Domestic violence brings the latest challenge to "Next Man Up"

First, let's not convict without a trial. Whatever happened between Domingo German and his partner needs to be assessed by professional people-assessors. 

But when the news broke yesterday of his double-secret probation, due to matters of domestic violence, my first rage was simplistically directed at the juju gods: 

Haven't they done enough to us? Did they have to throw in this?

Then came a second thought: 

This is not a tweaked gonad.

When a Yankee gets hurt, we rail indignation about the Fates, the trainers, Larry Rothschild, artificial turf, climate change, Taylor Swift, click-bait - whatever. When it's a wife or girlfriend who gets hurt, we oughta show a little discretion and STFU. 

Of course, that is not an option.

I cannot imagine the emotional polar extremes of being a 27-year-old Dominican pitcher, transplanted to NYC. But nothing justifies hurting a woman. (How courageous I am, eh? condemning domestic violence!) But with hat in hand, let's abandon moral judgments and merely look at how German's loss could affect the team.

1. He's not the ace of May and June. In fact, he's been shaky. Two weeks ago, in Boston, he couldn't escape the fourth, giving up five earned runs in the opening game of what was then a crucial series. He's now a middle-innings reliever, who has thrown more innings than ever before, and he runs hot and cold. See for yourself.

Thus, if we lose German, it's not the end of the world. It probably means that both Luis Cessa and Jonathan Loiasiga make the playoff roster. It does not relegate us to Chance Adams or the toe-tapper. Lately, there's been hope of J.A. Happ turning it around. (His bicep strain could change that.) And if Luis Severino is truly back, we can win this without German. He can spare himself another month of innings on that whip right arm, maybe come back next spring and become a Number 1 starter.

2. If he returns, how could this affect him? Opposing crowds will jeer him; Oakland is a tough town - (Sonny Barger: R.I.P.) - Tampa already hates us, and he'll have to warm up in full view of drunken fans. All of this could make German a better pitcher - his back is against the wall. But it's a spiritual weight upon his physical psyche. Lately, I'm sorta liking Cessa. See for yourself.

3. The Yankees will lose a little of that No-Name fairy dust the Gammonites have been sprinkling. When German comes in, the Fox/ESPN/TNT blather-machines will ramp up their moral high ground apparatus. Joe Buck will come out swinging. A-Rod will stutter like Porky Pig. 

In a five-game series, it's hard to quantify moral high ground. But to those of us who are old enough to remember Lawrence Welk pledge drives on our PBS station, we can certainly fear another judgment: The mavens might start recapping Aroldis Chapman's history.

El Chapo remains a hurricane force of nature. Last night, with a nine-run lead and two outs, he was still capable of walking in 10 runs. (He didn't, of course. He made Albert Pujols look like Billy Crystal.) But there is always the fear that the wrong Chapman shows up, especially if Boone has already used his entire bullpen.

I don't mean to discard German, based on unspecified charges. But all year, the Yankee motto of "Next Man Up" somehow bypassed the bullpen. Aside from the Big Four, nobody really stepped up. It's time for that to change.

This has been a great year

Tonight, your New York Yankees won 100 games for the 21st time—21 times in 93 seasons since they first accomplished the feat, 21 of 89, if you take out the strike-shortened years.  Almost one in every four seasons, and maybe double the number of times anybody else has done it.

It was also the 20th time they've won a division title, if you count the 1981, strike-season playoff, and the 1994 shortened strike season.  (Which I do.)  Twenty in 44 seasons, since they won the first one in 1976.

It was the 49th time they've finished first in the regular season, since 1921, or 49 out of 99 seasons.  The 55th time they've made the playoffs.

This is not bad.

And you know, even if it doesn't go beyond this—which it almost certainly will not—it was a great season.

I know I caterwaul as much as anyone around here—gotta give those JuJu gods their burnt offerings—but I've had a great time following this team.  As I have so often in the past, following other Yankees teams for whom, well, not everything worked out in the end.

Another great year, much like this one?  1980.  The Yanks overcame all kinds of injuries (Bob Watson, Graig Nettles, Ruppert Jones), came from behind constantly, won 103 games, and held off a formidable Orioles team.

Sure, in the playoffs our luck changed.  Mike Ferrarro sent Randolph around third when he should not have, Cerone and Nettles hit bullets right at guys, and Goose Gossage attempted—yet again—to show that he could throw a fastball past George Brett (spoiler alert: he couldn't).

But did that erase six months of ecstasy and camaraderie?  (Also, coincidentally, the title of Heddy Lamarr's memoirs.)  No, it did not.

Same thing for 2003, and 2017, and even 2001 and 2004, which ended in the most dispiriting, awful experiences in my ill-spent, sports-following life.

Even in 2004, collapsing against the hate Boston Red Sox in ignominious fashion...did not negate six wonderful months of following a gutty, resilient team (also with no starting pitching) that staged something like 61 come-from-behind victories.

It was a great year.

So are they all with you guys, with my other Yankees-crazy friends, with just the wonderful, daily rhythm of the long season.

It's a team that has won like no other team has ever won, at least in America.  It just doesn't always win it all (and it won't this season).

But so what?  It was a great year.

Another gut punch, as hope drains for the home field advantage

The Death Star has nine games left to bypass hot-and-healthy Houston - (one player out this month: Aaron Sanchez) - in the race for home field advantage in the playoffs. 

With a 10-game lead in the AL East, the Yankiverse should not be pondering a sense of impending doom... yet here it is. 

Last night, Aaron Judge jammed his shoulder diving for a ball. He spent the rest of the game flexing and stretching, slapping two meager grounders. We've seen this movie many times. It's played nonstop since March. It opens with a player flexing and stretching, and it ends two months later, following the intermission. Judge is a trooper. He'll probably play hurt. That, in itself, is another curse. 

The road to 2019 will almost surely pass through Houston, where our home runs die at the track, and where - if we even make it - our lineup could be a cruel SNL parody. Can Kate McKinnon do Larry Rothschild? 

Why am I so damn negative? Good grief, after what we've witnessed this year, how can anyone not feel hopeless? Has there yet been a tweak that turned out to be innocent? A guy gets bitten by a radioactive spider: He doesn't develop powers; he misses six weeks. When Aaron Hicks hurt himself in spring training, he vowed to miss maybe three games - exhibition games! He returned in mid-May, and was still hitting below .200 on June 22. Severino? He was originally out until the All-Star break. And don't get me started about Miguel Andujar and Giancarlo Stanton. I'm sorry, folks. But when Edwin Encarnacion returned for a week, hit like hell, and then pulled a saddlebag - well - something snapped inside me. The MRI found a tear in my hope gland, and I'm headed for Tommy John lobotomy. I can only hope they remove the part of my brain that clicks on stories posted about Jennifer Aniston's comeback.

Last night, Aaron Judge jammed his shoulder. I ask you: Is there any reason - any frickin' reason at all - why we should not expect this to kill the rest of his season? Tonight, they'll simply announce that he's resting. Tomorrow, they'll say he'll be back my mid-week. Then they'll say maybe spring training. 

This has been the weirdest, most warped, Yankee season in my lifetime. In many ways, it's been the most rewarding. We came to know Gio Urshela, Mike Tauchman, Cameron Maybin, Luke Voit, Domingo German, Thairo Estrada and Kyle Higashioka. They appeared out of nowhere and saved our listing boat. They beat Boston, like the great Yankee teams of yore. But we've always known it won't matter, if we fail in October. 

We kept believing that, at some point, the wave of injuries would end, or at least be shared equally by our rivals. Now, we know the grim truth: That's not going to happen. The fix is in. Jeter wears a slimy suit, and Mariano dines with autocrats. God is a psychopath. 

Last night, Aaron Judge jammed his shoulder. Expect the worst. The champagne celebration won't quite be the same.

There is no "I" in "Team"

Well, that was thrilling, wasn't it?

A breath of October in the air, a chance to both (officially) clinch the division AND win 100 games, the return of Giancarlo, and our old warhorse, CC Sabathia, on the mound.

Uh-oh.

All the good vibes melted away tonight as CC turned in what has become very much his usual start: 2 1/3 innings, 4 hits, 2 walks, 2 earned runs, and a very quick hook before the game got completely out of hand.

Par for the course.  This year, CC has not managed to average 5 innings a start.  He has become an "opener" without meaning to.

Nonetheless, he got a good hand from the Bronx faithful, and Michael Kay praised him to the skies:  "Eleven terrific years!  Surely on the best free agent purchases the New York Yankees ever made!  Tied for fourth in postseasons wins in franchise history!"

Stop it.

Eleven terrific years?  More like 4 terrific years (2009-2012), two pretty good ones (2017-2018), and one that was all right (2016).  Overall, CC has averaged just over 12 wins a season for your New York Yankees.  In the 6 seasons starting with 2014, he has averaged 6 1/2.

Tied for fourth in postseason wins?  Is there a smarmier statistic?

Yes, he has 8 of them.  Zero in the World Series, which ties him with Mike Kekich, Bill Burbach, and Ross Ohlendorf.  Lifetime, he has a 4.31 ERA in October, compared to 3.73 in the regular season.

One of the Yanks' best free agent signings?  Yes—and no.  The first time was great.  The second was an unmitigated disaster, $23 million a year to pitch worse than any of the numerous alternatives the Yanks might have entertained.

Look, I have to admit:  I like CC, too.  What's not to like?  He was (one of the) guys responsible for what is our only ring of this brave new century and promises to be so for the foreseeable future.

And in return, we made him one of the richest people in the history of the world.

As a New York Yankee, CC Sabathia has made around $225 million.  If he has had any kind of decent financial advice, he's now a billionaire.

Well, good on him.  And what has he given us in return?

Certainly not what you would think would be the minimum for a professional athlete, which would be some sense of obligation to get into some kind of physical and emotional shape.  Instead, he hit upon the strategy of barking at people when they dared to bunt on him because he was too fat and hobbled to field his position.

And what an inspiring season this one was for CC, huh?  As the team battled magnificently to overcome one injury after another, CC set his sites on clearing those statistics that would help get him into Cooperstown.

It's not that he's a drag on the team.  He's worse.  For years now, CC has served as a convenient rationale for why the Yankees could not afford to get the pitching it needed to win—and the rationale for why HAL tells himself he can never risk a big money contract like that again.

I know, I know.  They offered the money.  You won't catch me turning down any $23-million-a-year contracts.

But I can't help thinking about how DiMaggio—then the highest paid player in the game—walked away from another year after he had his worst season in the bigs, but primarily because a Dodgers scouting report was leaked detailing all the ways in which he had declined.

Joe walked away rather than embarrass himself, and that was even after he'd had a World Series in which he drove in 5 runs in as many games.  CC, by contrast, won't throw a significant pitch in this postseason, no matter what happens.  But he's still along for the ride.

Well, we can't all be Joe DiMaggio.  But here we are again, with another CC farewell sucking all the air out of the room and I have to say I'm glad it's the last one.

There may not be an "I" in "team," but there sure is one in Sabathia.

There once was a lad named Betances...

As Iron Man Stanton begins his grueling
11-game season... a few  words of poetry from 13bit.

There once was a lad named Betances
Who suffered from great happenstances
He took a short hop and injured his chop,
Now he's spending the winter in Frances

The Yankees were taking their glances
At the pitcher who's known as Betances.
When all in a flash, he came down with a crash
Now we're all taking our chances.

It Is So Bad We Need More Swans

I guess it is really hard for a guy 6'8" to find his footing on the mound at the new stadium.

Frankly, I am worn out.

My paid holiday provided no respite.

I am a bundle of nerves and hyperactive.

Can't keep any food down.

Cant keep my down, down.

I feel the end is near.

What if we are left with only Chance?

The wave of Yankee injuries is not random occurrence

Existential question for today: 

How can you welcome back your best pitcher, win by a score of 8-0, clinch the division and still call it a horrible, awful, crappy, tick-infested rat-hole of a night? 

Well, that's what happened last night, as it's happened all season. There's no reason to expect it to stop. All year, it's been two baby steps forward, one giant step back. Today, it just doesn't seem fair.

A partial tear of the Achilles tendon. That's the line on Dellin Betances. He'll be in a cast for three months, in a boot for five. He might return next June, at age 32, with no guarantee that he'll ever recapture the fastball of 29. He might not be a Yankee, if he dares ask for a decent contract. Gone.

Last night, at 8 p.m., we were the happiest team in baseball, peering through the clouds that had blanketed us all season. Three hours later, we were snake-bitten and cursed. 

Who's behind this? Carl Pavano? Kei Igawa? Is there a double-agent in our midst, a jujuist being aided by Iran? Scott Proctor! He used to burn his jersey at home plate; could he be torching old sweat socks - revenge porn against Joe Torre for being worked to death? Somebody out there has invented an injury machine - like the hurricane generator off the Ivory Coast - and they're aiming at the Bronx. If Cokey Roberts were alive, she could explain. Aurec Goldfinger said once is happenstance, twice, coincidence, three times, enemy action. WTF do you say to 30? All I know is we've been hexed - this aint random, this aint the universe, this is mean-spirited and angry - and it won't stop until we beat the bastard with a tire iron and broken bottle of Mad Dog. 

(And let us now - as a blog, unanimously - hereby agree to dispense with the absolutely insane notion that Giancarlo Stanton will soon return and lead the team through October. The YES men (and YES women) use it to jack up false hopes; never again. He'll step on a wad of chewing gum and disappear to the Calgon Bath Oil Beads of Tampa. Nope. Never again.)

We either win the World Series this year - end this cursed thing - or spend the next 10 years whining that we've been robbed, like the cast of Glee at a post-Emmy party. We either snap this decade-long drought - beat not only the Astros but the Fates, the Furies, the Destinies, the Kardashians, Vladimir Putin - whoever is joy-sticking the drones. We win next month or face the cold reality: 

We are just another New York sports team, crushed under the weight of our self-induced hubris, incapable of going all the way. 

So, Dellin is done. Sure, we were fools to expect him back, but it sure was fun, eh? Imagining a scary, lights-out hulk striking out the side, showing the opposition that we can stuff them, at any time. Gone. It was just a dream, Dorothy. You were dreaming, that's all. 

So, here is our pitching staff for the playoffs - at least until someone gets dengue fever. I figure we carry 11 or 12, depending on whether Boone wants Tyler Wade to pinch run. 

Paxton (game one starter)
Tanaka (game two)
Severino (game three)
Happ/Sabathia/German (game four... CC here as a legacy.)
Ottavino/Kahnle/Green
Britton
Chapman

Twelfth man: Whoever looks good. Loaisiga, Cessa, Cortes, Adams, Heller, Montgomery. This would have been Dellin, if the gods weren't such pricks.

Break Out the Champagne

A little while ago, the Los Angeles Dodgers defeated the Tampa Bay Rays, 7-5, thereby giving your New York Yankees the American League East crown.

Oh, I know that they're still maintaining that the magic number is 1.  It isn't, not really.

The Rays are now 10 games behind the Bronx Behemoths, with 10 to play.  The Yankees own the tiebreaker, having beaten TB 12 games out of 17.

Therefore, the Rays would have to win all 10 of their remaining games, the Yankees would have to lose all 10 of their remaining games, AND the two other wild card contenders would have to win so many games that the team which is NOT the East Division winner, would either not qualify for the playoffs, or would be forced into a tie-breaking, play-in game to the play-in game.

In which case, the Yanks and Rays would have to play a one-game playoff, and then the loser would have to play either one or both of the other wild card contenders, in another playoff.

Got all that?  Good.  Here's an easier way to look at it:

We win!  Break out the bubbly.

Dellin done

Let's face it: The gods hate us.

Attention Has Been Paid

Hey, whattaya know?  The Paper of Record actually ran a baseball story today, albeit on the latest face-flop of the Mets, one of the two teams the staff openly roots for.  (What's the other one?  I'll give you a hint:  chowdah.)

Michael Powell at least professed up front to being a dedicated, lifelong Mets fan, as is his family, and what can we offer but our condolences?

https://www.nytimes.com/2019/09/16/sports/baseball/mets-dodgers-playoffs-powell.html

Of course, he does give us this little white lie:

The first half of this season mixed the soporific with the dispiriting until in late July the Mets ripped off a winning streak, and soon fans piled into this handsome stadium by Flushing Bay, bellowing and chanting.

Mmm, not quite, Tondelayo.  Fact is, the Mets have had all of 4 sellout games this year: Opening Day, the two contests against your New York Yankees, and, yes, the Saturday night after the team's exciting, walk-off win against Washington.

That's it.  In fact, even after they followed that walk-off thriller with another, exciting, one-run victory, the following Sunday afternoon game against Washington...did not sell out.

Nor has any game since.  And Powell—again, to his credit—recognizes that prevailing hopelessness amongst the Flushing fandom, in writing about Sunday's heartbreaker:

The crowd was subdued for playoff-race September. The Mets claimed it exceeded 31,000, a number perhaps achieved by double-counting hot dog vendors. The Dodgers fans in attendance so often outshouted Mets fans you wondered if the Mets had given out Thorazine at the front gate.

The Chicago Cubs and even the Washington Nationals, with their khaki-and-white-shirt interns and lobbyist fans, have outdrawn the Mets of late.

Precisely.  

WTF happened to Boston this year (and could it happen to us?)

It makes no sense: How could a team with so many breakout stars become so irrelevant? The defending champs... done by mid-September. Wow.

With 11 games to play, Boston's big testicle pooh-bahs trail in the Wild Card by 9 - with the 13th best record in baseball, (a mired-in-mediocrity finish that is still three games above the Mets.) But how, how? Look at that lineup... and tell me... how? 

There's Rafael Devers at 3B, at age 22 a future MVP. "Humphrey" Bogaerts at SS, with 31 HRs and 106 RBIs (more than any Yankee, btw.) Christian Vasquez - 21 HRs and .273 - best catcher in the AL East? Plus Mookie Betts, JD Martinez and Andrew Benintendi. Across the lineup, the only rubber-tipped doink is Jackie Bradley Jr., and he's still a gold glove CF. 

How... how does this team miss the playoffs?

Obviously... it's pitching, pitching, pitching. Eduardo Rodriguez - 17-6 with an ERA of 3.46 - became an ace. But from him on, it's Tomato Soup Tuesday in the school cafeteria. The lug nuts of 2018 - Chris Sale, David Price, Nathan Eovaldi and Rick Porcello - fell apart like Kleenex in a Maytag, and the owner's refusal to run up his luxury taxes to buy a bullpen kicked this team in the nuts from Day One.

But for my money, 't'wasn't those planes that killed the Beast. Nope. 'Twas that two-game blitzkrieg in London. Boston scored 21 runs, a month's worth of base-runners, and couldn't hold us to a football score by the Jersey Giants. (We scored 29.) From that day on, the writing was on the wall: REDRUM!  

We tweaked more gonads than the cast of a Syracuse dinner theater performance of Chorus Line. But it was Boston that played the year under a toxic cloud. They lost five out their first six, eight out of their first 10. Steve Pearce disappeared early, as did Sale's fastball. Price was in a fog. Porcello was terrible. Eovaldi did what he always does: get hurt.

Could it happen to us? (Note: For starters, we're not the defending world champs, so technically, we cannot yet be dethroned, and we could go into the winter already humiliated and pissy.) Of course. You know how I feel about negativity: It's our spiritual armor, the suit of cynical iron that protects us from mortal wounds. But no matter what happens next month, the Death Star should be much stronger in 2020 than Boston was coming into this season.

Instead of an overworked pitching staff, the Yanks could be amazingly healthy. At the most, Luis Severino will throw 40 innings this year. Dellin Betances might throw 20 (assuming we re-sign him.) Domingo German could be hard-pressed to return, considering his workload. Happ and CC? Good luck. Tanaka and Paxton? Who knows? But we will have plenty of young, MLB-quality position players to trade for pitching. And even if El Chapo walks, it shouldn't be a death knell to the bullpen. 

I don't know how the Yankees will fare next month. But there is no reason to think this team will collapse next year, as the Redsocks have done. The question, though, is whether we can cut into their 4-1 lead in World Championships during this millennium. If we squander this season - that is, anything less than a ring - Boston's dismal fate should stand as a warning: You never know when the tide will roll out and leave nothing but wreckage behind. This had better be our year.  

Slip Slidin' Away

Oh, Mets.

Even after Sunday night's heartbreaking loss to the Dodgers, the Mets weren't in such terrible shape. They had got through their 25-game skein against contenders and division leaders at 13-12, which isn't awful.

From now on, though, they are not scheduled to play any team over .500 until the last series of the year against an Atlanta team that will have already clinched everything there is to clinch.

10 straight against Colorado, Cincinnati, and Miami, and then Atlanta.  Sure, the Mets were 4 games out of the second Wild Card Play-In spot after Sunday.

But these last 13 games should've been like the last sprint to the finish line after finishing all the hurdles.  It's often the place where a team can pick up ground, particularly when the other teams are playing tough opponents.

Nope.

Instead, out at Coors Field, the Mets got off to a 4-1 lead against a pitcher with a 6.83 ERA, but couldn't score again.  Meanwhile, Steven Matz gave up six runs in an inning AFTER there were two out.

Two of the runs scored on a 1-2 pitch to the same pitcher, who was 0-44 at the plate.  He hit a two-run single to tie the game.

How Mets.

Well, in the era of zombie baseball, they still aren't out of it.  But they are now 5 game out of a Wild Card slot with just 12 to go.  It's not dark yet, but it's gettin' there.

Make of this what you will

In a short while I will be presenting the New York @Yankees @MarianoRivera, the greatest relief pitcher (Closer!) of all time, with the Presidential Medal of Freedom in the East Room of the @WhiteHouse!

— Donald J. Trump (@realDonaldTrump) September 16, 2019

The 11-game pre-postseason begins

Eleven games... 

... to decide home field advantage in the playoffs.

... to determine the viability of Giancarlo Stanton, Luis Severino, Dellin Betances, Jordan Montgomery, J.A. Happ, Edwin Encarnacion and Gary Sanchez. (And, let's face it: CC Sabathia.)

... to find an opening game starter. (Looks like Paxton, but whomever is hot is front-runner.) 

... to set a healthy bullpen. (Translation: To reset El Chapo.) 

... to decide our first round opponent. (Right now, it'd be the winner between Oakland-Tampa.)

... to decide who bats third. (LeMahieu, Judge and... humina-humina-humina...?)

... to decide who's on first. (LeMahieu? Voit? Encarnacion? Even Ford - over the last month: .346 - in a platoon?)

... to decide who plays left field. (Maybin? Red Menace? Stanton?)

... to decide if we'll carry a pinch runner. (Wade or Maybin?)

... to get Didi on a roll. (Over last 30 days, hitting .207.)

... to stay healthy. (Has there been an 11-game stretch this season in which at least one starter didn't go down? Somebody will get hurt.)

Eleven games... 

Three at home vs. the Angels. Three at home vs the Jays. Two in Tampa. Three in Texas. (We need five out of six at home, split in Tampa, sweep in Texas.)

Houston plays two vs the Rangers at home. Three vs. the Angels at home. Two in Seattle. Four in Los Angeles. (Let's hope for bad blood with Angels, which carries into final weekend.) 

Thirteen days and nights...

Eddie Money... Ric Ocasek... who's next?

Will we be at war?

Where will the next hurricane hit?

Two more humiliating losses by Giants, with still no plan to bench Eli.

What celebrity will Trump be screaming at?

What will be happening in Taylor Swift's life?

Eleven games... 

As NY Post sportswriter Bill Blake once put it:

William Blake

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,

Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand 

And Eternity in an hour.

So Close!!!

Last night seemed perfect.

The Unsinkable Molly Mets, incredibly enough, were STILL in the Wild Card hunt.  It was a gorgeous fall evening, more than a touch of October in the air.

The Mets were playing the best team in the National League, the vile traitors who had left Brooklyn in the lurch.  AND their remarkable, ace pitcher—a man who surely deserved a better team in his major-league career—was on the mound.

And you know what?  It turned out to be a fast, scintillating pitchers' duel, with a surprise hero coming off the bench to deliver a winning pinch-hit for the home team in the eighth inning.

So, did the Mets draw 40,000 of the Flushing Faithful?

NO!

But they were SO CLOSE!

39, 264.  That's just 736 fans short of 40,000—instead of their 18th straight, sub-40,000 turnout.

For a Mets team that was just in the World Series in 2015, and in the playoffs in 2016.

But no.  Mets fans STILL do not believe.

Wow, what dedication.

Do these people go to their kids' performances in Peter Pan and refuse to clap for Tinkerbell?  "Hell, the little fairy's dead already, get over it!"

Do they tell said children there is no Santa Claus the moment they're old enough to comprehend the idea?  "Look, kid, some of your pals are gonna swear there's a jolly fat man who comes down your chimney on Christmas Eve.  They're delusional, all right?  And no, we are NOT putting out milk and cookies.  Go to bed!"

Well, that's all right.  This is America.  They are entitled to their right not to believe.

Let's just not hear anymore of the usual, Mets fan baywash about how spoiled, entitled, jaded, complacent whatever Yankees fans are.

Right now, when it comes to the standings of Ya Gotta Believe?

Yanks fans:  First in the American League in attendance.

Mets fans:  Ninth, even lower than their still striving team.

Dear Mr. Stanton, you have been given an incredible second chance at redemption

Dear Giancarlo, 

I say "Giancarlo," because if I shortened it to just "Gio," everyone would think I was addressing Gio Urshela, See what happens when you leave? As novelist John Irving once wrote:

When the dear disappear/
Someone else is always near.

I'm writing because, according to the fake news Interthing, you will return to the Death Star Tuesday, when the Los Angeles California Angels of Anaheim - (minus the Japanese Babe Ruth) - come to Gotham City. Starting Tuesday, you will get 11 games to show the Yankiverse that you deserve to swing a bat in October. Yep, the notorious, elusive eleven-game season. That's maybe 50 plate appearances, and 20 defensive chances in left field. It does not even qualify as a "small sample size." It's more like a one-off experiment, where you attach the electrodes, crank it up full blast, and see what happens. We might as well dip you in CBD oil or drench you in gamma rays. Why not?  

Moreover, let's say the first game shouldn't even count. You could pull a platinum sombrero - five k's - and we'll chalk it off to rust. So it's a 10-game season.  

For a guy who has suffered an injury-plagued year, you should thank your lucky stars for the next two weeks. You have been granted an amazing chance at redemption, the kind few players ever receive.

Wanna know somebody who is unlucky? Mike Tauchman played his heart out, filled your vacancy, won over the fans, and he'll miss the playoffs. Or Edwin Encarnacion, who returned from a broken wrist to go on a hitting tear, and who  may end up sitting out October. Or Gary Sanchez, who rehabilitated his catching career, but who might miss it. Or whomever the next injured Yankee will be. It's hard to imagine 11 games with nobody getting hurt. 

But but BUT... here's my offer, and I believe I speak for the entire Yankiverse in extending it: 

If you go on a hitting spree, if you help lead the 2019 Yankees to a world championship, all shall be forgiven. 

That's right. Incredible as it sounds, all you need to do in the next 11 games - and then the following month - is hit. 

Just hit. That's all. You don't need to man left field. You can DH. Just hit. Just hit like you did two years ago in Miami. Or like you did last August, when you carried us in the wake of Aaron Judge's broken wrist. Just hit. That's all. Hit, and all will be forgiven.

You're getting the kind of chance that Derek Jeter and Mariano Rivera did not receive at the ends of their careers. You're getting a shot at center stage in the post-season. The world will watch your every swing, and all you need to do is hit. Just hit, and you will cement your name into Yankee history. The plaque at Monument Park. The retired number. Full ownership of the name "Gio." All yours. Just hit. 

Not that you should feel any pressure... 

The Curse of Kepner...

...got the Mets last night.

This guy has already polished off the Red Sox ("Boston is Back!") and Arizona ("D'backs Shine Without Stars!") this season, and now he has finally nail the Flushing Phenoms:  "Is the Mets' Wild Season Careening Into the Playoffs?"

Sure looked that way, as an underflow crowd of 36,097 Mets "fans" strolled through the turnstiles.  (Many thousands more were left outside...doing something else in Queens.)

Despite the (non-)playoff atmosphere, Thor the Schnor spit the bit again, and the Metsies could not break through on Kershaw, who had been hammered of late.

Aw, gee.

Well, back to it tonight, with the Mets now in 8th place in the NL, but still just 3 games out of a Wild Card slot.

Ya gotta believe!  (Except that Mets fans don't.)

Okay, this is truly nuts

Zack Britton's butterfly curve.

As we wait and hope for Dellin and Luis, let's not forget the option we scorned

God speed Dellin Betances on his way back to the Death Star. And maybe, God help us when he returns.

Last night, with a game on the line, Casey Boone turned to someone named Tyler Lyons. He is 31 and a recent escapee of the MLB glue factory, signed by Cooperstown Cashman after compiling an incredible 11.25 ERA with Pittsburgh. Last night, well, it just didn't work out, and the Yankees blew a winnable game. 

To explain why Boone turned to Lyons, we should acknowledge that he had already burned through two innings of Luis Cessa, which is like walking on hot coals after taking a shower of Kingsford Odorless. It is amazing how the Yankee bullpen collapses into Doritos dust once the big four set-ups have pitched. After Otto, Chad, Zack and Tommy, no lead is safe... which is why the Yankees are now desperately seeking Dellin.

Last night, Betances pitched for Double A Trenton. He threw 16 pitches and gave up a home run. His velocity hovered around a demoralizing 92 mph, which is old CC territory. It's shuddering to think of him facing MLB hitters. The Yankees will need a blowout situation to justify bringing him in.

They might get one soon. Luis Severino may start tomorrow's game. In Scranton, he pitched one inning, gave up two runs. 

And then there is Jordan Montgomery - back from TJ surgery. He pitched 1.2 innings for Scranton: 2 hits and a run, albeit, unearned.

I recognize that small sample sizes and rehab stats mean nothing to a veteran making his way back to Gotham. But damn, it sure would be nice to see a one-two-three inning, especially when the opposition is the Bowie Baysox. It's starting to look as though, at least with our pitchers, the cavalry might be arriving too late.

Meanwhile - sorry, but I have to go there - Dallas Keuchel has allowed only four runs in his last six starts - 37 innings with an ERA of 0.97 - for Atlanta. Keuchel is the pitcher we needed, but Food Stamps Hal Steinbrenner couldn't be bothered to reach for his wallet. He has become the Braves' ace, and if Halligator Arms had done his job - that is, spending a quantum speck of his uncountable fortune - we would not be worrying about losing home field advantage because our best hope in a cliffhanger turned out to be somebody named Tyler Lyons. 

Mr. Glass Half-Full

All right, I hate to be the optimist here.  It's not something I'm really used to.  And, hey, even my idea of optimism is heavily tinged with, well, pessimism.

First off:  don't worry too much about this year's playoffs.

If we have to lose key guys for October...this is the year to do it.  Nobody is going to beat Houston.

I imagine that Astros fans just now must feel the way I did watching Game 5 of the 2000 World Series: Yeah, boy, I really hope we win this one.  But if we don't...no way that the Mets are beating Pettitte, and then El Duque (the original) and Clemens back in the Stadium.

Verlander, Cole, Greinke, and Miley Cyrus?

No way we're getting past that save for a miracle on the order of the one that got us past Maddux, Smoltz, and Glavine in 1996.  And that would be the sort of cosmic hurricane in which it won't matter a helluva lot if we have this player or that.

Look, EE is, what, 36?  And hasn't had a real sniff of the World Series.  If he can't come back for this, well, then, God bless him, he's all but dead.  And we have people to replace him.

Happ would be a real loss...but we've played almost this entire season with him as a dead loss.  We could use Kahnle, but he may be all right, and if just one of these guys—Sevvy, Monty, Toonces—can come back, we won't miss him.

Which leaves Sanchez.

I hate to say this, but:  Sanchez is a boob.

Sure, it could be he was ordered to steal second—though I very much doubt it.

But if you're ordered to do something so idiotic and you know how you feel, you trudge toward second at a home-run-trot pace, then go back to the dugout and say, "Aw, gee, skip, bad jump!"

Anybody who can't figure that out is a boob.

But I very much doubt that Boone sent him.  I very much suspect that the great idea to steal second base in a meaningless situation in a meaningless game was all Sanchez's.  Because he is a boob.

Hey, I don't mean that he's a boob away from a ballfield.  For all I know, Sanchez spends his evenings reading Marquez, Proust, and Dostoyevsky in the original Russian.

But on the field...

Guys like this, it's always something.  They have a permanent bad weather system following them, like that Al Capp character, Joe Shlobotnik, or some such, who had a storm cloud always over his head.

There are always guys like that, whether it's their fault or not.  Sanchez is one of them.

When he first came up, he looked like a young Johnny Bench.  Since then, it's been only backwards.  It's been one thing or another—and it always will be.

Injuries, fielding problems.  He seems to have solved the passed ball problem, but now his throwing out baserunners percentage is way down, from 41 percent to just 26.

It's always something.  You push something with this guy, something else gets pulled.  We should've dealt him for Realmuto this past postseason but we didn't, and now we'll have to deal with the soap opera that is Gary Sanchez forever.

Except maybe this postseason.  Which is not a big deal.

Sanchez's Octobers?  .197 in 75 plate appearance.  Much like his regular seasons.  A big game or two in which he clubs a couple massive homers.  A whole mess o' strikeouts in between.

Sancho goes out hitting .233.  Will we miss him?  Um, as much as we missed John Ellis, another mess o' potential.

Bring on Romine and Higgy.