Open Letter to God

Dear Madam or Sir,

First off, I humbly want to say thanks for everything. And to apologize for not doing this more often. I should thank You every day. Ten times a day. A hundred. You are great. I shouldn't take You for granted. From now on, I'm going to try to change.

Secondly, I would humbly like to ask that children everywhere receive food to eat. I'm not asking You to make bread suddenly appear everywhere. You're God, not a street magician! (Heh heh.) But all humble kidding aside, I do want You to know that my priorities are straight here. My request is to end hunger. Nothing more.

So, anyways, that's about it. Just wanted You to know how grateful I am and... well, OK... one more thing, really minor.

I have a friend, won't mention names, who is the dumps, sad about the economy and the war and kids without food. Wait, who am I kidding? You know his name: SuperFrankenstein. Well, he would get a real boost if the Yankees won tonight. I would never ask this for me. But SuperFrankenstein needs somebody to throw him a bone. I'm not asking anyone to fix a game or shave points. Me? I just want the athletes for both teams to play hard and not be hurt. By the way, did you hear the blaspheme their closer said the other day, how they would sweep us at home? Mariano would never say that stuff. Never.

Anyways, when that fat guy's curveball is spinning toward home plate, I just hope You'll think of poor SuperFrankenstein, crouched over in his hovel, beside the radio, shivering - did I tell you I think the utility may have cut off his heat? He doesn't want food. He doesn't want clothing. He only wants one thing. Yankee victory. Like millions of others in New York City and around the world. Yankee victory.

Me? I couldn't care less. I want what You want. Which might be that maybe somebody shuts that fat closer's mouth, once and for all.

Anyways, You're the greatest! And go Yankees! (Just kidding.) Seacrest out. (That's a joke.) Amen!

Links

AJ or Beaker?

Tiger beer/blood vendor deeked Sori?

Torre the new Tito?

 

 

The John Sterling Shrine At 49 East 86th Street

below, an enlargement of the plaque just to the right and above the woman in the pic

Our Father's Father, Carl H.T. Sloss

John's grandfather was named Julius Sloss. I would venture to guess he might have been named after him.

Hate Site Has Grudge To Settle Against John

Evidently Deadspin author Craggs has never forgotten John for snubbing his mom at a 1980 beauty pageant.

Here is how we settle 10 year's worth of crap... the Godfather way

Thursday night: We de-teat that sissy-goggled, chicken-bodied Tigers' closer, Valverde, or Valvoline, whatever. The guy with the smartypants mouf. Let's shoot him in his smartypants mouf. Then he can talk trash. How many consecutive saves does he have? Let's feed him lead donuts and dunk him into the Hudson backwash. VENGEANCE.

First Round: We knock out the Kalines, in memory of  '06. Yeah, we remember juiced-up Kenny Rogers doctoring the ball, and Magglio Dry Look, with his Weird Al hair. They embarrassed us. They coldcocked us. This time, they'll wake up to a bloody Tiger head with a cigarette dangling from its lips: Jim Leyland's lips. In '06, they had Grandy. Now, they can watch him. (And where's Marcus Thames?) REVENGE!

Second Round: Torch the entire empty-cowboy hatted hate-state of Texas until it's a pile of dirty bone ashes. (Oops, too late; global warming beat us to it.) A good beating will make drydrunk George W. Bush weep like a Disney mouse singing "Somewhere Out There." Let's impregnate Bush's socialite twins with Mary Cheney's semen. Let's remind Nolan Ryan that he started with the Mets. Let's toss Josh Hamilton a baseball, just a foot too far from the overhang. Damm, I want these guys to suffer like I did. NO MERCY!

World Series: Let's lash the Diamondbacks to a tavern bucking bronco, so Bristol Palin can lecture them, like a meter maid in some porno version of COPS, on her upcoming reality TV show. Let's tie Randy Johnson to the foul pole and wait for the next mile-high sandstorm to devour Phoenix. What's left, a million man march of fire ants can finish. For 10 years, we've waited for a whack at these self-righteous, hate-filled snakes of the desert. In 2001, the rat bastards celebrated at home plate while the p.a. system played "New York, New York." We will never forget. The grist of the gods grinds infinitely fine. So do the Yankees. OCCUPY ARIZONA! WIPE CLEAN THE VENGEANCE SLATE. As John would say... LET'S KILL SOMETHING TOGETHAHHHHHH...

Huffington Post Writer Correctly Shares Credit For Yankees Victory With The Very Blog You Are Now Reading

Little did I know that, in my complete and utter confidence that the game and season were lost, to the point where I refused to even be a spectator to the carnage, I was invoking what a brilliant Yankees blog refers to as "reverse juju." As soon as I turned off my phone, A.J. somehow worked his way out of the inning without allowing a run, thanks in part to a spectacular catch by Curtis Granderson. And for the rest of the game, my absence gave the team strength. My lack of faith improved A.J.'s control. My despair brought A-Rod's bat back to life. My fore-ordained knowledge that the Yankees would lose paradoxically put them ahead. That's how reverse juju works. It's a gift that many fans have, and few can channel effectively. But for one magical night, I had the juju mojo.

Link

HATE SITE BLASTS JOHN For Watching Soap Operas, Drinking Alone

Link

As career nears end, Scott Proctor wins the most coveted honor in sports: IT IS HIGH YANKEE SEPTEMBER EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH

Congratulations, Scotty.

(PS: For the next few weeks, just to be safe,
don't ski, sky-dive, set fire to your equipment, or eat cantaloupes.)

Should we do a running live open forum blog for game five?

That means group participants. That means you, the general public, checking in. That means reporting the words and thoughts of The Master, for what could be his final game as the voice of the New York Yankees.

Last time we did tried this, the Yankees lost. Cliff Lee humiliated us. It was bad juju.

Well... what's the verdict, Yankiverse? Should we try it Thursday night? Season on the line. Who feels lucky? Who's in? Rusty?

AJ Burnett: The poem (revised)

Robbie Cano,
Great, doncha know!
Jorge Posada,

Love him a lotta!
Russell Martin,

True Yankee Spartan!
AJ Burnett,
No New York Met.

 

 

Mariano Rivera,

Best of his era!

Andruw Jones,

Wish we had clones!

Philip Hughes,

Some rave reviews!

AJ Burnett,

No regret.

Bringing It All Back Home

Do A Little Dance, Make A Lotta Noise Get Down Tonight

Do a little dance, make a lotta noise. Get down tonight, get down tonight. Do a little dance, make a lotta noise. Get down tonight, get down tonight.

It might be a little difficult for him to get down from that perch

Let's Hang On To What We Got

Don't let go, girl; we've got a lot. ...got a lot of love between us...Hang on. hang on, hang on to what we've got.

ON THE BRINK Unless Yanks Win--And I Think They Will--Two More Could Join Posada In History Books Tonight

What happens tonight will define AJ Burnett's 2011 season... as well as perhaps his entire Yankee career

If he gets us to Thursday, he'll be worth every penny.

If he gets hammered, maybe he just doesn't belong.

Mark This Day

May it be one where two big blowhards are no longer big news

Look who leads the AL in AVG and OBP...

...as he enters what might be his last game as a Yankee.

Leyland is using juju, and to beat the Tigers, we must stop him

Ted Turner's leering cameras last night showed withered Tiger scarecrow/mgr/tobacoo enthusiast Jim Leyland pacing the dugout between pitches, like a condemned man waiting for a call from Rick Perry. He's obviously counting juju steps, reaching power locations and touching his most potent lucky charms (and I am not referring to any delicious marshmallow breakfast treat.) Along with that home plate ump who awarded "MVP" Verlander with an extra foot of the strike zone, Leyland has probably sold his soul.

Tonight, we must knock Leyland out of his rituals, early. We need a foul ball lashed into the dugout or perhaps a bench-clearing brawl. We should pinpoint the giant third base coach Gene Lamont. The guy must weigh 400 pounds. If we exert him, get him farting, Leyland's migrations will be cut sharply.

Tonight... all juju on deck, folks. If you've been saving that juju cap or salt shaker for one critical game, now is the time to break it out.

Don't watch with strangers. Don't invite "friends" to your house. Don't try a new TV set. Don't use drugs. It's possible that the whole Turner network is bad Yankee juju. If so, we're screwed. But we're not dead yet. And somebody has to take out the walking dead wizard Leyland.

"M... V... P... M... V... P..."

A message To The Yankees From Our New Friend.....

Dear Yankee Universe,

I am finally free to say how much I admire you.

The Red Sox fans, as your poll shows, are dorks. They are hateful, ignorant, arrogant, and vile.

Now, finally set free from my persecutors, just like Amanda Knox, I can tell you what I really feel and believe.

First, let me say that the Yankees are the greatest institution in this country. Congress, the State Houses and the White House may be useless, lying, paid-off , self-serving blowhards who are constantly rewarded for failure, but the Yankees are the grassroots of decency and merit.

If I could wear the pinstripes, I would consider myself whole.

It is difficult for you to be down 2-1 to Detroit. I know what such circumstances can bring.

But I believe in AJ Burnett. I believe that guys who seem down and out can come back, if they wear the pinstripes. I believe he will prove today why Brian paid him $91 million or whatever it was.

It is fitting that the season now rests on the shoulders of one of the team's most consistent, and horrifying disappointments.

Yankee magic can still work. It should work. I hope it does.

For, at heart, I am one of you. We all are.

And no matter what happens tonight, " we'll always have Baltimore."

AJ Burnett: The poem

Robbie Cano,
Great, doncha know!
Jorge Posada,

Love him a lotta!
Russell Martin,

True Yankee Spartan!
AJ Burnett,
Jury out yet.

Mariano Rivera,

Best of his era!

Andruw Jones,

Wish we had clones!

Philip Hughes,

Some rave reviews!

AJ Burnett,

Are we there yet?

Kim And Derek: Scene We'd Like To See

Dear A-Rod:

This is not the time to have no power.

This is not the time to be handcuffed by every inside fast ball.

This is not the time to "flail" at low, outside breaking balls, and strike out.

This is not the time to pop-up.

This is not the time to be an automatic out.

This is not the time to get zero RBI's.

This is not the time to look impotent.

This is not the time to let down the fans, the team, the owners and the idiots who extended your contract beyond all measure.

This is not the time.

The Grandy Man cah? John is short-arming his signature call

Maybe it's the torrential rains, which have pruined-up the Master's normally unrelenting spirit. It's hard to warble while dodging hailstones. And it's hell to be trying to cover Sammy D.

But here we are, in the playoffs, and John has fallen into a rookie year habit: Not following through on his signature Candyman call. That's how an announcer gets into trouble. You must finish your pitches. If you cannot command the home run call, you cannot expect your team to supply the necessary home runs to win a World Series.

What's next? "An A-bomb from A-rah?" A home run by "el capitah?" Listen:

Obviously, modern science must measure the WinWarble by its duration. (Those who question this are fools.) But I do NOT believe that one can simply put a stopwatch to the signature home run call and render any meaningful judgement.

It must be rated entirely on form, execution and degree of difficulty.

On that note, the Grandy Man call is one of the hardest home run signatures known to broadcasting. It requires the creation of a word - "Grandish" - and a seamless segue into song. Imagine Vin Scully attempting this. Or worse, Tim McCarver. No. They don't have what it takes.

But if you're going to do Grandyman, you must finish.

My score on last night's HR call:

(Rated on perfect scale of 5)

3.31

Yours?

Shrewd Girardi saving his bullpen for next spring

Let's credit Skipper Joe for thinking 100 innings into the future: April 2012. Yesterday, by letting Freddy Garcia pitch to Victor Martinez -- a vote of confidence for the young hurler? -- the evil genius skillfully saved super-lugnuts Dave Robertson and Raphael Soriano, perhaps so they won't be used at all. It was a managerial performance worthy of Joe Torre, back in the days when the Yankees could lose a playoff series without phoning Mariano in the bullpen just to see if he was there.

But wait, there's more! In the ninth, the Mentalist called upon Benny Ayala, the hero of Game 162 against Tampa, who is as much responsible for the great 2011 Redsock collapse as Jonathan Papelbon. Benny was coming off a great stretch: After blowing a 7-0 lead against the Rays, he couldn't close game one with a 9-1 lead, forcing Mariano to save his butt.

So... three runs down in the ninth, what to do? Of course! natch! Put in Benny! Makes sense, eh? It's only one game in a five-game playoff. And, kaboom, Benny gave up a run.

But it was not just any run. It was the run that kept Detroit's closer, Goggles Valvoline, from blowing every gasket that holds his boatsized gut into place. The guy was coming apart. Did you see his eyes bugging? We had that Bozo on the ropes. We scored twice on him. But that ninth inning insurance run... Benny's run, Joe's run... damn, it killed us, KILLED US!

So now we're into game three, and two of our best bullpen pitchers haven't even set foot on a blade of grass. Considering how we looked yesterday, we'll probably be no-hit by Justin Verlander, so if we're down by two or three, who knows? Maybe Joe will break out the Bennyzadrine again! No sense wasting the big shooters in a loss. Let's keep Dave Robertson fresh for 2012. Pitchers and catchers report Feb. 15.

First, The Brian Affair. Now Joe

Girardi's love affair with Ayala must end if the Yanks are going to survive the first round of the playoffs.

Loss

Today, this blog was
mentioned in The New York Times.

It would have been a beautiful, wonderful, magnificent day...

... but it's not.

It is the just the day the Yankees lost.

Carl Crawford's contract is a parchment of beauty, if you happen to be a fan of devil pact movies

Damn. Boston's eternal suffering has only just begun.

This year, the Craw was paid $14.8 million, the third highest salary on the Redsocks, behind dynamic duo Josh Beckett ($17 m) and John Lackey ($15.9 m).

Next year, he'll take home $20.3 million, ascending to the Satanic status of "Highest Paid Redsock." Poor Beckett is stuck at $17 million through 2014, as is Newt Lackey, at a bargain basement $15.9 m.)

In 2013, the Craw's movie money will rise to $20.8 million. The following year, it will climb to $21.1 million.

It bumps up to $21.3 million in 2015, and finally to $21.6 million in 2016.

As The Master would say, "Isn't that amazing!?"

Last night's WinWarble... 6:43 seconds

The Master might have been tired, considering it took two days to implement. But in the playoffs, he should be hitting at least a routine 6.5. Dismal. But a warble nonetheless.

A philosophical question posed by The Master to a certain Dr. Robinson Jose Cano Mercedes

Sing along, everybody, to the John Sterling WinWarble Song, by the IT IS HIGH Deadly Spinners

Open letter to the New York Times regarding profile of John Sterling

Dear Madams or Sirs,

I said what I meant, and I meant what I said.

Nice job.

Larry David Consoles His Pal John Henry

While Theo Was Signing A Bunch Of A-Hole Alcoholics Our Man Was On The Job In 2009

The Drinking Stories Are True !!

As three of you know

( though one is currently working the streets of Yemen and, therefore, is not a threat to blab), I was formerly a paid informer for a government agency.

One of my jobs was to "infiltrate" certain hot targets, as we called them.

This year, my " venue" was the Boston Red Sox clubhouse. I was placed there as a part-time caterer. One of the few who spoke baseball and english.

I also ran some card games for the pitching staff on their down days.

We played "Texas Hold-'em" and an esoteric, anti-Yankee game dubbed, "evil empire." In this game, any player still holding cards at the time the " evil empire" card is drawn can buy out all the other players in a "democratically-conceived," fair bidding game of chicken.

What has now been revealed by the Boston media is that we drank hard liquor whilst we played. Gnawing on lobster rolls and gummy bears, we drank Wild Turkey on the rocks.

Some of the best known Boston starters were there daily. I can't mention names for reasons of contract negotiations and threats. One of them had a suck-all season, another blew a key game in Baltimore, and one younger guy has been out with a bad back for two months

( he "launched" the table against the wall in early August after he lost a wad of money in a game of " evil empire."

What he didn't know was that the table was solid oak and weighed about 750 pounds.

Terry ( Tito) did his best to put a stop to this, but he had games to manage and decisions to make. Dealing with 4-6 inebriated multi-millionaires can be draining.

According to rumors, Mr. Henry has already hired a new catering team for 2012.

10 ways that Redsock owner "Cap'n John" Henry hurt himself yesterday on his yacht

No lie: He was taken by ambulance Friday around 6 p.m., wearing a neck brace. WTF?

Some possibilities:

1. The oven door fell onto the back of his head, while he sought to adjust the gas.

2. A shrimp lodged in his windpipe, and Youkilis administered the Heimlich.

3. A dollar fell onto the floor, and he was hurt in the mad scramble.

4. He was rubbernecking near an incredible train wreck - his team.

5. Walking to Sea Galley No. 4, he tripped over Josh Beckett's drunken body.

6. His hot young (relatively) wife attempted to sail "around the world."

7. He was kicked while attempting to bait a hook with Carl Crawford.

8. Neck braces are the hot new accessory in Boston fashion!

9. He strained his esophagus trying to swallow Adrian Gonzalez's excuses.

10. The boat shifted when his head was up Theo's butt.

Climate Change, the Yankees 10th Man just denied Verlander two games in this series

Thank you, Exxon/Mobil!

Here's the skinny: Superflinger Jason Verlander cannot beat us twice, because the military-industrial war machine -- on orders from Hank Steinbrenner -- activated the Secret Weather Destructo Automaton, developed last winter in response to Cliff Lee's wife whiplashing the poor sap into signing with the Philadelphia Frackers.

We own the rain. Last night proved it.

Listen, nobody likes killing penguins, especially from radiation burns, but to make a Western omlet, sometimes you gotta set fire to a Western state. To win No. 28, a few forests need to crackle. That's baseball. Besides, Texas doesn't believe in science, despite a drought so severe that a jug of water will get you laid. They'll have a state prayer day to beat Tampa, which only believes in images of Jesus that appear in baked goods. Has anybody noticed that a series between Texas and Florida is pitting the two most volatile populations of batshit, oxycontin-braced nutcases in the world? (Yes, it beats Binghamton v. Utica.)

Tonite, let's give everybody a jolt of science and juju.

Nova.