YESSS

Raul Ibanez now ranked Number One on All-Time Yankee "Raul" List

1. Raul Ibanez
2. Raul Mondesi
3. Raul Chavez (minor leaguer)
4. Al Trauuuuultwig
5. Shane Raulwlly
6. Cody Rauulansom
7. Willie Raulnadolph
8. Darryl Raulasner
9. Royaul White
10. Raully O'Neill

Reverse Negative Juju Dispatch from Alphonso

(Received this morning at IIHIIFIIc headquarters. This represents Alphonso's most powerful juju, the reverse negative-charged Rizzutonic particle. Please recognize that everything he says is being said for a reason.)

I'm not in a position where I can post to the blog today, and won't be until after we get shut-out tonight.

But a few points:

1. A-rod and Granderson must not play tonight. Granderson can pinch run if we need that in extra innings, but only after everyone else but Rodriguez is used.

2. Just like the earlier heroic home runs of Brosius and Tino, Raul's homers will become a meaningless footnote, rather than game and season saving blasts. Sad and tragic, again.

3. This collapse signals the end of an era for the Yankees.

4. Based upon this collapse and, knowing we have no talent anywhere and greedy billionaire heirs who want the money for Republican Party Lunacy rather than for winning, Cashman leaves. Frankly, I don't care. In recent years, his decisions have been not just awful, but irresponsible.

5. Derek should retire. He was brilliant and carried the team when no one else showed up. He won't, of course, and it will be painful to watch. Not that he will embarrass himself, but the Yankees will each year battle Toronto for the cellar.

6. Same for Andy. He'll never see another playoff game in pinstripes.

You just know they will try to do this again next season with the same guys. Buoyed by the return of Pineda, Gardy, Feliciano and a renewed Joba.

It won't work.

Sent from my iPhone

Juju Intervention Tonight

Bottom of the second. Stand, eyeball the TV, and give it everything you've got.

Last night, the Orioles were funneling dark matter juju in the dugout. The cameras caught it. MLB won't do anything. We have only one hope: A stronger, homemade, mass juju intervention.

Folks, this is it. That little bunt that stayed fair, that bat shard that wrecked Joba's elbow, the blades of grass that let Swish slide too far to stop a double - that's not player skill. That's not random reality. Folks, that's juju. And tonight, it's time for us to stop whining at Grandyman and take over control of your television set.

Calling all Yankee Fans:

This is an 

INTERNATIONAL JUJU 

INTERVENTION ALERT.

Sex addicts, you know what to do. If you can't get to the game, for an honest Rest Room Toilet Stall Video, hit the nearest can. Doesn't matter where you are. The Yankees went on a five-game winning streak after the recent Yankee sex video came out. Don't ask why. It will be explained in the next life. If people are banging on the walls, lock the stall, dammit. THIS IS A ONE-GAME SEASON.

Dying celebrities, you know what to do. The Yankees traditionally have gone on winning streaks after Hollywood Square-types die. Andy Williams was just the latest example. I'm not asking you to jump from a window, Paulie Shore, or Betty White, or any of you. I'm just saying if you croak next Tuesday, you'll probably outlive Nick Swisher's Yankee career. Remember that Dustin Hoffman movie, "Little Big Man," where the cute little Indian chief says, "This is a good day to die?" Well, Kristie, this is a good day to die. Good grief, you'll score much longer tributes on the weekend news cycle. And we can use a base hit. If I were a celebrity, I would do it. Hell, we all would.

The rest of you, you know what to do. Start in a faraway room. Ponder what a worthless piece of rotted flesh you turned out to be, and how you never done nuthin for nobody no how - until now. Then charge the mound. Run directly to the TV set, concentrating on the Yankees, and place your hand softly on the flat screen. You will feel a kinetic energy. You will hear a tiny crackle. That's not juju. That's static electricity, OK? Doesn't matter. Just do it. IF YOU DO IT, WE WILL WIN! Understand? IF WE ALL JUST DO IT, WE WILL WIN!



Comrades, the future of the country is at stake. If the Yankees go down, the terrorists win. Don't let Baltimore out-juju the New York Yankees in our own house.

IT IS TIME TO TAKE BACK OUR GAME. Tonite, the bunt rolls foul.

Yankeetorial: It's going to take America less time to pull out of Afghanistan than it will take the Yankees to divorce Arod

I was a kid when Mickey Mantle ended his career. It hurt to watch him. They stuck him at first base. He looked like a man without a home. His career .300 batting average disappeared. The crowds cheered, but the Yankees fell into a downdraft, and nobody could help. It was cruel. Looking back, I cannot help but wonder if the experience added to the alcoholism that turned his liver into a rock and took the Commerce Comet before his time.

Remember Jorge last year? Remember how he couldn't crouch, how they brought up minor leaguers rather than let him catch, how embarrassed he was? He hit in the post-season - practically the only Yankee to do so - then one day announced he wasn't coming back, it was over, he'd tracked through to other side, where "What have you done lately?" is a running joke.

The last two nights gave us a glimpse of the hell that awaits Alex Rodriguez and perhaps all Yankee fans. He is a ghost. He is Arod's head on Cody Ransom's frame. He is Mariah Carey as a judge on American Idol, Newt Gingrich running for President, Yoko Ono giving a world peace prize to Lady Gaga. He is a bad joke in a Jay Leno monologue, and he better get used to them, because America loves a safe punch line, and who doesn't want to mock the richest man in sports as he marches back to the dugout, puckering his lips after another failure.

Let be confess something here that a few of you will sharply disagree with:

I've really come to like Alex. The other night - Raul's night - Alex proved to be a great teammate, a class act - and it surprised nobody. I've never seen him jog out a grounder or sulk in the dugout. He never fired back at Torre's book, never drew a line around his locker and told the writers not to cross it. He is a standup guy in the post-game feeding frenzy, there are tons of stories of him helping teammates, and he's smart enough to someday be an announcer or even manage. I'm glad he became a Yankee. I hope he goes into the Hall as a Yankee.

But we have him for five years - one more than we'd have Romney - and they will pass slowly. He is not going to break Barry Bonds' home run record. He is not going to win another MVP. Imagine Mickey Mantle playing five years at first base, and you get the picture.

There is no cheating on your spouse, just a little. There is no being sort of pregnant. You're either dead, or you're not. Arod isn't necessarily dead. But he is now officially the player who get benched with the game on the line. He's Mickey at first, Jorge without a glove. He's our Afghanistan, and no matter what happens tonight, it's time to ponder an exit strategy. For his sake, as much as ours.

How happy is that?

Happy as a pitcher in the playoffs seeing Arod come up with runners on base.

Raul Ibanez is now a member of the All-Time "Those aren't boos you're hearing" Team

The lineup

1b Moose Skowron
2b Aaron Boone
ss Bruce Springsteen (honorary)
3b Kevin Youkilis
c Bob Boone
lf  Lou Piniella
cf Jose Cruz
rf Rauuuuuuuuuuuuul Ibanez
p Moose Mussina
p Phil Hughes
rp Goose Gossage

RAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUL: The Poem

First came Bucky, then came Boone,

Then A-Rod vaulted from his swoon,

After that, we played the fool.

Nothing more, and then…

          RAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUL.

First there’s Jeter, then comes Mo,

After that, the bar sinks low.

Not much in our talent pool,

That is, unless you count…

          RAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUL.

 

Tino homered, Brosius, too.

Thought the Diamondbacks were through.

Fate, at times, can be so cruel.

But they can’t take away…              RAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUULL.

John's WinWarble: 7.63 seconds

With the opening "Raul, so cool" and the closing tribute...

Audio portrait of a human being in complete ecstasy

Yankeetorial: Last night, in the cosmic image of Raul Ibanez, did we fans everywhere just uncover the secret to life?

Last night, I watched eight innings from under the couch. Finally, I'd made spiritual peace with the loss, with the end of the season, with the incredible waste of time and energy that baseball represents, with my mortality, with my inconsequential status in the universe, and with the fact that I would never again taste a Yankee championship - yes, folks, I was broken down to the point of Yankee fan primordial ooze - ready to sign on with Jesus, Yahweh, Joe Smith, or L. Ron Hubbard - when I saw what nobody ever thought we would see in this lifetime:

A pinch hitter for A-Rod.

Listen: This so stunned the juju gods that it boinked an outage in the Rizzutonic grid, causing the impossible to happen. In that one moment, out of chaos, a great Yankee was created. Yes, Raul Ibanez goes up there with Bucky Dent and Aaron Boone and, yes, even with Jeet and Mariano. He goes into the pantheon.

Folks, this was Fleischman and Ponds' cold fusion. This was alchemy. This was finding the Higgs boson, the God particle, wrapped in pinstripes. Our long march to Cougar Town is almost over. We may get through the hardest part of the playoffs - the TBS torture rack - alive. Can you imagine no more Conan ads, bits so bad that you wonder why you ever thought he might be funny?

But there is a moral here. Break out of the mold. Wear your underwear outside. Pick the flowers, howl at the moon, punt on second down, kiss your 80-year-old librarian on the lips. Folks, the secret to life was just handed to us. Run with scissors. Stop making sense. Be crazy. It's not the jail that confines us. It's only the way we respond to it.

A pinch-hitter for A-Rod.

I thought I'd seen everything. I hadn't seen anything. Excuse me, now, I have to clean up some puddles under the couch.

When you fail to pinch hit for Arod, you need to let off steam

When you need to let off steam, you get an eye patch.

When you get an eye patch, people think you're tough.

When people think you're tough, you try to be funny in a weird chair.

When you try to be funny, you end up drinking Captain Morgan.

When you drink Captain Morgan, you meet Andre Dawson.

When you meet Andre Dawson, you try to be young again.

When you try to be young again, you roam the streets and meet the wrong guy.

When you meet the wrong guy, you end up in a ditch.

Don't end up in a ditch. Pinch hit for Arod. And use the right person.

ROWWWLOOOOOOOOOOUGH

Sign the Petition: Please, TBS, stop the flood of annoying "Cougar Town" promos; baseball fans don't give a damn

First, a word to the folks at TBS: 

Hey, guys, sorry about your Braves ... OK, not really. But they had a fine year. Too bad Chipper had to screw everything up for you guys in his final game, but -- sorry, let me get to the point. I'd like to give you a bit of advice. There's a concept that they teach you on the first day of advertising school (or, at least I'm guessing that they would. I never went to advertising school, but I'm pretty sure it's a basic concept): It's called "target audience." It's the thought that you want your advertisement to reach the people that would be interested in your product. Pretty basic, right?

Which brings me to this whole "Cougar Town" thing.

First, who knew the show was still on the air? Hell, I didn't even know it was on the air in the first place. But guess what? Apparently, the show is moving to TBS! OK, I guess you guys would know that. But I didn't know that until the baseball playoffs started. I know this now because of the ads for the show that have run during the TBS games. Constantly. During every break in the action. Splashed on the screen when we're not in commercial break. Just about every time any of the stooge announcers open their mouths. 

Please take to heart this bit of advice I humbly offer youu: STOP IT! NOBODY WATCHING THE PLAYOFFS GIVES A SHIT ABOUT YOUR SHOW!

Look, nobody watching the Major League Baseball cares about your damn show, not would anyone viewing the playoffs ever think about watching it. We're not your target audience, OK? Frankly, I'm not sure what the target audience might be for the show, but that's beside the point. Stop showing the ads over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over, OK? All you're doing is pissing us off more than Angel Hernandez does with his moving strike zone. Please, use the time for something else, anything else. Hell, dead air would be an improvement. As long as the filler doesn't involve Tim McCarver and Joe Buck, I'm all for it.

Now, a word to baseball fans:

Sign the petition. Please.

Get ready, and don't stop relieivin'

Ichiro's home plate game of Twister represents his new defining moment as a Yankee; but will it matter?

In 2001, the Yankees accomplished the impossible. On successive nights, Tino Martinez and Scott Brosius belted two-out, bottom-of-the-ninth home runs off an unstoppable Arizona closer to stave off Word Series elimination. After the second night, which Joe Torre described as "Groundhog Day," everybody in the free world - everybody who had ever watched a Doris Day movie or visited Disneyland - knew what was going to happen next: The Yankees would lift New York City and America out of its post 9/11 doldrums... the Yankees would win.

After moments like that, you don't lose.  But... they did.  

(And Arizona, to its eternal shame, mocked God by playing "New York, New York" on its public address system, while the team celebrated on the field. HEY, DIAMONDBACKS, THINK THERE'S A REASON YOU HAVEN'T BEEN BACK? THINK MAYBE THE JUJU GODS REMEMBER?)

Two nights ago, Ichiro Suzuki did something I've never seen. It was his instant Twister game, four-point landing at home, evading at least three tags, to punch the plate like a game show contestant, scoring an impossible run.

It was brilliant. It was for the ages. It was not just Ichiro's greatest Yankee moment. It was Ichiro's greatest moment, period.

When he goes into the Hall, this will be the highlight they play... that is, if it matters.

Listen: When a moment like this occurs, everybody knows what's supposed to follow: The Yankees are supposed to win.  But we didn't.

We know the score here. This is a team that strands base runners for breakfast. Will we strand Ichiro's great moment? For the rest of our lives, the world will see that highlight replay and marvel. Will we just feel frustrated?

Stupidity is, apparently, the Yankees' best strategy

Look, I liked last night's performance of "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Ichiro" as much as anyone, but Ich's best ninja impression had everyone so giddy that no one asked the obvious question: Why the hell was he sent?

I understand being aggressive, and I understand there were two outs, but the ball beat him by 20 feet easy. It wasn't even close. There's a line where aggression becomes stupidity. This crossed it.

Of course, we all know why Rob Thompson sent him. Because he knew what we all learned while watching the Yankees this season. A Yankee standing on second or third base might as well just jog back to the dugout. Those bases are where Yankee runners go to die. We can't drive them in.

But wait, we had our No. 5 hitter coming up!  Yeah, Swish was on deck, and how much has he come through with big hits in the postseason? (I love Swish, and I'm rooting for him, more than any other player, to be our post-season hero this year. He'd be 2012's version of Hideki Matsui, getting one last hurrah before heading off to finish his career somewhere else ... because you really don't think Hal's going to pony up any cash to keep him, do you? But he hasn't exactly been Mr. Clutch in the postseason.)

Look, the rest of the game proved out what we already know ... put runners on second and third, and the Yankees suddenly carry Wiffle-ball bats to the plate. Over and over. How many times did an inning end, and you said, "Sunuvabutch, we missed another chance." It happens so much it's all a blur. Look back at Game 1 ... honestly, the score should've been 7-2 entering the ninth inning, not at the end of it. But we can't drive in a goddam run.

So expect more of the same, folks. Rob Thompson, send everyone. I don't care if Wieters is standing in front of home plate with the ball already in his glove. Wave everyone home. Maybe lightning will strike twice and we get another "The Matrix" performance. If not, hell, at least we've been spared the agony of watching runner after runner stranded on third while we take called third strikes or hit pop flies to the shortstop.

Baltimore is trying to hand us this series, folks (exhibit A: J.J. Hardy's play last night). We should have won both games in blowouts. Instead, we're 1-1. We got our mulligan in Game 1. We're probably not going to get another.

We Only Beat Boston !!!

The Yankees did not beat Baltimore.  Texas did not beat Baltimore.

We beat Boston to win the division, remember?

Cano hit .620 in the last 10 days of the regular season.  He homered twice and drove in six runs on that decisive, last day of the season to break the tie for first.  Grandy went deep.  I think even A-Rod got on base once.  Kuroda was heroic.  Even Swisher may have hit a ball out of the infield.

But that was against Boston, playing mostly their AA guys up for the September coffee.

Last night, we had, by my count, 12 opportunities not just to tie the game, but to blow it open.  We failed every time.  The Ichiro ballet score should not count in real baseball.  He was amazing, but the Yankees vomited on their shoes.  Every time.

Pictured below area confident and resolute pair of our heros.  A-Rod stands fast with his fired up buddy Nick Swisher.  We are going to depend upon them?

Last night, the Yankees ended their last chance at moving forward. Once again, we invest an entire season to reach this point of disappointment, failure and humiliation.

I told you before;  one and done at best.

 Cashman is interviewing and will depart.  He may be a fool, but he isn't stupid.  This team will drown in failure from now on.  No George to spend his ill-gotten gains on real players.

Remember, the big Yankee news last night was that Jason Nix is back and ready to play.

Time to turn off the tv, the radio and the internet.

The pain of what is unfolding is too great and far too easily predicted.

One and done.  Again.

Special “I can’t take another first-round knockout” Yankeetorial: Here we go again: Win game one, then sleep, child, sleep

Waitaminute. I’ve seen this movie. Bruce Willis turns out to be dead, the hot chick is a man, and our thirdbaseman is unmasked as Celerino Sanchez. Peter Parker gets bitten by the spider, and Natalie Portman’s hands bleed up to the point where she accepts the Oscar. Watch for the cat: Every time he pops up, the alien is near. And you thought there was a limit to Adam Sandler poop jokes? What if there are two Adam Sandlers, a man and woman!

Yeah, we’ve seen this movie, and – trust me here – the ending sucks. The Bronx Bomb. It stars the aging, tired, and clutch-crippled New York Yankees, the worst comedy ensemble since “Ishtar.” Imagine “The Expendables 7,” with Arnold and Sylvester in their eighties, and you’ve got it. We know how it ends. We win the first game, botch the second and then – poof – the chick’s a man, and it’s “Crying Time.”

You can see the lost signs in our batting order, like hidden cryptographs found on a History Channel documentary. Here’s Curtis Granderson, second in the league in home runs, batting eighth. Why could this happen? Did the ancient astronauts do this on purpose? No. Grandi just strikes out like a guy who should bat eighth.

And how is it that a utility infielder Eduardo Nunez is the mighty Yankee DH, batting ninth? What ever happened to the Chili Davises and Bob Watsons that once roamed the Yankee Serengeti. Well, we had one. His name was Andruw Jones. We spent the whole season – from March to October - trying him out for the job, and in the last week, we decided it was a failure.

Ah, but back to the movie theme. Folks, we hit the iceberg last night, and now it’s everyone for himself. Now, Baltimore has an advantage in pitchers. That kid Gonzalez is being called “The Yankee Killer.” And Tillman isn’t far behind. We offer Kuroda and Hughes, and if there is a fifth game, we turn it over to CC, while they’ll have a rested arm. Damn, I hate this movie. I can’t take another first round knockout. I’m telling you, I can’t take another first-round knockout. At least the Redsocks will retool in the off-season. If we slink forward after a first-round knockout, we will still be taking water, with Sylvester Stallone batting third, and good grief, we know what happens, folks, Leonardo freezes to death so James Cameron can live on and travel to the stars.

If you’re looking for hope, I’m sorry. Seriously, I apologize. Maybe there is a hero in that lineup somewhere. Maybe Arod will magically return. Maybe Ichiro can lift us, or maybe Boone Logan will shut them down from the sixth to the eighth. But if anybody told me that Andy and CC would pitch great games, I’d have bet my tent on us being up 2-0. They did, and we’re going home for a two-out-of-three series. Who’s the hero in there? I see dead people.    

First game victory? Bah. Means nothing. Nada. Zilch. In fact, if you're a Yankee, it means time to worry.

Last year, in the first playoff game, we snapped the Tigers' spines so hard they thought one of those hybrid battery plants just exploded back in Detroit. We scored six in the sixth to beat Cy Verlander. Cano homered, and the series was over. Everybody knew it. 

Yeah, right.

Remember October 2010? Maybe you blotted it out. In game one, we scored five in the eighth to stun Texas, 6-5. They had led all game. They were practically peeing in their Stetsons. Suddenly, CC beat Wilson, Cano homered, and the series was over. Everybody knew it.

History can be a root canal, eh?

If it tells us anything, it's that we should worry. This is when the Yankees go into our dressing rooms to powder our faces for the Canyon of Heroes. This is when we punch out. We won the first round. Where's the buffet?

Remember 2006? We beat the Tigers in game one. Never won again.

Well, but what about 2005? Mussina shut down the Angels in game one. Then... (poof.)

Do you want me to even mention 2004? No. Trust me. You don't. Let's just say we won games one, two and three.

So... WTF? You cannot predict baseball. The Master tells us this every night. But something's happenin' here, and you don't know what it is, do you, Mr. Girardi?

What is it? How about this: For all the talk of Yankee toughness, experience and pride, we have a tendency to pull up on the gas pedal, whenever we are in the lead. We did it in August, when we were up by 10. We do not possess the furious hunger, full bore-intensity of young teams, once they taste our blood. We let up, and suddenly, it's over.

You could look it up.

Be afraid, folks. Be very afraid. We won game one. Iceberg dead ahead.

Forget the first six innings. When we play Baltimore tonight, it's all about the bullpens.

The first six innings tonight will be like the first weeks of a presidential campaign: Unless you’re caught red-handed, and blow the whole thing, it won’t matter. Come the seventh, everything will get crazy anyway.

There are no more undecideds. We know them. They know us. This will be the 19^th time New York and Baltimore have played.  We are tied, 9-9. They scored two more runs than we, 92-90. It's a polarized electorate.

In April, second series of the season, we went to Baltimore and clobbered them. Three game sweep. Two in extra innings. They were tomato cans. Empty tomato cans.

In early May, they came to the House and took two out of three. We considered it a glitch. Two weeks later, we split two in Camden Yards.

We didn’t see them again until July. They came to New York and won two of three. Then they did it again in August. We couldn’t hit with runners on base. Our lead was crumbling.

In September, we faced them in a four-game set. First place on the line.

In game one, we scored five in the eighth, demoralizing their then-bullpen lugnut, Strop. Then David Robertson and Boone Logan fell apart. We lost 10-6. Tied for first.

In game two, we built a 7-0 lead, Phil Hughes cruising. In the sixth, he lost it. They started chipping away. To the dismay of the Yankiverse, Girardi brought in Logan and Robertson.  This time, the dikes held. They touched Soriano in the ninth to make it close. Final score 8-5.  Back in first.

CC butchered game three. Never looked sharp, yielded a 5-2 lead. In the ninth, we put the tying run on third with one out. Mark Teixeira hit a slow grounder. He dove into first base, ripped up his leg, and he beat the double play throw. Everybody saw it, everybody but Ray Charles, who was umping first. The game should have been tied. It was over.  

In game four, we scored 7 in the late innings, kicking their girlie bullpen asses, 13-3.

Listen: They know us. We know them. But nobody knows nuthin about the bullpens.

Letter to the Editor: Relax, Sox fans.

The Berkshire Eagle (Pittsfield, Massachusetts)
October 2, 2012 Tuesday

Dear Editor,


I can only assume that Mr. King ("Down with baseball's 'Evil Empire,' letter, Sept.) is most likely a disgruntled Red Sox fan who has watched his beloved $146,371,619 team implode like the Hindenburg this year.

Strange how when "boy wonder" aka "boy blunder" Theo Epstein was spending all those hundreds of millions of dollars, and the team was winning, not a peep was uttered about that "Evil Empire." But as is typical with Red Sox fans, now that their team is fighting it out for last place with the lowly Toronto Blue Jays, out of the woodwork they come, shouting "Yankees S--"! at the top of their lungs.

Relax Sox fans, there's always next year. So grab a beer, maybe some fried chicken, and save the shouting for those beloved New England Patriots.

TIM DISILVA

Richmond

Welcome to our world, Texas and Atlanta, the world where losing breeds angry consequences

Last night, the great American feelgood story of the new millenium, Josh Hamilton, came to bat for what might be his final appearance in a Rangers costume. He fanned and walked away under a spit-shower of boos. (His shower of real booze, presumably, comes later.)

Three hours earlier, the delightful Southern hospitality suburb of Red State America, Atlanta, showered debris across the diamond and delayed the game for an entire Simpsons episode after a disputed call. It was like a tickertape parade, except the bottles and glasses were half full. (As an optimistt, I think of thrown bottles as half-full.)

These testimonials to bad sportsmanship are not supposed to happen in polite, whitebread tax havens like Texas and Georgia, where people respect police. They are the stuff of (insert racial code here) in the concrete (insert racial code here) jungles of NY and LA (and if you follow Mr. Drudge, Gangland Chicago.)

Well, welcome to our world, Texas and Atlanta fans.

You went the season looking forward to October. It just came and went. You booed your star. You watched critical runs die on third. Your pitcher couldn't get the third strike. Your shortstop couldn't make the play. You spent the year thinking about a championship, and it didn't last nine innings. No... it didn't even last six.

Welcome to the Yankiverse.

People condemn Yankee fans as fat cats and obnoxious asses. Hey -- guilty as charged. But we are the one team in America that is always the favorite, never the underdog, always the bully, never the over-achiever, always good-plated, never thrifty. When we win, we should have won. When we lose, it's a scandal. You boo, you hiss, and you throw the bottle that is half-empty. It wasn't supposed to happen.

Well... Baltimore is the feelgood story of 2012. Give them a couple years, and bring a helmet.

Cards fans are already buying Cheetos for the victory party. Stand back.

This country is angry. This is no time to be a loser, even if you made it to the big fight. There is one winner, and everybody else is throwing bottles of boos.

I want Texas. I want to taste them. I want to grind their bones on my teeth. I want vengeance.

In the Yankiverse, every post-season is supposed to end like the last two minutes of the original Godfather movie. This isn't just a quest for No. 28. It's a march for revenge.

So let this stand as my personal vendetta fantasy.

1. Bring on Texas! I want to see Nolan Ryan drinking wine at the game with his goobah, George W. Bush.  Suddenly, Josh Hamilton and that Elvis guy at shortstop keel over from the pre-game pasta that was delivered to the clubhouse.  Then Joe Pesci, the guy sitting in the next row, pulls out his heat and clips Nolan, splattering blood across the infield.

That's right, everybody. This is a dark fantasy. We have had dark dealings with Texas. They twice shot us - straight up the butt.  I still flinch when I sit. I want these people to win today, so they can suffer tomorrow.  I'm want the country to get another good look at George W. Bush, sitting along the first base line, because it seems like some folks don't want him out in public these days.  Bring on Texas, folks.  I want to hydrofrack these guys.

2. Hello, Miguel Cabrera, here's a message from Joey G.  Yes, another double-whammy.  We still owe Detroit for two whompings in the last 10 years.  And Miggy goes all the way back to the Marlins.  They cleaned up his act, put him into the Witness Protection Program and settled him in Detroit. Well, it's time to settle some business.

When he comes to bat, I want him thinking Robert De Niro is out there, ready to send him body parts. We clip him. We take out that Verlander guy.  We take out Prince.  It's not Columbus Day. It's St. Valentine's Day.

3. Heyyyyyyy, Bronson.  Finally, we want Cincy. Oh, yes. You see, there is a little - how should I say this - well - "unresolved dispute" concerning one of their pitchers. His name is Bronson Arroyo.  We call him Slappy. I think Arod would like to see him. Maybe rekindle the acquaintance. Talk about old times.

We don't get many shots at a 2004 Redsock. Most are out the game, drinking away the memories.  Curt Schilling may have to sell his "bloody" sock - hopefully to someone who will subject it to DNA analysis. The Reds - the only team in baseball to sport a winning record against the Yankees - will do.

Yes, they have Miggy Cairo and Dioneer Navarro - two former Yankees who never done us no harm. We'll let them live... so they can run home and tell the others what happens when you mess with the wrong people. Mwah, hahahahahahaha. Oh, October. Bring it on, Joey. Bring it home.

Introducing the Yankee starting lineup, according to auto-correct

ss Derek Jesus

lf Icicle Suture

3b Alex Rodent 

2b Robber Cannot

1b Mark Texture

rf Nick Swishes

c Russell Martin

cf Curtain Grandeur

rf Raul Ibid 

p Andy Petite 

p C Sabbath 

p Hiring Kurd

OK, boys, let's beat Bud Seller's wild card.

At last: The incredible and controversial Tuesday night warble

7.61 seconds

But listen to the emotion
And its meaning.

The Curse of Yankee Employee of the Month strikes again

Hours after being named Yankee/Lunchables IT IS HIGH September Employee of the Month... Bobby Valentine is out.

An empirical discussion of John's incredible Tuesday night WinWarble

I've been unable to load the Warble on Blogger. I don't think this is Evil Bud's doing. I believe it's my computer. So be it. But yesterday, Anonymous raised an interesting point, commenting:

 "duque - how did you not cover the win warble from last night? it was EPIC October 3, 2012 2:36 PM"

I dutifully explained that I tried to post the warble, which ran 7.61 seconds - which is a solid Sterl Hurl by the way - but the glitch kept it from the naked ears of you, the general public.

Today, Anonymous noted,

"he really reared back, dug deep, and gave it everything he had. it was like very bass-y, full of emotion. and i bet last night's was a dud. or did he warble after robbie's second HR when the game was actually over? October 4, 2012 8:12 AM"

Well, the truth is, he/she's right about Tuesday's Warb.

John DID give summon up EPIC boosterism and passion. His concluding "YAN-KEES... WINNNNN" was louder than what he normally projects, using the syncopated breathing techniques required of professional announcing. It portrayed a dynamic passion, rare to warbles. Keep in mind, he had warbled 94 wins this year. You try to warble 94 times, and see if you can still tickle the loins. It aint easy.

Damn. I wish I could play it for you. (Later, I might try again to load the damn thing, but I've tried and tried.) Because -- and this is difficult to admit -- this is one instance where the WinWarble measuring system - our greatest achievement as bloggers, as fans and as scientists - has failed.

Yes. There, I said it. Failed.  By simply measuring the length of the warble, we abdicate any detailed study of decibel-level. Tuesday night, John gave us decibels. And there's no way you can give decibels AND length. It's like giving a huge tax cut AND lowering the deficit. Pick one or the other. You cannot bellow both.

What John did Tuesday night was empty his personal tank on the "THUH" and concluding "Yankees... winnnnn." They were airport level. He still blew a 7.61-second performance. When you consider that 6.50 is a major league WinWarble, the dimensions of what John did - (at his august age, which we will never publish) - is flat-out amazing. Using his normal decibel level, he might have hit 8.50.

They say Sally Rand was still performing her big-feather dance at 70, and the show was as erotic as anything during her salad days. In that regard, John is the Sally Rand of baseball radio announcers. And a 7.61-second, 100-decibel WinWarble must be recognized as an incredible achievement.

We failed.

With regard to last night's warble, I didn't bother. John seldom puts forth a huge warble in a  blowout victory. He's too much of a sportsman to bathe in another team's defeat. Also, I figured he would add a few words - Ballgame over, season over - which renders the WinWarble Index useless for scientific analysis.

We should also note that twice last night on YES, Michael Kay channeled The Master. He called one home run with "IT IS HIGH, IT IS FAR," then failed to finish the orgasm. When the game ended, Michael said, "Ballgame over. Season over." Again, he failed to snap it off.

Anyone who reads this blog knows that we are committed to developing the most systematic and scientific WinWarble measurements known to modern baseball radio announcing. We are the Neilsen Ratings, the People's Choice Awards, of WinWarbles. It hurts to think one incredible Warb could place a permanent shadow over all we've ever done.

But, as we celebrate our team's victory, that is exactly where we are today.

I still believe that in the moment of full scale lust, size and length do matter.

But in the ways of love, have we overlooked the poetry of passion?

In historic appreciation for service, fear of curse and betrayal of the democratic process, Robert John Valentine is named September IT IS HIGH/LUNCHABLES YANKEE EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH

Congratulations, Bobby V, on this unprecedented achievement.

Next, how about a national petition asking the Yankees to retire Valentine's No. 25?

Damn, we are going to miss this guy

Bobby, we love you.

It is time to take nominations for IT IS HIGH/LUNCHABLES SEPTEMBER YANKEE EMPLOYEE OF THE MONTH

Nominees

CC Sabathia, looper
John Sterling, the master
Manny Bannelos, taken 2
Ivan Nova, dredd
Brett Gardner, hello i must be going
Joe Girardi, end of watch
Chris Dickerson, the expendables 2

This, my friends, is Juju

A friend writes...

In the bottom of the ninth, my father handed me the July/Aug issue of Smithsonian. 

He told me I should read the article about vice presidents. On page 30, there was juju, personified by Raul Ibanez, drilling a liner into the rightfield seats. "Keep reading," insisted my father. It's good luck." 

My father is 96. "good luck" is his generations version of juju. My hand stiffened through another bases loaded failure. Through a second inning of Soriano. Through more weak hacks in the bottom of the tenth. 

My father asked why I was such a slow reader. I was on about the fifth reading of the malfeasance of Spiro Agnew when my hand began spasm. I rested it briefly on my lap

as one veep after another mocked the office they had held and Cecelia failed to corral Lowe's wild pitch.

I shook my hand, held the mag steady on page 30.

Big Game Tonight

 

Win tonight... and all those stranded baserunners of the regular season

shall not have to walk the earth forever in our dreams.

Win tonight... and we are as the best team in baseball, 

not the one that blew the 10-game lead.

Win tonight... and we can rest our noble bones, 

instead of running ourselves ragged off the cliff.

Win tonight... and we fans didn't play 162 games in vain.

Win tonight... and we avoid the early knockout, 

which we all know will come... with losing tonight.

Chirp of Hope: Juju Bird flies in from Rally Land to save Yankee hides

Forget the Juju Intervention, the Juju Sex Tape and the Juju death of beloved celebrities (Barry Commoner, R.I.P.), there's a new Juju Sheriff in town, and it's the 12th inning Yankee Stadium Juju Bird!

Last night, a persistent rain of pop-ups and double-play balls had lasted nine innings, until Raul "So Cool" Ibanez homered to tie the game, setting the stage for the newest star in the Gotham Constellation: Juju Bird.

Our feathery fairy of fan fantasies roosted at second base, where Robbie Cano has been the hottest Yankee in recent days. A friendly grounds crew attendant came out with a plastic bucket. (This is how Yankees deal with birds, I guess.) Juju Bird was scooped up several times during a quick visit to shortstop to bless Yankee MVP Derek Jeter.

Then, with the lightning speed of Brett "Go Ahead, Try to Pick Me Off, I Dare You" Gardner, Juju Bird flew toward the Yankee dugout, where he annointed Frankie Cervelli and "So Cool" for their soon-to-arrive heroics.

Yes, it's Juju Bird, this year's Lucky Squirrel, coming soon to Steiner Collectables! Get yours now! Final note: The Master's WinWarble last night came in at 7.61 seconds - that's solid - but I couldn't get it to load on Blogger. Oh well. Big game tonight, eh.

Great call by Michael Kay

(On a ground ball to Jeter hit by Nava)

"This could be a double play.
"This should be a double play.
"This is a double play."


(And the opposite:) David Cone did call Ichiro's bat "a chopstick."

Hard core research: On the days after we score 9 or more runs, how do we fare?

Last night was the 16th time this season the Yankees scored at least 9 runs in a game.

So, considering that tonight is now the most important game of the season - until tomorrow - how do they fare on the game after scoring so many runs?

Nine times, they won.

Six times, they were held to 3 or less.

Four times, they scored 6 or more.

They averaged four runs per game.

But you can't predict baseball, right?

Self-congratulatory message received this afternoon from Alphonso's iPhone

Sent: Tuesday, October 02, 2012 11:58:41 AM (UTC-05:00) Eastern Time (US & Canada)
To: Hart Seely
Subject: Manny B

Please remember for the world that in March I predicted Manny B would have arm surgery.

Sent from my iPhone

Yankeetorial: As rotten as Boston has been, it has not lost 8 in a row this season, and that's what the Yankees now must foster

Last night, that ridiculous, sound-effects echo chamber dome collapsed in Tampa. Bud Selig's down-to-the-wire, Wild Card Lite race - which the Rug has been touting since April - turned into a smudge on the Dr. Octopus horn-rims that Joe Madden wears, I guess, to woo loose women on trips to Sarasota. It's over in Florida. Baseball, that is.

For six years, Tampa enjoyed a surge of great talent, but nobody watched, and now Baltimore has passed the Rays, and Toronto will be next. Soon comes the free agent walkaways, and then the owner ultimatum: Build a new stadium - like Miami - or we move to Carolina. (What would sports owners do without Carolina?) Field of Dreams, owner style: If you build it, we won't go.

Meanwhile - re: tonight and tomorrow - don't blame the Rays if they drink heavily and watch the O's circle the bases. It's a Psych 101 thing. Expect Balto to do to Tampa what Lindsay Lohan did to that guy last weekend who refused to delete his cell phone photos.

Thus, to win the division and escape the horror of having blown our 10-game lead -  a blunt head trauma that still haunts this team's fossil record - we must sweep Boston this week - pushing their losing streak to eight games. Eight.

You can look this up. As sucko as the year has been, Boston has yet to lose eight straight. Between Aug. 28 and Sept. 3, they lost seven on the West Coast, and they have a litter of four and fivers - but eight? Yeesh. That's like asking Santa for a new car. That's like taking a photo of Lindsay Lohan puking and then expecting her to autograph it. Eight? Awww, shit. You're asking a lot for a team to lose eight in a row. Seattle couldn't. Minnesota couldn't. Cleveland pulled it off: They did eleven. But hey, that's Cleveland. (Wither goest Shelley Duncan, still one of my all-time fave Yankees.)

We need Boston to lose eight. Shit. Try flicking the lighter eight times in a row. Try handling Joe Madden's glasses eight times without leaving a smudge. It's beyond mediocrity. Eight in a row is genius. We need eight in a row. Don't be deceived by last night. This is not going to be easy.

It's ours to lose

For NY, the Redsocks have stacked their rotation with three giants

Clay Buchholz, Jon Lester and Dice K.

It's a wonder they didn't pull Lackey out of rehab.

They went to Baltimore, played the Pawtucket line-up and peed their pantaloonies four straight games. They barely avoided a no-hitter. They lay down like lambs.

Now, they're bringing out the Big Guns.

Yankeetorial: I'm sorry, but Bud Selig's October Lite wild card isn't the post-season, and the Yankees still haven't "clinched" nuthin

Today, the official line being flushed to the journalistic out-houses of the Yankiverse today is that - with the Angels' late loss to Texas Sunday - we have clinched a much-coveted post-season birth.

Hoo. Ray.

Listen: This is our sorriest celebratory declaration since the second signing of Sir Sidney Ponson. Last night, we backed into a chance for a one-game playoff that would actually land us a spot in the post-season.

If we play a fiver - regardless of the outcome - at least we can say the Yankees made the playoffs. Until then, we are the team that squandered a 10-game lead, the team that left a billion souls on third -- and the team that forgot basic fundamentals, just as it will deserve to be forgotten by anyone who loves the New York Yankees.

Sorry to say this, folks, because we Yankee nutbags are constantly viewed as pampered fatcats of negativism, and maybe some of those critics have it right. Maybe we of the couch and clicker demand too much of our heroes. But for nearly a century now, the Yankees have been one of the few great American institutions that has constantly stood for greatness. When you put on those pinstripes, you immediately garner the hearts and souls of the most loyal, rabid and knowledgeable fan base in sports. Yep, we are even crazier than those SEC football looncakes whose pee contains bath salts, and who key every car with an out-of-state license. Yes, we are the craziest of all, because we live every game forever, we internalize every at bat in our heart, and we remember every outcome. Hell, if you're reading this blog, you guys know who I'm talking about.  YOU, DAMMIT, YOU!

And if this team fails to make the post-season - I'm talking the real post-season, not Bud Selig's October Lite - then it deserves to be mocked, ridiculed and torn apart over the winter. It will have betrayed a great legacy, and there is no middle ground.

Yes, I know (Cue the falsetto voice): Some really good teams won't be playing after Wednesday, and we should be happy about getting this far, and anything can happen in a one-game series, and all Betances needs to do is get command of his breaking ball, and then habla-habla-habla.

Let the writers and bloggers who need to curry access say whatever gets them the next phoner with Randy Levine's cabana boy.

I say - and we all know - This team should never have let itself be in this position.

From Brian Cashman's hubris-laden desk seat to the inability of Eduardo Nunez to throw a freakin' baseball, everybody in the organization needs to know what we clinched last night:

Nothing. 

There is one way out of this mess... and it is to win.

And if we so much as lose one of these final three to Pawtucket, we certainly won't deserve to be participating in Bud's fake October. A one-game knockout would be like putting down a sick dog. Hoo. Ray.