In April, Yankees can pooh-pooh concerns about a HR offense, but in October, it could be a different story

Yesterday brought a delightful, innovative, new 2019 Yankee experience: 

Tomato Can Torture Porn.

When I dropped in, we were leading by four, Domingo "Jean" German hadn't allowed a runner, and the YES barkers were bellowing "PERFECT GAME!" it to the juju cosmos. By the seventh, we were wearing leather body suits and brandishing our cat o nine tails, while the O's blubbered their "safe" word: Showalter. Our lone concern was whether Aaron Boone would need his A-list bullpen. With the bases loaded, we had the good fortune of seeing Chris Davis stride to the plate. Not long ago, he would terrify us. Now, it was almost embarrassing. He watched strike three as it smoothly bisected the plate.

And there it was: Our past, present and future.

When a slugger loses his edge, he slides fast, and he falls far. Think A-Rod. Think Tex. Think Pronk, Alfonso, Vernon Wells, et al. Think of all the big names and anemic batting averages that occupied Yankee lineups over the last 10 years, like bellies pumped full of air, and all the dead Octobers that resulted.

Yesterday, the Yankees belted seven HRs en route to a 15-3 massacre, and don't get me wrong: I ain't complainin.' 'Twas a lovely afternoon, a champagne brunch with a fling in the flowers and a nap among the nipples. But of the 40 Yankees who came to bat, 19 produced either a homer, walk or strikeout - in other words, a guy jogging rather than running. It was like a basketball game with nothing but foul shots, or a football game full of holding penalties. It took three hours and five minutes to torture that tomato can, and in the end, the stands were as empty as the industrial parks of Syracuse. 

The baseball lords are rightfully worried about the excessive length of modern games. This year, as an insult to minor league fans, they have installed an extra-innings system that puts a runner on second with no outs. To the legacy of the game, it is an abomination - yet another sign that a) they don't care one iota about small cities and b) they have no clue about the traditions that most of them simply inherited from birth. 

The problem with baseball is not that a few games go extra innings, or that it takes too long for a pitcher to throw an intentional walk. The problem is that every hitter seeks to grind his at-bat to at least seven pitches, and that the game has turned into a tedious funeral train of strikeouts and walks. 

Yesterday, in the post-game show - (why was I still watching?) - Boone was asked if there is "such a thing as too many home runs." He said no, of course, but not after hesitating. Because there is such a thing, and everybody knows it. 

The team that lives by three outcomes dies by it, as well. When home run hitters face good pitchers - that is, when October arrives - it usually does not end well for the team wearing the Catwoman suit. We can pad our numbers against Baltimore, and yesterday, that's exactly what we did. Congratulations to all. I ain't complainin.' But something's gotta change. I never thought I'd say this, but right now, we could use a Jacoby a lot more than a Giancarlo. 

But hey, let's get to the juju. In the last two days, I've posted home runs by former Yankee prospects, and the results have been astonishing. So here's another, Juu gods, I hope you're watching.

"They don't believe in hot."

Ah, that we could play in the Aviary forever!

But I digress.  Interesting little booth discussion when Wildling came up for the first time, and Michael Kay mentioned that Boone had decided to play him because righties had more success against Hess, the right-handed Baltimore starter, than lefties.

To which Ken Singleton dared to ask, "How about a start just to say, 'Nice job winning the game last night?' "

Whereupon Kay, speaking of the Yankees' beanstrust (not to be confused with a brainstrust), informed him, "They don't believe in hot."

Let's put aside for a moment the age-old question of whether or not hot does exist.  Most fans and pretty much anyone who's ever played the game will tell you that it does.  The Sabermetricians insist that it does not.

But never mind.  The interesting part came when Singleton told Kay:  "How are you going to build everyday players then?"

It's a good point.

In fairness to the Sabermetricians, there have been plenty of managers who have had success with platooning players.  The most notable example is Casey Stengel, who was also the greatest Yankees manager, and maybe the greatest manager what ever was.

Casey platooned all the time, thereby utilizing the Yankees' greatest advantage—depth—in an era when their starting lineup and starting rotation was not that much far ahead of the other good teams' in the league.  He went to war with the team he had—and won.

But that's not the team Aaron Boone has today.

Casey's Yankees rarely carried more than 9 or 10 pitchers at time.  Since there was no DH at the time, either, that meant that he usually had 7 or even 8 guys he could bring off the bench.  And many of those played multiple positions.

With the Yankees' insistence on carrying 13 pitchers—and with the DH—that means Boone usually has all of 3 subs on the bench.  Take away the back-up catcher, and he really has only 2.

What does this mean?

It means that Ken Singleton is right, and the Yankees have to concentrate on building everyday players.

You don't accomplish that by sitting a promising young outfielder just when he's getting hot.

Ma Boone Explains It All For You

So here is our manager, quoted in today's NY Times:

"We're always capable of going on a roll.  That's a matter of time.  That's a matter of us starting to click all together and getting some guys hot collectively the lineup and getting our pitchers settled in. Even banged up, I'm confident we can go on a run at any point."

How did this guy NOT end up in the diplomatic corps, obviously his true calling?  This should be a standard, Foreign Service training lesson on how to say nothing.

Translation:

"Hey, we might get hot.  Hot means a lot of guys playing and pitching well at the same time.  So, that's possible even though we're injured."

Glad you straightened that out for us, Ma.

How about:  "I've got to do a better job of anticipating situations and taking the game to the other team, and some of these guys need to wake the hell up if they don't want to find their asses back in Dunder Mifflin land."

It's Clint Frazier's time to shine brightly or Slade away

Last night, in the masturbatory aftermath of Clint Frazier's three-run ding - the most important hit of the season! - it occurred to me that the moment was an almost identical re-enactment of Slade Heathcott's 2015 incredible blast against Tampa, which I happened to flag yesterday. 

Hmmm. Juju? Obviously. I'm officially claiming credit.

But back to the comparison. Both shots won seemingly big games (though neither was a walk-off.) Both came from a heavily hyped former first round pick, who cut against the grain of humble, toilet-flushing Yankee prospects. The difference - we hope - is what happens next. Will Frazier become Slade II?

Who was Slade I? In 2015, Heathcott came with an almost mythic Yankee backstory. He was the troubled youth who'd battled alcoholism, homelessness and suicidal tendencies - even before escaping high school. At one point, the narrative had him pointing a 12-gauge shotgun at his dad. The bards went crazy. The Yankee hype machine made him into a thinly veiled version of Josh Hamilton, who had overcome drug addiction to become baseball's biggest slugger. (And who had crushed the Yankees in the playoffs.) In his early years, I recall Heathcott's dark past spotlighted in a lengthy, breathless Charleston Observer article, and then, the following night, he launched a huge brawl, apparently triggered by something the catcher said. 



My guess: The evil catcher said, "Yer mudder wears combat boots!" That would have set me off. Whatever the case, I was hooked on Heathcott's story, and checked him in the daily box scores for five years. It was painful. Whenever he started to hit, the poor kid ran into a wall or threw himself at a sinking liner, tearing something that wasn't supposed to be torn. In 2016, with a glut of LH hitting outfielders (Ben Gamel, Mason Williams, Jake Cave, Dustin Fowler), the Yankees released him. He bumped around the White Sox and A's systems and retired last year. He is supposedly studying to fly planes. I wish him the best - with this advice: Avoid the walls. In another Yankiverse, not that far away, he played LF for us last night. Life is strange, no?

Which brings us to Frazier, aka "Red Thunder." (BTW, what a horrible name to hang on a kid; the hype machine did him no favors.)

Since coming to us in the Andrew Miller trade, and jokingly requesting Number 7, Frazier has given Yankee diehards hope for a farm-raised slugger. I'm not talking about .236 and 25 HRs, (which today gets you a $40 million contract.) I'm talking about .300 and 30 HRs, and the "legendary bat speed" that Cooperstown Cashman mentioned after making the deal, which also involved Justus Sheffield.

Like Heathcott, Frazier has splattered into walls like a sick starling, nearly bashing himself out of baseball. At this point, he's one concussion away from being sent home with a doctor's note. But last night, he saved the Yankee season... just as Heathcott's once appeared to do.

So now, let's dispense with this Mike Tauchman experiment. Let the Tauchster give Brett Gardner breathers in CF, and let's see what Frazier can do in LF. Back in the days of old Joe Girardi, the constant fan lament was that after a big day, players always seemed to get benched. Let's hope Aaron Boone plays the hot hand, and that Frazier actually has a hot hand. This is his chance. Slade Heathcott couldn't pull that trigger. Maybe this is different.

And for the sake of juju, here's Greg Bird's great HR against - of course - Andrew Miller. Let's see if it triggers something with Bird today. If so, I'm claiming credit.

Last-place Sox look to 2020

"They're getting worse, not better, and no one has answers."--WEEI

If Aaron Boone is Bored, He Ought to Do Something Else

So Yanks just lost a runner and maybe a run when The Gleyber was called out for not touching 2B again when he ran back to first after the General's line drive was caught.

Only the thing is, the replay wasn't at all clear that he did NOT touch the base.

It's the sort of play where the player may not even know whether or not he touched the bag.

But the manager should know.  Or he should find out.

Ma Boone needed to at least slow the game down until someone could see a replay.  But there was nothing.  No stalling, no arguing.  No calling out the umps, or talking to Gleyber.

Just like it never happened.

I guess that would've meant having to actually walk out on the field.

If that's too much to expect, he ought to go back to commentating.

And We Have Won 500 Games. And We Might Win 500 More...

Okay, coming off an off-day—doesn't that sing?—we have..."Fun with Statistics!"

I know it was probably obscured by all the thrills and great play of their opening homestand.  But lost in the excitement was the fact that the Yankees posted their 500th win at Yankee Stadium III.

Michael Kay had already made much of the fact that, going into the 2019 season, the Yanks had a 498-312 record at home in their first 10 years at the House That Hal's Greed Built, which he claimed was the best home record in baseball, at .615.

I have no reason to doubt him.

But the interesting thing?  That .615 is just a click above the Yankees' ALL-TIME home winning percentage of .614.

To give you the rundown:

Hilltop Park (where the Columbia-Presbyterian Medical Center is today), 1903-1912:

Yanks at home: 398-345 .536 (leaving the team just 2 wins shy of winning 400 or more games in 5 different venues).   Average at-home record: 40-35.  6 winning seasons at home, 4 losing seasons.  Place was a ramshackle arrangement, featuring a big pit in right field.

They won 50 or more games 1 time, with their Hilltop best of 53-23 .697, in 1906.

In this period, the Yankees also played 1 contest at Newark's Wiedenmeyer's Park, capacity 19,000.  The place was an almost literal dump—located right next to a real dump, the smell and smoke from which often delayed contests.

Usually, the era's minor-league and Negro-League squads (Cuban Stars, Newark Eagles) were forced to play there, until it fortunately burned down in 1926, and was eventually replaced by the much-superior Ruppert Stadium.

But the rogues who ran the Yanks brought the team out there for a Sunday, July 17, 1904 game against Detroit, in order to evade NYC's blue laws.  (Yanks won, 3-1.)

Polo Grounds, way down in Egypt Land, 1913-1922:

The Yanks as lowly tenants of the Giants:  416-335 .554.  Average at-home record: 42-33.  6 winning seasons at home, 4 losing ones.

Yanks started off with their worst-ever home record, 27-47 in 1913.   They got much better, due mainly to a guy named Ruth, who loved to play there, and compiled 2,  50-wins-plus seasons, including a Polo Grounds best 53-25 .679 in 1921.

Yankee Stadium I, 1923-1973.

The House That Ruth Built, and the bonanza the jealous Giants forced the Yanks into.

Here is what home-field advantage is all about.  The Bronx Bombers went 2,553-1,410 in the Great Gray Cathedral, good for a .644 winning percentage.

Average at-home record: 50-28, with 48 winning seasons at home and just 3 losing ones.  The Yankees won 50 or more games at home in 30 of those 51 seasons, including 2 of the team's 3, 60-plus-win seasons at home—62-15 .805 in 1932, and 65-16 .802 in 1961.

In fact, if you take away the 9 seasons after "The Collapse"—1965-1973—the Yanks in Yankee Stadium I went 2,155-1,082, good for a .666 home winning percentage.

Yes, you read that right.  For 42 seasons, if you went to Yankee Stadium, it was a 1-2 bet that the home team was going to win.  THAT'S what you call a fully loaded Death Star, Mr. Cashman.

The Shea Captivity, 1974-1975.

Back to being tenants, the Yanks went a respectable 90-69 .566.  Both their home seasons were winning ones, with an average record of 45-35.  Ho.  Also, hum.

Yankee Stadium II, 1976-2008.

In The House That the Taxpayers of New York Built, the Yankees were 1,581-1,020  .608.

Their average record at home was 48-31, a stat distorted a little bit by the fact that two good years (1981: 32-19; 1994: 33-24) were curtailed by management lockouts.  Throw in the projected full seasons in those years, and you get an average of...49-32.  Hey, I said "a little bit."

In all, the Yanks had 31 winning seasons at home and just 2 losing ones in Yankee Stadium II, and 17 of 50 or more wins (it most likely would've been 18 with an uninterrupted 1981).

Their best record, unsurprisingly, was in 1998, when the Yanks went 62-19 at home—their only other 60-plus-win season, good for a .765 percentage.

Yankee Stadium III, 2009-

Well, all of the above.  Plus an average home record of 50-31, no losing seasons (as yet) and 6, 50-wins-plus seasons.  Best single season mark—again, no surprise—was in 2009, at 57-24 .704.

What's it all amount to?

According to my no-doubt faulty calculations, the Yanks at Home are an all-time 5,537-3,482 (including Wiedenmeyer's!) for that .614.  On the road, by contrast, they have gone 4,738-4,299 .524.

Got it?  Are you not entertained, as John Oliver likes to say?

If the season gets even more boring?  At-hoe and road playoff records.

You can always tell when Cashman is worried, because he hits the flea market

Thursday in Bird Town, as the natives were lustily booing poor Chris Davis, our most earnest Yankee OF lug nut - Brett Gardner - notched two singles and a walk, igniting a feel-good Yankee blow-out. With Gardy gets on base, our lineup chugs into second-gear, and solo HRs turn into game-changing shots.

Unfortunately, on the season, Gardy is hitting .200 (5-for-25) with an anemic .286 on-base percentage. And that, dear amigos, is the 2019 Yankees' in a nutshell: A team with trouble enough driving in runners suddenly finds none to move. Without men on base, our majestic homers look better on video than in the line score. 

There will be no move to replace Gardy soon. (Frankly, nor should there be; it's too early.) The man who was supposed to bat lead-off - Aaron Hicks - is now midway into his second month of back-pain, and no truckload of Doan's Pills will change it. We haven't even heard of a rehab assignment. If Hicks showed up tomorrow with the Charleston Riverdogs, he'd be lucky to reach Trenton by May Day. Even then, he'll face the rust of having missed spring training. He might not click at full power until June, and that's assuming no setbacks.

How, you ask, can I adopt such a pessimistic tone about the great and powerful New York Yankees? Hey, it's what I do! Besides, Bronx history tells us all that fiery red flags should fly whenever Cooperstown Cashman abruptly dips into the minor league wading pool for retreaded tires. Before opening day, he traded for 28-year-old, minor league OF Mike Tauchman, who was about to face his third straight year at Triple A. To get him, we gave up Philip Diehl - a 24-year-old, Triple A bullpen arm. Diehl didn't top any prospect lists, but lefties are rare commodities. (The Yankees' staff in Scranton lists four: Rex Brothers, 31; Danny Coulomb, 28, Nestor Cortez, 24 and Gio Gonzalez, 33.) Simply stated, we didn't get Tauchman for nuthin.' 

Yesterday, Cashman made another move, the kind normally destined for sports page agate. He signed infielder Cliff Pennington, who hit .211 last year in Triple A. On June 15, Pennington will turn 35. He reached peak foliage in 2009, when he hit .279. for Oakland. He played last night for Scranton. I could very easily look up what he did. I mean, it would require two clicks. But I won't. I simply don't care, and neither should you.

The signing is what matters. To me, it is the clearest signal yet that the Yankees do not expect Miguel Andujar to return this year. Lately, Miggy has been telling writers his shoulder feels fine, and he thinks he can hit with a slightly torn labium. As Jake told Lady Brett Ashley in the cab: Isn't it pretty to think so?

Listen: I wish no ill toward Cliff Pennington. (Sometimes, it sounds like I blame the player for the problem.) He deserves nothing but our support. And at times, these guys come out of nowhere to make a play we shall never forget. I still remember Slade Heathcott's three-run homer to topple mighty Toronto, or Greg Golson's magnificent throw to third, nailing Carl Crawford. (Which, upon reflection, needs an encore. Enjoy this...)




Ah, wasn't that adorable? Trouble is, it happened in 2012, when the Yankees fell apart. 

So let's not kid ourselves. When things look bad, the Yankees don't change their facial expression. They never admit to a problem. All that happens is that Cashman goes shopping in the bargain bin. And that's where we are today.  

Thank you, River Ave. Blues. I'll miss you.

This is worse news than anything Steinbrenner could give us. 

Another one bites the dust

So Glenn Sather is stepping down after 19 of futility in running the Rangers.

I don't ean to compare him with Brian Cashman.  After all, Sather won five Stanley Cups in his previous incarnation guiding the Edmonton Oilers.

But hey, now that the guy who was 0-19 is gone, shouldn't we start thinking about Mr. 0-23?

Shouldn't this be like when all those Eastern European dictatorships began to fall after the wall came down?  Isn't it time for our very own Ceausescu to depart?

Aaron Boone is not about to panic...

...from yesterday's NY Times.

Things that would make me panic if I were Aaron Boone, who has made at least $19 million in baseball, and who knows what else from various emoluments:

—Bedbugs. You can't get rid of those things.

—The prospect that we could increase the planet's temperature by another 5 degrees Celsius before the end of the century, thereby ending human civilization on Earth as we know it.

—Shark week.

—The fact that the death of Stephen Sondheim will sever our last living link to the great traditions of the American musical theatre.

—A tiger. In my apartment.

—The possibility that Giancarlo Stanton will one day return from the DL IL.

—Brexit.

Exception to the rule

Gratuitous Duchamp pic having nothing to do with RAB

It's been SOP on IIH not to link to articles on other sites in a post.

This one time, I hope Duque and the juju gods forgive me.

River Ave. Blues is shutting down. I didn't see that one coming. 

They've been a mainstay for Yankees news and opinion for 12 years. Now, going, going....

I'd like to think that some of their readers gravitate to IIH, but the two blogs are really apples and oranges (not "origins"). 

Perhaps they've sometimes been too eager to drink the front office Kool-Aid. But they've always been able to articulate their position clearly, whether I or you or anyone thought they were right or wrong. Besides, as Marcel Duchamp once said, whether art is bad art or good art, it's still art. You don't have to agree with them to appreciate their work.
 
And so, a fond farewell to the RAB guys, who wrap it up April 29th.

I tip my cap in their general direction.

You can read Mike's announcement here: http://riveraveblues.com/

It could get late early: The Yankees simply cannot sustain another week like the last one.

Damn, I can't get this out of my head: The notion that the Yankees are another bad week from a catastrophic, year-crushing meltdown. Good grief, in the eight miserable days since the 2019 season launched, we've lost Stanton, Tulowitzky and Andujar, while Hicks, Ellsbury and Severino remain frozen in carbonite, and Betances and Sabathia float outside my bedroom window, shrieking into the cold night like the ghost of Hideki Irabu.

Listen: It's flat-out, Alex Jones-level insanity to suggest the Yankees should throw in the towel on 2019 - certainly not before the trade deadline, when Sir Didi will have returned. I get it. This wave of injuries should break and maybe even-out across the league, decimating the Redsocks and everybody else on my shit list. There is no reason to suspect the Yankees will continue to lose players the way the Pentagon loses track of nuclear warheads.

But but BUT... what if we do?

What has me spooked is the potential finality of Andujar's shoulder tear. If he needs surgery, he misses the season. It's not the end of him - he's just 24 - but we go from a 3B who could hit .300 with 30 HRs to - jeez - DJ LeMahieu? Tyler Wade? Thairo Estrada? Some Cashman scrap heap reclamation? Damn, everywhere you look, it's like a kick in the nuts: You know it happened, but the pain hasn't yet fully arrived. 

So, the terrified six-year-old inside me says... what if next week is like last week? At what point could the Yankees - come July - be staring at a full-scale meltdown? Here's the short list of season-ending asteroids - events that could cancel our show before the fifth episode, when Cher appears. Print it out, then set fire to it. The juju gods need to know we mean business.

1. A major injury to Aaron Judge. No surprise here. Take him from the lineup, and our batting order turns to margarine. The drop from Judge to, say, Mike Tauchman, is like replacing Bruce Springsteen with Benny Mardones. (And I say this with respect to "the Voice," an all-time Syracuse fave.) 

2. Loss of Gary Sanchez. Yes, Gary. In this case, it's not so much that he's lived up to his clippings; it's the lack of a replacement. Austin Romine hits for two weeks, then turns into Kyle Higashioka, who is entering his fifth year at Triple A. Wow. He should write a tourism guide for Scranton.

3. An injury to Aroldis Chapman. We may be seeing this in slow motion. While we do have alternatives, the mere act of watching Chapman blow saves until someone else is installed as closer would mean a month of horror. And then, there goes the bullpen, dominoes dropping, one by one. 

4. The Loss of Gleyber Torres. This would be catastrophic on every level. We would lose our SS, our 2B, our cleanup hitter and the break-out player that most gave us hope. We cannot afford to lose Andujar and Torres in one month. It's just not fair. We would have to sue the juju gods. 

Of course, this is merely my list of sky-is-falling terrors. No team in baseball could sustain such losses. But playing in the cold northeast - and refusing to postpone games even when it's sleeting - endangers our employees. If the floor collapses, there is no cavalry in Scranton waiting for the call. Cashman would have spent the month of May, trading young talent for new versions of Vernon Wells and Travis Hafner. So, when all has collapsed, here would be the plan.

Come July 30, we would trade Happ, CC, Gardy, Britton, Betances, Tulo and El Chapo, if he's throwing. Get whatever we can. We would pay part of Giancarlo's salary and do with him what Miami did with us: Wave goodbye. Hicksy? Flip a coin. Ditch either Bird or Voit. We would give full auditions to Wade, Clint Frazier, Domingo German, Luis Cessa and Johnny Lasagna. Maybe we would bring up Estevan Florial (if he's healed.) We'd sit back and hope somebody beats Boston. We'd retire Cooperstown Cashman - maybe bump him to a position where he can't cause trouble - and start looking at 2020. 

Yes, it's way too early to be having suicidal thoughts...

But what if this decade simply cannot be saved? We need a good week. Damn. We just need a good week.

I don't know much about Jake Barrett, but at least I learned a new expression

I heard a rumor that the Yankees signed Jake Barrett off waivers.

I Googled his name and looked up his stats on Baseball-Reference.com.  As I happily contemplated the 5.14 ERA he put up in 2018, I continued looking at the comments in the MLB Trade Rumors article.  I was hoping for insights concerning his time with the Pirates.  One of the comments was priceless:

hoopd946

1 hour ago

I went to junior high with Jake Barrett. Everyone made fun of him because he would have huge sweat tacos under his armpits before 1st period even started. Lol. Now he throws 95 so who got the last laugh there

Sweat tacos?   That's a keeper.  

Go Jake, go.

Walk Like an Egyptian

I called the guy at the warehouse today, told him to get those 35,000 ancient Egyptian headdresses out of mothballs and up to the Stadium, pronto.

I also renewed my exclusive rights to Steve Martin's "King Tut" and the Bangles' "Walk Like an Egyptian" videos.

Thairo the Pharaoh is coming!

Seriously, I mean, the guy got shot, and now he's playing for the Yankees.

How great is that?

We've never had a player who got shot before.  Except for that time in 1925, of course, when Babe Ruth took a double shotgun blast from Ty Cobb, right in the gut.

The Babe played both ends of a doubleheader the next day, and knocked in the winning run in both of them. They knew how to play through the small hurts back then.

A Bad Throw, following a bad play

I made the mistake of watching what was yesterday called, " a rare 4 o'clock start."

The yankees were battling the prospective AL champion Tigers.

In left field, finally, was Clint Frazier.  He is no longer " Red Thunder," nor does he have flowing locks.  Nor does he bring thunder.

He is now just, well, a lousy outfielder.

On two successive plays, he looked like a high school kid trying too hard.  As though he was attempting to impress a young lady who had come to the game with friends ( for the sushi).

On one play, he failed to cut-off a hit to left center that was clearly reachable.  It turned a single into a stand-up double.

The piece de la resistance, however, came with a Tiger on third and one out.  A lazy fly ball to short left field caused Frazier to jog about 20 yards toward the infield  ( if we had a shortstop who could run, he would likely have called for it ).

There was never a chance that the guy on third would tag and try to score.  Most of our grandmothers could make that throw on a fly to to the catcher.

Clint wound himself up like a dervish and unleashed as hard a throw as he had in him.  One expected to hear a " thump" in the catcher's glove, as this bullet came on the fly direct to the target.  This was to be a signature message to the league, that this dude has an arm.

Instead, the ball wound up closer to first base, and bounced off the stadium side walls, missing all the cut-off guys and back-ups.  The runner was so shocked, he remained frozen at third. I think a Yankee finally picked up the still-spinning sphere somewhere near the mound.

 Clint did not get an error.

I have to say this;  he looked like a player I do not want in my outfield.  He has the appearance of  a guy who will bungle anything that gets near him.

He is like a throw-in on a trade that the other team is laughing about.

And he was a player for whom we once had high hopes.

 Sometimes the dream is far better than the reality.

Yanks fall behind their Oriole & Tiger masters in AL Wild Card race

Right now, Texas and Baltimore would play the Wild Card.

Should the Yankees consider a "tank?"

It's deja Boone all over again

Last year, right around now, the Yankiverse was vomiting bile upon its players and management. Here's my rant from April 9, 2018 - reprinted as a reminder that, no matter how rotten we look, the only true April crisis is when you forget the bottle opener because you thought they were twist-offs. So, let's return to those thrilling days of yesteryear. Hi-yo, Silver, away:

Well, it didn't take long, did it? One week, and I've seen enough. I officially hate this team. We can't manufacture a run. We can't hold a lead. We can't go a day without an injury. Boston looms on the deathly hell-red horizon, and it wouldn't surprise me if this team gets swept - no, I prefer it be humiliated, no!, I want this overpaid, swing-and-miss, cancerous excuse for a team to be hijacked to Scranton, NO! Nanticoke, because Scranton is too classy, and I hope they eat bad scrapple, or whatever people eat in Nanticoke, and throw up on the bus and have the driver refuse to pull over so players can breathe fresh air. I hate this team. Juju gods, do your worst! Send the IBS lady! Send John Bolton!

I'm starting to think what last month seemed impossible: 

That Aaron Boone is our Bobby Valentine. 

Remember 2012? The year after Boston fired Terry Francona, because they were eating fried chicken in the dugout and missed the playoffs by collapsing? They installed Bobby V to impose a new clubhouse discipline, and they spent the off-season congratulating themselves for building the super team, the AL East faves. Carl Crawford! Adrian Gonzalez! Jacoby Ellsbury! By July, they were dumping vets in garage sales. Sixty-nine wins. Last in the division. 

Listen: It can happen here.

Don't think otherwise.

Today, the only thing we have going for us is the sheer level of incompetence on display. It's borderline impossible. How can Giancarlo Stanton be THIS horrible? I mean, NOBODY can be THIS bad, right? it's almost superhuman bad. He's already invented a new sombrero - platinum - and done it twice. One more, and he'll have a golden sombrero of platinum sombreros, something that surely no other player in history has attained. He's already been openly dissed by an opposing manager - Buck walked Judge to pitch to him - and it worked. Can we actually be this bad? A week into the season, and our left fielder is Jace Peterson? Seriously? Seriously?

Boston is preparing to crush us, and part of me says, yeah, okay, bring it on! This team may have made the cardinal mistake of believing its press clippings (much of which is generated by team-owned sources.) A rookie manager does such things, and it's no longer a certainty that Aaron Boone will last to the all-star break. 

Everything about the 2018 Yankees was predicated on winning this year, not building down the road. Boone is pooh-poohing the doubts, saying everything is all right, and I suppose he has no other choice, but it can happen here, folks. You think there are safeguards. You think there are protections. You think sanity will win in the end. Think again IT CAN HAPPEN HERE. IT CAN HAPPEN HERE.

Okay, it's the Me of Now again. Somehow, that rant brings comfort. Those rotting, fetid, horrible 2018 Yankees still won 100. We're just a brief winning streak out of first. Take the Luger out of your mouth, and step away from the sink hole. There is no crisis, aside from the manufactured kind that autocrats use to seize power.    

That said, the Me of Now cannot see the 2019 Yankees without noticing glitches in the Matrix. Somehow, our brain trust convinced itself that Gary Sanchez (4 errors in 5 games) would ascend, that Luke Voit is for real, that Giancarlo Stanton can stay healthy and - here's the kicker - that Troy Tulowitzky could last three months at SS. The fans knew otherwise. Somehow, Cooperstown Cashman believed in his own mathematically induced hallucinations. 

He convinced himself of these notions because the owner held a Luger to his head. Hal Steinbrenner doesn't want to pay up, so the Dodgers and Redsocks are once again outspending us. That is not a crisis of April. It's the modern reality.  

Listen: We all know in our hearts that it's too early to panic. The thing that the Me of Now most fears is Cashman suddenly trading baskets of prospects for short-term relief. We don't have Jace Peterson in left. It's Mike Tauchman! And it's not Bobby V in the dugout. It's Aaron B. We have been here before. Put down the Luger.

Congratulations, Hal! You've built a perfect storm of hubris, injuries and self-indulgence

1. Strikeout. Line out. Line out. 
2. Strikeout. Strikeout. Single. Walk. Pop out.
3. Strikeout. Double. Single (run). Strikeout. Walk. Ground out.
4. Strikeout. Strikeout. Pop out.
5. Strikeout. Pop out. Walk. Strikeout. 
6. Error. Strikeout. Strikeout. Single. Strikeout. 
7. Strikeout. Strikeout. Strikeout. 
8. Walk. Strikeout. Strikeout. Caught stealing.
9. Ground out. Strikeout. Ground out.

TaTa Tulo

 I  believe I mentioned that there its more to come.

 Now get ready for the Boone clichés;

 - " no one is going to feel sorry for us..."
 -  " the next man up...."
 - " we still have to play the games.."
-  " that's why we have a farm system"
-  " injuries also create opportunities..."
-  " they ( injuries ) are part of the game."

Thanks, Aaron.

Over to you Brian....

How Not to Score

To follow up on El Duque's post:  the booth geniuses today informed us that the Yankees have set an all-time club record by striking out 47 times in the team's first five games.

At the same time...they lead the AL in OBP.  Yay!

And...they've scored 18 runs, or 3.6 a game.  Cut out the 7 on Opening Day, and they've scored 11 runs in 4 games, or about 3.2 a game.

Oh.

Yanks in 2019: K's, LOB, solo HRs

Waist Deep in the Big Muddy...

Us or Them? Have the Yankees been replaced by Jordan Peele duplicates?

Moviegoers are struggling to analyze Jordan Peele's latest horror movie, "Us," where a standard, stock-issue American family faces terrifying doppelgangers who seek to replace them. Yankee fans should be wary of this film. You'll go home wondering if it's fiction... or a documentary.

One week into 2019 - dear God, only a week? - the Yankees are a fun-house reflection of the team that left Tampa, happily singing show tunes on the bus. Instead of the victories we were all but guaranteed, every game has birthed a new horror unto our fragile psyches. The Loews Broadcast Booth is now represented by the Sloan Kettering Cancer Center. WTF? When the doorbell rings, should we even answer?

Last night, we watched the replacement duplicate of Aroldis Chapman - aka, closer to "the arguably greatest bullpen in history" - melt into a homeless man holding an invisible sign that says: TAKE ME OUT.

All spring, radar guns have questioned Chapman's reduced velocity, which the YES/Sloan Kettering Cancer Center squad last night pooh-poohed as a glitch of early spring. After El Chapo fanned the first Tiger on three pitches, his return to dominance invoked memories of George W. Bush's plans for "shock and awe." Then, right before our eyes, the reservoir drained to reveal bed springs and rusted cars. A 3-2 walk (with the final pitch in the dirt), a double lashed to left (and a terrible cut-off throw by newcomer Mike Tauchman), a hard single up the middle, another single, and when he finally recorded the third out, Chapman was on the verge of being ignominiously replaced by Stephen Tarpley. 

Here's one for the fun house: If he can't hold the Tigers at home, how much confidence should we have in him entering the ninth at Fenway?

On opening day - dear God, it seems a month ago - from his perch in the Cancer Center booth, John Sterling waxed triumphantly about this great Yankee bullpen, Not only would it hold leads, but our dazzling assortment of stars would keep the Yankees in every game. Then, as the Yankees savaged lowly Baltimore, Suzyn added that it just wasn't fair to force a young team like the O's to start the season playing six games against such an invincible, Olympian foe.

And then the duplicates arrived. 

Since that wondrous Day One, the Yankees have found horror movie ways to lose three of four. With the exception of Adam Ottavino, the bullpen has sucked. With the exception of Aaron Judge - (who last night drew his first intentional walk of 2019; in all of last year, he drew only three) - our miserable attack has been reduced to solo HRs and strikeouts. And last night, there was El Chapo, sweating and heaving, glancing to the bullpen like a lost child searching for his parents.

We even had a brand new injury scare, when Luke Voit took a fastball to the wrist. The Yankees say x-rays came back negative. Who knows the truth? Don't be surprised if Voit misses a few games, then goes on the DL. And frankly, the real question isn't whether he's hurt: It's whether he's the guy we thought he was. 

Until further notice, if the doorbell rings, don't answer. It might be the Yankees. Or it might the Sloan Kettering Cancer people. We just don't know.

Games Like This Will Kill the Game

Let's put the devastating injuries aside for a moment. There is a specter haunting baseball, and it was on full display last night, even in the Yankees' nice, tidy—for once, injury-free—win over a nearly anonymous and very bad Detroit team.

Over 32,000 fans came out to see last night's contest in 45-degree weather—so cold, some of the players were wearing partial ski masks.  It was mercifully short (for modern baseball) at two hours and forty-three minutes, and there were some nice plays and a couple home runs, and "only" eight different pitchers.

Nonetheless, the game featured 17 strikeouts and 11 walks, against only 7 hits.

Nor was this an anomaly. In their four games so far this miserable season, our pinstriped heartthrobs have managed only 33 hits, as opposed to 26 walks and 39 whiffs.

2019 is on schedule to become the second season in major-league history to finish with more strikeouts than hits. The first such season was in 2018.

Folks, this can't last. Combined with all the walks, the strikeouts have turned each game into a three-hour-plus game of catch, with a couple of homers thrown in.

What's more, this is not because we're getting to see men like Gibson and Koufax and Marichal—or Mathewson and Walter Johnson and Three-Finger Brown—throw their incredible stuff. Instead, it's an endless parade of 2-3-inning hurlers, many of whom are "unhittable" only because of the terrible approach every batter now seems to take to every at-bat.

I don't know about anyone else here, but this is not the game I signed up for.  The idea that big crowds will continue to show up and watch this crap, night after night, under these conditions and at these prices, is spectacularly misguided.

Speechless

It has already been said.

There will be more injuries.

Turn out the lights.

There is no one to watch.

Judge will walk.

Everyone else will strike out.

And make errors.

We saw the latest band-aid strike out already.

The juju gods have sent the Yankees a rain of doorknobs, and soon we shall have a measure of this team

A week ago, Tyler Wade and Clint Frazier packed their duffel bags, kissed their loved ones goodbye, and deployed to the gun-nut hills of Northern Pennsylvania, likely to never be seen again. Wade's nostrils were shooting smoke colons: In spring training, he'd hit .308 with a homer and four SBs, one below the team lead (by Estevan Florial, currently injured.) The normally precocious Frazier held his tongue; in Tampa, he went 7 for 49. Out of respect, I won't print the average; let's just say, were it a stream, it'd be droplets.

As every Yankee fan knows, one week in New York is a lifetime in Moosic. So today, the murky fate of the 2019 Yankees seemingly hinges on whether Wade and/or Frazier - poster boys of the farm for three years - can deliver in the majors, at least until the cavalry returns. We need a month, maybe three. There is no more "seasoning." The cards have been called. 

Of course, everything depends on whether this rain of Yankee injuries is done. Last night, Aaron Judge heroically snared a sinking liner that had "fractured wrist" written all over it. Let's hope he doesn't show up tonight in a wheelchair. But the great Yankee teams had to face down gonad-tweaking epidemics, and one good thing about these bad things: They came early rather than late, when nothing can be done beyond trading for Lance Lynn.

Rather than condemn the juju gods as an attempted deep state coup, financed by George Soros and big-spending Boston, let's analyze the situation in our usual, insightful, empirical, purely scientific (and yet artistic) manner: 

The worst-case scenario.

Giancarlo Stanton (strained bicep): They say he'll miss 10 days. But nobody believes them. On injuries, the Yankees' truth-telling record falls a notch below Alex Jones, and Stanton's demons in Miami were too many visits to the DL. Of course, the real concern is that he returns too soon. This spring's happy YES narrative had Stanton - the renowned student of the game - poised for a huge year, now that he'd seen AL pitching. It stood to reason that, at 29, he has at least one monster season left, and that it will come soon. A nagging injury threatens his 2019. Let's figure he's out three weeks, until it's warm at night in NYC.

Aaron Hicks (bad back): He was supposed to miss a weekend. He's now had more epidurals than my wife did over three childbirths, and - unlike her - he hasn't yet resumed "baseball activities." Again, we're talking about a guy who has yet to see a year without DL time. Worst case scenario: We have no CF until mid-May or June, and even then, his batting average drops 20 points (which would put him at .228.) This is scary. Get used to Mike Tauchman. And it's nice how YES flashes his average last year at Triple A (.323), and not at Colorado (.094).

Miguel Andujar (torn labium): Dear Juju Gods, what did we do to piss you off? This is a soul-crusher. The team will wait on surgery because - hey, why not? Once he goes under the knife, he's working on spring training 2020. Cashman will look for a scrapheap 3B, and wherever he is, Chase Headley is running wind sprints around his swimming pool. If Miggy is gone for the year, Plan B is LeMahieu or Torres at 3B, with Tulo more critical than ever as a stopgap until Didi returns. Wow. One week into the season, and we're betting on a 35-year-old SS coming off two heel surgeries - until June, maybe July. Bright side? We no longer have to worry about Andujar's footwork.

But there is this: We'll soon have a bead on this team. The 1961 Yankees needed Hector Lopez, Johnny Blanchard and a kid named Tresh. The 1998 Yankees relied on Tim Raines, Luis Sojo and a guy named Girardi. If this team is destined for anything more than the AL East bronze medal, we will need bodies off the bench. Wade and Frazier have been saved from the haunted mines of Tunkhannock and Luzerne. It's up to them now. We need three months.

June, 1876. Somewhere in the Greasy Grass

Col. Cashman gazed out at the enormous Indian encampment through his binoculars, and smiled.

"We've got them right where we want them!" he exulted to the reporter from the Fargo Manifest Destiny, who hastened to scribble down his every word.  "Now is the time to ATTACK!"

"Uh, colonel, sir, can we talk to you for a minute?"

The two 7th Cavalry captains stood in front of the colonel, hats in hand and a sickly expression on their faces.

"What? Who are you men? How DARE you interrupt me when I am explaining my MASTER PLAN to these gentlemen of the press?!"

"Um, sir, I'm Cap'n Duque an' this here is Cap'n Alphonso, as you may recall. I mean, you only have about 700 men, all told—"

"I know that! Who the hell is saying I don't know that!" The colonel gave a little, forced laugh then, and grinned at the correspondent from the Bismarck White Man's Burden, who grinned ingratiatingly back through his brown and rotting teeth.

"I was only testing you men! 'Duque,' you say," he repeated suspiciously. "What kind of name is that, anyway? Say, you're not MEXICAN by any chance, are you?"

"Um, no sir. Anyway, uh, Cap'n Alphonso an' me, we was thinkin' it might just be a good idea to put off the attack for a little while, colonel sir."

"WHAT? Why, that smacks of rank cowardice, captain! An immediate, full frontal attack is clearly what's called for!"

"Yessir. It's just, you see, sir, some of us officers was thinkin' it might be better if we waited until Cap'n Machado an' Cap'n Harper brought their companies up from the last butte, sir."

Duque regarded the distant Indian encampment uneasily for a moment.

"You see, sir, there's a awful lot of Sioux down there. And they got Comanche, too, sir. An' we're awfully shorthanded without them two fellas—"

"Then all the more glorious will be our victory, captain!" the colonel shouted, winking at Klapisch, the Indian beat reporter from the Chicago Imperialist. "Machado is just another damned Mexican and Harper does not wear a regulation beard! How do you possibly expect such men to help you—when we have SIX sterling companies at full strength?"

"Yes, well, about that, colonel," Capt. Duque said reluctantly scuffling at the ground. "You see, Cap'n Stanton's company all come down with foot-'n-mouth disease about fifty miles back, an' nobody's seen Cap'n Severino's company after they took that wrong turn the day before yesterday, and Cap'n Toonces an' his men fell off that bluff this morning. An'-an'—"

"C'mon, spit it out, man!  You know you can say ANYTHING to me, as your loving and caring commander!"

"An', well, sir, it's just that Cap'n AndOOjar ain't a lookin' so good since lunch."

At that moment, Capt. AndOOjar trotted up on his horse, looking white as a sheet.

"Well, man? What's the matter with you?" roared Col. Cashman.  "Speak up!"

At that moment, Capt. AndOOjar said nothing but toppled abruptly face-first from his saddle. A brace of arrows could be seen sticking out of his back. There was an embarrassed silence.

"So it will be TWO companies!" Col. Cashman bellowed. "That should be plenty!"

He turned to wagon full of reporters:  "Why, we're just like a—like a—fully loaded Gatling gun! Yes, tell your readers that, gentlemen!"

He turned back to the two captains.

"Where are our Pawnee scouts, captains?"

"They're doing their traditional death dance, sir."

"Very good!  And all the men have their carbines at the ready?"

"Um, except most of 'em keep jammin', an' there ain't but three rounds a man left."

"Splendid!"

Colonel Cashman swung up onto his horse, shaking his head so the reporters could all get a good look at the long blonde locks beneath his hat. He shook his head a little too hard, though, and the hat and its attached wig flew off, bringing some titters from the press wagon.

"Have the band strike up something rousing!" he ordered, trying to ignore the fallen whig.

"Sir?"

"You know!  Like that song that wonderful British cavalry troop used to play—what were they called again? Oh, yes! The Light Brigade! Play that "Garryowen" song they loved so much!"

"Um, yessir."

The band began to play.

"Oh, this will be glorious, glorious!" Col. Cashman exclaimed as he started the 7th Cavalry forward, the men moving very, very slowly. "Captains, to your battle positions!"

"Yessir."

They both saluted, Capt. Alphonso emitting a long arc of brown tobacco juice that nearly landed on the colonel's horse as he did.

Col. Cashman frowned, but then looked over to the press wagon again.

"A fully loaded Gatling gun! That is a good one, even if I say so myself!" He looked puzzled for a moment, then looked back at Capt. Duque. "I say, captain, do we have a Gatling gun?"

"Um, no sir."

"Right, well, no matter. On to victory!"

Ahead of the regiment, the horizon suddenly filled with screaming, whooping Sioux and Comanche warriors in their war paint, riding and running straight at them.

"I say, Duque, are those...Indians?"

"Yessir."

"Marvelous! A negotiating party!"

Sweet Jesus, We're Done

It's always the marginal guys like this.

Remember the great Ken Huckaby?  The backup catcher starting for Toronto on Opening Day, 2003? The guy who separated Derek Jeter's shoulder and put him out for a month by sliding into third base on the Blue Jay's wretched carpet, trying to make a tag?

It was reckless and foolish play, made by 32-year-old journeyman trying desperately to hang on to a major-league spot.  He tore up Derek, and then incensed the Captain by claiming afterwards that he had called Jetes to try to check on him.

Jeter was angry because he knew full well that Huckaby didn't have his phone number (at the time, only Mariah Carey and his Mom did), and it understandably pissed him off that this clumsy busher had not only got him hurt, but then lied to the press about calling him.

This is the sort of pride and desire the writers always claim to want to see—Jeter really wanted to play!—but of course they made Derek out to be the bully.  Various wankers at the Times like Harvey Araton followed up on the story for years, asking Huckaby whenever they saw him if he had got that apology from Jeter yet.

Apology for what, exactly?

Of course, the injury didn't really hurt the Yankees all that much in 2003 because Jeter got back on a ballfield as soon as it was humanly possible, to hit .324 for the rest of the season and .314 for the playoffs.  The Yankees made it to the World Series because the team was still run by George Steinbrenner, and still had enough guys left over from the Gene Michael Dynasty and so had built in every redundancy it could—most notably seven, count 'em seven, starting pitchers.

This weekend it was, once again, a journeyman, fill-in catcher on a bad team who did the damage.  One Pedro Severino, backing up the Orioles' other back-up, Jesus Sucré.

This time, though, it was on a legitimate play, a smart one even:  a snap throw to third that nearly caught El Matador napping there, with two outs and the bases loaded.

It was typical of how the Orioles' marginal, Double-A level players bedeviled the Yanks all weekend. Especially their other catcher, Sweet Jesus his own self, who seemed to get about 35 key hits on Saturday.

They were just playing the game the way it should be played, unlike the Yankees, who not only don't like paying so much attention but couldn't even field a third-base coach capable of shouting things like, "Hey, stay alert now!" or "Hey, get back to the bag, this guy's quick!"

And the result is...the worst injury of this awful, injury-wrecked 2019, one that will set our best natural hitter back at least a year and who knows how much more in his development.

It's a crying shame, but the biggest shame is that the talented young people on this team don't even have the protection of the adults who are supposed to have their backs.

Andujar injured?... no, NO, NOOOO, TURN IT OFF! TURN IT OFFFFF!

Calling Lloyds of London

This is the swing and miss that brought down Giancarlo the great :



Note the white spheroid that has passed him by.

The tying runs were on base.

He gets paid to hit home runs.

He never hits them when it matters.

Declare him " damaged" and let Lloyds pick up the tab.

Have him vacation with Jacoby.

We can lose without him.

Giancarlo Pipp?

Giancarlo Stanton has a bad wing, and Clint Frazier is now a Yankee. 

Please, Yankees... give Red Thunder the protection he needs.

Wait ! What?

There are indications on this blog that Stanton is injured.

Is that true?

How do you get injured by striking out?

If this is true, I am opening the Gentleman Jack today, early.

I would be happy to see him disappear like Jacoby.

We have a better chance with the 28 year-old misfit.

Playing With Jeter

It seems I already have to correct my jeering post regarding Cashman's infamous boast that the Yankees had six star outfielders and thus did not need to sign Bryce Harper.

Stanton's injury means that now not two but THREE of the Magnificent Six are on the DL, indefinitely, with major hurts.

During yesterday's interminable rain delay, the Yanks' pregame guys were going on and on—without naming any names—about how foolish the Miami Marlins were in trading all these players.

This seems to have become the latest charm offensive from Snake Cashman, as already seen in the Klapsich Report.  That is, an oily, revisionist takedown on Derek Jeter for being an overrated prima donna of a player, turned fool of a general manager whose pockets Coops and others have been gleefully picking.

The usual hired panderers who do this franchise no good have all rushed on board, glad to protect their paychecks by spewing the usual Cashy line.

But of course as any Romanian peasant can tell you, he who sups with Derek Jeter had better have a long spoon.

Here's a little reality check for Mr. Cashman and his hired minions:  which man followed up a Hall of Fame career by marrying a gorgeous supermodel and moving into a Florida mansion?  Which one rappels down buildings dressed as an elf, fighting off a mistress/stalker in court and still having to rely on paid flunkies to state his case?

The Jetes-Coops showdown it now seems likely we'll see played out for years to come is like Muhammad Ali vs Chuck Wepner.  I don't know about you, but my money is not on the Bayonne Bleeder.

Of course, the 2019 season is now set up perfectly for Cashman.

This is our GM's only real talent, making excuses to his bosses and the press corps, and the Yanks' injuries have already given him everything that he needs. If the year goes south, well, what did you expect?

A somewhat less bribed observer might note that injuries are ALWAYS a part of the game, and that the way to deal with them is to get ahead of them, and build in redundancy. But that would upset the only man Cash has to answer to, Zieg Hal, who is way too busy making sure the fans don't get to sneak off with a rain check after choking down Rodentia Dogs for three hours to be bothered with more socialist ideas about spending "his" money.

So it goes. Me, I just want to see what official press release Coops puts out there the day after we all witness Derek Jeter lifting high the World Series trophy.

Don't Let this Truth Slip By......

I started sipping Gentleman Jack about two minutes after the game was meant to begin.

As I saw the words, " Rain Delay" appear on the monitor, I switched over to watch March Madness.

I returned to the baseball after I had posted something on IIH to do with a rainout being our only salvation.  I then noticed that a Yankee game was on tv, although it could have been one of
those " classic replays," of the most embarrassing yankee losses in history.

The sipping continued.

 I did realize the game was " live" when the Yankees were down three runs, had two runners on base, two outs, and Stanton at bat.  Needless to say, I made a 2018 prediction:  " Stanton will strike out here."  And he did.

To my eyes, it was not even a competitive strike out.

Later in the game, we were still down by three runs and it was, suddenly,  "Groundhog Day. " I was still sipping the Gentleman Jack, and Stanton was again at bat, with two out and two runners on base.  I predicted he would strike out.

Only the fates intervened.  He walked.

 But if any of you were still watching, that pitch ( called ball four by the ump) was clearly dead on the inside corner for strike three.  Not even borderline. The TV people even replayed it twice, making the case for automation of the home plate umpire's role.

Stanton escaped back-to-back failures with the game on the line.  He gets paid how many million to look like a poor player on a weak high school team?

Man, was I born at the wrong time!

The truth is: Stanton is a useless piece of ...( fill in your own description )....who will help the Yankees only in meaningless situations.  Mark it down.

He is a symbol of failure.

Worse than our policy in Yemen.

Out of the blocks, the Yankees look old, over-valued and poorly managed

Thus far, the 2019 season's most entertaining Yankee addition is the TV commercial where Aaron Boone tells the slimy Ameritrade therapist how to manage: Move your fingers around, act like you've done it before. I've seen it three times, each drawing a laugh. (Note: After the 50th, I may feel differently.) 

It shows Boone safe and secure in his well-feathered nest as Yankee manager - a concept that might not always apply. For the last four months, the Yankees have been hyped like a team of Olympian gods. But this weekend they played like circus dwarfs in prison pinstripes. If the clunkiness continues, it's only a matter of time before folks start questioning what Boone knows about managing, beyond fluttering his nubile fingers. 

Listen: Three games into a season, there's no point in shrieking about losses, unless you're attempting satire. The greatest Yankee teams in our lives - 1961, 1998, etc. - stumbled in April, and here's the reality of an opening weekend that pits rookie nobodies against veteran stars: The team that wants it more will win.

This weekend, let's face it: Baltimore wanted it more.

For that, I blame Boone. This weekend, his Yankees never attempted a stolen base. They never laid down a bunt. (Gardy tried once and failed.) They grounded into four DPs - a few that were soul-crushers. They made four errors, two by Gary Sanchez, who luxuriated throughout spring training in a hot bath of Boone's liquid admiration. And the greatest bullpen ever? It belonged in Trenton.  

Sunday evening, as it became clear that the mighty Yankees were going to lose the weekend, the YES Excuse SWAT Team turned to Aaron Judge's pre-game statement that the team faced a sense of urgency. Instead of pooh-poohing it, as they did in the early innings, they shifted to analytics: This was a strange thing for Judge - or anyone - to say so early in a season. Then they broke to the commercial where Boone celebrates his financial security in the exciting world of day-trades. 

Look: The Yankees are not in trouble. The season is not on the brink. Boone's job is not in jeopardy. Gary Sanchez is not finished, and Giancarlo Stanton will surely someday stop striking out in key situations. Who knows? Maybe everything will change tonight against lowly Detroit, another traveling tomato can that was meant to launch our season. 

But no matter what happens, the Yankees just squandered an opportunity to lead Boston by three games. They had the home field advantage and the worst team in baseball, while Boston had to start on the West Coast. We won't get those games back. We just lost two out of three, while the man in the dugout flapped his fingers, and nothing more.