Letter to the Editor: Reggie was right

The Boston Herald

July 18, 2012 Wednesday

Dear Editor,

Reggie Jackson is absolutely correct about A-Rod and any other players who have used steroids ('Yankees reportedly miffed by Mr. October,' July 10). None of the players who used steroids should be eligible, never mind voted into the Hall of Fame. Reggie's comments about some of the other players he doesn't think should've been voted into the Hall are what make sports great, the constant debates about who was better, what team was the greatest. To me this is the part of sports that is almost as good as being at a Game 7 win over the Lakers at the real Boston Garden

Richard Tobin
Norfolk

A Glimpse Into The Future

I simply want to announce that what you witnessed in Oakland, during the past 4 days, is what you will see again if the Yankees do make the playoffs.  It was a " live and in color" forecast of this team's future in October.

The naked truth is, and has been all year, we cannot beat quality pitching and a hot team.

Maybe no one can.

But we don't have any "energizers" who can get us over the hump.

If the old guys don't hit home runs with runners on base, if we don't score 6 or 7 runs minimum, we are not going to win.

The Angels have the new Mickey Mantle, the Red socks have their hot third baseman rookie, the A's have the Cuban defector we would not pony up for, and we have Nix and Wise.  Neither of whom is either young or a threat, given the quality of pitchers in the playoffs.

We have the same old crew, and each game they grow older, slower, and not as sharp in the field or at the plate.  They can still be dangerous, as we have seen.  But not when it really matters. Not when their dwindling energy is tapped out.

And there is no cavalry to sweep down over the hill, bugles wailing and stanchions fluttering in the wind, to save this team from the ambush we see straight ahead.

There is only Nunez, Cervelli, and Brandon Laird.

Letter to the Editor: Why show the Yankee game?

The Post Standard (Syracuse, NY)
July 17, 2012 Tuesday

To the Editor:

I just returned home from the Syracuse Chiefs vs. Scranton/Wilkes-Barre Yankees game. After a short rain delay, I was treated to some great baseball. My problem was that during the rain delay, we were "treated" to the New York Yankees broadcast on the big screen. Really? Stephen Strasburg was pitching shut-out innings for the Chiefs' parent club, the Washington Nationals, at the time.

Perhaps the television company that is in business with the Chiefs could offer them a discount rate on the MLB baseball package.

Ron Amidon

Brewerton

Ten, nine, eight, seven, six...

Imagine John Sterling calling a masterpiece in the fifth. Somebody walks, and The Master says, "Well, there goes your perfect game." Then a single, and John says, "Well, there goes the no-hitter." Then a double: "There goes the shut-out." Then the home run: "There goes the lead." Then another, and John says, "This call to the mound is brought to you by Geiko, where a 15-minute call..."

Last week, we were throwing the masterpiece. Now, we resemble the September '11 Redsocks - booting grounders, throwing gophers, are we eating chicken in the clubhouse? You can barely hear John over the screetching of our fingernails the chalkboard, as we slide downward. We lost creatively. We lost authoritatively.  We lost sincerely. Oakland made the plays. We just waited for a deal on car insurance. 

Listen: It's a long season, and a slump like this was always fated to happen. We can't panic. Nor can we trade our way out of a fall. As the Rumster said, you go to war with the army you have. We now go to Seattle - where they'll be as psyched as Oakland was - with the Epplers, Nixes, Wises and Rapadas - the spare parts who have played so well, and whose manufacturer warranties may be running out.

Four dead in Oakland. Yeesh, it was painful. Sunday morning, I was absolutely certain that CC would staunch the bleeding. When we had the 4-0 lead, I would have bet the house. Then... poof, poof, poof... 4-3. And when Soriano blew the save, did anybody doubt that would lose? John didn't. You could hear it in his voice.

So we watched the A's celebrate at home plate. You would have thought they pitched a perfect game. I hope it wipes a few smiles off our faces. Because anyone who thinks the Yankees can't collapse is crazy. There is too much time left to play the prevent defense, to adopt the four-corner stall.

In fact, it's time to call the cards on this team. We either pull out of the tailspin, or we will die.

If we squander that 10-game cushion... if we fall back into an active pennant race... we are not going to win it. The next calls to the bullpen will be brought to us by Dr. Kervorkian. They don't sell insurance for what we'll be about to face.

Rivalometer

Rough weekend for us, worse for them.

Yankeetorial: Oakland has undressed the fundamental fact that we are back to waiting for Arod

Dim the mood lights. Cue the Moby soundtrack. Push the potato snug into the tailpipe, and let's get comfy. Nobody wants to hear us whinnying when nine eight seven games up. But today, all that stands between hope and a humiliating four-game sweep is Hiroki Kuroda, and we've rolled enough of his dice to not plan the victory party in advance. (Which is bad juju, BTW.) 

We're back to where we stood in mid-May:

Waiting for Arod.

Remember how dead we looked in April, after it settled in that Ming the Merciless had traded Jesus Montero and Hector Noesi for a tin of bad sardines? I still get boils on my forehead, thinking about it. But through discipline, hard work and massive outputs of juju, the Yankiverse turned it around. Until now.

This week, we learned that modern medicine whiffed on Brett Gardner's elbow -- same guy who pronouced Michael Pineda's velcro shoulder whole? - so he needs surgery. As John would say, Gardy has gone yardy. It's amazing how the news sucked the air from this team. Gardner is no all-star, just a hard-charging fielder who takes six pitches per at-bat and doesn't swing for the fences. (Russell Martin used to be such a guy, but something happened.) But his return was going to energize our lineup. Now, who brings the boost?

We're back to waiting for Arod.

Which is like waiting for Amelia Earhart. Nobody else is coming. Our farm system is stems and seeds. Joba is throwing, until he suffers a setback -  they usually do. (And let's hope he tells somebody, rather than trying to pitch through it.) But will he be any better than Cory Wade? Andy Pettitte? Late August. Andruw Jones hasn't been the same since learning he'll have to run in LF for the next three months. Who spells 40-year-old Raul Ibanez? Shane Victorino? Get real. And this talk about trading for Justin Upton is proof that 12 year olds are still blogging. You don't rip apart a division-leading team for an underachiever like that. So who will lead us from this darkness?

We're back to waiting for Arod.

Last night, Alex led off the ninth with a single. Fine piece of hitting. He grinded, fouled off a few, then stroked a clean grounder into left. It is Alex's signature hit: sharp single to left. If the defense overshifts, it's a DP. Later, he stole second base. Fine piece of running. He's stolen 11 out of 12. He's a wily coyote. Always hustles. Decent player. Abomination batting third.

But where else do you plant him? Fifth? He won't protect Nick Swisher. Second? That's two RH bats in a row, leaving Grandy and Cano - two lefties - to follow. No matter how you slice it, we have a .270 hitter with 20 HR power - think Toby Harrah - batting third. If his name was not Alex Rodriguez... but let's no go there. It is...

This is not to rag on Alex. I love the guy. Really. In his Yankee years I've never seen him jog out a grounder. There are few stars about which that can be said. But here we are, fat atop the AL East, and we're glimpsing the playoffs in Oakland - and folks, the cavalry is not coming. Help is not on the way.

We're back to waiting for Arod.

What's going to win it for us this year? Arod has to start hitting. It's that simple. If he doesn't, we're seeing October right now, as clear as a bell. Gone in five. If we make it at all. Where did I put that potato?

Jesus effing Christ pluck out my eyes and kill me now

It's a Gammons-McCarver love fest!

I'm not worried that we've lost two in a row

Why would anyone worry about such a thing? You'd be a fool to worry. The Yankees are too far ahead to blow the lead. And we have too many great players. There's no need to worry. None at all. And I'm not worried. Not one bit. I'm not even thinking about the fact that I'm not worried. It's not worth wasting time thinking about. So I'm not. Worried, that is. I'm not worried. And you shouldn't be either. Ha. See? I'm laughing. But not in the face of worry. It would be stupid to worry. And I'm not. Worried, that is.

Juju on Baseball By the Letters

The Q and the A about the JU and the JU.

Yankeetorial: We must not do something stupid due to the terrible events out West

Not long ago, CC was returning, Brett Gardner was healing, Joba was throwing well, Arod was heating up, and our only problem was securing tickets for the upcoming midnight premier of "The Dark Knight Rises." We were fat, dumb and winning. The last thing anyone pondered was having to suddenly drain our farm system for a Shane Victorino or a Justin Upton, some outfielding version of Chad Qualls.

Well, suddenly, some bath-salted bloggers are claiming all has changed in the Yankiverse: The terrible events out West have proved we are no longer safe, we can longer stand pat - that the everyday terrors of fate and of one disturbed imagination have grown a thousandfold, and they should now rule the way we live. (Of course, I'm talking about the losses to Oakland, coupled with last night's tweak to Nick Swisher's gonads.)

Listen: We are eight games up. Eight frickin' games up. We have endured slumps, injuries and even Reggie Jackson's idle tongue. We were ripe for something like this. It's a long season, and bad things are always out there. When you're eight up, and something bad happens, you cannot run off and remake your team. You do not need to put a cop in every movie theater. You do not need to stick metal detectors at every turnstile. You must not change your lineup or your way of life.

Last night, I watched an endless train of cable TV jokers excitedly chip and twiddle about the terrors that popped out of our culture in Aurora, Colorado. But nothing has changed. The fates were always out there, waiting in the shadows for us. They are out there now. We will always be at the mercy of the deranged mind, the tweaked gonad, and the possibility of finding ourselves in the wrong place at the wrong time. Nothing can change that. But we're eight games up. Never forget it. Eight games up.

Loss to Oakland leaves us once again on verge of total collapse

You know about bad hair days, right?

Yesterday was a bad Yankee day. 

First, we lost Brett Gardner for the year. We learned the high-tech MRI scans he's undergone since April were done with somebody's Swinger camera, and now he needs elbow surgery, which will probably be handled with a Bic pen. All this time, we waited for him to heal from an ailment that wouldn't heal. We were like those 300 Spartans facing the Persian Army in Thermopylae, expecting reinforcements that would never come, despite Lena Headey's desperate machinations on our behalf, and now we are stuck with Dewayne Wise for the rest of eternity.

Then, last night, we lost to Oakland because the guy who would have replaced Brett Gardner - Humanis Centipedes - hits a home run. And even though Centepides isn't God's gift to baseball - or even, as his highlight video claimed - Cuba's gift, he isn't Walmart cole slaw, either. Moreover, he's exactly the kind of mystery free agent that Old George loved to snap-up, and which his sons, the Steinboys, now avoid like herpes, so they can curry favor from their fellow billionaire owner heirs and heiresses.

OK, I can't push my indignation needle too far into the red here - of all those international names on the market last winter, Centipedes wasn't the one I most wanted; that was Jorge Soler, whom we also didn't get. But Humanis is just one of the latest ones. We didn't get Aroldys Chapman, we didn't get Yu Darvish, we didn't even sign that Japanese infielder whom we got for a song when nobody else bidded - and when anybody pops up in the listings anymore, we hem and we haw, and we don't sign them. After years chasing down El Duques and Irabus and Igawas, and - yeah - sometimes regretting it (although Irabu begot Theodore Roosevelt Lilly, whom we traded for Jeff Weaver, whom we traded for Kevin Brown) - now we sit out the bidding on players who actually do make a difference.

Well, OK, we're still way ahead. But I refuse to make peace with bad Yankee days. Last year, the Redsocks had a 10-game lead in the wild card with barely a month to play. This is how it starts:

One bad hair day launches another. Consider me as Lena Headey. I'm yelling to the Greek assembly. We must hold the line. Bad days, they can stack up like a centipede.

Mitt Romney demands Youkilis apologize for beating Redsocks

WASHINGTON _ GOP Presidential candidate Mitt Romney today demanded an "absolute and swift apology" from Barack Obama's new surrogate, Kevin Youkilis, for the player's recent personal attacks on the Redsocks.

"They (Obama and Youkilis) should be ashamed of themselves," Romney said. "I expect a complete and heartful apology, plus a retraction of the game-winning home run and a promise that Youkilis will never do it again. And I mean never."

Youkilis, traded to Obama's White Sox, homered earlier this week to beat his former team. Romney blamed the President.

"This is not the conduct of an American League Central pennant-contender, and I intend to hold them accountable, especially if he refuses to apologize. If he keeps it up, he will owe me two apologies." 

He saw The Mick play SS and 2B in the same game

And he was forever changed.

It was Herm Card's first time, first game, first visit to the lodestone.

Pineda Spotted On Workout Break In Tampa

Brian Cashman's legacy trade victim was seen yesterday lounging on a steel re-enforced bench, after sprinting 11 feet.

" My arm feels great and I look forward to moving from tossing the beanbag to the baseball in a couple of months."

Meanwhile, the certain Yankee "phenom-to-be" is concentrating on the physical aspects of the game.

Glad he is one of us and not one of them.

Brett's Elbow May Have Been Stolen And Sold As Part Of Body Part Scandal

The news broke today that more than 1 billion body parts have been illegally harvested and sold for profit.

The Doctors, as we know, have so far been unable to diagnose what is wrong with Brett Gardner's elbow.

Perhaps that is because he no longer has one.  A Red Socks terrorist may well have visited him in his sleep and removed it. It may now be on the best throwing arm of the wino population in South Boston.

If we don't get an answer to the contrary soon, then this mystery is solved.

Watch yourselves everyone.

It is time to ponder the incredible feat of Redsock superprospect Shaq Green-Thompson

He's also a stud football prospect. But there is no corresponding feat that he could achieve in that storied sport.

Green-Thompson, in his brief-but-amazing new career, has tallied 37 professional at bats. He has struck out 36 times.

I am not making this up. This is no Sidd Fynch, no Plumptomanic fictional hero, no Photoshopped teammate of Kenny Powers. I almost feel like rooting for the kid, even though he's a Redsock. Already in life, he has gone farther than 10 Kevin Maases and 50 Tucker Ashfords.

Thirty-six for thirty-seven in K's. Eight walks. He has yet to put a ball into play.

It's like that in that lame 2002 M. Night Shyamalan movie, "Signs," where Joaquin Phoenix is the former slugger whose career ended because he struck out too much. Whenever this kid comes up, the fans should be recreating the climatic confrontaton between Joaquin and the water-fearing alien, yelling, "SWING AWAY, SHAQ, SWING AWAY!" This is the kind of record that could go into Cooperstown. This kid is making history.

Darnell McDonald's 10 Greatest Yankee Moments

Gone... but not forgotten.
1. July 4, 2012: McDonald signs with Yankees, after being waived by hated Redsocks.

2. July 6, 2012: In first-ever appearance as Yankee, McDonald enters game as 9th inning LF replacement for Raul Ibanez. Speedy Darnell dashes to CF to encourage Curtis Granderson to catch fly ball. Grandy makes play knowing McDonald is on the job!

3. July 7, 2012: Batting against former Redsock teammate Franklin Morales, McDonald hits towering foul that is eventually caught by firstbaseman Adrian Gonzalez. Slams bat in disgust. He just missed it!

4. July 7, 2012: Batting again against Morales, Darnell again crushes towering foul that is captured by Gonzalez. Damn. So close.

5. July 7, 2012: Playing CF, McDonald nearly exacts revenge on nemesis Gonzalez, charging a line drive single, which drops in front of him. Still, he deftly keeps speedy David Ortiz from going first-to-third on the single.

6. July 7, 2012: In second game of twinbill, while batting against former teammate Felix Doubront, McDonald holds off on a pitch in the dirt, which gets away from the Redsock catcher and allows the Yankee baserunner to take an extra base. It's ruled a passed ball.

7. July 7, 2012: Moments later, McDonald strikes out swinging against former teammate Felix Doubront.  Later, McDonald strikes out again at the hands of Doubront. 

8. July 7, 2012: McDonald gracefully ranges back in deep CF to snare a fly ball hit by Boston's Nick Punto. He makes the catch but cannot hold the runner, who scores from third.

9. July 7, 2012: McDonald fields David Ortiz's line drive to right center. He fires the ball into second, holding Ortiz to a single.

10. July 13, 2012: Ninth inning defensive replacement McDonald flawlessly fields Howie Kendrick's single to right field.

Days later, he is waived. Hoping for a speedy return.

We are now 35-11 since the International Juju Intervention

Well, OK, we won, we beat Toronto, we shut them out, we swept them, and we injured two of their best players. Yeah, OK, I'll grant you, things could be worse.

But if you think for ONE MINUTE we - as determined Yankee fans -- should be satisified, GET OUT. LEAVE NOW. ROOT FOR THE TWINS.

Remember: This is the New York Yankees we are following here. And this "success" is merely an illusion. If we don't win the 2012 World Series, was it real? Of course not. It will have been nothing more than a bad trip on bath salts.

That said, we must note again that the fulcrum point in the 2012 Yankee season occurred the night of May 21, when Yankee jujuists across the globe put on an unprecedented display of destructive power. That night, with the team struggling near .500, this website launched an International Juju Intervention -- you can look it up -- and the results have been, frankly, terrifying.

That night, we tapped into an incredible power source, one nobody could have imagined. Since May 22, the day after the Juju Intervention, the Yankees have gone 35-11. They have been the best team in baseball.

Did we shoot the juju moon too early? Did we use too much juju? Did we open the juju tap that night, and have we been unable to turn it off, to regulate it, to ration it for the hard drives of October?

Well, OK. We won today. I wish we could just keep playing Toronto at home. But we can't. Oh well. Things could be worse.

Jeremy Lin is gone: 10 teams throughout world history that are actually more wretched than the New York Knicks

1. Vandals (5th Century tribe, not 1980s glam band.)

2. Rat Pack (if Frank in sour mood and Sammy not able smooth things.)

3. Warren Beatty & Dustin Hoffman in "Ishtar."

4. Kim Kardashian & that stupid basketball player.

5. Joe Paterno & Jerry Sandusky.

6. Kim Kardashian & Kanye West (or "Your Name Here.")

7. Spice Girls.

8. Westboro Baptist Church.

9. Stalin & Hitler (during non-aggression pact.)
10. The OJ Simpson Defense Team (which included a Kardashian.)

Yankeetorial: It's hard to be angry when you're nine games up. That said, it sure would be nice to have a mop-up man who can close a six-run lead

Derek Jeter has his Edge. I'm trying to sharpen mine. As thinking fans, we must not allow ourselves to sick back and chew Cheetos. Last time we sat back and chewed Cheetos, we were three up on the Redsocks in an ALCS with Javy Vasquez practicing his Canyon of Heroes speech. Remember that? SO PULL YOUR CHUBBY, ORANGE-DUSTED FINGERS OUT OF THAT BAG, AMIGO! THOSE CHEETOS ARE FOR CLOSERS!

Q: What is a Chad Qualls, other than a taller version of the bad Cody Wade?

Q: Is anybody EVER on this godforsaken team going to hit with runners on base? 

Yeah, OK, we're nine up. But for crap sake, if we hit with RISP, we'd have clinched the damn pennant by now. We could be DHing Billy Crystal and letting Mariano Rivera hobble around in centerfield, just to prove he could come back. Good grief, we could showcase Pat Venditte just for fun, and poor Jack Cust could come up to pinch run. We could liberate Frankie Cervelli from the Thruway hellhole of the Traveling Wilkes Barres, and Adam Warren would get another shot. Andy Pettitte could be home hanging with his family - wait, he is home with his family - good grief, how many games up would we be?

But no. We can't hit with runners in scoring position. And Chad Qualls can't even hold a six-run lead. So we're a measily, stinking nine up. DAMMIT, THIS SUCKS! CAN ANYBODY ON THIS TEAM PLAY THE STUPID GAME OF BASEBALL. I'M TELLING YOU, I'M GOING PAULY O'NEILL ON THE IT IS HIGH WATER COOLER! EITHER THIS TEAM SHAPES UP, OR CERTAIN PEOPLE ARE GOING TO SHIP OUT. WIPE THAT SMILE OFF YOUR FACE, DAMMIT. IF ANY ONE OF YOU THINK THAT JUST BECAUSE WE'RE NINE UP, MAYBE 10, WELL, BUDDYBOY, YOU GOT ANOTHER THOUGHT COMING. NOT GONE HAPPEN. NO WAY.

All right. Now GIT. AND DON'T LET ME CATCH ANY OF YOU YOYOS PRACTICING HIS SPEECH FOR THE CANYON OF HEROES.

(Sigh.) It's only July, Jeet. You think they listened?

Link

Redsock radio

Read This Once And Forget Everything Else You See Or Hear On The Subject

 Brett Gardner's injury has still not been properly diagnosed. Until it is, and until he exits the Hospital For Special Surgery with a successful operation, he is not playing baseball again.  He does not need more rest.  He needs repair.  I have been saying this since he went away.  And you all know that.  So take a deep breath, have a dozen manhattans, and forget about how the team will benefit from his return this season.

Joba Chamberlain also should not return this season.  I know he is working hard and " committed" to reappear in the Bronx following his ( "I was only being a good Dad,") trampoline injury, but it is a mistake.  Perhaps a career mistake.  The certainty is that the ankle will not be properly healed to absorb the strain a major league pitcher puts on an ankle.  There is the added risk that he will "adjust" his motion to compensate for the weakened appendage, thereby hurting his arm or back.  We have to eat the dirty and bitter truth and recognize that he should stay away until spring.  This is an official warning as well as sound advice.

The same goes for the idiotic rumors surrounding the miracle man, Mariano Rivera.  He is out for the season and must remain so.

This team is what we have.  A massive give-away of the few A level prospects we have for an over the hill outfielder who has lost 4 steps is not worth the decade of agony that will follow.

But, since Cashman is likely to depart the Yankees soon anyway, why not make one more grandstand blunder?  Why not take a 100-1 shot that this team can be improved enough to go beyond round one?  I fear this is exactly what Cashman will do.  And he has little to lose.

Brian;  that woman gets out of Rikers soon.  I suggest you concentrate on that deadline, not the trading deadline.

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.

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