And no internet.
Someone tell Spectrum that the Internet is out, and my critical messages to the Yankees are endangered. If I cannot get through, if you hear nothing from me, tell Boone to implement Fried Option B.
Lives depend upon it.
Meanwhile… rain.
I've been a critic of "Food Stamps Hal" for more than 20 years, going back to the days of Carl Pavano. Friends warned me about going. “He’s the Yankee Antichrist," they said. "He’s Syd Thrift. He's 'Halligator Arms.' He approved the trade for Lance Berkman. He let Robbie walk. He cheaped-out with Bryce Harper. He lost Juan Soto!” Still, after long contemplation, I decided that hate gets us nowhere - we must talk to Ownership, even if it has committed unspeakable crimes against Yankeehood.
Soon after, I found myself entering an opulent living room, where several of Hal's lieutenants had gathered. I saw Brian "Cooperstown" Cashman, Michael Kay, Randy Levine and most of the YES team. We small-talked about Clay Bellinger. But conversation ended at the sound of slippers coming down the hallway. Everyone rose as Hal entered the room.
He wore a tan jump suit with NY insignia and gave me an enthusiastic hug, which, frankly, caught me off guard. It was a warmer greeting than I normally get from Alphonso, and it came with a disarming slap on my back. I joked, awkwardly, that I was surprised to see him in tan, a color I associated with Milwaukee. He laughed boisterously. Suddenly, he seemed so kind, so human. Here I was, poised to meet the monster who brought us Jacoby Ellsbury, yet this warm, adorable man in his sweat suit was clearly something different.
He led us into the dining room and gestured for me to sit next to him. Levine quickly grabbed a large slice of gouda cheese, prompting Hal to whisper, with an eye-roll, “He’ll be bound-up and shitting like the last paying fan on Jazz Chisholm Basketball Jersey Night." That got me. I nearly had potato chips coming out of my nose. Levine, chewing, asked what was so funny? Hal said, “I was just reminded of Jesus Montero's love of ice cream sandwiches." That got the biggest laugh of the night — and believe me, there were lots.
But it wasn’t just a succession of hilarious one-liners. Hal was inquisitive, asking me many questions about myself. Was I happy? Was I sad? Was I "cool" with what was "going down?" I expressed my fears about Devon Williams blowing saves, while Clay Holmes starts for the Mets. Hal said he could "grok " it. “When the ninth inning comes, I just switch to the Weather Channel," he said, mirthfully. That's when I realized: If only our IT IS HIGH commenters could see this warm and lovable side, they might have a different opinion of the man.
Two hours later, dinner was over, and Hal escorted me to the door. “Sir," I gushed, "You're not the cheap-ass monster I thought you were."
"Indeed," he said, wisely. "We disagree on trade and spending, but we can still like each other.” With that, he presented me with a ball autographed by Zolio Almonte. We hugged. Barely holding back tears of gratitude, I walked out into the night. From deep in the house, I could hear the Weather Channel.
The Master joins the WABC lineup, home of—I swear to God—Roger Stone, Joe Piscopo, and Tony Orlando, at 4:00 Saturday!
Preview:
Have you ever wondered why you're here? Ever asked about the meaning of life? Inquired about why you came on line, after all that's happened before you? The big bang? The dinosaurs? Homo sapiens? The dawn of civilizations? And now this, whatever the fuck is coming?
Well, I think our job is rather simple.
We're here to behold Aaron Judge. In the next life, be it heaven or hell, they'll ask us in the cafeteria line if what they've heard is true. Was Judge as good Ruth? As good as Bonds? As good as they claim?
Our job will be to testify. Yeah. In fact, he was better...
So, here we are: I can't believe we must go through this, all over again, with Judge.We need a new nickname - or rallying cry, or catchphrase, or gaseous bleat - that adequately expresses the joy of being a Yankee fan during Judge's time on Earth.
The "All-Rise" salute had its moments. And The Master bellowed about "Judgian blasts" in a voice so full of glee that it bordered on sexual.
But in recent weeks, Judge is even out-revving YES, the second greatest hype machine on the planet, after Fox News.
Of course, nobody knows how long Judge can keep hitting .400. In the modern age, nobody hits .400. Nobody. Frankly, if Judge bats .330, he'll chase the Triple Crown. What he's doing right now is anarchy: He's making a mockery of stats that form the bedrock foundation of baseball. He's doing this while sandwiched in a lineup between two geezers, producing numbers that don't belong to humanity.
Soon, he'll hit a speedbump. Nobody dominates a modern sport in the way he is currently doing. In fact, it's hard to remember that last year, he hit 58 HRs, drove in 144 runs and batted .322 - and it wasn't his career season. He's 32. This could be it - his masterpiece - and we get to watch.
Which brings me back to today's central thesis. What do you call the player who crashes through all previous ceilings, from Babe to Barry - and who simply is too good to be lumped in with the shaved monkey populations of Earth? We've already used The Martian. With respect to Jasson Dominguez - who I doubt ever wanted that nickname - Judge should have been called The Martian.
But but BUT... there's time to remedy the situation.
Judge needs to be named after a celestial object. Some suggestions:
The Jupiterian. It's easy. Instead of Mars, we go bigger. The problem: It's too derivative of Dominguez. Also, it's a tongue-twister.
The Sun. I like the all-everything California vibe. But it implies that Judge is the son of a great player. If Cody Bellinger provided Judge's numbers, he could be The Sun. Doesn't work.
Alpha Centari? Closest star to the sun. I like the "Alpha" part. Needs work. Nah.
The Big Dipper. Not bad. But it makes us think he still chases balls in the dirt. He's over that.
Europa. The smallest of Jupiter's moons. Believed to have a vast underground ocean, which might harbor life. But people will assume he's from Europe.
Ganymede. Largest moon in the solar system. Probably too big to support life, as we know it. I like this, though. Got a ring to it.
There are others, all kinds of gods and titans. I can't believe we have to go through this again. Greatness is a hassle, eh?
As a mediocre athlete, I lived my life in fear of being drafted in the first round by the Giants.
If you're lucky enough to not give a shit about "Big Blue" - which has traditionally been associated with the Yankees (the Mets and Jets forming a similar alignment) - here's what you've missed over the last 12 years.
2013: 7-9 (3rd of 4)
2014: 6-10 (3rd of 4)
2015: 6-10 (3rd of 4)
2016: 11-5 (2nd of 4)
2017: 3-13 (4th of 4)
2018: 5-11 (4th of 4)
2019: 3-12 (4th of 4)
2020: 6-10 (2nd of 4)
2021: 4-13 (4th of 4)
2022: 9-7-1 (3rd of 4)
2023: 6-11 (3rd of 4)
2024: 3-14 (4th of 4)
Horrible, eh? Meltdowns, every third year. If you were trying to destroy a sports franchise, you'd be hard-pressed to match this.
And tonight, the Giants draft 3rd, once again raising the saps of their fans. Draft Day has become, by far, the biggest date on the Giants' calendar. Every year, we draft high, choosing to forget the Rocky Thompsons, the Kadarus Toneys and Looneys of yesteryear.
(Fun Facts: Joe Don was once named by NFL Films as "the most uncoachable player in history." He skipped team meetings. He punched out coaches. He followed a guru. He once said, "If practice makes perfect, and perfection is impossible, why practice?" I hereby challenge all of you all to answer that essential question.)
(Seriously, for all of Looney's lunacy, he might have simply been ahead of his time, a future flower power child of the 1960s, up against the crew cut, pro-war, military minds of NFL coaching staffs.)
Nearly every year, in their own way, the Giants honor Looney. Six years ago, they used the 6th pick to select a QB. They blew it. Three years ago, they had two picks in the Top 10. They blew it. Tonight, they'll draft third. Let's face it: They'll blow it. The only question is, how? My guess: They'll draft a 7-foot-tall defense end who turns out to be two dwarfs, piggyback, in a trench coat.
Well, let it rip! We're talking about an ownership that regularly does the impossible: It makes the Steinbrenners look good.
But but BUT... this is a Yankee fan blog. And let's face it: Our heroes have also blown their share of first rounders. In fact, concerns are swirling around the fate of our 2019 first pick - Anthony Volpe, who might be in a minor spring funk, or he might be facing an existential career crossroads.
Volpe is the Yankiest Yankee on the Yankees. He only knows the Yankee organization. He hails from the NYC area. He's been anointed to replace a legend, Derek Jeter. He plays hard, always hustles, never misses a game, and - despite the end to the beard ban - has chosen not to grow facial hair. That, my friends, is a Yankified Yankee.
But, fuckme, he's batting .198, and his four HRs came in the first five games (including the 20-6 rout of Milwaukee.) Ever since, he's been awful. Yesterday, he fanned four times. He's swinging raggedy, lunging for balls. He needs a night off.
Like tonight.
Happy Looney Day, everybody. Joe Don died in 1988. His memory lives on. Enjoy the free time.
It's hard to say what best epitomized last night's Yankee tragicomedy, but I hereby nominate this sorry swing by Anthony Volpe, ending the 8th with two runners stranded.
Look carefully. Savor the pain, as if wriggling a bad tooth. The ball lands a foot off the plate, with Volpe flicking like Lee Trevino from a sand trap. Strike three. Inning over. Threat extinguished. It's still April, too soon to push the red button. But we can start worrying about Volpe. It's year three. It's later than it seems.
I won't pin last night's loss on Volpe. The entire batting order - save Aaron Judge and Ben Rice - did next to nothing. (The lone hit, a single, came from Paul Goldschmidt, whose one HR came on March 29, the 20-9 laugher against Milwaukee.)
We keep waiting for someone, anyone, to step up, before Judge cools. In theory, Cody Bellinger and Jazz Chisholm should start hitting. In reality, we might be witnessing the horror of a meltdown season. What if Volpe, Austin Wells and The Martian are simply not the future stars we sought? Add an ever-flailing Oswaldo Cabrera, and this lineup resembles the LA Angels during their wasted Mike Trout washout seasons. Gaze into the abyss...
Scattered notes on last night:
1. Somewhere out there - in a place that calls itself Somerset, though it is actually Bridgewater. New Jersey - DJ LeMahieu began his rehab. He went 3-3 with a HR, playing 2B for five innings. Good for him. We can close our eyes and dream, right? Still, he's two weeks away, at least - if he doesn't tweak something. And last year, he hit .204 with 2 HRs. He's 36. It's New Jersey. And it's a long, hard road back.
2. The Master, John Sterling, is going to host a talk radio sports show on Saturdays. At last, hopefully, we will know his Homer Hollers for the new Yankees, right? Maybe. You can't predict radio, Suzyn.
3. Yesterday, Giancarlo Stanton took batting practice. Hooray. My question: Did he run the bases? The best line about Stanton I've heard came in yesterday's comments from HoraceClarke66:
"Giancarlo is a month away, and always will be." I think he nailed it.
4. Statistically, the Yankee starting rotation is the 4th worst in baseball. Congrats to all. Eventually, this deficit will kill the Yankee bullpen. We can blather about young arms on the farms, and maybe delude ourselves into thinking the Yankees have a magical touch, but we are already past the Carlos Carrasco Phase and heading into the Allan Winans Countdown and then, Brandon Liebrandt, Charlie's kid, who is 32.
It's later than it seems.
We stumbled across an excellent documentary on Yogi Berra last night on Netflix . It's sentimental and a bit of a tear jerker but, boy, it's good.
I hadn't seen this biopic discussed here on IIH and it leaves Netflix on April 25th, so this might be your one and only heads up. It's well worth your time.
NO POPE. NO HOPE? NAAAAAH !
DON'T JUDGE THY GLEYBER, CORE BORE
CASHDICK SPLASHMAN REIGNS !
Jasson Dominguez whacked a 445-foot HR, and Jazz Chisholm hit one that traveled just far enough. Didn't matter, though. The game was outa reach and, basically, stayed that way.
Thus far in 2025, the Yankee offense is simple:
You have Aaron Judge, and everyone else.
Judge leads everything, even when umps steal a HR, as they did in Tampa. If Judge tweaks a gonad - (I shudder just to write it) - the Yankees would instantly become a sub-.500 team. (Despite his .372 BA, Paul Goldschmidt hasn't homered since the Milwaukee Torpedo Massacre, and Ben Rice remains a small sample all star.)
Let's face it: If you're here, you enjoy self-torture. Thus, let's savor the output of Anthony Volpe, Cody Bellinger, Jazz Chisholm and Austin Wells - the ocean's lost trench. With all respect to Haiku Tuesday, here's a short rhyme.
The Bore Four
Volpe, Bellinger, Chisholm, Wells!
A cavalcade of Yankee hells!
Of nights in raunchy, bleak hotels!
With ever-present sewer smells!
Right now, slumps and icy spells
Bellinger, Chisholm, Volpe, Wells!
But but BUT... help might be coming. This week - tonight? - Mr. Fundamentals, DJ LeMahieu, will launch a minor league rehab mission, recovering from his latest tweak. Say what you will about DJ: He's still DJ. Yeah, he's 36. Yeah, it's not 2021. But he deserves a shot. (And, frankly, there's nobody else.) Unless he tanks in Somerset - or tweaks something anew - (the most likely scenario) - DJ should join the Mother Ship by mid-May.
How could he affect the lineup?
1. Platoon with Oswaldo at 3B. This is almost a sure bet. Cabrera has fielded the position decently (despite some troubling recent issues with throws), and he's hitting .302 (1 HR, 5 RBIs.) He deserves to play against righties. But Boone has only allowed him 7 ABs thus far against LHs. He's already platooning, sorta. I'd bet DJ plays most of his rehab at 3B.
2. Pinch-hitting for The Martian, Wells, Bellinger and/or Ben Rice? This would require DJ to hit. But Giancarlo remains a month away, and the Yankees already face a crisis from the right side. There is a need for LeMahieu, if he can fill it.
4. Platoon with or replace Jazz Chisholm at 2B. Not sure about this. For one thing, I believe Chisholm will soon snap out of his slump, and the problems will be moot. For another, such a move would royally piss him off, and I'm not sure how that would affect him. It's the Red Button that says "Self-Demolition." But DJ's best position was always 2B. And Jazz did play 3B last year.
Whatever the case, in the late innings, it wouldn't hurt to have DJ coming out of the dugout. If he could just give us a month of what he once was... it sure would solve some problems.
This rule, unsurprisingly, seems to have basically applied to The Babe alone. But apparently it really happened. An ump would squint at a ball disappearing out of the Polo Grounds and assert that, when it came down in Westchester somewhere...it would've been foul.
That doesn't even excuse yesterday's bohos, especially home plate ump Adam Beck, who somehow couldn't see Judge's Ruthian shot disappearing through the trees.
But that call—and scorekeeper Bill Mathews' unprecedented, late change to spoil a no-hitter—bring to mind the dangerous game that Rob Manfred's MLB of Gimmicks continues to play.
By so thoroughly embracing gambling, baseball—and all other professional sports in America—have invited back in the room the devil that Babe Ruth did so much to vanquish from our midst. That is, the fear of a fix.
I'm not making any accusations here. No doubt, Mathews—who actually robbed a pitcher of a no-hitter with a similar bad call back in 2011—just has trouble seeing things the visiting team's way. Umpire Beck...should probably take a trip to the ophthalmologist, next town he's in. Hey, wearing glasses is no disgrace!
But there will be a time when someone's going to question whether bizarre calls and reversals like these stand to benefit someone. Someone who doesn't make a major-league salary, and has just had his wife's cousin make a bet not even on the final result of the game, but how many hits the starting pitcher will allow, or whether Aaron Judge will hit a home run.
So easy to do it now, right on your phone! As all those game-time ads keep telling us (and whatever did happen with Shohei Ohtani's translator and that $16 million?)
Again, that's not what happened Sunday. Just put it down to pure tomfoolery and literal myopia. But it could happen next time. Very easily.
Sorta, anyway.
Yesterday, a no-name Tampa official scorer's decision to change an error into a hit - two innings too late, in a potential no-hitter by Max Fried - still smacks of a home job. The ultimate YES man, Kay, was righteous in his fury, though wrong in his self-pleasuring delivery.
Listen: There exists a secret, underground ledger of unwritten codes, which guide sporting events in the same way that the druids control our weather.
These iron-clad rules can never be acknowledged without threatening the sanctity of our games. They exist in the minds of players, fans and juju gods -and are easily understood, certainly more so than the infield-fly rule.
When ignored, they leave a historical stain on home plate - or, more often - the one-yard line.
Who has not screamed bloody murder over a last-second, football pass interference call, when a QB has simply launched a ball into the end zone, hoping for a flag. All too often, the refs comply, setting up an easy FG that reverses the outcome.
Or, worse: On that final play, an offensive tackle gets flagged for holding, a penalty that could have been called on every single play. Suddenly, the ball is moved into field goal range and - poof - they played 60 minutes... for nothing.
Who has not railed against the Fates when a shooting guard puts up a last second 3-pointer, missing the rim, only to be gifted three free throws - to win the game - again, on the type of call that was ignored for 59:59 minutes?
Happens all the time: A great game gets decided by a ref's questionable decision. On instant replay, maybe the call is justified. But in the final record, the one kept in our hearts, it's a travesty.
Yesterday's Yankee game falls short of "travesty." That's where Kay's indignation turns into self-pleasurement. (By the way, no one in this world - maybe with the except of Trump - is happier than Kay, when he's discovered an issue to rail against.)
Still, imagine the fury today across the Yankiverse if Fried's a no-hitter had been lost by the official scorer's 8th inning change of mind.
Kay did not need to be "flabbergasted." In the end, the scorer's change was defended by, of all people, Aaron Boone.
But but BUT... that decision should not have taken two innings to overturn. To be announced in the 8th, crushing Fried's quest - folks, Kay was right:
That truly, utterly, completely, formally... sucks.
It wasn't pass interference or illegal formation. It wasn't a penalty kick. It was just one meager play in an afternoon that, I suspect, Fried will remember forever.
And so will Bill Matthews.
The Yankees love to proclaim themselves "winners" in every trade. With Nestor out and Durbin at Triple A, it was an easy gaslight. Now...
We'll see...
Last season, the biggest shot heard 'round these parts, anyway, was Pete Alonso's series-winning blast off Milwaukee Brewers' closer Devin Williams, he of "Airbender" fame.
After the season, the 30-year-old Alonso, a fan favorite in NYC, could have been had for a song, a one-year, "let's see how you do" contract.
Instead, Cashie signed the guy who gave up that titanic shot.
Given a choice between Bobby Thomson and Ralph Branca after the 1951 playoff, Cashman would've signed Ralph Branca.
Given a choice between Carlton Fisk and Pat Darcy, Cashman would've signed Pat Darcy.
Given a choice between Michael Jordan and Bryon Russell, Cashman would've signed Bryon Russell.
Given a choice between Peyton and Eli Manning, Cashman would've signed Cooper.
Of all Cashman's problems in ever putting together a championship team on his own, he struggles most in coming up with a decent pitching staff. Once again, we see why.
The silver lining? Unlike Cashie's most disastrous decisions, Airbender Williams is only a one-year commitment. He can trot on back to Milwaukee, or wherever, come 2026. Don't let the air bend you on the way out.
I mean, we've been here before. Many times. And, yeah, they blew it.
In Super YES-Mo. On George M Steinbrenner Field. On Easter Eve.
A brutal, felony-grade, mind-boggling Yankee loss.
Worst of the season, thus far. A defeat for the ages, a butchery, with a stark, four-word message for 2025:
No lead is safe.
Nope. We're there, again. It's not even May, but the bullpen is barking, and the Yankees are a collective WTF?, finding creative ways to blow a game.
With a four-run lead, Boone calls on the closer. Oswaldo muffs a grounder. Devin Williams can't throw strikes. In the 10th, we can't move a runner. Then, the obligatory walk-off HR.
The first incontinent, incoherent, sickening, out-of-body loss of 2025.
Look, no closer is perfect, right? It's a long season. Williams was too good in Milwaukee to be this bad. Right? Please say yes. Assure me... he can't be this bad. Right?
Over the last seven years, between Aroldis and Clay Pigeon, the Yankees have been blessed with lights-out closers through April and May - until the vampiric Boone sucks the juice of life from them. This year, something's wrong. Already, Williams looks like Katy Perry in outer space. He was supposed to be the answer. His ERA is now 9.00. And the message is loud and clear...
No lead is safe.
The Yankees can pile up runs. Their starter can go six innings. A game can seem to be on ice. But it means nothing. No lead is safe.
Instead of starting hot, and fading from overuse, our closer looks like a dud.
Please, tell me he'll straighten out. He can't be this bad, right? It's a long season. A year of ups and downs. But for now... no lead is safe.
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