Panic Spreads As We Score A Week's Worth Of Runs to Eke Out Win

I sensed trouble when our 4 run opening burst wasn't quite enough.  It is as though we built a wall, but it wasn't high enough.  Not sturdy enough.  Like the little pig who built his house, not of brick, but of stick.

Guns were firing.  McCann with a two out blow that set us on the way, dangerously dancing around the 18 wheeler headed our way had we left Jacoby and Gardy on base without advancing, or scoring, either one of them.

Drew was a monster.  Best game of his Yankee career.  Maybe he was responding to the Chase Utley "footsteps" rumor.  He may even have notched .200 this morning.

But we are not out of the swamp.  The muck of Chris Capuano still sucks us down.  I find his presence unfathomable.  And Joe is considering a two-header for an upcoming game; Cappy and Warren.  We'll lose by 10 and use up the bullpen.  Just concede that one.

Nice to see our young first baseman crush a couple of pitches for outs.  Then, he fell into the latest A-Rod syndrome, watching and or flailing at third strikes.

Bad night for his family.  No one like to see their child fail in public.  At least he played OK defence.

The bus is warming, though.

These are the days of miracle and wonder... or else we're chasing the wild card

In her clubhouse report Wednesday night, Suzyn Waldman was ranting like Yosemite Sam about how Yankee hitters had turned Cleveland's rancid rotation into Maddox-Glavine-Smoltz. "It's getting tiresome, tipping our caps every night to the opposing pitcher," she snarled, between spits of imaginary tobacco. You sensed she was ready to go back to the hotel room and beat-up a hooker. This is no time for an Eighth Inning Little Debbie Snack Cake Scoring Report. Another shutout, and she might have gone Billy on a marshmallow salesman.

But she's right. Until last night, this team would make Betty White look good. Moreover, what Suzyn didn't say is what was makes every Yankee fan reach from the Bromo Seltzer: We're sick of watching our "sluggers" pile onto some hapless, Triple A innings-eater, who's doing mop-up in a 10-run blowout. It's great to score the 15th through 21st runs, but if you go 1-for-20 afterwards, there's a special dung heap in hell that is awaiting your Cooperstown plaque.

We play three in Toronto this weekend- with seven more against them in September (plus home and away series against Tampa, Baltimore and Boston.) There's a lot of cricket yet to play. So here are the match-ups.

Tonight: NOVA v PRICE...

I wonder if Joe has learned his Nova lesson: With a game on the line, Ivan magically turns into Javier Vazquez throwing to Johnny Damon. This is a microcosm of Super Nova's super career, which is to say he's Sandy Koufax in the first three innings, and Sandy Duncan in the last three. Clearly, Nova is why we have brought back the Babadook - otherwise known Chris Capuano. Our YES men constantly gin up hope about the new Yankee farm system, but you have to wonder: Was there nobody in Scranton better than Capuano?

As for David Price, well, the Yankees can reaffirm all the ESPN drama jockeys who believe the Jays stole the pennant at the trade deadline - or we can stab Team Canada directly in its Keystone pipeline. There is no reason for a team that has always hit Price so well to suddenly be so utterly dominated by the guy - other than to say he was pitching last weekend on spite and adrenaline. Is it too much to ask the Yankees show a little of both?

Tomorrow: TANAKA v. ESTRADA...

I still wonder how Estrada shut us out for nearly seven innings. If he's that good, well, nothing matters: Toronto is out of our league, and we're chasing a wild card. If he's that good...

As for Tanaka, I'm starting to wonder if in November, we shouldn't send him to Dr. Andrews. Is he tired? (He's never pitched so deep into the well of a season.) Is it the elbow? Over his last three starts (1-2, 4.50), he's been - well - fraying. I always figured the season would end with him clutching his wrist and walking off a mound. Now, not so sure. He's going to keep throwing, because that's what gamers do. But I'm wondering...

Sunday: SEVERINO v. DREW HUTCHINSON...

Hate to have Severino surfing with the sharks, but it's too late now to pull him out of the water. I'm just glad he's not throwing for Philadelphia. Because in case you missed it, Cole Hamels tweaked his gonad the other day, and he's going to miss at least one start. (And when does a veteran pitcher with a bad groin miss just ONE start?) For all those who wanted the Yankees to empty their system for Hamels - (Severino and Greg Bird would probably both have gone) - chew on that news for a moment: Hamels is out with a barking groin. If we'd traded for him, we'd be starting Chris Capuano this weekend anyway.

As for Hutchinson, he's one of the reasons why Toronto was in second place, despite the scariest hitting lineup in baseball. Let's just pray Suzyn isn't tipping her cap to him Sunday night - or some lippy airline stewardess might end up talking like Geno Smith.

Full Fathom Five.....

Nothing s working.  Four hits is a flood of offense now.

One hit every other inning...almost.  None timely.

Is A-Rod just burning out in the August heat?  We all thought that would happen, even as a full time DH.  The more he gets on base, the longer he has to stand up and the more he has to run and slide.  He is forty.  Only knuckleball pitchers can be effective, for a full season, at that age.

Jacoby is 4-45?  Gardy , for some reason, is as slow as Beltran when he is on first and tries to steal second.  Does he have a running form of the "yips?"  One of the fastest guys in the league cannot steal a base?

Stephen Drew is much too much the power hitter wanna be, and not enough the baseball player.  It is unacceptable that he won't even attempt a bunt with no out , the tying run on first, and 75% of the left-side of the infield unoccupied by the enemy.

And is he doesn't have the brain to try, Joe Girardi must force him to.  And if the manager won't insist, then he should go.  We have horrible hitters acting like prima donnas, and a manager who is lying in the post game conferences.

Chase Utley is having no better a year than Stephen Drew, only for 3 times the millions, and future year options to saddle us with.  If they trade for him on his final lap at age 36, and give up any player for him, there is evidence of true insanity in the Yankee front offices.

Which desperation can invoke.

The Yankees are acting like refugees, mindlessly overcrowding already  non sea worthy boats, and heading into the ocean waters. 

We should have known.

We did know.

We were simply duped.

Something's happening here; what it is aint exactly clear: The Yankees are bringing up Greg Bird

The Yankees today did what they never do: Brought up a position prospect before the age of 24. Moreover, they did something that should scare the bejeezus out of any Yankee fan who still has a working bejeezus. (Mine is shot.)

They are bringing up 22-year-old 1B Greg Bird from Scranton.

We should be excited about this. The Yankiverse has heard the drum beat mythos of Bird since last summer, when he belted a mammoth home run in a Single A All-Star game. He made it to Double A this year, fell into a slump and got hurt. He was starting to conjure doubters and trolls, when about six weeks ago he returned from the DL and started hitting. He was promoted to Scranton and has been a terror ever since, hitting over .300 with power. Cashman refused to trade him, citing him as one of four prospects the Yankees would not deal.

The question is, why bring up a kid clearly in need of ABs, when he is destined to play 1B or DH, the two most critical positions on the big team. The answer that nobody wants to suggest is that A-Rod or Tex could be harboring an injury of sorts, which would explain their recent crapping of the beds.

The Evils' official word is that they have a pile of games coming up, and Bird is the best available hitter, which isn't exactly a high bar, considering they just jettisoned Garrett Jones for the second time in two weeks. I dunno, but Bird will be exciting to watch. We're unwrapping the future on this guy. But something's going on.

The Yankees are having an off-millennium, and - lo and behold! - the 2015 team might be the sorriest yet

Last night, John Sterling watched his home burn to the ground for the second time this year. No hitting, no hope, no nothing: It's Yogi Vu, all over again. When the smoke cleared, The Master droned, "BallgameoverClevelandwins" in a robot voice that sounded like a talking doll left for a month on an Arizona driveway. All he could say was, "Isn't it amazing? It's... amazing... amazing... amazing!" Hell with that. It's not amazing. It's pathetic.

Last night, Suzyn - Lady McDeath - raged through the Clubhouse Report, openly questioning how Joe Girardi could actually claim Yankee hitters were snapping out of their funks. "IT BETTER START TOMORROW!" she growled. When Sweeney Murti wondered how Joe could seem so upbeat, she had an answer: "THIS LOSS DIDN'T TAKE 15 INNINGS!" He noted that, at least, Brett Gardner had tried to steal a base. "OUT BY TWENTY FEET!" Suzyn yelped. That's her version of, "Isn't it amazing?"

Last night, as everyone knows by now, we fell into second, where the chase is for the miserable one-game, away field Wild Card - that diseased marketing concept, fostered by Yankee killer Bud Selig, to gin up interest in teams that deserve to be stuffed in empty jars of vaginal cream and set out with the North Korean tide. Teams like - well, it's sure looking this way - the 2015 Yankee house of cards.

Should this be my new image?

We have lost five in a row. We will lose tonight. Is there any doubt? Soon, we will go to Toronto, where the spanking could be permanent. Of course, our hitters eventually will snap out of it. They can't suck forever. Trouble is, that's when our pitching will collapse, because that's how things work on ghost ship cruises to Hell. One leak here, another leak there. This week, we even tried home juju, but all we saw is what happens when you run electricity through a dead frog. It leaps off the table, but it doesn't croak. It's already croaked.

Right now, I'm wondering if the most humane outcome would be for Toronto to dispatch the Yankees quickly, rather than stretch things out, like a cat playing with its food. Just beat us hard, beat us early, beat us by six to eight runs, and free us - the working fans - from trying to swim through life with this anvil of a team on our backs. There are better things to do in September than to be sitting on a couch, pulling this deer tick of a franchise off our butts.

In Seattle, Jesus Montero is tearing the cover off the ball. In Pittsburgh, Francisco Cervelli is still hitting .300. In Toronto, Russell Martin - Hal's original sin - is a team leader. We have the twins of collapse - Ellsbury and Gardner - delivering 10 outs per game. And Rob Refsnyder - lost in the shadow of the great Stephen Drew - sits in Scranton, another demoralized soul in a crap-filled millennium. Wow. The Master's house is burning down. Anybody bring hot dogs?

It's not getting better

The only thing worse than keeping your prospects, not trading for that all-important ace pitcher, and then going into a complete collapse...

... Would be to keep your prospects, not trade for that all-important ace pitcher, fall into a complete collapse... and then trade the guys you kept for Chase Utley.

Miller and Tex (Apologies to Robert Frost)

Some say the team will end with Miller,

Some say with Tex.

From what I’ve seen of bullpen filler

I'd much prefer a quicker killer.

But if we're bound to perish next,

I think I know enough of fate

To say that for destruction, Tex

Is not as great

As oral sex.

Juju gods to IIH: Drop Dead

Well, I guess that didn't work...

On behalf of the Yankiverse, I would hereby like to thank the space-time continuum, the cosmic Infundibulum, all pertinent god particles, and the ironies/vagaries of random numerical sequence - (in other words, "the Fates") - for delivering the most excruciating, boot-stomping loss of the season - if not the decade - on the one effing night we bothered to make fools of ourselves by attempting to believe.

Message received.

Rest assured, we won't try that again. You win, God, Allah, Buddha, Satan, or None-of-the-Above - whatever you are. You go Yahweh, we'll go ours. It's not that the universe is dead. It's just that the 2015 Yankees are... staggering, limping, reeling to fall over the finish line, only to find there are still seven laps left. We're a half-game up on Toronto, sinking without a bubble. At this rate, we won't even make it to Hope Week.

Insert sigh here.

You know, I thought it would be the injuries that killed us. I never saw Ellsbury and Gardner turning into pumpkins, right before our eyes. I figured that, at some point, Miller would blow a save, but not in Cleveland, not after a comeback, not in a game we desperately needed. And we haven't begun to fall apart. Let's face it: The injuries will come. They just won't hurt so much. I mean - when your 1-5 hitters go 2-66 (with 23 strikeouts), should you really fear a tweaked ball sack?

Back in February, I dreaded this season. I thought we'd be lucky to make it to July. In many ways, the Yankees have outlasted expectations. We should feel good about what's happened. But after last night, I'm sorry, folks. In rooting for this team, we've hooked a ride on Malaysian Flight 370.

Well, we called upon the universe for help, and nobody answered the phone. Let the record show that on Aug. 11, 2015, an emergency Juju Intervention was attempted, after the patient had reported chest pains and shortness of breath. CPR and a full cardio fibrillation was attempted. The patient was unresponsive. At approximately 12:25, E.S.T., he was declared dead.

And that's the deal, folks.

Mrs. Peel, we're dead.

Ghuh.

Across the globe, Yankee fans are now staring into their TVs, spewing juju and changing the course of baseball history

The Juju Intervention has begun...

Godspeed

O's won last night, leaving Yanks five up in Wild Card race

Like the sound of that? Rattle your cage a bit?

Sorry to be this way, but today - Aug. 11 - if the Yankees are destined to lose the AL East, I'd just as soon have them miss the post-season entirely - rather than get in via the stupid, one-game Bud Selig Wild Card.

Of course, if they make it, why kid ourselves? We'll all get suckered into it.

So I post these words as a time capsule:

On Aug. 11, 2015 - regardless of how the 2015 Yankees eventually finish - the notion of this team winning a Wild Card birth leaves me nauseous.

JUJU, TONIGHT.

AVENGERS, ASSEMBLE! Juju Intervention set for tonight, top of the second in Cleveland

Fellow IT IS HIbreds...

Let's face it. There is no juju. No magic, no Bigfoot, no wood nymphs, not even a Chuckie or a Batman. It is a dead universe for magic. When the Yankees play, fan lives don't matter. Deal with it. The juju gods have.

And yet... 

What if someday you end up drinking in some eternal, afterlife bar with Jean Paul Sarte, Howard Cosell and Mickey Dolenz - the Ringo of the Monkees - and Sarte says, "EEDIOT! LIFE WAS A FOOKING DREAM! YOU COULD HAVE WON EVERY SEASON, EVERY WORLD SERIES, IF ONLY YOU HAD BELIEVED! THOSE TEACHERS, THOSE BASTARDS, THEY RUINED YOU WITH THEIR FOOKING LOGIC. EEEMBICLE!" Then Humble Howard runs off to smoke in the bathroom, and Mickey - (who isn't dead yet, but might be by then) - sings an entire rendition of "I'm a Believer." Trust me. You'll feel pretty crappy... and for all of eternity. Do you want that?

No. And that, my friends, is why we do what we do. That's why we invoke juju and charge the mound. Some fans stand up and yell, "AVENGERS, ASSEMBLE!" I'd rather be the Avenger who simply says, "Mrs. Peel, we're needed." And so...

It is time to release the Kraken.

Tonight... Second Inning... Cleveland... Juju...

The first International Juju Intervention (IJI) of 2015.

IT IS TIME TO CHARGE THE MOUND.

Tonight, by the Hoary Hosts of Hal, I summon all couch-born disgruntleds of the Yankiverse to rise from their Lazy-Boys, and their bean chairs and - Lo! from their knees of hopelessness... STAND UP, RISE UP, FIRM UP AND EXPEL JUJU INTO THE FERTILE LOVE BUCKET OF YOUR TELEVISIONS.

As the second inning begins, Yankee fans everywhere must confront their TVs, radios or electronic baby sitters and discharge high-grade, invisible Rizzutonic particles - (death rays, to the layperson) - in the general direction of Ohio. 

We shall will the Yankees to win!

Why do this? Why make oafs of ourselves? We know juju is impossible. It's crazy. But as Superman once said, "Darn it, Lois, it's so crazy it might just work!

But it can't work. Right? Why think otherwise? Well, folks... this is fact: 

On May 21, 2012, IT IS HIGH conducted the first International Juju Intervention (IJI). Over the next three weeks, the Yankees went 20-4. Goddammit. Look.  It.   Up.  That same year, on Aug. 31, we launched a second IJI. Gyadammot, I am not lying: The Yankees promptly went 10-3.

Since then - in 2013 and 2014 -  I'm not gonna sugarcoat it: Our Juju Interventions did nothing. Not one stinking win. The reason? Those crapola Yankee teams were beyond our help. 

So... here we are... 2015...  Whaddawegot? It's time to find out.

INTERNATIONAL JUJU INTERVENTION... TONIGHT... SECOND INNING... STAND AND DELIVER, OR FOREVER HOLD YOUR PEACE.

AVENGERS! MRS. PEEL! WE'RE ASSEMBLING! WE'RE NEEDED!

The Staten Island Yankees Spent the Anniversary of Michael Brown's Death Reminding Us Whose Lives Matter.

The Yankees' love of militarism finds a bold new expression, and The Root explains why this is such a terrible idea:

This kind of psychological violence is par for the course, an attempt to gaslight black America into believing that we’re making it all up—the racism, the bigotry, the injustice. The refrain “Blue Lives Matter,” just like “All Lives Matter,” is a pathetic silencing tactic meant to minimize the pervasiveness of police brutality and amplify the need that too many white Americans have to vilify African Americans in this country—even in the grave. 

While the Staten Island Yankees are slinging peanuts and Cracker Jacks, we’re trying to stay alive and they couldn’t give a damn about it.

Dear Mr. Trump, here's how you win the Presidency: THE JETER-KOBAYASHI MARU

Dear President Trump,

Hey, you like the sound of that? Parrrrrezzzzzzzident Tarrrrrrrump-p-p!

Well, aint gonna happen. Not now, anyway. They say you're dead as a GOP candidate, for suggesting that Meghan Kelly menstruates. Big muck-up. They chuckled when you mentioned Rosie O'Donnell, but there's one big difference, pally: Meghan is on the team. You don't dis a teammate.

Nevertheless, it aint over. Here's how you win the Presidency.

First, the alternatives have to be Hillary and Jeb!, which nobody in America really wants, not even their spouses. To most voters, a Clinton-Bush race will be the ultimate proof that democracy is dead. Good grief, did the Bushes have such great runs that they deserve a White House trifecta? Let's put it NY sports terms: Jeb is Fred Wilpon, born rich in a stupid family, and he's done nothing in 10 years. Hillary is Tom Coughlin, coach-for-life of the Giants: If he'd retire, we'd love him forever. But he won't quit, and we're going to go 2-14.

So, if it's Clinton v. Bush, the U.S. electorate will say, GIVE US SOMEBODY, ANYBODY...

But not you. Nope, they still won't vote for you... unless... UNLESS...

You offer America the Jeter-Kobayashi Maru - named for the seemingly unbeatable no-win scenario from Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan, where Spock dies at the end, giving the Vulcan salute from his glassed-in death chamber. Simply put: The Clinton v. Bush election is the Kobayashi Maru - the scenario from which no survives... unless... UNLESS...

Here's the solution: You announce that, if elected, you will serve only a figurehead post in the White House. Hell, you don't know dick about Tunisia, bombs and glaciers. Why lie? As president, you'll simply be putting on an entertaining show. But you would turn the day to day decisions to the perfect person - someone who has the respect of Republicans and Democrats, Conservatives and Liberals, whose leadership and greatness cannot be questioned.

Who is this great person? Stephen Hawking? Bill Gates? Tom Hanks? Springsteen? Meryl Streep? Warren Buffet? Jimmy Buffet? Me? (Well, yes, me. But I'm not in this for personal gain.)

No. They all have baggage. No sir, here's your VEEP IN CHIEF:

Derek Jeter.

The Captain.

Yes, announce the Trump-Jeter ticket, the bold thinking that will capture 35 percent of the vote and, thus, win the election. Screw the Clinton-Bush dynasties. The only dynasty that matters took place between 1996 and 2000, and it was Jeter's. And if the Captain can't handle some complex issue, he'll appoint a special czar named Mariano.

There you have it - best political advice you'll ever get. Please send $100,000, immediately, and I will tell you more ideas, as they come in.

Funny how those 21-run Yankee blowouts work, eh? The veteran adds 14 points to his batting average, padding his numbers for posterity, smacking that critical 3-run-HR in the eighth to make it a 17-run lead! Then, when an actual game situation matters, here he comes, with his newly inflated OBP or BABIP or, whatever, and he's the same human pop-up that he always was.

"WELL, I NEVAH!"

Imagine the Yankees as a 90-year-old, blue-haired, spinster debutante, sitting in the Hamptons with her Jagameister, Kindle porn, and string of pearls the size of Floyd Mayweather's testicles. That's what they'd be saying today, following last week's Yankee dizzy spell. It's not fair! No one should have to put up with such tomfoolery... Two knuckleballers in a week? The idea! Cheeves, download another Rex Tripod story.

Ah, it's great when your chosen team serves up the ready-made excuse straight from the bag, like a month-old grocery salad. Two knuckleballers in a week! Why, it's inhuman! It's wrong! It throws off the hitter's delicate timing, which leaves him susceptible to a hard-thrower, and that's why you see one stinking run in 28 innings - (which was a disputed HR that, frankly, I wish had not gone our way, because it merely lengthened the time I spent watching us crap the lounge chair) - as we sidle from a division race to our annual chasing of the coveted one-game, away field Wild Card. From there, it's all about settling into another open October.

Ah, but it's not their fault. Two knuckleballers in a week! It's not right. Why don't the other teams play fair?

JUJU INTERVENTION TOMORROW. 
DETAILS TO COME.

Yanks keep solid 4 game lead for second Wild Card birth

Four games in the loss column - depending on what the Los Angeles, California, Angels of Anaheim do tonight, though frankly, the way we are playing-

THIS IS AN EMERGENCY MESSAGE FROM THE IT IS HIGH YANKEE EMERGENCY INFORMATION CENTER:


AN INTERNATIONAL JUJU INTERVENTION HAS BEEN DECLARED FOR TOMORROW NIGHT.


READERS ARE URGED TO STAY AT THEIR COMPUTERS AND TO AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS. 

REPEATING: AN INTERNATIONAL JUJU INTERVENTION HAS BEEN DECLARED FOR TOMORROW NIGHT. 

AT A TO-BE-SPECIFIED TIME, YANKEE FANS WILL BE INSTRUCTED TO PHYSICALLY CONFRONT THEIR ELECTRONIC YANKEE LISTENING OR WATCHING DELIVERY DEVICES... AND EXPEL JUJU ON BEHALF OF THEIR TEAM.

THIS IS NOT A TEST. THIS IS AN ACTUAL EMERGENCY BROADCAST ADVISORY, FROM THE IT IS HIGH EMERGENCY CENTER. WE NOW RETURN YOU TO OUR REGULAR POSTING...

... ich is why I wish the umps Friday night ruled against Tex's HR. We didn't even deserve the one run! Gaahahhh.

Are There Any Statistics on the Misuse or Misinterpretation of Statistics?

The other day, Duque bemoaned the fact that Drew was hitting away into the shift with a man on first, when a bunt may obviously have been called for (Drew being Drew).

Walter, an astute commenter, replied thusly:

duque--read the relevant literature on this. It's well established by now that even when a sacrifice bunt succeeds, the likelihood of scoring a run is REDUCED. Yes--the chances of scoring a run become SMALLER WHEN THE SACRIFICE SUCCEEDS AND YOU HAVE ADVANCED THE RUNNER because the additional out decreases scoring chances more than the advancing of the runners increases it. This may seem counterintuitive, but the result is based on a computer analysis of gazillions of baseball games since the beginning of recorded time. The first such run expectancy chart appeared in The Hidden Game of Baseball in 1984 and has been reconfirmed by every statistical analysis since then. It might be useful for the presiding minds of this blog to acquaint themselves with the rudiments of advanced analysis to avoid sounding just like the daily sportswriting dolts they so acridly condescend to.

August 9, 2015 at 1:15 AM

And this brings up an amazingly overlooked point about the increased use of statistics in the analysis of baseball, and how they can easily be misused, misconstrued and otherwise mishandled if not in the hands of somebody mathematical who really knows what they're doing. (Not a comment on Walter, but on his sources.)

There is a reason that there is an old saying that there are three kinds of lies--lies, damned lies, and statistics. Statistics are easily misinterpreted and manipulated (I've been in advertising and marketing for almost 40 years, trust me on that last one). Statistics also are not always right because they are not always measuring the specifics of a particular situation. 

Consider the most basic stat: the batting average. If Drew is hitting .190 and is facing a shift because he consistently pulls the ball even with outside pitches, statistically he likely has a less than 19 out of 100 chance of getting a hit. This means that he could not only make an out that leaves the runner at first, but that he could hit into a double play and erase the runner. Whereas, if he can successfully bunt in the opposite direction of the shift, he not only moves the runner into scoring position but has a better than 19/100 chance of reaching base himself. Statistics show that he should bunt in that situation.

With runners on first and second, or even with a runner on second with the out, the batter becomes Ellsbury, who has a 28/100 chance of getting a hit overall (although his more recent performance statistics have been worse), which is better than Drew's chances if he does not bunt.

To say that, statistically, the numbers prove that bunting the runner over actually decreases the chance of scoring is not necessarily competent analysis of the statistics, because all situations involving all batters who have sacrifice bunted since the dawn of time contain a variety of irrelevant situations -- including a number of cases where competent hitters bunted and were followed by less competent hitters, a situation that would happen in the old days when bunting the runner over was a chore that fell to some players we would never dream of using for that purpose today. There are other situational considerations that a mathematician baseball fan might be able to point out.

This is the problem with the blanket use of statistics in baseball as "proof" of many things. The best use of statistics is when they are winnowed down to very specific situational subsets that take into account as many details and variables as possible, which, correct me if I'm mistaken, is not the case in the stats Walter is pointing to.


If there is a subset of the bunting stats that's a breakout of sub-.200 pull hitters facing a shift who bunt the other way, and the resulting chances of scoring a run if that bunt is successful when the following hitter(s) is averaging a statistically meaningful number of hits more per at-bats (preferably against the type of pitcher being faced or even against the particular pitcher if there are enough occurrences to be statistically meaningful)...then I think we've really got something.

The ancient Yankee prophesies have arrived, and it is time to contemplate the ultimate response

Obviously, it's crapola to think one game makes a season. Certainly, the Yankees could lose today - be drubbed, molested, played with - and they'll still hold first. There's 7.33333 weeks left to play in the season. Between now and Oct. 5, elbows will snap, walk-offs will unfold and waiver deals will be consummated. No matter what happens today, the Yankee season - thus far, a bountiful buffett of fresh eggs and crispy bacon - will not end!

Ah, but who are we kidding? Everybody can sense it: The Collapse. She's here, she's undressing, she's unhooking her bra and leaning to kiss us on the mouth. Oh, the humanity. The ancient prophesies are coming true. We face the Four Secondbasemen of the Apocalypse: Drew, Ackley, Ryan and Pirella. The Beastmaster has arrived, and she looks like the offspring of Jose Batista and Meghan Kelly. Her skirt is rising, like those recent floodwaters in Anaheim, and our esteemed manager has countered with - huh? - Branden Pinder. Uh-oh. She's reaching down, she's unholstering our Yankeehood and - dear God, people, DEAR GOD, four runs in four games - so do the only thing we can do: Close your eyes and think about Yogi!

Yes, Yogi. The greatest Yankee legacy of hope, of trust, of honor, of everything good. In times like this, it's important to have a sacred rock that you long ago stashed in a shoebox deep in the closet. You take it out and hold it, and you think about Yogi.

Yes, today, the prophesy arrived. Bill Madden wrote his column saying the Yankees should have traded for David Price. As sure as the east sets in the west, the NY writers were eventually going to attack Cashman for not trading away the farm. It's called "pronouncing Aaron Judgement." I don't even blame Madden. You can't blame the alligator for eating the elk. There's a million years of evolution involved. When the Yankees lose, the teeth come out. Close your eyes and think about Yogi.

Today's game is everything. Win, and we staunch the bleeding. Win, and we go to Cleveland on a one-game winning streak. Lose, and we were swept at home in the first critical series of the season. Lose and... well...

IF WE LOSE TODAY, GIRD YOUR LOINS, BECAUSE IT WILL BE TIME FOR A JUJU INTERVENTION, THE FIRST OF 2015.

Leadfooted Yankees have stopped running, even against knuckleballers, and they might just strand the season at first

There's losing, and then there is - as Donald Trump would say - losing stupid.

Last night, the Yankees lost stupid, supendously.

Seventh inning. Tie game. One out. Didi Gregorius on first with an infield hit. It's clear to anybody with an eye or seeing-eye dog that Stephen Drew can't touch R.A. Dickey's knucker with a clown show tennis racket. After one pitch, the Jays call time out. The defense re-alligns. Toronto sends its 3B into RF, overshifting against the pull-hitting Drew.

So here it is: Drew, batting .190 over the 18 months, with a speedy baserunner and the game on the line, staring at a leftside void roughly the size of Andrew Cuomo's ego. We need the runner to advance. All Drew needs to do is lay down a bunt. On YES, they're marveling at how the Jays are daring Drew to bunt. It's practically a gift. I'm screaming at the TV.

So what does Drew do? What he always does. He hacks, swings away, from his pink-painted toes, and - as usual - fails. Foul pop. Out. Threat over. Didi stranded. Yanks do nothing. If the game went 100 innings, we's still have one run, still have guys standing on first, contemplating the universe, waiting for Godot, or the Great Pumpkin, or something.

Stupid.

For some unexplained reason, the Yankees have forgotten they were born with feet. They haven't attempted a stolen base since June 12. This, from a team with Brett Gardner and Jacoby Ellsbury. How do you take speed out of that equation, especially against knuckleballers, and especially when nobody on the team shows any ability to hit such a pitch? Every other team in baseball runs on knuckleballers. Not us. We've lost twice in a week to knucklers, and never even tried running.

Gardner last night had two singles. In the fifth, he was on with two outs. Perfect opportunity. He stayed put. A-Rod popped up. In the eighth, it was worse. Gardner led off with a single. A-Rod hit into a double play. Stupid, stupid, STUPID.

Of course, railing against Stephen Drew - or in this case, Joe Girardi - is like yelling at the sharknado: People laugh at you, just for caring. Dellin Betances is being used like a rented mule, the Scott Proctoring of an all-star talent. He'll probably be the next cog to break. Drew is barely hitting his weight, yet he cannot - or simply refuses to - adjust. Well, next winter, the game will adjust, and Drew will disappear. The Yankees this year never gave Jose Pirela or Rob Refsnyder the light of day at 2B. They've been willing to overlook Drew's miniscule output for a steady glove. OK, I get that. But folks, the lead is shrinking, and every time we lose stupid - like the loss we conjured last night, you can hear the fingernails digging into the chalkboard, as we sink to the floor.

Today, the Yankees play David Price, a pitcher they have owned in recent years. Why am I expecting the worst? Well, the answer is easy. We are playing stupid.

After an incredible night - CC, Trump and Stewart - here come the "Juggernaut Jays"

Wow. Last night was like that episode of Lucy, where she's desperately wrapping chocolates on the assembly line. Everything just kept coming.

At first, it was the Yankees-Redsocks game, top of the fifth, bases loaded and the aging Big Papi facing the aging Big CC. Two blimps, crashing in the sky. Then came the GOP demolition derby - with Trump growling at Meghan Kelley (Syracuse native, BTW; she obviously learned how to flirt with a camera from Jim Boeheim.) Then came John Stewart's final at bat... Lib Fans Bid Kid Adieu - with no less than Springsteen himself. Damn. The highway jammed with broken heroes.

This is what America was supposed to be, when George Jefferson wrote the Constitution, or the Bible, or the first TV Guide: Nonstop, must-see gut-wrenching events, with the future of the free world thrown in on the side. It's a wonder one of the far-flung networks didn't rerun the John Sterling Kitten Superbowl, (or was it the Puppy Bowl?) to do mop up, like Nick Rumbalow in a 15-run rout. You had to watch. Not a good night for bowling leagues.

Everything started with CC's strikeout of Ortiz in the former Daily News Fifth, when somebody named "Larry" from the NY Post joined The Master and Suzyn. I gotta give Larry credit. He called the moment. He said you didn't want to overstate the importance of one pitch, one out, one game, blahblah - but with the bases loaded, a one-one tie, and the hate-filled, NY-stomping, anti-Yankee kaiju at bat, the future of CC Sabathia, if not the Yankees, seemed to hinge on one throw. All year, in similar situations, Sabathia had stumbled. A grand slam, and we would be sunk. But not last night. Papi swung through. Is a dream a lie if it don't come true, or is it something worse?

Then came the Republican flea circus. Every time Trump came to bat, it was like watching Ortiz facing Sabathia. You felt as though the season was on the line. He fouled a few off, dodged some bean balls, got booed, roused cheers, kept his hair on - has his own Big Papi scowl - and so it's on to the next series, against Iran, or Mexico, or Rosie O'Donnell. Say what you will: The guy takes his swings. Would be a horror show as President, but fun to watch. More than anybody on the planet, Trump reminds me of George Steinbrenner. But let's face it, the real Boss knew the score: Poor man wanna be rich, rich man wanna be king...

Then came the finale - Jon Stewart. Yeesh. Every week, somebody says farewell, as if we're in the middle of some huge, cultural sea change: Letterman, Leno, Colbert (who replaces Letterman), the Grateful Dead, Mariano, Jeter, that NBC anchor (Elmira guy) who claimed to be riding on the helicopters - we're devouring generational icons the way Lucy did chocolates. Hold on to your Kleenex, folks. CC and Papi will soon be gone. Can Aaron Judge and Luis Severino replace them? Will we be alive to see their farewell someday? Big wheels keep on turning. We snickered when Johnny Carson said goodbye. It would never happen to us. Then Mickey Mantle and Jerry Garcia checked out barely a week apart. Now we know: It's a death trap, it's a suicide wrap... 

Tonight, wow... the Juggernaut Jays. I speak for the Yankiverse in saying I never again expected in my lifetime to treat a series against Toronto like anything more than a cup of cold piss. But here they are, winners of 8 out of 9. Kansas City couldn't stop them. They're here, they're fortified, and they're turning up the assembly line, full speed. Well, you want something done, you gotta do it yourself. It's time to go Lucy on some chocolates. In other words,  show a little faith...

The Old Gray Mare

She ain't what she used to be. 

Neither is this guy.

We have Severino. We have Warren. We have Eovaldi. Hell, we have Danny Burawa down in Scranton.

Tanaka is tender. Nova is a little hot and cold. But they're both a lot better than the 5.54 ERA our gentle giant is sporting.

Look, CC has been on a treadmill to oblivion for a couple of years now. He has flashes of his old self, just like Great Aunt Sadie has moments of complete clarity where she can rattle off every family on her Brooklyn block in 1947. But like Sadie, the CC we once knew is no longer present. They keep treating him with respect, akin to batting Jeter second last year when he was pretty awful. Enough is enough, though.

We're in a pennant race, as weird and inexplicable as that may be given this motley collection of overachieving over-the-hillers, lugnuts and a few (OK, a couple) more consistently steady hands. (That means you, Reddy Kilowatt.)

Toronto is energized by Price and Tulo. In practical terms, those two are really not enough to send the Jays to the Series, but emotionally, they're having a big impact this far. And we're playing the Jays 13 times yet, including 6 in short order. 

By the way, don't even mention the hitting by our own short order. We score 20, then 2, then 13, then 1, then...you get the idea. On average, we're killing. On the field, we're killing sometimes and dying the others.

By the other way, what the fuck was Girardi doing last night by pulling red-hot Didi Dee Dee Gregorius with the game on the line to put in a fatigued pinch-hitting McCann? They needed hits, not a game-ending home run. Dee Dee has been hitting like mad. McCann has been hitting like a mediocre guy with occasional power when he isn't hitting like my grandmother. (An exaggeration, but you get my drift.)

But back to CC. Stick a fork in the poor bastard. Put him on the DL with arm fatigue. Make some shit up, it's not like the Yankees haven't done it before. Just get him out of the freakin' rotation already. It's as close to a guaranteed loss every time around as we've got. Actually, it's pretty damn close, period.

It's over. We can't afford to be all warm and squishy about this. There's a title to win. Besides, this is the New York motherforking Yankees we're talking about here. The team that unceremoniously dumped Bernie because they couldn't find a spot for him (Beltran, they find a spot for). The manager that publicly embarrassed Jorge at the end of his career and killed his plate timing so they could show him the door. The team that called Phil Rizzuto into the office to tell him he could move to the broadcasting booth or go home after 13 years of heroic service.

Don't tell me we can't tell CC to sit down. We can't afford not to, $9 million be damned. Let him pitch when we're 10 runs ahead or behind (though if we're ahead, you might want to limit him to one inning or so, just to be safe). 

Side benefit:  we won't have to look at the stupid way he wears his hat or that baggy clown uniform of his anymore, either. At least Ortiz wears a respectable uniform over his fluctuating girth.

Listen. It's time to put the old horse out to pasture. It was a great career of spectacular overuse. Now, it's time to kick back and have a couple or three stuffed-crust pizzas and some Fanta Big Gulps.

Let's start acting like we actually want to win the pennant instead of the Miss Congeniality title.

Starting to face the ultimate fear: If Toronto wins the season and credits trade deadline deals, would the Yankees go back to their old ways?

Last week, the Yankees ended a 15-year malaise of mishandling and discarding youth. (For a few seasons, it wasn't a problem, because the franchise still possessed the components of the late 1990s championship teams.)

Last week, at the trade deadline, the Yankees kept all their top prospects, while Toronto threw everything it had into a short-term charge for this year's race.

Toronto is blazing hot.

Question: If the Blue Jay streak continues, if Toronto overtakes us, will the NY echo chamber blame the front office for refusing to trade the future?

He Should Have Stayed In Scranton

When I realized that Boston was pitching a knuckle baller, I raged.  The ghost of Tim Wakefield had returned.

The Yankees cannot hit a knuckle ball, and they do not have the patience to wait him out for walks.  So they swing wildly at the air.  They look as if they were playing tennis with rackets missing all their strings.  No solid contact, ever.

It was downright embarrassing to see our best hitters flailing hopelessly at 50 mph deliveries, and missing by a foot. The worst part is that those empty and futile swings will take its toll on today's game as well.  Our line-up must now readjust to normal pitching from actual players, correcting their futility at facing a misfit who failed at everything else in the game, but found some alien ability to throw this absurd pitch.

If Joe had a brain, he would start everyone who did not play last night.  Including CC Sabathia as DH, if needed.

In the end, I had to TVO the game so that I could fast forward through the embarrassing Yankee at bats, and watch our young rookie pitch.  What a crappy way to watch the Yankees....by not watching the Yankees.

 My night of high expectations and anticipation ultimately dissolved into the disappointment I experienced, years ago, when I finally secured a date with the prom queen, laid out my earnings from a month of mowing lawns and pulling weeds, for a table at the fancy restaurant, and she showed up with acne, purple hair and two front teeth missing.

As for Severeno ;  he has a fastball, and a fastball and a fastball.  All evening long, I saw one Boston hitter swing once at a breaking ball. Luis's command of anything other than his fastball was non existent.  Unless he can regularly crank it up to 110 mph, he will get no where in the majors.

We should have traded him for this fart, knuckle ball pitcher from Boston.

At least we would be the team laughing and winning.

And Toronto, with AJ Dickey, arrives next.  Our hitters will be basket cases by the end of that series.

And our season could be in the toilet.

Hello, Evil Empire? You better figure out the knuckler, because you'll face another one this weekend, and the wolf is at the door

I loathe numbers. What are they, but dorky abstractions? You cannot eat a "4." You cannot sleep with a "13." (Though I may have, once, in Indianapolis.) Still, numbers rule our lives. To the FOX-YES-ESPN Yankeetary Industrial Complex, we are mere numbers. And today, a few numbers terrify me.

Last week, the Yankees were 9 up in the loss column against Toronto. Today, we are 6 up.

In one week, our comfortable lead has been chopped by one-third... 33.3 percent. We have 9 weeks left in the season.

What's scarier is that the Yankees haven't collapsed. We've gone 6-4. The problem is that Toronto is on a 7-1 streak. Moreover, they did this against KC - (best record in AL) - and the Twins, who'd been leading for a Wild Card birth. Right now, the Blue Jays are Hadron Super-Collider hot. In theory, something's gotta blow. But if their surge continues one more week, everything we've accomplished thus far this season could be gone.

We play 6 of our next 10 against Toronto. One - probably Saturday - will pit us against R.A. Dickey, the knuckleballer. Considering last night's sorry swings against Boston, A-Rod and Co. had better figure out the knuckler. (Strangely, I'm less fearful of Toronto's new ace, David Price. Over the years, the Yankees have fared much better against Price than guys who throw spin-less balls.)

In a pennant race, it's easy to look at any upcoming weekend and breathlessly announce, "OMG! It's the biggest series of the year!" This is NOT the biggest series of 2015. Starting Sept. 10, we play Toronto 4 games, Tampa 3, the Mets 3, and then 3 more v. Blue Jays. One of those will make or break us. But make no mistake: This is the weekend when the wolf visits our doorstep. If we take 2 of 3, he goes away fuming, and maybe never returns with the same howl.

Boys, we have 2 batting coaches. One of them better have an idea about hitting the knuckleball. Otherwise, forget eating any numbers. They're going to eat us.

It Is Luis Night !!!!

We have been waiting a long-time for this.

All Yankee fans and anti-Yankee fans will be watching tonight.  This telecast could surpass the US Women's World Cup triumph broadcast over Japan.

It is like the night of the Presidential election.

The rhetoric and lies end.  The reality appears.  The future is decided.

I will be aided and abetted by manhattans, made with Crown Royal reserve, and vodka infused marischino cherries.  I have no idea how to spell that " cherries " adjective  and, furthermore, don't care.

Tonight we have Luis.

It's "Yankee Pedro" Day in the Yaniverse

Luis Severino - the newest incarnation of that long-awaited "Yankee Pedro," the undersized pitcher with the over-sized arm  - debuts tonight. Is it coincidence that he'll start against Boston? We might as well buy the kid a dwarf.

For years, we expected Manny Banuelos to be our "Pedro." Then came Tommy John surgery, the slow recovery, and then Manny was sent to Atlanta, where he's currently doing OK. But he's not the Braves' Pedro.

It might just be that the Yankees never know their own version of a Pedro Martinez, and that comparing untested young pitchers to Hall of Famers - especially ones whose memory is as volatile ours is of Pedro - is not a good idea.

But at least for the next several hours, we have a rare opportunity to sit around, clip coupons and imagine a "Yankee Pedro." Wow. What a concept.

More Sterling photos: When The Master saw fire and rain

Primping with known Redsock sympathizer, and ex-Carly Simon lickspittle. James Taylor:

Seattle throws up its hands and says, "Huh? Another injured player traded to the Yankees? Jeepers, we didn't know..."

No self-respecting Evil Empire can keep open trade relations with every backwards culture. Some primitive societies - Cleveland, for example - simply cannot grasp the barter system. It doesn't help that they loathe us. No Indian GM can ever be accused of helping the Yankees. It'd be like a Fox News host supporting Hillary. The Yankees are actually more likely to cut a deal with Boston - (they gave us The Great Drew) - than with that misery-mongering mob from the charred banks of the fiery, fish-frying Cuyahoga.

Ahh, but Pittsburgh is another matter. They return calls. Maybe it's because we gave them AJ Burnett for a pair of sweaty boxers and an autographed picture of the guy who played Lerch, (Ted Cassidy, a native.) My guess: Pirate fans secretly like the Yankees - we've never hurt them - and still free-associate us with Bill Mazeroski's moment. They more despise the Mets. It doesn't hurt that Frankie Cervelli turned out to be a fine catcher.

We occasionally deal with San Diego and - in rare, kinky threesomes - even Arizona, whose hatred for NYC burns with the heat of a Phoenix asphalt driveway in mid-July. Arizona's greatest moment in history came at our expense - the 2001 World Series - and the bastards celebrated by playing "New York, New York" on their stadium loudspeakers - (this, just weeks after 9/11, no less: what rotten SOBs, not even Boston would have done that. WE MUST NEVER FORGET) - and yet they'll trade with us. Go figure. Maybe it's just the ways of serpents.

Which brings us to the franchise we should never again phone, email, text or recognize in a crowded Thruway rest stop: The Seattle Mariners. Frankly, we should never even play them. When the 2016 schedule dictates a road trip there, I say we pay Manpower Temporary Services to field a team of 280-pound brawlers, who get paid double for every bone broken. Seattle should be ashamed of itself. I'm almost rooting for the Big Earthquake.

In recent years, we have cut three deals with Seattle, and twice, their players turned up with sawdust in the gas tanks. We traded Jesus Montero for Michael Pineda and Jose Campos, both of whom quickly needed arm surgeries. (Yeah, Montero couldn't catch, but at least he was healthy.) We traded for Ichiro - basically doing them a favor, because they were too cheap to pay an aging icon. And now this: Our newest Yankee, Dustin Ackley, comes to bat three times and ruptures a friggin' disk.

I shall now like to now do something I try to never do on this blog: Speak from knowledge. I had a herniated disc once, even underwent surgery. Listen: There are ways to screw up your back - skiing accident, car crash, straining to lift a piano, etc. But generally, a bad disc doesn't just happen. It creeps up on you, like a CGI version of the demonic Linda Blair. One day, it's lame. Next day, it hurts. Then, you're vomiting green Nick at Nite slime. Three at bats, and he's hurt? I'm sorry, folks: I simply cannot believe Seattle didn't have a whiff of Ackley's impending issues. So they did what made sense to their feeble system of values: They traded him to the Yankees.

Brian Cashman claims everything is okay with Seattle. He says the Yankees checked out Ackley and he tested fine. That's called "covering yourself with the memo." Whatever MRIs and X-rays were done, they don't tell you what's happening. In fact, reliance on MRIs produced one of the darkest Yankee events of modern times - letting Andy Pettitte run to Houston. Someone saw something on an MRI, suggesting Andy's elbow was about to go Vesuvius, so we let a member of the Core Four go. We're lucky Houston sucked so badly that Andy wanted to come "home," even though technically, Texas is his home.

So... recapping here - 1. Big Papi remains the most hateful person in sports, whose pretend status as an ambassador of love stems from Boston's desire to deny its racist past...  2. The greatest free diver in the world is still down there, adding to her new record... And 3. Seattle remains a franchise of double-dealers who happily send out injured goods, and we better remember it three years from now, when they come begging for us to take a certain jogging 2B - by then he'll be a jogging DH - off their dirty hands. We should just say no. The reason? He'll be hiding an injury. Fool me once, shame on you... fool me, twice... oh, hell with this, beam me up, Scotty.

The Yankiverse is exploding with photos of The Master

Friends of IIHIIFIIc are scurrying through their secret Sterling files, sending photos of The Master in various forms of repose. This from Steven:

John flirts with U.S. Supreme Justice Sonia Sotomayor...

... And then moves in for the tongue. (After all, he is The Master.)

A Few Early August Notes

Hope you all have been enjoying the lazy, hazy days of summer.  There have been some happenings, mostly kept in the background;

1.  Remember Diego ( what's his name) who pitched 5+ no-hit innings of relief during the Chris Capuano, "melt-down," game?  At 28, he is having arm surgery. And he showed such potential.

2.  The aforementioned Chris is working out a deal to sell Furillo pre-owned vehicles in Syracuse, NY.

3.  Mason Williams was not traded because he is having shoulder surgery today ( not a good prognosis for a prospect CF with upside potential).  He should be in great shape to return to AA in about 2 years, when he'll still be only 27.

4.  The Cashman inspired giveaway of Flores and Martinez yielded us a guy who, after 3
swings ( 0-3 ), is moving onto the DL.  I guess Cashman doesn't believe in pre-trade physicals, or anything like that.  Pineda came to us ready for surgery , as well, if I recall correctly.  But Brian says, " he has no regrets and no hard feelings toward Seattle ( they have photos ).

5.  Speaking of Michael Pineda, the Yankees announced today, " that they are hoping to have him back in September."  But they neglected to mention the year.

See you tonight, then, at the stadium.

Revealed: Young John Sterling's alter ego.

A friend of the blog, Gary Frenay, writes:

"I kept going back to those recently-unearthed mesmerizing early pics of The Master, trying to figure out who he reminded me of, when it finally hit me..."

"... Homer, with hair."

Young and in love again: John and Suzyn are having a wonderful time

Boy meets girl. Boy loses girl to pennant race. Boy gets girl again.

No, it's not Jimmy Fallon and Drew Barrymore in their red Fenway underwear. It's John and Suzyn - "Ma and Pa," according to Bob Raissman of the Daily News.

Raissman - no doubt still marveling privately over how The Master returned his call on the night last winter when John's apartment burned to the ground - tries to summon some snark about the two love-crossed, Jeep-driven Yankee voices. It's what media columnists are supposed to do. But he just can't bring it. The Master has won him over. And seriously - considering yet another unearthed youthful photo of John - (found by IIHIIFIIc photo correspondent, Beaureguard) - how can you not be in love?

Crunch the numbers, and the Yankees are in. All they have to do is keep winning.

Why lie? I hate math. I can barely run two bingo boards simultaneously. I'll take the "soft sciences," the ones with essay questions. I'd rather decipher that Hadron Super-Thingy, with the Higgs Bojack Horseman Whatever, than try to calculate Chase Headley's RISP BAPIP. (Frankly, nobody's RISP BAPIP should be put out for public consumption, aside from maybe that Jared guy from Subway, the one whose motto should be "Molest Fresh!" Pictures of his naked RISP BAPID should be published in the Enquirer.)

Nevertheless, here's some old-fashioned, scratchpad math, and I believe it's why "Buyin' Brian" Cashman wouldn't send 20-year-old SS Jorge Mateos (and his 71 stolen bases) to Detroit for a measly dozen starts by Sir David Price.

The Yankees have played 104 games, which leaves 58 to go. If they win half - go 29 and 29 - to overtake them, both the Orioles and Blue Jays must hit Warp Factor 10 speed they haven't achieved since William Shatner could see his shoes. Yes, these are just numbers, and if tomorrow, A-Rod's man-cannon turns bullfrog green and falls into a laundry bin, obviously, all bets are off. But we lead Lord Valtimort's O's by six games in the loss column, and Toronto is down by seven. We can survive a rotten week. They cannot. Also, if the Yankees can win at their current rate - not beyond the realm of imagination, because nobody's confusing the AL East with SEC football - the winged starlings of Baltimore and Toronto can forget the division. They are chasing the one-game Bud Selig Memorial Away Field Wild Card, which is sort of like chasing Typhoid Mary - a fun weekend, but with long term implications.

If the Yankees can go 33 and 25 - that is, do what they've done all year - Toronto, even with Troy Tulowitzki channeling Captain Lou Albano, must go 40 and 15... that is, win seven out of every 10.

I know what you're thinking: Duque, what happened to you? These are just stupid numbers. Since when do you give a crap about numbers? Well, my friends, the entire universe isn't as endless as the calculation of Pi. So don't get snippy about "stupid" numbers. (Not sure, though, if math can explain the Rex Ryan crop circles. They must be the work of extraterrestrials.) That's all we have at the end. Digits on a gravestone. Baltimore has won 8 of their last 10. Toronto, 6.

Of course, we cannot yet calculate the PTDNR: Post-Trade Deadline New Reality. Teams get new players, and the new players get hot. Remember the jolt Alfonso Soriano gave us two seasons ago? For three weeks, Sori was 24 again. Then came the market correction. Maybe Tulo and Price shall be reborn in Toronto. But the math is on our side. I still hate math. But it's nice to have it on our side. It sure beats thinking about Jared's RISP BAPIP.

Derek Who? This is the dawning of the Age of Gregorius, the Age of Gregorious... Gregorious! GREGORIUS!

Ellsbury and understanding, Gardner and Tex abounding,
No more A-Rod juice derisions, Headley living dreams of visions,
Mystic Cashman revelation, and the mind's Drew liberation...
Gregorius... GREGORIUS!

Ok. That's out of the way... Wait! No! An aside! In the late eighties, my wife and I went on a cruise ship - (didn't get Legionaires disease or taken hostage, so no news) - the Fifth Dimension performed, and they were so fat that they did the whole damn show sitting in wide-body chairs. No way they could go up up and away in a balloon. It's a wonder the boat floated. They should have called themselves The Fifth Hypertension...

Ahh, first place! This is how life is, six games in first: The moment feels right, and you feel a song coming on and... There's NO people like SHOW people there's NO people I KNOWWWWWWWWW...

Where was I? Didi Gregorius! Mariekson Julius Gregorius. Born in the party capital of the world: Amsterdam, Netherlands. Wait... was I on some Ibogaine delirium, or do I vaguely recall screaming about the Yankees trading Shane Greene for some Little Leaguer who throws to the wrong base? Must'a been someone else. Wasn't this blog. Here, we practice Zenlike moderation...  I'M WALKIN ON SUNSHINE... OOH-OHH... I'M WALKIN ON SUNSHINNNNNE... OHH-HOO... AND DON'T IT FEEL GOOD!

Didi Effing Walking on Sunshine/Man of La Mancha Gregorius! He's only 25. Can you believe that? He was born in 1980. 1990! A Reagan Bush baby! And he'll become a free agent in 2020, the year of Hugh Downs. Over the last two weeks, he's hitting .419. Four nineteen. Against RH pitchers, he's hitting .279. In the second half of the season (small sample size) he's hitting .370.

Thus far, every month as a Yankee, his batting average has dramatically improved. April - .206. May - .232. June - .258. July - .317. August - .429. At that progression, in September, he'll hit .503, and in October, .689!

Listen: Shivers crept up the Yankiverse's spine when Toronto traded away its best primal wad to extract Troy Tulowitzki from the party capital of North America: Colorweedo. The Blue Jays added firepower to a lineup already meatier than a Hormell assembly line. But right now, I wouldn't take Tulo over Didi if it meant signing on for a herpes cruise across a sea of flaming feces.

Because one question today is stitched into every Yankee fan's overworked liver: How good can he be? Did we just replace Derek Jeter - snap the fingers - like THAT? Is this the dawning of the Age of Gregorius? If so, IT'S BEGINNING TO LOOK A LOT LIKE CHRISTMAS...

A Riff on the Rift

Here's the thing about that generational rift in Yankee fandom, Duque. 

There was this thing called the Great Depression. Pretty rough time, from what I've heard. So the government put in these safeguards, of sorts, to try and stop it from happening again. Glass-Steagall was one of those, kept banks from screwing with people's money by getting into the markets and being investment banks along with being a regular bank.

Then move ahead to many years later. Lots of people who were in government and banking and Wall Street...heck, even the common Joes from the Great Depression were all dead or really old and out of the money game entirely. And people in the financial industry and their goons in Congress started saying, hey, we don't need no stinking Glass-Steagall or any of that old crapula. It's holding us down. We could be making lots more money RIGHT NOW and ratcheting up the paper economy. So the younger types, who only knew the Depression as stories from their drooling family members and some statistics in a book, dismantled those safeguards because what happened before could never happen again...everybody involved was too damn smart and sophisticated now.

And then there was 2007 and 2008, and the housing derivatives collapse, and the Great Recession (which we've really never recovered from) and the ever-moving bubble machine in one market after another. A couple of guys in Congress even said maybe we should bring back that Glass-Steagall stuff, after all. Maybe those old farts actually knew something.

Duque, you and I and our already slightly shrinking pool of gray-haired types lived through the stupid. We know how it happens. It's always, "But this is our chance! We have to do it this year or we never will! Bet the farm, NOW...or better yet, ransack the farm and trade it away!" Win now, whatever it takes, the future is unknown, we have to make our move, yadda yadda yadda.

Bullshit. We've seen that movie. The millennials haven't. They think what we lived through can't happen again.

They're wrong.

For whatever his reasons, Cashman didn't scuttle Glass-Steagall. Good for him. At some point, there's more than today at stake. In a couple of years, we'll be free of some long-term contracts and have, it looks like, some interesting young players to start adding to the mix even before those older players are gone.

Jeter, Bernie, Jorge, Mo, Andy. We need the next group of them, it's been too long already. The kids we didn't trade today are our Social Security. Millennials can't foresee the day they might need it because...well, I couldn't either when I was their age. But life teaches you things. 

Hats off to Cash. Way to go on this one.