Tonight, the Yankees face Dallas Keuchel - their official Babadook - and a new media narrative

You must remember this: A kiss is still a kiss, a sigh is still a - o, fukkit - a sigh is the sound of the world always hating the Yankees, as time goes by. And soon - like, tonight - our brief tryst with popularity will splatter against the media windshield.

It will end against a vastly superior Houston lineup, created the old-fashioned way: A decade of finishing last, drafting first and shedding veterans at the trade deadline. It's the tried and true recipe for success among cynical owners, who are happy to wait their turn. Our touchy-feely Yankee "Cinderella" moments will end as the TV meat puppets start selling the Astros as God's healing tonic for a city having been built on a flood-plain. Beginning tonight, the Astros will be providing spiritual aid to all those who suffered from Hurricane Harvey, thus allowing America to move on from the catastrophe.

Listen: I don't mean to make fun of people losing homes in floods. It's just the notion that a sports team will make everything right - dispelled by the 2010 New Orleans Saints, the 2013 Boston Redsocks and - yes - the Yankees of 2001 - is nothing more than a marketing scheme wrapped in human suffering. This is baseball, Suzyn, a game played by overgrown boys and sold by the most ice-hearted lizards ever evolved. 

Tonight, our Cinderella run hits Dallas Keuchel, and it might be the only thing that does. Last time we faced Keuchel in a "post-season," we scratched out three measly hits, a performance more denounced than Spiderman: Turn off the Dark, which ended with home fans booing Brett Gardner, as he ran out a dinky grounder. In three quick hours, including commercials, the one-game, fake post-season was over, hardening our hatred for the Wild Card and exiling us for two long years of wandering the moors of Scranton in search of Brigadoon Refsnyder.

Yesterday, the media put on its loving face toward the Yankees, branding us as the team nobody expected to be here. What bullshit. I'm not saying we shouldn't be happy, but when Brian Cashman made all those deadline deals - trading four of our top 10 prospects - the front office was throwing down a gauntlet that said, reach the post-season or die. We made it. And yes, anything can happen.  

Of course, the beauty with media narratives is they don't mean squat. Wednesday night, the barking minions of the Yankiverse understood this, while the Fox 1 announcers talked up CC Sabathia's return to Cleveland as if it were Odysseus swimming home from Troy. While the comedy team of Vasgersian and Smoltz breathlessly noted CC being perfect through three, the fan base simply begged the juju gods for five solid innings. And it worked.

Listen: Dallas Keuchel kills us. Look at the chart. He always has. But so did Corey Kluber-Feldman. And this time, there is one big difference. It's a seven-game affair. Whatever lines the media puts forth, they won't last long. Hold on. Last time I looked, a kiss is still a kiss...

Big Papi performs The Master

Being mooned must have done something to him.

Haptit to Mustang.

More Yankee verse

To the tune of "Captain Fantastic and the Brown-Dirt Cowboy," sung by Elton John...


Courtesy of the Urban Farmer (Formerly Known as Dutch Fan.)

If you don't know the lyrics, just read it aloud and yell to the gathering clouds...

Master Fantastic and the Helmet Coiffed Suzyn
Master Fantastic, smooth and captivating
My night-time hero
The voice with its timbre so low
Very clearly a case for H, O and F fame
Maybe a grandstand in his name
At the home of the Yankees

And sleepless Dutch people
Lay drowsy on their pillows
No Morpheus rescue
Or bleeding Socks nightmares to fear for
For it's “hey Suzyn” “hey Sweeney”
Come with me to the Hebrew home
Buy some more Admiration
Go to Geico,
It is high, far and then as always
It is caught

Master Fantastic
Still keen and growing
Take me to Cleveland
I need you to guide me
To sooth and delight me, through the play offs
For with all of the game changers,
Foul balls and strike outs
I know you get me closer to
Playing in Houston
And the ‘17 upstart Bronx baby bombers
Are winning

For you make me feel I'm part of the deal
In my bed
Believe me or not, I don't really care if it's true what you said
We won't throw the towel in any game
I hear the Master and chant his name
Master Fantastic and the helmet coiffed Suzyn
Let us go all the way into LA

And all this talk of redsocks
Coming back to haunt us
Oh, couldn't fool you
You kept on spinning out them lines
Making up your rhymes
We are all so glorious at times
Euphorious, sublime
A hot shot down the line
From here on everything to gain
‘fore the cold November rain

For you make me feel I'm part of the deal
In my bed
Believe me or not, I don't really care if it's true what you said
We won't throw the towel in any game
I hear the Master and chant his name
Master Fantastic and the helmet coiffed Suzyn
Let us go all the way into LA

"Didi Gregorius was de grote man in Cleveland. De 27-jarige Oranje-international was zowel in de eerste als in de derde inning goed voor een homerun en die leverden de Yankees een 3-0 voorsprong op."

Didi coverage in his homeland. 

Haptit to Urban Farmer Formerly Known as Dutchfan.

Yankee baseball in mid-October! Who figured? Well... certainly not me.

At some point, after the dust settles, I will dig out the most wrongful, ignorant, blasphemous and puke-worthy things I said about the 2017 Yankees, (and believe me, there are some doozies.) Then I shall begin my Walk of Atonement, mandated by the High Sparrow. I shall march naked down the Canyon of Heroes, while citizens of the Yankiverse hurl feces and shout, "Shame, shame, shame!" Children will run up and tweak my gonads. I will probably crawl the last half-mile, bleeding openly, leaving a trail of tears and shmegma along the glass-strewn gutters. At some point, I will be beaten senseless by the mob and flung into a dumpster. And, all the while, nobody will be happier! 

Listen: Regardless of what transpires on the Texas flood plain, the 2017 Yankees are now an officially certified IT IS HIGH TEAM OF TRIUMPH (TM), which means the owner is entitled to lucrative tax breaks and the benefit of the doubt in future trades. The Yankees are a source of pride. Let me say it aloud: I was wrong about Castro, wrong about El Chapo, wrong about Joe and wrong about - gulp, excuse my retching - w-wr-wrong about Mr. B-B-Brian Cashman and - deep breaths now - wrong about the Wise Supreme Prince Hal Steinbrenner, son of George, breaker of chains, defender of the realm, bastion of the blood line, the rightful and true king of kings! I kneel before thee and beg forgiveness, bahhh, bahhh, bahhhh...

But but but, wait a minute, but but... I'm not yet ready to throw myself into New York harbor over the Toddfather and/or Sonny Gray deals until the last precincts have voted. That means waiting a few years to learn what we surrendered, and my guess remains that a couple emerging players will make those deals hard to stomach, long after Todd's Toms River Little League jersey is retired. (Remember: When he homered in the 2010 ACLS, we thought Lance Berkman was worth it, and then, we slowly watched the rise of Mark Melancon and Jimmy Paredes.) But today, playing ball in mid-October, everything has worked according to plan. And if we get past Houston, it will be hard to argue against any of Cashman's deadline deals without sounding like an insult clown perched on a midway dunking booth.  

Today, New York revolves around the Yankees - though, sadly, this doesn't take much to do. The other main components of NYC sports long ago punted - in the case of the Jets and Giants, literally - leaving only the Yankees as a source of civic pride. It's amazing how bad the Knicks can be; at some point, the law of random sequences should bring about a decent team. The Mets and Jets defy history with their perfect mediocrity. I blame the old money owners - the Dolans, Maras, Wilpons, good god, the Trumps, the Pruits of Southhampton, etc. - whose mediocrity of the soul infects the entire organization. Again and again, we see front offices full of hubris, instead of hunger. But the Yankees are different. Sort of, anyway.

Let's not forget, it took the Yankees a three-year colonoscopy to abandon their moronic policy of perpetually trying to win with over-the-hill stooges - and finally to rebuild with youth. Hal famously said the Yankees will rebuild and contend - far tougher than it sounds. I hope that stays committed to that plan - by continuing to rebuild, and not returning to the Pronks and Vernon Wellses. (A quick sign of this will be whether we re-sign Todd Frazier.) The Yankees have several veterans in need of a new franchise, and their solid autumns should increase their market value. We must always seek to get younger. 

But hell, what do I know? I picked this team for third. I had Tyler Austin pegged for stardom. I'd write more, but I gotta go work out, lose a few pounds. You know how it is: You want to look good for your Walk of Atonement.

Sing along, everybody, 'cause we were born to runnnnnn

ALDS Game Five: All we want is life beyond the Thunderdome

"When the winds of November come early..."

From IIH commenter, HoraceClarke66

(With apologies to Gordon Lightfoot, and "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald")

“The Wreck of the Boston Red Sox”

The legend lives on
From the Bambino on down
Of the team that folds like a patsy
The Fens it said
Always throws up its dead
When the winds of November come early

The Sox were the pride
Of the MLB side
With a team that was certain to win it
A roster so sweet
That they let the boys cheat
And said scarcely a word ag’in it

They had Sale on the mound
And Price who would pound
Any old man who dared to offend him
And Porcello who
You knew would come through
And too many others to mention

The outfield was young
Their praises were sung
Above all the Babe Benintendi
They did a cute dance
And around they would prance
When the team it won so bigly

They were handed the East
Which was the least
MLB could do for their story
Then they’d run through the Stros
And the bows and arrows
And go straight to the Series and glory

But Nuni’s knee gave
Then their main Sale caved
And the Olde Towne Team was hurtin’
Then Pomeranz fell
And Kimbrel went to hell
And another big choke it was lurkin’

Does any man know
Where the love of God goes
When the hits turn the innings to hours?
Altuve went yard
And Springer hit hard
And Beltran finished with power

They Sox they were smote
It was all that she wrote
And they tossed their poor skipper over
And all that remains
Are the faces and the names
Of their fans now sullen and sober

The Tribe and the Cubs
Have both have had their flubs
And even the Yankees have blown some
But nobody chokes
Like those Boston folks
The all-time major-league krum-bum

In a musty old park
In the Boston dark
They mourn their Sox as ever
The church bell chimed
And it rang twenty-five times
For each man on the greatest team ever

The legend lives on
From the Bambino on down
Of the team that folds like a patsy
The Fens it said
Always throws up its dead
When the winds of November come early

R.I.P. Hub Champs

Major Headlines of the Day

1.  Boston has fired the ferret.

 After producing another failure for the team of destiny, the Red Sox nation has sobered up enough to dismiss manager Farrell, Ferrill, Ferile or Fair-isle.

Hee, hee, hee....you shall a failure be.

Surely, another cast-off from the Boston Diocese can be found to run this team of choir boys.

2.  USMNT ( soccer ) brings an end to all interest in US men's soccer.

The worst day in the history of US soccer occurred last night in either Trinidad or Tobago.  These countries, with a combined population of 3 million, soundly defeated the US, a nation with a combined population of 300 million ( or so ).

T&T had nothing to lose.  They were already eliminated from any chance at earning a spot to the 2018 World Cup.  They were the worst team in the entire inventory of teams competing for spots in Russia.

Remember every player on this USMNT team. Put the list of names on your wall.  Throw stuff at it.  Never hire anyone whose name appears. It is like the Black Sox of baseball infamy, except only incompetence and lack of heart were involved, not game fixing, or gambling ( as far as we know).

We do have one teenager who gets an exemption.  Hi name is Pusilic or Pulisic  ( who can remember in this blur of talentless players?), and he is the one world class player the US has managed to develop in the last 20 years, despite spending billions on the program.

This USMNT proved that they are not of World Cup quality.  If 64 teams are invited, the USA is in the 70-90 range. Not worth a look.  Not worth going to a game or buying a jersey, except for those of us who value dark humor.

For those sports caster who frame this defeat as an upset;  it wasn't.  What they won't say is that the USMNT stinks.  They are not worthy of TV coverage.

Just to add to the humiliation;  if you watched the game, you noted that about 2800 people attended, and it is my guess that no one had to purchase a ticket. We used to get more people at high school football games.  This was like watching an independent league baseball game between two teams in last place, held in an old cow pasture in Rolf, Iowa.

3.  California is burning.

 Mostly up in wine country, for now.  Fire and Storms are getting worse.

4.  Jeter is dismantling Yankee organization.

 Note to file:  Derek, don't forget to bring Cashman and Girardi with you to Florida.

5.  Harvey Weinstein's wife is leaving him.

As allegations of rape abuse and other forms of sexual misconduct against him mount, his loving wife is bolting from the sewer.

Ben Affleck, whose movie career was made by Harvey and his cronies, has been accused by a prominent actress of knowing what Harvey was doing, but lying about the truth.  A cover up.  Just like he learned to do in the Boston Diocese, where he was nurtured and became a Red Sox fan.

Red sox nation.  Abuse and sexual misconduct.  Cover up.

 See a pattern here?

6.  Game 5 tonight.

The Yankee resurgence is due to Greg Bird

We've heard the media gushing over Todd Frazier's impact on the Yankees this fall. As a critic of the deal that begot him, I must admit that the Toddfather seems a positive clubhouse presence. (Then again, I would be a beloved clubhouse presence, charming teammates with my disarming grin, witty effervescence and Sorkinesque banter.) Frazier's double down the line Sunday opened the floodgates, but he's 4-18 in the post-season, with one RBI. Sorry, Toddites. He's not why we're here. One hitter transformed the Yankee lineup this fall, and the name is Greg Bird. If Brian Cashman deserves credit for anything, it is for waiting on Bird, while the toe-tappers were demanding Lucas Duda.

Who knows what Bird's long term legacy will be? Next spring, he might tweak a buttery gonad and disappear once again, leaving Cashman nervous as a nun in a penguin shoot. But as the chart shows, Bird has been our October surprise. If we win tonight, he could be Divisional Series MVP. 

(Note: The other critical Yankee, Sir Didi, has walked seven times. Is that respect, or what?)

Tonight, we face the best pitcher in the American League and a home plate ump who will draw cheers each time he thumbs out a Yankee batter. It's human nature to favor the crowd. Meanwhile, we're lugging out a beaten-up suitcase of a man - ten years from youth, eight from peak foliage, and three from the drunk tank - who can't field bunts, and who, last time out, was pulled because his manager displayed a clear lack of faith in him. Only in bad Disney movies - think Emilio Estevez and hockey - do the cosmic scriptwriters favor the Yankees. With CC Sabathia pitching, there's so much water under the bridge that it resembles a scene from Hurricane Harvey. And if Terry Francona blows another, only Harvey Weinstein will have had a worse month. Bue we are.

You can't predict baseball, Suzyn. That's China Town, Jake. The nine-inning season. Our fourth in the last week. Howl, howl, howl...

Another season boils down to the otherworldly entities that control the outcome, and - no - I am not referring to the juju gods

This we know: Nothing lasts forever, aside from the love of a moose for his flying squirrel. Everything ends somewhere, sometime, somehow - consult your local listings - and "2017," the baseball season, not the impending global catastrophe - soon will boil down to a strike zone or chalk line, some microscopic vagary that exists behind the Easter Island grins of the juju gods. This time, Cleveland will come to bat last and, more importantly, enjoy a home field umpires, whose calls over the last four games have consistently bent like windsocks to favor the louder crowds. 

I cannot recall a series where home plate umpires - and judgement calls on checked swings - have more consistently favored the host teams. In Cleveland, Trevor Bauer carved up the strike zone like Jim Bowie. In New York, the same pitches just missed. It's only human for umpires to be influenced by the wild, zealous - and, gulp, dangerous? - crowds, but MLB's instant replays - in getting base calls right - is showing the world just how poorly balls and strikes are being judged. The visiting teams consistently get squeezed. It's becoming impossible to ignore. We all hate the idea of automated strike zones, but soon, the entire 2017 season will hinge upon a curve in the dirt that gets ridiculously called a strike - blowing a hole in the pitcher's psyche - while the TV announcers grimace and equivocate. Mark my words: The home team will get the advantage, and we will play the price.

We can rage about Joe Girardi's failure to challenge that foul tip two games ago - the likely fulcrum point for this series, as history will remember it. But the umps could have simply said they weren't sure, and to get it right, the call demanded an electronic review. They didn't do this, of course, because that's not who they are. The modern game hardly resembles what Mickey Mantle once knew, yet we still rely on the 1940s model of the glowering, buzz-cut umpire - the angry, underpaid, pug who rules through intimidation and rage. Instead of bully cops wrapped in psychological riot gear, the umps should be young technicians with iPads, who instantly analyze close plays and move the game forward. There is no reason why ump crews should take 10 minutes to review plays that are instantly assessed on the Jumbotron. And yes, the automated strike zone needs to happen. If you fear the game will lose another microscopic piece of humanity, where have you been? Have you seen how Orwellian ads shift behind home plate? Look... okay, I get it, machine are evil - but an automated strike zone will not lie, and I greatly fear that, come Wednesday night, we'll be screaming at the TV - another machine - over the blatant home cooking served to Mr. Corey Kluber. 

Joe's failure to challenge that foul tip in Game Two might define how 2017 is remembered. If we lose this series, we lose because of that game, because the ump missed a call and we didn't instantly lawyer up. And if we win, we win because our team rallied behind its manager, who faced an enraged fan and media base. If we lose, Joe becomes scapegoat. If we win, his float leads the parade. 

I can understand why some fans would prefer the humanity behind such decisions, rather than the cold-blooded calculus of a Kubrickian Hal 2000. But let's see how those child-of-nature-friend-of-man, touchy-feely fans feel Thursday morning, after a night of watching the Indians feast on a strike zone the size of a postage stamp. 

I never thought I'd say this, but it's the umps - not the juju gods - that we need to work. 

VICTORY!

Chaaaat!

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!