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...

Close your eyes and think of this:

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

Twelve days ago, MLB pulled the plug on the Yankee injury machine spring training. Back then - winter of 2020 - the new Bond movie was coming, Biden and Bernie were still debating, and Syracuse University pinned hopes on winning the Atlantic Coast Conference tourney and stealing a ticket to March Madness.

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...

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!

The radio broadcasts of 500 baseball games from 1934-1973! All free to listen to (here) and download (here)!

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

Along with the death of thousands, the collapse of the world economy and the end of sports, this last month has been covered in vomit and soaked in pee by one burning, soul-crushing, impending outrage: 

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. 

We Can Sue !!!

A number of us lost a shit boat of money betting on Astro games which, we now know, were fixed.

Okay, be technical...fixing a game is dimensionally different than sign stealing, but not in my book.

And not in the book of some judge somewhere. 

He just made it legal for gamblers to sue the bastards....to recoup losses.

I'm not entirely clear who can sue whom, but it sounds like a bonus for 2020, assume we all live. 

The Astros need to be sent on a cruise ship to Italy.

We shall never forget !!!

They are getting a coronavirus raincoat from the fall-out.

But when life resumes, and the tanks have been removed form the streets, we shall get our revenge. 

For Yankee fans, Chris Sale's injury just brings a hollow emptiness

Yesterday, the Redsocks said Chris Sale will undergo Tommy John surgery and miss the 2020 season. In normal times, this would provoke from us crocodile tears and snake dancing. We should be popping corks and leading conga lines. Where's the party? Why don't I hear the cheers?

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.

Plague Theater: Honey West "The Swingin' Mrs. Jones"

Bevare!

Flattening the curve: A Yankee fan glossary of coronavirus terms

It's been eight days since baseball abruptly vanished. You can look it up. Eight. It seems like eight weeks. No... like eight years, like a historical period long ago, back before the surging floods took away our toilet paper. I vaguely remember awaiting daylight savings time, March Madness and the next Bond movie.The burning existential question concerned who in Tampa would win the fifth slot in our rotation. We had favorite bars and restaurants. We shook people's hands. And if they were close friends, we hugged. Remember? Eight days ago. You can look it up. 

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...

Plague Theater: "I'm Bill White!"

Submitted by I'm Bill White.

Could 2020 - the Yankees' great hope for resurgence - be a wipe-out?

Everybody's depressed. How can you not be? Right now, I'd trade the family quilt for a 24-rack of Charmin double-ply. Yesterday, roaming the grocery, I was pondering salt-bomb cans of Campbell's soup and post-doomsday Hostess Twinkies, while the store played a Muzak version of "Who'll Stop the Rain." Even for the Fates - (who are bastards, by the way) - that's a low blow. So today, I say we gin up some high-octane, slit-the-wrists, IT IS HIGH Yankee pessimism. By comparison, today's visit from god of death Wolf Blitzer will seem bubbly. 

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. 

The worst part of self-quarantines: The Yankees are probably self-injuring

Over the winter, when ball-players should be watching porn, the Yankees somehow managed to lose James Paxton, Luis Severino and Aaron Judge to injuries. I attribute this organizational knack to Jacoby Ellsbury, the master of free-time self-demolition. (Whither goest Jake, you asketh? In January, the Cubs supposedly were kicking his tires. That act probably broke three ribs, so he's probably out until 2021. Also, the Yankees lawyered up to screw him out of his $21 million, which should remind us that you don't become a billionaire by paying bills. Beyond that, I haven't heard through my one-page Google search sources. Hopefully, the Bury is home and watching porn.) 

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. 

Plague Theater: The Tammy Grimes Show

Plague Theater: My Mother The Car

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...