Merry Christmas, from The Master and John Mellencamp

"There was an open bar, and both of us got slightly bombed!"

Columnist Phil Reisman reminisces with John and extracts a vital clue to the Brian McCann home run call.

Link

Ladies and gentlemen, 'tis the season to join The Master in joyful song

Is this what Seattle knew when it gave Cano the 10-year deal?

We're not going to make it to 2023?

Introducing a new IT IS HIGH department: Vindictive, scattershot attacks on Seattle

New Robbie teammate Logan Morrison may be a Twittaholic, redneck gay-basher. Nyah-nyah-nyah.

Omar is out

'Tis a dark day, indeed, when it is considered a dark day (indeed), because the Yankees just lost out in a bidding war to Kansas City - the city that once gave us Roger Eugene Maris for a package centered around Marv Throneberry. But these are the darkest days, (indeed) and Omar Infante will not become a Yankee.

Last week, after Robbie Cano jogged off to Walla Walla, Omar suddenly ascended to the perch of Yankiverse Hallucinatory Drug of Choice - the best 2B on the free agent market, though not exactly a brand name. Omar was 31 and coming off a great year - he hit .318, well above career - but now he's a Royal and we are a royal flush.

For the record:  I'm glad he's gone. I have a thing about Yankees named "Omar." I remember Omar "the Out-Maker" Moreno, who in 1983-84 pitted our demise under Mad King George. Simply put: Some names should never be Yankees. Toby, for example. And Rex. And Colter. Butch. Was there ever a great Yankee named Butch? No. (Wynegar and Hobson, I'm looking at you.)

But losing Omar leaves us with nobody at 2B, along with nobody, at third. If Jeet and Tex suffer setbacks - and who knows? - our entire infield will feature nobodies. New York City cannot take another season of a Luis Cruz-Alfredo Gonzalez-Eduardo Nunez- Lyle Overbay infield. The YES Network's ratings will plunge below C-SPAN. The Yankee Radio Network will be driven by Schwinn. Thus, Cashman has two options: Find some aging, scrap heap, infielder versions of Vernon Wells... or trade Brett Gardner.

Since the Cano thing came down, I've run into several Yankee fans. Each started the conversation with, "GOD, DON'T TRADE BRETT GARDNER." It's interesting how popular, almost beloved, Gardner is. It's so rare to have a homegrown Yankee, plus one who is a tough out after the 7th inning. The notion of trading him for a carpetbagger - a Rex, a Butch, a Colter - sickens us. But once the Yankees start talking about something, it's a like a heroin addict staring at a loaded hypodermic...

'Tis a dark day, indeed, when we've been reduced to watching Kansas City make off with our coveted, overpriced, middling free agent target. But here's the reality: Nobody again is going to trade us Roger Eugene Maris for Marvelous Marv. The best we can do is make sure we don't end up with a big mess of throne berries.

Yankees fear loss of Randy Levine would deal deathknell blow to organization

It's hard to imagine the Yankees without the ol' red-topped skipper, Randy Levine, and his steady hand in the till. But that's the nightmare scenario facing us on this cold winter evening.

Our President will be probed by Bud Selig for an off-hand comment in today's introduction of Jacoby Ellsbury as the Yankees' new ambassador to Massachusetts. President Levine said the Yankees would give a 10-year contract to Mike Trout, if they ever get the chance. That's tampering. And now, President Levine may have to pay the price.

Hold on, folks... I know you're upset... Try to keep it together... Just the thought of losing our President... it hurts... Never have I imagined the world without the Randy Levine red curls shouting, "I know Derek Jeter"  Now... we might lose him? How will we survive? All is lost. ALL IS LOST.

But... if he must be banned, so be it. When Bud Selig probes you, he probes you. If anyone has dirt on Randy, I know for a fact that MLB has a bank account for just such purchases. 

Line of the day

From a Deadspin article on Richie Sexson.

"He finished his career as a Yankees DH, a rite of baseball menopause for aging and overpaid sluggers."

David Adams is free to have a major league career

Yeesh. This one I honestly don't understand. In November, the Yankees gave up on David Adams, the 26-year-old 2B-3B who played in 44 scattered games last season, and for my money represented a possible stopgap at both currently vacant positions.  Today, he signed a major league contract with Cleveland.

We run around trading for middling minor league infielders like Dean Anna, while letting a gritty player like Adams walk. WTF?  Of course, the Yankees "baseball people" surely know more than we fans do, and they must have seen something to which the rest of us are deaf and blind. Adams hit only .197 in his four tours of duty last season. He didn't show them enough. This, the radar guns and video gods hath decreed.

And I would accept it, swallow the whole lumpy eggnog, if the Yankees gave these guys a chance to show what they can do. But it never happens. A kid comes up for a week, goes 2-10, and he's gone. Our organization is so bloated with aging vets that, I believe, the bloat seeps down into the farm system in psychological ways that Hal Steinbrenner's memos, or the firing of a strength coach, cannot touch. You either give youngsters a chance, or you let them die on the vine. We spent months last year letting Travis Hafner, Vernon Wells and Ichiro flounder, basically because they were done, and our "baseball people" didn't see it. 


If I thought David Adams had his chance and blew it, I wouldn't flinch at the news of him running to Cleveland. But you know what? I think the Indians signed a good player, and don't be surprised if Adams doesn't outhit whomever we have at 3B and/or 2B this season. This is a bad sign. A really bad sign.

CH-CH-CH-CHIA!

Robbie Cano, don't cha grow...

Yesterday in Seattle, Joggin' Robbie met reporters - all five of them - and announced that his feelings were hurt by the lack of love and respect from the Yankee tower of power. Somehow, I'm thinking of Randy Levine cocktail comments, or maybe his car was keyed in the lot. I dunno. When a marriage dies, who do you blame?

What's clear is that when the marriage collapses, the kids suffer. That's us, by the way. In Seattle and New York. 

Somehow, the Yankees talked themselves into believing they're better off with Jacoby Ellsbury, Carlos Beltran, et al - and no Robbie. Somehow, Seattle talked themselves into thinking a 10-year deal isn't a whole decade. And somehow, Robbie talked himself into thinking he'll be happier with a beard in a town known for rain and Windows '95. But everybody watching from a distance sees it clearly: They're all wrong. It's gonna suck. But hey, everybody gets what they deserve, eh?

Today, the Yankees are a .500 team next year, without draft picks - the kind of ineptitude normally exclusive to the Knicks. We'll spackle our holes with money, blow through Happy Hal's $189 million budget "goal," and chase the one-game Wild Card. Until we change our fundamental model - buying yesterday's stars - we are listing in the water. We might even be better off with a full 2014 meltdown, forcing a complete re-evaluation. I dunno.

The Mariners MUST win SOMETHING next year - at least get to the grand one-game Wild Card. Otherwise - well - they're Windows '95. Robbie MUST have a big year; he MUST NOT get injured. Eventually, they'll be holding the bag on a 1B/DH with warning track power and three years left to play. They MUST win next year. For a team as bad as they have been, that's a dangerous slope to climb. And all for a one-game season.

As for Robbie? He gets the beard. I hope it doesn't itch.

Walla Walla Robbie pulls his Facebook page

I'm calling this a victory for the Yankiverse.

In case you ever wondered what an upstate New York whiteout looks like

This is Route 81 north of Syracuse tonight.

I've said it many times: I've seen Baghdad during a war, and the New York State Thruway during a whiteout. Given the choice, I'd take my chances with the war.

(Make your own jokes on how this photograph fits into the Yankees' future.) 

In celebration of Joe Torre's ascention to the Hall - AND Joba Chamberlain signing with the Tigers: From The Book of Joe: JOBA

And in the summer of 2007, Joe’s staff had turned rubbery of elbow and spit.
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For it had been a six-year drought; Karsay had begotten Quantrill, who had begotten Sturtze, who had begotten Farnsworth, who had begotten Proctor, the burner of garments, who had begotten a lost generation of Scrantonites.
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And the House of George faced a year without October; for the Bostonites were the most ruthless nation on earth, and their slaughter of small markets rivaled all empires that had come before.
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And one day, Joe appeared unto Cashman, the great desk warrior, and spake:
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“O, Man of Cash, hear me!
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“We hath no wings to fly upon, for our bridge to Mariano hath fallen long ago into the sea of Randy Choate; no lead can is safe, no contest secure. Until we find a savior, our battle is lost.”
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And Cashman replied:
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“Joe, o, noble goat of scape, hear me!
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“I know of one being whose girth and growl portend the End of Days. I hath seen the Leviathan, and it is called Joba.
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“And though he be but a babe, he hath the size of a whale, the head of a manatee, and the shape of a designated hitter, and his father rolls on wheels, a tale that shall juice the tongue of every working scribe.
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“We shall summon Joba from the mines, and he shall be our bridge to heaven.”
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And for a fortnight, Cashman’s words came to pass.
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For Joba Chamberlain, son of Goose, forded the streams of mid-game to reach the fertile Valley of Mariano; and Joe’s weary army survived to another October, where pundits foresaw the House of George reclaiming its rightful throne.
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But in the first encounter, the Cleveland tribe routed Joe’s minions.
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And in the second skirmish, his army barely held an advantage, as the cock crow grew near; and so Joe called upon Joba to bring heat and vanquish the hordes.
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Then a trillion billion gazillion locusts descended upon the field of battle; and they did not devour hotdogs of concession; and they did not devour painted female Ohioites; and they did not devour the Clevelanders, who huddled safe in their bunker.
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But they devoured the Leviathan, Joba.
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And the plague covered his face, probed his anus and roamed his mind.
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And Joe’s legions were routed.
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And the House of George summoned Joe unto Tampa, where the Son of the Owner, known as Hank, spake:
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“Uh, Joe, hey, guy, yo!
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“My pop hath turned over this stuff to me, and I hath brought think to it.
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“We shalt cut thy pay. We shalt stab thy back. And next year, we shalt whack thee. Here is thy contract. Sign on the line of dots. I do not care. I gotta go smoke.”
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And Joe replied:
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“Hear me, o, cancered seedling, o Hank!
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“Behold, for the End of Days hath come sooner than you planned; and for me, it cometh now.
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“For I am the soul of Joe McCarthy, the Scooter, the Yogi and the Clipper; and I am the spirit of the Iron Horse, the Mick, the Billy and Whitey – though not in the Gary Sheffieldian sense of the word.
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“And all who read these words shall know that loss can find any team at any time; and all victory is short lived, and all success should be cherished for the way it comes and goes.
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“For champions be not purchased, but taught. And they be not expected, but celebrated; and it is over only when it is over. And, yea, it is over. Amen.”

So endeth the The Book of Joe.

In today's Rule 5 draft, the Yankee farm skeleton was picked bare - more than any other team in baseball

We've been lamenting for months the dearth of talent in the Yankee farm system. Prospects, you say? None here.

Then today's Rule 5 Draft happens, and the Yankees lose five players - that's more than any other team in the majors. Five (5) players. Boston lost just one. The Cubs, with their emphasis on youth, lost four. St. Louis - the MLB gold standard - lost three. We lost five.

We lost a RH pitcher by the name of Thomas Kahnle, whom Cashman was offering in trades last summer. I think he figured Kahnle wouldn't be protected, and they'd lose him in December. We might get the guy back. Under the rules, Colorado must keep him on the roster all season, or he returns to us. Once upon a time, San Diego drafted a young Ivan Nova from us, but he couldn't throw strikes in spring training, and he soon came back. So losing Kahnle is sort of a big nothing.

But in the minor league phase, the rules change. The players don't return. They're drafted, and they're gone. And in that second phase, the first player picked - by Houston - was a 21-year-old OF named Ravel Santana. When I saw that name, I flinched. And I bet Cashman did, too.

Not long ago, Santana was being hyped as one of the Yankees best prospects - a do-everything outfielder with a ceiling like the Sistine Chapel. Then he broke his ankle and lost 16 months. (SEE: JETER, RECOVERY TIME) He came back and then broke an arm. Growing up, the guy should have drank more milk. But he's still too young to give up, and we just did. Not whining, here. Just sayin...

The others we lost were RH pitchers Michael O'Brien, Felipe Gonzalez, and Kelvin Castro. Gonzalez and Castro were two of the last three players taken. By then, the pickings had to be slim.

So what does this mean? Be my guest. Maybe the Yankee system wasn't as dead as they say? Or maybe it wasn't - but now is. Ravel Santana: Another one bites the dust. 

New home plate rules will turn baseball into a sissy sport, like the NFL

It didn't even seem like Thanksgiving this year, what with the girlie football being offered by the NFL - America's new powder puff sport - all because a few wives claim their men can't walk the dog without ending up wandering a bus station in a brain-damaged daze. Well... boo-hoo-hoo, Mrs. Theisman!

Used to be, you could get a bead on that wide receiver as he was extending himself to catch the ball and - BINGO - turn him into a writhing grease smear on the carpet! Oh, yeah! He'd be lucky to remember his name by Tuesday. The fans loved it! Coach loved it! Everybody did! Then Obama's patty-cake machine took over. Oh, mercy me, a few guys can't operate a toaster anymore, so let's change the rules? If we don't do something, we'll soon be watching the National Touch Football League.

Dammit, I stopped watching golf after they outlawed the blocking of your opponent's drive. They eliminated the entire defensive game!

And now Mrs. Selig - the Queen Mother herself - wants MLB to stand for More Ladies in Baseball. They're eliminating the skull shattering collisions at home plate, like the lick Ol' Charlie Hustle put on Ray Fosse in the 1970 All-Star Game - the type that fans pay good money to see. And you know why? Because San Francisco poster boy Buster Posey - the most aptly named athlete since Joe Don Looney - hurt his binky on a play at home. 

Nobody in Princess Selig's book club said a word in 2008 when our Francisco boy - Francisco Cervelli went to an emergency room with his Yankee uniform on, after taking a ridiculously unnecessary shot from a career minor leaguer in an exhibition game against the Tampa Rays.  Cervelli broke his wrist, missed practically the season, and he's been jinxed ever since. (By the way, he held onto the ball, to record the out.) Joe Girardi protested. But Mad Dog Joe Maddon and the dwarfs that run the game just looked away. Only Shelley Duncan - forever a great Yankee, in my book! - gave an appropriate response, later attempting to circumcise a Rays SS with his cleats. Ahh, those were the days.

Pretty soon, I suspect they'll end chin music. By then, we'll all be watching Major League Canasta.

Visitors to Robbie Cano's Facebook page are still screaming about his Yankee photo

Continuing the celebration of Joe Torre's ascention to The Hall: From the Book of Joe...THE STORY OF DAVID

Rejoice now in the story of the quirky giant, David Wells, who in the annum 2003 inked unto print his long-awaited memoirs, and whose quill etched dark secrets from the House of George.

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According to the Book of David, his famous Game of Perfection five summers earlier, had been rendered while the called Boomer was healing from a night of grape gleanings and rank tomfoolery.

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According to the Book, his warrior team was swallowing unlawful elixirs to thicken themselves with devil-forged muscle.

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Stunned and violated by Boomer’s false testimony, the Yankees fell into fume and distemper.

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After seven days and nights, Joe appeareth unto the foam-tongued scribe and spake:

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“Hear me, o, Boomer!

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“Ye hath braked the Code of Muteness that Yanks have loved since the time of Sparky Lyle. For mere pieces of silver, ye have blown whistles and betrayed the House of George!

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“I condemn thee, I denounce thee, I rebuke thee.

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“Ye shall be fined a hundred thousand goats. And ye shall smell the stench that ye hath farted upon all who cherish silence.

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“This I do decree!”

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And so it did transpire.

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David, stoned and buttery beneath his pinstriped sackcloth, called a conference of news and spake:

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“Hear me, o, world!

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“I renounce the claim that I birthed my Game of Perfection following an eve of refrocked virgins and jello-shots of meadfire.

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“I renounce the claim that some players of game chewed vitamins of deceit to fortify themselves with counterfeit spine.

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“I renounce myself for being a bald and larded lout, a clown who hath penned bile in the hope of bedding runway vixens with my unremarkable staff.

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“O, I damn myself. I rebuke myself. All in range of my voice, know ye that I am of puke and gulp. And I am not just spaking this. I mean each word. Really. Truly. I doth. Verily. OK. Turn off thy phones of mic. Unspool thy cameras. Now. Doth thou not hear? We be endeth. Hey, you holes of ass, becalm thy fuckin-”

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And among some doubters, the winds whispered that Boomer’s new testimony was born not from self-loath, but deceit. And writers called for Joe to replace Boomer with the rising God of Eternal Potential, Jeff Weaver, son of Kaminecki.

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And for a fortnight, the bejeweled Weaver did assume Boomer’s seat within the House of George.

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Then, one day, Joe appeareth unto David and spake:

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"OK, o, listenup, Boomer, listenup!

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“I hath come to see ye as not a cancer upon the Yanks, but a delightful maker of mirth.

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“And I hath come to see Jeff Weaver being hammered each time his surfer frame ascends the mound of pitch.

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“Ye shall reassume thy place in the rotation. This I do decree!”

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And so did it transpire.

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And Boomer led the Yankees to the Flag of the League.

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And Boomer vanquished the Bostonites in a great Yank victory.

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But during the Series of the World, a bulge in David's back-cake snapped his spirit hymen. And Boomer could not hurl against the Marlins.

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And the House of George was defeated.

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And the guessings of seconds soon seeded boils upon Boomer’s supple breasts.

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And Boomer renounced his ties to the House of George.

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And he took vows as a Padre in the kingdom of San Diego.

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There, his quill would never again see censor. And there, he brought filth unto the End of his Daze.

Robbie Cano's Facebook pals are a bit angry that he hasn't yet changed his photo

Walla Walla Robbie apparently jogs while changing his Facebook page. And the fans are not "liking."

Jeter outwits Death

A few days after receiving votes in the NYC mayoral race, the Yankee captain supposedly talks a possible heart-attack victim back from the brink.

Thanks, Tex.

Our poll shows that 10 out of every 10 Yankee fans are really, REALLY angry at Robbie Cano

Imagine this scenario:

Early last week, Robbie Cano's plane went down, killing the great Yankee. The news shut down New York. Hal Steinbrenner wept on TV.  Despite brutal weather, thousands packed Yankee Stadium for a memorial service. A-Rod sat beside Bud Selig, Jeter next to Pedroia. The Yankees will retire his number 24. A plaque in Monument Park is coming. He might go straight into the Hall. God, I'm crying now, tears onto the keyboard. MAMA, SAY IT AIN'T SO, ROBBIE CANO, GONE! NOOOOOOOO...

Bear with me.

Thank you. I'm better now.

Well, Robbie Cano IS gone. Good and gone. And good riddance! And that's how the Yankiverse feels, according to the mocking poll on the left side of this site. Normally, we draw no conclusions from polls. They are parlor games. This time, I think we're onto something. The Yankiverse is seething with rage over Joggin' Robbie.

And you know what? I see no reason to apologize for my anger. Same with my support for the Master.

Some people think every team in baseball deserves an insufferable homer announcer except the Yankees. That's why we honor John Sterling with every breath. He may be nuts, but he's ours. Likewise, some people think it's OK for fans in every other city to scream and boo former players - but not Yankee fans. We're supposed to suck it up and accept it, because we sign free agents ourselves. Well, sorry, folks.

Seattle boos A-Rod hysterically, because he walked. Same with Texas. Boston will go nuts when Jacoby Ellsbury returns. All in a day's work. But do they expect Yankee fans to welcome Robbie home? We're supposed to say, "Oh well, he's got mouths to feed, he's putting bread on the table for his family, and let's show him we understand..." Sorry, folks.

Good riddance, Robbie. I'm glad he chose Seattle, because you can't get any farther away. And if he or Jay-Z thinks the Yankiverse will ever forgive, good luck on that. I think they made a huge mistake - a financial mistake - going to Seattle. But what it said about Robbie's character... and if you follow this blog, (God help you), you know it's rare that we side with management.

Actually, I think that stupid poll understates the anger we feel toward Robbie. I think you'd find 11 out of every 10 Yankee fans pissed at him.