Tuesday, March 24, 2020
Giancarlo Stanton has healed and is preparing for his next injury
REPEATING, BREATHLESSLY: If the season started this week, as was planned, Yankee superstar Giancarlo Stanton could have possibly played, assuming conditions warranted and he avoided another injury. Yankee officials tell IIHIIFIIc that not only could Stanton have possibly worked, but he could have maybe, possibly, we-got-a-great-feeling-about-this belted a home run.
IIHIIFIIc hereby is naming Stanton Comeback Player of 2020 Spring Training, for proving potential doubters possibly wrong. Stanton has recovered from a muscle strain, characterized by Boone as "the invisible scourge."
Some had suggested Stanton would miss opening day. Today, their faces are covered in yoke. They are fake news, lies told by people who seek to hurt Yankee workers.
Some of you may wonder why regular team doctors are not part of today's announcement. That's because the Yankees have upgraded their medical staff to include Dr. Judge Jeanine Pirro. Speaking of judges, stay tuned for updates on Aaron, who soon might have been able to play on May 1.
Monday, March 23, 2020
Even as we brood, The Master prepares.
Coronavirus-related calls now being considered by our hero:
"Talk about flattening the curve! He crushed it!"
"You want social distancing? That ball wasn't within six feet of the plate!"
"Back to back! Belly to belly! In theory!"
"You'd better put him in quarantine! He won't get over that home run for at least two weeks!"
"Shelter in place! He hit a bomb!"
"He ventilated that pitch!"
What, too soon?
For Your VCRs
Your YES recommendations coming up late tonight and tomorrow:
2 AM: "Farewell to the Captain." Jeter's last game. Three stars.
8:30 AM: Dave Righetti's No-Hitter. Three-and-a-half.
12 Noon: 1998 World Series, Game 1. Fun game, Tony Bennett sings the National Anthem. Four stars.
7 PM: Yanks vs. Blue Jays, 8/11/19. One star.
10 PM: Yanks vs. A's, 9/1/19. One star. We are not the Mets.
Plague Theater: Herman Munster tries out for the Dodgers
"I don't know whether to sign him for the Dodgers or send him to Vietnam."
Plague Theater: "SLIDE, ED, SLIDE! "The greatest at-bat in baseball history.
Mr. Ed takes on Sandy Koufax.
When you feel stressed out...
LeMahieu, 20 HR, .310
Judge, 40 HR, .285
Torres, 40 HR, .290
Stanton, 40 HR, .285
Andujar, 30 HR, .305
Sanchez, 40 HR, .245
Voit, 25 HR, .265
Urshela, 20 HR, .290
Gardner, 20 HR, .260
Dare to dream.
When 12 days seem like 12 months
Interesting phrase... "March Madness." Today, I believe it deserves a new entry in the dictionary:
March Mad'-nes:
Noun
1. To work out in the U.S. Senate gym while awaiting results of the coronavirus test you took this morning.
2. To cluster in public places with strangers who can never be contacted if you turn out infected.
3. To watching cable news voices that only two weeks ago were calling the pandemic a hoax.
4. To hoard toilet paper as if it is solid gold.
Insert your definitions here...
Sunday, March 22, 2020
YES. No.

It's times like these, in our assorted confinements—and with the promise of that wonderful array of radio games ahead, thank you Mustang—that we realize just how truly wretched the YES Network is at fulfilling our Yankee entertainment needs.
Tonight, for those of you willing and able to shell out the required lucre for this station, YES is running, back-to-back, three of its best Yankees Classics: The Bucky Dent Game, Game Six of the 1978 World Series (not per se a great game, but great in that it clinched the World Series for our buckos, and then Game 7 of the ALCS. Tape 'em and weep.
Today, there was a pretty good back-to-back showing of a half-hour on David Cone's perfect game, and then Cone, Wells, and Don Larsen, sitting around together, talking about what it was like to pitch a perfect game.
I doubt if that's ever happened before in the history of the sport. And I KNOW it's never happened before with a guy who pitched a perfect game in the World Series.
Much too much of YES, though, is taken up by what can politely be called "filler":
A show on running. Running.
A show on money in sports. Oh, joy.
CenterStage. "The Best of Michael Kay." Can you imagine being the poor bastard assigned to pick those out? Probably it's one of the JuJu gods, which accounts for their bad mood.
Even shows that should be good, such as the Yankee Biographies, and the history of the team, are generally poor, just badly done all around. The history of the team is so well planned out that it devotes one hour to the years, 2014-2017, and one hour to "Origins, 1903-1956."
Origins? That's like putting on a show about the history of the world that goes, "Part I: The Big Bang Through the Fall of the Soviet Union. Part II: Madonna."
Even the "Classics" are many too few and far between, and never seem to extend before 1976. I'm sure there are copyright reasons for this, but now that we're all under house arrest, especially, the Steinbrenner boys should open up the vault and spend a few ducats on spending more for the rights of other games.
Instead, our "Classics" are getting diluted with episodes like "Farewell to the Boss," the game and ceremony played to honor Mad George. Excuse me while I retch. There is only one Boss, and his last name is Springsteen.
Or: a fun game or two from last year where the team came from behind for a nice win. Terrific—and what are we, the fucking Mets? C'mon! We want the big ones! And going as far back as there is film, dammit!
Instead, YES is now running—I'm not making this up—shows such as "Nets Classics" and "NYCFC Classics."
There is no such thing as the former if it does not include Dr. J. (and hey, I wouldn't mind seeing some highlights from the old ABA with those enormous 'fros and the red-white-and-blue ball).
And the latter is an oxymoron. Selected by morons, I am sure. ("Tonight: a scoreless tie to remember!")
We need more baseball. Now. Maybe, say The Master and Suzyn presenting one of their all-time favorites!
Sign the damned emergency war bill already that will force YES to play genuine Yankees classics!
We're saved!
Smoke Camels
Baseball's One True Cathedral, circa 1925.

I find it ironic that there's a soccer field where Prince Hal would later put another one.
Stay healthy, please.
Suddenly, a beacon of hope emerges in the Yankiverse: Boston might not skate on the cheating scandal after all
The notion that the Redsocks might skate in MLB's cheating probe.
With each passing week, it seemed more likely that MLB's pooh-bahs would turn their heads and cough on punishing Boston for its duplicity in 2018, when it won the world series. I call these unseen Redsock sign-stealers "the invisible enemy," and have feared they would escape the hot, firm and righteous sword of Yankee justice.
Maybe not.
According to The Athletic - a site that is rapidly becoming the gold standard for investigative sports journalism) - lawyers from Boston and MLB squared off Friday in a judicial teleconference that the mainstream media overlooked. (Bravo, Athletic!)
When asked directly if the Redsocks broke the rules, Boston's mealymouthed, two-faced, beady-eyed. fork-tongued and maybe pajama-clad shyster-lawyer said no. But later in the proceedings, the lawyer - - I think the name is Saul Goodman - is quoted as saying:
"Your Honor, I think that there are distinctions between what the Red Sox believe occurred and what the commissioner found. And I think that certainly they're entitled to disagree that that activity happened at the club level. "
Hmm. Apparently, MLB found something, and the Redsocks are trying to wriggle off the hook. There may be hope after all. But listen: This is no time for Yankee optimism: Remember the cardinal rule of IT IS HIGH: Expect the worst, and you'll never be disappointed.
On the surface, it's been a horrible winter for Boston fans. They have lost Mookie Betts, Chris Sale and Tom Brady, arguably the Holy Trinity of their modern era. (Or add Gronk, and it's a foursome.) But now, with the virus, they might be looking at a canceled baseball season - nullifying the loss of Betts and Sale. And if the NFL does play, an aged-out Brady could fizzle in Tampa, making them feel lucky for running out on his tab. Damn. What have they got on God?
The question now is whether MLB will stand its ground against a potential Boston lawsuit, which I suspect might try to endlessly delay the matter in court, as Trump's lawyers have kept hidden his tax returns. We'll see.
Saturday, March 21, 2020
We Can Sue !!!
For Yankee fans, Chris Sale's injury just brings a hollow emptiness
The pandemic has done the impossible:
It has stripped from us the unbridled joy of a Redsock setback.
This blog should have balloons, buzzers, showgirls, champagne toasts. Boston's year just snapped like a Hershey bar. It was one thing to trade Mookie Betts; they got a young OF. But losing Sale? Good luck with that. In a shortened season, they can chase the wild card. But without a miracle emergence or two, they're done, and they know it. Sale is a $30 million millstone on their roster, and he'll weigh them down through 2025. He's 30. His Cy Young days are probably over. It's all downhill from here.
So...
Listen: I harbor nothing personal against Sale - or for that matter, most Redsock players. I used to hate Big Papi and Pedro because of the pro-wrestling-style roles they played in the rivalry. These days, they often defend the Yankees on TV, having buried their past resentments. Then there is Curt Schilling who - beyond the politics - remains a boorish, self-righteous, hateful lout. Something happened to that guy; like Trump, he's his own worst enemy. I always secretly liked Betts, and until he beats us in a world series, I'll root for him, just knowing how much it burns Redsock fans. But Sale... whenever I see him, I have the same thought:
Shoulda been a Yankee.
Of course, I blame Food Stamps Hal. In the trade that brought Sale to Boston, the Redsocks gave up - dare I say the name? - Yoan Moncada - What's that? Moncada? Moncada! MONCADA? NIIIIAAGGGRA FALLLLLLLS! SLOOOOOOOWLY, I TURNED. STEP BY STEP, I CREPT UP TO HIM... yep, they got Sale for Moncada, who shoulda been ours. All that winter, the Yankees talked about signing Moncada, a free agent from Cuba. For weeks, they winked at us and stressed how much they would be involved in the bidding war. Our future hinged on signing Moncada, and when Boston outbid us, Hal sealed his reputation as a poor-mouthing incompetent for the decade. (His other unforgivable sin was in refusing to give Russell Martin a two-year deal - two years! - even though we had no catcher. Two moments in the annals of billionaire cheapness.)
Well, Sale is done, and Moncada is an emerging White Sox star. If we had signed Moncada and traded him for Sale - in that alt-universe - we would today be tearing out our hair, having lost our ace. Then again, we'd have that ring to cherish, instead of the most fruitless decade in Yankee history... now leading into, well, what?
No parties today. Just numbness.
Friday, March 20, 2020
Flattening the curve: A Yankee fan glossary of coronavirus terms
Now, I wake up each morning and cruise the Internet for Yankee news. I might as well be searching for Bigfoot. The cupboard is bare. Of course, we lead MLB in the number of players testing positive. But both are minor leaguers, so maybe it doesn't count. Occasionally, you find an injury update. It now looks as though Giancarlo will be ready for opening day. The only question is whether opening day will happen before he hurts himself again.
Last night, it was reported that Saints football coach Sean Payton has the virus. Twitter showed photos of him at a recent public event, standing in a scrum of people. Surely, he took a selfie with everyone. It's the trappings of celebrities, be they actors or athletes. It's going to wreak havoc with sports. I don't know how the Yankees will avoid infections, unless they live and play inside a giant glass dome.
Every day - (and yeah, I really need to quit this) - I watch cable news, the Presidential buffoonery, the endless intonations to wash my hands. Fuck them. I'm stuck in my house. I'll lick my hands clean, if I want. The Yankees seem long ago and far away. I'm almost starting to forget their faces. On that note, I've compiled a glossary of coronavirus catchphrases, each with a special Yankee meaning. When you hear them, think of the Yankees and try to smile. After all, today is Day 9, and you know what that means. Roger Maris, of course.
The glossary:
Flatten the curve. For the last decade, former pitching coach Larry Rothschild's philosophy for developing young hurlers. It didn't work.
Shelter in home. Strategy for Giancarlo Stanton, hoping to stay healthy between injuries.
Social distancing. Brett Gardner's lead when looking to steal second.
Out break. Anybody to came to bat between Kendrys Morales and Kyle Higashioka, the "break" between outs.
At-risk group. Pitchers called up from Scranton on the day of a double-header.
Invisible enemy. The garbage can lid that somehow bangs on itself when a Yankee pitcher prepares to throw a curve.
Soon, day 10. And we all know who that is...
Thursday, March 19, 2020
Could 2020 - the Yankees' great hope for resurgence - be a wipe-out?
The other day, Trump predicted normal life might return by July-August. He doesn't know. If he's off, then it's September-October. Even if they've been living at camp, MLB players will need several weeks to ramp up. An August opening day might mean a 40-game season, unless they move everything to Florida and Arizona. Fifty games? Sixty? Or maybe - gulp - the owners punt, cash in their insurance claims, and jettison the season entirely.
Yes, it's time to ponder the worst case scenario, the societal nuclear bomb... no baseball season at all.
It hurts my head. My gums bleed. By September, this blog will be a cookbook. We'll have re-watched every Yankee Classic, binged every Netflix series, and I'll have re-read Gravity's Rainbow to the point of understanding 20 percent of it. And that's if I'm not hooked up to a steam calliope.
No season at all? Wouldn't that be the ultimate lawn dart in the ass? We Yankee fans go 10 diddly-shit years, while Boston grabs two rings - one in which they probably cheated - and then, when we finally have an ace to lead us, the world becomes an episode of Twilight Zone, where we sit in fortified chicken coops, like Osama waiting for Seal Team 666 to call our numbers. Well, lemme tell you something: If that turns out to be my fate, the juju gods are going to get an earful. They may think they heard foul language when Rosemary Clooney reached her final gang-tackle, but if they deny Yankee fans our rightful opportunity to march one more time down the Canyon of Heroes... we riot.
That's right. Sticks and stones. Ski masks. Whatever. This would be the worst thing foisted on us since bell-bottom jeans, and if the Universe thinks it can get away with it - well - I'm saving up my Purell hand soap for one last hearty, lathery fling. If the Fates cancel the season - I mean, scuttling an obvious Yankee world championship - ooooh, they're gonna get it!
I know what you're thinking... Duque, for God's sake, keep your big fat yap shut. You don't jabber about the jail break before the jail break. But this is supposed to be our fucking year. Sports Illustrated - what's left of it, anyway - recently picked the Yankees to win it all. And why wouldn't they? Look at that lineup: LeMahieu, Judge, Torres, Stanton, Andujar, Voit, Sanchez, Urshela, Gardner. With a little luck, it could be the best Yankee batting order in our lifetimes. I count seven guys who could hit 30 HRs. And now, we face the possibility that 2020 will be scrapped - the worst season in Yankee history - even worse than when we traded Al Leiter for Jesse Barfield, and I gotta tell you, that was pretty awful.
A complete wipe-out? What are we supposed to do, starting hyping 2021? No. I refuse. Listen-up, Fates... you pull the rug on this season, and I'm coming for you.
Wednesday, March 18, 2020
The worst part of self-quarantines: The Yankees are probably self-injuring
So... um... how do we kill the next 12 weeks? Rubik's Cube? Jigsaw puzzle? Whittling? Anything's better than cable news. Wait... I got it: How about... long, drawn-out, time-consuming Yankee essay questions!
Here's one:
During the coronavirus hiatus, rather than watching porn, which Yankees are most likely to get hurt?
I hereby nominate Clint Frazier. (Note: This is not hoping Clint gets hurt. I wish him well. This is why I BELIEVE he'll get hurt.) Why? Because he was having a great spring, of course. Yankees don't tweak gonads during slumps. Nope. They hit a three-run dinger and feel a pop rounding third. This spring, Frazier was hitting .320 - after a slow start, no less. He was 8-25 with four doubles and a homer. Through injuries to Judge and Giancarlo Stanton - big surprises there, eh? - fate had granted Frazier an opportunity to avoid returning to Scranton for his FIFTH season, and he was making the most of it. Now, THIS is when Yankees get hurt. Poor guy. He's doomed. He might as well take up alligator wrestling.
Secondly, I nominate Rosell Herrera, this year's "Gio." In case you've forgotten, Herrera is a 27-year-old, switch-hitting former top 100 prospect, who has kicked around the fringes of MLB for the last three years, never hitting a lick, and who seems to have finally figured out how to lay off the breaking ball. He plays almost everywhere, and was 10-25 this spring, a lusty .400. Manager Aaron Boone was playing him every day, to see if the mirage was fading. Now, all that hard-earned momentum is lost. Wherever he is, Herrera is likely to break a toe on a coffee table.
I nominate both players in the reverse-juju hope that - by mentioning them - it somehow protects them from actual injuries. I mean, what are the odds of my predictions coming true? (I thought Jesus Montero would someday end up in Monument Park, but not running a sweeper.) Someday, we'll look back on the first spring of 2020 - God, it seems like years ago - when Frazier and Herrera lit up our hopes? The fates were goofing on us. Did we fall for it, or what?
So... what else are we supposed to do? Sit here for the next 12 weeks, watching Rachel and Sean? God... please... I beg of you... send a distraction. A sex scandal. A juicy murder. A 16-part Netflix series that doesn't suck. Anything to kill time, until it's safe to hit the bar. Oh, and maybe keep the Yankees from hurting themselves? Thank you and amen.
Tuesday, March 17, 2020
Talk about signs of the apocalypse: Rochester might win the Golden Snowball
It's awarded annually to the upstate New York city with the most winter snowfall.
Syracuse has won it 14 out of the last 17 years.
This year, maybe no...
Insider report from Tampa: Yesterday in alt-reality
Frazier, whose past arrogance generated the nickname "Red Thunder," has impressed reporters and coaches this spring with a nonstop, humble, bow-and-scrape persona, and is now known as "the Scarlet Cabana Boy." Aside from his three home runs, Frazier made three incredible defensive plays in right field, forestalling Redsock threats. He is hitting .444 this spring and leads the team in all offensive categories.
After the game, he was out-righted to Scranton.
"He acts differently," manager Aaron Boone told reporters. "But still, when I see the guy, I still think of that time he grabbed the last Cheetos in the bowl, even though several players hadn't had any. We hope he gets the message."
In other spring news...
Getting healthy. Giancarlo Stanton occupied the team Jacuzzi for a record 132 minutes Monday, using full-blast jets and burning an estimated 240 calories. "One day at a time," Stanton told reporters, toweling off and heading for the massage. President Donald Trump told reporters he expected Stanton to return by July-August.
Won't stop believin'. Observers have noticed that Miguel "Miggy" Andujar is not giving the Sign of the Cross gesture before stepping to the plate this spring. Andujar denied rumors that he's fed up with God and the church, saying he's simply saving his blessings for games that count. "If this were the regular season, I'd be out there praying," he said.
Cold Hand Luke. Nobody has to tell earnest-but-Hulkian, human armored Humvee Luke Voit that he's having a crappy spring. It's been one setback after another for the linebackerish, Fred Flintstonian lug nut, who is wondering when it will end? Not only is Luke hitting a meager, nerdish .173, but Monday brought the news that his dog, Sadie, has ringworm. Get well, girl.
Siss-boom-bah. During Monday's brief rain delay, all-purpose bullpen pipe wrench Chad Green abruptly dazzled teammates in the clubhouse with an impromptu, semi-naked flag dance to the tune of Starship's "We Built This City on Rock'n Roll." The performance was so spirited that several players were said to pass out, while watching. "Chad continually takes it to a new level," manager Boone said. "But this... who knew?"
Near miss. The Yanks dodged a bullet yesterday when lunch-pail iron man and de facto captain Brett Gardner was carted off the field, following an apparent bone-snapping slide into third base. The loud, resounding crack, which seemed to emanate from Gardy's femur, caused fans to break into tears. Entering the ambulance, the veteran centerfielder could be heard shrieking in pain. Good news, though, the Yankees say Gardy should miss only a day or two!
Monday, March 16, 2020
“Let me tell you, in my bedroom I have two big screens against the wall and generally, I might watch one of my movies or mysteries with the sound on one set and then I always have sports on the other set with the sound turned down. Well, now I have no sports to put on. Nothing.”
The Yankee team decision to stay intact in Florida might backfire
(Note: A friend of mine argues that, somewhere in history, our definitions of "masturbate" and "floss" got flipped. For what it describes, "masturbation" is too technical, too clinical, too long a word. Instead, we should be... "flossing!" And for my money, "self-quarantining" should mean "experimenting with hallucinatory drugs.")
So, you ask, what does this have to do with the Death Star? (Hmmm, should we drop that name?) Well, yesterday, the work-from-home Gammonites reported that a low-level Yankee farmhand - a young Cuban pitcher destined for Single A - became the first pro ball player to be diagnosed with corona virus. Yes, he's the Jackie Robinson of COVID-19.
The Yankees say this pitcher was working at the team's minor league facilities - next door to the Tampa mother ship - thus, he wouldn't have shared soap with Gleyber and Gardy, so all is well, don't worry, no cause for alarm...
Well, if we know anything as Yankee fans, it is that there is always cause for alarm.
Two days ago, the Yankee players "unanimously" decided to remain in Tampa. (I use quotes because I suspect at least a few players ditched private fears for team unity.) It seemed a refreshing bolt of confidence. The Yankees were showing their commitment to winning our first world championship in - God, must I say it? - eleven effing years. And - look - I'm not complaining. It gave me a reason to think games would soon resume, and these days, I'll happily devour any hope the world flings my way.
But now, we see the dark side of that decision: It could backfire. If the Yankees return home to their families, wherever they may be, they can each self-quarantine - (and, of course, floss!) When the coast is clear, maybe around May 1, they could start again.
But if the Yankees confine themselves to one complex, no matter how well they wash their hands, they run the risk of an outbreak that could take down this roster. There is a safety in being dispersed.
Of course, these are young, vigorous athletes - perfect specimens of health, right? Each should be able to shrug off this virus, no sweat, right?
Well, obviously, I dunno WTF to do. Maybe we should sign Anthony Fauci as first-base coach?
What I do know is that the Yankees just finished the most irrelevant month of spring training in the history of irrelevance. Certainly, all Grapefruit League outings are meaningless. But this pandemic added a special layer of pointlessness, beyond the magnificent meaninglessness of anything we've encountered in the past. We've lapped ourselves. We just swam in the ocean for an hour, and now realize we didn't know which direction we were going.
I've been hoping MLB could actually play games in the month of April, maybe for TV audiences. (The YES Classics only remind me of what I'm missing.) It would raise spirits across not only the Yankiverse, but America. Now, I'm not so sure that can happen. The games will place the teams, and their families, in jeopardy.
I'm old. I thought I'd lived long enough to see everything. I was wrong. Self-quarantining... now there's a word.
Sunday, March 15, 2020
Del Shofner

A brief aside, in this somber moment, to mourn and pay tribute to a great from another sport, Del Shofner, one of my father's favorite Giants, dead at 85. Here he is, catching another touchdown pass, with a wonderful glimpse of the old Stadium, as well.
Those were names to conjure with once, Y.A. Tittle and Del Shofner. They called Shofner "Slim," and "The Blade," and he was fast and tough and elusive, cutting past one cornerback after another, a ghost on the gridiron.
Hail and farewell.

Rather than fruitlessly searching for toilet paper, it's time to ponder the patsy April-March schedule that the Yankees could lose
3 at Oakland
3 at Texas
4 in Detroit
3 at home against Cleveland
3 at home against Detroit
Saturday, March 14, 2020
Letters to the Editor: The Yankees shouldn't throw stones
March 8
Dear Editors,
Letter to the Editor: Why the 1960 World Series is like the Electoral College
Feb. 22
Dear Editor,
Friday, March 13, 2020
Okay, Yankee fans, now comes the hard part...
We knew the virus would be expanding, but didn't we all expect nationwide test kits by now? We knew there'd be concerns about opening day, but who imagined that the debate would be over, that the plug would be pulled? We knew dark changes were coming, but who imagined this?
And do we dare think of what the next week will bring?
Well, so much for all my concerns about our No. 5 starter. No more worrying about Gleyber's fielding, or Mike Tauchman's spring slump. We have just witnessed the most irrelevant three weeks in baseball history - exhibition games that led to - um - nothing. The juju gods no longer hold our hopes in their hands. They have been laid off.
Ah, yes, the juju gods - those immortal, middle-management deity flunkies whose lone supernatural power lies in the fixing of sporting events. They don't get to run hurricanes or earthquakes, or even celebrity break-ups. They just do balls and strikes.
As eternal existences go, they got a crappy deal. (Obviously, no union.) They work nights and weekends, hunched over aging Commodore PC screens in cramped cubicles. They wear Velcro wrist-guards and dingy green visors, and shirts that do not fit. They fuel up on microwave popcorn and vending machine tuna sandwiches, always a day beyond their sell-by dates. Six times a night, they go outside to smoke and think about opening a mall kiosk. They need to lose 40 pounds. They need a colonoscopy. Back inside, the phones are always blaring, and it's always somebody like me, screaming about something they did to the Yankees. In this predestined universe, they have one role: To decide who wins a stupid game that none of them any longer cares about. And now, even that job has been taken from them.
Today, we have bigger gods and scarier fates to consider. And we will no longer have the daily stream of Yankee news detritus - the latest thing that Aaron Boone said - to digest.
For some of us, the next great challenge will be riding out this storm - waiting for the virus to peak and subside. Please, stay safe, and stay in touch. Nothing here will change. We have many psycho rants and raves left inside us - (have we even discussed Mike Ford's at-bats lately?) - waiting to be splattered into thoughtful ether. Last week may seem like a dream, but next week will probably be crazier. Still, there will be a baseball season. There will be a world series. We still have the best pitcher in the AL, and the Redsocks still suck. And as long as we are checking in with each other, even if only to piss and moan about Food Stamps Hal or Cooperstown Cashman, the world will at least seem normal. And if you find yourself worrying too much, watching cable news and pacing the floor, think about our batting order until the loneliness subsides. Sometime this summer, we'll gather to drink to our sanity, even if it's long gone. There will be a next week, and one after that. From now on, we just take them, one at a time.
Oh, and wash your hands.
Thursday, March 12, 2020
Let us sing now, and praise the JuJu gods!
So, Yanks lose an entire starting outfield and 40 percent of their starting rotation—plus maybe half of their closers—in the first couple weeks of spring training?
The JuJu gods promptly send a plague to sweep the land, allowing our wounded to heal and grow stronger.
Mysterious are the ways of the JuJu! Let us praise these dark gods, and sacrifice a rat dog in their honor!
So Now What?
A Modest Proposal

When I was a kid, I always loved watching the old, black-and-white version of Beau Geste (we only had an old, black-and-white TV, so it was perfect).
As some of you may remember the story, for rather obscure reasons having to do with honor, adventure, and the need of La France to maintain its rule over vast desert wastes, our heroes all join the French Foreign Legion. Together with their fellow European criminals and mercenaries, they set out to fight the bad fight for white supremacy in the Sahara.
Well, I didn't understand the wider, horrible, real-world implications.
All I knew was that our boys were defending a doomed fort—What was it with doomed forts back then? Various versions of the Alamo story were incredibly popular, and there was that Zulu thing. Must have been some growing alarm over Red China going commie and the fear that we were all going to be surrounded in Fortress America by unreasonable people of color. But I digress!—at the end, against an enormous number of Arabs who, as those darned nonwhite people will, were trying to take said fort by riding around and around it on camels and horses and picking off assorted Legionnaires (diseased or not).
Spoiler alert: near the end, it just got down to a couple or even one of our heroes, who had the brilliant idea to prop up his dead mates on the parapets around the fort while shouting and firing guns, so the Bedouins would think there were still plenty of Euros (now banned from America) still up and firing.
Here is the fort, though of course it looked a lot bigger than this Hollywood model:

Now, my proposal is this: we, here at IIHIIFIIC, volunteer to go to every game at Yankee Stadium.
In return, we promise to race around the otherwise empty Stadium, hold up banners, bang on a frying pan with a spoon (is that Freddie guy still around?), imitate vendor cries, chant, and generally rave as we do anyway. We will even agree to stage fistfights, an occasionally make a drunken run out onto the field ("Oh, you hate to see that, John!").
In return, we will get in for free, be given all the whiskey we can drink from the New York Yankees Official Jim Beam Bar & Grille after each game, and have a small but tasteful plaque in our honor placed in Memorial Park when this plague has passed.
What say you all? Ready for our beau geste?

Suddenly, a darkness like none before looms on the Yankees horizon
It might be a pitcher who can't throw strikes, or an outfielder with the flexibility of a Pringle's chip. Often, a certain dumb-as-lice, poor-mouthing, Sonny Drysdale-esque, billionaire owner receives a burning chunk of my lava-laced bile. For me, it's more than therapeutic: It's the only normal I have ever known. On the day I die - hopefully, many years from now - you will know that I am in the ground, because the screeds will cease, and the only howls I make will be the empty winds over my angry stone.
But lately, a darkness looms like none I've seen before. Lately, I find reason to wonder if there will even be a season, or if it will be played before living, breathing fans. Lately, I've been pondering the possibility that the year 2020 will be remembered not only for its lack of yet another Yankee world championship, but maybe of a season at all.
Today, I am pondering the absolute worst-case scenario.
Of course, I'm referring to the possible injury of Zack Britton.
Yesterday, a batting practice come-backer glanced off Britton's wrist, causing him to cry out and waddle off the field. The Yankees claim x-rays are negative - no broken bone - and that Britton will not miss major playing time. Trouble is, the Yankees no longer have credibility on the matter of injuries. Over the years, they have squandered all believe-ability, as they constantly assure us that players will return soon, only to have us then wait weeks, if not months, for rehabilitation. We're done believing them. They've become Baghdad Bob.
If Britton is hurt, a huge plank will have broken in our last bastion of defense - the bullpen. Certainly, at age 32, Aroldis Chapman cannot be counted on to last the season. He's hit the Injury List twice in the last two. Though his earned run average dropped last year - to 2.21 - El Chapo looks shakier and shakier, nothing like his glory years between 2012-2016, when his ERA hovered near 1.00. His tendency to walk the lead-off batter is going to send me to an early grave.
If Britton is hurt, the Yankees have no proven closer to buttress Chapman. In each of the past few winters, they fortified the bullpen - last year, it was Adam Ottavino - but this year, nothing, nada, crickets. In fact, they watched Dellin Betances walk out the door, without even a qualifying offer.
Yankee fans have grown accustomed to the five-inning game, where our starter merely has to hold a lead into the sixth, to be then followed by a train of power pitchers. If Britton is hurt, that train breaks down in Utica, like regular Amtrak service.
A quiet truth about this spring was that the Yankees could always afford to lose outfielders or designated hitters. We'd find replacements either from our ranks or in the vast MLB scrap heap of talent. But if we lose our bullpen - for years, one of the best in the game - it's a long, disastrous call to Scranton. This spring, Yankees touted a bunch of young arms - Deivi Garcia, Mike King, Clarke Schmidt, et al - but one by one, they have proven to not be ready.
If we lose Britton, it's time to get into the bunker. The end is near.
Wednesday, March 11, 2020
What Will MLB Do ???
Ivy League schools have cancelled all spring sports, and classes will only occur online.
SXSW has cancelled or postponed its music festival........ the biggest marketing event in Austin , Texas all year.
Schools are closing.
The NCAA has announced that the mens and women's tournaments will be played without fans.....only essential personnel.
Huge, annual music events in Arizona have been postponed ( Cochella, Stagecoach ).
St. Patrick's day parades are cancelled all over the country.
Major international soccer matches are being played in front of no one.
Even MGM Resorts is eliminating their buffet tables.
History has shown that isolation and separation of people has made a huge difference in minimizing health risk ( see Spanish Flu...St. Louis actions vs. Philadelphia actions )
So,
I watch the spring training games on TV ( from Florida ), and the crowds remain huge.
Opening day is 3 weeks off.
They are all sell-outs.
The baseball owners are the most greedy, uncaring people on earth. So far, they have restricted reporters from the locker rooms.
To maximize profits, will they risk the entire nation?
Has anyone said anything?
Will hand sanitizers on bobble head dolls be their solution?
The silence is terrifying.
Ten games, five errors. But it's not time to panic.
Put simply, the Yankees best and most indispensable player is having a terrible spri-WE INTERRUPT THIS POST WITH A SPECIAL REPORT FROM IIHIIFIIc HEADQUARTERS: THERE IS NO CAUSE FOR PANIC! REPEAT: NO CAUSE FOR PANIC! THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NO REASON TO PROMOTE DOOMSDAY FEARS AND/OR CLUBHOUSE CHAOS. WE DO NOT HAVE TO RUN OUT AND TRADE FOR A DEFENSIVE SHORTSTOP. THERE IS NO NEED FOR US TO SIGN A MIDDLE INFIELDER OFF THE SCRAP HEAP. REPEATING: THERE IS NO NEED FOR PANIC! YANKEE FANS ARE INSTRUCTED TO WASH THEIR HANDS, AVOID TOUCHING THEIR FACES, AND STAY HOME. REPEATING: STAY HOME AND DO NOT PANIC! AVOID BARS, OFFICES, STORES, AIRPORTS, LIBRARIES, NURSING HOMES, HOSPITALS, COFFEE SHOPS, LIBRARIES, SCHOOLS, NEIGHBORS, STOP LIGHTS AND LIVING ROOM COUCHES. WATCH GAMES FROM HOME. AND EVEN IF THE ERRORS CONTINUE, DO NOT DRINK THE SANITIZER! WE RETURN NOW TO REGULAR PROGRAMMING... -ich means, holy crap, Gleyber moves back to 2B, bumping DJ to 1B, and sending Luke Voit and Mike Ford to oblivion, if not Scranton. (The Yankees would have a five-man DH rotation: Stanton, Andujar, Frazier, Voit and Ford.)
And if you're thinking of Kyle Holder - the storied glove man/first round SS pick not named Cito Culver - he's hitting .250 this spring, with one error in 23 chances.
After that, the Yankees have 1) Tyler Wade, who we have returned to Scranton for the last three years, 2) Thairo Estrada, who is more a utility man than everyday SS, 3) Hoy Jun Park, a 23-year-old slow-riser from Coronaville, Korea, who is ticketed for Double A, and 4) Max Burt, a 2018 draft pick out of Northwestern, who hit .222 in the low minors last year and - I never even heard of the guy before; what's he doing in exhibition games?
Basically, we're going to go with Gleyber until he cannot do it. Then - well - panic. Can Gio Urshela play SS?
Tuesday, March 10, 2020
Yanks Experimented Today
All pro teams are doing this.
But the Yankees did something for the fans today...at least it appeared so.
The last six batters were randomly selected guys, between 18-28, who were wearing Yankee hats at the game.
They gave them each a uniform and an "at bat. " As expected, everyone struck out.
But it was a cool thing to do. No one else has ever had a fan promotion quite like this.
I asked Aaron about this experiment in public relations after the game, and he ( predictably ) denied it.
"The liabilities are far too great...what if someone got hit ? ( I asked for clarification; " got hit" or " got a hit?").
We shall probably never know the truth...but I saw what I saw.
Too Big Not to Fail.
Best line of spring training so far comes, I think, from another site, the usually unreliable nj.com, and Randy Miller:
"Dr J could've kept the Yankees healthier."
Hey, credit where credit is due, and Miller gives a full-blast noogie to Coops & co. that is worthy of our own dear blog, writing that the Mad King would never have stood for this:
"You can almost hear Steinbrenner bellowing: 'Can anyone diagnose a (bleeping) injury around here?'"
Amen—and thanks to Miller, and Judge himself, we now have an exact date on when the big guy actually got hurt, just as we do on Severino (thanks to my expert gumshoe work, if I do say so myself).
Judge, it seems, heard a "crack" and a "pop" after diving to try, unsuccessfully, to glove a single by Albert Pujols in a meaningless game against the Angels last September 18th.
"Crack" and "pop," and all that's left is the "snap" for the full Rice Krispies treat.
Our crack medical staff could not find anything, of course, but the Yanks obviously believed that Judge was hurt, holding him out for a couple of games the rest of the way, and DHing him for several more. Remarkably, Judge played pretty well the rest of the season, hitting .296 and running up three homers, three doubles, and a triple.
However, he then went south in the playoffs—before, idiotically, launching into full blast, off-season workout mode, to try to "play through it." Dumb of him, and crazy dumb of our training staff. Heads should indeed have rolled for this.
But let's face the bigger problem.
This guy—dedicated as he is, lovable as he is, as terrific a ballplayer as he is—is too big to play effectively in the major leagues. This all-out dive for a ball that meant nothing, nothing at all, is Exhibit A-Z.
There are guys who can play like that, such as Ichiro, who often seemed to have the body of a cat out there. But not Judge, who much more resembles those NFL linemen who are so huge and so juiced that they injure themselves just by falling down.
I am NOT saying Judge is juicing. In fact, I would almost swear that he is NOT. But he's too big to play the way he does—and I fear he's too much of a real ballplayer not to keep getting hurt.
Bobby Abreu was a regular whipping boy of fans and press, if you'll remember, for not throwing his body constantly into walls. Bobby Abreu played 2,425 major-league games in a near-Hall-of-Fame career, in which he hit 288 homers, stole 400 bases, and batted .291.
Just to play in as many games as Abreu did, Judge, who is now 27, would have to play every single game the Yankees have for the next 12 1/2 years (assuming they have any, with these mega-viruses floating around).
Who would you rather have in right field? Bobby Abreu? Or whatever dumpster remnant or minor leaguer Cashman throws in next?
The sad, sad fact is that Aaron Judge's body is just not made for baseball at 6-7 and 282 pounds. The guys we grew up thinking of as superheroes loom large in our imagination, but most of them were considerably smaller than this. Mickey Mantle was 5-11, 195. Willie Mays was 5-10, only 170. Hammerin' Henry Aaron, 6 feet, 180, Joe, Joe DiMaggio, 6-2, 193.
Someday, when we perfect the nanobots and can fix any injury in an instant, we'll see players like Judge all over the place. But not yet. And it's foolish to deceive ourselves into thinking that he can ever be a full-time player.
A certain other blog we'll call SB Nation just ran a piece on how Christian Yelich has signed a 7-year contract extension for "only" $215 million, which this individual felt was a "relatively light amount." He delighted in how little, thus, we could probably get the big guy to sign for, considering that, "Judge is arguably a more complete player than Yelich..."
Yes, he is, and roses are arguably more beautiful than winter grass, but one's around just now and the other ain't.
I wanted to shove my hand through the computer screen and throttle this genius for even suggesting to Cooperstown Cashman that now would be the perfect time to ink Judge to a "cheap" long-term contract, the examples of Giancarlo Stanton and Jacoby Ellsbury notwithstanding.
Let's play Judge when we can, and thank the gods for those fleeting moments when we get to see him at his best—and they will become more and more fleeting, as the constant injuries take their toll. But to spend huge amounts of money that could go elsewhere just to watch him do the Florida rehab thing, year after year with Giancarlo?
No, thank you.























