No Judge? No worries, says Ghislaine Boone.

Excuse me. Still wheezy from celebrating yesterday's wonderful news...  

Aaron Judge won't miss the next 12 months, and then return at age 34 as a rusty, fulltime DH with scar on his elbow. 

Nope. The Yankees say his elbow won't require Tommy John. Its just a "flexor strain" -  a tweak, a twitch, a booboo, down where da thigh bone's connected to the hip bone!  The Captain will return "this season," which means - August? September? October? 

Fortunately, the Yankees never lie. Certainly not to their fans, and especially at the trade deadline. That would be mean. 

So yesterday's news is like getting a clean bill of health from Ghislaine Maxwell: There's nothing to see, everybody, it's just a hoax, move on, but please send donations to the Yankees, in care of Hal Steinbrenner. 

Yeahp. Yippee. And to celebrate further, the Yankees yesterday plunged even deeper in their pursuit of the AL Wild Card. They traded two more prospects - the Lost Legions of the Yankee Future now stand at four - to Washington for Amed Rosario, the former Met. Apparently, Rosario will replace the comedy team of Ozzie & Jorbit, who led the Yankees' improvisational tribute to the Savannah Bananas.  

Yippee. Uh-huh. We're all-in on the '25 wild card because - well - it's a great Yankee tradition, right? Remember Babe Ruth in the Wild Card playoffs? Joe D? Yogi? The Mick. Didn't they hone their legends in those wild card series? 

Apparently, there's no need to promote outfielder Spencer Jones from Scranton - (he didn't play yesterday, being bubble-wrapped for a trade?) We'll go with The  Martian, Cody Bellinger and Trent Grisham. Batting second will be - well - Amed? Can you catch? Can we find Jake Bauers? Willie Calhoun? Franchy Cordero?

 Yesterday, Ghislaine Boone suggested that Judge will miss only the 10-games that he must technically sit out because of the Injured List. Wouldn't it be nice?

If only we could  believe that this nightmare summer will end triumphantly. Does anything think so? Excuse me. I need a drink. 

Reasons to be cheerful, part three

Hey, kids! Don't be down! Turn that down upside frown! Or something.

Sure, things aren't going our way, but it's not all bad. Honest. Consider these happy thoughts as you rise and shine on this simply swell day!

1. Stanton is hitting. Sometimes there's somebody on base, too! And he can hit homers late, when it would really count if we had a bullpen!

2. We got Rosario! Not only a decent hitter who can platoon nicely with our new third baseman, but absolutely hysterical on Will and Grace.

3. Judge didn't die! Or have a season-ending injury! The MRI said so, and the front office would never mislead us on that score.

4. Any day now, Fried will be back to normal, throwing a blistering fast ball!

5. Luke Weaver is still coming back from an injury. He wasn't rushed, there nothing still wrong with him. He's just shaking off a little rust!

6. The Martian is catching flies in left field! No fooling!

7. Uncle Ben Rice behind the plate!

8. The more they lose, the cheaper the tickets on the secondary market!

9. The original Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom is on MeTV at 7:00 EDT every Sunday! Marlin Perkins has still got it!

10. Boone will not be manager at some point in the future... Criswell predicts!

 

Bring Back Joey G!

Let's face it; these guys are going nowhere. C-Money can work all his magic but it's so unlikely this team is going to even make the wild card that it's time to look ahead. Or back.

Boonie is a nice guy and he "has the players' backs." Lovely.

I'm sitting here watching this Phillies blowout, listening to the Giant Head banter with Girardi and Joey is showing off his intimate knowledge of all the players, referring to them by their first names and everything. What a treasure trove of knowledge! A vast repository of effluvia and ephemera the likes of which we haven't heard or seen since, oh 2009-ish?

So let's give Boonie a salami sandwich, drop him off at the Port Authority, put him on the bus to Cincy and bring back Joey G! It can't be any worse that what we have right now.

(Or is it too late to tell Donnie Baseball that all is forgiven?)

Or Shelley Duncan. Or Sandy Duncan. Or Duncan Hines. Or Gregory Hines. Brad Azimuth?

 

I've Been Away, But Now I'm Back

 

Don't expect a lot of good news today.

Game Thread - ø7–26–25 - ELBOW DREAD, edition !

CAN HE TELL

BY THE SMELL

THAT HIS TEAM

IS NOT

DOING WELL ?

Done with 2025, the Yankees start gutting 2026

Sometimes - while lying on my bed of nails - I imagine the Yankees as a single, breathing entity - a person on the side of a road near a car wreck.

Sirens blare, and lights flash. Chief Cashman of the Yankee Fire Department rushes into the scene. "What happened?" He yells. "Can you hear me? Can you talk? Say something!"

But the Yankee Man does not speak. He just stares into the chief's lifeless eyes. 

"This man needs help," Cashman yells. "Quick! Get the leeches!"

So go the Yankees, as they await the looming trade deadline. They are barely conscious, unable to move, and the fix that's coming is worse than the problems they already face.  

The team has lost two straight, and six out of its last 10. The defense is horrible, and the bullpen is shot. It cannot hold a lead. With each error, with each baserunning mistake, with each lost potential rally, the team seems to be saying, "Screw the emergency room, take me to the mortuary." But the leeches are coming.

Last night, while the team was embarrassing itself on national TV, the Yankees started the process of draining next year. 

They traded two legitimate prospects to the Colorado Rockies for 30-year-old Ryan McMahon, a 3B with little power and a .217 batting average. In his career year, 2021, McMahon hit 23 HRs and batted .254. Last year, he made the NL all-star team as a backup. This year, he leads the National League in strikeouts. The Yankees will pay him $16 million in 2026 and 2027. 

He'll replace Oswald Peraza and Jorbit Vivas, the comedy team that was holding down 3B. 

It's hard not to feel cynical about such a deal. The Gammonites will blather about how the Yankees filled their 3B sink hole. The YES team will gush. McMahon will bat eighth or ninth. Whatever. But unless he can pitch, he'll do nothing to alleviate the nightly horror show that begins with Boone's first pitching change.

The Yankees have begun the process of draining their farm system to mask the dismal reality that is 2025. In the long haul, it's a loser's strategy. We never learn. We just lie there and wait for the leeches. 

 

"THE THREAD" - 25 IN 25, 07 – THOSE WHO ARE ABOUT TO LOSE SALUTE YOU !

 

Trade! Ryan McMahon is our new third baseman

 https://x.com/Feinsand/status/1948800728090472467

"Breaking: The Yankees are acquiring 3B Ryan McMahon from the Rockies, per source. Colorado will receive two prospects in return."

One of the two prospects is left-hander Griffin Herring. The other is right-hander Josh Grosz,

Here's a link to his stats.

https://www.baseball-reference.com/players/m/mcmahry01.shtml?utm_medium=linker&utm_source=www.mlbtraderumors.com&utm_campaign=2025-07-25_br

You tell me...

The Yankees could be a young and aspiring team next year, if they don't trade it all away.

Spencer George Jones, 24, has now come to bat 80 times at Triple A Scranton.

What he has done in the Electric City is rather - well - electrifying. 

Today - July 25, six days before the Trade Deadline Apocalypse - Jones represents the fulcrum point between Yankee hopes and despair. The next few years - maybe into the next decade - could hinge on what happens next week, as the Yankees decide whether to trade Jones... or keep him.  

Yesterday, as you've probably heard - (the news zapped across the Yankiverse; I received five texts by late afternoon) - Jones homered three times, raising his batting average to a stupid .400 and his OBS to a videogame 1.407. He leads the minors in HRs and physical brutishness. He stands 6'7" and weighs 240, the size of a Buffalo Bills tight end. (Aaron Judge is 6'7", 282, a Packers DE.)  

Obviously, Jones' stats are a small sample hallucination. He hasn't hit a slump yet, and they always do. Also, the numbers bring a jolt of sobriety: Jones strikes out way too often - 70 in 175 ABs this year, at Somerset and Scranton. He's not the next Judge. But he might be - gulp - the next Gallo.

And therein lies the current Yankee dilemma. 

In 2017, young Joey Gallo - (before he morphed into the old Joey Gallo) - was a star on the Texas Rangers' horizon. At age 23, he hit 41 HRs. He followed it up in 2018 with 40 more. He won two Gold Gloves, played in two All-Star games and became poster boy for the "Three True Outcomes" batter - the guy who strikes out, walks or homers, and never puts a ball into play. Unfortunately, by the time he became a Yankee, the bad outcomes outnumbered everything else.

We remember Gallo hitting .159 with 12 HRs and even looking shabby in LF. Damn, he sucked! And as we watched him degrade, we saw the Yankees sink with him. 

So... think Gallo here. Will they trade Jones, thinking he strikes out too much, and this represents his highest trade value? They can get a 3B or bullpen lug nut who might help carry them to a wild card. Or would they stick with Jones and maybe get a couple all-star seasons out of him, before he turns into Rob Deer. 

Imagine this lineup:

1b Ben Rice
2b Jazz Chisholm
ss George Lombard Jr.
3b Your mom
c Austin Wells
cf Spencer Jones
lf  Jasson Dominguez
rf Aaron Judge

(As for Anthony Volpe? For now, let's reserve judgment. And Giancarlo? Next year will be his last. In 2027, there will be a buyout.) 

The above lineup looks a lot like young teams in Toronto, Boston and Tampa. I wonder if we'll ever see anything like it? 

The next few days.. 

Ooh, and it makes you wonder

I've been reading Bleeding Yankee Blue more than normally lately. I blame the time zone difference, because I can't get a new IIH post until mid-afternoon.

Anyway, they had this great and hysterical graphic on their blog, and while you could say something similar about Peraza and Jorbit, they aren't being pushed and defended constantly by Boone and the front office.

One interesting thing they noted is the increased and sudden media attention to the fact that Boone is a terrible manager. It's taken the nattering nabobs a damn long time to open their mewling, knee-bending little mouths about it, but it's pretty much out in the open now that our dear leader is a bumbling, clueless ding dong when it comes to his job. The only thing he's good at is getting thrown out of games by arguing pitches and defending the players when they fuck up.

The Yanks lack basic fundamentals way too many times, and it's getting worse instead of better. I can't blame Boonie for the left side of the infield. Cashman's incompetence resulted in that. But wouldn't you like to be a fly on the wall after a game like Wednesday's, with four--count 'em, four!--errors that sunk any chance of a win? Did he privately go ballistic in the clubhouse? Did he call guilty parties on the carpet and give them a merciless verbal lashing? 

We all know what probably happened, with 99% certainty. Like Mr. Cleaver, he probably just said, "I'm disappointed in you, son. You should know better."

But how would they know better? No accountability, poor coaching, worse managing...these guys should be told and helped to straighten up and fly right, with alacrity.

Yesterday was Amelia Earhart Day, if you didn't know, but it's Boone and Cashman who seem lost.

T H R E A D L E S S – ø7–24–25 – ∞∞ play responsibly ∞∞

 

There is no algorithm for desire.

 

"Money, money changes everything.

I said money, money changes everything.

We think we know what we're doing,

We don't know a thing.

It's all in the past now,

Money changes everything."

    —Cyndi Lauper

All right, here comes my inevitable, grumpy old man post. But something makes me think there really aren't enough grumpy old men around the New York Yankees these days.

There's also not enough to be said about the general shitshow that the Yanks put on last night. But I want to riff off some research the Estimable Carl J. Weitz did for us all yesterday, regarding the Yankees' biggest free agent pick-up of the off-season—the main man who was supposed to compensate for the loss of Juan Soto.

"[Max] Fried has made four trips to the injured list due to blisters on that finger during his time with the Atlanta Braves, going 23 days between starts in 2018, 12 days each in 2019 and 2021, and 18 days in 2023, which included a gap between the regular season and playoffs.

"Every case is its own thing,” Fried said. “Definitely didn’t want to do too much where I wanted to catch it, hopefully before it became a real big, big deal. It was definitely uncomfortable enough to the point where I didn’t want to risk more, and it was going to affect my pitches. So, yeah, just the next couple of days are going to be big in just being able to evaluate how long I need.”

Treatment has only a limited impact.

“There are different creams and modalities and things that we can do to try to help speed up the process, but at the end of the day, it’s just letting the skin heal,” Fried said.

He's heard the stories about how future Hall of Famer Nolan Ryan soaked his fingers in pickle juice at the behest of Mets athletic trainer Gus Mauch.

"I’ve tried a little bit of everything,” Fried said, "every wives’ tale, every piece of equipment that has been available. I’m willing to try anything to try to just speed it up and try to keep it away.”

Uh, boy.

"Creams and modalities and things"? 

This is not the way a human being should talk, much less a major-league pitcher. 

"Every case is its own thing"...for the same blister on the same finger? Uh, yeah.

Max Fried is a 31-year-old starter who has never thrown more than 185 innings in his nine-year, major-league career. He has spent that entire career pitching for two of the best-hitting teams in the sport, yet has never won more than 17 games, and that back in the halcyon days of 2019, when life was sweet and oh so mellow. 

Max Fried has, to date, made nearly $54 million in baseball salary alone, and he is absolutely guaranteed to make another $203.5 million, even if the new Trump Coin cryptocurrency knocks the economy down to Great Depression levels.

It is a dull cliché to note that this will make him one of the very wealthiest individuals who has ever lived. But...this will make him one of the very wealthiest individuals who has ever lived.

Foolishly, I had assumed that his limited performances each and every year were due to some combination of MLB's arm-saving innings limits, and MLB's arm-killing pitching techniques.

But no. 

Like Ringo Starr, after playing 16 straight takes of the original, 27-minute version of Helter-Skelter, Max Fried has blisters on his fingers. Actually finger. 

But never mind. As we all know, following that amazing session, Ringo was never able to play the drums again set out on a 30-city tour. Or maybe he just took the next day off and did some drugs.

The point is, when you're being paid a king's ransom (really, no king was ever ransomed for that sort of money, but never mind) to perform every few days...you have to perform. Particularly when everyone is being charged a king's ransom to watch you perform.

Hey, it was one thing when ol' Slingin' Sammy Slopster went out there and got battered all over the park because of some arm problem. Back to the (literal) farm he went, and the dudes in the bleachers—half of whom were probably betting on the other team—could swallow their nickel admission.

Now? "...creams and modalities" don't cut it.

Hey, is it unfair for me to turn the spotlight—and the tomatoes—on Fried, who has been one of the Yankees' very few bright spots this season? Of course it is.

Is this solely Max Fried's fault? Of course it isn't.

Do we think that Brian Cashman, in negotiations with Mr. Fried, said something to him along the lines of, "We've noticed that you had a lot of trouble with blisters in the past, and we hope you've fixed that. But if not, our crack training team has come up with a tested, surefire way to speed the healing process?" 

Do we? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.

Nope. 

We can be sure that, in yet another, dispiriting American collusion of rich men, no one was so impolite as to raise that little issue.

"Money? The money can always be taken care of in one way or another. Written off on your taxes, or fobbed off on the public through another increase in the rat dog prices. We have an algorithm for that."

But it's not just about the money.

Blisters are not exactly a new thing for pitchers. They've been struggling with them at least since Candy Cummings snapped off the very first curveball. Creams, modalities, and old wives' tales aside, somebody must've come up with something. 

Or, y'know, pitched through it.

What's lost here is the understanding that the heart of sport is desire. It's what keeps us coming back to the ballpark, no matter how pricey the tickets are, or how many rat feces there are on the hot dogs.

Ballplayers have long been at least fairly well-paid. Charlie Keller was making pretty good money, for 1941, when he walked up to the plate in the ninth inning of the Tommy Henrich game, with what was probably an ankle fracture. He banged a game-winning double off the right field fence. Joe, Joe DiMaggio was making great money for 1949, when he flew up to Boston with a heal that looked like it had been sewn together by Dr. Frankenstein, and ran amok amongst the Fens. 

Derek Jeter was making "richest in world history" money when he dived into the stands in Yankee Stadium. It wasn't about the money. It was about the desire—something that neither Hal Steinbrenner, nor Brian Cashman, nor Mr. Modalities seem to quite understand. 

Yes, money changes everything. Except for that. There is no algorithm for desire.

But hey, what do I know? No doubt, the safe thing is for the Yankees and Max Fried to save themselves for the postseason, right? Where...Fried, for all his well-restedness and healed blisters in Atlanta, was a lifetime 2-5,  with a 5.10 ERA. 

Uh, boy.

 

Note to the Yankees: One week before the trade deadline is a bad time to embarrass yourself

From Cots baseball contracts

Remember that grand HR by Ben Rice - once upon a time, way back, two nights ago? - that was going to save the 2025 Yankee season?  

Nevermind.

Remember how The Martian was improving? Or how the infield seemed to coalesce around Jazz Chisolm? Or how Anthony Volpe was - aw, I dunno - not deteriorating? Remember optimism?  I mean, wow, what a concept! The moments from childhood that made us believe the Yankees were the greatest team in American sports, and that they possessed a destiny beyond third place in the AL East? Remember Hope Week? 

My bad. 

Won't happen again. 

Hope? Nope. Last night cured me. It successfully reamed out whatever drunken ebullience once coursed through my Yankee lymph nodes. What was I thinking? that one Yankee victory could salvage a dismal summer on a weary team from a joyless franchise - a zombie organization whose logo and uniform simply reminds us of what the Yankees once were, and how far they have fallen. 

We are a team that only scores via solo home runs.

We are a team that does not field at a major league level.

We are a team that does not teach fundamental skills.

We are a team that does not win close games.

We are a team that will soon be remade by trades.

Yes, any day now, the bloodletting will commence. 

Once again, on the Aug. 1 trade deadline, the Yankees will swap young for old, the future for the past, the rising for the falling, in their sad effort to secure a wild card birth in a playoffs system that functions like Little League participation trophies. It is amazing - and embarrassing - how much money the Yankees burn, compared to rivals who field superior teams.   

The 2025 Yankees are a team of stiffs, playing out of position, with massive problems, including a sink hole bullpen. 

They have a mediocre farm system, which they will further drain, and we will go through another depressing autumn and winter, as we've done for 15 years, with nothing to show.

I'm sorry, folks. I should rouse up some blather on how we're only four games out, and all we need is a 10-game win streak, and let's call a juju intervention - something like that. But why lie? Last night, this team shat the bed. It sent a message to the front office, to the Yankiverse and to every fan in captivity: 

Next year... 

I predict that tonight we will not lose!

 "We are all interested in the future, for that is where you and I are going to spend the rest of our lives. And remember, my friend: Future events such as these will affect you in the future."

Fried Finger Linger ? Game Thread . . . . (sometime in July)

 

Could one swing of the bat save a season?

Two nights ago, Dartmouth's Ben Rice came up in the 9th with two outs and nobody on. He wrestled the count to 1-and-2, and then watched a fastball bisect the plate, as fat as a pitch can be without getting its own area code. Dear God, it was a gloaming, floating, perfectly straight line into the catcher's mitt. No framing. Strike three. Game over. Rice swiveled and marched away. He gave no protest; he'd be laughed out of the league. And, right then, if sorta felt as if the entire 2025 season was defeathered, basted and cooked, as Rice and the Yankees continued their epic freefall in the AL East. 

With the Aug 1. trade deadline looming, Rice looked like a perfect candidate to head a bundled package of youth that might bring us the next Sidney Ponson, because - come on - the Yankees can always use another Sir Sidney. Over the last month, Rice - who remains primarily listed as a DH - had hit a meager .212, about 80 points below DJ LeMahieu, now of the Netherworld. Entering last night, Rice had one HR in the last 30 days. (One more than DJ.) 

Well, as I'm sure you know by now, last night, Rice's dramatic 9th inning homer, the first pitch from the same closer who fanned him Monday, launches two diametrically opposing forces.

1. He increased his value in any trade talk. Whatever Cooperstown Cashman was expecting in return for Rice, he'll surely demand more.

2. He made it tougher for Yank fans to accept such a trade. We all know the rule: Never fall in love with a young Yankee in a slump. But didn't Rice just put himself out of reach for a newly refurbished Ponson?

Insert sigh here. 

Shortly after it went out, Micheal Kay suggested that Rice's blast was the biggest HR thus far of the Yankee 2025 season. Who am I to question a shot of pure YES Channel hyperbole! Either way, Rice came through, Dartmouth can celebrate, and tonight, the Yankees could win the series against a team that, thus far this season, has eaten their lunch. 

Listen: One of the inside jokes about rooting for the Yankees is that other fans think we have it easy. They say, "Why are you complaining? You have 27 world championships, and you buy every player." They don't realize that most of those rings came five generations ago, and the era of Yankee big-spending died 20 years ago with Hideki Irabu. We are desperate old fogies, living in a creaky house that is falling apart, all around us, clinging to memories of Shane Spencer and Jim Leyritz, and a time that was much less dreadful and horrific than the Epstein-soaked modern era.

Last night, the universe threw us a bone. Let's have the wisdom to savor it.

Ben Rice! Wow! And tonight, Mad Max! Who knows!  

An Above Average Haiku Tuesday - "I am the Lizard King - I can do anything" Edition

THEY LOVE BOONE MADLY

'TIL THE HEAVENS STOP THE RAIN

SING A LONELY SONG

For the Yankees, everything revolves around one player, and he is not getting better

 

For an all-powerful, godlike, global elite, three years is a lifetime. 

Look at Donald Trump. Elon Musk. Xi Jinping. To them, three years is an eternity. 

Zuckerberg. Taylor Swift. Her football player. His brother. Don't make me link to them. You know who they are. For intellectual pigmies like us, it takes three years to tie our shoes. But for the giants, three years represents an infinite existential totality.  

Trump went from felon to the White House. Jeff Bezos got married. Andrew Cuomo - well - dunno. 

And then there is Anthony Volpe.

But in this case, three years is enough time to render a judgement. 

Three years... wow. A Gold Glove. A huge world series home run. A terror on the bases. An iron man at SS. The heir to Jeter. The declining BA. The succession of errors. The world series botched throw. The failing defense. 

At age 24 - his best seasons still ahead of him - the question of what he really is.

Well... 

It's time to shop him. 

Note: I am not saying, TRADE VOLPE. Just kick the tire. As with every July deal, Satan - or Putin - is in the fine print. You can bundle prospects for Joey Gallo - the huge bummer in LF - and still not get entirely burned. Or you can send a few for Juan Soto - the generational star - and give away Michael King. In late July, there are no certainties, aside from the One Rule of August One: The Yankees will remake their team. And the best and worst deals look perilously alike. 

Today, we look like also-rans in the AL East. Last night's loss puts us closer to Boston (who also lost) than to the Jays. 

We have an assortment of young players who could go. Ben Rice. Spencer Jones. Cam Schlittler. Jasson Dominguez - plus those whose names have been carefully hidden from the Prospect Ranking jackals. A package of prospects could bring us a 3B or closer - items we desperately need. It's time to consider the big splash - Volpe. Here's why. 

1. I hate to say it, but he's not getting better. Three nights ago, when he homered twice, we dreamed the dream. Last night, there he was, botching an essential ground ball, a play that had to be made. We just keep replaying excuses. 

2. He'll bring a meaningful player. At 24, he's run the NYC gauntlet. Some GM out there would love to be known as "the guy who coaxed Anthony Volpe from the Yankees." That's a lifetime resume point. Somewhere out there is a young player who has run his course in another city. Think Jazz. 

3. Soon, NYC might not be an option. Fans are getting feisty. They can be cruel - read the comments. When Volpe strikes out, or botches a grounder, he will hear  boos. There are feedback loops: The boos bring pressure. The pressure brings errors. The errors bring more boos. Eventually, the guy goes to Detroit and starts for the AL in the all-star game.  

Look, if the deal doesn't wow us, don't make it. I'm not suggesting we sell the team for parts, like Paramount and CBS. Truth is, we'll root for him. Local boy. Bleeds blue. Plays hurt. Always hustles. 

But this team is stumbling. Trading Volpe would be a hand-grenade in the scrum. Maybe that's what this organization needs.

The luckiest vs. the unluckiest for the AL East

The Athletic has an article today with the chart below, along with their explanation.

I'm not sure I can agree with what they're calling "luck." "Effectiveness," "Consistency Rating," "Just Plain Good" might be better. But according to them, we're the unluckiest team in MLB. And the Jays are the luckiest.

Another meaningless stat in a meaningless universe? Maybe. But whatever they call it, we're getting our asses kicked by the Great White North. And too many other teams, as well. 

But at least they say we're "fascinating."

Unluckiest Teams:

30. New York Yankees, -7.9 wins

Luck ranks (more = luckier): Close games 30th | Offense 16th | Defense 27th

"The Aaron Boone-era Yankees are a fascinating, ongoing test case in whether luck-based stats like these can ever truly regress back to where we’d expect them to be. 

"On the one hand, I (and others) have been complaining about New York’s lack of fundamentals for years, citing them as a primary reason the team doesn’t always have the record its talent and underlying stats would predict. 

"However, this year’s splits are so pronounced that some kind of positive regression seems inevitable. (An eight-win luck shortfall in 96 games is truly enormous.) The Yankees were just 13-18 in one-run games in the first half, and 18-26 in those decided by two runs or fewer, while they were a league-best 35-17 in games with a margin of three runs or more. 

"Performance in blowouts is a strong predictor of future success, and New York’s improvement potential is further bolstered by the fact that pinstriped pitchers have allowed 17.3 more runs than expected via BaseRuns. While some of New York’s bad luck may be unfixable, a differential like this is extreme."