We have Bird, and we have hope

I have no voice. I sound like Bonnie Tyler, with asthma, after smoking a carton of Luckies. I watched the last four at Foley's Pub in NYC, melded into the bar, yelling incoherent-yet-critical instructions to the Yankees through the elevated flat-screen juju porthole. It worked, dammot; they listened. I can honestly say that, moments before he hit it, I predicted Greg Bird's home run, Suzyn. Unfortunately, my other HR predictions - every Yankee coming to bat - failed to materialize. It doesn't matter. We are alive - ALIVE! - in a two-game season, a two-game universe, a two-game continuum - eighteen innings with a pulse but no voice. Oh, and a first baseman. Yes, we do have a first baseman.  

The Yankees have never won Jack Dirt without a big-ass 1B; you can look it up in your binders, Joe. They sucked through the late '60s-early '70s until the day they traded for the quiet man, Chris Chambliss... sucked in the nineties until Tino arrived... sucked in the oughts until Tex showed up. No fukkin first baseman? No fukkin hope. It's that simple, Brian. Bob Watson knew. The Stick knew. Hal ought to know.

And for most of 2017, no hope, not a shred. Remember Chris Carter? Garrett Cooper? Tyler Austin? For five months, the cast of Glee. We presented a lineup with our 1B batting eighth, if not ninth. No more. 

No player, not even Aaron Judge, offers the tired, white-haired Yankee fans their autumnal, what-have-we-here? boners like Greg Bird. Damn. You can hear it in The Master's voice. If Bird doesn't hit 40 next season, John will eat the microphone. Plop Bird in-between Judge and Sanchez - where he should be - and stick Didi in front of everybody, with maybe Red Thunder and Glyber (and while we're at it, smoosh Bryce Harper in there) and I'll take my chances that when people in the future hear "2020," they won't simply think of Hugh Downs. 

I have no voice today. But I have breath. And a first baseman. We have a Chris, a Tino, a Tex, and he's not batting eighth. Man the juju portholes, comrades. It may be too late, the chords being shot, but let's go down screaming. 

It's Chattin' Time!

The end is nigh

Listen: It was a good year, a fine year, a season of warmth and passion, of occasional jubilation. Nobody can steal it from us. But... well... everything ends, everything, and...

Of course, tonight, we'll bring the hellfire and the extreme juju. Hell, yeah! I'm not suggesting we lay down for nobody! We will fight them on the couches! we will fight them in the kitchens! and fans shall say, this was our finest... something... but...

Dammit, you can't predict baseball, Suzyn! I mean, you never know! It's a three-game series. We could still...  

Oh, fukkit. We are done, comrades. Doomed. Finis. Over. We are like those Cuban ambassadors whose heads got rocked by the secret, ultra-sonic dog-whistle/brain decondibulator. We don't know what hit us, but it hurts to think. And the reason is simple: This year, 2017, was not our time. Fate is everything, and the championship was not ours. Remember:

Whether you're early
Or whether you're late
It don't mean shit to fate.

It was a great gondola ride, 2017, but the cords have snapped, and we're plunging into the ravine, and it's time to sing about Irene. We must embrace the acceptance level of Lizzie Kubler-Ross's five stages of Yankee death. Generally, we deny it up until the division is clinched, we bargain with the notion that our old players will suddenly be reborn, we grow furious over Cashman and Girardi or whatever player swings at ball four, and we argue among ourselves... and now... kaboom... this. 

Dear Juju Gods, I accept that it's over. I will march to the chopping block, smiling at the fink with the hatchet. I will kneel and close my eyes. I would rather lose tonight 10-0 than absorb another car-battery-to-the-scrotum loss in extra innings. I will ask for the quick and merciful ending and go to the next Yankee world dreaming of things to come. 

Fate, you win. I realize this now. You always will win, ol buddy ol pal. But maybe a year from now - when/if Clint Frazier has arrived, and Miguel Andujar is on the rise, with Glyber and Justus and who knows who - maybe you will be on our side. Maybe we can march arm-in-arm towards a different outcome. 

Just not this year, folks. Sorry to say it. Just not this year. (But think of this: It  aint Boston's year either.)

Time for Some family Fun......

Whatever fantasies and dreams we had for this season, it is time now to file them away
under, " a productive experience that will benefit us in the long run," and finish packing up the fishing gear.  Time to head back to our personal Ozarks, and catch some dinner to cook over the fire pit on the shore.

We have been ignoring the family during certain 3-4 hour periods for a bit more than 162 days of 2017.  We have expressed joy, surprise, wonder , awe and depression.  As companions, friends and lovers we have reflected those emotions, and made people close to us either miserable or momentarily fulfilled as a direct result of our wavering temperaments.

Perhaps I overestimate the impact upon us, or upon others.

 Our psychic investment in a game played by others, in an environment usually accessed by the distance of TV or radio, is a quirky diversion from reality inherited from our youth.  It is like a defective gene which we cannot remove.  It is too much to say that our addiction to the
Yankees keeps us young.  But it does bring back the smell of a new glove, the crack of a bat, the thrill of a stolen base in a close game, and the pure joy of catching a critical foul pop-up deep behind third base.  It brings back the feeling of admiration and respect from our friends, along with memories of the bonds we formed in winning and losing together.

In any case, there comes a time each year when only the fans of one team leave the season happy and pleased.  We do not fall into that category in 2017.  True, we were able to glance over the edge into the boiling cauldron of success, and take a peak at something long forgotten, but the heat of someone else's success pushed us away.  

Now we are left with the long over-used phrase by Brooklyn Dodgers fans: " wait until next year."  As Yankee fans, we respected that grit.  And relished in the fact that we  ( more often than not) caused it.

Yesterday's loss to Cleveland was more than a loss.  We all know that.

How and what remains of this team and organization, and the portrait of next season, beckons.  But a lot of water must pass under the bridge before the green grass and the baseball diamonds again appear appealing to us. Another big chunk of our life will slide by, until we begin to hope again.  Not until springtime in Tampa.

It has been a painful ride.  We got dumped off the roller coaster.

Good luck with the large-mouth bass competition.

For posterity

A pineapple. A big, hairy, toxic spike-tipped pineapple.

Ugly truth here: I missed most of last night's debacle. Unavoidable circumstances, plus the ridiculous five o'clock face-off. In the end, I managed to find a big spiky pineapple and fit the thing snugly up my Larry Rothschild - I watched the unfurling devastation in a Yankee bar, where the atmosphere ranged from wild prison riot to NPR fundraiser.

I saw Castro's lunge play, converted into a nifty force at second. I saw Didi's diving catch. I saw Big Toe get picked off, because once again, we could not execute a bunt. I saw Dellin's overpowering inning, and then I saw him walk the lead-off batter in our crushing 13th, leading to what everyone with a diapered Larry Rothschild knew was coming.

I suspect that I saw the second-to-last game Joe Girardi ever manages for the Yankees.

Likewise, I may have seen the end of Brett Gardner's great Yankee run. And Dellin. I guess he's gone. And Castro, maybe. And, hell, probably the beloved Big Toe himself just got picked off, this time for posterity. Massive changes are coming - think of our lineup as Puerto Rico, before the storm - and all that stands between them is a FEMA trailer... one more game against a vastly superior opponent.

There's no shame in losing to Cleveland. When I look at their lineup, they have everything - rising stars, grizzled veterans, a great bullpen, solid defense - they are not the Redsocks, Knicks or a Friends reunion. And you cannot cede to a great team the cashback opportunities that the Yankees offered last night. We thrice left the winning runs on base, en route to the staggering collapse that will not stop hurting in my chafed and puckered lifetime. Winter is coming, folks. Baton down the hatches. It's going to turn cold.

One more game. I'd like to be defiant, and maybe between now and Sunday, I'll get lippy and shout curses at the coming 50-foot wave. But we cannot un-see what happened last night, and we cannot un-know the ugly truth: This wasn't our year. 

Chat!

El Duque and I are away from our computers for the long weekend. Have fun without us!

Sorry Everyone....We Are Out Of Our Depth

I will concede that Sonny Gray did not perform like the " lights out" starter Cashman claimed him to be, when he traded half our young prospects for him.

For this season, Sonny will wrap up his numbers near the .500 mark.  On his best day, he beat some horrible team over six innings and yielded only 1 or 2 runs.

Cleveland is not a horrible team.

In fairness to Sonny, he has pitched more than 20 innings in post season play ( most of it with Oakland ) and his run support remains at zero.  A trend the Yankees were bound to honor.

It looked for a long while as though we would not get a single hit.  Through the 5th inning, our best offensive threat was when Aaron Judge struck out ( his second of four K's ), but reached first
when " strike three" was a passed ball.

Speaking of passed balls, does anyone think that Sanchez needs a miracle to remain a catcher?  He had so many pitches go off his glove, shin guards, chest protector, face mask and arms that it seemed like a carnival game, with kids trying to dunk him into the water tank.

How many passed balls, how many wild pitches, how many " free " bases did the Yankees give up?  How many times did Sonny have to groove his 82 mph fastball, because he dared not throw a breaking ball with runners on base?

The Yankees were dominated by the most complete team in baseball.  Until Houston shows up, that is.

We simply could not compete.  Cleveland has more speed, better defense, better pitching, and a line-up that can actually hit the ball.  We could have used those damn midges last night, I'll tell you.

Seriously, one could see we had no chance in the first inning when we recorded;  a weak pop up to short and two strike outs.  Their pitcher's breaking ball was dropping about 2.5 feet, and landing on the far left, lower corner of the strike zone every time.  And the ump loved him not us.

Honestly, we are in that category of, " outclassed, out-gunned and lucky to be here."

The only thing the players can do is to try and get something out of the experience.  Eat at a good restaurant.  Get lucky with a chippie.  Have a massage  See the Rock 'N Roll Hall of Fame.

Simply put, this Yankee team is out of its depth.

It is next year already, for us.

All we gotta do is win tonight

The scariest part of a five-game war is how the home field advantage shifts her allegiance. One mistake, one moment of butchery, and she's upstairs in the Legion hall, necking with your brother-in-law. If the Evils win tonight, we'll return to NYC with Lady Home Field on our lap, licking from our ice cream cone, with Terry Francona's deep-fried testicles dangling from the rear-view. Win tonight, and we're just a measly home field sweep from dirty dancing on Cleveland's historic season. In a lot of respects, they should feel more pressure than we do. They must justify their looming legacy. All we gotta do is win a freakin' game.

That's all. Just beat Corey Kluber, hold them to less than three, and maybe topple the two-headed bullpen. Tally more than three hits, and keep Indians from jogging around the bases while Gary Sanchez plays fetch. The above chart offers little hope, beyond noting that Aaron Judge has no record against Kluber. (For my money, Advantage: Kluber.) Last night, Judge wouldn't have hit Cory Feldman. Last night, we saw the Aaron of August return, trying to bash every ball all the way to Wisconsin. It'll be a long, cold winter if our enduring image of the Great Yankee Hope is of him flailing at pitches nearly in the on-deck circle. Already, when I think of Cleveland in October, I picture Joba being sprayed with Monsanto Death Gel. Now, the bad Judge? Calgon Bath Beads, take me away!

Last night brought a prickly reminder that when homer-humping lineups face good pitching, the three-hit shutout is never far away. As I see it, we caught a glimpse of two far-away bolts of positive lightning last night:

1. Andrew Miller threw at least 10 more pitches than Francona wanted, and he didn't look sharp. If Aaron Hicks had just laid off ball four, we might be raising the portraits of Clint Frazier and Justus Sheffield today. (Then again, the home plate ump squeezed us all night; it's been a while since I felt a playoff ump was blatantly in the home field's pocket. So, if Hicks hadn't swung, he might have been punched out anyway. Really, the umps were not fair last night, and everybody - even the See-No-Evil Fox announcers - knew it.)

2. Dellin Betances tortured the bottom rung of their lineup on a minimal number of pitches - three over-matched strikeouts. That's the Betances we need. Unfortunately, the one we know is still capable of walk the lead-off batter and instantly going south. 

Listen: We don't concede nothing. It's all on CC, and I sort of like the fact that Kluber is the unbeatable George Foreman, and Sabathia is Ali on his last legs. The 5 p.m. start means I will be away from a computer for at least the first few innings. In my absence, the storm-born, chain-breaking, brother of flagons, Cory Lidle's Scenic Tours - (a grizzled veteran of ESPN, FOX Sports, the Daily News and a hundred other sports outlets, by the way) - will stare wide-eyed into the jaws of hell. 

Remember: All we gotta do is win tonight. Then, we're the brother-in-law,  upstairs in the Legion hall. Win. That's all. 

ALDS Chat: Sonny Day, Sweepin' the Clouds Away

10 Reasons the Yankees Will Beat Cleveland (Number 8 will BLOW YOUR MIND!)

1. The world's most feared streaker - (aside from Randy Levine; seriously, nobody wants to see that) - is heating up. I'm referring to Aaron Judge. If he goes thermonuclear, a thinking opponent has no recourse but to walk him, intentionally, time after time. But Cleveland won't do that, because the city is comprised of stubborn, couch-born, post-industrial pugs, who have barely shifted a pillowy butt-cheek since the invention of the TV remote. If Judge hurts them - think of a mouse in a Skinner box, nosing a red button and getting shocked - their response will be to simply push the button harder - generating more electrical jolts. Expect an input-output feedback loop of Judgian homers, some of which will land in Canada.

2. The Girardi Sequence - a little-understood mathematical progression with a precise and terrifying clarity for predicting the future - clearly favors the Yankees. Yes, I realize that this magical numbers stuff runs contrary to the First Iron Law of Sterling. Nevertheless, behold the Sequence since September 1. Here are Yankee games - wins/losses in red/blue. The next four games are extrapolated in gray:

Loss. Win. Blowout.  Blowout. Loss. Win. CLUNKER. Win. Blowout. Blowout.  Loss. Win. Blowout. Blowout. Blowout. Blowout. Loss. Win. Win. Blowout. CLUNKER. Blowout. Blowout. Blowout. CLUNKER. Blowout. Win. CLUNKER. WILD CARD WIN. (Blowout.) (CLUNKER) (Win.) (DIVISIONAL SERIES BLOWOUT.)

As anyone can see, after the Yankees lose a game, they then win the next two or three. They lost the last game of the regular season, then rebounded to win the Wild Card. The Girardi Sequence tells us they will win game one against Cleveland, then lose game two. Then they will roll through the best of five. Listen: This is not something I'm making up. This is no delusion. This is The Fucking Sequence, people. Do not try to override The Sequence. 

3. CC Sabathia has a long term score to settle. You know how in Game of Thrones, Arya Stark is always scraping somebody off her personal vendetta list from 10 years ago? That's CC. And let's remember something: He did not walk away from Cleveland; those ungrateful, bastard, brewery-jockeys dealt him to Milwaukee like a 10-cent yard sale dinner plate. They obtained three pugs and Michael Brantley, whom they showcased for five years like a best-in-show beagle. So it's time for CC/Arya to show Cleveland his trusty knife. 

4. Recent Octobers have served as discovery events for certain great players who, until then, hadn't been fully appreciated. Think: Madison Bumgarner, Ben Zobrist, etc. This year's perfect candidate is Didi Gregorius, who is simply the best shortstop in the AL, period. I am soooo sick and tired of hearing about the Cooperstown-bound Xander Bogartes that I'm not even bothering to spellcheck his name. This is Didi's October. Best Yankee shortstop in the last six years.

5. Our vaunted, billion dollar bullpen might actually be peaking. I'm not yet ready to christen it the best of the remaining eight teams, but if Dellin Betances is on his game - well, damn - yeah, it's the best, by far. (And if Dellin is off - and I mean this sincerely - best of luck to the batter he beans.) Generally, one rule of October is that the team with the best bullpen wins. Jeez, that could be us.

6. I still like Masahiro Tanaka in critical situations. He was a legendary big-game pitcher in Japan. He's been up and down in 2017, and he might opt-out of his Yankee contract next winter. If so, these will be his last games in pinstripes - Hal has had enough of contract extensions, and I don't blame him - and I believe the good Tanaka will show up in the next week, if only to make us miss him. 

7. Cleveland peaked three weeks ago. It was September. Remember? Back to school? It's damn tricky, sledding a team of dogs through the Klondike with nothing but a can of Alpo and your trusty whip. I think Terry Francona miscalculated the trip and went to the nitrous oxide too early. Now, he's going to the can, and there's nothing there. But they'll always have that winning streak, right?

8. LeBron James is a Yankee fan. Everybody knows this. He might pretend to favor Cleveland, but he'll be living a lie. He roots for the Yankees. This is a dagger into the heart of any city - to have your most famous person, your most beloved citizen, rooting for your opponent. On an internal, psychic level, the Indians are facing juju death. It's like dying in your dreams, which everybody knows - from Nightmare on Elm Street - is fatal.  

9. The Yankees are not supposed to win this year. It's supposed to happen in 2018 or 2019. Not this year. As a result, we are playing with house juju. 

10. Ronald Torreyes knows how to lay down a bunt. He may be the only Yankee with that particular storm-born skill. Write this down: At some point over the next few games, Torreyes will be called upon to do the most unimaginable act for a Yankee: To lay one down. He will do it, and the Yankees will manufacture a run out of nothingness. Imagine that. A run out of nothingness.

Yankees in four. - 30 - 

The war cries of Sir Didi

Compare the calls of Didi's blast.

The Spanish station?

Or the Master?

Haptit to Leinstery 

Bob Dylan's year of living Laureatishly

I made the Gray Lady! Whoop whoop!

Know why? 

Because... wait for it... the Times, they are... drum roll, please... a-changin.'

"Mean Chad Green" takes the night

That's what Sexual Mustang called him - "Mean Chad Green" - after the first inning of last night's live, delirious, IT IS HIGH electric-Kool-Aid acid chat. For most of the game, we had between 18 and 24 fuming, semi-coherent Yank fan nut-jobs frolicking in a stream of group consciousness that ping-ponged between a trailer park karaoke bar and an early Presidential debate. And everything boiled down to Mean Chad Green striking out those two hapless Twinkies in the first inning, with the Borgs and Babadooks pounding at our door.

Think about it: If Green surrenders a base hit, two more runs score, giving Minnesota at least a 5-0 lead before Gardy marches to the plate. Beyond the emotional deflation factor, it would keep them in the lead through the fourth inning and change the game dynamics in ways only Kreskin can predict, that is, if he could predict baseball, Suzyn. 

As it was, it took only four batters to punch back from that 3-0 deficit, crushing the Twins hopes and rousing the Yankee crowd to Cat-5 status. From that point, with the stadium trembling like an Oklahoma fracking quake, we were never going to lose - not to 'Sota, anyway. 

Mean Chad Green. Damn. At the start of this season, if anybody told me that one of the two guys we received from the Justin Wilson trade was going to be our savior, I would have bet the house on Luis Cessa, now appearing on milk cartons in the Tri-State Area. Mean Chad Green staunched the bleeding. He saved 2017. Whatever happens, regardless of the future, he's a made Yankee. Mean Chad Green. Wow.

On to Cleveland! What can go wrong, beyond a hatch of lake mites?   

Wild Card Chat: What is the Reason for the Nine-Inning Season?

El Duque, earlier:

Tonight, IT IS HIGH will host another in-game chat, as we did a few weeks ago. I won't live-blog the game - it undermines my juju - but I will check in between innings and after rallies or supreme mess-ups. I hope you join us, for better or worse. If we win, it's more fun. If we lose, we'll need each other.   

Formula For Success

Duque thinks it is the suit you wear, or the tee shirt, filled with fleas, from some basement garage-sale in upstate New York.

I think it is pure science: For the Yankees;

1.  Throw first pitch strikes.
2.  Flawless defense
3.  No free bases
4.  Basic baseball
5.  Advance runners
6.  Clutch hitting
7.  Smart baserunning
8.  Make contact with the ball
9.  Quality at-bats
10.  Make the crowd crazy with joy
11.  Have fun


For the Twins:

1.  Panic
2.  Sloppy defense
3.  Always hit from a pitcher's count
4.  Think about after the game
5.  Think about vacation
6.  Participating is good enough
7.  Run into one another
8.  Eat Twinkies on the bench
9.  Look at the NY girls in the stands
10. Break in a new glove
11.  Go home

Tonight, tonight, I'll see my love tonight. And for us, stars will stop where they are. Today the minutes seem like hours. The hours go so slowly, And still the skiy is light. Oh moon, grow bright, And make this endless day endless night... Tonight!

This is it, the night of nights. This is it, we'll hit the hits. And oh what heights we'll hit... ON WITH THE SHOW THIS IS IT!

They say that our infinite universe was once compacted into a sphere roughly the size of a dust mite's dandruff flake, and that everything burst apart with such force that we can still hear the bleat, and that objects are still hurtling off in every direction, and that someday, the flow of time will reverse itself, and everything will start returning to that eternal coffee crumb. Thus, whatever happens tonight, we shall someday relive it, moving backwards. 

It is to you readers, swimming in reverse, who started at the bottom of this page, and who are smirking now, because they know the outcome... it is you that I wish to address.

Damn. We shot a whole year on this team. We watched the Yanks dominate in spring training - best record in the league - and then we watched the rise of Aaron Judge, that potential statue in Monument Park, if not Cooperstown. We saw a kid, Dustin Fowler, rise from the minors, wreck his knee, never come to bat and then vanish, never perhaps to play for us - and we still don't know the implications... but you do.

We watched the Yankees rise, then fall, then come together at the end of the regular season. We argued about Trump, as did everybody in the country, and now and then, what united us were the tears from bad things happening - either from nature or from ourselves. And you already know if everything was just an illusion of hope, a waste of our precious time, whether we'd have been better off doing what we constantly threatened to do - devote this blog to the I.B.S. lady. 

When the whole year is one frickin' night, where should we have started? What should we have said that wouldn't look stupid, in retrospect? The last time we went through a Wild Card - you'll be reliving it in four years - we produced zero runs on three hits, and everything ended with Gardy trying to outrun the boos on a weak grounder to the second. Was that our fate again tonight? Yeesh, this time and space thing is confusing. From now on, let me address all of those moving in our current continuum.

Tonight, IT IS HIGH will host another in-game chat, as we did a few weeks ago. I won't live-blog the game - it undermines my juju - but I will check in between innings and after rallies or supreme mess-ups. I hope you join us, for better or worse. If we win, it's more fun. If we lose, we'll need each other.   

I hereby urge everyone to "dress" for the game. Wear your best juju shirt. In the past, I have bad-mouthed "lucky shirts." The truth is, if there is such a thing as "a lucky shirt," it would be owned by billionaires, not dorks like us. But lately, I'm thinking some billionaires may possess garments alter their position in life. What else explains Jared Kushner? If "lucky shirts" exist, maybe a few have fallen through the cracks - like nude paintings of Ben Affleck - sold at garage sales into our grubby hands. Today, I'll go through my wardrobe. This is one-game juju, folks. Dress for success.

Keys to the game? 

Aaron Judge needs to accept the walks that Minnesota will give him. 

Sevy must avoid the early home run.

We must not fall down by one or two in the second inning. 

Betances needs to sit this one out.  

We should worry about Miguel Sano.

The Girardi Sequence is working in our favor. (We lost Sunday, which means a two or three game winning streak.)

If we lose tonight, I shall hate the Wild Card until my dying day. 

R.I.P. Tom Petty. Too young. 

A jog down memory lane in Seattle

Let's hope the smiles last a lifetime. Because the Mariners have him for a lifetime.

Thanks, Buhner's Ghost.

Ahem... about those predictions we made... JOHN M, TAKE YOUR PRIZE

You can't predict baseball, Suzyn. Nevertheless, last March, that's exactly what we did. We threw down and asked IIHIIFIIc thug readers to clutch their hoary balls - the crystal ones, of course - and predict the number of Yankee wins in the 2017 regular season.

By the way, the Yankees this year won 91 games, baby, 91.

Here's what I said: "The Yankees will win in the neighborhood of 90-91 games, behind the slugging of Aaron Judge, who will become the premier power hitter in baseball..."

Actually, no, that's not what I said. It's what I wish I said, because then, man, I could really be smart-mouthing everybody this morning. I would be the coolest guy on the Internet. In fact, I was mistaken, misinformed, misdirected, misflubbed... I predicted 83 wins, third place, no wild card and Yankee turmoil.
Some of my exact projections:
"October will end with Brian Cashman booted upstairs to become a full-time Steinbrenner family cabana boy, and his hand-picked successor - I'm thinking Gary Denbo - will take the reigns of Official IT IS HIGH Whipping Mule.. Gary Sanchez will hit 29 home runs and bat .250. He will be hailed as one of the elite catchers in baseball, but his currently planned John Sterling homer holler - "The San-bino" - will not stick... Masahiro Tanaka will win 18 games and finish third in the Cy Young balloting. He will opt-out of his contract and sign a ten-year, gazillion dollar deal with the Yankees, which guarantees that, no matter how great he'll be this year, we will eventually cringe at hearing his name.  6. Jacoby Ellsbury will have a great season, winning Comeback Player of the Year, Yankee team MVP and a Grammy for Best Spoken Word Autobiography. Then, on October 6, he will be traded for a ham hock."  

By the way, I'm still sticking with the "traded for a ham hock" prediction. Just wait. Now... as for Alphonso? As usual, he cheated. In the beginning of his lengthy, meandering, self-righteous tome - regally titled, "Here are my thoughts," he predicted 70 to 88 wins. At the end, he selected 86 wins. So, I guess he beats me in the bean-counting contest. Some of his highlights. 

" Pineda is just not credible to me.  I still believe we lost out in the Jesus trade.  He will be 6-10, at best, before September. 5.  CC will be durable and get us in the neighborhood of 12 wins...  Severino will be a surprise on the up-side.  If he gets run support, his record will be highly positive.  I do sense an injury, however, that will not be in his arm.  So, after a run of 4- 5 great outings, and some okay ones, he'll have given us an 8-3 record before he sits... 9.  Bird will remain a revelation at first base...  Ellsbury will be an effective singles hitter and a weak-armed centerfielder for most of the season.  Not enough production for that position. 13.  I think Judge will deliver, big time, and I think Holliday has a good year remaining in his body.  Until, he tweaks a pectoral muscle, that is. We are going to the one-game play-in, for which Hal has committed millions of a fortune he did not make, and does not deserve."

Now, from the rest of you. Here's where things stand - and JOHN M, take a bow. You win the door prize - closest at 92 - one game off.

John M: 92 wins... "surprise of MLB. Pineda will falter, Severino will progress but falter, CC will be CC, Montgomery will be pretty good, Adam Warren will return to the starting rotation, if temporarily... Sanchez hit's .280 and the 29 HRs sounds good to me. Bird will be in the same ballpark (nyuk nyuk). But Judge... Judge will go over .300, confound everyone by striking out half as much or less as a percentage of ABs, and has a good shot at over 30... We'll get stuffed in the playoffs due to lack of pitching. So it goes... Ellsbury will start great, and then go down to injury. Gardner moves to center. Hicks might get his best shot for playing time in left, if he can handle it defensively."

Tom: 93 wins - 2 games off. "Greg Bird is awesome, Gary Sanchez is very good
Aaron Judge alternates between extremes, Tanaka is tough as nails until his elbow ligament finally gives up the ghost in early September...  Pineda gets hot for eight starts and is consistently inconsistent after that... One of these three will have a good perhaps even strong year: Gardner, Headley and Ellsbury. (My money is not on Headley)

Friend of Local Bargain Jerk: 89 wins, 2 games off.  "We win the one-game Selig derby but make a first-round exit in a distasteful loss to the Blow Socks."

KD: 87 wins - 4 games off. "Second in division, wild card!"

Local Bargain Jerk: 87 wins - 4 off. "Jordan Montgomery will be in the rotation and will do well. 6) Cashman WILL, after all, trade for another starter, someone capable of giving us 15 good wins Also: We miss the one-game playoff because there are simply other, better teams.
Mike: 97 wins - 6 off. "And a world championship. "Greg Bird shall lead the way." 

CAPS ANONYMOUS: 84 WINS, 7 OFF - "WISH WE HAD JUST ONE MORE GOOD ESTABLISHED STARTER. IT COULD MEAN PLAYOFFS OR NOT. NICE WORK CASH." 

JJ in MA: 82-83 wins - 8 off.  "Bird, Sanchez and Judge are the team to watch, plus whoever else comes up this year. For every time Chris Carter supplies two of three outs in a nine-run first inning, the opportunity to see Bird and Sanchez hit back to back is legitimately fun and a sign of what the Yankees as a whole can and apparently refuse to be. I hope they bring up Gleyber before the season's out. I'm still not convinced Judge can handle major league pitching, but I hope he comes through and I'm glad he's getting a legitimate chance, because he earned it.... 82-83 wins. 84 at the outside."

Joe De Pastry: 79 wins - 12 off "Tanaka will be the only starter with a winning record. Gregorious and Castro will not be as good as last year. Betances gets overworked and is ineffective in August and September."

Shows what we know, right? On that note, tomorrow, I plan to put forth my IRON CLAD projection of tomorrow night's game. And I hope you all will, too. You can predict baseball, Suzyn. You just might not get it right.

The first last day of the season, and already thinking of 2018

It's hard not to sit, drink and ponder next year. I mean, by now, it's a mental tick. Since June of 2016 - when A-Rod and Tex simultaneously went knock-kneed, rousing calls for a top-down Yankee rebuilding plan - we've been awaiting the summer of 2018 like a doomsday cult. That's when our Yankee spaceship will arrive, piloted by Admiral Brian Cashman, ushering in the 1,000-year dynasty of peace, prosperity and starting pitching. Sure, this year brought some pearls - Gary and the Aarons - but we still can't swim with the Indians or Astros, right? Next year brings the mother ship, right? 

Next year will be our third straight spring awaiting Greg Bird. Nothing wrong with that. It's just true, that's all. We awaited him in 2016, after he dominated in late 2015. Then Bird missed the year with surgery. This April, we awaited him after he dominated in spring training. Then he missed five months with a bad paw. Next spring, we'll be awaiting him again, and there's nothing wrong with that, right? Next year, Bird arrives. Right?

Next year will bring the true explosion of Red Thunder, aka Clint Frazier, whose brutal gymnasium workout videos we have watched like lechers since August 1, 2015, when we received him for Andrew Miller. He's already grown larger than life - he's Red Thunder, goddammot! - and he looks like a guy who demands greatness of himself. This was his awkward opening, the kind Aaron Judge suffered through a year ago. Next year! 

Next year will bring Glyber Torres, who should be here now but for a bum elbow. Torres was recently ranked the top prospect in baseball by some bullshit service, which is crazy, because nobody should rise in rankings while missing time from injury. It just shows how stupid these services are, and how at least some of them cater to hyping large markets, just so they can push crazy fans' buttons - like mine - and get us thinking of next year. Knowing this, I still say...  next year!

Next year, we could see Miguel Andujar at 3B, possibly the first home grown Yankee star to play third base in our lifetimes. Think about it. We've had nothing but nobodies. The one great 3B raised by the Yankees was Mike Lowell, who we traded for four bars of soap. Before that, it was Mike Pagliarulo, a prototype of the modern player, in that all he did was hit homeruns and strikeout. We have never grown a star from our our dirt. Andujar could be it. As a result, expect him to be traded, while we re-sign Todd Frazier. Still... next year!

Next year, we would see Chance Adams, and a renewed, less intimidated Tyler Wade, and maybe Justus Sheffield and/or Dillon Tate, and maybe Billy McKinney (who will learn first base, just in case - awww, what could possibly happen to Greg Bird?) Next year, next year, NEXT YEAR... that's what we've waited for. Next. Fucking. Year.

In the meantime, there is Tuesday. What's to say. It's one game. We will win or lose. Anything can happen. Today, we will find out definitively whether the Indians (101 wins) or Astros (100 wins) will be rewarded by facing the wild card winner. Whomever it is, if we beat the Twins, we will be facing a vastly superior team in a five-game set. Well, anything can happen. You can't predict baseball, Suzyn. Ahh, but there's always next year... NEXT YEAR!

LET STERLING MANAGE!!

SHOUT IT FROM THE ROOFTOPS! 

BANG THE POTS AND PANS!  

CALL YOUR LOCAL CONGRESSMAN!

ONE GAME LEFT! 

LET THE MASTER MANAGE!

Suzyn as bench coach! A-B-C ball! We'll work for each run! The talented Yankee kids will play!

HIT THE MESSAGE BOARDS! 

RENT A SOUND TRUCK! 

TELL THE WORLD!

Mrs. Peel, we're needed!

Big win today

Real big.

Tomorrow, we glimpse the future.

Entering the playoff, Dellin Betances looks like a wipe-out

Yesterday's line score says Dellin Betances gave up a single and a walk, and then was rudely pulled by an impatient Joe Girardi, who has no respect for the artistic process. That's not what happened, though.

Betances' second pitch to slugger Richard Urena - the Toronto SS, bating ninth and hitting .215 - was so juicy that, if it sat on your couch it would have left a stain. Urena slammed a line drive over Aaron Judge's head that hit the right field wall and bounced back to Judge, who held the speedy infielder to a single. If Urena had lifted the ball slightly, for his 2nd home run of the year, it would now be somewhere over the Atlantic, drifting with Puerto Rican pelicans in the remnant winds of Hurricane Maria.

To the next batter - the immortal Teoscar Hernandez! - Betances threw a ball in the dirt that was charitably ruled a passed ball by Austin Romine. Then he walked Hernandez on a three-two count, throwing a knuckle curve that wasn't close. This roused Joe, like the groundhog in February, to skip from his bunker, hand in the air. There was no conversation.  

A four-run lead in a meaningless game, and your All-Star reliever can't last three batters. Wow.

I suppose Betances might "find himself" today and tomorrow, giving Joe a glimpse of the dominating pitcher that occasionally shows up. That would give Joe reason to pitch him in, say, the ninth inning of a Wild Card blowout. But really, folks, in the one-game season, a guy this wild, this erratic - an outing can take a hairpin turn on every pitch - is not an option. And I wonder what to do about Betances, period. 

For the season, his ERA remains an all-star stat - 2.87. Numbers-wise, he's a valid, veteran closer candidate. And before yesterday, his previous three outings went relatively fine - no runs, but he beaned a batter. The one before those three, though, was a near disaster: two walks and a hit batsman, to be saved only by Chapman, who occupies his own personal Robert Louis Stevenson- themed universe. Good grief, will we ever again this year feel confident about a lead?

This winter, Betances turns 30 and is eligible for arbitration. Frankly, I don't care how much a player makes. There's nothing less appealing to the human condition than hearing the New York Yankees' owner poor-mouth about salaries. Boo-fucking-hoo. But Betances was a cost-effective $3 million per year. That's going to explode - like that ball off Urena's bat.

Maybe Betances needs a change of cities. Or could he be converted back to the starter he once was? I dunno. I hope he stays. I prefer homegrown Yankees to the mercenaries that never quite meet expectations. I believe homegrown Yankees are forged in a fire not found in smaller markets. But right now, Betances is being consumed in that fire. If we see him in the Wild Card, it probably means the game is over. 

Big win this afternoon.

Big.

But Dellin Betances is scaring me. 

As games become blowouts, the Girardi Sequence looms

Around here, we like to compare a brutal Yankee loss to a fully awake colonoscopy performed with a pineapple by an angry god on bath salts. With that in mind, the vaunted 2017 Wild Card Yankees - in handing the AL East to Boston - proved to be mad geniuses in the art of torture porn. The great Marquis de Sade himself could learn a few pointers from our late-inning Tower of Torment, Aroldis de Chapman.

Some of the most painful Yankee defeats in memory came this summer. We watched our Olympian bullpen implode. We watched scores of runners stranded on base. We suffered walk-off defeats that were choked down like plates of bad clams.

But not lately. Over the last two weeks, as the regular season has given way to  the reality of a one-game Wild Card, Yankee games have turned into easily forgotten, half-hearted blowouts and/or clunkers. We either climb atop our opponent, MMA-style, and beat his skull for nine innings, or they get us in an elbow lock, and we yell "Uncle." Nothing goes to the wire because - seriously - nobody really cares. Sure, both teams want to win, but nobody needs a broken collarbone from going Adrian Peterson into a wall. Then there are the September pitching call-ups. Kids get their first tastes of MLB bats, and hilarity ensues. Or - like Jonathan Holder last night and Chasen Shreve in every September we've seen - a guy simply runs out of diesel. Holder pitched well back in April - a million years ago - but this is the longest season in his brief life, and he looks like one of those fried Hostess Twinkies they sell at the State Fair to drunk high school football players, who are trying to impress girls.

We haven't lost a heart-breaker in weeks, and everything now simply depends on one game. Which Yankee team will show up against Minnesota Tuesday? The blowout or the clunker. 

If you believe in biorhythms, or phases of the moon, or times of the month, or simple random numbers, consider  the Girardi Sequence - the skein of Yankee outcomes in the last 30 days. Frankly, I'm not sure what it shows. The Wild Card shall be a game unlike any other - a season in a game, a play within a play, "eternity in an hour," William Blake would say. But every Yankee and Twin will be on his own male menstrual calendar, and we've all seen the Yankee team that can do nothing right: the Judge who lunges at ball four, the Betances who hits the lead-off batter on an 0-2 count. If either shows up Tuesday, we're that plate of bad clams, topped off with the Twinkie.

Since September 1, here is the Girardi Sequence, current games in red/blue - and the next three extrapolated in gray:

Loss. Win. Blowout.  Blowout. Loss. Win. CLUNKER. Win. Blowout. Blowout.  Loss. Win. Blowout. Blowout. Blowout. Blowout. Loss. Win. Win. Blowout. CLUNKER. Blowout. Blowout. Blowout. CLUNKER. Blowout? Blowout? Blowout? WILD CARD CLUNKER? 

As you can see, the Yankees have a recurring tendency to win two or three games, and then suffer a loss. It's as if they know they're not the Cleveland Indians, who can rattle off 20 in a row - as if they realize in private moments that for every two - or maybe three - wins, a clunker is coming. 

I certainly don't profess to know what will happen Tuesday. But the Yankees ought to lose one of the three final games this weekend - preferably Saturday or Sunday. We love to watch them sweep teams, especially at home, especially teams as vile as Toronto. But we need to lose one and be fresh from a bad outing. Otherwise, we will be ripe for a clunker - the last and most gruesome pineapple of 2017.

Does anybody really want an AL East playoff game?

To me, Bud Selig's rejiggered post-season format always resembled a bad hairpiece. After the one-game, nine-inning-season Wild Card, the craziest parts were the tie-breakers. It's bad enough to send a 162-game season into a nine-inning crap shoot, but let's remember that the Wild Card was supposed to hurt the chances of also-rans and boost divisional races. Yet if two teams end up tied for the AL East, they must then play a one-game divisional title playoff, with the loser heading to the Wild Card. And if two teams are tied for that last Wild Card slot, they must play a one-game pre-wild card Wild Card. If three or four-teams are tied for that last spot - (mark my words: live long enough, and we will see it) - baseball could end up with a ridiculous round-robin of one-game playoffs just to see who gets into the one-game playoff. And what if the winner is also tied for the division? Does anybody have a chalkboard? 

Today, we sit three back of the Fenway Fratboys with four games to play. Clearly, we're headed to the Wild Card. But in a strange way, the worst thing that could happen would be if Boston messes up, forcing us to play them in a one-game AL East pre-Wild Card Playoff... to then decide who must play in the one-game AL Wild Card. Even Joe Girardi's binders don't like the idea. Last night, he told the Gray Lady:

“If you do play in that game, you’re somewhat at a disadvantage in the wild-card game if you lose that game, because you might have to use your relievers and have to rely on them heavily and they may not be as effective the next day.”

Good thinking, Joe. The fact is, the Yankees beat Boston during the regular season. If the two teams were to end up tied, New York should have the advantage. (If Boston won the season, it would be theirs.) This is fair. Everyone would know this, and when we played Boston several weeks ago, the seasonal rivalry would have been another thing on the line. To hold yet another round of one-game playoffs - especially those that effectively punish both teams - only appeals to one group: The owners who sell TV rights.

Listen: We've entered the Twilight Zone. Hugh Hefner is dead, Anthony Weiner is going to jail, Bob Dylan is the reigning Nobel Laureate in literature, Kim Kardashian is the new face of motherhood, the world's newest Bond villain is known as "Little Rocket Man," and suddenly Puerto Rico is in the middle of a vast ocean. And we're supposed to care about chasing down Boston for a one-game divisional playoff... to then see who must play in the one-game wild card? Sorry, Charlie, Starkist only takes the best tuna.  

Yeah, it's fun to imagine Boston collapsing into the sea, but let's not waste our juju ejaculations. We are about to hit the one-game year with only two regulars - Jacoby Ellsbury and Matt Holliday - battle-tested from past post-seasons. (Okay, CC and El Chapo maybe, but if CC pitches, we're in big trouble, and all bets are off on Chapman.) Our "grizzled vets" - Chase Headley, Starlin Castro, Brett Gardner - have for the most part played entire careers on shit teams. You can argue that Minnesota is a cast of newborn babes, but here's where everything gets scary: Their one playoff-tested mercenary is named Ervin Santana. The more I look at Tuesday, the more I shudder to think of the catcalls we could be hearing Wednesday morning from Redsock fans. And we won't even have Hef to commiserate with.

In a nine-inning season, Yankee depth does no good

The good news last night was that Aaron Hicks is back, and even if he didn't get any hits, the guy still can draw walks - and he can leap like Lebron. The bad news? Well, Hicks is back, which leaves Jacoby Ellsbury - our autumn child - in a semi-limbo of the lost. In the nine-inning season, somebody must sit...

The good news last night was that Ronald Torreyes still does everything the Yankees ask. He's been a godsend, best Gotham utility lug nut since Cody Bellinger's old man. Bad news? Well, in the nine-inning season... insert sigh here... he's not a factor unless somebody goes down. 

The good news last night was that Joe has jimmied the rotation so our ace, Luis Severino, will pitch Tuesday. (Seriously, it must be Sevy.) Bad news? Well, the Twins - who last night did something we couldn't; they beat Cleveland - have tweaked their bowel movements so career-Yankee killer Ervin Santana will start the Wild Card. If we had one huge advantage over Minnesota, it was our rotation depth. The Twins have no one like Sonny Gray, Masahiro Tanaka and CC Sabathia. Trouble is, in the nine-inning season, they don't need them...

Yeah, one game. Santana is a righty, which means Joe could use Hicks or the Chief in center - the other as DH. He could play Chase Headley at third and use Greg Bird at first. He can use the hefty lefty lineup - Judge, Sanchez and Castro being exceptions - with Matt Holliday waiting if the Twins bring a southpaw. Why speculate? Joe's binders will decide. It's the nine-inning season...

In a perfect Yankiverse, we'd be pondering the six-inning affair - the fantasy world where we take the lead and shut the door with three continuous, all-star closers. That idea drifted out into the Atlantic two months ago. Dellin "Bean'em" Betances and Aroldis Chapman have become terrifying roller coaster rides - especially Dellin - and lately, David Robertson looks tired. Nobody inspires us like Chad Green, who simply isn't paid enough to close the nine-inning season. So he won't. 

Nine innings. Can Sanchez block bouncers in the dirt? Can anybody bunt? Can we manufacture a run, rather than wait for homers? Can the right Judge show up? Can we get to their bullpen? Nine innings. It will start around 8:17 p.m. and be over by midnight. And all that's come thus far - none of it will matter. It's the nine-inning season, folks. Ugh.

Next year, and then the year after... watch out

Friends, Romans, Yankeefans, lend me your ears;
I come to praise Cashman, not to bury him;
The trades that men make live after them,
The wild card is oft interred with their bones,
So let it be with Cashman… 

Okay, big announcement here: I, el Duque, solemnly swear that - regardless of what happens next Tuesday - there shall be no further complaints whatsoever about Cashman's deadline deals - not a whimper, not a whisper, not a whelp, not a whinny! Radio silence. I shan't lash out or belch bile. I'll be proper and respectful. I'll kneel and pledge fealty. 

Oh... okay, if we lose, perhaps I'll mention the trades now and then, in passing. Casual references. And if Blake Rutherford wins the MVP someday, maybe I'll feel compelled to note that he brought us a .205 hitter who peaked in the Toms River Little League. Okay, if we lose Tuesday, I might say something - you know, a gentle, good-faith ribbing between us sunlit fans.  

But today, nothing. Unlike the Gotham Gammonites and paid YES cheerleaders, who seem determined to jinx this team, I'm staying hushed. Still, if I read another story about how the Yankees could "surprise" everyone in the post-season - (people, it's not a "surprise" if you're predicting it) - I'll personally pie Rupert Murdoch the next time he emerges from his underground crypt. These writers keep suggesting there is reason and justice - something beyond happenstance - in the nine-inning season that is about to take place. The truth is, we could play the Lehigh Valley IronPigs in a one game wild card and piss it away in the eighth with our two "closers" on the mound. But no matter what happens, we must remember this: A kiss is just a kiss, a sigh is still a sigh, the fundamental things apply, as time goes by.

And here is a fundamental thing: It's been a good year. If any of us were offered a home field wild card and potential rookie-MVP, we'd have signed up without a hitch. And regardless of what happens next Tuesday, we are looking at a young team that is capable of winning multiple pennants, if not a handful of rings. 

We saw it yesterday in HRs by Aaron Judge, Gary Sanchez and Greg Bird, the threesome whose arrival this year was dented by injuries (Sanchez), nagging malignancies (Bird) and a tropical depression (Judge.) The Yankees possess three of the game's most promising sluggers - three, four and five in our batting order - through the next decade. (Note: If Bird's numbers over the last 30 days were projected over a season, he'd have 35 HRs and 105 RBIs.) Up the middle, we have Didi Gregorius and Starlin Castro (who could even be traded) - and Aaron Hicks. Then come the intangibles: Clint Frazier, Glyber Torres (top prospect in baseball, according to one ranking), Miguel Andujar, Billy McKinney, and the Tylers - Austin and Wade - a group from which at least one solid regular should ascend. Two years from now... Hicks, Didi and Castro are 29; Judge is 27, Sanchez and Bird are 26, and Luis Severino? well, he's turning 25. Tell me this team doesn't win something. (And in case you were wondering: Two years from now, Manny Machado, is 27, and Bryce Harper, 26.)

I don't know WTF will happen Tuesday. But 2017 was a good year. We were never supposed to get this far. We are playing with house money, and the only "surprise" is that 2018 arrived early. Don't let the homer courtiers convince you that the Yankees are some secret team, a "wild card," so to speak. Let's enjoy this ride, even if it only lasts nine-innings. But next year, and the year after that, we should not have to play a one-game season. This is our last wild card, dammit, for a long, long time.

Poetry Fever: The Limerick edition

From Doug K.

There once was a man named Girardi
Whose binders decide who will starty.
Doesn’t matter who’s hot
Or what number’s their spot
If in Vaudeville, “Start Laurel. Sit Hardy.”

John Sterling has signature calls
When someone goes over the wall
They’re clever and fun
But I’m waiting for one
That’s sponsored by a local mall.

A. Judge and Sanchez and Bird
Hit HRs at a pace that’s absurd
They reach the top deck
Till the balls just a speck
And the carom can scarcely be heard.

El Chapo can hit one-oh-two
And there’s not much a batter can do
Still it’s over the plate
And the ball comes in straight
So, it goes out at 122.

So the Bombers can print playoff tix.
Cause we’re well on the way to be fixed.
Yet it’s Cashman we’ll blame
If we lose the one game.
I’m not ready to root for the Knicks.

When Aaron Judge gets hot

Thar's many a way to judge the Yanks
To love them or to not,
But trust me, boy, thar's hell to pay
When Aaron Judge gets hot.

It might not happen in July,
And August oft brings rot,
But son, you'll kiss ten balls goodbye
When Aaron Judge gets hot.

We cannot know the final frame,
Uncertainty? A lot!
But bet the Yankees in the game
When Aaron Judge gets hot.