Yankees say groveling supplicant session with Soto and Boras "went well."

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Hot news from the Yankee News Network: The Yankees are said to be pleased with themselves. As usual.

Word from the Death Barge brain trust is that their lengthy, coffee-and-donuts talk with Juan Soto and Scott Boras this week did not erupt into, say, fisticuffs or a stabbing. Nobody's fly was unzipped. Nobody puked on the floor. Both sides spoke respectfully and cheerfully - a good time had by all! The Yankees made their elevator pitch, their water-cooler performance, their Power Point presentation and their art show oral sex skit, seeking to woo Soto to another year in the Bronx, at a price tag of probably $65 million per season. 

Once Soto chooses his future home, the rest of baseball can begin strategizing for 2025. 

Insert sigh here.

Look... we can sit back and replay the old bits, carping about the obscene amounts of money paid to athletes. But I'm 72, and throughout all of my periods of semi-awareness, I cannot recall a time when old-coots were not complaining about the money made by today's stars. It's normalcy, the way of the world.

And never once did the amounts of money made by the owners receive equal billing.  

It's impossible to gauge how much Soto deserves to be paid, unless we know how much Hal Steinbrenner is regularly banking, and those figures generally don't get reported. When people talk about Steven Cohen's wealth, the amount seems almost theoretical - closer to infinity than absolute zero. And both are paupers, compared to Elon Musk. 

So why are we so obsessed with and - at times - angry over what the players make? Yeah, some are pampered assholes, groomed as future millionaires by age 16. But the same can be said of many of the owners. Is it because the players are often Blacks or Latinos, who grew up poor or middle class, while the owners are almost always old money WASPs? Or is that too easy an explanation? In my life, I've never figured it out.

So, we sit here... 

We're Estragon and Vladimir, waiting for Godot. We're Charlie Brown and Linus, waiting in the pumpkin patch. We're Hal and Cashman, wondering if our jokes clanked and if we should have worn a tie? We're waiting for a decision, a verdict on our worthiness and wealth.

Meanwhile, good news, everybody: The Yankees are pleased with themselves. 

An Above Average Haiku Tuesday ~ If this had been an actual Emergency ~ Edition !

 

Can a rookie of the year save an aging Yankee rotation?

Kudos to Luis Angel Gil (rhymes with wheel), AL Rookie of the Year - who went 15-7, with an ERA of 3.50. Fukkinay! 

It's no small feat. Consider the last 10 AL ROYs, a star-studded list of power lunchers and product influencers: Gunner Henderson, Julio Rodriguez, Randy Arozarena, Kyle Lewis, Yordan Alvarez, Shohei Ohtani, Aaron Judge, Michael Fulmer, Carlos Correa and Jose Abreu. Yikes. That's a future Fox Sports in-game panel. 

Trouble is, aside from Gil (rhymes with meal) only one of the above - Fulmer - happens to pitch. (Ohtani thinks about it.) And Fulmer has had noticeably less success than the others. In fact, he crapped out in year two, struggled for several seasons in Detroit and is now bullpen fodder for the Cubs. 

For rookie pitchers, the concern is always the volume of innings piled onto their shoulders, wings and ribs. Gil threw 150 this year, well above expectations. Can he repeat it? Guy's already had TJ surgery once. Let's just say... dunno.

Here are the ages our starters will be next year.

Gerrit Cole, 34
Marcus Stroman, 34
Carlos Rodon, 32
Luis Gil, 27
Nester Cortez, 30
Clarke Schmidt, 29
Cody Poteet, 30
Will Warren, 26
Clayton Beeter, 26

Nobody knows what to expect from Cole. I gotta believe The Pointer will be determined to make the world forget his recent Game 5 Inning 5 debacle, of which he played a starring role. Sadly, it stands as his spotlight October moment. It was interesting last month when he flirted with becoming a free agent, and then abruptly changed his mind - I think - because the Yankees had no interest in adding another year to his contract. He needs a comeback year. He needs a world series.

But it's hard to assess this staff. Truth be told, aside from Seattle, nobody, nowhere, has too much pitching. The Yankees also look meager in the bullpen, where we must buy into the notion that Luke Weaver is for real and can last a season as closer. He pitched wonderfully in our darkening final month, but how far can we expect that run to continue? 

This team sure could use a free agent, somebody who can throw 150 innings and win 15 games. But for now, that's another world. Everyone is thinking of Juan Soto. Let's just hope the reigning AL Rookie of the Year has a career more like the hitting stars rather than the few pitchers who are so honored. The Yankee staff looks precariously old. 

Your 2024 AL Rookie of the Year - New York Yankees Starting Pitcher - Luis Gil

C O N G R A T U L A T I O N S !

 

Dear Mr. Steinbrenner, your mission is simple: Keep Juan and carry on.

Dear Madam or Sir, 

Over the next few weeks, you will hear desperate, shrill, otherworldly screams - the wailing of banshees, demons and janitors from Hell. Sadly, some of those sounds will come from me.

Listen: We can make the 2025 Yankees more complicated than an egg-bacon-and-provolone-melt-on-a toasted-everything-bagel, jelly-on-the-side... questioning whether $60 million can be better spent next year on infield, or defense, or bullpen sewer backups. But our best strategy is, actually, quite simple. 

Sign Juan Soto. It's not about 2025. It's about the next 10 years. It's about a Hall of Fame career, and which hat will be worn into Cooperstown. It's about preserving a legacy of the Bronx Bombers. It's about your life's work.

Sign Juan Soto, and everything - eventually, somehow - will fall into place.

Sign Juan Soto, and over the next 10 years - at least the next five - the Yankees will field the greatest one-two punch in baseball. 

Sign Juan Soto, and the Yankees will be - well - the Yankees. They won't dislodge the Dodgers as baseball's premier franchise, but they will keep testosterone rights to NYC and regularly reach the postseason. Nobody will accuse you of being a cheap nepo baby. (Unless you crap out in future bidding wars.)

Sign Juan Soto, and the Yankees could see their greatest OF since 1961 - (Mantle, Maris, Berra) - with Soto, Judge and Jasson Dominguez or Spencer Jones, assuming (hopefully) that either proves worthy. 

Sign Juan Soto, and you will have met the responsibilities that you inherited 54 years ago, while suckling on your mother's teat. 

This isn't about 2025. It's about 2027, when Soto will be 28 and entering his prime. (Judge will be 35, entering his twilight.) Whatever you pay Soto that year, it will look paltry compared to the ransoms for other free agents. (Bobby Witt Jr. Anthony Volpe?) 

Sign Juan Soto, and you can sleep through January. (I'd prefer you keep spending; but we'll understand.) Buy a coffee shop. Drive the country in your Winnebago. Join a canasta league. Have you ever visited the Grand Canyon of Pennsylvania? I'm not making this up. Bring bear spray!

Sign Juan Soto, and we'll survive the loss of Gleyber and Verdugo - aka Gleydugo. But we will not be the team - and you will not be the owner - that had the reincarnation of Mantle & Maris... and pissed it away. 

Sign Juan Soto, or prepare to regret it for the rest of your life.

Keep Juan and carry on. 

Caleb Durbin leads Caleb Durbin-led Salt River Rafters to Arizona Fall League championship, featuring Caleb Durbin

Caleb Durbin went 0-4 but drew a walk, as the surprising Surprise Saguaros, won the Arizona Fall League championship game in Durbinesque fashion, by a score of 3-2. 

Durbin led off the game by setting the pace for a tight battle: He hit a foul pop that was caught by the catcher. Damn. In the third, he lined out to the left-fielder. In the fifth, he drew a walk. (There was a runner on second, so the greatest base-stealer in Arizona Fall League history could not steal. Damn.) In the seventh, he flew out "sharply" to the left-fielder. In the ninth, Durbin grounded out "softly" to the SS. No word on how close the play was at first. Damn.

Next up, the 5'6" utility Arizona base-stealing legend will prepare for mid-February, when pitchers and catchers arrive in Tampa, for the Caleb Durbin-led 2025 Yankees.

There is some yatta-yatta about the championship game, which involved other prospects, from other teams. Honestly, who cares? Caleb Durbin! Ca-Durb! C-Dur! The Durb! That's all we need to know. 

By flirting with Boston, Juan Soto plays with fire.

A snippet from yesterday's world wide web: 

"While the two sides did not discuss years or dollars, (Juan) Soto reportedly came away 'impressed' by Boston’s plans for the future."

Okay. Fine. Whatever. I have no truck with Juan Soto kicking tires, flushing toilets and ruffling the couch for crumbs of Cheetos. That's what you do. Nor is it disloyalty to hype all bidders, to rouse an auction to the highest levels of fiscal absurdity. Surely, that's what Soto was doing this week, when he spent three hours with Redsock happy-talkers. Surely, he was just gassing the fire, seeking to squeeze a few more dimes from the billionaires, as he conjures the fattest deal in baseball history.

That said, it's time we discuss what Soto's next contract cannot guarantee: His career legacy in New York.

Last season, from day one, Soto was cheered and toasted by fans of both the Mets and Yankees, who saw him as a generational star for their teams. With rare exceptions - usually, codgers who saw him as a showboat - Soto won renown from the Gammonites and talk radio blowhards who shape public opinion, and who can be incredibly cruel. He was never ripped. He was never booed. From April to October, Soto received complete adulation and - in turn - he gave Gotham a season to remember. 

But here's the rub: If spurned, unforgiving NYC fans will give Soto a decade of seasons that he'll never forget.

If Soto rides off to Boston, it would be viewed as an absolute betrayal, the type that causes jerseys to be torched in public, and which rouses catcalls from the earliest crevices of spring. I'm talking about a sea of flaming hot negativity. Not scattered boos, but walls of them.

Not only that, but if Soto runs to the Mets, he will instantly enflame half of the NYC fan base. He would, in effect, piss on a Yankee team that gave him nothing but love throughout 2024. He will instantly soar to No. 1 on the IT IS HIGH personal vendetta shit list. That means juju - bad juju - and we'll see if he ever repeats the numbers of last year. 

This is not a threat. It's a whine, a whinny, a bleat. On the dark side of every love affair, there is a broken heart that burns for retribution. In 2024, Soto became a great Yankee. If he returns to the Bronx, though I'm sure Met fans will feel a bit used, the sports world will know that he responded to the treatment he received last year. 

And if he runs off to, say, Boston, I hope his newfound wealth can buy him a set of noise-canceling headphones. And when he calls to make reservations at his favorite restaurant, I hope they slam down the phone. There is a dark side of the moon. Just sayin...

A Tribute to Three Twirlers, Pt. I

 

I should have done this when all three first died. Maybe it would've helped our World Series karma. But belatedly, here is the beginning of my tribute to three wonderful pitchers from back in the day:  Luis Tiant, Fernando Valenzuela, and Rudy May...

I went to see Luis Tiant pitch against the Yankees in Fenway Park on June 26^th, 1975. It was a Thursday night, a showdown series with the Red Sox, who were a-game-and-a-half behind us in the AL East. All I could get was an obstructed view seat, behind a steel pillar.

 

First batter, Tiant hits Walt “No Neck” Williams with a pitch. Roy White drew a walk, and I’m thinking El Tiante is off, maybe we can win this. Chris Chambliss lines a ball to right, really hammers it…and Bernie Carbo, of all people, makes a great catch against the wall—so great he knocks himself out and falls to the ground in a daze. 

 

Carbo is so out of it that Williams tags up at second and goes all the way around to score, because back in 1975 even back-up outfielders named No Neck knew how to run. And that was it—for the Yankees.  

 

In the time it took them to peel Carbo off the warning track and prop him up again, Luis Tiant did whatever he needed to do to turn things around. He did not give up another run. 

The whole rest of the night, sitting behind that damned pole, I got to see Tiant pitch in sections. On one side of the pole was his good right arm. On the other was his big old gut, both frozen there in his damned hesitation wind-up. 

 

The Sox beat us that night, 6-1. They beat us the next night, 9-1, pushing us out of first. They won three-of-four, and that was really it for your New York Yankees that season.

 

The Sox had one of those marvelous, miraculous seasons, and lost a heartbreaking World Series to the Big Red Machine (one of those heartbreaking seasons we Yankees fans have come to understand more and more under Brian Cashman). 

Tiant almost won it all for them. He pitched a five-hit shutout in Game One, and started the game-winning rally with a single off Don Gullett—after not having hit all year.  He then hung on to win Game Four, 5-4, pitching the sort of game we will never see again, a 155-pitch, complete-game victory.

The Reds finally caught up to him in Game Six, but even then he didn’t lose, the Sox rallying on those dramatic, incredible, woo-hoo home runs by Carbo and Carlton Fisk, when all New England danced, and they rang the church bells at midnight, and blah-blah-blah.

Boy, I hated those guys, growing up as a Yankees fan in Massachusetts! But I gotta admit, it was hard to hate Luis Tiant, even then. Already bald, a cigar jammed into his mouth after every win like some kind of Cuban Red Auerbach. That gut. 

El Tiante’s roots went way deep in the game. His father, also Luis Tiant, was a star for the old New York Cubans. He played his last eight seasons in New York, going 9-0 and winning the Negro League championship for the Cubans, and he could have had those seasons for the Yankees, if not for the soulless ratfucks who kept the sport segregated.

Tiant, Sr., looked like a stick compared to his son, just 5-10 and 150 pounds, probably because he had bad teeth. (He used to take out his dentures and twirl them around on the team bus.) He was also a southpaw, which seems really strange, but somehow his son was still a chip off the old block.

Tiant, Jr., started playing for the Mexico City Tigers, in 1959. He made the Indians by 1964, and was a winner right away, even for bad Cleveland teams. In 1968, he went 21-9 with a 1.60 ERA, 9 shutouts, and 264 K’s in 258 innings. Impressive, even if it was “The Year of the Pitcher.”

He also blew out his arm, losing 20 games in 1969. He had to reinvent himself in Boston as a control artist, an amalgam of changing speeds and funky windups. He won over 20 games three times for the Red Sox, and I was just glad it was Mike Torrez we had to face in that 1978 playoff game in Boston, not Luis Tiant.

We signed him ourselves the next year, because that’s how the Yankees used to operate, stealing the heart away from the teams we were trying to beat. Munson died and Goose got injured, and we didn’t come close that season. But one quiet Sunday afternoon in Oakland, July 8^th, 1979, Luis Tiant went out and came one hit short of pitching a perfect game. He gave up a single to Rickey Henderson, leading off the fourth inning. (He got Rickey for the last out of the game.)

One hit short of a perfect game, one hit surrendered to one of the greatest players in the history of baseball, for 38-year-old Luis Tiant. It would have been a great last touch to an amazing career. But he was great enough as it was. It was an honor to have him on our team, an honor to watch him pitch against us.

And no, he did not appear on an episode of Baretta in the 1970s.

RIP, Luis Tiant.

13 reasons why the Tampa Rays will win 2025 world series, playing in George M Steinbrenner Field

1. Every game sold out. (Steinfield seats 11,026.)

2. No more tarps to cover sections of empty bleachers.

3. Hateful Rays can pretend to be Tampa Tarpons, Yank farm club. 

4. Right field porch, contoured to Yankee Stadium, will boost Ben Rortvedt HR numbers. 

5. No more jarring, relentless, dome-echoed sound effects. (You're welcome, Suzyn!)

6. Eventually, Rays will discover Cashman's secret LADIES room peephole.

7. Grass. (Does it actually grow in summer?)

8. End to ground-rule doubles off ceiling catwalks.

9. Extra incentive: If Rays win world series, Hal will shoot self.

10. Rays rent only $15 million, less than a Marcus Stroman.

11. Rays get home team shower, only one that works.

12. Players remain within 80-minute drive to Gomorrah: Sarasota. 

13. At last, something to do in Tampa between hurricanes.

For whatever it's worth, I'm glad the Yankees are doing the right thing. But couldn't they require that the Rays, after each win, play "New York, New York?" 

Big game ahead

Important Note: Caleb Durbin and his River Rafters take on always-tough Scottsdale in the AFL semifinal Friday at 6:35 MST. 

The winner advances to Saturday's championship game against the Surprise Saugaros!

Dumb, I mean done deal

 Dave "Baby" Sims (71) is the new Voice of the Yankees, multiple sources are reporting. Two year deal. Suzyn will reportedly remain.

Face It: He's Gone.

 

I keep thinking these days of the last thing that Hank Schrader said to Walter White in Breaking Bad: 

 

“You’re the smartest guy I know, but you’re too dumb to see he made up his mind ten minutes ago.”

 

Hal Steinbrenner made up his mind about Juan Soto ten months ago, or even longer, probably before we ever sent five players off to San Diego for him on December 7, 2023, a date which will live in Yankee infamy. 

What we got to see for his efforts was Soto sitting alone in the dugout at the end, looking as if he could smell the aroma of departed greatness somewhere around him, from those times when the New York Yankees grabbed up generational players and held on to them for dear life. 

 

But that was many years ago, in a stadium across the street, and besides the wench is dead.

 

It has been asserted by many that Soto’s satanic agent, Scott Boras, would have insisted he test the free-agent market this winter, no matter what offer the Yanks might have made. But of course there were other ways for the Bombers to signal their interest, at least during the time when they held the exclusive rights to negotiate with Soto. (Something that would seem to be the main point of acquiring him at the cost of so many pitchers.)

One might have been a pre-emptive nuclear strike of a contract, one that would have sent even Scott Boras scuttling for his gold-plated, agent's fallout shelter. But apart from that, Brian Cashman and Hal Steinbrenner might have taken Soto out on the town. They might have talked constantly of how they wanted him to stay, how they saw him following in the tradition of the greatest Yankees superstars. How invaluable he was to the team, how they would top any offer.

 

“He wooed me like a woman,” or words to that effect, was what Reggie Jackson said about George Steinbrenner’s whirlwind courtship of the slugger, back in November of 1976. 

 

George’s heir could easily have done the same. But there has not been a peep out of him or Cashman all year long, and there won’t be one now. Instead, we all know that Hal & Pal are preoccupied in coming up with some strategy not for signing Soto—or any big-contract replacement—but for choreographing their Dance of Failure.

 

They will come in second in the Soto bidding—or really third, and say they’re second—then try to appease us by hauling in some much older, already declining player, like Alex Bregman or Pete Alonso.

 

They’ll do this not because it’s a real plan—the Yankees under Hal & Pal don’t actually make plans, they just bob and weave, and clutch their analytics. They are a small-market team in a big city, but smart as they are at maximizing their money—if Juan Soto signs with the Mets—they are going to be dead in the water.

The Yankees apparently intend to replace Gleyber and Verdugo with a burst of gaslighting.

Monday, in the Death Barge complex, Aaron Boone sang for his supper, blathering hope for the 2025 Yankees based on two prospects who seemingly belong on NPR's Tiny Desk Concerts.  

Of 5'9" Jasson Dominguez - aka The Martian - Boone said: "I'm in that camp of people that think he's going to be a great player!"

Of 5'6" Caleb Durbin - aka The Greatest Base Stealer in Arizona Fall League History - Boone said: "I'm excited about him, I think he's gonna play a big role for us this upcoming season!"

And there you have it. The Yankees will soon lose Gleyber Torres and Alex Verdugo - (and, probably, Juan Soto) - but don't worry, people: The farm system will save our bacon.

Yeah, right. Isn't it fun to think? That the Yankees possess a vibrant wellspring of young talent, an abundant system of player development? Close your eyes and breathe. Savor the scent of the barn yard. Embrace the hype. Become one with the gas lights. No cause to worry. The earth provideth. 

Keep in mind, the Yankees have one player - 1 - in the current Top 100 MLB prospects list: Dominguez - who'll turn 22 in February - ranks 14th. (For whatever it's worth, Boston has three - 3 - in the Top 10.) Thus far in his five-year career, Dominguez has achieved two mileposts: a) the cool nickname, "The Martian" and b) the biggest signing bonus ever given to a 16 year-old. In September, he looked so lost in left field that Boone - still of the "great player" camp - decided to ghost The Martian throughout the postseason. He never once came to bat.

As for Durbin, it's great that he is setting SB records in his second year in Arizona, though I cannot recall Yankee prospect returning for the sophomore year. (Last fall, hit hit .354 - nearly 40 points above his current average.) Durbin is three months shy of 25, playing in a class A level league of pitchers and catchers still learning their craft. 

Look... we all want Durbin to be the next Altuve, since they have so much in common: They're midgets. But it's a tall leap from Salt River to Gotham - or even Tampa. What happens if he starts slowly or - gasp - gets thrown a few times? Two years ago, Anthony Volpe looked like the next Lou Brock, and then - poof - after a few times caught stealing - he stopped running.

Last winter, Yank fans swallowed the notion that Gleyber Torres and newly acquired Alex Verdugo would have big walk years, along with Soto and Clay Holmes. Only Soto came through. Gleyber sorta salvaged his season with a decent second half. Verdugo sank into a career-threatening slump, only keeping LF via defense. And now, here we are...

It's been three years since the Yankees unveiled Oswald and Oswaldo, along with Estevan Florial, after finally ditching Clint Frazier. In developing position players, they can pimp and posture, and wave shiny objects in our faces, but let's be real: They're simply giving us crapola. And soon, it's going to hit the fans.

With Tampa desperately needing a ballpark, the Yankees have a chance to do the right thing. Will they?

Yesterday, the bean-counter grunts of St. Petersburg reported that Tropicana Field could be fixed - at the earliest - in time for the 2026 season, that is, if the taxpayers want to spend $56 million rebuilding a ballpark slated for demolition in 2028. 

Whatever they choose, it's a lost cause. About a month ago, the Trop's roof was shredded by Hurricane Milton, and the field cannot be used without a dome, as it has no drainage. 

So, the public either shells out $57 million to rebuild a much despised ballpark, slated to be razed two years from now, or the hate-filled Rays become MLB's second floater team - along with the Oakland/Las Vegas A's. If you're scoring at home, that's a huge blinking sign that, no matter how much money the billionaire owner class has accumulated, the sport of baseball is rancid at its core.

Seriously, does anybody believe the cities of Tampa/St. Pete have no better needs for $57 million in public funding?

So, it's a done deal that the hateful Rays must find a place to play in 2025. Local poohbahs want them to stay in the area: they've suggested BayCare Ballpark in Clearwater, home of the Threshers, the single-A Phillies.

That's stupid. 

George M. Steinbrenner field - a 31 acre complex in central Tampa - is exactly what the Rays need, and every other proposed solution looks ridiculous, by comparison. If ever there was a reason for two MLB contoured ballparks to coexist in one urban area, this is it: 

Hal Steinbrenner should step up and offer his father's namesake field to the cities of Tampa/St. Pete, and move the Yankee training facilities, as necessary, to other parts of the country. MLB should help finance this transition, or compensate the Yankees in some other way - a draft pick? international signing pool money? I dunno, Mallo Cup Coupons?

I'm not suggesting the Yankees hold anything for ransom. Yes, the Rays are a bleak, rage-filled, criminal enterprise, turned angrier each passing year. But for once, the Yankees should do the right thing. 

Give the Rays a two-year home. Let the people of Tampa off the hook. It won't save us Juan Soto, or much of anything, over the next two years. But it's time to step up.

New York City Sports, the poem

NEW YORK CITY SPORTS

Trap doors in abandoned forts,

Families crushed in public courts,

Pinching, tight Bermuda shorts...

New York City sports.

Evil plans of Voldemort's,

Diamond earrings made of quartz,

Lying, biased news reports...

New York City sports.

Endless lines in cramped airports,

Overcrowded foreign ports,

Poisoned water, by the quarts... 

New York City sports.

Giant, Yankee, Knick or Jet,

Everywhere, a losing bet.

Massive bleeding facial warts...

New York City sports.