Yankees are waist deep in the Big Muddy (Stephen Drew), and the big fool (Girardi) says to push on

Question for the day: Where's Brian Roberts, the former Mr. Oriole? Can he hit off a tee? Does he ever take grounders? Fifteen months ago, the Retrieval Empire waived Roberts, because he was hitting a paltry .240! Now...

Insert horrible scream here.

All right, get a grip. One of the kinkier truths of the 2015 season is that the Yankee "baseball men," the gin-swollen golfers who cut the cards, generally did well. Give them credit: They discovered Didi Gregorius, Nathan Eovaldi, Andrew Miller, and the cast of Glee, also known as the bullpen. And yes, we are a mere fan-in-the-cheap-seats blog. What do I know? What does any of us know?

Well, we know this: As longtime and desperate Yankee fans, we remember the 14-year turd-barf, when the Yankee brain trust was fruited Jell-O, and our "baseball men" were merely 24/7, toady extensions of George Steinbrenner's sagging mental gonads. As a result, we shall never be able to simply sit back and accept their virtuous wisdom. My Yankees, right or wrong... if right, to bat left, and if wrong, then for Godsake, scream bloody murder at the bozos who signed Pavano and Igawa.

So... I won't say the name. Let's call him Big Muddy. We saw what happened last night. The game bounced off his glove and hit him in the chin. It floated through his legs into right-center field. On YES, Paul O'Neill - apparently in some drug delirium - opined that Chase Headley had thrown him "a change-up" on the slow lob, which would have ended the inning. That's like saying Attila the Hun was "not quite himself" when he raped half the Asian continent. Last night, Big Muddy went one-for-two, raising his average to .205. That's about as good as it's going to get. Two weeks ago, we thought we saw a glimmer. Now, infield pop ups and grounders to second. And the big fool says to push on.

Listen: I don't like drilling for Yankee scapegoats. Believe me, it's no fun. The 2015 Yankees have come a long way, exceeded expectations, and obviously, Big Muddy has the support of his manager and teammates. That says something about loyalty, team spirit and his personal character. I get that. But it's been five frickin' months, patiently waiting for hope. We all figured that, at a certain point, Big Muddy would learn to bunt or hit to left, where the defense doesn't even bother to play. We figured it would improve. Or at least, that he would field his position well.

Insert barf here.

I'm starting to think the entire 2015 season has been an elaborate, reality TV show practical joke on Rob Refsnyder. Poor kid. He had a nice spring training, was dropped to Scranton and got off to a terrible start in the field. An error every game. He settled down, started hitting, raised his average to .300, and message boards were full of fans who said he was doing all right in the field. The Yankees brought him up for a then-critical series in Boston. He homered to win a game. The team said publicly that he was going to get a shot after the All-Star break. Apparently, he didn't bow and scrape to the right guy. After one series, he was demoted. From there, demoralized, he went into a deep slump. It's the Frankie Cervelli Story, all over again - but with one difference: Instead of having Brian McCann to play the position, the Yankees are pushing on with Big Muddy.

Well, last night, Big Muddy swallowed us, alive. Here come the Blue Jays. The Big Fool says to push on. Like, what other choice do we have? At this point, none.

But here's an essay question for the "baseball men:"

How does a team with a $200 million payroll and a supposedly rising farm system go an entire calendar year with a so-so fielder who barely hits .200?

Neck deep in the Big Muddy.

The Yankees are down to stems and seeds, and there's only one castaway left on the isle of Scranton

Yesterday, Brian 3000 - the Yankees' artificially intelligent super-computer, (who was recently nominated by Sports Illustrated for the Baseball Hall of Fame) - confirmed that both Nathan Eovaldi and Mark Teixeira might watch the rest of the season, which would also make them spectators in a nine-inning, wild card, Texas-style Cage Match. Trouble is, Yankee bones are not done cracking. With three weeks left, there still remain gonads to go bump in the dark. The Yankee casualty count is never zero. From here on in, it's the Yankee farm replacements against Toronto and its farm replacements, who hopefully are also needed soon. (A Juju Hex Watch remains in effect.)  

But Scranton's cupboard looks bare. The Railriders' lineup is a confusion of Double A lugnuts and organizational wanderers: Cave, Castillo, Figuroa, Judge, Segedin, Gamel, Dugas, Culver, Pettit, Roller, Graterol. The big name, of course, is Aaron Judge, who kicked Yankee prospect huggers in the nut-sacks last month by hitting a Lenn Sakata-ian .226. He might be great someday, but he's not the 2015 Luis Severino of the outfield.

Nevertheless, buried in the Scranton coal yards is one last rivet, ready to emerge if somebody must - as the ads say - seek medical attention immediately due to an erection lasting four hours or more. Slade Heathcott, who flew like a mayfly for a week, made some nice plays, hit a HR, tweaked a Willie Stargell and fell off the radar like Flight 370. About three weeks ago, Heathcott returned from the DL and couldn't hit a fast ball with a tennis racket. Lately, he has had a few decent games. But the Yankees already have a base-stealing threat in Rico Noel - (oh, why, why, why couldn't they get a man on base last night, and then bring in Noel to steal?) - and Heathcott may have been lost in the OF rugby scrum.

That is, until the next injury. Because injuries never take a day off.

Brett Gardner is playing with a Venus di Milo shoulder, and Ellsbury is always nursing something. A-Rod is hot, but brittle, and Beltran the dinosaur is always one asteroid strike from extinction. We have an entire rotation of second-basemen, but it's going to be Stephen Drew, Stephen Drew, Stephen Drew. (Let's face it: Rob Refsnyder will have a fine career in some other city - (See Cervelli, Frankie) -  and the only question is what Brian 3000 will get in return. Dustin Ackley - the 2015 Yankee Trade Acquisition of the Year - will someday receive a Yankee plaque near the water cooler.) 

As for starting pitchers, it's worse. There is no Luis Severino in Scranton. From now on, there are Double A names who - this time next year - could form a new crop of Chase Whitleys and David Phelpses. There is no starter to tap, not even a Wally Whitehurst.

Toronto won last night in a game that eerily matched the Yankees' battle against Baltimore. Tied going into the ninth, the Blue Jays put it together, while the Yankees fell apart. And yesterday, they were adding Marcus Strohman to their rotation, while we were deleting Eovaldi from ours. It sounds bad. Still, they have to beat us over seven games. And one of these days, maybe a Canadian gonad will bark. Jose Bautista, I'm talking to you.

Eovaldi is hurt, and the MLB season is simply too long

Once again, we can see a clear sign: It's time for MLB to consider the 154-game season.

The league has built a season so demanding that pitchers cannot survive it.

Yesterday, the Yankees announced that Nathan Eovaldi - the workhorse of their rotation - has a barking elbow and will miss two weeks. He might be done for the season. Thus, the entire Yankee rotation from the start of the season got hurt. We achieved a perfect, 100-percent injury rate. Nobody made it unscathed.

CC hurt his knee three weeks ago. Tanaka missed two weeks with a bad elbow. Pineda strained his forearm, missed a month. Nova missed the first half with TJ surgery. Chase Whitley is missing the second half. Capuano tweaked a gonad in the spring, missed the first month. Bryan Mitchell got ht in the head. Now Eovaldi. Only Luis Severino - who was on a strict minor league pitch count (and whom we should now encase in bubble wrap) and Adam Warren (who was mostly in the bullpen) have gone the season without missing time.

For years, the NFL has been over-the-top with injuries. There is no sure thing in the NFL. You can have the league's best team, and a week later, your lineup is full of scrubs. Nobody survives an NFL season without breaking, straining, tweaking or tearing something. Baseball used to be manageable. (Cal Ripken!) But even now, injuries will hugely affect the post-season.

Let's be honest: A 154 game season won't solve the injury problem. But if you scattered eight off-days across the regular season, you would give each team's pitching staff - hell, their whole team - a better chance to heal. It would have to help.

It's time for the lords and toadies of the game to bite the golden bullet and accept eight fewer games of revenue. The owners can certainly afford it. The players can certainly afford it. The fans can deal with it. The pennant races will be just fine. And maybe - just maybe - a few more pitchers will last the season. Maybe the injury rate could drop to - say - 90 percent. Imagine that!

Write this down: The Blue Jays are done,,, cooked, kaput, in the ground.

Canadians have no business in the game of baseball. There's no puck. No facial scars. Canadians dream of visiting warm and temperate Minnesota. What are they doing, leading the AL East? If Toronto wants a baseball trophy - usually, they prefer a cup, something to drink from - they should set up a Canadian league and play against Bamffff, or Bumfuckit or Walrus Bone Falls.

Mark these words: The 2015 Toronto Blue Jays super-team is a now piece of Canadian junk history, like Ma and Pa Sasquatch. In his second term, President Trump will build his Northern wall, and we will be done with them.

BY EXECUTIVE ORDER, A BLANKET LETHAL DOSE OF UNCUT, FELONY-GRADE JUJU HAS BEEN EXTENDED TO THE TORONTO BLUE JAYS, THEREBY ELIMINATING THE TEAM FROM THE 2015 PENNANT RACE.

It's over, Canada. In my book, you still won the War of 1812. (When they burn down your White House, game over, pally, you lose. It's that simple.) I'm sorry to have to invoke this JUJU thingy, but frankly, Canada has pissed me off. They used to make sense, politically. Now, they're like a frozen version of Alabama. Moreover, I don't like Jose Bautista. For years, the guy can't hit a lick, then suddenly he's challenging NASA for moon shots, and nobody says, "Huh?" If a Yankee infielder ever hit an upper-decker, before the next dawn, Bud Selig had ex-CIA agents combing through his dumpster. Toronto has Bautista, practically the testimonial to Captain America's Super Soldier Serum, and the writers say, "Oh, what a heartwarming story of self-improvement through hard work and gritty vitamin-taking!" Well, I tell you: They pissed me off.

BY ORDER OF COMMON JUJU LAW, IT'S TIME FOR THE BLUE JAYS TO RETURN TO THEIR NORMAL STATE OF SOMEWHERE BETWEEN SHABBINESS AND QUANDRY.

I hate going alone on this. I'm like Obama and Congress. I tried working with the other teams. I sought compromise. They just pissed me off. For years, I sought consensus on issues - such as Roger Maris belonging in the Hall of Fame. Nobody listened. Do you know that if you drive through North Dakota and stop for gas, they have to mention that the place was home to Roger Maris? It's a state law. And yet... the guy is NOT in the Hall? Incredible! They'll put Barry Bonds in the Hall, if they can fit his head through a service entrance. But not Maris. So I'm doing this. I'm pressing the red button. I'm like that wormy guy in season five of Lost - the most aptly titled TV show in history - who finds the universal time and space mechanism and turns it, propelling the show even deeper over the ledge. That's what I'm doing. I don't care.

I AM INVOKING THE JUJU GODS, BY RULE OF COMMON DECENCY, TO END THIS TORONTO BLUE JAY VICTORY RUN - NOW. 

I made the announcement Monday. Hours later, Toronto lost to the Redsocks and Jackie Yastremski Jr. They got bombed.

Well, Boston, it's time for your playoff run! You can cut the Wild Card deficit down to - I dunno - twenty? And it's time for Toronto to do what every Canadian dreams of doing: Yes, friends, it's time to go south. 

Write this down: The Blue Jays are in a heap of trouble

The stinking 1927 Blue Jays won again yesterday. So what else is new? They never lose. Everybody knows that. They are God's latest gift to cold-brewed Canada, like fracking and Celine Dion. The fact is, Canada hasn't done squid-squat since Stephen Page left the Barenaked Ladies, and no matter what happens this October, Jose Bautista could enter a bar with a supermodel, but the crowd wouldn't take its eyes off the hockey game.

Summer is over, Canada. It's time to grab the shovel.

I am formally signing a CATEGORY 5 JUJU EXECUTIVE ORDER, which will bring losses and damnation to the Blue Jays team, organization, media, twitterverse, blogosphere and fans. This hex - which is also known as a curse - will not hinder Blue Jay players' family or pets. (We don't hurt kids and puppies, though in some cases, wives may develop yeast. I apologize if that happens. It's all part of winning ballgames.) 

Listen: THEY SIMPLY CANNOT STAY AS HOT AS THEY HAVE BEEN.

Since August 1, when they added Babe Tulowitsky and Cy Price at the trade deadline, Toronto is 24 and 7. In that period, they have nearly scored twice as many runs as their opponents. In blowout games, when the difference is at least five runs - Toronto is 31-7. They have not just beaten teams, they have waterboarded them.

On July 8, they were eight games behind the Yankees. That lead, which seemed like load-bearing ice at the time, disappeared so fast that we seemed in a freefall. It sucked the joy from the first four months. 

But here's the rub: Like Donald Trump leading in the GOP polls, being hot in September can only mean being cold when the climax arrives. Toronto is not an .800 ballclub. They are not the greatest team in modern history.

And beginning today, they will face a juju reckoning.

Summer is over, Canada. Put down your brooms and pick up your shovels. Go back to your Crash Test Dummies albums. The world is about to get cold. Look! Up on that bracketed TV in the corner! IT'S A HOCKEY GAME!

The passed are prelude?

The seven games left with Toronto will probably decide the AL East.

There are 28 games left in the regular season. If we play at slightly above .500 - that is, win 15 and lose 13...

To overtake us, Texas would have to go 18-10, and Minnesota would have to go 19-8.

Neither is impossible. What is critical will be those seven games against the Jays. Next weekend, we host them in a four-game series. We simply, absolutely, goddammedly, holycrappedly, jeezhkricedly, cannot afford a wipe-out.

Oh, and one more thing, if anybody on God's green earth can figure out what the hell the WCE# means - the Twins "Elimination Number" now stands at 27.

Luis Severino is the most exciting Yankee pitcher since - well - Joba.

Twenty-eight games left. Tied in the loss column. We are technically a half-game out of first, because the Juggernaut Jays - baseball's latest version of the ''27 Yankees - lost last night, 10-2.

Starting next Thursday, we play Toronto four times in NYC, and then three in Toronto a week later. Yep, everything will happen over seven days... the way God did it. 

We will face Toronto without Mark Teixeira. Though erratic, Greg Bird has hit 4 HRs over two weeks. He's no Kevin Maas... a statement that cuts both ways, am I right?

But I'm here this morning to bloviate about about two great Yankee pitching prospects, one coming, one gone.

Joba Chamberlain - at age 29 - is trying to hang onto an MLB career like a cat clawing a chalkboard. Two months ago, he was waived by the Tigers, then picked up by Toronto, who then waived him.  He's now a Kansas City Royal. The kid with the Fred Flintstone body, the meth lab mom and the dad in the wheelchair - the guy who in 2007 was so surely destined to be a great Yankee, the guy who was attacked by the gnats - may be done by 30.

Damn, baseball is cruel.

But as John Irving once wrote, "When the dear disappear, someone else is always near." And these days, the Yankiverse is holding dear to Luis Severino, who'll turn 22 in February. Severino started three years ago, age 18, throwing 64 innings in a Dominican league. The following year, he threw 44 in Florida. Last year, he broke out as a prospect, moved up several levels, and the Yankees limited him to 113 innings, with precise pitch counts.

This season, Severino has now thrown 128.

This has prompted debate on whether he's throwing too much, or whether the so-called "babying" of Chamberlain's arm - "the Joba Rules" - did more damage than good. I haven't clue what is right or wrong. We could throw anecdotes and statistics on this for the rest of our lives and still have no answers.

But this we know:
With 28 games left in the regular season, Severino should get five, maybe six, starts. With luck - that is, he doesn't get hammered - he should throw another 30 innings. That would put him in the neighborhood of 160 for the year. And if we're really lucky, he might throw another 25 in the post-season. He could be pushing 190.

I say this as a Chicken Little Yankee fan, always terrified of Suzyn's Clubhouse injury report. Severino has been one of the best things to happen to the Yankees in this decade. Thus far, he is everything they said he would be, and the last time anyone held up to the YES nightmare p.r. machine, it was a kid named Robby.  (Technically, you could say Chris Capuano was everything they said he'd be, but that's a different story.)

Listen: There is no debate. The Yankees are in a pennant race - a legitimate one, not scrambling for the last remaining away-field single-game fool's quest - and they are facing one of the most powerful teams in recent memory. We have no choice, other than to pitch Severino beyond his innings and see what happens. He could be our next great pitcher. But let's enjoy every pitch, while he's here. Because he might someday make us cry.

Cito Culver goes 4-for-5 at Scranton

Cito Culver - whipping mule for the Yankee farm system - was promoted to Scranton the other day to fill spaces for the September call-ups. The former first round pick, who hasn't hit a lick in four years, has gone on a tear. For posterity, here's the screen grab. (And yes, this answers the question: Where have you gone, Gregorio Petit?)

Seattle now controls baseball from A to Z

A friend - in an email, which he probably wanted to be kept personal - writes the following about his disturbing infatuation with the Seattle Mariners.

RHP Tony Zych, just recalled from Tacoma, is  now the last player, alphabetically, in MLB history. He blows Dutch Zwilling's record out of the danged water.

The Mariners also featured first-overall David Aardsma as their closer for two years.

Damn. They also have Jesus Montero. What if they sign a guy named Satan?

What are we, chopped liver? Apparently, we didn't write an angry enough screed against Curt Schiling, who just shot himself in the Kardashian

We blew it. That's all I can say. I blew it. Next time... hand grenades and hollow-points!

Curt Schilling is out, I should be celebrating, but I'm not feeling it, what's happening in this world?

Let's go to the videotape.

Two weeks ago, Curt Schilling got himself tossed from ESPN after a stupid and sickening Twitter ejaculation that compared the Muslim world to Nazi, Germany. Our comrades at Awful Announcing ripped him, righteously and thoughtfully, even harsher than I did. Curt wrote them an angry email, they published it, and now ESPN has done what Yankees fans have dreamed about doing since 2004 - they pushed Curt the Blurt overboard.

Here's the deal. On Aug. 25, Schilling - unable to keep his mirthful, Tea Party mind bottle-up - Tweeted this.

Within minutes, Schilling stopped sniffing glue long enough to smell a problem. He deleted the post and began beating a long, ridiculous path of apologies. But it was too late. And here's why:

Schilling's a fricking baseball announcer, for kricesake - a chummy, nine-inning Gomer Pyle bozo, whose opinions are supposed to involve close plays at first and what pitch the guy is going to throw next. He not supposed to channel Curtis Granderson's views about the moon landing. Most of all - he's not supposed lecture us on politics. There's also the First Law of Hitler Comparisons: When you think of a great one - (Taylor Swift is Eva Braun!) - keep it to yourself. But Schilling couldn't hold back. Nope. It was like opening the refrigerator and seeing the last slice of birthday cake. So... ka-boom: ESPN dropped him from the Little League World Series. (The kids didn't need to hear their rally compared to the bombing of Dresden.) Now, dropping Schilling from the rotation was like the Yankees dropping CC Sabathia: He's a big name, yeah, but somebody else can throw the fricking innings and maybe even keep the ERA under 5.00. But I digress...

So Awful Announcing did exactly what sports blogs and fan blogs (which is what we are) are supposed to do. They gutted Schilling, the leviathan of loquaciousness. Here's part of a piece by Dan Levy, site honcho, which argues that Jessica Mendoza - Schilling's replacement - was doing a better job. Here's an excerpt.

As heinous as Schilling’s tweet comparing Muslims to World War II-era Nazis may have been, it’s probably not a fireable offense at ESPN. I say probably because ESPN consistently moves the goalposts when it comes to policies of commentary on social media, suspending high-profile pundits less for their incendiary comments on Facebook and Twitter and more for when those comments create too big of a stir, forcing the higher-ups to react. (Note: This is absolutely on target.)

To that point, Schilling has said and tweeted and Facebook’d much worse in his time at ESPN — heck, he said and tweeted and Facebook’d much worse last week — which led some to question why ESPN chose now to step in and suspended him.

The short answer? He got caught. Schilling plays to his base all the time on social media, and in most cases the liberal media lets him play in his conservative sandbox all he wants. But this time, the sand got into the yard, and now the grass is dead in a pattern that looks like a Seig Heil salute. That tweet was enough for ESPN to finally step in, set Schilling in the timeout chair for a week, and let Mendoza play in the sandbox while he’s gone. 

Damn straight. Tuesday, Schilling sent Levy a long email that he meant to be personal. It starts out funny and homey, then delivers blow-back.

All I ever ask is honesty and an attempt at integrity.

But if you want to rip me, or talk shit about me, please do it with more than an ounce of pride in your job. Nowhere, ever, before during or after, have I ever compared “Muslims” to “Nazis”, ever. Normal every day peace loving Muslims have as much to do with “radical” as I do with “fleet afoot”.

However it appears, like many, you ‘made me say it’ anyway. 

Here’s a cut and paste of what you wrote

heinous as Schilling’s tweet comparing Muslims to World War II-era Nazis

And here’s what was actually tweeted

..”only 5-10% of Muslims are Extremists”

Why would you omit the one word in that entire tweet that provides the only important piece of context other than WWII era Nazism?

I bet I know. Because without rigging your comment to be something it wasn’t, you would have had to search for an article and work to create content. You chose to make it up, ‘misremember’ as best you can, and create something that didn’t exist because it was the ‘flavor of the day”. Even if it wasn’t true> Very Chris Mortensen of you.

(Sorry, but I don't get the "Chris Mortensen" bit. Inside Baseball? Anybody?)

Yesterday, ESPN pulled the plug on Schilling for the rest of the MLB season and the one game Wild Card, which will probably involve the Yankees. It seems to be a direct result of Schilling's letter, which Awful Announcing published. (My guess, some suit creature at ESPN had ordered Schilling to shut up, but he just couldn't.)

I side with the website. It's ridiculous for Schilling to claim he didn't use a Hitler comparison. Good grief, look at the picture: Is that Charlie Chaplin? But... I'm not feeling it about the decision to publish an email that is sent with the request to not be published. Shit, man, I dunno. People come here and rip me up and down, and that's fine. I take my swings, you can take yours. And sometimes, folks send me emails ripping me up and down, and you know what? That's okay too. Comes with the turf.

Here's the weird part: Aside from his Tea Party crapola, I was almost starting to warm to Schilling. I think the 300-pound toad had been trying to compensate for his infamous anti-Yankee tendancies, and he had become the most sympathetic voice on the Yankees within the ESPN clown booth. Now, he's out. Good riddance, I suppose. But let's not kid ourselves: they'll just hire another Nomar. And here's where it will get sickening.

Soon, probably by sundown, Schilling will be hailed by the Sarah Palins as a martyr to the cause, a voice who has been unjustly silenced, a man whose freedom of speech - the ability to roll out racial invective during baseball games - has been compromised. And yes, they'll lament that America is on that "slippery slope" to... well... I aint-a-gonna say it - but his name starts with "H" and he has a mustache. How Chris Mortensen of us all!

I Have Always Loved Stephen Drew

This morning, I am sitting in a Brasserie (bar ) on Rue de Guerre, sipping a coffee and a digestif, when I opened IIHIIF.

It occurs to me that the way to evaluate Stephen Drew's 2015 hitting is to look at month by month results.  I don't have good wifi here, and they do not print baseball stats in Le Monde, so I cannot quote you the specifics.  However,  you will find a monthly BA pattern that ranges from the low .100s in March /April, to .300 plus in August/Sept.

And if you look back on my musings about the fellow on this blog, I'm sure you find a consistent pattern of support from me.  Unlike el Duque, I am rarely incorrect.

Aaah, another "whiskey Breton" has just arrived to sweeten my morning, and re-enforce the accuracy of my memories.

Have a nice day!

Stay Evil: The Yankees have one more month to keep proving everybody wrong.

Today, I shall bend over, press my nose into the honeypot, and eat crow. Stephen Drew crow. Yes, Stephen "Larrupin Lou" Drew crow. For five months, I have been bellowing at the player, the manager, the team and the cosmos over what I've viewed as the baseball equivalent of a ruptured billiard. All season, Drew has been hitting comfortably below .200 - without changing his swing, his stance or, I suspect, his underwear. The Yankees persisted in playing him. The Yankees refused to bench him or - as many Yankee fans would want - to neuter him. Yet now, HOLY CRAP! Something has happened. Drew is 9 for his last 12! His average is up to .211. Who knows how high it could climb? Is .230 in reach? (We'll get nose bleeds!) Stephen Drew is hitting. He's fielding. And as long as he continues... I WAS WRONG, YOU HEAR ME? I. WAS. WRONG.

Carlos Beltran? It's time to say it. I retched when they signed him to a three-year deal. Throughout 2014, I ranted and raged. Three years of an ex-Met. Three stinking years! Well, I'm not saying that deal will go down as the second buying of Manhattan, but you know where we would be without Carlos? Fourth. He has lifted his average to the .280s. He is hitting with power. His HR yesterday was the kill-shot. I WAS FRICKIN WRONG!.

Chris Young? I WAS WRONG. Chase Headley? WRONG. Letting David Robertson go? WRONG. Chris Capuano? Well... hm-mm... nobody is always wrong, eh? A-Rod? Let's face it: Every Yankee fan in captivity knew he and Tex would hit if they were healthy, but they were sure to break down. Those chickens came home. Let's just see how right we are...

NEVERTHELESS... O, JUJU GODS, HEAR MY TORTURED PRAYER...

All I ask, ye kind and generous mythical figures, is one for ONE MORE STUPIDITY, one more collective grunt of ignorance, in this potentially memorable season. Make me wrong on CC Sabathia!

Make me look like Rickie Ledee trying to coax a hit against Randy Johnson. Make me swing and hurt myself. Because I - and 95 percent of the Yankiverse - now view CC as one French fry shy of a Happy Meal, with his only shot of helping this team coming out of the bullpen. But Joe intends to start him. O, please - ye imaginary Babadooks - show us up, one more time! Make us wrong again.

Help us wipe the smirks from those beery, inbred, hockey dullards to the north. There is nothing worse than coming in second to Canadians. I'd almost rather lose to Tampa, because at least you can spend the winter mocking them as "Tampons." Please, O, juju gods, I beseech you... give us one more glaring, imbecilic, Rich Kotite/Isaiah Thomas-level error of judgment. MAKE US WRONG, MAKE US WRONG, MAKE US WRONG.

Who's on first? Pick up the phone, Mr. Cashman. Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you (woo-woo-woo).

The worst thing that could happen... has happened. We've hit September with nobody to bat third or fourth. Right now, A-Rod couldn't hit water falling out of a boat. And Tex is down for two weeks, at the least. The lugnuts have snapped. The Babadook, who we always knew was under the bed, is out and about.

Who's on first? That's right. No, that's what I'm asking: Who's on first? Right...

If you held your nose and sloshed through the comments at River Ave Monday night, you'd think Greg Bird was the Second Coming of Melky Mesa. Yes, Bird crapped his cage in game one, almost single-handedly giving Boston a game they desperately sought to give us. I don't know what we can expect from the kid this season. Yankee history has many more Maases than Mattinglys. But before condemning Bird, it would be wise to look across the field at Jackie Bradely Jr., who after two dead years and countless punch lines, may be emerging. Rookies don't spring from Zeus's head fully grown. They suck, they goof up, they piss their pantaloons, and it's why old salt managers hate to stuff them into pennant races. Bird's 2 HR game seems like a 100 years ago. I bet nothing in his life can match the sensory overload of the last two weeks. He's not a failure; he's just not the answer right now. At the least, we need somebody who can save Bird from tough lefties. I'm sorry, folks, but Austin Romine isn't enough.

Mr. Cashman, it's time to visit the thrift shop with a twenty dollar bill.

This was always Cashman's gift: Picking spare parts from scrap heaps. This year, there was no open wound needing to be cheaply healed. Now... it's here.

Some will say it's too late, waiver deals are complicated, and it's hard to sneak somebody through the ranks. Those people are idiots. The Cubs yesterday got Austin Jackson. Breaking the rules is what lawyers are for. Fortunately, the Yankees outwitted Toronto by giving them first place, so the Jays cannot block a waiver deal. Meanwhile, we stopped them from adding David Robertson yesterday. (We claimed Robertson off waivers, so Chicago couldn't ship him to Toronto. And last night, by the way, the Jays' closer couldn't close. Hah! Take that, Comrade Bautista!)

Mr. Cashman, it's time to visit the recycling bin.

We have nobody else. We waived Garrett Jones, who was supposed to back up Tex: (Not complaining; he is a terrible fielder.) We replaced him with Dustin Ackley, a 2B-OF who was hitting .215 at Seattle. In Ackley's MLB career, he has started five (5) games at 1B. He made one error. He hasn't played 1B in two years. Good luck and godspeed.

Stephen Drew can play 1B. Why would we want that? Brendan Ryan can play 1B. What would be the point? A-Rod says he cannot play 1B. Let's take him at his word. Let's let A-Rod deal with hitting, considering that right now, he's not.

Somewhere out there is our three-week rental. He's probably pushing 35. He's a disappointment to everyone, including himself. He couldn't do 20 sit-ups if the fate of mankind hung in the balance. But a few years ago, he hit 25 HRs and looked like a future star. Steve Pearce? Carlos Pena? Jason Morneau? Allen Craig? Make us an offer somebody. And Mr. Cashman... PICK UP THE PHONE.

Ugly Brady, ugh, yeeuuuch, go away

Ugliest man ever.

Had to happen in Boston.

Here's to Wes Craven, who should have taught us how to deal with Fenway

I saw "The Last House on the Left" in a theater, when it first came out, and people were urged to tell themselves, "It's only a movie, only a movie, only a movie..." I sat near an old guy, who came alone. Whenever a teenager did something stupid - you know, like going down to the basement - the guy freaked. He shouted, "DON'T GO THERE! DON'T GO!" Over the years, I've wondered if that guy ever again went into a basement without thinking of that movie. Because I sure didn't.

Because of Wes Craven, there are places I can never go without that guy coming along in my head, yelling, "DON'T GO THERE, NO!"

Which is how I feel about Boston.

Nothing good comes out of a Yankee series in Fenway. If we win, we'll injure somebody or merely spark them to be more hateful and murderous. If we lose - like we did last night - it's one of those killing, PTSD-triggering losses that sits in your subconscious for the next ten years. You become the guy yelling, "DO GO THERE! NO!"

Well, Wes Craven is dead, and somewhere there needs to be a scary gravestone with R.I.P. carved below his name... just so his hand can reach up and grab us. But long ago, he stopped scaring me. I simply don't go into stranger's barns, I don't camp out on Crystal Lake, and if I hear screams from the bottom of the well, I dial 9-1-1 instead of lowering myself down there with the conveniently frayed rope. The fact is, I stopped going to horror movies in theaters. But as I get older, "Fever Pitch" with Jimmy Fallon and Drew Barrymore is becoming more terrifying than all the "Screams" combined. Rest in peace, Mr. Craven. I've got other demons to quell. Another series at Fenway. Don't go in there! DON'T GO IN THERE! 

It's Unlimited Roster Day in the Yankiverse, meaning Ackley, Refsnyder, Pirela, Ryan and Drew is now our five-man 2B rotation

Wouldn't you know it? Just as the cavalry arrives, shirts off and guns blazing - when we suddenly have second basemen than starting pitchers, old Stephen Drew gets hot and raises his average to a Ruthian .203! Yes, Stephen Drew, past two oh two, HOW DO YOU DO!

For the home stretch, we can light our cigars with second basemen. The question: Which will start in the One Game Bud Selig Market Profiting Ploy Playoff? The candidates:

Drew. The incumbent. Last night he got his fifth straight hit, opening the ninth so Girardi's Jellyfish could refuse the gift victory from Boston, our welcoming hosts. Drew continues to field well. That was never the issue. His pinch single last night was a liner into a seam in the defensive over-shift. Usually, they get caught. Drew has never adjusted to the defenses, which adjusted to him. It's still his job to lose. But a few 0-for-4 nights will send him back to .190. And I don't think we start a .190 second baseman in a one-game playoff - not against another team's ace.

Brendan Ryan. He's been platooning with Drew, and he's basically Drew without twice-a-month power. Something tells me he's most likely to lose playing time, especially if we face a tough lefty.

Dustin Ackley, the wild card of the Wild Card. He's the 27-year-old former top draft pick that Brian Cashman snagged at the deadline for Ramon Flores and Jose Ramirez, two decent prospects. No sooner did Ackley shave his trendy beard than he herniated a disk and went on the DL. (That caused us to promote the rapidly fluttering Greg "The Fidrych" Bird... last night's goat.) While Bird was crapping his cage in Boston last night, Ackley played 2B for the second straight game in Scranton. Let the record show that he made an error. Ackley bats left, so he cannot platoon with Drew. He came over as a utility OF-1B, no longer a 2B. Still, it's interesting that the Yankees DH'ed Rob Refsnyder so Ackley could play his last two games at 2B. (He's also been on fire hitting, belting 2 HRs in recent days.) The question is Ackley's back. As soon as he arrived, he tweaked it. That's either a weird coincidence - or else the guy was playing in pain. Was that why Ackley was hitting .215 in Seattle? Could he be our 2B down the stretch? It's like buying a pumpkin and expecting it to turn into coach. Still... somebody must have seen something...?

Refsnyder. Can't say much you haven't already heard from me. This is a free-Rob Refsnyder blog. Clearly, the Yankee decision makers don't think he's a MLB second baseman. There's also talk that somebody resented his attitude during his two-day stint with the Yankees, when he hit a HR that eventually won a game. Supposedly, he said girlfriend was picking out drapes for his fancy NYC apartment. Maybe that grated on Girardi, who has to drive to White Plains? I dunno. Somebody on a message board flashed a stat the other day saying that Drew in NY has hit better in August than Refsnyder did in Scranton. I still think he'll be good. I think the Yankees demoralized him by treating the guy as a yo-yo. (As they once did with Francisco Cervelli, now a linchpin to the Pirates chances.) Then again, Refsnyder better get tough, if he plans to make it in NYC. But listen: If we face a tough lefty in a one game playoff, and we know we're not going to score runs, who's our best RH hitting 2B? Gimmie a break.

Jose Pirela. Poor guy hasn't played 2B in weeks. I list him here, but he probably has as much chance at 2B as Ryan does pitching out of the bullpen. But dammit, there's one thing Pirela can do: He hits. He's hit all season. He hits, he hits, he goddamm hits. Good grief, I would sooooo much rather see him come to bat in the late innings than Brendan Ryan. And if Tex is hurt, really hurt, could Pirela play 1B? We can't go many more games with Bird still learning which fork to use on the lobster.

There you go. Five second-basemen. Five. Not one worth a month of Robby in the worst years of his career. Oh well, STEPHEN DREW, HOW DO YOU DOOOOOOOO...

Soon, the First Noel will arrive

Soon - like, any minute now - the MLB rosters will expand, unleashing upon the Yankiverse the swiftest, fastest, blurriest pinch runner since - well - Brett Gardner. Yes, I'm talking about 26-year-old Jablonski Rico Noel - aka "Rico Noel" - who, no matter what name he uses, is one frickin' fast Jablonski. 

As soon as the rosters expand, Noel will be available to join the Yankees and pinch run for A-Rod, who is one frickin' slow Jabroney. Noel is a Scranton OF the Yankees picked up a few weeks ago to help the Railriders in their heroic charge for the International League's North Division crown - yes, in 2015, that Impossible Dream season when the Governor's Cup could actually be returned to its rightful coal mine. (Although the last time it was held in Scranton, it was smashed by an over-excited Scrantonian fan. I'm not making this up. There was tomfoolery afoot in the City of Biden.)

But dammit, as much as I'd love to simply write about Scranton, this is about the Yankees drive to the 2015 Wild Card! And the name to remember is Rico Noel. Because starting probably Tuesday, Noel is going to be the guy we bring in during the late innings of a close game to pinch run for A-Rod, or Tex, or McCann, or Beltran, or any one of the leaden, slow-footed anchors in our lineup.

Check this guy out:

That's right. He's got 5 stolen bases in the last 10 games. (Eight with the Yankees, since he was picked up.) In each case, he was pinch-running. Poor guy can't hit a lick. This year, over all, he's at .181. But he's stolen 23 bases and been thrown out 5 times. 

Last year, he stole 32 bases (six throw outs.) In 2013, he stole 59 (19 CS), and in 2012, he stole 90 (with 23 CS). Yes, he was our version of Jorge Mateo, who at least is a SS.

Here's the deal: This guy isn't Dave Roberts. He might not even be Homer Bush. But with Slade Heathcott tweaking a gonad every time he pisses in the shower, Rico Noel is probably the fastest guy we've got coming off the bench with an unlimited roster. And we - more than any other team in baseball - can use a base-stealing pinch runner in the ninth. 

Imagine him coming in for A-Rod. What a difference in the make-up of an inning. Suddenly, instead of baseball's slowest runner, we have a guy who is generating pick-off attempts. And if we're facing a pitcher with a slow move, or a catcher who isn't throwing well... zoom.

Rico Noel. It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas!

Girardi channels Yogi: “A lot of times part of it is mental.”

That's what he told the Gray Lady. (No, not Meredith Marakovitz.)

“It’s important, because guys feel better about themselves,” Girardi said of the weekend. “A lot of times part of it is mental.”

Hm-mm. Girardi is a master of communication. He used to be a YES announcer, the highest pinnacle of precise, verbal analysis. He's arguably on the same level as Paul O'Neill, (that is, when O'Neill is not gorging himself on the press box buffet. How can America speak about conquering world hunger, when O'Nell in one game consumes what a third world family eats in a month?) What did Girardi mean? This being an analytical Yankee web site, devoted to pure science and the betterment of all Yankeekind... let's crunch some numbers...

"A lot of times..." - He didn't say "most of the time," just a lot. Thus, it's got to be lower than 50 percent. I'm estimating Girardi puts the starting figure at 40 percent.

"... part of it..." - Again, a qualifier. I think this has to be fewer than "a lot of times," because if it were higher, he would have said "a big part of it..." So, I'm saying 30 percent, with a margin of error of - let's say 15 percent.

So, we've got the original 40 percent, divided by the 30 percent - hm-mm, three goes into, carry the naught, hold on, where's my Texas Instruments.. wait.. OK: I got it:

Girardi believes 13 percent of baseball - give or take 15 percent - is mental.

Thirteen. Wait a minute. That's A-Rod.

Hm-mm. A-Rod barely played this weekend. If you take the 15 percent margin of error from the 13 percent part mental, that would roughly be the number of at-bats that A-Rod had. (Which I think was 2.) Is that what Girardi means? He's a complex man. A lot of times, he's partly right.

The Grandyman Can't (Believe We Went to the Moon)

Sportswriter Lindsey Adler on Twitter

Notorious pro-Redsock network found to be nest of cheating horndogs

Deadspin has found more than 100 accounts at the Ashley Madison cheat-on-your-spouse site, emanating from ESPN's corporate email.

I guess when they're not kissing Nomar Garciaparra inflatable dolls, the frat boys and sorority girls of Bristol are going on line, sniffing for poontang.

OK, Deadspin... how about checking YES? Fox News? Spike? (I'm betting the Disney Channel would have a decent yield.)