A GAPPER . . . DEEP IN THE HOLE . . . . WAY, WAY BACK . . . . .

 

  

Clown Team.

Unless you actually observe the 2026 New York Yankees throughout a game, it's impossible to comprehend just what a weird, lackadaisical, and downright foolish non-effort they put into so many outings. Just be sure to take your blood pressure medication first—and don't expect any actual laughs.

A few observations on last night's two hours-and-thirty-two minutes of torture:

—First, the good news. With any luck, The $22-Million Man, Trent Grisham, has played his last inning as a New York Yankee. This guy should never have been anything but a back-up—certainly not a starting centerfielder and lead-off man on the same ground (all right, it was across the street, but still!) that Mickey Mantle and Joe DiMaggio once trod. 

Sorry, Duque, but I don't care how limited Spencer Jones may be as a CF. He cannot possibly be worse than this.

—At least Grisham had the sense to take himself out of the game with a hamstring injury. One wonders, though, just when this hammy occurred.

Was it feeling tight before the game? Did he tell Aaron Boone about it? Did Boone play him anyway? Did he pull it while ineffectually chasing a routine pop fly. just when it looked as though Max Fried had brilliantly worked his way out of a jam? 

It sure didn't seem like Grishman endured some sudden injury. It looked as though "Mr. Cool" played CF as he always does, positioning himself way too far back, getting a bad read on the ball, and making only the most desultory, unenthusiastic trot possible after a pop up that should never have been a hit. 

Bring up Kelenic, bring up The Martian. They could not possibly play worse than this.

—Unsurprisingly, the Yankees turned in another awful effort at the plate, this one against Walker Buehler, a starter who entered the game with a 4.66 ERA and who has not pitched consistently well since 2021.

The Yanks managed only a Ben Rice home run off him, and just 4 total hits in the first 9 innings. 

—The Yankees struck out a total of 15 times last night, giving them 1,303 for the 2026 season, with 21 games remaining. 

That is an average of a little over 8 a game for the year, which means they probably won't break the all-time team record of 1,482, set in 2021, or top the 1,463 strikeouts they ran up in 2025, or the 1,437 whiffs they managed in 2019. 

But you never know. All they have to do is up their average to 8.5 Ks a game, and they could set a new, negative record.

—Breaking it down, Cody Bellinger struck out three times, while Jones, Luis Garcia, Jr., George Lombard, Jr. (now at just .244), Heliot Ramos, and Austin Wells, each fanned twice.

—Unable to hit the ball, you would think that the Yankees might—might—at times have resorted to a bunt or two, in order to move runners along in a very close, low-scoring game.

—You would be wrong. The Yankees DO NOT BUNT. Period. No matter what. The Padres' pitchers could have ordered their infielders to sit on the ground, as Satchel Paige sometimes did during exhibition games, and the Yankees would still have swung for the fences.

—Instead of bunting, the Yanks tried to advance by stealing. They did this against a catcher, Luis Campusano, who throws out 32.5 percent of baserunners trying to swipe that extra base—well above the league average of 23.5

But remember: STATISTICS ONLY COUNT WHEN THEY SUPPORT WHAT THE YANKEES ALREADY WANT TO DO.

—When Spencer Jones plated the go-ahead run in the 10th with a single off Mason Miller, the best reliever in baseball, then hustled to second on the throw home, the Yankees were up, 2-1, with no one out and another runner on second.

Rather than try bunting him over, though, Manager Boone insisted on having Spencer try to steal third. Even though Grisham (despite that mysterious hammy) and Jazz had previously been gunned down at second by Campusano.

—Jones was thrown out at third, of course, while Heliot Ramos K'ed for a classic, strike 'em out, throw 'em out DP.  Ramos is hitting .134 as a Yankee, with 23 K's in 80 plate appearances. But whatever you do, DON'T BUNT.  

Jazz Chisholm, who was going to do...what, exactly? Hit a sac fly? He has all of 18 in his major-league career...then took a called third strike.

—None of this fully conveys, however, just how weirdly unengaged and sloppy the Yankees looked.

Jazz, of course, played the whole game in someone else's pants, and managed to lose his hat fielding a routine groundball to second. Is he now trying to imitate Willie Mays in hopes of getting that big contract?

—Cody Bellinger continues to be one of the most baffling disappointments on the season. Besides his three strikeouts, he seemed to actually crumple at the plate while checking his swing. 

The Man of Glass almost lost the game a little later when he turned the wrong way on a routine flyball to left, just managing to right himself and turn it into a circus catch. 

—Austin Wells, still at just .188 with another 0-3 day, nearly managed to lose the game in the bottom of the 9th, when he dropped a pitch and looked the wrong way for it, allowing a runner to advance to third. Was the whole team dropping acid?

—David Bednar managed to pitch out of that jam, but that only set up that staple of every Yankees fiasco: the Bad Aaron Boone Pitching Decision.

—When Fried was pulled after 5 2/3, Boone brought in Will Warren, four days after Warren's dominant, seven-inning win over the Red Sox. After walking the first batter, Warren got the last out of the inning then cruised through the next two frames, retiring seven hitters in a row and throwing just 28 pitches.

—This is just how the Yanks talk about using their extra starters in the pen during the postseason, so why not leave Warren in for another inning, in a 1-1 game?

No could do. Instead, he lifted him for Bednar, who gave us his usual, gutty inning...and then the overworked Blackburn, who gave up the game. 

This is not to get on Blackburn, who has pitched very well for us, but on the Yankees' pitching philosophy which is, as always, "Throw 'em til they break."  

Be a clown, be a clown, be a clown...

 

  

Grisham pulls a hamster, and the last pop fly - shoe, I mean, shoe - may have just dropped

Stop me if ya heard this: 

Guy walks into a bar. Bartender says, "Wallit be?" 

Guy says, "A catchable pop fly. Make it a double." 

Badaboom. Shoulda stopped me. A Samuel F.B. Morse Punch Line: Telegraphed. And lately, every Yank fan in captivity has known what was coming. 

Somewhere, somehow, a hamstring was about to bark.

Now, with a month left in regular 2026, Trent Grisham might be done. 

While most of us were sleeping - (Alphonso, on the West Coast, was self-immolating like a drummer for Spinal Tap) - Grish left last night's game in the third, shortly after a pop fly dropped in front of him, scoring a run that would eventually kill our night. (Yanks lost 3-2 in 10.)  

Always liked Grish. The Snidely Whiplash mustache. The breakout 2025. The great circle routes in centerfield. Suzyn's radio hubby, Dave Sims, called him "Mr. Cool." (It didn't stick.) This season, the tread on his tires could not pass a state of Alabama motor vehicle inspection, if such a thing existed. All year, he's been a slow-motion replay, unfolding in real time. Lately, he's been in a 4-for-44 tailspin, a super el nino of doom, with a season BA of .218. Last night's hamster twang probably sealed his Yankee fate.

If ever there was a reason to stick Spencer Jones in CF and throw away the key...  that time has come. 

Not even Aaron Boone can look away. 

Frankly, the Yankees may have nobody capable of providing quality defense in CF. Cody Bellinger might apply, but that would require yanking him out of LF, (where his recent throw home won a game against Boston.) Rob from Peter, pay Paul. 

Jones is a natural corner outfielder who gets slow reads on flies, and nobody wants to even think of a doomsday collision with Aaron Judge. They have no pure CF on the roster. (Cashman recently signed Jarred Kelenic, 27, a former Mets first round pick, to play CF in Scranton. Last night, he played his sixth game for the Moosic Marvels - his third organization this year. He's 7 for 28 in Scranton. Just sayin.')  

Depending on the medical scans, Grisham's Yankee era is probably over. That one-year contract he accepted last winter came to define our off-season plans. And all year, be it Jones or The Martian, attempts to find a replacement CF went nowhere. Now, there is no excuse, no reason to look elsewhere. 

That guy in the bar. It's Jones or nothing. Make it a triple.

Blackburn loses in the Dead of Night . . .

 

 

 

 Comments not publishing seems to be a widespread issue affecting Blogger blogs today. I think all we can do is wait for Blogger to notice and do something. In the meantime, I'm pretty sure all you commenters are entitled to post, so if you have anything today that can't wait, I guess creating a post -- even a single line of text -- would be the way for now. 

No idea why Comments are off. I've tried a few, humdingers, and they don't show up. 

I blame Biden. 

 Is Blogger preventing anyone else from commenting? I hit "Publish" and it don't.

On a day of California dreaming, Yanks cut Tampa's lead to three.

All the trees are brown
And the sky is grey...

Last night, while the Death Barge grooved down California State Route 1, the Pacific Coast Highway, Tampa phoned it in against Texas, and the Rays' loss-column lead in the sickly AL East has shriveled to three.

It sorta doesn't matter, because the AL remains a league of bumpkins and butchers. The Pope's White Sox, leaders of the AL Central, are seven losses behind the Yankees, five behind Boston. And Houston - in a summer of AI slop and 110-degree afternoons - is nine behind us. Nine. The ever-cheating Astros are three above .500. The final wild card slot could go to a sub-.500 team. This year is a joke. 

Some takeaways from the bus ride to the Plymouth of the West.

1. George Lombard Jr. should return this weekend. Turns out, young guys heal. Who knew? Should be interesting, as he's had a rare opportunity to rest and reflect upon the incredible changes - and inhuman pressures - heaped upon him over the last month. Lombard needs an error-free weekend to chase away the demons that seemed to be taking root back east.  

2. Lombard and Spencer Jones are the new Future of the Yankees (TM.) 

3. On behalf of the former Future of the Yankees (TM), Anthony Volpe homered last night in Scranton, on YES. He went 3-4, playing 2B. He's hitting .267 in Triple A. (While I have you, The Martian went 0-4, hitting .274.) Remember Volpe and Domiguez? Seems a million years ago. 

4. There's infield chatter of Volpe playing 2B next season, during the lockout. Hell, during a lockout, I could play 2B.

5. Trip to San Diego conjures another chance to imagine the last eight years, if Old George had not devoured so many overcooked, marbled steaks and lived another 10 years. (He was 80 - Trump age - when the Reaper came.) 

6. It was 2019 when Manny Machado, on his free agency tour, visited NYC to seduce the Yankees into a contract. Cooperstown Cashman and Food Stamps Hal hid under their beds and let the phone ring. Manny wanted to play in NY, his wife's home town. Happy, wife, happy life, right? 

7. Close your eyes and imagine the Yankees with Machado for the last eight years. Instead of Josh Donaldson, Miggy Twobags and Geo Urshela - instead of wandering a 3B desert, we'd savor a guy someday going into the Hall with a Yankee cap.

8. Over eight years in SD, Machado has hit 218 HRs and batted .268. This year, in a down season, he has 24.  

9. And let's not forget Bryce Harper, who also courted the Yankees in 2019. Close your eyes, and the Yankees could have a fistful of rings. Instead, it's Cabby and Ryan McMahon.  

9. Tonight, Max Fried. Tomorrow, Rodon. Why is this not inspiring confidence? And Sunday, we face Michael King. Wow. Another item to reimagine. 

Schlittler just keeps going, and going, and going... (and the Yankees have an official team tampon!)

Today's Existential Question: 

Where would Yankee civilization be without Cam Schlittler?

Third in the AL East? Fourth? Fifth? Leading the Tankathon? Below the Mets? Heading for the exit? Dead?

Imagine replacing his 29 starts - 19 with shutouts or one run allowed - with Elmer Rodriguez, Brendan Beck and/or the cast of Glee. Let's be clear:

We don't wanna think of 2026 without Cam the Man.

He leads the AL in ERA and IP, is second in WHIP and BA, third in Ks. If he doesn't win the Cy Young - hands down, despite the institutional, anti-Yankee bias - we should go Jan. 6 on the voting Gammonites.

Next month, Schlittler pitches Game One of our playoff series, no matter who it's against, and the Yankees have a shot. Doesn't matter if it's Dylan Cease, or Jacob DeGrom, or Sonny Gray. If Schlittler starts, we have a shot.

Last night, he gave us eight, holding the Angels to one run, and we almost blew it, anyway.  But if we have Schlittler, we have a puncher's shot.

Other takeaways...

1. Last night, Spencer Jones went 4-for-4 - in Ks. Well, we wuz warned. Jones swings for the glory of all humankind. When he hits them, they reach Vermont. When he misses, Platinum Sombreros.  

He remains one of the most entertaining Yankees to watch - that cockeyed stance is fun enough - and I hope he's in CF next month, because Trent 'Davey Lopes" Grisham has blown it. I believe Joe Torre and Joe Girardi would both go with Jones. Boonie? Not so sure. 

2. Tampa has a bone-crusher September schedule. Starting tonight...

4 v the Rangers (still in it)
3 v Atlanta
3 v Houston
3 v the A's
3 v the Redsocks
4 v the Yankees (in NY)
3 v the Phillies. 

Yikes. Aside from that series against the A's (trap games?), and that's one mutherlovin,' brutal Maxwell House schedule -to the last drop. Meanwhile, the Yankees play the likes of Colorado, the Mets, Arizona and Baltimore. 

3. Hot scoop by The Athletic: The Yankees have finally settled on an official tampon. Writes Asli Pelit, wonderfully: 

Aside from the obvious drink, airline and credit card sponsors, the Yankees are a global platform for a dizzying array of brands. New York Life is the team’s official life insurance partner. Canon is the official digital camera, copier and printer of the Yankees. Bad Boy Mowers is the official field maintenance equipment provider. There seems to be an official partner for just about everything at Yankee Stadium. And now, there is one for period products.

For those of you scoring at home, it is the Sequel brand. I'm sure Food Stamps Hal conducted rigorous quality tests before choosing.  

Take that, Tampa. 

LET"S ROOT, ROOT, ROOT FOR SOME GREAT SCHLITT !

 

Cole delivers, and Yank fans love it. Will Cooperstown?

In case you slept, the Yanks won last night behind a typical Gerrit Cole outing: 

5.1 IP
5 Ks
3 ERs
2 Hoovered bananas. 

He battled through three jams, left in the 6th, and roused his teammates the rest of the way from the water cooler. It's what you want from a team leader, and if such a role existed, Cole could easily be characterized as Captain of the Pitching Staff.

Last night, he won a game the Yankees desperately needed. (They cannot afford a losing streak against one of MLB's crappiest tomato cans.)  Cole got them into the strait of Headrick/Blackburn, a place where tankers tank, thanks to the two most unexpected Yankee surprises of 2026. Where would we be without Headrick and Blackburn? Don't wanna even think about it.

But today, let's talk Cole, who over 13 MLB seasons is 161-87, with a career ERA of 3.18. Those numbers would take him to the Thruway rest stop north of Cooperstown, maybe a strip mall outside Oneonta? - where several modern Yankees - (thinking Bernie, Pauly, Jorge, Rocket, Coney) - have run into Gammonitic anti-NYC bigotry. 

At 35, Cole sits on the threshold, outside the Coop loop. The Yankees have him for two more years (assuming a season in 2027) at $36 million per. When he signed in 2020, nobody expected him to still be an ace in 2028. But he has outdone Carlos Rodon (33) and Max Fried (32), and through sheer guts and guile, he's led this staff.

Three times last night, Cole worked out of jams, turning the game over to Headrick, who continues to amaze, despite being overused. Last night was his 71st game; (he is 2nd in all of baseball.) Over four previous seasons, he's never shown such stuff. Whatever deal he made with Mephistopheles, I approve.   

As for Cole, he's 39 wins from the iconic, purely symbolic number of 200, and I doubt he'll make it. He probably gets five more starts this year and will finish with about 10-12 wins. (He now has 8.) Unless he's got a Bartolo Colon gene, he will fall short of 200.

But Cole will almost surely become a Yankee rarity: One who justifies a contract that seemed ridiculous when it was signed. Food Stamps Hal won't be able to point at him and whine about money. That's worth our loyalty, if not a plaque in Monument Park. Any deal that avoids Pavanoville - it's certainly not nothing. 

And if Cole can pitch well in October, hey, ya never know... 

Welcome to September Baseball (Thank You, Mr Cashman)

 

The Long Weird Career of Roger Peckinpaugh

 

(With many thanks for the Peckinpaugh bio written by Peter M. Gordon on Baseball Reference.)

I take advantage of the Yanks' lallygagging vacation sojourn in California to examine the career of a man who has been much in the news lately, thanks to George Lombard, Jr., tying his consecutive error streak at shortstop. 

That is Roger T. Peckinpaugh, seen here on the right, with the famous "Midget Infield" of the old Washington Senators.

Peckinpaugh was an Ohio boy, who signed with the Indians, but was soon traded to the Yankees for the immortals Jack Lelivelt and Bill Stumpf. The deal opened the way for Cleveland to put Ray Chapman, the man who would later be killed by a pitched ball, at short, in a game where Peck was playing the same position for the Yanks—just the first of several strange events Roger would be involved in during his career.

At the Polo Grounds, Peckinpaugh quickly won the starting shortstop job on a bad Yankees team. In his first full season, 1914, he stole 38 bases but hit only .223. Still, already known as "the calmest man in baseball," Peck was named team captain.

Much more significantly, near the end of the season Roger, still just 23, became the youngest manager in major-league history, when the O.G. Peerless Leader, Frank Chance, decided to pack his bags and go home. Peck took over a team mired in the second division.

"The Yankees were a joy club," Peckinpaugh would later write. "Lots of joy and lots of losing. Nobody thought we could win and most of the time we didn't. But it didn't seem to bother the boys too much. They would start singing songs in the infield right in the middle of a game."

Peckinpaugh's "There's no singing in baseball" regime brought a terrible, sixth-place club home at 10-10 in its last 20 games. 

The next year, the club was bought by some serious men, the colonels, Ruppert and Huston, and they installed a manager old enough to vote. But Roger seemed very popular with his teammates, warblers or not, and remained captain. 

Just how good a player he was remains open to debate. 

Peck was generally a below-average batter even in the deadball days. A pull hitter without power, he was easily retired by the constant shifts he faced—and never adjusted to. His main contribution at the plate was the sacrifice bunt, running up the 8th highest total of SFBs in big-league history.

He kept his job mainly because he was widely considered one of the best shortstop in the show.

"...the spectacle of Peckinpaugh, slinging himself after groundballs, throwing from out of position and nailing his man by half a step was an American League commonplace," kvelled longtime Washington Post sportswriter Shirley Povich.

All told, he would lead AL shortstops five times in assists, six times in double-plays, and twice in defensive WAR. The secret, according to Peck, was the Star plug tobacco that he chewed constantly.

"[It] was licorice-flavored, and it made my glove sticky," he would confess. It also helped darken the baseball, "and the pitchers liked that. The batters did not, but, what the hell, there was only one umpire."

This may not have been quite as efficacious a trick as Roger thought, for he also made lots of errors. 

Lots and lots and lots of errors. Never fewer than 26 in a full season, more than 40 seven times, and a career-high 54 in 1917. But then, back in the day, gloves were small—and perhaps too sticky?—and scorers handed out errors if a line drive did not actually take one's hand off, so who knows?

The livening of the baseball seemed to bring Peck's bat to life, too. He hit .305 in 1919, and had two more decent years at the plate in 1920 and 1920, compiling a career-high 8 home runs each season.

But in his first World Series, he hit just .179 and made a critical error in Game 8 (yes, it was best-of-nine) against the Giants, allowing the only run in a 1-0 loss that decided the Series. It also wrecked a great World Series for Waite Hoyt, who had pitched two shutouts previously, and would have tied Christy Mathewson for a record three in the Fall Classic, if not for Ol' Licorice Glove.

Peck was now 30, and the Yankees—then a terribly hard-hearted organization that did not let aging mediocrities clutter up the roster forever—traded him to the Red Sox with three other, marginal players and the requisite $100,000. 

In return, they got an undisputed gloveman at short, Everett "Deacon" Scott (who would hold the consecutive-games played record before Gehrig), and outstanding pitchers Bullet Joe Bush and Sad Sam Jones (not to be confused with Toothpick Sam Jones, I am not making this up).

That trio finally put the Yanks over the top, and won them their first World Series title.

Peck, meanwhile, was moved on to Washington, where he found something of a second life. In 1924, the Senators won their first pennant, and Roger hit a walk-off double to win Game Two. He pulled a muscle in the game, but came back, "heavily bandaged," in Game Six—something Povich called, "the gamest exhibition I ever saw on a baseball field."

Peckinpaugh had two hits and a walk, and made a terrific stop of an Irish Meusel smash to preserve the Nats' 2-1 lead with one out in the ninth. Roger had to be carted off the field, but Washington would hold on and won it the next day.

In 1925, the Senators repeated. Peck got off to a good start but was showing his age, playing in only 125 games. In the World Series, he made a record 10 errors—a record that holds to this day—in 7 games.

In the last game, Roger Peckinpaugh went from goat to hero to goat, maybe faster than anyone in World Series history. 

With the great Walter Johnson trying to win his third game of the Series on a bad, drizzly day at Pittsburgh's Forbes Field, Peck dropped a pop fly in the seventh that allowed the Bucs to tie the game at 6-6.

In the top of the eighth, he homered to give Washington the lead again—only to make a wild throw in the bottom of the eighth to give the Pirates a 9-7 win.

With that error, the calmest man in baseball became the only player ever to make a game-losing error in the last game of a World Series...twice. 

What's more, he became the only player ever to prevent two, Hall-of-Fame pitchers from winning a record-tying, three games in a single World Series with his glove work.

The writers, in their collective wisdom, gave him the MVP for the 1925 season. This was despite the fact that Peckinpaugh was, by any rational measure, only about the 10th most valuable player on his own team,  and maybe the third best shortstop in the league. 

It must be remembered that, at the time, there were often silly restrictions on MVP voting, such as not allowing someone to repeat as most valuable player. The sportswriters seem to have seen something about Peckinpaugh that maybe didn't show up on the stats sheet. He had got serious MVP votes after poor seasons in 1922 and 1923, and even back in 1914—perhaps as a tribute to his stepping in as playing manager.

And...it could be that, once again, the writers did not have the slightest idea of what they were seeing on the field before them, every day of their working lives.

So much for beating Boston, Yanks blasted by Hell's Angels.

Wellp...  at least it happened on the far coast, before the hurricane hits, and too late to stay up for. 

Remember that game in the loss column the Yankees gained Sunday against Boston? It's gone. Funny how they go. It's as if the universe farts. We're now five behind hateful Tampa and three ahead of the vengeful Redsocks, holding the tie-breaker, if it matters. (And Boston just lost Will Contreras, their best hitter, to a hammy. Hail, the Immortal Hammy!) 

Ten takes...

1. The world is discovering what Yank fans have known for months: Trent Grisham has deteriorated into a bad CF, a defensive liability currently mired in a 2-for-37 slump. It's been a hard year for Old Slow Foot, ever since he accepted the Yankee one-year qualifying offer of $22 million, prompting Food Stamps Hal to close his fanny pack for the rest of the winter. Last night, Grisham botched a throw home after an errant pickoff attempt, though the game was pretty much over. Right now, across the Yankiverse, he's about as popular as data centers and Flock cameras.

2. Last night, the Death Barge reverted to its One-Run-Per-Game mode. Spencer Jones homered, and that was all. It came in the fifth, when the Yankees were down 4-0, and you could argue that they needed base runners more than a solo shot, but - fuck - that's the Yankees, eh. It was Jones' 8th HR in 181 at-bats. Over a 500 at-bat season, that would mean 28 HRs. Hmm. He's hitting .238. Gallo? 

3. When Aaron Judge returns, Jones will either take over in CF or board a bus to Scranton. Weird, eh? You either take the arguably most vaunted position in sports - centerfield for the New York Yankees! - or head to the mud yards of Moosic. 

4. Elmer "the Glue Gun" Rodriguez got pasted last night - gave up four, didn't survive the fourth. It's been a moon since a Yankee starter effectively killed a game. The year began with high hopes for Rodriguez and Carlos LaGrange, the early sensation in Camp Tamp. Neither came through. (They claim LaGrange might still pitch this season - he's recovering from a bum shoulder - but nobody's betting on it.) 

5. That means that, basically, the Yankee farm system didn't produce one pitcher of magnitude this year. (Schlittler was last year.) Not one. Brendan Beck doesn't cut it. Not one. Remember how they called their camp "The Gas Station," and how they boasted about developing young arms? Not one. 

6. WTF with David Bednar pitching the 9th, in a blowout, and giving up three? I suppose he needed the work? Yikes. What a fiasco. 

7. Clarke Schmidt and Ryan Weathers may soon join the bullpen. During their careers, both have been starters. What could go wrong?

8. Heading into last night, the Angels were 52-85, tied with the homeless A's for the worst record in the AL. This was the kind of game you cannot afford to lose, and the Yankees lost by nine. WTF?

9.  The Boston radio announcer, Will Flemming, apologized for calling Jazz Chisholm a bush leaguer. I realize that Jazz talks too much, but nobody turns a DP more fearlessly (with his hat somehow glued to his head.) And frankly, when an old, Wonder Bread white guy from Boston attacks him, I automatically suspect race is an underlying factor. (BTW: I wonder if his pals call him "Phlegm?"

10. Gerrit Cole tonight. Must game. Knicks in five.

Game Thread - Anaheim, CA – 08/31/2∂

 

 

Congrats to Redsock fans everywhere. Your radio team has finally achieved full-on, bonkers hate.

Dear Redsock Nation,

For 35 years, your blustery fans whined about John Sterling's rampant shows of favoritism during Yankee radio broadcasts, driven by Jeep. 

You never got over Sterling's shtick, the home run calls and Win-Warbles, and how his voice lilted unto heaven when the Yankees had a lead. You prosecuted John and Suzyn Waldman with the vigor of Rand Paul in a Covid hearing. How dare the Yankees employ flagrant home team announcers, befouling the otherwise pristine Harding & Mazzotti Broadcast Booth! (By the way, hurt your body? Call Harding & Mazzotti!)

Well, today, the Righteous Redsocks - Curt Schilling's chosen team - can bathe in its self-sustaning acrimony, thanks to the radio team of Will Flemming and Will Middlebrooks. They did something Sterling wouldn't have touched in his entire career. They called for a Boston pitcher to "drill" a Yankee batter and pick a fight during the late stage of a 16-1 plastering. 

This came about because Jazz Chisholm stole third in the eighth, with the Yankees leading 14-1. The Boston infield wasn't holding him on, and he basically jogged to third. Defensive indifference. Austin Wells was batting against Boston's Jovani Moran, and in the booth, Flemming was seething over the indignity of Chisholm's move. 

"Wouldn't you sort of like to see Moran drill Wells right here?" Flemming asked.

Well, speaking on behalf of the Yankiverse, YEAH! 

I mean, who wouldn't want a full-on, bench-clearing brawl! We haven't had a bonkers, bare-fisted street rumble in waaaaay too many years. I've wondered what Giancarlo Stanton has been doing in the Yankee dugout. Now I know: He's waiting for his chance to grab little Caleb Durbin and fling him like a Frisbee into the upper deck. Come on, everybody, grab the testosterone and let's do some Hegseth! 

Look, I get it that Chisholm didn't need to steal third. But who cared? Certainly not Boston. They had given up, because their 4-year-old center fielder didn't get the call on a trapped line drive, so - hey - let's pick a fight! Maybe Flemming could punch out Suzyn? And if they hurt their body... well, you know who to call.

Folks, isn't that what is happening all across America? 

Something goes wrong, so drill the nearest guy and let's fight.

I already know what Boston will do about Flemming's words. Nothing. Maybe he'll recant, sorta, with a winky-wink. And if the Yanks play Boston in the postseason - right now, they'd be hosting the Redsocks in a three-game wild card series - what are the odds that somebody doesn't drill Chisholm? 

Yep, congrats to all you Fenway Freedom Fighters. You guys are something. See you in October.

Game Thread – August 30th, 202∂

So, are we ready for Anthony Volpe, edition number four?

Not sure what it means - if anything - but Anthony Volpe yesterday went 1-4 with a walk and two Ks for the Scranton Railwhatevers. He played 3B, as he has done for most of the last three weeks. At Triple A, Volpe is hitting .217 - (23 points below his BA for the Yankees this year) - with 6 HRs in 115 ABs.

Volpe is 25, going on 32. He's been with us since 2023. It seems like forever. Last year, he supposedly played half the season with a bum shoulder. But this year, all healed, his game only continued to unravel. A lot of people expected him to disappear at the trade deadline. But here he is, perhaps ready for another go?

Yesterday's Scranton game ended before George Lombard Jr., in NYC, tweaked his knee batting against Boston. Lombard walked it off, singled, played two more innings and then left, whisked to a hospital for voodoo scans. Immediately, the Yankees revved up their Baghdad Bob machine, saying the injury looks minor and listing Lombard as "day-to-day." After all, 21-year-olds heal fast, right? 

Since joining the team Aug. 4, after Volpe was banished, Lombard has lived several of his own lifetimes. He's been compared to Hall of Fame shortstops. He's been mocked for committing six errors in six games, a record among Yankee shortstops that had not been achieved since 1915. Roger Peckinpaugh, remember him? 

Lombard and Volpe have shared a wondrous and terrifying experience. Both were hoisted on a pedestal as the future of the Yankees - and then hung out to dry. In both cases, their stories are incomplete. Today, their fates will merge on the results of a medical scan.  

Dunno what to make of this splintered seesaw of good and terrible luck. In a Ben Affleck movie, Volpe would return, he'd befriend Lombard, they'd make peace with their dads, they'd compete for Zendaya, and they'd lead the ragtag, loveable Yankees to a world series. Unfortunately, Affleck hates us, and were this a movie, it would be directed by Rob Zombie or the guy who did that Melania flick. 

Today, the Yankees play Boston for the last time in this regular season. Jose Caballero will probably play SS. Nobody calls him the future of the Yankees. But Cabby will have to do. (BTW: Playing SS last night in Scranton was everybody's fave, Oswaldo Cabrera, and he went 1-5, lowering his season average to .286. There's a movie in there, and we know Oswaldo can act from his CarShield commercials.) 

Today decides the four-game home series and our season record against Boston. If the Yankees win, they will not only lead the Redsocks by four games, but they'll hold the tie-breaker, a phantom 5th game. (Fun Fact: That's what killed them last year against Toronto.) They would almost surely secure the first AL wild card, with its limited home field advantage. Also, they can go to the West Coast this week for six games to be played after our bedtimes. No anxiety. Just sleep.

We shall have respite. But until then, we wonder: Who's narrative will play out at SS? The wheel keeps grinding.

º8/29/2∂ – Wicked Double Pissah in da Bronx - Game Two

 

º8/29/2∂ – Wicked Double Pissah in da Bronx - Game One

 

Yanks face Judgement Day, without Judge.

 Wellp, here goes nuthing... 

Across the world, millions of innocent people are fleeing floods, wildfires, maelstroms and war - oblivious to what we of the Yankiverse would manically consider "Doomsday Doubleday Judgement Day" - with two games against Boston that will define 2026, at least until next week.

It's nuts to assign cataclysmic significance to the outcome of a sporting gig, a cultural parlor game, but the ship called "Reason" sailed long ago. In our bug jar, where our feelers barely touch the air holes, we today face six to eight hours of grueling, self-imposed anxiety, as we prepare for two games that will change nothing in our lives, aside from the panicky fact that we can think of nothing else.

The twi-night doubleheader - ahh, a vestige from the distant past - begins at 1:05 p.m., with the nightcap set for 7:15 p.m., give or take. By then, either team could be out of bullpen arms, summoning the dregs from their Triple A wastewater ponds. By then, certain Yankees could be headed back to Scranton, (where Anthony Volpe last night reverted to SS.) By then, one fan base will be drunkenly celebrating, and the other will be measuring nearby bridges.  

And here's the joke. 

Probably, nothing will come of it. 

After all the buildup, all the handwringing, the teams will do what happens in most doubleheaders: They will split. (Yank fans would happily accept such an outcome.) Come Monday, the Yankees fly to LA, with a new time zone and lease on life. Swimmin' pools. Movie stars. 

Today, the Babadook. Next week, San Diego. Keep that in mind, as the terrors descend. They can beat us. They can sweep us. But they can't eliminate us.