10 happy thoughts in a hopeless Hope Week

The days are growing shorter, civilization is crumbling like the glaciers of Antarctica, and we're neck deep in the most depressing Hope Week since Hideki Irabu killed himself.

Don't let the heat get to you. 

Here are 10 reasons for Yank fans to be happy:

1. Last night, we got to witness Jah Jones' first MLB triple. 

2. Down at Triple A, Scranton game was called in the 3rd inning with Railriders down 11-0. Haha. Take that, Buffalo Bisons!

3. Carlos Rodon looks a year younger. (He's pitching like it's 2023. )

4. By falling behind early, as they did  the night before, Yanks rested closer Clay Holmes. 

5. Phil Bickford is now a Yankee. He looks thrilled.

6. In case you missed it - because you didn't watch the 9th? - the Bickster pitched 2/3rds of an inning last night. Scoreless, natch!

7. Crafty Yanks have found a solution to opponents' base-stealing crisis: Fall behind 8-1, and the other team won't bother. 

8. Yanks still in first, by a half-game, over Baltimore. Let the record show that they made it to the first day of summer.

9. Chris Sale dominated Yankee lineup. Haha, take that, Boston! 

10. It will soon be time for football. Start getting excited about the Giants' great hope, Daniel Jones.

We have become what the Red Sox used to be.

 

When I was a kid, after we moved to Massachusetts, I could never get over how all my Red Sox-fan friends expected things to be different...when every year, the team did the same thing.

Every spring, the Boston papers would be carried away with enthusiasm over how great the Sawx looked. And many years, they would get off to a good start—only to fade in the stretch, or collapse in the playoffs.

And almost always for the same reasons.

The team was always built too much to order for Fenway Park and its Green Monster, with a surfeit of right-handed power hitters, and not much else. They always had trouble getting pitchers who wanted to come and throw there, were always a little weak in the pen.

And—the undercurrent that never quite dared speak its name—they always had a strict quota on just how many Black and Hispanic players they would allow on the roster.

Every year, I could never figure out why my little pals thought they had themselves a winner.

And yet, in the wake of the Great Karmic Reversal that was ushered in with the 2004 ALCS, we have now become the Red Sox and their fans. 

The Hal Steinbrenner/Brian Cashman Yankees have come to lose the same way every year, much like the old Yawkey Family Red Sox. And every year, it seems, we fall for it. It's like some kind of Twilight Zone episode, where the Nazi U-boat commander ends up on the ship his sub is about to torpedo.

No, the Hal-Bri Yanks aren't racist. And no, they don't orient the lineup too much toward one feature of their home park. Until recently, in fact, Cashie seemed blissfully unaware that the team had quite purposely built a nice porch for itself in right field.

But as we've seen, the Yanks now lose the same way every season.

Every year, they go into the regular season without enough bench or enough bullpen—guaranteed. No matter how often that comes back to haunt them, in September or in the playoffs, the same mistake is repeated the next year.

Every season, the team is short on viable prospects from its middling-to-poor farm system. Every year there is a sudden rash of injuries.

Every year, there are maybe 2-3 genuine stars...and everybody else is a hope and a prayer. Occasionally, one of those desperate hopes comes through. 

Not often.

This year, Cashman seems to have added a new twist: a catcher who can't throw. Or did he? Did Trevino's arm woes come about because he was forced to throw late-inning relief, thanks to what are once again the pitiful shortcomings of our pen?

I doubt if we'll know for years to come. Just as we won't know how it is that The Brain turned The Martian into Glassman II, or if Juan Soto hurt his elbow making that catch over the wall in right field, or if Luis Gil has already frayed his rotator cuff. 

These are the mysteries we are not privilege to, because every year the show must go on. Every year the big tent goes up, the carney barkers take their places, we suckers get in line...and the pickpockets who run the New York Yankees lick their chops and start loosening their fingers.

 

On the day of a complete, systemic collapse, the Yankees re-enact 2022.

In the AL East yesterday, the cat officially caught the mouse.

Less than 24 hours after Wednesday night's torturous loss, the Death Barge suffered a Cat-5 meltdown - worthy of Edwar Ramirez and Scott Proctor... of Lyle Overbay and Travis Hafner... of midsummer 2022. 

In case you somehow erased it from your mind, in that gelded 2022 season, the Yankees held a 15-game lead on July 8, then played .500 ball in the second half, collapsing into a 4-0 sweep by Houston in the ALCS. A rotten ending to a cruel year. 

And now... seriously... who here isn't shell-shocked by the intensity, the purity, the sincerity of yesterday's meltdown? 

The game began with Juan Soto misplaying a fly ball into a triple. It ended with Jose Trevino, an existentially embattled catcher, pitching the 9th. 

In their last 10 games, the Yankees are 5-5. Their wonder boy, Luis Gil, didn't survive the 2nd. Nobody pitched a 1-2-3 inning. The defense made three errors, including one by Gleyber Torres, who homered and left with an apparent tweak. Jesus Christ. 

Okay, gotta regroup. Yes, this team has hit the Girardi doldrums. This is officially our worst stretch of 2024 - a slump we simply must overcome - or something far worse. Either way, it is dangerous. The ownership bet heavily on this season - several walk year contracts - and right now, we are crapping the bed.  

Some things I believe about this team:

As currently constructed, the Yankees cannot beat Baltimore. We are now a game behind in the loss column. But the O's mastery of us is in concrete. Not only do they offer a young lineup of ascending stars, but their farm system is bursting at the seams. They are the cream of the AL. This week, they fucking crushed us. 

The Yankees remain favorites for a wild card slot. They sit 10 games above the Runnin' Redsocks, which are still fumbling at .500. The rest of the AL is crapola. So... cheer up. If we make the postseason, anything can happen, right?  

Jasson Dominguez has moved into "Troubled" status. He will miss 8 weeks with a tweaked lateral, maybe show up in September - in other words, like last year. Basically, 2024 will be a wipeout. Worse, you must wonder if the Martian might turn out to be one of those overly muscled balls of twine that is perpetually fraying. Can he stay healthy? And what will all this lost developmental time do to him? 

Biden should declare the Yankee bullpen a federal disaster area, making FEMA assistance available. The search for victims should be downgraded to a recovery effort. What does it say when, on a daily basis, you're swapping out half your bullpen to Scranton? 

The Yankee defense is in a shambles, especially with base runners. Yesterday, on her pregame show, Suzyn Waldman noted that the Yankees would be working on holding runners, on timing, on stopping the running game. Then... the massacre. Yikes. 

Soon, Brian Cashman will likely seek to remake the team through trades. This is terrifying. Cashman's recent record in midsummer deals is spotty, at best. Three years ago, he delivered Joey Gallo. Two years ago, he brought Effross, Montas,Bader-Ginsburg - a disaster. Last year, he basically stood pat. Cashman excels at picking from the scrap heap, and winter trades generally fare better. But let's brace ourselves for the worst. Would the Jays offer up Jesse Barfield?  

The return of Gerrit Cole will help stabilize the rotation. Clarke Schmidt should return, and then there's that Brubaker guy - who the f knows about him? But for now, we face major concerns about closer Clay Holmes. And down in Scranton, the cupboard is bare. I mean, Tim Hill? 

Trying times. 

The Martian

 The most recent great Yankee hope, Jasson Dominguez, is out with a "significant oblique strain. "  

That means a minimum of 8 weeks sitting in a hot tub and being removed from the water with a back-hoe, so that no strain is put upon the torso. 

Then, he has to get back into baseball shape ( another month ). And let's just note that swinging a bat  " in extremis" is what causes these injuries. 

In my opinion, we will not see him in the Bronx this year.  He cannot represent "the cavalry" to rescue this shaky Yankee team. 

There are some players whose careers are marked by debilitating injuries every season. Jasson is fitting that profile to perfection.

The good news is that his Tommy John surgery could be fully healed by then. 

See you in Tampa.

Willie, Mickey, or the Duke?

"And me I always loved Willie Mays..."

    —Terry Cashman

I have a terrible confession to make. I didn't always love Willie Mays.

When I first started following baseball, as the age of eight, sportswriters were intent on asking who was better, Mays or my idol, Mickey Mantle. In the utterly partisan way of a young boy, of course I hated anyone they said was better than my guy.

It took my Uncle Bruce, one of the best people I have ever known, to set me straight, taking me to see Mays play at Shea Stadium. It is just one of the many things I owe him for. 

But the debate continues, spurred on by that Terry Cashman song: who was better? Willie, Mickey, or the Duke?

First, it's amazing that there could ever have been such a congregation of talent at one position, in one town, at the same time. It's as if Jabbar, Russell, and Chamberlain were all playing center, at the peak of their careers, in the same city. I don't think there's anything in sports really comparable to it.

The general consensus is that The Duke of Flatbush comes in a distant third, which is really astonishing, considering just how great he was. 

Snider led the decade of the 1950s in home runs—and in RBI, runs scored, and slugging. He hit 11 home runs in the World Series, good for fourth place, including two Series when he hit 4 homers—something no one else has ever done.

He was also considered an excellent baserunner and a terrific outfielder by those who saw him play. Vin Scully, for one, thought his reputation as an outfielder suffered "because of playing in a small ballpark, Ebbets Field. When he had a chance to run and move defensively, he had the grace and the abilities of DiMaggio and Mays..."

In general, it seemed, the Duke's reputation suffered from making everything look too easy.

"If Baryshnikov were a ballplayer, this is what he would look like," claimed Jim Murray. "The Duke was never off balance, out of sync. This is the way you would teach kids to swing. The Duke not only looked good striking out, he looked good popping up."

What limited his greatness was injuries—and his native California. Just 31 when the Dodgers left for L.A., The Duke never hit more than 23 home runs or had more than 370 at-bats in a season again.

Which gets it down to two.

The Mick was an incredible ballplayer—especially when you consider that he played 17 of his 18 seasons with a torn ACL that was never properly repaired. Incessant waves of other injuries followed.

Nonetheless, he was able to steal 153 bases in 191 attempts, and beat out "twenty to thirty" bunts a season, in his prime. In those 18 seasons, The Mick grounded into just 113 double-plays—about 8 a season, compared to 14 a year for Mays, and 13 for Snider. In both 1953 and 1961, he grounded into just 2 double-plays, all year long.

Coming out of the box, he was incredibly fast—3.1 seconds going from the left-handed batter's box to first, the fastest that's ever been timed. Even from the right-handed batter's box he seems to have been just a blink faster than Mays.

He was also an outstanding outfielder, much as he put down his own ability in the field. The one-handed, running catch he made in the 1956 World Series, to preserve Don Larsen's perfect game, was so far out it would've been in the seats in Ebbets Field.

So, who was better?

At his very best—and his best lasted a long time—it would have been The Mick, according to almost any modern, statistical measure: Peter Palmer and John Thorn's "batter-fielder-wins" measure for Baseball Encyclopedia, Cyril Morong's "win shares per at-bat" (which ranks Mantle second only to Babe Ruth in baseball history), and Bill James' "win shares" Sabremetric.

"Mickey Mantle was, at his peak in 1956-1957, and again in 1961-1962, clearly a greater player than Willie Mays—and it is not a close or difficult decision," declares James, who also would've awarded Mantle 9 MVP awards, instead of the 3 he received.

The key to this advantage was the rather prosaic statistic of the walk.

Mantle walked about 300 more times than Mays, in some 2,500 fewer plate appearances. He also walked 800 more times than Duke Snider, in 1,700 more plate appearances. And if the walk seems less than heroic, in baseball it is the tribute that fear pays to talent.

In their very best seasons, Snider and Mays compiled on-base percentages of .423 and .425, respectively—outstanding accomplishments. Mantle topped those marks in eight different seasons, with an OBP high of .512 in 1957. In slugging, Mantle tied Mays, at a .557 mark, lifetime, and surpassed Snider (.540).

All right, so much for statistics. 

"Mantle is superior to Mays—with a bat in his hand," writes John Thorn. "If one is to judge them as all-around players, May is superior, because he was so much better in centerfield."

Indeed. He played a better centerfield than anyone else ever did, before and after. The arm made a huge difference—Mays averaged 12 assists a year for his first 7 years in the majors. Usually, assists totals for even the greatest outfielders fall during their careers, as baserunners realize how good they are.

May had 23 assists—in 1955. It was as if the runners couldn't quite believe how good he was, even with their own eyes. Even as late as 1965, he had 13 assists—because he had started throwing behind the baserunners. No less than DiMaggio said he had the greatest outfield arm he had ever seen.

He was pretty damned good at everything else, too. And if his "peaks" didn't quite match Mantle's at the plate, he played with a stunning consistency, year after year.

He blew past The Mick with 660 lifetime home runs—and would almost certainly have been the first to break The Babe's lifetime record if he had not missed almost all of two seasons in the army. He led the NL in slugging 5 times, in OPS 5 times, batted over .300 10 years, drove in over 100 runs 10 times, and scored over 100 runs 12 times. 

On the bases, if he was an eyelash slower than Mantle going home to first, nobody ran like Mays going first-to-third, or second-to-home. He stole 338 bases in 441 attempts, leading even Ty Cobb to call him "a brilliant base stealer." 

He was the first 30-30 man in over 30 years; the first to do it in the National League, the first man to hit over 30 homers and steal over 30 bases in any seasons in the NL.

Above all, though, he was the player that New Yorkers most wanted to be. That grace, that style, that exuberance...We all felt bad for The Mick, and admired his courage, and the Brooklyn fans were amazingly forgiving of The Duke despite the way he would periodically last out at them.

But Willie Mays epitomized the city, at least as we like to see it. He was class through and through, and it was a crime to take him away.  

"Get me Scott Effross, Genius Brian. Get me Scott Effross."

Time for my annual, default reference to Gone Baby Gone, and the scene when Casey Affleck pistol-whips his way out of a Southie bar with Michelle Monaghan—all the while taunting a slug of a bartender named "Fat Dave," who sneeringly spoke of making them a martini. (See clip below.)

"Make me a martini, Fat Dave," he tells the mook, aiming a gun at him. "Make me a martini."

"Go ahead, Genius Brian. Go ahead, get me Scott Effross. Get me the next guy up on your great, dumpster-diving list, you fucking genius."

Grumble, rant, grouse.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uAgvdtpmXBk

A lyric for our time.

 

Where have you gone, Graeme Lloyd?

A fan base turns its lonely eyes to you.

Whoo-whoo-whoo.

What's that you say, Mr. Robinson?

All we do is stare into the void.

Oy, oy, oy.

Oy, oy, oy.

A tough Yankee loss may have exposed the reality of 2024: Are we simply in the wrong movie?

Shhh. Be still. Blink, if you hear me. I think the monster is gone. For now, anyway. 

He ransacked our camp, beheaded the flirty cheerleader, dismembered the frat boy and chased us into the woods with his Ronco slicer-dicer. That was 2009. We've wandered ever since. 

For 15 years, we've watched bloody scenes of madness, like last night, and it finally dawned on me: 

In this movie, the guy in the hockey mask is the star, and we are the extras. 

Consider last night. A killer loss. An out-of-body experience. It will haunt us through September, at least -and maybe worse, maybe for years. 

When you desperately rally to tie the game, you're supposed to win.

When your CF makes a fantastic, game-saving catch, you're supposed to win.

When your best pitcher valiantly returns, you're supposed to win.

And when you lose, well, you're in the wrong movie. 

For the Yankees, last night exposed several existential signs that we're simply expendables in the wrong slasher flick. 

Our trusty catcher, Jose Trevino, cannot throw out runners. Last night, the O's were 4-for-4 in SBs, and the winning run came on an errant toss into left field. This is a RED ALERT. Until something changes, teams will run wild on us. Every walk, every single, every HBP - it's like a double off the wall. We cannot stop their running games. In simple terms, we are fucked. 

Our trusty closer, Clay Holmes, cannot throw a scoreless inning. A starter might pitch into the sixth, but that still leaves three innings for the bullpen to implode. And if we do make it into the ninth, our closer has collapsed. No lead is safe. RED ALERT.

Our trusty captain, Aaron Judge, apparently cannot hold a bat. Last night, the Fates screamed for a show-stopping appearance by the Captain. With the bases loaded and the game on the line, how sad was it to watch Jahmai Jones (BA: .200) stride to the plate, while Judge flexed his fingers in the dugout? Just how bad is the hand? Yesterday, the Yankee brain trust soft-soaped his injury - then didn't let him play. What should we conclude, other than it's worse than reported? And you know what that means? A withering slump when he does return.

Without Judge and Anthony Rizzo, the Yankees have reverted to the anemic lineup of the last five years, which goes to sleep from the 6th slot onwards. We hope Ben Rice goes on a rookie tear - last night he went 1-for-3 with a walk - but really, who doesn't feel he's a future trade chip in some horrible Cashman deal, currently lurking behind the out house, like a Kitchen Magician psychopath?

For 15 years now, we've been the odd team out, lost in someone else's movie. The saddest part? This has been a great season... until, gulp, now? 

Maybe the best things ever said about Willie Mays.

 

On his first major-league hit, a titanic home run off Warren Spahn, over the left field roof of the Polo Grounds:

"The crowd...roared and cheered as though Willie had just won the World Series. It was a weird, tingly thing to be part of, because all the crowd was saying really was, 'Welcome, Willie. We've been waiting for you all our lives.'"

    —Robert Creamer

"I never saw a fucking ball leaving a fucking park so fucking fast in my fucking life."

    —Leo Durocher

On what he represented:

"[Mays] was a new kind of athlete being showcased, a player who, in contrast to most white superstars of the past, was both powerful and fast."

    —David Halberstam

On his hitting ability:

"If there was a machine invented to measure each swing of a bat, it would be proven that Mays swings with more power and bat speed, pitch for pitch, than any other player."

    —Branch Rickey

On his fielding ability:

"Willie can go get it, and Willie can bring it back."

    —Piper Davis!

"Goddammit, can't someone tell that guy this isn't the Little League?"

    —Richie Ashburn (on how far in Mays played)

"The only player I ever saw who could run hard one way and throw hard the other."

    —Umpire Jocko Conlan

"Just safe!"

    —Umpire Art Gore, after a 320-foot throw by Mays almost caught Billy Bruton, the fastest player in the NL, at the plate.

"Oh, my God, that's not human!"

    —Teammate Whitey Lockman reacting to a catch Mays made off Roberto Clemente

"The greatest catch I ever saw in my life."

    —Pee Wee Reese in 1952, after watching Mays rob Dodger Bobby Morgan with a spectacular, backhanded running catch near the 351 sign in Ebbets Field, after which Mays bounced off the ground and tumbled into the base of the wall, leaving himself cut on his elbow, thigh, and knee. (Vin Scully, in the broadcast booth, wondered in Mays were still alive.)

"He turned and ran to a place where no one can go to get the ball, starting where he started when the ball was hit. So it was more than just a great acrobatic play. It was a play that until that play was outside the realm of possibility."

    —Bob Costas, on the 1954 World Series catch

On his running ability:

"Zimmerman exploded on contact. The ball, the glove, the mask, and several pieces of Zimmerman appeared to disassemble in midair, like the cat in a Looney Tunes cartoon."

    —Charles Einstein, after watching a home plate collision between Mays and catcher Jerry Zimmerman.

"I was kind of using his head as a fulcrum or something, and actually kind of ran up one side of him and down the other, and his hand with the ball kept aiming for him but never did touch me."

    —Mays on evading Roy Campanella's tag at home plate.

"You're telling me he did the impossible!

"He did!

"Well, I ain't fixin' to believe it!"

    —Leo Durocher arguing that call with the home plate umpire.

On his personality:

"It just seemed like he could do nothing unostentatiously."

    —Arthur Daley

"Willie's exuberance was his immortality."

    —Roger Kahn

"The secret to Willie Mays is he frivolity in his bloodstream."

    —Branch Rickey

On his genius:

"It was a wonderful game, but for me the big show was Willie Mays."

    —Gen. Douglas MacArthur

"There have been two geniuses: Willie Mays and Willie Shakespeare."

    —Tallulah Bankhead

"...why is life worth living?...Well, there are certain things, I guess, that make it worthwhile...for me, I would say, Groucho Marx...and Willie Mays, and the second movement of the Jupiter Symphony, and Louie Armstrong's recording of 'Potatohead Blues,' and Swedish movies...Sentimental Education, by Flaubert, Marlon Brando, Frank Sinatra, those incredible apples and pears by Cezanne, the crabs at Sam Woe's..."

    —Woody Allen, in Manhattan

"I saw him his rookie year, one of his first games, and he hit a line drive down the right field line, a triple, and boy, watching him fly around the bases, it was electrifying."

    —Jim Bouton

"When you see someone doing something you admire, the image of that makes a mockery of all forms of bigotry."

    —President Bill Clinton

"Isn't Willie Mays wonderful?"

    —Ethel Barrymore

On what we lost:

"You're Willie Mays of Fairfield, Ala., who is part of the small talk of New York. This shall be your city as long as your talent lasts...Kids forget the squalor of your childhood as they emulate the shambling urgency of your gait. [At the Polo Grounds] Strangers, aching with loneliness, spoke to those who sat along side of them. And they mentioned your name...you brought people together in the bantering argument of sports. You made time pass for the bored with a bright rush. It is a fine accomplishment in a terrible age."

    —Jimmy Cannon

Things you may not know about that game where Mays made the catch.

 

Vic Wertz, the strapping Cleveland first baseman, had been ripping the ball all day. A two-run triple and two singles off Sal "the Barber" Maglie. After being robbed by Mays in the 8th inning, in the top of the 10th he hit a double—kept to a double only by Mays cutting it off and making a great throw, keeping Cleveland off the scoreboard.

But about that ball in the 8th...

Ball game, thought Roger Kahn, watching it fly from the lower deck of the Polo Grounds.

"None, that I recall, ever hit a ball any harder than this one by Wertz in my presence," Giants fan Arnold Hano, who would turn his experience into the book, A Day in the Bleachers.

Hano wasn't concerned at first. 

"Then I looked at Willie, and alarms raced through me," he recalled—just because Mays was running full out. "I knew then that I had underestimated, badly underestimated, the length of Hertz's blow."

"I had the ball all the way," said Willie.

This was not mere braggadocio, after the fact. On the tape that survives, you can see Mays tap his glove repeatedly as he ran half-the-length of a football field after Wertz's drive—his signal that he knew would catch it.

"This time I'm going back, a long way back, but there is never any doubt in my mind. I am going to catch this ball," he would say. "I turn and run for the bleachers. But I got it. Maybe you didn't know that, but I knew it. Soon as it got hit, I knew I'd catch this ball."

As he caught up to it, Mays reached out with the peculiar grip he'd perfected, palm out, with his fingers extended just a vital few more inches. Catching the ball as softly as possible.

"Oh, my! Caught by Mays! Willie Mays just brought this crowd to its feet with a catch that must have been an optical illusion to a lot of people. Boy!" kvelled Jack Brickhouse on NBC's national broadcast.

The crowd was actually a little late in rising, unable to quite believe it. You can see a single fan stand up, slap his forehead, and mouth the words, "Oh, my God!"

Maybe even more amazing was what Willie Mays did after he caught the ball. 

Somehow, he didn't run into the wall. Somehow, he managed to turn and whip the ball back toward home, fearful that Larry Doby might try to score from second base on a fly out—as Mays himself sometimes did.

"What I have to do is this: after I make the catch, turn. Pour all my momentum into that turn. To keep my momentum, to get it working for me, I have to turn very hard and short and throw the ball from exactly the point that I caught it. The momentum goes into my turn and up through my legs and into my throw."

And so it did.

"This has to be the best throw anybody could ever make," veteran umpire Jocko Conlan, out at second base, thought. 

He turned "like some olden statue of a Greek javelin hurler, his head twisted away to the left as his right arm swept out and around," Hano would write, producing, "the throw of a giant, the throw of a howitzer made human."

So after this, and after cutting off Wertz's double in the 10th (Wertz: "I think Willie may have made a better play on me in the tenth."), Mays walked to lead off the bottom of the 10th. Cleveland had its third-string catcher, Mickey Grasso, in the game—and Mays had noticed that, when Grasso was warming up Bob Lemon to start the inning, that the catcher seemed to have a sore arm.

He got permission from Durocher to steal if he got on—and did so, putting the winning run in scoring position. The Indians walked Hank Thompson intentionally—only to see Dusty Rhodes hit a 257-foot homer down the line.

"It was the longest out and the shortest homer of the season," Cleveland manager Al Lopez lamented afterwards. But he also conceded: "That was the greatest catch I've ever seen. Just the catch, mind you. Now put it all together. The catch. The throw. The pressure on the kid. I'd say that was the best play anybody ever made in baseball."

Arnold Hano agreed. So did Joe DiMaggio, who also praised Mays' courage for running full out, so close to the wall.

The only people who disagreed...were some of Mays' teammates. As Leo Durocher put it:

"What the fuck are you talking about? Willie makes fucking catches like that every day. Do you keep your fucking eyes closed in the press box?"

Best probably apocryphal quote about Willie Mays' most famous catch.

 

From Don "Ears" Liddle, the lefty Leo Durocher brought in to get Vic Wertz, with two men on in the 8th inning of Game 1 in the 1954 World Series at the Polo Grounds, September 29, 1954.

After Wertz hit a ball 450-460 feet that Mays pulled down, Durocher leapt up and immediately took him out. 

Liddle, on returning to the bench:

"I got my man."

Almost certainly apocryphal. But too good not to use.

Let's hope baseball has evolved beyond the point where the O's should pay for hitting Judge and Gleyber.

With great and bold, statesmanlike morality, the Voldemort Orioles today are assuring the world that last night's knockdowns of Aaron Judge and Gleyber Torres - resulting in both players being hit on the hands - were mere "accidents," and - thus - under the Queen's unwritten rules of baseball etiquette, the Yankees should not retaliate.

I believe I speak for the Yankiverse in saying: 

We couldn't agree more! 

Hey, the x-rays came back negative, right? Thus, there's absolutely no need to plunk Gunnar Henderson and/or Anthony Santander, merely to hear the plaintive, revenge-induced crack of their lower ribs. 

Why, we're all one big happy family, the AL East, right? If the Yankees were to lose their captain and MVP for, say, a month, certainly, the Orioles would feel terrible about it. But there would be no reason for the Yankees to seek cold revenge. 

Petty vengeance-seeking, as a means to enforcing on-field justice, belongs in the distant past. After all, boys will be boys. The last thing anyone wants would be for an O's hitter to be shaved, or maybe take a fastball hard in the wrist, as retribution for their pitchers last night repeatedly - accidentally, of course! - drilling our players. 

I say this because - well, let's face it - tonight, the Yankees plan to start Gerrit Cole, without the luxury of six weeks of spring training. He'll be shaking off months of rust - a recipe for disaster, which - hopefully - will not be misinterpreted. 

Let's all cobble together our best juju in the hope that Cole does not suffer an accidental bout of wildness when - say - Aubrey Rutschman steps to the plate. It would ruin the game for everyone if the Orioles were forced to face the unfortunate consequences of an errant pitch, a completely accidental happenstance that has no business finding acceptance in the modern game. 

Cheers to Voldemort players today for bravely stepping up to pooh-pooh last night's pitching accidents, and thus extend an olive branch to their rivals. Let's all hope for a moratorium on "accidents." The last thing we'd want would be for O player to be felled by a 98-mph mistake. Certainly not during Hope Week!

Ben Rice gets the call

 The Yankees have made a move. Rice up to the Bronx. He could play tonight. Dare we dream?

The most perilous Yankee period is upon us: It's Cashman Time

Well, the Babadook is here. 

We should have foreseen it, when Anthony Rizzo last week showed modest signs of primordial life. Rizzo homered dramatically against KC, temporarily salvaging a game that, in the end, would become a walk-off debacle. He followed with a 2-hit game, marching to the "Get hot & get hurt" mantra that has haunted Yankee hitters for a decade.

By now, you know that Rizzo will miss 4-to-6 weeks with a broken wrist. The way the Yankee front office soft-soaps injuries, it's reasonable to expect him to miss 6-to-8 weeks, if not longer. That would put his return in September, when God knows where the Yankees will be, and whether an open slot will exist for him. 

Considering the team's a $6 million 2025 buyout option - (as opposed to paying him $17 million) - the Anthony Rizzo Era may have ended with the Yankees. Between now and September, it's hard to imagine Cooperstown Cashman standing pat at 1B, especially the way DJ LeMahieu has been driving balls into the ground. 

Whatever happens - (thinking Yank fans always fear the worst) - it will likely cost Rizzo his future in the Bronx. Six weeks away from his 35th birthday, the guy was hitting just .223 with 8 HRs. Among MLB starting first basemen, Rizzo ranked 22nd out of 24 in OPS (a meager .630), just ahead of Detroit's recently demoted Spencer Torkelson.  

In a nutshell, the Babadook. At Scranton, the Yankees have a 6'5" oak named TJ Rumfield, who is batting .303 but with only 5 HRs. He's said to be good with a glove, and he bats LH, which helps. He's 24, signed out of Virginia Tech, and I gotta believe the fan base would love to see a broad-shouldered galoot, who at least looks good coming off the bus. But who are we kidding? Five HRs? Cashman wants something with pop.  

There's also Ben Rice, a 25-year-old ex-Dartmouth Greenie - (Alphonso's alma mater, by the way) - who is still listed as a catcher, though  he's transitioning to first. At Scranton, he's 14 for 42 (.333) with 3 HRs. (He had 12 HRs at Double A, so there's power.) But we must worry about his glove. Also, he bats RH, a bummer. 

Which means Cashman is working the phones. One possibility: 37-year-old Jose Abreu, who was released last week by the Astros, after compiling some of the worst numbers north of Joey Gallo. Abreu was hitting .124 with 2 HRs, and he bats RH, without a platoon pathway. The only advantage: Houston will pay his salary. 

Somewhere out there, some journeyman 1B might soon receive the opportunity of a lifetime - being injected into NYC pennant race. But Yank fans have every reason to fear the worst. The Babadook is here. Voldemort. Baltimore...

It's beginning to look a lot like...1973.

 

Your New York Yankees looked stacked, a combination of youth and experience that many were picking to win their division—not to mention the pennant or even the World Series. They seemed to have it all, and after a shaky start, they scrapped their way into first place in May. 

There they would remain for weeks, led by two beloved stars, a deep starting staff, and a young hitter taking a run at a historic batting mark.  

Then came a pivotal series with the Red Sox...

I'm talking about your 1973 Yankees, of course. 

After surprising everyone with a run at the division late in the 1972 season, the Yanks had added a slick-fielding, power-hitting third baseman named Graig Nettles, and a second Alou brother—Mateo, a former NL batting champ who was supposed to close an oozing sore in right field—to their core duo of Thurman Munson and Bobby Murcer.

Their rotation looked as deep as it had been in years—Mel Stottlemyre, Fritz Peterson, Steve Kline, Doc Medich, and Mike Kekich—with 1972 Fireman of the Year Sparky Lyle, workhorse Lindy McDaniel, and newcomer Fred Beene, in the bullpen (a trio I would take over the thousands currently occupying space in the 2024 Yankees' pen).

Then came spring training, and the whole Peterson-Kekich wife swap thing almost sunk the team before it was out of its moorings. Kekich was soon gone, and Peterson had the worst single year of his Yankee career. Kline, a hugely promising righty who had been leading the AL in ERA well into 1972, blew out his arm and never did recover.

Still, the Yanks picked up old Orioles stalwart Pat Dobson for a song, and bought Sudden Sam McDowell. Jim Ray Hart, the Giants slugger, was also picked up for cash. Most of all, though, the Yanks were boosted by "The Hebrew Hammer," Ron Blomberg, who—buoyed by the new DH rule—was batting .403 as late as June 28th.

On July 1st, after a four-game sweep of Cleveland, the Yanks were 45-33, with a 4-game lead—the latest they had been in first place since 1964, 9 years earlier.

Then the BoSox came into town for a big, Fourth of July weekend set of five games. The Yanks lost 4 of the 5, as their hitting and fielding collapsed.

They were able to cling on to first for almost another month, until August 3rd, but then a disastrous series up in Fenway knocked them out of the top spot. 

In the end, they finished 80-82, 17 games out, in fourth place.

What went wrong?

Not the pitching held up, which finished third in the AL behind only division winner Baltimore and World Series champ, Oakland. Munson and Murcer both had excellent seasons. But Bloomberg's average fell all the way to .329, Nettles and Roy White had almost their very worst, full seasons as Yankees; and Matty Alou performed the almost-statistically-impossible feat of batting .296, with a .694 OPS and just 28 runs batted in.

Meanwhile, in that summer of '73, there were odd rumblings across town. 

The New York Mets had fumfahed about for most of the summer, a seeming collection of misfits and has-beens who had fallen as low as 44-57 on the season. Their year was almost the diametrical opposite to the Yankees'. They spent everyday from June 1st through August 7th in last place, and as late as August 30th they were still in the cellar.

Then they became the "Ya Gotta Believe!" Mets, making a raggedy, 21-8 charge to the finish line, as their division collapsed around them like L.A. in that John Cusack movie about how the Mayans were right.

With all sorts of marginal players—such as Ron Hodges, seen here—making contributions, the Metsies finished 82-79, still the worst record ever, I think, for a baseball division winner in a completed season, and derailed the Big Red Machine in the NLCS, with Battling Buddy Harrelson taking on Pete Rose.

The Mets even led the World Series, 3 games to 2, before Reggie put an end to all their nonsense, with two big games in Oakland. 

This year, you may have noticed, after a completely putrid, 22-33 start, the Mets have started to turn it around, winning 5 in a row and 11 out of their last 15. (Five RBI for Pete Alonso yesterday, by the by. Still against giving up Gleyber to get him?)

Could this be what we're looking at? The start of another miracle run in Queens, while our boys collapse in the Bronx???

Well, no. The Mets don't have anything like the Seaver-Koosman-Matlack rotation that got them to the brink of a World Series title. 

But they could easily make the playoffs, with 40 percent of the teams going now. I would put them at even money with the Yankees to do so—and I could easily see a scenario where there is no October for our guys at all.

Hey, it's happened before.

 

Or... We Could Look At It This Way

 

We're going to be just fine! 

Why? If you read between the lines it becomes obvious that last weekend's pathetic, embarrassing, horrendous showing on national TV and to our armed forces around the world, was just a little bit of gamesmanship designed to sand bag our future opponents. 

Nine stolen bases? That doesn't happen in little league, much less to an All-Star Catcher. 

Sure, let future teams think their offense can run wild and them BANG! Trevino comes to life and nails a guy at second with the game on the line! 

Clever Cashman

Last night we stood witness to the brilliant execution of Brian’s master plan to destroy the Red Sox. Think about it, they have a new GM, Craig Breslow, who has been tasked with reviving a moribund franchise. They have been truly marginal all year and he is about to embark on his first trading deadline.

Cashman lured them into a Pyric Series Victory™   

Prior to this weekend the Sox had to be in “Sell” mode. But now, with taking two out of three from the NL Champion Phillies, and humiliating the AL’s best he has to go, “Hmmmmn this team is just a couple of pieces away. Certainly a Wild Cad spot is attainable." 

And so, he will switch to "Buy", insuring that the Red Sox remain, essentially losers for another three years. By not going into full tank mode they don’t get that full and lasting rebuild, the likes of which the Orioles, and the Astros before them just completed.

Rizzo

As to Rizzo’s “injury”. It appears he was hip checked into falling on his sword.

Rizzo is an honorable man who knows that he is at the end and can not play to his standard. I saw the slow motion of the collision and the aftermath. It didn’t look too bad. Yet there he was writhing on the ground like a French soccer experiencing nicotine withdrawal during a match. No longer a “Danger Man” Rizzo did the honorable thing. He hurt himself.

Let’s see Ben Rice for seven days. It’s a tough call because he’s just learning first but, why not?  

If the other problematic Yankees lack this level of nobility perhaps the Yankees could arrange for a golf cart containing  Torres, Stanton, and DJ to have a  minor fender bender. Have Gleyber drive. 

“But officer I thought I could get across the intersection. Who knew there was a school bus in the crosswalk? “

As to the bullpen…

Cole back. Poteet to middle relief as he becomes the next Michael King. This will reduce the number of times Weaver and Tonkin are called upon. Find a real closer and give Holmes less stressful innings and he will straighten out as well.

Gil will figure it out. 

Stroman is our number four not our number one or two. He’s a very good number four. He’s not an ace. He’s a better than average four who more often then not gives us enough for us to stay in the game. And we were in the game right up until that bases loaded meltdown by the offense.

So Take a deep breath... now cough. Again, cough. 

The Yankees will be fine. You have a hernia. 

 

Embarrassed and undressed on national TV, the Yankees prepare for Baltimore - and maybe second place in the AL East

 Well, that was fun, while it lasted.

First place. Best record in baseball. 

The Promised Land, that is. 

The feeling that this was it, that something important was happening in the Bronx, ending the malaise. We'd win the series at Fenway, knock Boston below .500, and then welcome Baltimore with the pitchforks and torches they deserve. 

It looked hopeful, yesterday... a million years ago.

Instead, the Yankees today look battered and beaten in every aspect of play. Last night, to a national audience, they played their worst game of 2024, crapping the bed in newly creative manners, a month of mediocrity crammed into nine innings... and, perhaps, a bellwether of what's to come. 

How did we lose? My god. Let me count the ways.

1. The bullpen is shot. What was recently being hailed as baseball's best reliever corps now looks like a bunch of scrapheap redemption projects facing their market corrections. Ian Hamilton and Luke Weaver had been two YES fairy tales of hope. Now, Hamilton's ERA sits at 4.45, and Weaver last night was pasted an ERA is 2.74 and climbing. Clay Holmes has blown four saves, most among MLB closers, and  Tommy Kahnle (ERA 4.50) is starting to look like a dud. The only good news from last night: We didn't have to watch Holmes blow a save. (We saved that for the Baltimore series, eh?) 

2. The starters are wilting. Friday night, you could feel the air leaking from Luis Gil, and he shuffled from one jam to another. He's had a great half season, but he's not Cy Young. We can celebrate the impending return of Gerrit Cole, but he must throw several pain free outings before we can count on anything. And this weekend, the comebacks of Carlos Rodon and Marcus Stroman were placed on hold. Both were outpitched by no-names. Sad. 

3. Jose Trevino's defense has collapsed. He has the slowest throw to second base in the majors, according to ESPN, and the Redsocks just floated that news on a Goodyear blimp. It was humiliating last night, watching them run on every first pitch, without abandon, and easily beating his throws (that is, if he bothered to make them.) The message to MLB: Run, run, run on Trevino. Considering that Austin Wells is supposed to be an offensive catcher, this is Defcon Four. We have an open hole in the raft. 

Meanwhile, as Boston ran around the bases, the Yankees countered with Giancarlo Stanton, the Trotter, who can barely reach first on a drive to the outfield wall. Last night, it was hard to remind yourself that the Yankees were the team in first, and Boston was straddling .500.  

4. Everywhere, our defense looked sloppy. A catchable fly dropped in front of  the languid Alex Verdugo and the listless Aaron Judge, leading to a big inning. DJ LeMahieu, playing first after Anthony Rizzo went out with an injury, looked slow on a line drive into right - one of those plays that he used to make. Everywhere, the Yankees played slovenly. The crowd got it right: "Yankees suck." They did. 

5. I cannot overlook Gleyber Torres' impressive strikeout with the bases loaded in the 7th, before the game rocketed out of reach. Ahead 3-0 in the  count, he took two pitches right down the middle for strikes (which, I suppose, was okay; I mean, they weren't going to give him the green light, eh?) then swung at a ridiculous pitch in the dirt. He greased the wheels for a bases loaded, no outs, zero. The Yankees didn't score, and all hope flew out the window.  

Until last night, I believed Torres could save his season and - perhaps - his Yankee career. Now, he's looking like a Josh Donaldson. He's not getting any better. 

6. Along with losing Rizzo, who had shown slight hopeful signs lately, the Yankees lost Jasson Dominguez last night in Scranton. An oblique injury. Not only could he miss several weeks, but there's another thing here... the injuries that seem to keep happening with this kid. Is he another walking bag of tweaks, too muscular for his own good? Obviously, the jury is out on that question, but this is really bad news, as the Yankees get ready for their own inevitable wave of troubled gonads. 

7. A dreadful night and weekend, leading into Baltimore's arrival Tuesday. By this time next week, the Yankees could be in second place in the AL East, proudly leading the AL in their new, 2024 wild card quest! Something to look forward to, eh? 

Carmines Game Thread

 

Best record in baseball. Gerrit Cole returning. The Martian rising, and yet... a stinker like last night makes you wonder what's coming?

Yesterday, in a beery summer delirium, I joked to Alphonso that the Death Barge - having crushed Boston Friday night - would probably be down by 5 in the 1st, leading to self-harm and throbbing pustules, because that's Chinatown Fenway, Jake. Of course, I was using reverse juju, predicting the worst, even though both of us were smirking, sure that had Boston square in our nutcrackers. 

Yep. This year would be different. No collapse. No stress. No injuries. This year, we boast baseball's best hitting tandem, plus an airtight rotation, soon to get a Viagra boost from Gerrit Cole. This was our year, right?

Yeah, sure, uh-huh, whatever. So, what happened? You know it. We're instantly down by 3, and every time we cut their lead, they roll us back. A crumbling loss to a team that was imminently crushable and on the verge of collapse. And tonight, we can lose the series, while their frat boy fans hurl creative obscenities at us.  

That zing, that dominance, we showed Friday, behind Verdugo... it can be forgotten tomorrow. 

Listen... there are massive reasons to be cocks of the walk over the 2024 Yankees. I can't sit here and righteously whine about life, when our team has baseball's best record. But here's the rub: 

We should be eight games up on Baltimore, not merely one in the loss column.

We've been lucky with injuries, which always lurk around the corner.

And tonight, we can fall into one of those Fenway potholes, the kind that have ruined our last 15 seasons. 

How many Redsock teams were on the verge of folding, only to be revived by the defibrillating sensibility of an October-like series with the Yankees? And how many times have we floundered, just as the fan base began to believe? 

It's sad to write this, but we have all been here before. 

The modern Yankee trope is to fall apart, right around now. 

It can happen due to injuries. It can happen due to a closer meltdown. It can happen without reason. 

It's great to be baseball's best team. Really, it is. The problem? It's just June. Tonight, we should be chasing a sweep. Instead, we're trying to stave off a revived rival. There is no rest, no peace, no feelings of safety. The Orioles are coming, and we better be ready.

Game Thread and a Compromise

 OK, forget this Ryan McBroom stuff... 

He's a jinx.

How about this guy instead?