Is Jasson Dominiquez going down the Jesus Montero hole?

Latest sign of the Yankpocalypse: 

Jasson Dominiquez - the sleek, Olympian, 18-year-old centerfielder who was supposed to lead us from this Stygian darkness - may be eating too many French fries. This weekend, FanGraphs - one of the more credible sites for prospect analysis, support them here - dropped him from 1st (last year) to 4th among Yankee prospects, with this explanatory nugget:

... [H]e’s put on somewhere in the neighborhood of 30-plus pounds in the last 24 months, not all of which is muscle... 

Yikes. They could say the same for me. Wasn't an addiction to the ice cream sandwich the long ago kryptonite of Jesus (H.) Montero, the Dominiquez of another era? When you sign a 16-year-old, it's like bringing home a puppy from the pound: You don't quite know how big it'll grow. 

Lately, Dominiquez has generated a lot of ether, on the heels of: 

1. A relatively disappointing debut season in low-single A.

2. A pile of kind words about him by the groundbreaking minor league manager, Rachel B. 

3. The signing of a replacement future team hype-generator, Broderick Arias, a 17-year-old SS with similar post-puberty press clippings. 

I don't mean to belittle Dominiquez. He is what he is. It's worth noting that the Yankees constantly praise his character and work ethic and - even if right now he is snarfing down Happy Meals like Lucille Ball devouring chocolates on a demented assembly line - we must believe that he'll push harder on the Peloton later. We should worry less about his weight than his swing-and-miss ratio. 

Insert sigh here.

This is what happens when MLB shuts down, leaving fan sites to scavenge for tidbits of detritus.  

Oh, well, after 19 weeks, the NFL is finally down to eight teams, none of which are owned by Jerry Jones. And you know what? Watching those final seconds tick down last night, I almost felt sorry for the bum. It was the sports equivalent of waterboarding. Bravo, juju gods! 

With apologies to Louie Armstrong...

Maintaining the day's musical lane... 

I see Cowboy fans
Of silver and blue,
I see them crying,
Their season's through,
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world...

I see Dallas players,
Both white and black,
They roll their eyes, yell,

WHAT THE FUCK, DAK?

And I think to myself,
What a wonderful world...

 

Another playoff loss,
So pretty in the light
Everyone in Texas...
A Giants fan tonight.

And old Jerry Jones yells,
"The clock still says one!"
But it doesn't really matter
Cause his season's all done.

I hear the sports books cry,

Their hearts full of dread,
Cause "America's team"
Couldn't cover the spread, 
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world.

I Signed At Seventeen

(With apologies to Frank Sinatra)

When I was seventeen…

I had a very good year.
I had a very good year. I hit .315
Got four mil from the Yanks.
And Jesus I thanked…
Montero, I mean.
I signed at seventeen...

When I was twenty-one...

It was a pretty good year.
It was a pretty good year. 
Crushed 32 Blasts and made AA
I’ll make the majors some day
Though it hurts when I run.
When I was twenty-one.

When I was twenty-five...

I once had much better years.
They found a hole in my swing. I’m all out of springs.
Go to Arby’s for meals.
And I am an add on in deals.
I knew I'd never arrive 

When I was twenty-five.

And now the days are short...

I’m in the autumn of my career.
But for work… baseball I played
And at least once was paid
So I can’t shed a tear
At least I had a career.

My whole life filled with green...

I signed at seventeen.

  

In Roderick Arias, the Yankees just signed the last of their future top-ranked international prospects

For better or worse, in recent years, the Yankees have played a strategy of outbidding everyone for the top Latino free agent teenager on the international market, searching for the next future star. Two years ago, it was CF Jasson Dominiquez, whose great looming achievement will be to soon turn 19. 

This weekend, they landed Roderick Arias. 

You can read a boatload of hype about Arias, a switch-hitting human YouTube channel, who plays SS. He checks all the boxes - speed, arm, power, bat, figure, legs, voice, singer-songwriter, etc. - at age 17. Of course, in the words of Janis Ian, "I learned the truth at seventeen, That love was meant for beauty queens, And high school girls with clear skinned smiles, Who married young and then retired."  Can anybody say Jesus "Ice Cream Sandwich" Montero?

Immediately, Arias will ascend to a high slot in the Yankiverse, ranked on the prospect Top 10 list - maybe the Top 5, depending on how much the hype machine consumes its own bullshit. Let's wish him luck. The Yankees invested $4 million in him. Let's hope the strategy works.

This will almost surely be the last time to play it. Next year, as part of the new Players Union agreement, MLB will probably set up an international draft. The owners hate bidding wars on 17-year-olds, and the players would prefer the money go their way. So a draft - which continues to lessen the financial advantages of big market franchises - will likely happen.

Unless they tank, the Yankees next year will sign the 15th or 16th top Latino teenager.  

It's worth noting that Hal Steinbrenner is one of the architects of these changes. In November, Hal voted to lower the MLB luxury tax threshold, which he has used as an excuse to spend less money. Thus, Hal voted to lessen his team's fiscal advantage. It's all about money; never forget that. 

The Yankees will pitch overboard tradition, fans, and the city that supports them - if the team can make more money. Those 27 world championships are becoming as about as relevant as the Boston Celtics' dynasty of the 1960s. But who knows, maybe Roderick Arias will be the savior that Jesus couldn't be. We learn the truths at seventeen... 

And now, your moment of bliss

 

Before there was The Master there was...The Scooter.

Phil Rizzuto, on why he did not sign one of the big contracts the Pasquel Brothers were passing out in 1946, as part of their effort to turn the Mexican League into a third major league:

"It was a time when you couldn't get butter, your couldn't get stockings, you couldn't get a girdle.  Not that Cora needed a girdle."

By scheduling a game on a winter night in Buffalo, the NFL declares war on its most loyal fans

Twice, I've attended games of the ill-fated-but-earnest Buffalo Bills football team, the truest sports analogy for upstate New York. Both were afternoon games in December. I wore heavy coats, thermal boots and long underwear. Both times, I froze my ass - I mean - shivering, shaking, taking refuge in the piss-heated restrooms. I don't remember the games at all. I just remember the cold.  

In Bills games, there are moments when you might think the crowd is doing The Wave. A spontaneous roar shakes the stadium, untethered to the game. It is the collective shrieks of people reacting to a gust of wind, which whips across the field and freezes the beer in your bladder. People scream, literally, in pain. 

Then, if you're from Syracuse - and I know many who make the pilgrimage - comes a two-hour ride home on the NY State Thruway, the worst place on earth to be caught in a snowstorm. I've been there. There is no whiteout quite like a whiteout at night. A while back, I was an embedded reporter with the 10th Mountain Division during the war in Iraq. The guys in the 171 Cavalry would ask if I was scared. I always gave the same answer: No, I've been on the NY State Thruway during a blizzard, and this is nothing. They thought I was joking. Honestly, I wasn't...   

Tonight, upstate New York will watch the Bills play the hated - no, make that "despised" - New England Patriots, who once defined "cheating," at least before the Houston Astros entered the chat. The TV networks will regale us with shots of coatless young men with painted bellies - why paint your belly if you don't plan to take off your coat? - mugging for the lens. Just point the camera, and the fans will comply. It's a proud tradition.

Tonight, by the 8:15 kickoff, the temperature at Highmark Stadium will hit the single digits. By halftime, the wind-chill factor will plummet well into the minus-teens.  It will fall all night. The players will use on-field heaters. The fans will have nothing. 

And I must break from our regular Yankee discourse to ask one question:

How the fuck can the NFL do this to its fans?

What kind of rancidly evil corporation not only forces employees to work in dangerous conditions but - worse - threatens the health of its most loyal customers? 

The saddest part of this is that today will be a glorious winter afternoon across upstate New York - sunny, a slight wind, and, yes, brutally cold. Still, a great day for football.

Why in hell do they subject fans to a night game? 

Of course, we all know why: Ratings, advertising, TV money. It's fun to watch the spectacle of people freezing.

But if anybody suffers hypothermia, or frostbite, or worse, I hope they - or their families - sue the living hell out of the NFL. 

Stone Free

I’m talking kidney stones not the Jimmy Hendrix song. (Although he would be seventy-nine if he were still alive, so maybe he would do a new version. “Stone Free I’m off of my knees. Stone Free. I finally peed.” Then again, he probably would have overdosed on the acetaminophen. Lord knows I tried.

Spent the last few days in and out of emergency rooms as what was described as, “A smallish kidney stone” taught me the meaning of the word pain.

Speaking of pain…

1) Jasson Dominiquez and Roderick Arias

El Duque points out that the Yankees are about to spend several million dollars on, “One 17-year-old shortstop named Roderick Arias, which - if you're scoring at home - would make him "the next Jasson Dominiquez." Who according to a headline he posted “The Yankees still have faith in”

The Yankees STILL have FAITH in!  Like how Gettleman had faith the Giant offensive line? Like how the Knicks believe Fournier’s defense will come around? He hasn’t even played for a full year yet! 

Glad they haven’t given up on him. Is he still The Martian or is he now The Venusian?  I guess as long as he's not from Uranus we're still ok. 

That said, Hoss mentioned how ballplayers in the past, specifically Joe D. were already well on the way to actual accomplishments on the field by the time they were 19. Now they take a kid with “strong measurables” give him more money than the town he grew up in, wrap him in bubble wrap, and have him play a handful of games at a low level and when he proves to be, just ok “at this stage of his development”, still have faith in him? Nice to know.

“And so, castles made of sand melts into the sea… eventually.”

2) Seiya Suzuki 

Rumor has it that he will sign with the Red Sox. I know, it’s only a rumor but if they sign him, he will become my Yoan Moncada.  Suzuki is 27 years old. Strong defender. Great arm. Hits for average and power. Not outrageously expensive (That the money matters go to show how beaten down I am by the Yankee front office) and is a long-term solution to Left Field. He’s going to be a fucking Red Sock? As El Duque says, “Slowly I turn.”  

Or, as Jimi would say, “Hey (Doug) Where you going with that gun in your hand?”

3) The NY Giants v. The NY Yankees v. Me

Forget Super Bowls. The Giants went a whole season without scoring a single point in the last two minutes of the first half. I’m not going to list all of their failures, but their current version may be the worst football team I have ever seen

However, while the Maras and the Tisches have done a really crappy job for the last ten plus years, and I have little faith that they will get this next hire right, at least they are trying. They saw a coach that wasn’t going to get it done. They understood that the GM was worthless and, after considerable pressure from fans and the media, they dumped them both.

The Yankees didn't do either. I get it. They are in a much better position in that they did not bottom out. But, they will never bottom out and that’s the problem.  I’ve pretty much had it with them and I’m telling you all, Seiya Suzuki thing could be the last straw for me.

Maybe I’m just beaten up from the last few days but as much as I love to watch sports, love the non-contrived entertainment of it, love the story lines, (And how about that Georgia win over Alabama? The raw emotion at the end of the game says it all.) life is too short to spend it watching the institutionalized mediocrity that is the NY Yankees.

Or. to wrap it up in the words of the immortal (and yet dead anyway) Jimi Hendrix…

"I think we better wait till tomorrow," no, I can't wait that long.”

With the international signing window opening this weekend, the Yankees are supposedly looking for - get this - "the next Jasson Dominiquez."

According to the Internet, the Yankees have $5.1 million to spend this winter on strapping, international teen beefcakes. And as early as this weekend, they might drop the entire flaming wad on one 17-year-old shortstop named Roderick Arias, which - if you're scoring at home - would make him "the next Jasson Dominiquez."

Strange times, eh?

I mean, seriously... is this a sunspot year? Is humanity on Double-Secret Probation?  Every day, another boomer icon passes - (Betty, Madden, Saget and now Ronnie Spector?)  Machine Gun Kelly is marrying Meghan Fox.  (What does he see in her?) And, get this: Cannabis might deter Covid. 

And the Yankees are seeking "the next Jasson Dominiquez."

At this point, I'm reminded of the great Professor Irwin Corey's longstanding view on nuclear bombs: We shouldn't make more until we use the ones we've got. 

Same with Dominiquez, who - if you follow this blog - is slowly morphing into a sign of the apocalypse. Three years ago, the Yankees signed him for $5.1 million - a number starkly familiar? A switch-hitting CF, he was compared to Mickey Mantle and Mike Trout, and instantly became The Great Yankee Hope - a fantastical being within franchise mythology... the future savior who would lead this decrepit organization from the foggy thicket of its own hubris. 

Last year, in the rookie dirt leagues, over 206 at bats, Dominiquez hit .252 with 5 HRs. 

IT IS HIGH readers might say, Meh! But Yankee scouts - with presumably a lot more invested in him - say they couldn't be happier! He's a joy. He's a king. He's the Future. And he'll turn 19 in February.

By then, he might also be replaced. The Yanks are supposedly all-in on Arias, who is ranked - (they rank everything) - the No. 1 International prospect on the market. Arias is a 6'1", 180-pound switch-hitting SS, and while we shouldn't count on him signing until the ink is dry, sometimes, it seems these kids have been bought and paid-for long in advance of the signing portal... but that's another story, one that maybe Merrick Garland should someday ponder?

So, let's say the Yankees sign Arias this weekend. Remember that scene in The Lion King?  Instantly, the Yankiverse will celebrate a budding new top prospect. He might even displace Dominiquez as the current No. 2, behind the ascendant Anthony Volpe. And we will have another name to watch.

But, damn... It's hard to be the next Mickey Mantle or Mike Trout. It's got to be a lot easier to be the next Jasson Dominquez.

By the way, the Yankees have been doing this now for years. In 2014, they made a celebrated splash into the foreign market, dropping tens of millions on kids who are still bobbing through the system, though now in other organizations. One remaining prospect from that class is Estavan Florial, who still strikes out too much to garner much hope as the future CF. And somehow, Wander Franco got away...

If the Yankees shoot their wad on "the next Jasson Dominiquez,"  maybe Dominiquez will become "the former Roderick Arias." The wheel just keeps turning, eh?

With nothing happening, the Yankiverse becomes a self-congratulatory limbo of happy talk and hype

You've heard about the empty grocery shelves across America, right? Well, the giant Yankee news machine is entering Day 42 without toilet paper, leaving a hungry army of Gammonites gasping and grasping for whatever newsprint they can find. 

They probably face another month before baseball's owners and players launch good faith negotiations. Another month of covering nothingness. 

God help us. If you think the harpies of hype are scrambling now, imagine what it will be like when the big news is Luke Voit, floating down Salina Street in the Syracuse St. Patty's Day Parade. 

Today - when we should be rage-debating the latest acquisition - two rather esoteric non-topics are dominating the Yankiverse.

1. Rachel Balkovec, the first woman manager in history, whom the Yankees signed last week to run their low single A team in Tampa. Yesterday, she did a Zoom call with about 100 Gammonites, who later crafted about 100 anecdotal leads that opened about 100 20-inch stories about progress in America. If you're scoring at home, that's 2,000 column inches, or 167 feet, which - fun fact! - is the height of Niagara Falls. In other words, yeah, they pile shit that high.

Okay, put down the candlestick, I get it: This is an important story. Another barrier smashed, another ceiling broken, a small step for a man, a giant leap for  ma-WHOOPS, sorry bout dat. But at the end of the day, can anyone can tell me the names of other managers in the Yankee system? And how many of you - be honest now - responded to the first news story by asking yourself that awful, horrible  question: What does she look like?

I suspect Balkovec will do a fine job. And the Yankees? For they're a jolly-good fellow, which nobody can deny... Still, measuring success in a developmental league -where front offices don't care about wins and losses - that's difficult. And let's see how the Gammonites react the first time she's tossed from a game for kicking dirt on an ump. Will she be hysterical? 

In the meantime, all the stories are the same: Great success, trail-blazer, committed manager, reason for hope, etc. And they're not just saying this because they have to. Really. It's not hype. Really. This time, they mean it. Really.   

2. Jasson Dominiquez. Yes, this all-purpose hype machine never ends. Today, two major outlets - the Post and SNY.TV - are running Pavlovian, B-matter stories on the Yankees' prized youth, who turns 19 next month. Tick, tick, tick...

Every Jasson story goes this way: He's really, really young, which is why his numbers didn't pop last year. So, for the record, they're not looking for big numbers, in case they don't pop this year. What's important is his long-term dedication to the job. 

Right now, while you are reading this senseless claptrap with an everything-bagel half-submerged into a pint of green Schlitz, Jasson is practicing his hook slide, or learning English. They can't write enough good things about him. Really. And that's not hype. No, sir. They really mean it. Really. Those other phenoms, forget them. This time, no joke.

Another month? It's going to be a long winter.

Watch out Buffalo and Rochester: Syracuse is on the move to claim its GOLDEN SNOWBALL

Updated standings in the battle between Upstate's megacities to be crowned Snow Town. Thanks to Goldensnowball.com 

 

Lockout or not, the Yankee hype machine is pumping around the clock; will we drown in ether?

Yesterday - while spanning the globe to bring you the constant variety of sports, the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat! - I happened to read that if Anthony Volpe has a big season, he could become MLB's No. 1 ranked prospect! 

This rattled me. 

I called for a mental booth review. I pondered that wondrous word: "if..." and then its brother... "could..." and then the kicker: "ranked prospect. " I waited 10 minutes. Then came the decision: Upon further review, the call stands. 

Mark my words: If Anthony Volpe has a great season, he could indeed achieve that fabled, lofty, august summit of ballyhooed hoopla. A top-ranked prospect!

So... you're wondering if there is a reason for this parlor game, of killing time by torturing each individual second?

Well, I just want to note that, lockout or not, the Yankee bullshit pipeline is still pumping, 24-7.  And if Anthony Volpe - or Jasson Dominiquez, or Dopey Dildox for that matter - has an incredible season, yes, the Yankees will climb a mountain of ether. And before we drench the manager in Gatorade, let's think... 

Here are the Top 10 Yankee prospects of 2016 from John Sickels, MILB.com's wanker - I mean RANKER! I choose 2016 not to cherry pick, but because by now, we pretty much know the fates of these burgeoning stars. 

1. Gary Sanchez.
2. Jorge Mateo
3. Aaron Judge
4. James Kaprielian
5. Domingo Acevedo
6. Rob Refsnyder
7. Wilkerman Garcia
8. Dustin Fowler
9. Kyle Holder
10. Ian Clarkin

Wow. An epic list! Each of these fellows could inspire a Shakespearian tragedy, or at least a Sam Raimi trilogy. I mean, Brigadoon Refsnyder! And Dustin Fowler! whose mangled debut made Joe Girardi weep in the dugout. We still wonder Kaprielian's fate. And Aaron Judge! And Gary... oh, Gary...

Listen: I consider myself a prospect hugger. No apologies about it, either. And my reason is ironclad: 

I don't want another 2009. I want another 1996. 

Sure, a world championship would be nice - I mean, it's been 11 fucking years. But I want the Yankees to build a team that wins two or three rings, the kind of dynasty that their history demands. That's what separates the Yankees from - well - the world champion Braves.

And that's why these prospects - like it or not - are the most important players on the 2022 Yankee roster. And this winter, they need one thing from us.

Space. 

Last year, Volpe vaulted from of nowhere to become a long term hope at shortstop. Oswaldo Peraza took another step toward the same. As for Dominquez, he's still so low in the minors that it's almost a joke to pencil him in to a meaningful future. Until he's real, he's Jackson Melian, Dermis Garcia, oh, don't make me go to the list... 

The NY Football Giants just "retired" their general manager after four horrible seasons, much of which resulted from one recurring mistake: Dave Gettleman always acted as if the Giants were one player away from contending. He never built from the ground up. He's now a legitimate NY sports pariah. He'll be remembered that way until the day the Times publishes his obit. Sad.

The Yankees need to rebuild. That means from ground up. One player won't do it. We need an influx of youth. 

And nothing threatens this more than hype.

The prodigal Manny Banuelos, who launched the myth of the "Yankee Pedro," comes home

It was 2011 when Manny Banuelos, then 20, rocketed through our farm system - the first in that line of mythical creatures known as Yankeus Pedromicus. 

The elusive "Yankee Pedro" remains a legendary, fantastical being - a hieracosphinx promoted by the YES machine and nurtured by true believers, a group to which many on this site once belonged.

Long ago, the prophets proclaimed that a diminutive starter would rise from the mucked rotations of Moosic and lead the Yankees back to greatness, or at least a division title. 

This creature would karmically offset the pain and disruption caused by Pedro Martinez, a head-hunting crusher of Yankee dreams in the final days of the Curse.  Like the Great Pumpkin and Godot, this wondrous being was supposed to lead us out of the wilderness, if only we kept up our subscriptions to Baseball America, and believed. 

The first Yankee Pedro was Manny Banuelos, a 5'10" lefty who seemed a miniature mix of Andy and Whitey, and who ranked as our No. 1 prospect on the pig lists. On New Years Day, 2015, when Manny was dealt to Atlanta for David Carpenter and Chasen Shreve, was there anyone here who did not think the Yankees had traded away a future star? But the years weren't kind to Manny. In fact, the franchise probably held on to him too long.

In a world of Betanceses, Aroldises and giant Chad Greens, the notion of a tiny Yankee ace has fortified our fantasies for the last 15 years. For a while, it was Luis Severino - who bore a physical resemblance to Martinez, and even worked out with Pedro - though he clocked in at 6'2". Unfortunately, "Setback Sevy" cannot seem to stay on the field. I supposed we're still hoping for him in 2022, right? He must be, what, 50? 

Last winter, Deivi Garcia - a 5'10" righty - seemed poised to become the Pedro.  Something went wrong. Deivi fell apart in Scranton, couldn't throw strikes, an absolute wipeout year. The closest to a true Yankee Pedro might be Jonathan Loaisiga,  5'11", but he remains a bulwark of the bullpen, not an ace starter. 

Which brings us back to the McConaughey Flat Circle of Time. Yesterday, the Yankees signed Banuelos to a minor league contract. They'll invite him to camp, if there is a camp. He hasn't pitched in two years, though he's surely been throwing on the side. He'll come to Tampa looking less like a Yankee Pedro than a Lucas Luetge, a bullpen situational lefty.  Let's wish him luck. 

Somewhere out there, a Yankee Pedro might now be entering grade school. Will we live long enough to see the prophesies fulfilled? Or are we just chasing Bigfoot? I donno anymore. But it's cold outside, and I'll happily live off the memories, if they get me through this winter.

Did pitiful Giants turnout on Sunday foreshadow the Yankees next September?

 

The parking lots were empty. The upper decks were barren. There weren't even lines to the restrooms.

The Yankees ought to take a hard look at what it's like to become irrelevant. 

Yanks shatter glass ceiling in Low Single A

You've come a long way, Yankees.

Stung from the indignity of losing their new hitting coach to the Mets, the Death Barge this weekend made a bit of history: 

It named 34-year-old Rachel Balkovec, a hitting instructor last year, to manage the Yankees' low single A league team in Tampa. 

She's the first woman to run a minor league affiliate. Last year, Balkovec's work with well-hyped bonus baby Jasson Dominiquez drew praise from colleagues.

Cheers to the Yankees for making this move, though we cannot dismiss the suspicion that it's a diversion - a feelgood moment to distract us from this loathsome lockout, which has now claimed Betty White, Sidney Poitier and Bob Saget. 

Obviously, this hiring seems the stuff of a Disney movie, where the greedy owner secretly seeks to destroy his franchise by hiring a beautiful, ditzy manager who clearly knows nothing about the game. But then her womanly instincts rise to the occasion, and after a series of setbacks, her team of lovable misfits wins the Florida State League pennant! Somebody, quick... get me Reese Witherspoon!  

Fortunately, Balkovec won't be judged by wins and losses - the greedy owner doesn't give a hickey about winning a single A pennant. But here's a thought: Her presence might just a positive impact on some 19- and 20-year-olds, in whom it's probably not a bad idea to instill respect for women.  

 I predict she does a great job, until the Mets steal her.

Imagine

 

Imagine there's no Manfred

It's easy if you try

Imagine no HAL or Cashman

Or that awful Lonn Trost guy...

Deep down inside, there is a small, anarchical part of me that hopes the MLB lockout is never resolved. That it goes on and on, until the entire, rotten structure of the sport we all love falls apart.  

...you may say I'm a dreamer

But I'm not the only fan...

Oh, I don't mean an end to baseball itself, because that will never die. 

I mean an end to "major-league baseball," to "organized baseball" as we have known it. Before it goes on mindlessly destroying any remaining interest in the sport. Before it goes on killing still more of the many things we love and value—the minor leagues, extra innings, municipal budgets, reasonable ticket prices, etc.

I think I can safely say that I am as enthralled as the Yankees' legacy as anyone on this site. I have wasted ridiculous amounts of time in my life reading about it, watching shows about it. Writing about it (and WHAT a waste THAT was, I hear you saying).

But you know, I really wouldn't mind wrapping that legacy up right now, and going on to something else.

All we have to look forward to with your (and my) New York Yankees is years, probably DECADES of one awful Steinbrenner heir after another playing the fascinating game of Salary Cap At All Costs.  

Just picture it.  DECADES of wondering if we can be one of the 12 or 14 or (someday) 20 teams to make the play-in playoff round. 

Oh, the excitement! Be still my heart.  

And then there is the ever-diminishing excitement of the MLB product itself. An endless succession of strikeouts and walks, punctuated by towering home runs celebrated for their "veto." 

A baseball where nobody can pitch more than 3 innings, or do anything but throw hard.  

A baseball where the prices keep rising, while more and more money is extorted from the public till—and the entertainment value keeps dropping.

You know that's the future.

What if it wasn't? What if the MLB lockout is never resolved? 

What if the grand and glorious history of your New York Yankees was enveloped in amber and put away in some sacred place where we can revisit it and honor it from time to time—and then we could all start over? 

Baseball isn't going away. All of those taxpayer-subsidized parks aren't going away. And of course, MLB won't go away. 

But would its presumed, all-scab league actually beat out whatever league the players came up with? Or that our cities, taking over, decided to build?

Picture a future with major-league-quality teams still in the Bronx and Queens—but also in Brooklyn, and maybe Staten Island, in that park the Yankees are trying to dump back on our heads.

Picture teams in every city owned by the people, just as the Green Bay Packers are in football. Picture the minor leagues up and running, everywhere—and who knows if they'd even be called "minor leagues"?

Who is to say? 

My friends, to quote that great New Yorker, Thomas Paine, "We have it in our power to begin the world over again."

Why not seize the moment? 

...Maybe some day you'll join us

And the sport can be fun again...

It's on! Buffalo surges into the lead for THE GOLDEN SNOWBALL

(Not to be confused with the Yellow Snowball, which you don't want to hold.)

The annual race to be upstate NY's snowiest city is underway. 

(BTW, it's sleeting in Syracuse today.)

Dear NYC Tabloid Editors: Please, please, please... Until this MLB lockout ends, boycott baseball on your back pages

Dear Madams and/or Sirs,

In a normal January, your back pages would regularly tout or condemn the latest moves by the Yankees and Mets - vanguards of mediocrity in this hellhole of professional sports. 

Because of greed - (there is no other way to put it) - MLB has cancelled the hot stove winter of 2021-22 and told its fans to eff-off. 

So be it.

Thus far in 2022, you have not devoted a single back page to either the Yankees or Mets. 

Be it policy or happenstance, I applaud your decisions thus far, and I suggest it's time to make a public stance.

I ask you to announce a policy - from the great megaphone of your back pages: 

NO TABOID COVERS FOR THE YANKEES AND METS UNTIL THE LOCKOUT ENDS.

That's right. No screamer headlines. No back page publicity. No free ink.

If you need to rip someone, you have the clown cars of the Jets, Giants and Knicks. 

If you need to rejoice... well, there are Rangers, the Nets and the looming Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition. 

Certainly, you should continue to write about baseball. Just don't grant it the podium of your back page. 

You'll be on the right side of history.

Thank you for your consideration.

Sincerely,

El Duque

At Day 39, the MLB Lockout is now the longest in history; it's time for the tabloids to declare a back page moratorium

We now stand 39 days into the longest lockout in baseball history. (The previous record, 32 days, came in 1990.) Nothing is happening. No talks. No updates. No urgency. Not only are the two sides not talking, they are not talking about not talking. To pick up the phone would merely show weakness, and both sides have big war chests, dangling from their groins. One thing we know about money: It makes you an authority on everything.

ESPN's Jeff Passan recently put it this way:

More than a month into Major League Baseball's lockout, well aware that the league and players haven't had a single substantive negotiating session since the work stoppage began and that spring training is fast approaching without an iota of progress toward a new collective bargaining agreement, a longtime baseball man very calmly said into his phone earlier this week, "What the f--- are we doing?"

(Note: The "f----" does not stand for "falderal.") 

Thirty-nine days, shot to f----. Nothing accomplished. No movement.

In five weeks, major league camps are supposed to open. 

Here's a good bet: Nothing will happen until the deadlines start crashing. Yes, it takes two to tango. But brinksmanship has been Rob Manfred's signature move since becoming MLB commissioner. With the backing of birthright billionaires, he'll wait until the last moment, applying pressure via money, because their war chest is bigger.

The two sides are said to be light years apart on money issues - which is all that matters. On the day their old agreement ended, the meeting lasted seven minutes. I can't even drink a coffee in seven minutes.

The longer this goes, the more basic operations pile up. The Rule 5 draft. Obtaining visas for foreign players. Free agent signings. Trades. Mets stealing our coaches. Everything.

More and more, we should expect a shortened season and a delayed opening day. Meanwhile, baseball grows increasingly irrelevant. 

The tabloid back pages have discovered the Knicks and Nets. I propose a national campaign for the Post and Daily News to deny the Yankees and the Mets any back pages until this lockout ends. They can write their stories, but neither baseball team should receive the free ink of a cover page.

The national pastime is being fundamentally damaged, and the big fools just keep twiddling their thumbs.

With less Coney and no Buck, the big loser this winter looks like YES

Congrats to David Cone, who will take his act to ESPN's Sunday Night Baseball this season... (assuming there is one.) 

Not since Bill White jousted with The Scooter has a Yankee announcer displayed such an enjoyable balance of humor, insight and awe - the astonishment of an Everyman given an open mic. Long ago, Coney became the best thing on YES, and though he'll remain with the Yankees' version of Fox News - he'll call about 50 games, rather than 90 - and it won't be the same, having him all to ourselves.

My favorite Coney moments came when he'd casually mention some ancient punk  band  - the Violent Femmes, the Ramones, et al - dazzling Kay, who seems to have grown up in a Rosemary Clooney cult. Once the national audience gets a taste of him, I believe Cone's time at YES will be numbered. 

Meanwhile, last year's only reason to watch a Yankee postgame show was to hear Buck Showalter's unvarnished dose of reality. Win or lose, Showalter would say the things that Aaron Boone - his shadowy face an ever-deteriorating painting of Dorian Gray - would never dare speak aloud.  

Actually, ESPN scores a second victory from Coney's hiring: It ditches Alex Rodriguez, who two years ago seemed to run out of gas. Unlike many of you, who hate A-Rod with the heat of a billion suns, I sorta enjoyed his primal insecurity and need for constant affirmation. According to the Internet, he's going to team with Kay in a "Manningcast." Dear God, that sounds horrible: Two of the most needful egos in sports, orbiting each other. Good luck with that. 

All of these present continual diminishments to the Yankee brand. Whenever I hear of proposed changes to the game - a speed-up clock, the extra-inning rules - they always seem designed to save the owners money, rather than improve the product. For a century, the rules never changed. Now, they're tweaked every winter. 

And on top of everything, a little less Coney, all to ourselves. 

Lockout Singalong: The Simpsons' ode to Upstate New York

 

Are you kidding me? The Mets have stolen our brand new hitting coach?

 

Late last month, the Yankees hired Chavez. Now, he's gone. 

Holy crap. Is that a bad omen or what?

Has no one else noticed how ex-NFL receiver Antonio Brown this weekend re-enacted the climatic final scene from "Slap Shot?"

My all-time fave sports movie is "Slap Shot," a dark 1977 comedy about America's enduring love affair with brawlers and blood. 

With the local mine closing - laying off 10,000 - Paul Newman seeks to revive hometown spirits through the Charlestown Chiefs, its minor league hockey team. He recruits the Hanson brothers, a trio of bespectacled thugs, who turn every game into Wrestlemania. The crowds eat it with a knife and fork. In the final scene, Michael Ontkean - a player fed up with the fighting - flings off all his clothes and skates around the rink, joyously waving farewell to the fans - and the game that he once loved. 

For my money, no other movie has ever captured the dark side of pro sports. Here's the trailer.

So, why raise this old chestnut from the dead? 

Last weekend, the righteous scions of the NFL expressed outrage after Tampa wide receiver Antonio Brown - in mid-game - tore off his jersey and pads, and marched to the sideline, done with football, forever. On the NFL post game show, Michael Strahan grew so angry that he mockingly took off his coat, while "leaving" the show. Across the NFL, commentators raged over Brown's colossal betrayal of teammates, coaches... and of the beautiful game, itself.  

Immediately, I expected somebody to compare Brown's exit to the final act of Slap Shot. I suppose it's a generational thing. You need to be a geezer. Though a cult classic, the movie remains rather obscure. And it's portrayal of pro sports is - well - subversive, to say the least. 

Also, Antonio Brown offers a dubious personal history. A great athlete, for sure, but his diva behavior wore out welcomes everywhere else. Tampa was said to be his last chance. Moments after the game ended, team officials swore he'd never again play for the Bucs. His sports career is basically dead.

Still, when I watched Brown leave the field, I saw a guy joyously quitting on his own terms, and my immediate thought was, "Good for him!" Once a pro football player decides he's done - that his time in the crosshairs is over - the only wise course is to get the fuck off the field ASAP. Especially a wide receiver - the most dangerous position out there. He is putting his health at risk. And if he's not in the proper mindset, he's not helping teammates, either. 

Yesterday, Brown offered his side of the story. He says Tampa coaches ordered him to play despite a serious ankle injury. They wanted to inject him with what he viewed as a dangerous pain-killer. Is he telling the truth? Damned if I know. Is his story viable? Well, I guess we all have our opinions... 

Still, as time passes, I think Brown's finale might be remembered differently. For now, I think he's like the "always dangerous" stickmeister Ogie Ogilthorpe, as described by Jimmy Carr, the radio voice of the Charlestown Chiefs... 

"Oh, this young man has had a very trying rookie season, with the litigation, the notoriety, his subsequent deportation to Canada and that country's refusal to accept him, well, I guess that's more than most 21-year-olds can handle... Ogie Ogilthorpe!"

It's degrading and embarrassing to speculate on the Yankees will do, and I will not take part

This morning, I planned to do a critical treatise on the human face of Newton's Law of Motion - (An object at rest tends to stay at rest...) - Luis Severino - aka "Setback Sevy." He'll turn 28 in February. Did you know he's pitched 18 innings since 2018? Last season, over four games, he threw six scoreless innings. 

So... let's write him in as a bulwark to the 2022 rotation! Why, if Sevy can... 

Nah. I can't do this. 

I can't blather on about some ridiculous rumored trade, or a free-agent signing that will not happen, or another prospect who will never see a Yankee uniform.

Nope. Can't do it. I feel like a circus monkey. The MLB propaganda machine ejaculates some minor news tidbit, and fan websites jump all over it, as if we're supposed to care? We're in a greed-induced lockout, and I will not participate.

We sit in the shadows of the worst pandemic surge in our lifetimes - (think about it: that's actually a hopeful statement) -and the one subject that might have provided a comforting diversion - baseball's hot stove league - has been ripped from us. 

For that, I blame the Commissioner of Baseball, Rob Manfred. Am I wrong? Am I missing something? Is there anyone else who deserves more criticism? Joe Biden? Anyone? 

So, this week, we learn that MLB has fired Ken Rosenthal - a longtime, dutiful, serviceable Gammonite - because he had the nerve to criticize Manfred. Good grief, Manfred should not be able to walk the streets without fans yelling at him to get off his pasty white ass and settle this lockout... and they're canning voices of dissent?

Of course, let's remind ourselves that anybody who works for MLB - no matter how many years they once claimed as an "independent journalist" - cannot be considered an honest voice. I appreciate that they're feeding their families. But they cannot say what we lowly fan bloggers - supposedly the dregs of the sports industry machine - must continually scream:

WHEN THIS LOCKOUT ENDS, WE WILL NOT FORGET, YOU FUCKING FUCKS!

Rather than doom-scroll about the pandemic, or Jan. 6, or the latest catastrophe, we should be arguing about some absurd Yankee trade. Instead, there is nothing. NOTHING.

Do not buy into their smoke and mirrors. 

Here's what the record must say: 

When we needed them the most, they let us down. And we will not forget.

Fellow Latch Key Kids...

We’re a couple of weeks into this lockout and instead of all kinds of rumors and baseball news being served up by Mom at the Hot Stove we are forced to fend for ourselves.   

It isn’t easy. Last night I watched the 1961 World Series courtesy of MLB Films. I saw Yogi Berra misplay several balls in Left Field and Vada Pinson and Frank Robinson collide, some nice Nettles like fielding from Clete Boyer, and a Roger Maris home run but ultimately it was…meh. Maybe because I knew the outcome.

I tried watching a Los Gigantes game on MLB.TV but my SAP setting didn’t go from Spanish to English, and I kept having flashbacks to siting alone in my room watching “Canal cincuenta y siete, Casa De Lucha Libre Todo Del Mundo.”  And while Banco Popular is probably still “right on the money” it didn’t satisfy either.

Normally I can bring my attention to other sports, but the New York Football Giants are in the midst of an implosion the likes of which I have never seen. Last week’s game was over in under 30 seconds. So, no relief there. The Knicks, who got me through last year’s pandemic winter are again, pretty much unwatchable, and while I enjoyed the final 10 minutes of the NYC Football Club’s championship, it was soccer.  

I suppose I can make it to the Winter Olympics because who doesn't love watching skaters going around in circles in front of an empty arena? 

Truth is, I’m running out of places to park my brain. One can only read so many books or doom scroll for so long.  Any suggestions?

Twelve straight also-rans, but here's what embarrasses the Yankees

What embarrasses the Yankees?

Wait for it...

Not Andrew Heaney. Not Darren O'Day. Not the collective senses of decay and disillusionment that surge within our breasts when contemplating another season of Gary Sanchez behind the plate, Aaron Hicks in center and God Only Knows at SS...

Nope. 

The 2018 one-night Staten Island Yankees "Pizza Rats" promotion.

That's what embarrassed the Yankees. 

Yes, the Staten Island Pizza Rats.

As Dave Barry would say, I'm not making this up. 

Basically, it's a lawyer thing. The Death Barge - seeking to ditch their single A Staten Island affiliate, as part of MLB's massive destruction of the minors - face a lawsuit war against their former club. That means complaining about everything from shower nozzles to the scent of the soap in the dispensaries. 

In 2018, Staten Island launched one of those promotional nights when the team played as "the Pizza Rats," honoring a plucky, pizza-slice dragging rodent, whose tabloid photo captured the imaginations of New Yorkers everywhere

Listen: I hate these promotions. The Syracuse Mets once played as the "Salt Potatoes," referring to a lethal means of injecting butter and salt into the human body, a tradition used by the pioneers to destroy the Iroquois. Who doesn't love a potato boiled in salt and submerged in butter - something to suck on until the heart explodes? But a ballclub? Nah. It's all about selling commemorative swag, and frankly, it exploits and demeans the fans. 

In 2018, the Staten Island Yankees played a game as the Pizza Rats. 

So, how did this fall into the lawsuit? Staten Island is suing the Yankees for breach of contract, and so the Yankees are word-bombing their former affiliate in any way they can. In this case, front office lug nut Lonn Trost - who once raged that poor people were using unclaimed expensive seats in the late innings - called the Pizza Rats an embarrassment to the Yankees.

Listen: On the scale of recent embarrassments, the Pizza Rats fall somewhere far below Pronk and Troy Tulowitski, and they barely crack the top 50. 

Today, we look at Cory Kluber in Tampa, Clint Frazier in Chicago, Tyler Wade in Los Angeles, while Gary Sanchez remains our starting catcher. The Pizza Rats are an embarrassment? Get real. 

Will this be the year the Yankees lose the back page?

Since we began tallying tabloid fish wraps five years ago, the Yankees have always dominated the count. Basically, it was easy. As the chart shows, they faced no competition.

But if you delete 2020 - the messed-up, mini Covid year - the back page numbers show a steady shrinkage of Yankee control over the attention span of New York sports fans. 

With a year of transition looming over Gotham, the Yankees' dominance does not look promising. 

In sports, attention is money. Old George Steinbrenner made no secret of his desire to "win" the back pages. NYC remains the only American city with competing tabloids that relentlessly - and ruthlessly - hustle to capture eyeballs. In the last five years, the Yankees have enjoyed the traditional advantage of being New York's preeminent sports franchise.

But you can't gush over 27 world championships forever, and the Yankees have been doing it now for 11 years. The franchise has blown through a 2018 talent surge with nothing to show for it. Meanwhile, Hal Steinbrenner seems more excited about soccer, football bowl games, and avoiding MLB luxury taxes than of restoring the Yankees to prominence.

Over the last few years, Tampa has eaten our lunches, and Boston owns the once-great rivalry. (Last year's greatest rivalry, by far, was LA-SF.) Toronto is ascendant, and even lowly Baltimore will soon unveil baseball's best young prospect. 

As for the Yankees? Jeez Louise. The hopes that once roiled up from future stars - such as Clint Frazier, Miguel Andujar, Luke Voit, Gary Sanchez and Gleyber Torres - have dimmed to frustration. To root for this team brings an unmistakable fatigue. 

Steinbrenner runs a self-sustaining machine that - by trading prospects and relentlessly combing scrap heaps - makes the postseason and fizzles. With ever-expanding playoff structures, it's not hard to do. Fans are weary of it.  

On paper, at least, the Mets enter 2022 as as not only a better team, but a more exciting product. (Of course, they remain the Mets, so anything can happen.) The lowly Knicks have risen - slightly - to challenge for the playoffs, and the Nets may surprise everyone.  

Only the Giants and Jets - franchises so sorry they should be moved into receiverships - will likely remain wretched and irrelevant. For them, our imaginations are not bold enough to envision success. 

In 2022, the  Mets will likely topple the Yankees' reign. It's worth noting that these cycles of dominance can run long term. For the Yankees to recapture their following, they need to win the world series. Hal better start recognizing this. The view from second-place will not be pleasant. And we will do everything we can to be heard.

Betty White obits buried the lede...

...but Jason Acquisto used the power of Twitter to bring the truth:

Betty White was alive for all 27 of the Yankees World Series titles. All 27.

— Jason Acquisto (@JJ__23) January 1, 2022

And here's the kicker:

Betty White was alive for 552 of Babe Ruth’s home runs.

— Jason Acquisto (@JJ__23) January 1, 2022

 

 

Off in the distance, massive trades loom over the Yankee horizon

Here is one intriguing 2022 prediction for every MLB team. 

Note the darkness surrounding the Yankees.

Yank fans nationwide unite behind the one true hope for 2022

If you're like me, you're sick of hearing about Omicron, the economy, global warming, child poverty and whatever else these do-gooding worry warts conjure up to ruin our positive vibes from the ongoing MLB lockout. 

From now on, whenever you see another news report about a mass shooting, or a climate catastrophe, or hospitals overflowing from blah-blah-blah, just remember that they're merely trying to distract us from the One True Goal of 2022: 

To shrink the Yankee payroll below MLB's future luxury tax threshold.

I think I speak for the Yankiverse in saying that we don't want Freddie Freeman or Carlos Correa... we don't need Aaron Judge... or pitching... or an everyday centerfielder. Money doesn't grow on trees, people. And these are over-the-top luxuries that the Yankees simply cannot afford. 

What we want is for our owner, Hal Steinbrenner, to receive a decent living wage. 

Papa needs a new pair of shoes. 

I say, let's hope this lockout lasts through September.

Twilight of the Gods: Betty, we hardly knew ye...

 

Hard to believe, but we say 2022 will be EVEN BETTER than 2021!

You might think it impossible, but I predict 2022 will actually be even better than last year! That's right, BETTER! 

Of course, the Yankees will tank. That's a given. Without a front office overhaul, the franchise will continue on the same sorry treadmill that it's been slogging since 2011.

Ahhh, but think of the fun we'll have, mocking them.