Yankeetorial: We can put a golf cart on Mars and find the Higgs Boson, but we can't decipher the mysteries of Brett Gardner and Eduardo Nunez?

I offer two words to summarize the ongoing status of Yankee LF Brett Gardner's problem elbow.

Quack. Quack.

Good grief, what are they using to analyze it, a divining rod? Who's running the show, the team midwife? Gardner's been crocheting in front of the daytime boob tube since Tax Day, his arm wrapped in tin foil, but when he visits Marcus Welby for a monthly checkup, the veterinarian looks in his mouth and says, "Take two aspirin and come back in September." What color beads are we shaking over this guy? 
Yesterday, word circulated that Gardy's elbow not only still hurts, but it picks up an AM radio station from Fort Wayne. That means 2012 looks like a wipe-out, and even though we're nine up - (As a rule, I never relax until we're 20 ahead) - everybody can imagine the September outfield pileup when Raul Ibanez - age 40 - and Andruw Jones - 240 (pounds that is) - run out of diesel. Suddenly, Cashman is back to sniffing for trades, which means overpaying for some warm body who is barely a blogger widget better than Chris Dickerson.

Personally, I blame our chronic inability to develop position players in the minors, which is epic when you consider all the Jed Lowries and Will Middlebrooks who vault from the Redsock primordial loins. (Not to mention the Rays full tap spiggot.) Our Scranton OF - now with Fukodome!- is roughtly the same age as most outfields in the Central divisions.
But one last mystery haunts me: Where TF is Eduardo Nunez? What happened to him? He's like Trini Lopez in "The Dirty Dozen." One minute, he's singing a song; next, he's gone from the movie. Last I heard, they sent Nunez to the Traveling Wilkes Barres to play SS every day. Then... poof, his parachute doesn't open, and he's vanished.

I think he's stuck in one of those Thruway rest stop toilet booths, where the latches get jammed. He could anywhere between Batavia and the Montezuma Swamp. I hate to even think of it: The guy is smelling that delicious Sbarro lasagna and those Roy Rogers Triggerburgers, but the automatic flusher keeps gurgling, obscuring his tortured cries for help. This is like that 2003 movie "Open Water," where a cute yuppie couple is left behind in the ocean to do a "My Dinner with Andre" conversation while playing shark soccer. It takes 90 minutes in the movie for the boat captain to realize that Ken and Barbie are missing. Do the Yankees even know Nunez is gone?

HEY, YOO-HOO, EVERYBODY: NUNEZ IS NOT ON THE BUS! DO YOU REALIZE WE LEFT HIM SOMEWHERE BACK THERE AROUND WEEDSPORT? HE COULD BE IN SOME TREADWAY RIGHT NOW, STILL WAITING FOR THE CONTINENTAL BREAKFAST. WE GOTTA GO BACK AND GET HIM!

Yeesh. We'll find life on Mars before we find a leftielder. Quack.

Bevare: The Redsocks are re-assembling their superteam

"Redvengers Reassemble!"

Hear the full-throated cry from Nordic God/Redsock superpresident Larry Lucchino:

"The one constant off the field is that we have had a veritable All-Star Team on the disabled list. As we begin the second half, we look forward to the return of the 'varsity,' including Jacoby Ellsbury, Carl Crawford, Andrew Bailey, and the ever-dirty Dustin Pedroia. While this infusion of such talent in late July may make other General Managers green with envy, you can be sure that Ben Cherington and his Baseball Operations Staff will approach the July 31 trading deadline with their tireless work ethic. If someone can further help this club, and if the deal makes sense, we will be aggressive. We want to play October Baseball this year."

Bevare. The Fenway Murderer's Roe, which stumbled last year, has learned from its mistakes and returned stronger than ever! With "Perfect Storm" Crawford back to patrol Yazstremskiville, and the ever-dirty Dustin Pedroia quarterbacking the infield, the "varsity" Socks present a formidable opponent. Also, let's not forget wily manager and cool customer Bobby Vee, the Professor X of Bosstown, who knows what buttons to press - and when.

Bevare.

(Let's face it: If we can keep our lead in the East, and Texas holds on in the West, that leaves the Central to the .500 brigade - and the two leftover Wild Card slots to the Angels, Rays or Varsity Socks. Does anyone really think Baltimore can hang in there? Not me. So let those teams burn their systems chasing Ryan Dempster and Matt Garza. After all, they'll need them for the one-game playoff, right?)

Link(s)

Spike Lee catches bat

Open Letter to Brian Cashman: Don't even pick up the phone

Dear Madam or Sir,

Once again, the Yankiverse is buzzing over potential trades. Because it's July, we always go through this pointless charade, like the 12 days of Christmas, wondering who we can get. And if we do cut a deal, it's immediately cheered and a year later, lambasted.

This year, let's do nothing.

That was the policy of perhaps the greatest GM in modern history, Pat Gillick. They used to call him "Stand Pat," because he recognized that you're better off developing your own players than trading for other teams' mistakes. Gillick built into powerhouses the Blue Jays, the Mariners and the Phillies. He's in the Hall of Fame because he didn't answer the phone in July.

Right now, we have little in the high farm system that other teams covet. The few prospects we have are injured or in slumps. To chase a stud pitcher - a Dempster or a Garza - we would have to drain our lower system in ways that we would likely regret for years.

Say no. Don't do it.

Lately, that horrible winter deal with the Mariners - the Pineda deal - doesn't look so bad. Jesus Montero is not hitting, and Hector Noesi is a disaster. It's hard to imagine a team getting less than we did, but at least we didn't have to see Montero in the all-star game. Thus, you do not have to restore yourself via a trade. You can sit this one out.

Let's not make a deal. Stand pat. Let the Cubs trade whomever they want to whomever they want. We have Andy Pettitte coming back. We have Brett Gardner coming back. We have Joba Chamberlain coming back. We have the utility wire for everything else. We don't need anybody.

Take a cruise. Tour Europe. See Alaska. Or go to Chico, California. That's the birthplace of Pat Gillick.

Yankeetorial: The Aqua-Ape search gives us hope for Brett Gardner's elbow

Last night on the Discovery Channel, bearded and bespectacled scientists updated the world on their continuing search for mermaids, or the "aqua-ape." At one point, a bearder subjected deep sea recordings to a super-spectrographic, magnetic-sequencing digital analysis, isolating individual frequencies and slowing them to sound levels conducive to the human ear. The result: It sounded like crowd noise at a Yankee game.

Yes, folks, the aqua-apes are booing us. They're not hollering "Yoook." They are muy pissed.

As I was watching, two thoughts fluttered out of mental cocoons: 1) Should I grow a beard? (Not a Jerry Garcia thing, mind-you, but a chin-hiding mink, the kind that would grace the face of a Kelsey Grammer or Celine Dion); and 2) If humankind has evolved enough to measure voices of aqua-apes akin to Kevin Costner in "Waterworld," why are our modern scientific methods unable to solve the mystery of Brett Gardner's elbow?

Ah, the vagaries of life! Gardner took a few swings yesterday, and only God and he truly know if time and Florida is curing his ailment. We will always have Florida - (Make what you want of that) - but we are running out of time if Gards is going to supercharge the oceanic depths of our batting order this season. If the elbow barks, and we push Brett back another month, that lands him nearly into September, and it's a Jacoby Ellsbury year.

Now, some of you could ask, who cares? We're winning without Gardner. But Girardi has placed his two posterboys - Jeet and Arod - in a wave of great hitters. For example, Arod bats between Curtis Granderson and Robbie Cano, two lefties; if he can't make it there, he can't make it anywhere. But Jeet, sadly, comes up behind Russell Martin, who has done nothing this year. As Martin's spring slump deepened, Jeter's spring surge diminished. Batting ninth, Gardner can wreak havoc on pitchers, a daily 100-mg of viagra for Jeet that could spill over to Granderson's meager .260 average, as well.

Yesterday's most important swings were not Arod's pop-up with the bases loaded. They took place in Florida. And I hope the Yankees don't let Gardner swim in the ocean. The aqua-apes are pissed. And they are not shouting "Yoook."

D'feet

We gave them a game. I still can't figure out what course of environmental and societal circumstances brought us to be pitching something called Chad Qualls. But we gave them a game.

10 things the Yankees are looking for at the trade deadline

1. Solid, hard-hitting 4th catcher for Scranton.

2. Good $4 cigar.

3. Amelia Earhart.

4. Brett Gardner's chiropractor.

5. Godot.

6. Redsock fan with sense of hope.

7. Cure for cancer.

8. Life on Mars.

9. Secret to Justin Bieber's popularity.

10.  Mr. Goodbar.

Rivalometer

"Paterno was innocent!"

"Reggie is forgiven!"

Yankeetorial: Eveything is going too well. Are we doomed?

Don't gemmie wrong: Aint complainin.'

But something hideous and divisive - the super-honed instincts of a snow-shoveling upstate NYker - is screaming from the Don Zimmer memorial steel-plate within my head: TOO EASY, TOO EARLY. 

Take last night. Hollywood comeback. If that's a playoff game, Teixeira's HR goes up there with Robert Redford's fireworks shot in "The Natural." We snapped California's spine like a Hershey bar. They should not show up today. They should go back to wherever they came from. Hell, I guess. It should be over. Goodbye. so long, farewell...

But it's what, July 14? We still have to survive the Olympics and then the horrible, miserable, Star Trekkie-level conventions. It's a 500-mile hike to Sept. 1. Too easy, too early. We gotta save some Leyritz sauce for later.

We've done everything possible to blow it. Andy Pettitte threw himself into a liner just to make us use Freddy Garcia. Brett Gardner is drinking Boddingtons on a beach somewhere, just so Andruw Jones can trot around in the outfield. God knows Girardi didn't expect Dewayne Wise to be the Second Coming of Roberto Clemente. Nothing has worked. We keep winning.

Too easy, too early?

Aint complainin'. Just worryin.' Zim is talking to me. Bevare.

Lookin Good

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Can El Duque Dominate the Second Half?

Before we plunge into the back half of 2012, let's take a moment to absorb and acknowledge the thrilling late-career surge of El Duque.

It started with the book and ended with the six-game drinking streak. Those two history-making feats bookended a firehose blast of poems and polls, letters and lists, worries and gripes, unleashed with a reckless extravagance that bloggers half Duque's age can only envy.

Even if we acknowledge the occasional disastrous misstep--and even if the experts are right and he collapses down the stretch--2012 will long be remembered for the magic El Duque brought to the game.

Just Thought You Should Know

This is the roadmap for Brett Gardner's "so-called" return to the Yankees before the trade deadline.

A Special Welcome For Ty Hensley

We would like to extend a special welcome to the newest Yankee, Ty Hensley.

Your room is ready and we can do the work anytime you are ready.

It is our recommendation that you have the surgery sooner, rather than later.

Why waste all those frustrating days working out?

Do you really want the humiliation of not making it through two innings in your first outing?

Think of the damage to your reputation, your future " trade value."

In addition, there is only a one in twenty chance you would be any good, even if healthy.

We hope to do for you what we did for Andy Brackman.

No, make that for Raphael Santana.

Last thought.  Have you considered developing a knuckleball?

See you soon.  Shoulder surgeons are on the 6th floor.

Welcome to the Yankees' roster of young pitchers.

10 Reasons Joe Paterno still makes it into heaven

1.   Never indicted. (Yeah, the bar's been lowered.)

2.   Recommendation from Franco Harris (whom God obviously likes.)

3.   Was always polite (at least on TV.)

4.   Was screwed out of 1968 National Championship. (Bear Bryant now coaching Hell.)

5.   Prayed each day (and meant it.)

6.   Tipped big in diners (and meant it.)

7.   Great hair. (OK, the bar is really low.)

8.   Respected the law (though didn't always mean it.)

9.   Strong recruiter. (Heaven needs linebackers.)

10. God tired of losing with Knute Rockne (and hearing that speech.)

It wasn't Ty Hensley holding up the signing, it was an MRI of his shoulder

Wow. This is weird. And sad. And a sign of the times.

Ty Hensley, the Yankees first round pick, signed yesterday for about $1.2 million - about $400,000 lower than original expectations. That ends the speculation that we had another Gerrit Cole on our hands - a draft pick who simply had no intention of signing. But the backstory is now evolving.

Turns out, Cole Hensley and the Yankees had a $1.6 million deal in place shortly after the draft, but then a routine MRI revealed an abnormality in his shoulder, and the Yankees cut their offer. Kaboom. Ever since, the kid and his family have been twisting in the wind. Can you imagine the talks in their kitchen?

Chase Parnam has the full story. The quotes will break your heart, especially where the 18-year-old says this is just "the business of baseball."

Here's the closer quote:

"The Yankees and I are in this together. The deal we came to illustrates this. By being honest about what has been going on, I hope it will lead to a better understanding of medicals like mine. My mom spent 24/7 on the internet just trying to find anything she could so maybe this will help someone else. There is no sense in being bitter, I am still living the dream and am grateful for the amazing opportunities that I have had. Right now I think we all just want to put this behind us and concentrate on the impact I can have on the Yankees now and in the future." 

We drafted an abnormal shoulder. And an abnormal kid.

Glad he's in the fold. For the record, I hate the business of baseball.

Is it my imagination, or is the All-Star break longer this year?

I dunno. I must be losing my mind. But somewhere in the back of my head, next to memories of my Pogs collection, I thought the All-Star break only lasted three days. It started Monday, climaxed with the game on Tuesday, the teams reunited Wednesday, and they started playing again Thursday. Right?

Obviously, I'm hallucinating. Yep, I've lost it, bigtime. Please accept my apologies. The fathers of baseball, traditionalists that they are, would never tamper with the All-Star break schedule. What would be the point? Add an extra day, and you might finish the World Series on Thanksgiving.

Bath salts. Man, I gotta quit 'em.  

Will There Ever Be More Baseball?

This is what it now looks like in my tv room, next to the couch.

Ever since the Yankees left Boston with a win, the only baseball available has been " classic moments " re-runs of Mets games, or the Brooklyn Cyclones playing some team from steel country.

If it was the Staten Island Yanks on the tube, I would watch.  But the Mets' short summer league team has prospects and is, therefore, painful for me to watch.  And while the Yanks' summer team is loaded with waste material, they are still called, Yankees.

So I sit here drinking beer and eating tacos until the stupid and dull all star game break finally passes, like a corncob through a bowel.

Is there baseball tonight?

If not, I'm going to drink moonshine, which is now legal in my state.

10 surefire ways to boost attendance at Tampa games

Bud Selig calls the low attendance figures at Tampa Ray games “inexcusable.” What can MLB do?
 
1.   Replace Evan Longoria with Eva Longoria.
2.   Shoot the Teenager Night
3.   Seventh-inning rooster fights.
4.   Build entirely new $500 million stadium.
5.   Replace BJ Upton with Kate Upton.
6.   Toothbrush Night.
7.   Install gates around outer neighborhood.
8.   Replace James Shields with Brooke Shields.
9.   After Ray home run, have giant statue of Virgin Mary cry tears.
10. Switch games to George Steinbrenner Field, home of the Tampa Yankees.

Open letter to Yankee top draft pick Ty Hensley, who has until Friday at 5 p.m. to sign

Dear Madam or Sir,

Ahh, I remember 18. The women. The breasts. The playpen. Wait. That was 18 months. But age 18 was sort of nice, too. Graduation from the hellhole. Working at McDonalds. Getting to stay up late and watch Johnny Carson. Eighteen is - well - frickin' eternal. You think you will be frickin' 18 for frickin' ever.
According to Internet scuttlebutt (whoops, a redundancy), you have until 5 p.m. Friday to sign a nearly $2 million contract with the New York Frickin' Yankees. At 5:01 p.m., the unsigned contract will turns into a pumpkin chariot, and two cartoon mice will drive it out of town. You will enroll at Ole Miss to study things like baseball and introduction to typing.

In trying to access your state of mind, I have constructed two scenarios:

1.     You are brilliant in pushing the Yankees to the absolute deadline negotiations limit before signing the paper. You want the best deal possible. This is smart. This is gamesmanship. This is exactly what you should be doing. Fight the bastards. Get the money.

2.     You are an idiot, overcome with the hubris of age 18; you think you're indestructable and that bad things only happen to other guys.  You think the world will always be at your doorstep. This is exactly what every 18 year-older thinks.

OK, let's mention the 900-pound gorilla in this debate: Gerrit Cole. He was drafted by the Yankees a few years ago, they offered him a ton of money, but he went to school instead and became the first player drafted last year. And now he’s in the hands of the Pittsburgh Pirates, and who knows, maybe it will work out.

But for every Gerrit Cole, there are 50 Cole Gerrits, no-name pitchers who refused to sign, tweaked their elbow, fell in the rankings or never got drafted again at all.  It can happen to anybody. It can happen to you.

Listen: I didn't really mean that part about you being an idiot. No matter what you do, I'm sure you'll be happy. But once you get to Ole Miss, you’re on your own.

Sign the deal, and if your elbow hurts, you tell the coaches, and they will rest you, they will examine you, they will fix you.  They will protect you. You are a first-round pick. They will have a lot invested in you.

Reject the deal, and if your elbow hurts... well.. suck it up and keep throwing, pardner. Because they don't draft sore elbows in the first round. (Actually, the Yankees do; or did - Andrew Brackman - but it collapsed, so I don't think they'll do it again.)

Listen: If you attend Ole Miss, no matter what happens – whether you become a star and get redrafted, or you blow out an elbow and never make a penny - I believe you will live a happy life - the fate you were meant to live. You will make lifelong friends. You will have golden memories. But you will always look at the Yankees and feel a wistful sense of regret. Good luck in your decision. Aint 18 a bitch?

Another review for Juju Rules

Baseball By the Letters...

Well, what do they think?

Link

Sharks in parks!

Yankeetorial: At the half, let's enjoy the lead that we might not be seeing in future All-Star breaks

Used to be, a Bryce Harper blossomed in another market, and it was only a matter of time before he would become a Yankee. Old George always had hooks in the water - even if they snagged Steve Trout rather than a Mike Trout - and the baseball world always grimaced and awaited our inevitable signing. But remember: In the movie, when they capture King Kong, they don't bring him to Kansas City. There's only one place where he belongs.

But MLB's defacto salary cap is gradually going into effect on every level. This month, it knocks down the amount of money big market teams can spend on young talent. (So the owners will bank more, by the way.) Eventually, this will pinch the Yankees in a way that makes the 1980s look like the Age of Aquarius. We will be Chrysler without a bailout, your local newspaper without a web site. The Yankees will have four to six players with massive contracts that seem to extend into the next millenium, and when free agents hit the market, it won't be us who stand at the front of the line.

It's hard to imagine this dark future when we're seven games up, and we have the likes of Eric Chavez and Andruw Jones basically sweeping up gum wrappers in the locker room. But our farm system is as dead as the Mojave at its upper levels and - at best - middling in the softball leagues. We seem to have a systematic problem in developing young arms (though, to be be fair, nobody in baseball has figured it out.) We have an energetic management that relentlessly trolls the scrap heaps, signing Darnell McDonalds and Dewayne Wises, but considering his tortured private life - periodically laid bare in the tabs - who among us doesn't feel that Brian Cashman's time in New York is ticking down?

Soon, we will have to lay down big piles of money on Robbie Cano, Nick Swisher, Curtis Granderson, et al - with nobody, absolutely nobody, to replace them from within the system.

So enjoy the break. As Yankee fans, we occupy a binary universe: We either win the World Series, or it's basically a lost year. If something happens, and we fail to make the playoffs - doubtful - this will turn out to have been a horrible, rotten, embarrassing season. If we coast through to October, we still have to turn over the ball in Game Two to either Phil Hughes, Hiroki Kuroda or Ivan Nova: In other words, to Jeckyl or Hyde.

Savor this while it lasts, folks. Tough times are coming. And Bryce Harper probably isn't.

Reasons Reggie missed the Boston series

The Yankees say no formal ban was in place to keep Reggie Jackson from his job of kibbutzing with the team during last weekend's three-game series in Boston.

So why wasn't Reggie there?

1. All-Matlock weekend on TV.

2. Lumbago flared up.

3. Couldn't find car keys.

4. Pet hamster was sick.

5. Fell.

6. Couldn't put down "Shades of Gray."

7. Busy yelling, "Get offa my lawn" at immigrant family that moved into neighborhood.

8. Fran Healy completed course in back rubs.

Proposal: Celebrity superchild Suri Cruise should be raised in Syracuse

In the war room at IT IS HIGH, we generally avoid:

a) global financial gobbledegook
b) bighead searches for particles
c) celebrity gossip
d) the National League pennant race.

But last week's stunning news about the impending divorce of Tom Cruise and Kate Upton, Perry, Middleton Holmes has left us in a quandry... (not to be confused with former Yankee bullpen lugnut Paul Quantrill.)

Who about little Suri?

Keep in mind that Tom Cruise was born in Syracuse (True fact: So was Richard Gere and Robert Di Niro's dad! Must be something in the water.) Thus, to name his only daughter "Suri Cruise" was obviously a heartfelt tribute to Tom's home town, the capital of Onondaga County and ground zero site for the Destiny Supermall.
As a result, Syracusans have always taken a special interest in the welfare of this future celebrity star. We want to help. And last time anybody looked, this city still has a few choice tax breaks left to offer.

Currently, according to People Magazine - the Bible of celebrity chatter - the dreaded Church of Scientology has adopted a "Rosemary's Baby" strategy to whisk Suri off to some evil mountain mind camp and raise her as The Ultimate Scientologist, capable of ruling the world through her inherited fund-raising poster girl skills. She would be to Scientology what Mitt Romney is to Mormonism.

Clearly, nothing can stop the Church of Scientology... except... winter in Syracuse?

Yes, bring Suri Cruise to her namesake. Let's see if John Travolta can plow through 20 inches of snow to grab the kid. Good grief, 20 inches will come up to Tom Cruise's chest. We propose the city change its spelling to Suricuse, and offer Katie Holmes free room and board in the tax-free splendor of the Destiny Supermall, with nightly flag-wrappings in the soon-to-open Toby Keith "I Love This Bar" genuine laminated menu honky tonk. Let Suri serve as the city's special ambassador of good will and fund-raising poster girl. She will shop at Wegmans. She can eat hotdogs with Jim Boeheim at Heid's. And, of course, her famous father can return to the place of his birth.

Suricuse, New York.

Take that, Utica.

Yankeetorial: Mariano said to be healing at rate similar to current Spider-man nemesis, the Lizard

Joel Sherman, fulfilling his Murdoch inch-count quota in a Death Valley news week, writes today that Mariano's doctor is not discounting the possibility that his star patient will again pitch this year, having miraculously healed from a torn ACL. Of course, the doc probably doesn't discount the possibility that an asteriod could destroy earth this year, putting a damper on Mariano's celebration.

Well, gimmie hepatitis and call me Goldie!

I can't go Bill O'Reilly on Sherman here, because this is Beat Writer Hell Week - nothing to say and space to fill. No tidbits from Swish. No Arod residue. The Traveling Wilkes Barres didn't even play yesterday. Wait till you see the crapola I post later this morning. If this were China, the government would shut us down.

Sherman's column is a medical-based ode to Rivera, which is fine. According to the doc - (Ellis?) - Mo is doing all the "right things" in his recovery. He's not just watching "Cougar Town." Of course, that's doc talk. Did any surgeon ever say, "Holy crap, I botched that colon; when we were done, it looked like burnt jambalaya." Of course not. They say, "Blahblahblah," and nobody ever gets sued for blahblah.

I believe Mariano will return. Next year. And the doc cured Sherman's thirst for copy on a slow day. Everything worked. But if Soriano and Robertson collapse, our 9th innings become Cory Wade territory. Mariano Rivera has saved many things in his life. He can't save this season. We're on our own, unless an asteroid hits.

If the Gammonites weren't so formula-driven to chase stories of "redemption" or happy smiles, Robbie Cano could win the MVP

But aww, let's face it: In the ESPN/Buck-McCarver/Ben Affleck universe - where the god's particle is the Higgs-Boston - that won't parse. Robbie Cano cannot measure up to the Hallmark Channel movie formula: No inspirational journey, no triumph over death, no message to youth. He never kicked the bath salts that were on his back. Robbie is not:

a) A short but plucky Redsock secondbaseman who continually overachieves and fought valiantly - no, heroically - playing cards before each game with his tortured former manager, while evil fatso pitchers whetted their lips to eat chicken in the clubhouse.

b) An evangelical ex stoner/alchy CF who is the Second Coming of Mickey Mantle, because Sports Illustrated says so, and whose Herculean talent is oh, so great... so... Herculean... oh, so five-tooly... and yet... oh... so... fragile; quick, get Pat Robertson on line 4!

c) The burly but totally slimmed down (and not on steroids) Boston designated hitter, whose gap-toothed smile is a delight to children of all ages, a peace ambassador from the land of angry behemouths, and who has been forgiven for his previous battles with, ahem, pills and things, and reclaimed his elite status as a role model to alienated, white suburban youth geeks.

Nope. None of the above. He's just Robbie Cano, doncha know. And he plays on a team with too many stars, so his hits don't count, and he doesn't deserve to be considered the best.

Nope. No MVP for Robbie, folks. Not unless he can beat the menace of bath salts.

For your personal pleasurings

Click here. 

Dewayne Wise elected IT IS HIGH/LUNCHABLES June Yankee Employee of the Month

There is no curse.
There is no curse...

What world terrors unfold when Derek Jeter drops a pop-up?

It happened last night.

At the half, nobody is out of Bud's Wild Card(s) race

Last night, the Gammonites of the ESPN truth booth once again channeled the cryogenically frozen opinions of Ted Williams, declaring their utter amazement over the acheivements of Boston manager Bobby Valentine along with the as-usual magnificent state of baseball, thanks to its $25 million per year commissioner, Mister Bud Selig.

(NOTE: Ironically, this occured on the new Spider-Man weekend, reminicent of Selig's great but short-lived 2004 money-making spitball: MLB would sell logo ads for Spider-Man 2 on all bases in all MLB parks for one big happy weekend. But no ads on home plate, dammit; Bud was too much of a traditionalist for that. The plan was shot down by none other than the late George Steinbrenner, the man other cities were duty-bound to hate, because he broke ranks and paid fair market value for stars, whose owners were willing to sell. But, hey, when talking about the work of billionaires, who wants to remember such trivia...?)

Last night, Terry Francona - who last winter traded jobs with Bobby V - practically pretzeled his spine to blather about what a great job Valentine has done, keeping the Redsocks only 2 and a half games out of the Wild Cards race. (Why do they still call it the Wild Card? There are two.)

Listen: Francona is not a bad man. But obviously, it would be a flat-out pussy scenario for him to criticize his successor. He just can't do it. All he can do is praise and blather. So ESPN - (the network that covets Yankee broadcasts, by the way) - has happily scrapped the ability of its announcers to dissect the Redsocks, preferring instead to marvel over the magical state of baseball today - which is that everybody - everybody! - is still in some sort of race.

Look at Seattle, the butchers who sold us Michael Pineda. They are 15 games below .500... but only 10 out of the Wild Cards race. Hell, in August of '79, the Yankees were deeper in the hole against Boston. Ten games is a burp. The whole first half of the season was like suburban yuppy T-ball for six year olds: Nobody keeps score, and everybody wins! Everybody is doing a great job! Everybody is a champion!

"Great for baseball... great for baseball... great for baseball..." was ESPN's human centipede tape loop theme last night. Great for baseball... great for baseball... Everybody's challenging for the Wild Card! (As if there is just one.) And then, we'll have the one-game playoff! "And I'll tell you something else about this... it is GREAT FOR BASEBALL..."

Yeah, right. As long as nobody cares about the first four months.

Hell, if it's all about beating the NFL in September, why not open the playoffs to everybody? Let minor league teams participate. Let's become the NCAA tournament, with brackets. Or no - wait - here's an idea: Emulate pro wrestling. Have the champions wear THE BELT, until beaten - by the newest champ.

I love this. It's 2004, and I'm a-spitballin' young turk in Bud Selig's war room: Wait, wait, I got it, I GOT IT:

Can we make the bases run 30-second Romney attack ads?

Live DB continued: (Final day)

This live drunk blogging is tough enough when you're playing one game. Two is hell. One more day to go. One more day. To. Go. Now what do we do with Andruw Jones? He finally got hot yesterday, so we can't dump him. But do we really need another guy who only hits HRs? And now that Freddy Garcia (bless his heart) has claimed the Pettitte slot for the next six weeks (at least for now), will Adam Warren ever be heard from again? And wither goest Dewayne Wise?

Everyone Keep An Eye On El Duque Today

El Duque is drinking for 5 days straight at an undisclosed, upstate New York, lake-side location.

This, I applaud.

However, in his now euphoric state, I fear he may take a fall.  Mentally.

He has buddies, he has food, he has beer, and he has a grill.

The danger is that he lapses in his newly learned, Ju-Ju vigilance and re-starts his rant about the "ultimate hot dog," better known as the dreaded and damaging spiral.

Please keep a watchful eye.  We eked out a win last night on fumes.  I think there can be more carry over today.

But the slightest mention of a spiral hot dog, much less the cooking of one, will turn the tables.

This is a fragile issue.

LIVE DB: I don't have time to argue semantics with Alphonso

Can't last much longer.

Two games today.

Must keep drinking to keep team on top.

Derek needs me.

Whole team needs me.

Can't let friends down.

Must keep going.

Head hurts.

What would Bukowski do?

Time for The Truth. The Ju-Ju of no spiraling.

This is the true story that El Duque buried in obfuscation the other day, and structured with a lack of credibility and oversimplification.

He has abridged a duty of journalism.  More importantly, he has brought into question the efficacy of  his long-term contract and high -end expense with respect to the responsibilities of prudent Ju-Ju resource management and unquestioned integrity.

I offer this column today in order to potentially save us a loss tonight in Boston.  Truthfully, it might already be too late.

The Truth:

Alphonso arrives at a secret location in upstate New York on Monday afternoon, and promptly has a beer with El Duque.

Fast-forward;  Duque claims he can make the ultimate hot dog and proceeds to spiral ( see photo ) and grill four.  That night, the Yanks lose a heartbreaker 4-3 as Tex gives the game away with his first error of the year.

Next day - Alph , Duque and several other " named Yankees" of this blog, retire to a lakeside location for a traditional barbeque and independence day fireworks ( yes, on the 3rd ).  Duque takes charge of one grill, and begins "spiraling" hot dogs ( including Hoffman's finest ) despite an absolute dearth of requests for said format.  Yanks lose 7-4 and make 3 errors.

Following morning:  Alph awakens and recalls the vision which woke him.  He heads over to Duque's turf and tells him, " I know why the Yankees are losing.  It is those damn spiral hot dogs!"

El Duque skoffs and they argue the point all day.  In the end, Duque agrees not to spiral any hot dogs that day if I ( Alphonso ) will guarantee the Yankee win ( and breaking of the 0-9 streak the team has amassed down in Tampa ).

The drama ;  The yanks are down 3-1 after seven innings.  John and Suzyn re-emphasize the fact the Yankees are down to their last 6 outs.  Alphonso ( I ) suddenly realize that no one is cooking hot dogs today. Steamed clams, chicken, steak, corn, but no friggin hot dogs.

A side note of emphasis :  This little bit of Ju-Ju cannot work unless it is real.  We have to have hot dogs on the grill. After all, one cannot test the efficacy of something that doesn't happen.  Right?
 And not one of the hot dogs can be touched with a spiraling blade (or thought). And they have to be eaten, of course.

Short-story:  the dogs ( Hoffman ) got grilled normally and were in the process of being
consumed ( another mandatory of this Ju-Ju application) by several Yankee insiders ( including Duque by rule, and me by pleasure ) as the eigth inning neared its critical point.

Result of Ju-Ju insight and implementation;  Yanks come back to win 4-3.

And that's the story. Not the, " let's all go eat a hot dog," story previously published by El Duque.  That was lame, and lazy, and simply wrong.

 Note to Counsel:  Any questions or need for eye witness verification can be referred to Mustang.

Moral:  No Yankee fan should spiral a dog today or any other time  until the Yankees lose a game. Today, it is better to stay away from the hot dog category completely as you exercise menu planning.  This way, even the mental image, or accidental use of the word, is less likely to occur.

Rivalometer: Head-To-Head Weekend

KURODA ON CHILD ABUSE:
"Everything happens for a reason, and maybe it helped me to get here now."

ORTIZ ON ARBITRATION:
"There's no reason a guy like me should go through that"

Live Drung Block (Continued): God save the Empire State Yankees

Diddi mish somepin? (Did I miss something?) We din't play, right? No game. As in, "NO GAME TODAY." Because I somehow thought this was July, when baseball players play baseball games. But we didn't play. Instead, we dropped Dave Phelps to all the way to Trenton.

Why did we drop David Phelps all the way to Double A Trenton? Simple.

Because the Empire State/Scranton Wilkes Barre Yankee Triple A club has to be the most godforsaken, depressing team in history. Who wants to play for a team that's always visiting, always traveling, which is filled with guys who once were prospects and now are viewed as spare parts, like a kidney farm in a bad Robin Cook novel. Good grief, what a way to blow a young player's morale?
Wait a minute. Where was I? Boston? IT'S A BOSTON WEEKEND. Last time we played them, didn't they blow the big lead? Wasn't it their birthday party weekend at Fenway?

Yeesh. Big game tonight. I gotta get back to the music. Last night, Pink Floyd. Tonight, Frank Turner... I still believe...

Live-drunk blog (Continued) In juju masterstroke, Alphonso lifts Yankees from loss in Tampa

Yeesh, my head hurts. Bear with me. I can't find the connector for the iPhone. Good grief, it's one thing to wake up and not be able to find your glasses, or your sneakers, but since when do you wake up and not be able to find the connector for the iPhone? There should be an ap for that. Where was I? Where am I? Better yet, where is the connector for the iPhone? OK, enough. Time to START BLOGGING:

OK, yes, starting now...

Blogging...

OK... enough of the prelminaries.

Wednesday, July 4, 2012, history became meaningless.

On this august date (Yes, I know, it's actually July), the finding of the "God particle" by the Hadron Super Team of Bearded Scientists became a page 5 story, compared to the mind-boggling, juju surgery event that was performed yesterday evening at a secret location in upstate New York.

With the Yankees trailing and seemingly fated to lose again at Tropicana Field, Alphonso - the ultimate Yankee pessimst - abruptly announced that if everybody - he later honed in on certain individuals - ate hotdogs, the Yankees would win.

Not only that, but he ding-dong guaranteed it.

To ding-dong guarantee anything - especially a Yankee win - is generally bad juju. To do it in the eighth inning with your team behind is practically jujuicide. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and anybody who has ever stared into the eyes of Alphonso after a Yankee loss can well understand the notion of desperation.

The hotdogs were consumed. And like a vision upon the horizon, the figure of Kyle Farnsworth emerged. The rest is history, which is - as stated above - meaningless.

I am speechless. And iPhone connectorless.

Independence Day Massacre: What happened to our catchers?

Last 4th of July, the one Yankee position that seemed safe and secure was catcher - the legacy of Yogi, Thurman and Jorge. We were so overstocked that our man at Trenton (Austin Romine) was ready for Triple A. Russell Martin was an all-star, Frankie Cervelli a young backup with a Leyritzian proclivity for getting clutch hits, and we constantly entertained offers for Jesus Montero, our best prospect and New York Life insurance policy.

Today, Martin can't hit his wife's weight, we have a scrapheaper backing him up, Cervelli has disappeared along the NYS Thruway, and - yeah, I hate to mention it again - but we gave away Jesus for nothing, nada, zippo. We have no catching. WTF?

Martin: Last winter, Brian Cashman called him the newest incarnation of Thurman Munson. This had to be a p.r. bull sheet line, uttered to cushion the future blowback from trading Montero. Last night, Martin official became an acute problem. He committed two critical errors and went his customary 0 for 4. But he's sucked all year. When the last three names in our order are Jones, Martin and Wise (or Nix) we deserve to be swept.

Jesus: It still hurts to think about him. But listen: He has sucked. He's only batting .249 with a handful of HRs. Maybe he was overblown too?

Austin Romine: Hasn't caught a pitch this year. Supposed to return after the All-Star break. Bad back. Don't know what to think. How does a guy catch with a bad back? 

Cervelli: Was absolutely devastated by his last minute demotion to Scranton. Only now has he started to hit for the Traveling Wilkes Barres. You have to wonder if he'll ever do anything as a Yankee. And right now, we won't get much in a trade.

We can talk about kids - Gary Sanchez is now at Tampa - until we're blue in the cheeks. What's the point? On this 4th of July, catching - our strongest suit last year - is killing us.

"I can promise you I'm going to pitch. I can promise you that. You can write that down, too. Tell everybody. It's going to happen. I'm going to pitch again."

Four scores and seven innings ago... An Independence Day Eve address

Friends, Homers, Yankeemen and Yankeewomen,

Happy Fourth of July Eve. (Applause.)

And we are knee-high. (Shouts of "Git r done." and dolphin noises.)

Yes, I know... at times, we appear to be wandering amid the corn, like the doomed smartass in a Stephen King book. We have lost three times in five games - three deliriously excruciating games - and now eight in a row in Tampa. Our bullpen is melting like Ernest Borgnine's face is "The Devil's Rain," (scattered booing) and our rotation is sinking like the small rodent population of the Everglades due to the prevalence of exotic pythons. (Loud boos, chants of "No pythons.")  We cannot hit with runners on base, and even Mark Teixeira - the greatest fielding firstbaseman in modern Yankee history - is pulling Buckners. (Cheering.) 

But on this august Eve, (shout of "It's July, idiot!") we stand 6.5 ahead of Boston, who is about to lose Dice K - he left after three outs last night - and maybe Will Middlebrooks, who messed up his hammy only a week after Youkilis was traded. (Boistrous laugher.) We are 6 up on Baltimore, which is about 10 up on where Baltimore expects to be. We are 6.5 up on Tampa. If the playoffs were held today, the Angels and Orioles would play the one-game Bud Selig Memorial series. We would be preparing for the winner of the AL Central.

Barring a complete meltdown, we will lead comfortably at the break. (Applause)

In other words, despite all the pain and suffering, beyond the terrible defeat last night and the unforgiveable slovenly work of our bullpen... we are right where we want to be.

Knee high by the Fourth of July. (Applause)

Ladies and gentlemen, let freedom ring.

AND LET THE ANNUAL LIVE DRUNK FOUR DAY BLOG - AN IT IS HIGH TRADITION - COMMENCE. (Felice Brothers start opening chords of "Frankie's Gun.")

When a Yankee pitcher gets hurt next HOPE Week... IT'S ON YOU

Here are the results of our HOPE Week Curse poll. Shockingly, most of you came down on the wrong side. As if pitchers grow on trees. 

10 elements of the Tom Cruise/Kate Holmes break-up that John Sterling, being the craftsman that he is, could segue into radio ads

1. Tonight, there’s one less family that’s safe and secure…

2. That last divorce paper came in at 95 miles per hour…

3. It’s time for a Little Suri Snack Cake…

4. I’ve been to Tom and Katie’s home. It’s like a college campus!

5. This is the 15^th lawyer of the proceedings...

6. If, like their marriage, you or a loved one suffers from lung cancer or mesothelioma, call 1-800-MESOLAW…

7. This call to the lawyers is brought to you by Honda…

8. Tom has painting the corner with irreconcilable differences. And painting the corner is sponsored by Certa Pro Painters…

9. Obviously, there were flare ups. And the temperatures are sponsored by Peerless Boiler…

10. Tom and Katie will meet in court. This is the Rally Moment of the Divorce…

You Aren't Listening ( or reading ) !

There is no talent in the Yankee farm system.

The pitchers with the "reputations" ( Banuelos and Bettances ) are minor leaguers for ever.  The other pitchers are mediocre and will not stick.

The postion players are either chronically injured ( see: Romine ) or older than their Yankee equivalents.

This is the great failure of Cashman and Co.

There is no help coming.

All the help is on the way out ( going ).

Get it?

The Killer B's: Bed, Bath and Betances

Two years ago, Yangeeks endlessly fantasized the farm system's "Killer B's:" Andrew Brackman, Manny Banuelos and Dellin Betances - three stud pitchers destined for NYC.

Unfortunately, the Brack never found a pitching motion worth using twice; he's now a Red. Banuelos is hurt; Team Cashman assures us he's not Tommy John, but he might have another lost Pavano season. And Betances last week was flat-out demoted - something you don't see often - from the Traveling Wilkes Barres to Trenton. Looks good coming off the bus. But it might be headed to Brackmanville.

Thus, the Killer B's should be renamed the Andruw Joneses, as in 0 for 3.

Actually, we could watch a neat competition, a metaphor for the American education system. There were The Killer B’s - highly touted and revered by all - and the Nobodies, who nobody knows. The latter group include Adam Warren, David Phelps and ever lesser known nobodies – I’d choose DJ Mitchell – guys who never made a half-court shooting distance of Baseball America's Top 100. Still, they they kept putting up decent numbers at Scranton, and thus far have produced more for the Yankees than the totally hotsheet B’s, who still have given us absolutely nothing. Nada. Zippo.

So it looked like a victory for the underdog - until Adam Warren got slaughtered this weekend. He sort of negated anything David Phelps had done, which wasn’t much. We’ve hoped the sum total of the Nobodies could fill one starter pitcher slot for eight weeks. We might be wrong.

So it’s the last remnants of the lost B’s against the Nobodies – who might not be worth getting to know.

Is it possible that our farm system needs some changing?

(So what happened this weekend? Brackman goes to Trenton and pitches lights out. Six scoreless innings. Walks three. (Which for Betances is Sandy Koufax-style command.) So now we're back to wondering, will the Killer B's return?)

Rivalometer: All-Star Edition

"I'm looking forward to it!"

"It's not the end of the world!"

A troubling revelation about John Sterling

Friday night, an old friend from beyond the known Yankiverse visited. I've known the guy for 40 years, and I've tried to save his soul. But he always resisted the Yankees. He never understood. He never believed.

While we listened to the Yankees condemn humankind to the plague of losing to Chicago - a loss that, by the way, may have resulted from me trying again to save my juju-less friend - I attempted to explain the critical importance of Yankee baseball. It was like explaining Descartes to a frog. I was patient. I was gracious. It was hopeless. We lost 10-7.

But in the course of the night, this fellow said something that still bothers me. We were listening to The Master bemoan the opening night jitters of Adam Warren, when my friend said:
"This announcer sounds like Paula Poundstone."

Paula Poundstone? WTF? Is this 1983? Who remembers what Paula Poundstone's voice sounds like, unless your radio only gets NPR? Paula Poundstone?

Yesterday, I listened to John. Every pitch, every play, every ad for New York LIfe, all I could think of was...

Paula Poundstone.

This is a problem. Somebody, please, tell me John does NOT sound like Paula Poundstone.

The Yankees Finally Do The Right Thing.

If you look carefully, you'll see a former Yankee fraud prospect named, Warren,
sitting with hands folded in his lap, just behind the driver's farting ass.

Well deserved.

Out of town.  Out of my line of sight.