Do It Now!

 

Yesterday, your New York Yankees lost for the sixth time in their last eight games. It was their third loss in a row to the last-place team in their division. 

They scored all of one run in the game, and have now scored all of five runs in their last three games. They do not have a catcher who can play a decent game in the field and hit over .200. 

They do not have a second baseman who is a mature adult. 

They do not have a third baseman who can both field and hit. 

Their left fielder is a shortstop.

Their shortstop has hit .349 over the past two weeks...and got his average up to .262, with 1 home run.

Their bullpen is a minefield.

Their starting pitching, the team's one asset, is collapsing faster than the Maginot Line in France.

And yet...according to baseball-reference, they have the highest chance of any team in baseball of making the postseason. And the second-highest chance of winning the World Series.

AFTER their loss yesterday, their chance of winning it all INCREASED, from 19.0 to 19.5 percent. No other team in the American League is given more than a 5.4 percent chance of doing so. Those are the Guardians of Traffic, and beyond them, nobody ranks so much as a 4.0 chance—one in twenty-five—to win it all.

Even in the National League, only the dynastic Los Angeles Dodgers, at 25.2 percent, are given a better chance of taking the Fall Classic. And...weirdly enough, the Bums are given "only" a 99.7 percent chance of making the postseason.

That's right. Whoever it is who is perverting statistics in my name thinks it more likely that your Yankees will win it all than the Dodgers will.

The Brewers who already swept the Yanks this year with ease, are given only a 99.8 percent chance of making the postseason, and a 14.9 percent chance of winning everything.

The loss in Fenway—did you ever think you see a duller Yankees-Red Sox contest?—even increased the team's Pythagorean record, somehow, from theoretically three games better than it was, to four games. Sure, makes a lot of sense.

So I say...get those bets down now.

Not large bets. Remember: gambling is stupid—but don't gamble stupid. 

Just a nice, tidy, affordable little bet on what must now be the tremendous odds that the Yankees won't win the World Series, or the pennant, or the AL East—or even make the playoffs.

Because they won't.

Now is the time. Over the next few weeks, the Yankees will meet and be humiliated by both the Dodgers and the Braves, for starters. More losses of all sorts will follow, as the June Swoon kicks into Boone.

This is going to be bad. Historically, horrifically bad. Just think of how many Yankees failures this year have already lead to statements such as, "Not since 1913...1912...1908..."

This team has no hitting, no spirit, no smarts, no character, no leadership. They have scored more than 4 runs exactly once in their last 10 games.

Even more importantly: they have no pitching. The bullpen is nonexistent. The starting pitching is doddering.

If you're going to bet—and you shouldn't—bet now. There is nothing left here but the shadow of a team that was never that good to begin with.

Remember, you heard it straight from the Greek's mouth.

 

The Yankees have fallen from first. The next drop will be much steeper.

No team should face a full-blown existential crisis before July 4. It's unpatriotic. That said, here we are, mere days before the nation's 250th birthday, Taylor Swift's wedding, Tonga v Zimbabwe in the World Cup, the longest Yankee losing streak of 2026, tumbling deeper into the Fenway abyss, facing a fantastical giant broom.  

Be afraid. Be very afraid. Folks, this isn't Boston running out of beer. This is fucking Venezuela. Everything is crashing.

Ten thoughts about the miserable state of the Yankees.

1. We knew it would eventually happen, but this team is listless, lifeless and loveless without Aaron Judge.

2. We must play the entire month of July without him. (And maybe a few weeks of August.)

3. Neither Jasson Dominguez (.222) nor Spencer Jones (.226) has provided the spark we needed. We wanted a once-around-the-league hitting spree, a Kevin Maas or Shane Spencer arrival party. Didn't happen. 

4. Max Schumann cannot save this team. We don't need a pleasant surprise. We need a ripper.

5. When Amed Rosario is batting 3rd, you're in trouble.

6. Ben Rice has hit the wall. Over the last 15 days, he's at .202. Yesterday, his DP grounder killed us. Worst part: We don't know if this is a slump or the new reality. How far will his average (now .276) fall?

7. Tornado watch sirens are officially blaring over Gerrit Cole. He looks lost and ready for the sandbags. Cole must figure out a new attack plan, or his career is basically over. over. He turns 36 in September, and if the 2027 season is canceled, it's hard to get stoked for a comeback at 38. This is it.

8. The worst period of any Yankee season - the pre-trade deadline angst, when we await Cooperstown Cashman's makeover - is upon us. Last year, Cash brought us Cabby and Bednar - positives - plus Doval, Bird and McMahon. Sweet and sour pork. From now until July 31, we're an organization of players on the way to somewhere else.

9. The farm system's top prospect, George Lombard Jr., is blocked at SS  behind Anthony Volpe (.349 over the last two weeks.) That could leave Lombard in limbo (aka Scranton) or forming the base of a huge trade. It's rare for Cashman to trade the organization's best hope, but there isn't much more to deal.

10. My theory: The reflecting pool saboteur attached razors to his/her shoes, so they could effortlessly glide across the expanse, slicing open the plastic skin. Moreover, they wore a duck disguise, so police could not see them. This was the work of a master criminal, an evil-doer, an immortal supervillain well versed in the sharpening of spikes. This was, my friends, the work of Ty Cobb.

Today's Game Thread asks the Question . . .

 Wouldn't even THIS MAN make a better manager than BOONE ?

Supervised Play.

 

Halfway through, this is shaping up to be perhaps the most dismal New York baseball season in my memory—and my memory, Swiss-cheesed though it is, goes back a long way, to the truly awful Yankees and Mets teams of 1966 and 1967.

There have been plenty of other awful ones along the way. The "Worst Team That Money Could Buy" Mets of 1992; the abysmal Yankees squads of Stump Merrill and Dallas Green and Bucky Dent and Stump Merrill and Dallas Green and Bucky Dent and—

But those teams tended to be limited by age or injury, or awful design. They were rebuilding or recalculating or something, and there was always some young slugger or pitcher or just the game itself to give us hope.

Not so much anymore. 

Your 2026 New York Yankees and New York Mets have to be the two most singularly overpaid, overrated, characterless and BORING baseball teams I have ever seen on the grounds of our city ballparks. What's more, they are both subsidized by us taxpayers to an extent unprecedented in baseball history. 

What's more still, the very brand of baseball they play so badly is intrinsically boring. Three True Outcomes—each one of them guaranteed to put you to sleep before the TV. 

Yes, they're riddle with injuries—as they are every year. No, they aren't living up to their potential—whatever that may be. 

Instead, we have the Lollipop Kid, Jazz Chisholm, defending his right to suck candy during a game, The Martian wrecking himself on an advertising sign, a whole array of pitchers who can't go five innings to save their lives, and no one, no one at all, who can catch and hit.  

The result is that a very decent, knowledgeable baseball man like Carlos Mendoza is given his walking papers, while the dopes who run the Yankees ride high as ever. What a world.

Thank goodness that this summer we have...soccer.

Yep. Genuine, bona fide, World Cup soccer. Never thought I'd say that, but here it is.

Went to what is now, temporarily, New York/New Jersey Stadium to see the Norway-Senegal game the other day. As soccer games go, it ended up being full of action: five goals, constant chances right in front of each net. 

Beyond that, most noticeable was the sheer feeling of joy amongst the thousands of fans walking into the stadium and throughout the game.  

Sure, the price of it all was outrageous (I had my ticket courtesy of my remarkable brother-in-law, who is somehow able to pull off things like this). Concessions were even crazier than they are at major-league ballparks.

But the fans didn't seem to care, chalking this up, no doubt, as a once-in-a-lifetime experience. They bantered good naturedly, and went into their time-honored chants and celebrations.

The Norwegian fans did their hilarious, "rowing" chant, something they even performed on the subway.

But of course, it wasn't enough that a good time was being had by all. 

About an hour-and-a-half before the game began, all else was buried under an ear-splitting barrage of noise even louder than what we were subjected to on our recent excursion to Yankee Stadium.

Much of this was in the form of ads, of course—apparently, the constant, changing video ads for all kinds of things, all around the stadium—was not enough. Some of it was contemporary music, in its all but unbearable glory (no, the kids are NOT all right).  

But much of it was in the form of some FIFA-designated MC, who kept constantly "leading" cheers, and demanding that "New York-New Jersey fans (yes, he said it like that) make more noise."  

We've all endured that sort of nonsense at Yankee Stadium—indeed, at every American stadium, park, arena, and pitch we've all been to in the last thirty years or so. A desperate endeavor, it always struck me, to convince us we were all having fun, all the time.

But these were the most enthusiastic, innovative fans in the world. They know how to entertain themselves, and everyone else in the park—and once the game itself started, they did exactly that. The chants, the songs, the routines they have developed have evolved over decades. And they're pretty damned good.

We have now slipped into being the nanny state of sports. 

Our every moment inside a sports venue must be controlled. It must be utilized for some monetary purpose. We the fans must be dominated, our thinking capacities and individual initiatives obliterated, our brains re-oriented to thinking of what we must buy next—what we must do and say that will serve the purpose of the product (not something so silly as a "game") we are...no longer just watching, but promoting.

We are all the studio audience: "Oh, look, Marge, all those people are in a big place, full of flashing lights and loud noises, and with an MC! What a great place that must be! How important this must be!"

We are now, at all times, under the supervision of the same people who are systematically ruining all our games, just as overweening parents do the same on a playground. 

At least we're still allowed the mute button on our TVs.

At the end of June, you can feel the swoon.

It's the dregs of June, the days are shrinking like Putin's war hopes, and once again, the Yankees are crapping their beds in Fenway. 

You know those loud chants of "YANKEES SUCK?" That's not mockery; it's statement of fact.  

So, it's rather sad that we - the haggard tellers of Yankee truth - must once again plod this treacherous trail. But here we are, having squandered another decent first half, now desperately awaiting the July 31 trade deadline hell storm. 

Everybody knows what's coming. Because we've been here before.  

1. In March, they started hot, winning 4-of-5.

2. In April, they went 16-10, despite a lumbering start from Aaron Judge, and overcoming a 5-game losing streak, their longest of the season (thus far.)  Leading the way: Ben Rice and Cam Schlittler, with gutsy help from Jose Caballero. 

3. In May, 16-12. But Cole and Rodon are back! Along with, ahem, Anthony Volpe. Cabby becomes the pocket knife.

4. In June, they are now 12-10. A Boston sweep would leave them at .500 for the month. They'll blame injuries to Judge and Grisham - (Giancarlo doesn't count; he's always out) - but why kid ourselves? We knew the tweaks were coming. 

5. In July, they'll fall from first. Tampa will charge, and the division will tighten. It's crazy to think that, after a horrible first-half, Boston isn't out of it. But the series in Fenway will have energized the club. Meanwhile, the Yankees will shift into Trade Deadline Expectation Mode, their annual period in July when everybody is rumored to be traded. 

6. In August, after Cashman deals a trove of prospects - (none of whom, we'll be assured, was ever part of the team's plans) - we will set our new goal: The Wild Card! 

7. In September, they will reach the expanded postseason.   

8. And in October, done in the Knockout Round. 

Last year, the Yankees were the team that could not beat good teams. And in the end, they were the team that flopped. Over the winter, they kept this team together.

So... has anything changed? 

The bloom is off the Warren

Alas, Will, we hardly knew ye...as a steady, reliable starter whose early promise looked to be blossoming this year.

Then came last Saturday, then came last night.

Fried, Schlittler, Warren, Weathers. Who needs Cole? Who needs Rodon? They'll never be what they were in their glory days. Cole might be washed up after major surgery, at his age.

Then we lost Fried. Then Cole came back and was great. Twice. And now looks like he might be washed up. Rodon? Surely you jest. (And don't call me Shirley.) 

And Weathers. Let's be kind and say he hasn't weathered the recent weeks very well.

Now, Warren. The league catches up, do it not? 

We had the best rotation in MLB for a while. Amazing. So good, it made up for the horrors of the pen. And the horrors of the lineup. And the horrifying Boone.

Today, though...today...

The horror. The horror.

An omen

My buddy went to a card show. This was in the 1984 random pack that he bought. He likes redheads. Been involved with several psycho one. I hope it's a *good* omen

Hello Bahstaaaaaaan ! Here's a taste of HAL for Yah ! (swoon 26th, 26)

0 6 – 2 6 – 2 6 

Once again, in the heat of a large crowd, the Yankees wither

It's been barely a week since the last embarrassment, the 10-2 whupping by tomato can Cinncy. But last night featured a Yankee meltdown trifecta.

1. Once again, I fear we have awakened a dormant entity known as the Mini-Me Yankee Killer. It's Caleb Durbin - a 5'6" ex-Yankee farmhand, who we traded two winters ago for Devin Williams, the bullpen algae bloom who systematically ruined a) the 2025 Yankees, b) the 2026 Mets and c) the trad Yankee beard ban.  

Durbin, 26, is hitting a squatty .226, so we won't commission his bronze plaque. But over the last week, he's 12-for-24 with 2 HRs - a .500 average, hottest hitter in baseball. Last night, he went 2-3 with a HR that basically won the game. 

I have an irrational fear of snakes, robot cars, computer upgrades and miniature Tinker Toys who regularly beat the Yankees. Dustin Pedroia. Pedro Martinez. Jose Altuve. Freddie Patek. Jose Ramirez. Mookie Betts. I'm not ready to pronounce Durbin as the next mini-threat, but before his hot spell, I suspect Boston was on the verge of sending Shorty to Triple A. Did we just give this revenge-hungry Lilliputian a second chance? If so, we will regret it.

2. Our defense last night was putrid, rancid... atrocious. The English language doesn't have the right words, and box scores cannot show the ineptitude. (Michael Kay, in the postgame, suggested it was the sloppiest game of the season.) 

And for Amed Rosario and Anthony Volpe, this was no outlier.

Rosario has become such a defensive liability that it's time to question whether he is a legit backup infielder. Last night, in the former Daily News fifth, he botched a foul pop behind 3B and then, moments later, let a DP grounder zip between his legs, Buckner style, launching a game-turning 4-run rally. With any defense behind him, Cam Schlittler could have taken a shutout into the sixth. The team let him down.  

As for Volpe? How many incarnations of disappointment can we handle? The YES guys love to say that Cody Bellinger contributes something to every Yankee win. Well, in every Yank loss, there is a play that Volpe didn't make. 

Last night, in the 8th, Volpe snagged a grounder up the middle, ran to second and fired wide to first. Instead of an inning-ending DP, a run scored, and the game was over. He had to make that play... and he didn't.  It will soon be time for the Yankees to bring up George Lombard Jr. When that happens, Volpe becomes an afterthought, and Travis Kelsey can start looking over his shoulder.

3. Once again, we squandered our chance to tell Aroldis Chapman to STFU. 

El Chapo - who has demanded, in Trumplike fashion, an apology from the Yankees for the way they mistreated him - loaded the bases with our big hitters coming up. Of course, we did nothing. 

Ever since the Redsocks signed Chapman and started boasting of his resurgence, Yank fans have waited for his classic El Chapo, river-of-sweat meltdown - his Devers moment, his Altuve moment! Last night would have been perfect, watching him clutch that fake Cheshire smile, as the runners crossed the plate.  

But Ben Rice - sinking fast, by the way - tapped a slow roller, and the game was done.

Boston is having a terrible, rotten, no-good year. And last night wasn't a case of them suddenly showing life. The Yankees simply fell apart and gifted them the game. 

Could they open the door to save Boston's season? As Lassie would say: Bark.

Anthony Volpe is barking hot. Dare we dream?

Uh-oh. Timmy's missing. A storm's a-brewin.' Mom and Dad are frantic. 

Bark. Huh? Bark! What's up with Lassie? Barkity-bark! What's the problem, girl? Barkbark, bark. Jeb, I think she's trying to say something. Bark, woof, barkbark. She wants us to follow her. Bark! Go ahead, girl. Bark woof! She's heading to the back 40, to that old abandoned well. Bark, bark, bark! 

Okay, for a moment, let's accept the concept of literary arrogance. Let's say Aaron Judge is - well - Timmy. 

I realize it makes no sense. Judge couldn't fit in a well, much less fall into one. But right now, across the Yankiverse, he is definitely missing, and one Yankee bat is barking, and it's Volpe's, and he wants us to follow, so whacha gonna do? Okay, girl, lead the way! We're right behind you. 

Before plummeting deeper into this hole, let's establish one thing: Lassie never bit people. She snarled and pawed you but never tasted the tangy sweetness of human flesh. (Unlike the wolfish Rin-Tin-Tin, who went straight for the testicles. Damn dog loved chewing a nut sac. Cujo barely ate better.) 

Last seven days, Yankee hitters

But... anyways... where were we? Ah, yes... Judge Timmy is gone, and Lassie Volpe is barking at us. He wants us to follow.

Over the last 15 days, Volpe is hitting .396, the sixth highest BA in all of baseball. 

Over the last seven days, he's at .364, ranked 19th in MLB. 

Lately, he has been our most productive hitter, while batting 9th, in front of Ben Rice, which means seeing hittable pitches. Bark.

Meanwhile, Jose Caballero seems to be running himself ragged, playing everywhere and, at times, hardly resembling a MLB outfielder. But Cabby has earned the right to fuck up. He's been one of the steadiest Yanks, and everybody knows Volpe - the fair-haired local boy - didn't deserve to have the SS position kept open for him. 

Still, here we are. Lately, Volpe is going with the pitches, hitting to right, and lashing line drives, rather than trying to power balls halfway to White Plains. At 25, he's hitting .267 on the season - serviceable - and fielding his position. 

Dare we believe that, in year four - with George Lombard Jr. breathing down his neck, with the team in need of a spark, with Judge barely halfway through his rehab, with a two-game lead (loss column) in the AL East, and with Boston on the horizon - Anthony Volpe might be the one to lead us? 

Hard argument to make. Still... what's that sound? 

Bark.

He represents the Lollipop Guild. Jazz Chisholm is quietly having a solid year. So why does everyone feel he's a goner?

 

AL second basemen

Weird night for Jasrado Prince Hermis Arrington Chisholm Jr. - a/k/a "Jazz."

His 6th inning HR basically beat the Tigers. He had a hand in three Yankee runs, in a 4-3 win. And in the post-victory glow, he pulled off a rarity: He publicly pissed off Aaron Boone.

Chisholm did this by sucking on a lollipop while in the field, at a time when the Yanks were losing 3-1. Bad optics - a Yankee to be slurping sweets, while his team seemed to be staggering to a 4th straight loss. Of course, everything changed after Chisholm's 2-run shot. But Boone learned about the lollipop during his postgame TV gaggle, in real time. Bad timing. You don't step on Superman's cape, you don't spit into the wind, you don't tear the mask off an old Lone Ranger, and you don't suck on a lollipop, even in a Yankee win. 

"I just don’t think he should have had a lollipop out on the field,” said Boone, the iron-fisted, hard-core disciplinarian. 

Weird, eh? Everything suggests that Jazz - at age 28, his peak, and, frankly, having a decent season - is a goner, come October. Why not? He is among that rare breed of ill-fated Yankees who wore #13, the devil's digits: A-Rod, No-Neck Williams, Mike Blowers, Curt Blefary, Alvaro Espinosa, Jim Leyritz, Joey Gallo, Vladimir Putin...  

His problem? Expectations. Last winter, Jazz vowed to become a "50-50" hitter - 50 HRs, 50 SBs - and win a $300 million contract. (If there's one sure way to piss off the Yankees, beyond joining the Lollipop Guild, boast about how much money you want.) On the surface, Chisholm's goal was outlandish. Below the surface, it was ridiculous. 

But but BUT...  a 30-30 season is possible, and that's not pickled pigs-feet. You can argue that Jazz, based on stats, is the AL's best 2B this season. (Ernie Clement of Toronto is in the chat.) But come October, he's out the door.

1. His contract is up. He'll want big money over many years.

2. Some team will be likely to bite.

3. The Yankees seem likely to keep Volpe and play George Lombard Jr., their top prospect, at SS.

4. Hell... everybody's probably gone. The season could be canceled due to a lockout.

Listen: There's one way Jazz and the Yankees can stay together. 

Win the World Series. That's all. The late No-Neck Williams (R.I.P.) would approve. What are the odds? Don't say fifty-fifty.

Wonder City.

 

Sorry I'm overdue on this, but I owe it to Doug K., especially.

So finally, when it comes to sports, at least, New York went from the City of Losers to the City of Wonder.

Having been a Knicks fan since 1968, I was true overwhelmed. What a season! What a series of comebacks! What a run!

And what a truly likable team, despite its awful bridge troll of an owner.

Is this good for New York in the long run? 

I doubt it. Now Dolan will never let his odious MSG incarnation be budged from where it squats like a poisonous toad above what could and should be a fabulous train station. 

The local minions of the Vampire-in-Chief are already moving in to tear the neighborhood apart and no doubt make untold billions with sweetheart federal contracts of one sort of another.

Is this good for the Knicks in the long run?

Again, I doubt it. This will undoubtedly give Dolan—already someone who has been ripping off the taxpayers for decades—carte blanche to pump as little money as possible into his teams, while jacking prices up even more. 

For what you can reasonably expect...look at the Garden's other tenant, after the Rangers finally snapped an even longer championship drought—54 years—and since have gone on a new streak of 32 more seasons of futility.

Is this good for your New York Yankees?

Nope. Unlike any other, red-blooded American male, HAL will not feel in the least envious of the adulation poured down upon Dolan and the Knicks, or likely to spend another dime trying to match their achievement.

And the Knicks' season no doubt makes Brian Cashman feel absolutely justified in all his inane statements about how the postseason is just a crapshoot. The Knicks had an up-and-down regular season, finished second in their division and third in their conference...then managed to avoid, thanks to luck and attrition, all of the teams (Boston, Detroit, OK City) that seemed most likely to beat them in the playoffs.

If the Yanks can just get Judge back in time for October...and Fried, and Stanton, and Cole rounds into shape (again), and some young gun emerges in the bullpen, and The Martian is for real, and SOMEBODY can catch and hit .220, and...and...and...

No, not gonna happen. Baseball is not basketball. Among other things, any team in the MLB postseason that manages to get up 5-10 runs in game after game—the equivalent of the leads the Spurs had—will not, cannot simply give it up by playing like idiots (even, ahem, if our boys did just that in the Infamous Fifth Inning of the Fifth Game).

But hey—all of that is the long run, and as the great Harry Hopkins once said, in the long run we are all dead. 

Better, in our precarious age, to celebrate the unexpected gift the Knicks have given us, their incredible

heart and smarts and abilities, their coach and their general manager, their insistence on being...unwavering.

Thanks to them, our city is looking pretty good just now.

If only we could believe it...

 

Boston has crapped the bed.

But New York will soon be coming.

Suddenly, the Yankees look lost. And this is about the time they fell apart last year.

Okay, let's get this over with:

Gerrit Cole hadn't looked this mystified since the last time he motioned for Anthony Rizzo to cover first. 

Bada-boom. 

There. It's done. It's over. Last night, Cole - no longer the Yankee staff ace, but still the Yankee staff face - experienced an old-school whuppin', a trouncin', a thrashin' - (we can throw words on this like wood pallets on a bon fire) - a beatin', a whackin', a wallopin...' He was Frankie Montas, Manny Banuelos, Andrew Heaney, the cast of Lost, the Solid Gold Dancers, the U.S. Congress, the White House reflecting pool, the San Antonio Spurs... whatever.  He pitched 4.1 innings, gave up 9 hits and 5 earned runs. He's now 2-2, with an ERA of 3.62, but but BUT... ignore his first two starts - a magical 12 scoreless innings - and, dear God, you do not want to calculate the ERA. Nope. Stick with the Thesaurus. He's been raked, pillaged, plundered...

And - insert sigh here - we knew this would happen. 

Listen: This isn't Netflix. Sigourny and Charlize are not coming. No superpowered stranger will return to save humanity. This is reality TV, and the cast of Lost is, well, lost.  

The problem: Cole had two great starts, so we ridiculously penciled him back in as Ace. Then came the crash. 

He's now started six games, pitched 32 innings and given up 5 HRs. Last night, the defense didn't exactly help him, but - OMG! - it could have been worse. Every inning, Cole was on the ropes. He doesn't look like the Cy Young starter who once dominated. Honestly, he looks like a guy at the end of those ropes. 

Which brings us to The Question: Can Cole - like Catfish Hunter, Justin Verlander and other greats have done - reinvent himself for a final incarnation? 

Face it: The old stuff isn't working. And if Cole falters, there is no stud pitcher in Scranton ready to replace him. The only replacement might come in a trade - a Cashman trade - need I say more?

Even scarier thought: It's June - when the Yankees last year fell apart. 

It may be happening again.

It's been 23 days since Aaron Judge went out with a fractured rib - (31 since Judge's last HR.) He probably has another month to go. 

It's been 11 days since Trent Grisham tweaked a hamster. Likewise, he's probably halfway to recovery. 

Meanwhile, the Yankees have turned their lineup over to The Martian, Spencer Jones and - mostly - Jose Caballero, playing multiple roles like Peter Sellers in Dr. Strangelove. Displaced from SS by the enigmatic prodigal son, Anthony Volpe, Cabby's recent OF appearances have been tough. Bad throws. And though he has 17 stolen bases, he's been thrown out 7 times - a 28 percent failure rate. Ouch. (FWIW, Jazz is at 15 percent failures.) 

It's been three days since the Yankees scored more than three runs in a game. Time after time, in critical at bats, they hit first-pitch pop-ups, or take called third strikes - sometimes challenging the call - as Volpe did last night - only to be embarrassed when the entire ball turns up in the zone.

Three straight losses - against tomato cans Cincinnati and Detroit. Three is a speed bump. But four is a streak. Lose tonight - and facing Skrupal for the final game - and history is repeating itself. We all could be standing on the mound, pointing to first. Bada-boom.

For Father's Day, Yankees disappoint their dads and send warning sirens across the Bronx

 

The Babadook arrived yesterday, around 4 p.m. E.D.T., while chess master Aaron Boone was playing perhaps the Yankees' worst-fielding outfield in this millennium. 

In LF stood utility infielder Max Schuemann. In CF, it was displaced middle infielder Jose Caballero. In RF, designated hitter Jasson Dominguez. (Apparently, the late Smokey Burgess was unavailable.) Together, this wondrous collection of talent and despair concocted an authentic Little League triple, a tragedy of foul-ups that put a Reds batter on third - from a soft bouncer up the middle.

Impossible, you say? Here's how they did it. 

A Red with the A.I.-generated videogame name of Spencer Steer hit a bouncer up the middle. Second baseman Jazz Chisholm glided over to snag it. Instead, he waved at it, saying, "Get into center, Mr. Ball!" Shortstop Anthony Volpe trotted over and said, "Hello, Ball. I hereby wish you safe passage through our Straits of Jeter." In short centerfield, Caballero picked up the ball and said, "Where do you want to go from here, Ball?" He then fired it toward second base, 10 feet over Chisholm's head, to a place where pitcher Camilo Doval should have been backing up. But Doval was elsewhere, shouting, "Where are you going, Mr. Ball?" The ball rolled all the way to the backstop, while Steer ran to 3B. He later scored, of course.  

Embarrassing, you say? Not really.  

I mean, this happened on a day when the Yankees went 0-for-9 with runners in scoring position, in a series where - when their baserunners weren't getting picked off - they went 2-for-32 in RISP situations, when they lost two of three games, at home to the worst team in the National League Central, which had been decimated by injuries.

I don't know what the Yankees have against their dads. 

But sirens should be sounding across the Yankiverse, because as the team heads to Detroit, the Tigers are shopping Tarik Skubal. Having watched the Knicks trade a century of first-round picks - and win the NBA championship - should anybody NOT expect the Yankees to deal away their future for three-month rental?

Be afraid. Be very afraid. And good luck to you, Mr. Ball!

Hooray for Jazz Chisholm, striking a blow for father's everywhere: HE WILL NOT CUP-ITULATE

Friday night, NYC sports fans took a stark turn from their wild celebration of the 2026 Knicks, as Jumbotrons and phones across the globe suddenly showed Jazz Chisholm, writhing at home plate like a 5'11" slab of bacon.

He had just taken a foul ball to the bilge pump, a pain that withers the hearts of all men everywhere, except in the Yankee dugout, where his teammates were nervously grinning. 

The poor fellow could barely hobble to the clubhouse, where he'd spend the next 12 hours icing down his joystick. 

T'waz a moment frozen in time - and pain. Today, of course, the nattering nabobs of the nanny state want every player, everywhere, to immediately don plastic cups, clamping down on our God-given freedom to romp across fields of blooming nipples. It raises the ultimate question for modern man:

To cup, or not to cup?

Do you wear personal armor, knowing it might protect your billiards from a seeing eye grounder, or a surgically applied tag at home plate. But nothing can save you from a Paul Skenesian 102-mph direct hit? In simple terms, the system will not protect you.

So, do we go free, assigning the safety of our precious family jewels to the whims of the fates and juju gods?

For me, it's all about the C-word.

The Chafing. 

Yes, in the matter of cups, the unspoken question down the ages remains: 

How much chafing can a guy endure?

I'm talking about fiery rings of redness that no ointments or baby powder can sooth. I'm talking about pure, unadulterated chafing: With each step, each movement, the region where your groin intersects with the outside world becomes a volcano of spouting pain, until the skin around your domain seems to be bathing in acid. 

Yes, I suppose if you endure the chafing long enough - until the skin is like the underside of a Naugahyde recliner - the pain will subside. Maybe.

Honestly, I don't know. I was never able to make it.  

It's the chafing, Mr. Kurtz. And I hereby nominate Jazz Chisholm for some award in the Manoverse. He has chosen not to run the bases in a plastic codpiece the size of a bear trap? No way. He is going to let his spirited onions run free. And he is sending a message to us all.

Life, my friends, is not meant to be lived in a cage. You cannot protect yourself forever. Get out and expose yourself to the world - discreetly, of course. Let your seeds be sown where they are not planted. And in the case of Jazz, steal more bases! 

And happy Father's Day to all.