Believing their own blarney.

 

On August 4th, 1963, Mickey Mantle stepped up to the plate in the seventh inning of a game against the Baltimore Orioles, pinch-hitting for reliever Steve Hamilton, he of "folly floater" fame. 

Mantle had not played for almost two entire months, after badly injuring himself running into one of the stupid, jerry-rigged walls in Baltimore's Memorial Stadium. Nonetheless, he belted a pitch from George Brunet of the Birds deep into Yankee Stadium's left field bleachers, tying the game at 10-10, and ran around the bases in his usual hurried, head-down way—with tears in his eyes, thinking, "Gee, I'm a lucky guy."

The Mick made a habit of such feats throughout his long, injury-riddle career. Just the year before, he had come back from four weeks on the disabled list to pinch-hit a three-run homer before some 50,000 fans at the Stadium, and in the 1961 World Series he had managed a key, pinch-hit single despite playing with a wound that started bleeding through his uniform.

Opponents often thought that Mantle was at his most dangerous when playing injured—or hung over—because it diminished his eagerness to over swing.

Who can say? But nonetheless, The Mick in that immortal, 1963 game, was batting in a regular-season game, after a "mere" 60 days on the DL.  

By contrast, Giancarlo Stanton was sent up last night to have his first at-bat in...132 days. In the ninth inning, of a an important playoff game. Against a top closer. 

Those familiar with this space will have noticed that I don't exactly have the highest regard for our Mr. Stanton.

I feel that he came to the New York Yankees under false pretenses, based on gaudy, National-League statistics that were probably augmented by various illicit substances (thanks again, Mr. Jeter). 

The results of whatever his training regimen was and is have been visited upon the Yankees. He has barely been able to play over half of his games in NewYork, and his production has been erratic at best.

Given ownership's loathing to spare an extra dollar of all that inherited lucre, his presence on the roster has been generally disastrous, preventing the Yanks from signing any number of other players who could, well, play—and who might well have put us over the top at last during these last, frustrating nine seasons.

But neither Giancarlo nor us fans deserved what Aaron Boone and the rest of the Bombers' braintrust clowntrust visited upon us last night.

As many of us have mentioned here, one of the most frustrating things about Stanton is that not only does he get hurt all the time, but it takes him days, even weeks, to get back in "form" after returning from those injuries (whereupon he usually gets injured again).

But far be it from the Yankees-in-charge to believe anything but their own childlike faith that Giancarlo is always so clutch, no matter the circumstances.

Could The Mick have come through last night? 

Maybe, but he was a god. Giancarlo is a mere mortal, in our fallen age, and liable to fail. As are we all.

I know, I know. October makes us all batty. Or should I say, even battier than usual. 

Already, otherwise astute and intelligent friends have told me seriously that the real problem last night was Austin Wells running into that out (Stupid, but as our Peerless Leader has pointed out, was McMahon—or Stanton—really going to come through with a hit?), or even that, had Carlos Rodon started, he would have been sure to match Drew Rasmussen "zero for zero" until...what? Our bullpen blew the game?

Stop it.

The fault for last night lies with our Clown-in-Chief, the man who our Nepo Baby Clown owner will not fire, and who seems to have on tap an endless supply of press box clowns willing to write yet another encomium to his many years of not having losing records.

The fact is that having Giancarlo Stanton and Trent Grisham on this post-season roster is ludicrous mismanagement.

The Yanks SHOULD have brought up the late lamented Oswaldo in the last month of the season, and seen if he could hit and field well enough to bench Ryan McMahon. 

They SHOULD have spent that last month, too—if they were not going to bother actually chasing hard after the TB Rays—trying to find ways to score runs without relying on solo homers.

Especially solo home runs from bums and perpetual invalids who were—and probably still are—injured.

All that said...

The Yankees still SHOULD have enough starting pitching to win this playoff series and at least reach the World Series. 

They might not. As someone wrote in an actual review of an Off-Broadway show I read the other day, there has been a "clown resurgence" of late (Somehow, that explains so much.). 

But the odds are in our favor, provided we can put on our big-boy pants (very big in Jazz's case), remember that we gotta have heart, and always, always, follow the Knicks.

I, for one, will gladly tip my own clown hat and red nose and call Brian Cashman my daddy if he does at last bring home a World Series trophy, all on his own.  

This is the year. Now is the time.