It looks like we'll face a well-rested Minnesota

Okay, let's just say it: Screw the AL East. Boston won. We won't overtake them. From now on - as it's been for the last month - everything hinges on what happens a week from tomorrow, Oct. 3. 

The heat wave will have ended. That night, it will be cool and clear - the low near 48, says AccuWeather. We will almost certainly play the Twinkies, a team we recently routed in a three-game sweep. See in that whatever you wish. It doesn't matter. If we win - and thus make the post-season - Brian Cashman's deadline team face-lift worked. If we lose, it didn't - though if any of Kaprielian, Rutherford, Fowler, Littell or Mateo develop into a great star - well - we'll have plenty of rage time to revisit that assessment.

So here's a moment: I stand here today with nothing to say - no seethe in my cabbage basket, no sputter in my bile. What difference does it make, even to one who believes in juju, as I do. Our whole season is about to come down to one fucking single four-hour event. Every pitch, every batted ball, every ump's call, will be magnified by 162. The year could hinge on a nubber towards third, or a pitch that grazes the plate but gets called outside. Apparently, Luis Severino will start for us. It looks as though the Twins will not have to stave off Los Angeles - the Angels conveniently collapsed on their own - and thus can bring out past Yankee-killer Ervin Santana. Which pitcher will gain from having recently seen the other team? I have no clue. 

Of course, baseball often comes down to the one-night climax. It's called Game Seven of the World Series, an event that, by then, has been already defined by unforgettable heroes and goats. The Wild Card is different. The Wild Card is the battle of also-rans, a speed-dating session with destiny. Last time we played in one, Dallas Keuchel pitched 6 innings of 3-hit ball, and Chris Carter - you remember Chris? - walked three times for Houston. Masahiro Tanaka gave up a run early, and the game was over, just like that. (Writer snaps fingers, spits on floor, shakes head wearily.) One night. Gone.

Which Aaron Judge will show up? Which Chapman? Which bullpen? Which set of juju gods? The ones who guided Rafael Devers' bat to smash a two-strike El Chapo fastball into the left-field bullpen? Or the ones who fanned Hanley Ramirez with the winning runs on base? Which Yankee team will we see? The ones who swept the Twins, or the ones who were run out of their home park by Cleveland? They say hurricanes are unpredictable, but I'd say we've gotten quite good at projecting where the sledge hammer of nature will fall. But The Master is right: You cannot predict baseball, Suzyn. And with the nine-inning eight days away, there is nothing to be said, and I am helpless to say it. 

Deciphering the Girardi Sequence

This we know: The past is prelude. Stocks rise, then collapse. Taylor Swift falls in love, then blows up. You take a good dump, and a day later, your constipated again. This time of year, it may be sunny and pleasant, but out there in the Atlantic, a tropical depression is eating steroids. 

Over the last month, the Yankees have regularly interspersed short winning streaks with a loss - and sometimes a full-scale, Grade F, pungently ripened clunker. You know a Yankee clunker: Our opponent takes an early lead. We load the bases several times without scoring. Our bullpen implodes. We go three innings without a hit. They shut the door. In the ninth, we bring the tying run to the plate. He strikes out. Clunkerola. 

So the question is, based on what has happened thus far, what will the One Game Season - aka the Wild Card - serve up?

Since September 1, here is the Girardi Sequence:

Loss. Win. Blowout.  Blowout. Loss. Win. CLUNKER. Win. Blowout. Blowout.  Loss. Win. Blowout. Blowout. Blowout. Blowout. Loss. Win. Win. Blowout. Loss. Win...

Under the sequence, here is how the rest of the season, beginning today in Toronto, will unfold.

Blowout. Blowout. Loss. Win. Blowout. CLUNKER. Win. Blowout. 

Wild Card game... Blowout! 

Yes, as you see, we currently hold a proper trajectory entering the Nine Inning Season. But here's the rub: A loss today or tomorrow would dramatically alter the sequence, perhaps sending us into the "Selig Series" at the tail end of a mini-streak - ripe for a loss. 

The real key will be losing a clunker - I mean, an all-out shit show - to Toronto on the final weekend. We need to get the clunker out of our system. And regardless of how good it feels, we must NOT go into the Wild Card on a little mini-winning streak. We need to win the final game, but not the final three.

Next up: How long will the GOP go before the next try at health care?

This is now a Bruce Maxwell fan blog

From the @sfchronicle’s Santiago Mejia, here is A’s rookie Bruce Maxwell becoming the first MLB player to take a knee for the anthem: pic.twitter.com/q8QVY9hW15

— Susan Slusser (@susanslusser) September 24, 2017 

San Francisco Chronicle story

Last night's game reminds us of the randomized danger and chaos of the Wild Card

Entering last night, I felt total, Schwarzenegger-level confidence in our 2017 wild card-bound juggernaut. Sure, we knew the Blue Jays would play hard; that's because they're poor sports. But Hurricane Jose Bautista is 35, going on Betty White, their sickly lineup has too many Goins on not enough Gomes, and - hell - those health care-crazy Canadians are already tailgating for the hockey season. We were on a Calgary stampede, roaring to the finish line, ready to clinch the prestigious, limited edition, wild card home field advantage crown of bronze.

Then comes a well-delivered pineapple, a colonoscopic reminder of all the shit that can roll our way in one single, measly, stupid game.

After six months of daily grind, the notion that your team's fate shall boil down to one rotten, stinking game - one dice roll, one stiff breeze, one cutting of the cards - shrinks my gonads to the size of a Doanes pill. If our pitcher gets cramps while theirs eats his "Wheaties"... if the home plate umpire stretches our strike zones and squeezes theirs to the size of Hitler's heart... if our home run misses the foul pole and theirs grazes the paint... so many variables. What if in the third inning, young Byron Buxton's testicles finally drop, turning him into a Reggie? Jeez... one game.   

Now, I can imagine one game deciding a football or basketball season, because over 60 punishing minutes, the raw, brute force of hunger will usually prevail. But there is a reason why the lords of baseball went nearly 100 years requiring five or seven game series to decide a championship - why they scorned the one-game, winner-take-all. And last night, we received yet another glimpse of how fast things can go south in a nine-inning season.

Of course, we won't let Masahiro Tanaka near our wild card game. I'm not even sure he should see the playoffs, period. He is 12-12. His ERA is 4.94. If he pitched on the West Coast, home run balls would fly so far into the Pacific that we'd think Kim Jong Un was testing rockets. But it's not just Tanaka. What about Dellin Betances? If he cannot throw strikes, a three-run lead is a joke. And what if our defense decides to, as it does some nights, hold soccer practice on a few ground balls, or if our big hitters get flashbacks to the home run derby?

For years, I have argued that baseball should return to the 154-game schedule - giving pitchers more rest and resetting HR records back to the Ruth era. It would allow the wild carders to play a best-of-three series over the final weekend. That, or eliminate the final wild card slot. But hell... neither will happen. There's money involved.

So get ready, folks. One game. And last night, we saw just how bad one game can be. 

Let's go there: The Yankees are one Trump tweet away from disharmony and distraction

This we know: Trump roots for the Yankees. We've seen him in the box seats, sipping Viagra-laced Ensure shakes with Bill O'Reilly. We've seen him in Ohio, waving perogies in front of Paul O'Neill. When Trump retires each night, Randy Levine brings him his slippers, tail wagging with delight. Trump loves Johnny Damon. Trump likes Hank Steinbrenner. The only Yank to draw Trump's ire was A-Rod, who the team pretends doesn't exist. And one of these days - possibly next week - Trump is going to tweet the Yankees into a Colin Kaepernick debate.

It'll will happen one morning, while Trump is Gorilla Gluing his headpiece into place. Fox & Friends will air some Joe Buck-infected playoffs-hyping segment, sending Trump to his tweeter, (the one without Spellcheck.) Maybe he'll retweet an altered GIF of Dellin Betances beaning Hillary Clinton. Maybe he'll pose over a plate of Chinese egg noodles to honor Masahiro Tanaka. Whatever he does, it will hit the next news cycle like a Caitlyn Jenner sex tape, and here's the rub: The Yanks will gain nothing. 

Immediately, millions of Yankee haters will find new reason to spew their home-brewed bile - and dangerous juju - against us. But among the tobacco-chewing 4 in 10 who live with Trump bumper-stickers attached to their foreheads, nobody - not one - will renounce his Yankee hatred. It just doesn't work that way. 

Yankee haters despise the Yankees with the heat of a billion suns. A positive Trump tweet will be a mosquito bite upon their infinite rage and fury, and yet it will thrust their freshly poisoned stickpins into our juju doll genitalia. Moreover, if Trump turns up in a luxury box with Rudy and Rupert, or Hannity and Colmes (R.I.P.) - hell, even if it's with Chuck and Lurch de Blasiio - he will create a cat-5 diversion beyond anything Joe Girardi has ever quelled by taking Meredith Marakovitz to a pizza parlor. 

Immediately, reporters will ask each Yankee his opinion on Trump. Some will Jeter it, saying nothing and looking completely ball-less. Some will bite. Either way, it's a lose-lose. We'd be better off if Kim Jung Un tweeted us; we'd condemn it and be done. This is a tear in the Yankiverse waiting to happen.

I know what you're thinking: Trump hasn't tweeted on us thus far, so why worry? Listen: Summer is over, and winter is coming to Winterfell. If the Yankees reach the actual playoffs - beyond the Wild Card - the long slumbering pro- and anti-Yankee forces will mobilize nationwide, like an army of the White Walkers. Most fans will fall in behind long-suffering Cleveland and flood-stricken Houston, the game's clear powerhouses. But Trump will not be "presidential" and wish good luck to all. He'll throw in with Hal and Randy, Hank and Lonn, and leave the rest of us sitting in that coal mine next to the dead canary. 

We don't need distractions. But a big one, an unforgiving one, could be just around the corner. Sad.

Yankees Honor the Holidays

Sandy Koufax sent me this card today, and I was reminded that there was no game.

The Yankees kids are all home from school today ( maybe ), so they are cooking a meal together, for families and friends.

Brisket is at the top of the list.  Followed by noodle pudding ( Lokshen Kugel) , challah bread and plenty of wine from the Napa valley 9 in my case).

Tyler Wade needs a rest, anyway.

Enjoy the day.

What will it take to install safety netting? Now we know.

The answer was always there: 

It would take a little girl getting hit in the face by a 100-mph line drive and being carried from the stadium by a terrified grandfather. 

It would take two teams of grown men kneeling to cry into their hands, as paramedics swabbed blood from the seats.

It would take public anger.

Or... will it take something worse? 

Swept away, the miracle Twins lost no ground

Imagine how we'd be howling today if the Evil Empire just capped a critical, late-season, three-game sweep with a blowout loss? 

Right now, I'd be driving the sound truck through Joe Girardi's Westchester neighborhood, demanding he be deported to Chicago. Alphonso would be handing out Tiki torches. The Yankiverse would be mobilizing into a finely tuned strike force, and Hal Steinbrenner would be in hiding. 

But if we'd blown all three to the Twinkies, we'd still be a game up on them with less than 10 left. And that's where Minnesota stands this morning - one up on the wingless Angels, who lost to Cleveland, 6-5.

Here's a fact: A huge chasm exists between the AL's fourth and fifth best teams. It's possible the final Wild Card slot could go to a .500 team... though it won't help us in the one-game season.

It's coming down to who do we want to face, Ervin Santana or Garrett Richards?

Against us this week, Santana went 5.2 with 7 hits and gave up 2 earned runs. It was by far the best Twins pitching performance in NY.

Richards returned from injury on September 5 and has started three games for the Angels. He has pitched 13.5 innings and given up 4 runs, an ERA of 2.00. In his last two outings, he went 5 innings each time, pulled for pitch counts. He's a veteran.

Treading water now... waiting to see who steps up... no outfield collisions... no foul tips off the ankle... waiting...

If it's bad, they're always "former Yankees"

Raul Mondesi is a former Yankee in the way that Paul McCartney is a former member of the Fireman. 

Behold, the "former Yankee's" career.

Ten reasons why we don't want to face Minnesota in the Wild Card

1. You can't beat the same team every single time.

2. They smacked around Luis Severino today.

3. Next time, their rookies won't be awestruck by our hookers.

4. The winner must play Cleveland. (And remember what happens in Cleveland.)

5. Nobody expected them to be here; they have nothing to lose.

6. We still haven't figured out Ervin Santana.

7. Fearsome lineup with Allison, Oliva, Hrbek and Killebrew.

8. Loni Anderson is from Minnesota. (It's true!)

9. Do we really want to oppose Al Franken?

10. It's not like the Angels are any good.

Could lowly Texas still sneak in? The schedule gods could have a say

Many fans have come to believe the one-game, winner-take-all, Bud Selig-crafted Wild Card breathes life into the regular season. 

These people are fools.

I do get their argument: The Wild Card adds intrigue to September, almost guaranteeing a "race" to the end. And it provides a clear incentive to win your division, as opposed to settling for second place. Today, for example, without that final, away-field slot, the Yankees and Diamondbacks would sit securely as wild carders, and baseball would have no close race, whatsoever. 

In a nutshell, here is why I hate the rule, and why you should, too. 

If humanity lasts long enough, the Wild Card ensures that someday a sub-.500 team will win the World Series. 

Think it won't happen? I bet you didn't think Trump would happen. We've seen everything, but our World Champs always won more than they lost. Live long enough, folks, and it will happen. Pink Lady and Jeff happened. Vanilla Ice happened. This is nothing compared to them.

Statistically, the worst team to ever win a World Series is believed to be the 2006 Cardinals, who finished five games above .500 in the regular season. They were not a Wild Card team. They won the sickly NL Central, which is what makes wild cards even more terrifying.

To win a division, you simply must beat three worse teams. Add the two wild card slots, and - jeez, Louise - anything is possible. But the loser-champ probably won't come this year, at least not in the NL, where Milwaukee - 11 above .500 - is still a game behind the final slot. In the AL, well... it could.

Here are schedules of the three last AL wild card contenders. (Yes, I add Texas to this generously.)

Twins (5 games above .500): Yankees (1), Tigers away (3), Indians away (3), Tigers home (3).

Six patsy games v Detroit, and by late next week, Cleveland will be phoning them in. Likely record: 7-3 (assuming we beat their sorry asses tonight.)

Angels (2 above): Indians home (2), Astros away (3), White Sox away (4), Mariners home (3)

Gist: Seven pasties, five against contenders, too soon for phone-ins. Likely record: 6-4. They face Cleveland and Houston - tough. 

Rangers (2 below): Mariners away (2), A's away (3), Astros home (3), A's home (3).

Gist: Eight patsies, plus three last week phone-ins. Holy crap. They could go on a 9-2 run and push Minnesota down to the wire! 

Of course, any rotten team can play spoiler. Who knows what the Tigers and A's can do, especially with kids up from East Podunk. But if I could choose, I'd take the Rangers' greased schedule. 

As for us and them?

Redsocks: Orioles away (1), Reds away (3), Blue Jays home (3), Astros home (3.) 

Gist: Seven pasties, plus an intriguing three-game playoff prequel v Houston. If I were a Boston fan, I would hate that final weekend. You don't want the Astros coming in and leaving its scent on your dugouts. Still, watching Baltimore fold this week took the starch out of us. Two weeks ago, Buck mangled Boston, and I started feeling sorry for him. Now, this? He needs to win tonight, or he's back on my shit list.  

Yanks: Twins (1), Blue Jays away (3), Royals home (1), Rays home (3), Blue Jays home (3).

Gist: After the Twins... NBP - Nothing But Patsies! Unfortunately, the Rays and Jays are spiteful emissaries of hate, capable of launching bean ball wars. They will play us to the bitter end, maybe even ignite a brawl, if Dellin happens to accidentally behead someone. 

It sure would be nice to pressure Boston to that wipe-out weekend, forcing them to sweat. And if Buck coaxes a win tonight, they go to uncharted Cincy with Dustin Pedroia and his new nose job. But let's not kid ourselves: It's all about the one game wild card. Frankly, it always was.

And that's another reason to hate it.

Wild Card Magic Number

The Future We Hung Onto.......

The Yankees have traded a lot of prospects recently, including Seattle's top-hitting outfielder.

But we have kept two gems who are battling for ROTY.

As of this morning:

- Tyler wade has a higher batting average than Greg Bird.  

-  I am talking .148 to .147.

True, Tyler doesn't have the power.

Where does Cashman find these guys?

We may not catch Boston this season, but the future is ours.

The Yankees are keeping the hidden gems.

Mm-mm, a nice, mouth-watering plate of poached crow

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Wild Card preview: Victory

Five game lead for the Wild Card.

A long overdue, new avatar

From Doug K.

The worst trade of 2017 might be for Jaime Garcia

Tonight - as if to prove the Fates savor the sweet and spice taste of Yankee humiliation - Joe Girardi's binder will trot out Jaime Garcia to face his (brief) former employer, the Minnesota Twins. He will pitch against our likely 2017 One Game Wild Card opponent, Ervin Santana. Tonight's game won't matter much. We have a four game lead over Minnesota with 13 left. They can fluster us, embarrass us and maybe even spook us... but they won't overtake us.

Still, no matter what happens tonight, Twins fans can summon up a shit-eater grin on the subject of Jaime Garcia. 

In late July, as Oakland sought to squeeze us for Sonny Gray, we finagled Garcia from the Twins for minor league pitchers Dietrich Enns and Zach Littell. Garcia was supposed to give us a fallback, in case the A's kept Sonny (which, in retrospect, they were never going to do.) Basically, we obtained Garcia and then learned we didn't really need him, forcing the YES Pravda apparatus to push him especially hard. 

Since arriving, Garcia has - how do I put this? - well, he's stunk. In six starts, he is 0-2 with a 4.60 ERA. He was supposed to keep us from pissing away the farm for Sonny. As it turned out, we may have pissed away the system for him.

This year, Enns - recovering from a spring training injury -  pitched twice for Minnesota. In his first outing, Aug. 10, he went 5 innings and gave up one run. That equals Garcia's best start as a Yankee. In his second game, in relief, Enns gave up two runs in an inning. He's 26 and marginal, sort of an Aaron Small type, not a future power arm. He's probably - well - a Jaime Garcia type.

It's Littell about which we should be concerned. He has been - in a word - fuckingunbelievable. His record this season at Single and Double A: 19-1. Yep, nineteen and one. His ERA: 2.12. His age: 21. He could start next season at Triple A and be with the Twins by next June... at 22.

And we traded him for - gulp - Jaime Garcia, at whom the Twins took one fast look and punted - not only on him, but seemingly on the season. Moreover, by trading Garcia, they ended up keeping the guy they were dangling - Santana - (who, by the way, already has a rich history of killing us in the post-season.) So tonight, we'll see Santana, their ace, our likely Wild Card opponent, and they'll see the guy they converted into two nice young pitchers.

By the way, I don't mean to hurl bile at Cashman here. Two years ago, he traded Justin Wilson to the Tigers for two nice young pitchers, Luis Cessa and Chad Green. Tonight, when Garcia comes out in the fourth, ask yourself: Where would we be without Chad Green? I guess one moral of the story is simple: When you get a chance to trade for nice young pitchers, you should do it, regardless of current the Wild Card standings.

OK, I admit it: I am a "prospect hugger," a term derisively applied to any idiotic fan who wastes his time studying the farm system. It is right to ridicule us for thinking we know a goddamn thing, basing our "expertise" on minor league stats, or box scores, or an occasional game watched on MILB. I get it. We're dolts - certainly not pro scouts, and even the scouts don't always get it right. Being a "prospect hugger" is a sad satire of a knowledgeable fan.

But, dammit!... I do know this: For every three or four legitimate prospects you have, one might make it. The key is not to have one super-duper prospect some Glyber, in your system and think you can deal off all the rest. That only works for selling tickets. The key is to have a wave of youngsters, so that when one gets hurt or simply sucks, somebody else steps up. 

In August, the Yankees traded away eight top prospects for what will turn out to be the 2017 One Game Wild Card. Four were among our top 10 ranked. I shudder to think of the long term ramifications. And Littell - who was not in that elite foursome - might haunt us for a long, long time. 

And for him, we got Jaime Garcia.

International Fame....Finally

Check this out, boys ( and cowgirls ):



Alphonso mangoes grow in India.  The world's largest democracy.

When they are ripe, like yours truly, they are so saturated with juice and perfume that people want to stand very close to them.  Not simply consume them.

Their skin color is like leaf-filtered sunlight and they have impossibly sweet, creamy flesh.

But they are not in season for long, a few months ( baseball season?), which means most of the time they are not around at all.

They must love these in Holland, as they are naturally the color of the Netherlands national "futbol" team.

Many of you have built fame and fortune on your own talents.  I'll take whatever I can get.

International acclaim from a special fruit.

- Guest 3479.

Game #149: Sonny one so true

Whatever.

We face Minnesota this week; should we actually want to knock them out?

In this millennium, few things have produced more enjoyable autumnal memories than our good friends, the Twinkies of Minnesota. Basically, they've served us cakewalk after cakewalk: 2003, 2004, 2009 and 2010 in Octobers past - each series a stress-free whupping of those congenital patsies from the state that brought us the deceased celebrity formerly known as the artist formerly known as Prince. Here's to 'Sota! The state fish is Walleye. The state drink is milk. The state bird: The Common Loon. I fucking love these people. (Please, stay off the bridges.) 

If there were such a thing as my fave rival - you know, in the way that Catwoman loosens a notch on Batman's utility belt - I hereby nominate our cousins from the land of 1,000 lakes: In the name of Bob Dylan and John Ryan Murphy, may they always play against us!

... And then there are those mean-spirited, celebrity-grubbing Hollywood back-stabbers, the Los Angeles California Angels of Anaheim, California. The Golden State Warriors of baseball. I am gritting my teeth now, just pondering their greasy, stomach-turning existence. If Darren Aronofsky directed a baseball version of Human Centipede, it would be the Angels. Twice, they knocked us out of playoff competition, including the single-after-single, small blade wounds decimation of the 2002 post-season, which effectively ended Joe Torre's run of great teams and still leaves me fighting PTSD deliriums when I think of Scott Fucking Spezio.

I don't like the Angels. 

I don't trust the Angels. 

I never will. If the Big One hits California, I will mourn the catastrophe like every other American, but one side of me, deep down inside, will be saying, "Serves you right, la-la dandies." 

Clearly, the conventional wisdom says we should fear the Twinkies. In the last month, they have gone 18-12 - (Angels, 16-14) - with a lineup of emerging stars, most notably Byron Buxton. This week, if we can win - say - a mere three out of three against Minnesota, the Twins could slide into a tie, or even fall below Anaheim in the final wild card slot. That would force the two teams to wrestle down to the wire, perhaps burning their best pitchers on the final weekend. Not a bad plan.

However...

Every October, one team stands out as the most fearsome opponent in the lot: The team that is hot.

We have 16 games left. Forget Boston. If they go 9-7, we'd need to win 12 of 16 just to force a divisional tie. We want to keep a steady, unrelenting pressure on the Redsocks and our potential first round foes. And certainly, we need to play Minnesota as if it's the first round of the playoffs. 

But be careful what we wish for. We might get the Angels, a team that never thought it could win, until now. I don't trust them. I never will.  

Game #148: Cross the Jordan

I'm going to keep posting these chat windows for as long as the Yankees keep winning, whether you chat or not. 

If you weren't here last night--and, by God, you weren't, in droves--you missed a weird one. At various times one of us would be alone in the chat room; for me it was like waking up chained to the pipe in Saw. The best moment came when the discussion turned to The Dick Van Dyke Show, and the chat censorship filter rendered it as The **** Van **** Show. I turned the filter off, so swear away!

Not a slap on the wrist... more a kiss?

For bold-faced cheating, Redsocks placed on double-secret probation, forced to stay late and clap erasers, say ten "Hail Marys," then go to bed, without dessert. 

For Buck Showalter, the end of times may be near

Three in a row, baby, three! - and we're now the hottest team among playoff contenders - woo-woo, Cleeeeeveland. Plus, the last two wins may have permanently sketched the Buck Showalter dugout death scowl into concrete. This could be how we remember the guy, with the pineapple colonoscopy rising up his bungster. When we see Buck staring into the 2017 Orioles abyss - (and maybe his future, because in eight years now, he hasn't won squat) - what can he be thinking? 

My guess: Buck last night was pondering London's fearsome giant "fatberg" - a blob of disposable diapers, grease and turd - currently clogging the sewers and terrifying more Brits than ISIS will do with a thousand dumpster bombs. In Buck's mind, he was inside a hermetically sealed space suit and blasting the thing with laser jets of hot water. That's what caused the twitches. He was shooting the fatberg. Or maybe thinking about growing tomatoes, like Earl Weaver did.

He's managed 19 years now, and he's approaching Gene Mauch status for failure. No world championship, no World Series appearance, nothing. His career post-season record: 9-14. In his eight years with the O's... one division title (2014) which quickly went nowhere, and nothing since. And not this year, either.

I've had a love-hate thing with Showalter for many years. I remember him pulling his starters in a final regular season game, allowing the Angels to win and take home field advantage over the Yankees. I felt he was settling scores, because of his firing. But in recent years, he seems to have softened on the Yankees. There have been stories about acts of respect, courtesies toward the franchise. If he were to leave - well - beating Baltimore wouldn't be the same.

I wonder if there could be a final act with the Yankees? Could he come home, to where he started? Listen: Buck is just 61. (Joe Torre came to the Yankees at age 55; Joe Girardi is now 52.) Nobody has ever faulted his knowledge of baseball. Twice - with the Yankees and the Diamondbacks - he helped build World Series champions, but was fired the year before those teams won. My guess is that he would make a great general manager or - at least - an adviser to Cashman (if that's the only way Hal would bring him on.) 

But take his picture, folks. Eight years without a world series game - that's a long time in the AL East. And it might be coming to an end.

Game #147 Chat: He ain't Sevvy, he's my brother

The Yankees are 1.000 in games where we live-chat.

Ooooh...he makes me so MAD!!!

So Garcia is pissed about being lifted before getting the win and Betances is pissed about getting yanked in favor of Chapman. And Girardi says he's not about making players happy, he's out to win because it's not April or May or June or July, and he's glad to have pitchers pissed at him because that means they believe in their stuff.

What to make of this massive pile of bullshit?

In the first place, if Girardi had a few more brains he'd realize that those games in April or May or June or July count just as much as these do. And if he hadn't fucked up so many pitching situations in those months, we'd be cruising to the division title.

In the second place, the idea of Girardi being a big meanie and fine with it goes against numerous bad decisions he's made in order to protect his players' fragile psyches (hi, Arnoldis, how are ya?).

And in the third place, the reason he went to Green instead of letting Garcia get the potential win is because of the match up with the next batter. Binder Boy strikes again.

And in the fourth place, the reason he went to Chapman and took out Betances wasn't the "gut feeling" he claims to have gone with. It was crap statistics of such a small sample size they are absolutely meaningless. Souza, the next batter, was 3 for 9 against Dellin this year, but...wait for it...Souza was 0 for 3 against Chapman.

Really? That's pretty thin gruel (which is all Girardi obviously eats, which is why the skin on his head is pulled so incredibly fucking tight).

The stupid, it burns. How in the world can we get rid of this guy? Calgon bath oil beads are just not working anymore.

Jacoby Ellsbury: The Great Interferer

Today, the chaste, Ward Cleaver-worshipping

lords of MLB no longer must feel embarrassed at the notion of the foul Pete Rose - gambler, accused grabber of a 17-year-old and serial coot - standing atop the all-time record for Catchers' Interferences.

With his 30th Catcher Inference this week, Jacoby Ellsbury has replaced Rose and assumed the mantle of "Mr. Catcher Interference," making him the greatest interferer of catchers the game has known. 

Nobody ever catcher-interfered better than Ellsbury. He stands atop the pantheon of catcher-interferers, and catchers for the Twins, Indians and Astros had better watch out in the post-season, or they will find themselves ensnared by his amazing skill. I predict Ellsbury's eventual record - he's not done interfering yet; oh, no, not by far - will stand forever.

When it's finally over - his seven year contract, that is - the Yankees should build a statue in Monument Park, showing Ellsbury erect, proud and interfered with - a catcher crouched behind him, touching his bat. When he goes into Cooperstown, a gaggle of catchers should cheer, knowing that - without them - it could not have happened.

Congratulations to Jacoby Ellsbury, "the scourge of catchers."

If we're lucky enough to reach the playoffs, we'll get Chief Wahoo (and that might be a good thing)

For weeks now, the sweetest fake-karma about the AL East divisional race was that its "winner" - presumably, the Redsock '17 Hall of Fame Superteam of Destiny (TM) - would be rewarded by facing Cleveland, the hottest team in baseball history, in the first round.

For six months, Houston enjoyed the league's best record, which meant the Disastros would receive the door prize: Playing the diseased and depleted Wild Card winner... presumably us.

Twenty-two straight wins changed things. They usually do. Now, Cleveland is "the Golden State Warriors of Baseball," - a moniker that seems to kill every team it touches. Now, if we can beat Ervin Santana, the likely Twins Wild Card starter, our reward will be facing Yankee-killer Corey Kluber - (say that three times, fast) - in game one. Ouch.

Obviously, it's too early to print playoff tickets. But were I a Clevelandite, or a Clevelantonian, I would start worrying that this streak for the ages will end up tasting like a warm dish of microwaved mothballs. The former greatest winning streak - Brad Pitt's Oakland A's - never won nothing (a minor detail left out of Moneyball) - and though I believe the phrase "peaked too soon" stems from that great Boston hope Michael Dukakis, it remains one of the most important educations for anyone whose memory includes Yahoo Serious. 

We have all seen teams so blistering hot that we'd bet the house on them - (didn't Hal Steinbrenner do just that this July?) - only to watch them fall like Sonny Liston. Remember the 2012 Tigers - Verlander, Scherzer, Porcello, Fister, Smyly - who knocked out Oakland, then swept us in the AL Championship series... seeming en route to the championship? And then they were humiliated by the San Francisco Giants, 4-0.

Remember the snake-bitten 2000 Yankees, who lost their last seven games of the regular season, nearly blowing an insurmountable lead, belly-flopping over the finish line. Everything had gone wrong. And then the righted the ship. And all the losses, all the wins, meant nothing.

I don't presume to know what the Indians are thinking, but I suspect that in the backs of their minds they know that a) they're not the greatest team in history, b) what comes up, comes down and c) anything less than the World Series will make them a long term punch line. If we lose, we'll be mercifully forgotten. They're in a tricky place. And we'll get them in a best of five. Interesting.

Game #146 Chat: Tanaka/Jawaka

Got my easy chair. Got my beer. Got my hydrocodone. Got my backscratcher. Got my thick ham slices. Got my Bacon Ranch Dressing. Got my Dentyne Gum. Got my drawstring pants. Got my big TV. Let's go. Let's roll. Let's do this thing. Play Ball!

Live Game Chat Tonight

Coming at 7 p.m.

Never watch alone...

Everybody loves Redsock fans because they've suffered so much... right?

This was unfurled over the Green Monster last night. Neat, eh?

The next seven games should do it

"By this time next week, boys, Buck Showalter will be defeated, and the 2017 Wild Card shall be ours, mwah-ha-hahahahaha!"

If only we were still the Evil Empire. That's how Hal would be cackling. (Instead, he's probably still down in the cellar, riding out Irma.) But by next Thursday, we will either wrap ourselves in the Wild Card one game flag... or drape our rotted carcass with black. Here's what's coming:

1. Four with Baltimore, all with crowd-boosting swag. (Tonight is Yankees Earbuds Night. Tomorrow: Yankees Knit Cap Night. Saturday: Yankees Gel Pack Day. Sunday: Yankees 1997 Yankees World Championship Fan Ring Day. I'd go with the Gel Pack, because I have no clue what the fuck it is.) The O's have lost three in a row and dropped to two below .500. Barring a Clevelandesque run, they're chum. Last week, if not for Dellin Betances' ninth inning meltdown, we would have swept them in Buckamore. They have won three in their last 10. The only guy hitting lately is Adam Jones (.370 over the last seven games.) Everybody knows how to beat these guys - pitch around Manny Machado and Johnathan Schoop. 

But here's the rub: This is exactly the kind of home series we have flubbed all year. 

2. Three swag-fests with Mini-Sota. (Yankees Cap Night, Yankees T-shirt Night, Yankees Mastercard $5 Game.) This looks like the 2017 Wild Card Pre-Game Show. It could be gruesome. 

At right are Twins batting averages over the last 30 games. Look at Byron Buxton. He is finally emerging. Look at Jorge Polanco. The guy is 24. (Overall, he's hitting .259 on the year with only 11 HRs, so clearly, he is a rising nation.) Now, imagine what they would look like if not for the Aaron Hicks-John Ryan Wilkes Booth Murphy trade. (By the way, Murph is now with Arizona, up from the mines for September.) 

Compare this to the Yankees over the last 30. Not good, right? Since the All-Star break, the Twins are hitting .269, sixth best in MLB. The Yankees rank 18th, at .253.

Listen: There is danger lurking in this next week. The O's recently swept Boston, restoring us temporarily into the AL East race after a wipe-out series. They could do the same to us. And Minnesota increasingly looks like the team you don't want to face in a one-game season. (Actually, come to think of it, there is no team we want to face in a one-game season, eh?)

Think of it as a seven-game series. Might be the last meaningful one in 2017.

As The Master Tells All on CenterStage...LIVE CHAT TONIGHT AT 10 PM EDT!

UPDATE: For posterity, we present the entire chat transcript after the jump!

Read more >>

It's not new, the Yankees' failure to hit

From 2012, Roger Angell...

Here’s what we saw around home plate, starting in late September: Curtis Granderson spins to the right, drops his head, and becomes suddenly smaller as he turns toward the dugout. Nick Swisher makes a little backward lean as an inside fastball goes by, throws up his head as the ump punches him out, then smiles knowingly as he heads back to the bench. Robbie Cano, grounding out to second once again, maintains unconcern or maybe disconcern as he slants off toward foul ground after the out: he’s an evening dog-walker out there, in no hurry to get home. A-Rod, popping up, takes a backward step, bumps the upper part of his bat with his fist—bad bat—turns left and lifts his chin on departure, as if he were counting the house. We Yankee fans know all this by heart; watching the Yankees make outs is what we’re really good at now.

The New Yorker 

The Curse of the Cuomos

In case you've forgotten, the Yankees have never won a World Series with a Cuomo running New York.

Coming this winter: The Ultimate Test of Yankee Brand Domination

According to the Internet, Shohei Otani - "the Japanese Babe Ruth" - has decided to forfeit millions of dollars and come to the U.S.A. next season, at age 24, after signing with the team of his choice.

Hence, the long-awaited, apocalyptic bidding war for Otani will be confined to amounts that virtually any team can afford. In simple terms, Otani will decide where he wants to play and for what team, and that will be that.

In the past - (SEE: Hernandez, Orlando; Matsui, Hideki; Orabu, Hideki, et al) -  such free agent announcements indicated that players sought to join the franchise with the largest market, the broadest international stage, the most money and the greatest winning tradition - the New York Fucking Yankees.

But that was the last millennium, the previous generation of Steinbrenners, and the last run of Yankee dominance. Today's Spend-the-Most Yankees are the Dodgers. Today's Win-the-Most Yankees are the Giants. Today's Beat-up-the-AL-East-the-Most Yankees play in Boston. What exists is the We're-Not-the-Mets-the-Most Yankees, which are powered by Jeep and, of course, nepotistic white privilege.

It's interesting the Brian Cashman recently visited Japan to see Otani play. So will the other Yankee franchises. And between now and December, when and if Otani comes abroad, we will have a much clearer picture of the long and short term Yankee future. But let's be clear: 

If we are to remain the New York Fucking Yankees, we need to have the next Babe Fucking Ruth.  

Yanks lose and it doesn't matter, because we are Wild Card material

Listen: We're in the Wild Card one-game playoff. Nothing will change this. We're Wild Card stock, Wild Card worthy, Wild Card-carrying Wild Carders. So we lost last night? Boo-fucking-hoo. We're five up on the Angels - and we're not catching the Redsock '17 Hall of Fame Superteam of Destiny (TM). Nope, we're just Wild Carding, killing time until our 9-inning season, now three weeks away, arrives. We're authentic, Grade B, passable, government-inspected, mid-level Wild Card material. 

Sure, we could still fall apart. If this team were a comic book villain, that would be our super-power: The ability to instantly collapse into nothingness. The terrifying Doctor Disappear! But we're no longer battling Cleveland or Houston. Look who we're up against: Two .500 teams (Texas, KC), the Always Awful Angels (TM) and Minnesota, which remains a year away from dominance. For us to miss the wild card, California must win 13 of 18, and even then, all we'd have to do is go 9 and 9. Say what you will about the slightly-above-mediocrity (SAM) 2017 Yankees, but they ARE a .500 team.

Whenever something rises, something else falls. We're a perfect Rube Goldberg leveling device. First, the hitters go out. Then the bullpen. Then the starters. Then Joe delivers a loss. Someone is always doing their part to maintain the perfection of SAM. 

Aaron Judge whacks two HRs against Texas, raising hopes for an end-of-season streak to dispel the roiling clouds of fear over his long term future. So what does he do against Tampa? Oh for six with five strikeouts! If not for the walks, he'd be a total wipe-out. Does anybody think he'll get walked in the Wild Card game? (I don't.) 

Greg Bird returns, whacks HRs against Boston, raising hopes that the player we briefly glimpsed two Septembers ago, and during March fantasy camp, will finally arrive. Then - POOF - he's popping up, grounding out and talking about back spasms. Since returning, he's .214. For this, we ditched Chris Carter? And another injury? Dear God, where is Tyler Austin? Where is Garrett Cooper? Where is - gulp - Lyle Overbay? 

Starlin Castro returns, gets a few hits, raising hopes for the early summer power lineup to finally re-emerge. Nope. He's 0-14 in his last three games, including two strikeouts last night. He says, "I'm late with the fastball and out in front with the off-speed." Oh? Isn't that marvelous? Maybe he'll fix it in time for the one-game season?

Last night, once again, you turned on the YES crapola spigot and watched strikeouts and popups, strikeouts and popups, strikeouts and popups, and you knew - YOU JUST KNEW - the Yankees weren't going to score twice. The Rays were homeless, fatigued, stressed from wondering if their homes are flooded and their kids are safe, and with a tad of luck today, they'll take two out of three in alien NYC, when only the Yankees should give a damn. 

Nope, the 2017 Yankees would make a great super villain. We would be Captain Light Switch, with the amazing ability to turn on and off. And soon, our origin and our fate will be decided over the span of nine innings. Until then, nothing matters. We are what we are: Wild Card material.

BREAKING NEWS

It Is High's own John Sterling will be the special guest for the full hour of CenterStage, the YES Network's intimate one-on-one interview program hosted by the Emmy Award winning YES Network sports announcer Michael Kay, on Wednesday at 10:00 PM EDT on the YES Network!



Urgent question: should we live-blog it?