last night, on national (sort of) TV, the Jersey Giants re-spake their vows with mediocrity for at least one more rotten season. They lost with a quarterback who should be working full time for Nationwide and Papa John's, and who looks every bit as ready for the golf course as his older brother. This leaves New York City sports - already such a disaster that Syracuse aims to be its official college football team - existing on a level below such cultural Meccas as Sacramento and Jacksonville - hell - even below Scranton, whose happy Wilkes Barreans are still sipping from that International League Governor's Cup.

WTF? Why are New York teams so universally bad? 

Well, the answer is socialism.

Yes, comrades, it's old-fashioned Communism, as practiced by the owners and packaged under the name "parity." Thanks to payroll limits and salary caps, modern sports leagues achieve fiscal parity - thus keeping owners from digging into their personal wallets. There are no more George Steinbrenners, just Hals, who clutch their dimes and finagle their taxes. Yeah, the NFL has Jerry Jones, and baseball has John Henry in Boston (Yoaaaaan Moncada... slooooowly I turn...), plus the Dodgers guy, but after them, it's all about billionaires having more money to buy politicians, (thank you, U.S Supreme Court.)

We have achieved a world where spending is capped on pennant races, but unlimited on political races. 

Brilliant.

So why does this kill NY teams? Well, Gotham City has 100 times the distractions of the Clevelands and Minnesotas - the hookers, the traffic, the pollution, the crime, the hookers, the sharpies, did I mention the hookers? - 100 times the reasons to not get a good night's sleep before the big game.

Eliminate the financial advantage, and New York teams are universally hamstrung. Thus, the Yankees, Giants, Mets, Jets, Knicks and Rangers occupy a perpetual .500 loop, not good enough or bad enough - just mediocre enough to sort of contend. But the Steinbrenners, the Dolans, the Maras, the Woody Johnsons - they all make mountains of money, enough to keep Westchester County gated off from the rest of us. 

Maybe - just maybe - the Yankees will rise over the next few years, thanks to a talent surge from this summer's sell-offs. If it happens, it will be an exception. (And I'll believe it when they don't empty the system for Chris Sales.) The clearest path to a winning team is simply to be awful. (That might be the case in 2017, or we might still be stuck in limbo.)

So once again, the Giants look sad. Fortunately, nobody watched. Right? Nobody wasted their time. Right?

An open letter to the Juju gods: One more Boston loss, and I'll call this year a wash

Dear Madams or Sirs,

The fate of the 2016 Yankees was etched into my concrete Buster Browns last April: For the first season since Danny Tartabull and Arturo Lopez roamed the earth, we were so fundamentally bad that thinking fans started actively rooting for a tear-down. When Tampa swept us at the trade deadline, it was an act of tearful, yet supreme mercy akin to the closing scenes of Old Yeller. It rousted Hal Steinbrenner from his Ibogaine delirium and forced him to actually think about the future, rather than his next uniform number retirement.

Make no mistake: It was a crap year - a failure, a lost cause, a rancid 365-day mucking out of a toxic sewer dump.

But, hey, Juju gods, who stays mad?

Not me. I'm a nice guy. And I've changed. Those lewd remarks I made about owning you - grabbing you by the - umm - that was just fan blog banter. I didn't mean it. Besides, I've heard far worse from Redsock fans on the golf course - far worse. That wasn't really me. I'm not that way. I've changed. Hey, you wanna see me grovel? OK, look, I'm on my knees, groveling. You got me. You win.

So, anyway, here's my deal:

I'm willing to accept 2016 for what it was - pure crapola - and forget it, to move on, as if nothing happened... if Boston loses today.

That's right, Juju gods, I'm talking to you. If Boston loses - if you simply put a bad-hop here or there, or wrangle a called third strike, I'll call it this wash year. Hey, we were going to win. But these whiny Boston cheesedicks have been planning their victory parade since May, telling us how great they are and how smart they are, and how this is their century, and how everybody loves them... and hey... I'm looking at you.

I'll move on. I won't complain all winter. I'll talk you up. I'll say nice things. One more loss, amigos? One more loss. Today. One more loss, and Boston is right where they belong: With us.

Pittsburgh blog names Ivan Nova the Pirates' Cy Young

On the exciting, red-letter day that we re-signed pitching coach Larry Rothschild - (cue the Canyon of Heroes parade! We grabbed him by his p---y!) - the case against signing Larry Rothschild popped up in Pittsburgh: Pirates fans celebrated the Yankee trade that sent them Ivan Nova for a pair of low-level prospects.

Says the Rum Bunter, which names Nova the Pirates pitcher of the year...

Ivan Nova wound up making 11 starts for the Pittsburgh Pirates. In these 11 starts he pitched 64 2/3 innings. And these 11 starts he made in Pittsburgh was the best 11 start stretch of his Major League career.

Nova finished with a 3.06 ERA, 2.62 FIP, and a 3.13 xFIP, all of which led the Pirates’ starting pitching staff. He also averaged 7.24 K/9, he allowed just four home runs, walked just three batters, and he posted a 1.10 WHIP as a Pirate. Ivan Nova also pitched a complete game in three of his 11 starts with the Pirates.

During his tenure in Pittsburgh Ivan Nova posted a 52.3 percent ground ball rate as a Pirate. This ground ball rate was higher than his ground ball rate in four of his seven Major League seasons.

Due to all of this Nova posted a 1.9 WAR as a member of the Pirates. This was the second highest WAR of any Pirates’ pitcher in 2016 behind just Gerrit Cole (2.5).

I know what you're thinking: WTF? That's Ivan Nova he's talking about. Doesn't he know that if the season lasted 11 more starts, Nova would pitch his way to a 6-plus ERA? Doesn't he realize that Nova is a living embodiment of the random sample, a roll of the dice, and that you can't count on him for anything, ever, always, through eternity, or death do us part?

Well, I dunno, anymore. There was a time when players became Yankees and upped their games accordingly. In recent years, that's gone out the window. They're just as likely to leave NY and become stars. Nova enters the 2017 free agent market as one of the best pitchers available, but we sure won't be nibbling.

Which brings me to Larry Rothschild. And first, let's be clear: The Yankees certainly know more about pitching than we do, and Joe Girardi has reached a comfort level with Rothschild, and that's not worth nothing, right? So Larry will return for another year of -what? Michael Pineda? The collapsing bullpen? The vanishing rotation? And most of all, how did we go so long with Nova and get so little from him - guy was a roller coaster - and then watch him suddenly improve so much... and how does this happen without some self-exploration within our own management? What happened? Was it a language barrier? Was it an attitude thing? Was it generational? Was it simply a case of Nova getting a re-set button in a new city? (If so, why couldn't we press the re-set button?)

Listen: I was all in on jettisoning Ivan Nova, and I didn't care what we got for him. The guy needed an airplane ticket, and everybody knew it. Still, why couldn't we wrangle those solid starts out of him? Why did he have to leave to be good? Next season, there will be another Ivan Nova - his name is Michael. Did we learn anything?

Yes, Joe, there is another way to use your closer

Last night, when Indian manager Terry Francona summoned closer Andrew Miller in the fifth to face the gruesome heart of the Redsocks order, you could imagine Joe Girardi at home, vaulting from his bean chair and screaming, "YOU CAN'T DO THAT!"

Such insanity: Using your stopper - aka best pitcher - to neutralize your opponent's toughest hitters and preserve a lead! What in the name of Larry Rothschild is going on? Good grief, last May, when the Yankees had three closers, Joe steadfastly refused to call on any of them until the seventh - positioning them like bowling pins - and only then if the Yankees held a lead. (Which wasn't often.)

Thus, as games flew out the window - and the division race with it - Joe didn't bother the Zen meditations of his dream trio. Bases loaded, need two strikeouts? Don't rouse El Chapo from his sleep. Just send in Nick Goody - or wait, Kirby Yates! The big guns were too valuable to use in a loss. (BTW, thanks to the recent Wild Card debacle, Buck Showalter will now be questioned about such a strategy for the rest of his career.) The Big Three had roles, and nobody was supposed to deviate from them. That's what rules are for, gadammit. And the first rule of the Yankee rules is this: OBEY ALL RULES!

Well... the owner has another rule: Wrangle every last thin dime from a contract. The Yankees have one more year on Girardi's papers, so let's face it: He isn't going anywhere. Considering Dellin Betances's collapse last month, it's clear we'll need to fortify our bullpen. I wonder if Girardi was watching last night and pondering options, because 2016 was a long, long season, and if you look at our pitching staff, dear God, you realize 2017 could be even longer.

Two of the Happiest Sentences You'll Read Today

From an article in the October 5, 2016 New York Post:

• Right-handed relievers Blake Parker and Kirby Yates were both claimed off waivers by the Angels.
  
• Righty Anthony Swarzak opted for free agency instead of accepting an outright assignment.

Hip! Hip!

Meh.

How does it feel, Met fans?

You spend the whole season rooting like crazy. You get hot at the end, raising hope to a fever. You make the one-game playoff.

And then you run into an ace pitcher, and you don't even score a run.

Hurts, don't it?

The Edwin Encarnacion existential paradox

This we know: Boston has its beady, bloodshot, hideous eyes trained on Mr. Toronto, Edwin Encarnacion. They have watched him for months, cropping stool samples, viewing him as the next Big Papi. Why not? They have $25 million coming off the books, a powerhouse lineup in its prime and an owner who will shell out to win. Encarnacion, at 1B, could complete an All Star infield (at third, Yooooooooooooooan Moncada.) If you're a Yankee fan, be afraid. Be very fucking afraid.

And yet... our biggest fear might be that Hal Steinbrenner decides to stage another intervention: That is, he three big names to a set of straightjacket contracts, which will choke the youth movement in its infancy and destroy whatever long-term hopes were starting to graze in our heads. The Yankees could sign Encarnacion to a seven-year deal, keeping him from Boston (who might simply sign Bautista.)

Where will we be?

Well, the Yankees have two young 1B - Greg Bird and Tyler Austin. If Encarnacion comes aboard - so long, youth movement. If he doesn't, we could be ceding the AL East to Boston for three to five years.

The Yankees' crossroads didn't end with the August 1 housecleaning. They remain stuck at the intersection. Frankly, I dunno which way to turn. But Encarnacion looks like the biggest impact free agent on the market, and he might be the death of us.

Moon Big Papi Day: The Official Post Mortem

I started this off by telling you about a great bar we went to before the game.

After leaving the bar, we walked up River

Ave.  I had done some work on a laptop on the train ride down and, since laptops aren't allowed in Yankee stadium anymore ― no, really, they're not ― I decided to check mine at Stan's.  As most of you know, Stan's is the combination bar/sportswear emporium across the street from the old stadium.  They have a nice cash business on the side where they've re-purposed an old storage closet and made it a check room.  They'll watch your bag for $10.
 

When I walked in, the lady behind the counter was busy complaining to two guys.  I think they were customers but they might have been her landlords.  She was saying "There's nobody here!  This is ridiculous!  We can't make money!  In the old days, when the Red Sox were playing, we used to come in at 11 a.m. on game days, just to get everything ready.  Feh!  I could have gotten here at 4 o'clock today."  I handed her my bag and began to get a sinking feeling about our chances for success.

For some reason, I decided on the train ride down that I would be able to tell if we were going to have success getting a mass mooning – or not – by looking at the faces of people on their way into the game.  I knew that if I saw people laughing and looking around for kindred spirits, we'd be all set to go.  I even said this in my interview with ESPN.com, conducted on my train ride down from New England.

As we were walking up to the stadium, however, I saw the first glimmers of how fruitless this endeavor might be: Everyone ― and I mean everyone ― was wearing Red Sox gear. It was a whole bunch of guys named Fitzy with "Pedroia the Destroyah" shirts on.  They were accompanied by Woo Girls in pink Boston hats.  And, of course, a whole lot of Ortiz jerseys.  They were all out for a big party.  A hoot.  I felt sick.

I started looking around for some sign of hope.  I looked for those neckless guys from Staten Island named Vinnie.  The big galoots who wear unlaced high-top sneakers and waddle up to the gate growling "Red Sox are goin' dowwwwwn, baby!" where "baby" is pronounced more like "bee bee".

I didn't see any of these guys.  All I saw were designer-sneakered twits wearing "Call me ~Crazy~ ... but Don't Call Me a Yankee Fan" T Shirts.


The security lines were actually fairly quick and I was mentally complimenting the Yankee organization for finally getting its act together just in time for the last games of the season.  Then I realized the line was moving fast because there weren't a lot of people.  I continued to scan people's faces looking for kindred mooning spirits.  I continued to come up empty.

Once we got inside, I marveled again at how much the new stadium makes you feel like you've wandered into Mall of America.  I frantically searched for people who might be moon-ers but all I saw was an older woman with one of those unbendable beauty parlor hair-do's where the hair
ends up looking more like a spray of fiber optic strands rather than actual human hair. She was the kind of woman who gets her hair "done" and then sleeps with it in a net for a week, with a towel over her pillow, in order to make the hairdo last.  It looked like her 'do had been compressed into final form an hour or two before the game.Because I'm a gentleman, I subtly pointed to her with my elbow and said to my friends, "Yeah.  Right.  Like she's gonna moon Big Papi."

As I was saying this, a few security guards ― who, these days, are scrubbed young men in robin's-egg-blue polo shirts carrying those "How May I Help You?" signs-on-a-stick ― began solicitously swarming all over her and telling her "it's soooo good to see you, I didn't know you were coming", etc.  She replied "Well, I didn't think I was going to make it, but this is important, you know."  I just stared for a while.  I was pretty sure she wasn't talking about mooning.


We continued our climb up to the level where people with $500 hair-dos and robin's-egg blue polo shirts don't sit.  We walked past gaggles of people wearing red "Do It with Your SOX on!" shirts or shirts with "There are two kinds of people...." on the front and,
ah shit, I don't even want to know what was on the back.
I was tired of looking at what was happening in our stadium.


We got to our seats about 10 minutes before Big Papi's ceremony was scheduled to start.  The place was empty.  In all seriousness, there were maybe 5,000 fans in the whole building.  Most of the shirts I could see people wearing were red.  They had all come to see Big Papi's send-off.

All of the articles I read the next day about how Ortiz got a nice ovation from Yankee fans were completely disingenuous.  First of all, nobody was there.  Second, all of the somebodies who were there were Red Sox fans.  As his ceremony got underway, I said out loud, to no one in particular, "This isn't going to happen."


Ortiz's ceremony was brief and dignified.  His family was there.  Ortiz's son is a beefy kid like his dad.  Maybe the son is walking, talking, genetic proof that Big Papi comes by his bulk honestly.  I dunno.  Big Papi's son has a serious mohawk with the upwardly protruding ringlets bleached blonde à la Dennis Rodman.  I was about to think of him silently as a dumb-teenaged-kid/work-in-progress, when it hit me that the little pecker son-of-a-rich-guy probably gets more tail in a week than all the people in the section I was sitting in ... all of the people combined, that is.  So who's dumb?

I was VERY impressed by the first gift the Yanks gave to Big Papi.  It was an outsized, leather-bound book where each page was a handwritten letter by a current or prominent former Yankee.  They were showing it on the Jumbotron while it was being given to him.  I have to say, that book put all the cowboy boots and guitars, and barbecue and rocking chairs, and all the other kitsch and tchotchkes to absolute shame.  The book was spectacular.  Truly moving.  Nice job, Yanks.


It got even more moving when Mariano Rivera

walked out of the dugout and across the grass to present Ortiz's second gift.  Mariano Rivera is a special human being.  His presence on the field was better a better gift than even the impressive book.  If Mariano had looked up at my seat, pointed at me, and said, "Please, LBJ, I don't want you to moon him", I would have started crying, left the stadium, sold all my possessions, put on a hair shirt, and moved to India to help lepers, picking up where Mother Theresa left off.  Rivera's spirit, presence, and power are palpable and profound.


Unfortunately, Yankees management, being the tone-deaf, joy suckers they are, quickly managed to undo the warm hazy feeling that had descended over the stadium.  As Ortiz was still thumbing through the pages of his leather-bound book, Yankees management even undid the magic of Mariano.  They zoomed straight from the equivalent of Pope Francis warmly embracing the Dalai Lama at the gates of a mountaintop monastery to Wayne Newton shouting Yee-Ha! outside an overlit casino in Vegas while giving a bellhop an awkward, fumbling high five.  

True fact: The lady with the fiber optic hair helmet was on the field next to them during all of this.  She was there when Mariano unveiled Ortiz's second gift which was an oil painting.  I'm not an art critic, but let's just say the painting seemed to veer more toward "Elvis on Black Velvet" than "Flemish Master".  From a distance, the principal colors of the thing seemed to be "Mets Orange" and "Mets Toxic Purple".  I had this image of Randy Levine, Lonn Trost, and Hal Steinbrenner seeing it together for the first time in the Yankee offices, shaking their heads slowly up and down, wiping little crumbs from their mouths with cocktail napkins ― the crumbs coming from the hors d'oeuvres they have every day in the Yankee conference room ― all while not saying anything, trying to appear as discerning cognoscenti.

I said to my seatmates, "Maybe he can get $350 for it on eBay."

The Bostonians all around us seemed to be enjoying it, however, so I thought "Who am I to judge?"

As if on cue, God punished me by causing "Sweet Caroline" to burst forth from the loudspeakers.  All the Boston Woo Girls and their frat-boy chums named Tommy (pronounced "Taw-mee") started bopping up and down and shaking their little Beantown moneymakers.  The Yankee Stadium sound guys obligingly cut the noise at the right parts of the song so they could all scream "Whuh, Uh, Ohhhhh!" and "So good! So good! So good!" The Bostonettes tilted their Pink Hats this way and that, keeping time on each syllable, just like they do in Fenway.


Except all this wasn't happening in Fenway, it was happening in Yankee Stadium.  It was happening in our house.  Which somehow isn't our house anymore.  The Bostonians' inebriation was just getting underway.

Me?  I wanted to puke.  A lot.

Just as the song was ending, a group of six very young girls filed into the seats in the row immediately in front of is.  They looked like they were 19.  All but one of them were wearing Red Sox gear.  One or two of them had on way too much makeup (think Amy Winehouse), but another one or two of them made my knees buckle.  One was so pretty and innocent looking, my heart felt a little heavy in my chest.  I started wondering what sorts of America's Most Hated Sex Offender Registries we were going to end up listed on if we took out our asses within two city blocks of them.


I said to my friends: "Uh oh.  This wasn't in the plan.  What the hell do we do with this?  Are they even of age?  How are we going to moon with these girls in front of us?"

I thought about it a little longer and asked, "Would it be considered déclassé for someone with a raging erection to moon?"  

We all agreed the answer to my Zen Question was a resounding 'yes' but we were able to shrug off the momentary distraction since we had work to do.  We got back to business and started trying to work out the logistics of this new problem: How were we going to aim our kiesters over these girls' heads?  We wondered if our moons were going to muss their fine, silky hair.

Our reverie was broken when a guy sat down in the row immediately behind us and said to his friend, "I can't believe this is your first time to a baseball game."

My roommate from college, one of the guys I went with, has a specific roar of a laugh that cuts through the air like a baritone sax.  It gets me every time.  The cumulative lunacy of everything we were doing ― and everything that was happening around us ― caused him to melt down.  He sat there and marveled out loud at the sheer madness of having pretty underage women in the row in front of us and two guys seeing their very first baseball game in the row behind.  And we were going to be waggling our big, evil, nekkid NY butts within inches of all of them.  He lost it.  So did I.  He was choking for air, saying between laughs: "It's.  His.  First.  Game.  Ha-ha-ha.  And.  Ha.  These...these.  Girls.  A-hahahahahahaha-ha!"  We toasted with our souvenir beer cups.  We high-fived like Wayne Newton outside the Bellagio.

The game started and, at the time of the first pitch, it looked to me like there were about 10,000 people in the stands.  I looked out at the bleachers.  They were packed ... with red shirts.  I tried to squint to see if we had any people anywhere just itchin' to moon, but the whole place looked to be about 50% Red Sox fans.  The 200- and 300-level seats were still empty.  I was dejected.

The Red Sox batting order had Ortiz at cleanup.  We strategized.  "If anyone gets on base," I said, "we undo our belt buckles immediately.  The instructions on the website said to wait until the batter before Big Papi, but we gotta be ready."  My spirits were picking up.  I felt like we were boys who'd gotten the idea to build a fort in the woods and now all we had to do was find some downed trees to make it with.  Piece of cake!

In the Red Sox first, Sabathia retired the side in order.  There would be no batter before Big Papi.  He was leading off the next inning.

While the Yankees batted, I sat there with my unbuckled pants swimming around me in my seat.  Shit.  This was supposed to be a piece of cake.  Where are all the downed trees?  I tried to give us a pep talk.  "This will actually work in our favor,"  I said.  "Everyone's anticipation will be WAY up.  People will get psyched."  My college roommate said, "Or, the change of innings will confuse the shit out of everyone."

It turned out there was a third possibility...

I had been wrong about it being 50% Red Sox fans in attendance.  When Bogaerts hit his solo home run in the fourth, he got a standing ovation.  Everyone who was a Boston fan stood up and cheered.  When this happened, you could see plain as day they outnumbered us 60/40.  In our own house.

So, at the top of the second, when what turned out to be the big mooning moment arrived, no one was psyched and no one was confused.  No one was anything.  Nothing happened.  Not ten thousand.  Not ten hundred.  Not ten.  No one mooned.  The Boston fans gave Ortiz a nice cheer.  The New Yorkers gave him a little boo.  I surreptitiously hitched up my pants before the girls in front of us could jump to a wrong conclusion.

Dan Shaughnessy, contemptible sportswriter for the Boston Globe, said in his article recounting the scene, "These eyes did not see a single moon".  It's a simple declarative sentence.  Purely factual.  Rare for a Globe sportswriter.

He also noted, parenthetically: "too bad — Ortiz said he’d be carrying his cellphone camera in his back pocket just in case."  I mean, what kind of world is it when the Boston sportswriters are calling it as it is, and New York sportswriters have their collective cabeza up their collective culo?

It's not a world I want to stay in.  Or at least it's not a world I want to stay sober in.  It's like a preview of the day after the upcoming presidential election.

The young girls in front of us turned out to be of age.  They were out on an after-work toot and they began enjoying a few rounds of shots before they headed out to Billy's.  I enjoyed a few $12 Bud Lights and wished I was about 30 years younger.  With my unspent energy, I made it a point to look like I was grateful and happy to everyone who handed me a fresh beer.  That's the best I can do these days.

As you also know by now, Ortiz came up again in the fourth and drew a walk.  Red Sox manager John Farrell waited all of 3 nanoseconds before pulling him for a pinch runner and it was over.  Columnist Shaughnessy said, "It was as if the entire presentation had been scripted by Bill Belichick."


****


I have been asked: Were you disappointed?  Well, sure. 

I have been asked: Was it all worth it?  You bet. 

Wait.  Was it worth it?  Are you kidding?  I had more fucking fun with this thing than you can imagine.  I enjoyed being interviewed by The Sporting News, ESPN, Boston Magazine and seeing reports of our handiwork appear in CBS Sports.com, The Boston Globe, The Boston Herald, The New York Post, Long Island Newsday, El Diario de NY, The Los Angeles Times, and a hundred lesser, regional quoters-of-others.  One of the best, of course, was Big Papi himself, writing about us in Derek Jeter's The Players' Tribune.  If I sound at all blasé about it, don't believe it for a second.  This was rarefied air for the likes of me and it was fun.

Seeing David Ortiz discuss the possibility of being mooned during an appearance on the television show "Late Night", as well as during a pre-game interview at Fenway, was simply amazing.

It was also fun when an engineer friend of mine ― a guy who maintains suspension bridges all over the world, including ALL the NY bridges ― said: "What's unbelievable to me is that just one guy is making all this happen."

He's a good friend, but he was wrong because, of course, there were many others.  I'll probably write another long damn offering about "The Making of Moon Big Papi.com" in which I'll tell more of the story of how it came together but, for now, let me just say that the website wouldn't have been anything if it weren't for the talents of my girlfriend who is a true artist.  She did all the graphics you can see on the site.  Watching a talented artist at work is a special thing.  Being able to sit at her desk laughing together like a couple of misbehaving schoolkids while looking at the little mooning guy she placed on Lonn Trost's shoulder is a pleasure that will always be with me.  It also made my day – and hers – when the someone from The Sporting News said he "went down to [his] Art Department and asked why they can't do anything like that."  Suffice to say it's a rare talent who can make her living creating art, and I'm lucky she thinks enough of me to share it.

My girlfriend and I also found it completely surreal to sit in our living room two nights before the game, Ma and Pa Kettle listening to the Yanks-Sox game on NESN, when Jerry Remy and the other Soxcasters started talking openly and happily about "what some Yankee fans have in store for Ortiz".

It was just fun.

I hope you enjoyed it too.


Yours truly,


Local Bargain Jerk

Watching joyful Toronto fans party last night, you wonder how the Yankees became so lifeless

Back in the late seventies, when the fans stormed Chamblis' home run, and Wade Boggs climbed up on the horse, a post-season game ran long and delayed Saturday Night Live. The show opened with Bill Murray draped in Yankee swag, portraying a crazy fan in the empty stadium, wondering where the hell everyone went? It was joyous. Everyone knew that the Yankees had the fiercest, most rabid fans anywhere - and that everything was happening in the Bronx - (they were even inventing rap) - and Yankee Stadium was the center of the baseball universe, if not the universe, period.

Well, that was a long, long time ago and apparently in a galaxy far, far away. Because last night, the epicenter was Toronto, and every fan was Bill Murray, and - well - Yankee Stadium might as well be holding grain. WTF happened to us?

The Yankees have not enjoyed a full-moon, bat-shit crazy delirium since the new stadium - and it's new price structure - were imposed on working fans. I wonder if the great Yankee crowds, which were always greater than the teams themselves, will ever return - at least in this lifetime. They had the wildest, most drooling, most loyal fans in the world, and they replaced them with golfers. The Yankees exchanged success on the field for success in the bottom line. Did money also kill the spirit of the fans?

That's why mooning Big Papi seemed such a perfect project. It was exactly the kind of stupid activity that Bill Murray would sign on for. Parts of the media understood this. The Yankees didn't. They were always a corporate entity, at times maybe even a tax write-off, but we couldn't fully appreciate how crazy George Steinbrenner was, until he's been gone. After seven years, we've never seen an outburst of joy - or of anything, for that matter - from Hal. He's a corporate entity. He's a cardboard cutout. He's Lonn Trost.

I have never met the guy, so maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he's an absolute delight, putting a twinkle into children's eyes with his magic tricks. But I'm betting Hal will never punch out an elevator or call anybody a fat toad. He's already let Boston outbid us on key players, and - frankly - replace us as the AL's dominant franchise. When big names hit the auction block, he's happy to finish second in the bidding. And if a player expresses the desire to play for the Yankees - a temptation George could never resist - (and yes, George deserves to go into the Hall) - Hal hides under the bed.

So last night, Toronto was the center of the universe. (No new form of music, but they are banning pit bulls.) It should have been the Bronx. Damn. Those days are gone. I'm wondering if they'll return in our lifetimes.

Chase Headley should show us his tax returns

Just sayin.'

If he expects to be the Yankees 3B, we need some basic information.

Fans Cry For Answers

After the Yankee fan coup of the century, Moon Big Papi capo di tutt'i capi Local Bargain Jerk has been coy with details of what really transpired on that fateful night. Perhaps it's understandable, given the astonishing scale of the forces in play--but hush! Do you hear it? That murmur on the wind?

It is the cry of the world, LBJ--and it asks only for your truth!

Hal Steinbrenner should show us his tax returns

In January 2000, Randy Levine finally blew his cover. He quit as Rudy Giuliani's Deputy Mayor for Economic Development, Planning and Administration and, the very next day became President of the New York fucking Yankees. He effortlessly moved from greasing the new stadium to benefiting from it. As President, the former Reagan Justice Department oil can has generally skewed the Yankees to the right, politically. He's a Trump buddy.

Which is fine. Rich people are supposed to be right wing bastards, right? It makes the world simpler. Flag-wrapped billionaire conservatives, such as the Steinbrenner family, function as keepers of the national treasures - in this case, a franchise whose very logo is stars and stripes on a bat and top hat. As owner of the Yankees, Hal Steinbrenner sits atop a flagpole of patriotism and piety.

In fact, whenever a Yankee announcer even mentions "Mister Stein-brenner," the timber in his (or her) voice rises to a near-religious. LSD-microdose reverence. Just speaking the great man's name is an honor unto itself. When Hal this summer authorized the trade deadline selloff - a call clear to every scout, coach, administrator, cab driver and bellhop in the Yankiverse - it was heralded as a masterstroke of human genius. And when Hal signs a player, it is universally understood that this paragon of virtue has decided to bless us and spend his own money. What a man. What a leader.

Well, this week we learned something about one of Hal's pals: Donald Trump probably didn't pay a dime of taxes for nearly 20 years, if ever. And who thinks The Donald is alone? After all, when a line forms for tax breaks in Albany or New York's City Hall, Mister Stein-brenner, or one of his surrogates, is always at the front of it.

The rich live in a golden bunker surrounded by the Wealth Defense Industry - armies of lawyers, accountants and bag men who tweak loopholes the size of Third World nations, so the great men (and women) can escape taxes. This army doesn't come cheap. It costs a lot of money to dodge civic responsibility. You have to really want it. You have to actually prefer lawyers to people.

Seeing as how the Yankees are such proud stewards of Americana - playing "God Bless America" every seventh inning, with a noble veteran and his family saluting at home plate - shouldn't Mister Stein-Brenner feel compelled to show the world that he too pays his fair share? Just reveal the numbers that comprised this week's Times story. Show us he's paid. That'll do.

Professional sports in America is an owner's paradise. With parity ruling, even .500 teams compete for the final wild card slot. To build a winner, all you need to do is come in last a few years. You have players literally putting their mental capabilities on the line - taking hits to the head that can destroy their lives - while you watch from above, sipping single malt. You're the embodiment of America, like those cans of beer from Budweiser, (a foreign-owned subsidiary.) You are the owner of a business that asks young people to put their lives on the line. And we should know what you really feel about America.

Mad as Heck

The Yankees' ineptitude (or, as they're called by BoSoxians, the "Yank-Me's", which is more descriptive of our current organizational status) have softened my attitude toward other teams that would otherwise foster antipathy. 

I can't hate the Mets when they're the only baseball team upholding the honor of New York, albeit only in the limited fashion they can muster.

I can't even truly hate the Orioles since I read that, instead of playing the jingoistic and mindless "God Bless America" during the seventh inning stretch, they play "This Land Is Your Land", the heart-stirring anthem of the old left. Should the O's move beyond the Jays, and provided they don't cut away to a commercial promoting a gargantuan SUV or five-bladed razor, that would be nice to see and hear on national TV. 

Showalter, however, is still kind of a jerk.

So where does all the hate go when it's leeched away from some of our traditional enemies? Boston, of course, gets an extra dollop. They look like the AL favorites, but we can still hope the Rangers or Indians put them out of our misery. I could do without seeing rat-faced Pedroia or Big Sloppy when watching the Series.

The rest of that wandering negativity has one legitimate home, and one only:  our executive suite. OK, and also Girardi's office, so make that two legitimate homes, although you could argue that he's merely an extension of the Halls of Cluelessness. Every manager makes mistakes or in-game decisions that don't pan out. But according to Dr. Bobby Brown's Hippocratic Oath of Baseball, first you do no harm, and Girardi obviously and repeatedly lost games through his lineup pencil and pitching choices.

According to some, depression is anger and hate turned inward. As I try to forget most of 2016 (August and part of September retain a soft glow of promise), this is what I have to try and overcome before Spring comes to Steinbrennerville. And judging from the past couple of weeks, the goddamn Giants sure aren't going to help.

Over the 2016 season, the Yankees top hitter batted 7th

Here's a fun fact.

The 2016 stats show that the Yankees' best hitter for average batted seventh in the daily lineup. Seventh. 7th. Our second-worst hitter batted - gulp - cleanup. Clean up.

Basically, this reflects the collapse of Tex and A-Rod, who killed us the first half, and the dismal production of Ellsbury and Gardner. For most of the season, our best hitter - Didi Gregorius, as it turned out - batted sixth or seventh. See for yourself.

The only thing in these numbers that passes for hope is the fact that they are so terrible, you'd think something has to happen next winter.

Now, here is what a Division winner looks like. This is Boston's lineup. The only places where the Yankees had more output are highlighted.

Conclusion: We have a long way to go.

The Master of my Master is my friend

Vin Scully, a man without a WinWarble, has signed off.