Game thread, already, godammit

Yankee fans get to experience two wins in a row, but who closes for this team?

 Quickly now, a pop quiz... name the Yankee closer: 

1. Jonathan Loaisiga
2. Aroldis Chapman
3. Luke Bard
4. Lucas Luetge
5. Ron Marinaccio
6. Wandy Peralta
7. Lou Trivino
8. Clarke Schmidt

Ha. Fooled you. It's a trick question. The answer is 9, "none of the above." 

There is no Yankee closer, nor is there a "closer- by-committee," a "circle of trust," a preference ranking or a pecking order. There is whoever the fuck looks good - (except for Aroldis, we'll get to him.) And come October, if that situation remains, it is our certain downfall.

Last night, when Domingo German left in the seventh, the game instantly became a crap shoot, the two-run lead, a wad of Kleenex. Suddenly, we were using Marinaccio - a Scrantonian last week, and a "dead arm" last month - and Loaisiga, with an ERA over 6.00.  

But - spoiler alert - the Yankees prevailed! Two in a row, hooray! As long as our starters pitch lights out into the seventh, who knows? But come October, who will pitch the ninth? Without an answer, there's no gentle way of putting it: Yankees are fucking doomed. So, who ya gonna call?

Loaisiga. Looked good last night. Pitched to contact, and gave up pop flies. No walks.  His ERA remains around 6.00. All season, he's been dreadful. But but BUT... he's only thrown 29 innings. (Last year, 70.) If he returned to form, he's our best shot.

El Chapo. Nope. We thought he was back, then came the gruesome implosions against Tampa and Toronto. He's lost his 102-mph fastball, and he's never developed an "out" pitch to match it. Hey, he's had a great career. Maybe he can survive next year as a LOOGY. But as a closer, nope. Barring a miracle resurgence, (PEDs?) there is no way Boone would pit him in the ninth in a close playoff game. It would kill both careers.

Clay Holmes. Yeesh. What in the name of Atlee Hammaker happened to him? Best in baseball for three months, then a HR derby. Can two-weeks off restore him? (Who here doesn't think his IL designation was for mental health? When he was getting whacked, did he tell anybody that his back was hurting?) Let's hope he comes back in spring form. But MLB history is full of one-half wonders. Was he simply too good to be true?

Zack Britton. Of all candidates, this is silliest. Britton is pushing heroically to return, because a) he's a great teammate, b) he's a union leader and c) it will give him a shot at a decent contract this winter. I'm fine with that. Gotta feed his family. Think of the contract he'd demand if he became Mariano in October. But he's 34 and threw 18 innings last year, with an ERA near 6.00. They say he's near a minor league rehab assignment. I dunno. 

Scott Effross. Let the record show that, for about three games, he looked like the closer-to-be - then went bye-bye with an aching shoulder. He's also still among league leaders in games pitched. Maybe, time off will do him good. But is he a closer? Dunno.  

Greg Weissert. Now we're really into the ozone. He's a 27 year-old, 6'2, RH closer at Scranton. Eighteen saves. One problem, though: The Yankees almost never bring up closers from Scranton, the memory of Colter Bean still stinging. I include Weissert because this is a "break glass" emergency. Whomever is pitching well at Scranton, Weissert or one of Crashman's eternal collection of MLB scrap heapers, that guy will get a shot.  

Seven weeks left. We remain one a bad road trip away from having to face Tampa in a death match series. It's more than worrisome that Giancarlo says his ankle still hurts, and that Harrison Bader attempted to come back early with St. Louis - and that's why he's still in Das Boot.

Somebody must come forward. "None of the above" means doom.

Game Day Thread: We Actually Scored

 Benintendi builds a run.

The devil went up to Fifth Avenue...

 

Riffing in this one off the headline from Duque's August 5th piece, "Did Yankee fans trade the blight of the Bambino for the Curse of Cashman?

"Allow me to be the first one to offer you my heartfelt condolences."

—A member of the New York sporting press to Col. Jacob Ruppert, on the sale of the "cursed" and "notoriously unlucky" New York Yankees to Ruppert and his partner, Col. Huston. New Year's Eve, 1914-15.

The salesman ran a finger under his celluloid collar, and squinted up at the mansion. It was a weird, old Victorian pile, built far up Fifth Avenue.  He had been to plenty of such grandiose mansions before. Indeed, the very rich were a specialty of his firm.

But there was something about this one that made him squirm. 

It almost seemed more like a castle than a house—like one of those keeps that evil old robber barons used to build along the Rhine, so they could waylay unsuspecting pilgrims to the Holy Land. Built so high on Fifth Avenue that it was almost as if its owners wanted to be able to see anything coming while it was still miles away.

The whole set-up made him want to run. To move on to his next appointment, some Tammany wardheeler who was seriously considering looting the party's orphaned children's fund to keep his mistress in the style to which she would never become accustomed.

But...an assignment was an assignment. The salesman had been at his line of work long enough to know that if he missed one, the consequences would be severe—as the Boss always liked to say.

With a lump in his throat, he climbed the front stairs, and was about to ring the bell—when the enormous, carved wooden doors opened before he could touch the buzzer.  He had all he could do to stifle a gasp. Before him stood a sepulchral butler in formal livery, bowing his head and ushering him silently into a gloomy, mysterious interior—a small, sardonic smile on his face, the salesman noticed.

"I'm, uh, here to see the Colonel. About, uh—" he began, cursing to himself over how squeaky his voice sounded.

"You are expected," the butler cut him off, motioning again for him to enter.

He followed the butler into the darkness, turning his derby over and over in his hands. As his eyes became accustomed to the dark, he could see that they were passing through one room after another, stuffed with expensive jade and porcelain pieces, and colored leather wall coverings.

Somehow, in some way, it all seemed weirdly familiar.

As they went, he caught glimpses of all sorts of strange figures passing through one doorway or another—the silhouettes of beautiful women in whispering silk dresses. Huge dogs and exotic animals that almost beggared belief. He was sure he saw a jaguar pad by, then a black panther, then some sort of immense ape.

It seemed to the salesman that the whole house was extremely overheated, and after they had been walking for a few minutes, he could feel the sweat running down his back.

It was then that he realized what it all reminded him of: Home.

A trim, fastidious figure suddenly loomed out of the gloaming. A man wearing a smoking jacket and a bow tie, with a well-trimmed, ghost of a moustache over his lip. 

There was no mistaking him.

"Why, uh, hello, uh, Colonel—" he started, damning himself for his hemming and hawing again.

"Ja, Mister Scratch, is it?" the Colonel said, in a wintry voice, and a distinct German accent.

What was it about that accent? the salesman wondered. He always hated to hear it. Whenever he did, it reminded him of the salesman's greatest fear: a mark who was far too eager to buy. He wanted to run back through all those dark, terrifying passages, right now.

"Uh, actually it's Applegate.  'Scratch' is a little old-fashioned," he babbled instead. "We try to keep up with the times. All the new literature on salesmanship, you know."

"I see," the Colonel said, as if he could see indeed. All the way through to his soul. Just the way the Boss sounded. But of course he—

"Come, Mr. Applegate," the Colonel was saying. "We have a contract to draw up. Let us go into the kneipstube, where we can do it properly."

"The whosit whatsis?"

"The kneipstube. The beer-drinking room," the Colonel told him, a hint of pride leaking through. "The Tribune called it 'delightful...in imagination, a trip to the Fatherland."

"Oh, swell. What could be better?"

Inside the kneipstube, the Colonel turned to the butler and told him peremptorily, "Leave us."

The butler turned on his heel and left immediately, shutting the door to the weird little, play-tavern room behind him. The Colonel bade him to be seated, and tried to give him an inviting smile.

"Let us have a drink with our business, no? This is some of Ruppert's finest ale. I shall be most insulted if you decline."

"Sure, why not?" 

It was strictly against regulations, but the salesman had never felt so disconcerted in a client's home. Outside, somewhere in the distance, he could hear the snarls and howls of great beasts—and what sounded very much like human screams.

Ruppert poured them each a stein of the ale. It was delicious—and went straight to the salesman's head. He tried to pull himself together as he opened up his briefcase and gazed over his material for this one.

"First, you should know, that I'm authorized to let you abrogate this sale and purchase another major-league team, instead. And that team would be the Chicago Cubs, who are currently between owners. That's right: the winningest team in baseball over the past ten years! In a dynamic, up-and-coming city—"

 To his amazement, the Colonel's hooded eyes merely glazed over.

"Chicago?" he said, with a sneer in his voice. "That's too far from Broadway."

The salesman decided he needed to get tough.

"I would advise you not to be too picky here. With the war in Europe, we have more product these days than we frankly know what to do with—"

"And I am sure most of that product is going to your competitor," the Colonel said without missing a beat. "Poor, innocent boys, who died praying and thinking of their mothers. Not so many generals are dying, I notice."

The salesman was chilled to his bones—or at least their remarkable replications. This was going to be the toughest deal he had ever negotiated.

"I believe these sorts of contracts are usually written in blood, ja?" the Colonel was saying. He tapped the spigot of another wall barrel, and a viscous, red liquid that, the salesman had to admit, looked a helluva lot like blood, poured into a new stein. The Colonel dipped an elegant pen into it, and began to write.

"Boy, you must have some sore fingertips," the salesman tried to joke. The Colonel regarded him only briefly, with a sideways glance.

"I did not say it was my blood."

There was particularly lethal howl just outside the door—loud enough that it made the salesman tremble. 

"I'll just be a little longer.  Mother," the Colonel called out.

An hour later, the salesman emerged from the mansion clutching the signed contract, and shaking uncontrollably. He forced himself to look over exactly what they had just signed—difficult as that was, in its close, immaculate, German Gothic script.

"What? The greatest team ever? Through the end of this century?! How long does the old bastard think he's going to live? And a fortune for him in the bargain?!!"

He stared closer, looking at the line above, "Name of soul to be consigned." His heart nearly leapt into his mouth when he saw that there was written, quite clearly, another name—not the Colonel's.

"Why he can't do that! It's strictly against the rules!!!"

For a moment, the salesman considered forcing his way back inside the mansion. Blowing in the heavy oaken doors with a burst of sulphur, really explaining things to the Colonel. 

But then...another look at the spooky old pile made him hesitate. It was going to be hell to explain back at the home office, but he dreaded the idea of how he might get bamboozled on a second go-round. 

"All right!" he said to himself, with a few curses that literally turned the air blue.  "But after your century is over, there's going to be HELL to pay!"

He glanced at the contract one more time, concentrating on the name of the promised soul, before he shoved it into his briefcase. 

"Now how the hell am I going to find—what's the name?—'Brian Cashman'?"

Giancarlo Stanton: Employee of the Week!

YES!

He did it, folks!

They said it wasn't possible, but yesterday marked Giancarlo Stanton's 250th game missed as a Yankee! In less than five seasons!

Yes, to be sure, Giancarlo was robbed by the Covid outbreak, without which he would surely be well over 300 games missed by now.  

But let's give him some credit. As it is, Stanton has missed almost 38 percent of all Yankees games since he put on the pinstripes. AND...without missing a single model/actress to, shall we say, "pump."

You go, Giancarlo! PLEASE, GO!

Wisdom From The Road

As the Yankees enter what should prove to be the week that decides their fate, we should heed the advice I found on a marquee in Cheyenne WY, that could have been written by one of us...

Was Sunday a breakout win, or just a blip in the continuing collapse?

We'll learn tonight. It's Max "Shoulda Been a Yankee" Scherzer, and though his mere name terrifies, it's a chance to beat another ace - two straight? - and guarantee that we don't lose yet another series.

Takeaways from yesterday:

1. Maybe there is a boost from pompous Yankee pageantry. Over the years, I've found the Yankees to generally disappoint me on a) Father's Day, b) Old-Timers Day, c) my birthday and d) the annual number retirement ceremony. (Saturday, we played three 90s in the lineup at once; after numbers, should the Yankees start retiring letters of the alphabet?) Yesterday, though, the team seemed genuinely riled up. Maybe it was Boone bitch-slapping the table. Maybe it was Judge getting hit. Or maybe it was the memory of Paul O'Neill, filling the stadium with chants, more than an hour before the game.

Tonight, Yankee Stadium could house a pro-Mets crowd.

2. No win is complete without a Yankee injury. The latest is Scott Effross, our de facto closer. Shoulder stiffness. Tough break, but Crashman certainly had to know that, when he cut that deal, Effross was among MLB leaders in games thrown. Did we think he'd never tire? The Cubs had used him like a rented mule.

With Effross out, Boone surely will squeeze Ron Marinaccio until he pops. After that, who knows? A month ago, we had a wave of young arms at Scranton and Somerset. Now, we have press releases about Anthony Volpe and The Martian... 

3. Anthony Benintendi crushed that gamer HR yesterday - his fourth of the year. There is no reason why he couldn't pull a Johnny Damon and start hitting to that RF porch. Or do something. When the Yankees got him, Benintendi was hitting .320 - third in the AL. For us, he's hit just .211. 

Could yesterday be his Giambi moment? (Only days after we hoped Donaldson had his?) In a perfect world, Benintendi catches fire, hits .320 over the last month and forces the Yankees to re-sign him next winter. The guy only is 27. He could infuriate Boston fans for years. If only it could happen... (Spoiler alert: It won't.) 

4. It's great watching Oswaldo Cabrera's joyous spirit lift this team, but he played 2B mostly at Scranton, and I believe there is danger in thrusting him out there at SS in big games. Yesterday, he booted a grounder - recovered and threw out the slow-footed Alexandro Kirk - which could have been a disaster. The Yankees are playing pressure-cooker games, and Cabrera - now 3 for 19 - has started to lunge for pitches. I really like this kid. He could be our future 2B. But I don't think he's a SS, and as John Barth (literary reference ahead) once wrote, "If you think you're something you're not, it will keep you from becoming what you could be."

There. Suck on that, illiterate trolls.

Tonight, Scherzer. And who relieves the relievers?  Who saves the saver? 

Comment moderation is on

As you probably know, a troll has been harassing commenters, making this step necessary. For now we'll disable auto-moderation about an hour before games and restore it about an hour after, so we should have a pretty free flow of talk while the Yankees are actively in the process of losing. Some of us will take turns moderating comments by hand during games. I'd like the troll to know that we delete their comments without reading them. 

For Paul O'Neill Day, Hicks is back in the lineup.

 

Along with Marwin Gonzalez, Judge back in the 2 slot, and DJ hitting 4th. Uh, okay.  Makes sense...in an alternate universe, maybe.

Yanks have now lost six straight series, their most in a row since 1995.

But hey, sometimes a picture really is worth a thousand words—or sobs:

For Paul O'Neill Day, somebody better break a water cooler

Dear Mr. O'Neill,

We are seven up, eight in the loss column. 

We've been overwhelmed in our last six series, thrice by division rivals.

We have 18 games left against divisional foes: Six vs. the Rays and Redsocks, three against Toronto (after today) and Baltimore.

We cannot hit. Our stars are either hurt or ineffective. 

Our best bullpen pitcher is Ron Marinaccio, and we have begun to overuse him, as we've done with all the others.

In search of a spark, we brought up two young players from Scranton. It hasn't worked.

We face three ace pitchers before boarding the West Coast plane next week. By then, our lead in the AL East could be down to four. Four.

We are squandering one of the greatest first-halves in Yankee history. 

Boos now rain upon our players, who have lost their confidence. 

Sir... 

You know what to do.

Yours,

A friend 

"That trumps everything."

News item: Manager Aaron Boone announced that Giancarlo Stanton will play two rehab games for the Double-A, Somerset Patriots this weekend, both as a designated hitter.

"First things first, [we] want to get him in the DH spot, just get him back in, and then we'll—kind of like we did last year where we built on the run—the outfield reps, we'll hopefully make that a part at some point, but not immediately.

At the end of June, 1949, the Yanks were going up to Fenway for three-game set, their lead down to five.  The balance of power seemed about to shift. 

 

Up in his fancy hotel, Joe DiMaggio was going quietly mad.  Lying awake until five in the morning, wondering if he was done.  

Smoking endless cigarettes and sipping endless cups of coffee until his ulcers screamed.  Ignoring the steaks that Toots kept sending up to him.  Feeling guilty each time he cashed a new paycheck.  Watching baseball on the snow-drenched TV, he even convinced himself that he had lost his eye, and couldn’t tell balls from strikes anymore.  

Dr. John Bennett, the orthopedist who operated on his bone spur had told him it was “a mysterious kind of thing.”  One night, he might go to sleep and awake the next morning with no pain at all.  But day after day, the heel felt like hell to walk on, felt warm to the touch.

Then one morning, it didn’t.  Just like the doctor said: he put his foot down on the floor, and it felt fine.  The heel was cool to the touch.  

Joe snuck out with Gus Niarhos, the Yanks’ third-string catcher, and took batting practice until his hands were blistered and bloody.  He found that he could dig in again.  Niarhos hit him a few flies, and DiMag was able to haul them down with no pain.

The next day he played in the Mayor’s Trophy exhibition against the Giants.  He popped up four times, but nothing hurt.  After the game, the team left for their series in Boston.  Joe, still weak, stayed behind.

At lunch the next day, Toots Shor, told him: “You look better strikin’ out than any of those crumb-bums hittin’ the ball.”

DiMaggio hesitated.  He was not going anywhere, much less to Boston, to look foolish.  But here was a chance to show up the new manager he loathed, show up his great rival on the Sox, Ted Williams—show up his little brother, Dom, Boston’s centerfielder.

He caught the 3:15 flight to Logan Airport, arrived in the lockerroom and announced imperiously to a reporter, “Yeah, I’m going to play.”

Casey swallowed his annoyance and penciled him in fourth.  His teammates were delighted—but some of them, noticing that the Sox were starting a fast, wild rookie named Mickey McDermott whom he hadn’t seen before, cautioned him not to play.  They didn’t want DiMaggio to look bad, either.  Their fears only stoked the ferocity inside.

Across the field, the Red Sox watched him walk with a limp, noticed the special padded shoe he wore with the spike removed from the heel, and were not impressed.  One of them opined that DiMaggio wouldn’t be beating out any infield hits.

“You don’t know him,” lectured Joe McCarthy.  “You watch him the first time there’s a chance for an infield hit.  You watch how he runs.”

Up in the stands, there was a stony silence.  The Yankees’ bench, by contrast, was in fighting trim, outraged when Sox third baseman Johnny Pesky knocked Rizzuto silly trying to break up a double play.  In the eighth, DiMaggio retaliated, ploughing into Sox shortstop Vern Stephens, tumbling him head over heels.  In the ninth, the Sox still had a chance to win, but Ted Williams hit a colossal, 400-foot fly to centerfield…where Joe DiMaggio hauled it in to end the contest.

DiMag had led his team in every aspect of the game—and he was just getting warmed up.  The following day, the Sox got off to a 7-1 lead behind Ellis Kinder, one of their best pitchers.  DiMaggio brought the Yanks back with a three-run smash to deep left-center, then won it in the eighth with a two-run homer.  Casey came out of the dugout, salaaming in tribute as he crossed the plate, and this time not even the great man seemed to mind his clowning.  In the lockerroom, the Yanks were celebrating as if they’d won the World Series, Joe laughing and joking with everyone.

Early in the final, Sunday afternoon of the series, a small plane appeared over Fenway, pulling a banner that read, THE GREAT DIMAGGIO.  No one had to ask which one.  The Sox started Mel Parnell, one of the very few lefties who ever learned to pitch consistently well in Fenway Park.  It didn’t matter.  DiMaggio hit a three-run homer in the seventh to clinch a 6-3 Yankees win.  He finished with four home runs and nine ribbies on the weekend.

The Yanks would win the pennant that year by one game, famously taking the last two contests of the season from Boston at the Stadium, to come from a game back. DiMaggio was badly weakened by a bout of pneumonia in those two games, but went 3-8, with a double and a triple.  The Yanks went on to rout Brooklyn in the World Series.

"Very annoying," Stanton told Greg Joyce of the New York Post.  "It's annoying not playing in general.  But you gotta be smart, also.  That trumps everything."

The 2022 Yankees - aka "the team from Hell" - will force long term changes to this franchise.

Every night, the 2022 Yankees achieve some new historical benchmark for incontinence. Today, their lackluster hitting is being statistically compared to the 1990 team, a pitiful outfit remembered for the likes of Mel Hall, Deion Sanders and Stump Merrill. 

Since his trade to St. Louis, Jordan Montgomery has three wins: That's as many as the Yankees. 

We are witnessing the kind of sports catastrophe normally associated with Gene Mauch and/or Scott Norwood. Coupled with the rise of the Mets, I believe the "Collapse of '22" will force an end to the Brian Cashman Era. 

It simply must happen. The Yankee fan base will demand a top-down cleansing. This will not be a tremor. This will be the earthquake, the 100-year flood, the existential crisis that threatens the Yankees' legacy as the team America loves and hates. (The Dodgers could claim that spot. Or maybe the Mets.) 

Of course, Hal will still own the team. And his desire to put profits over victories will remain the biggest cause of the malaise. The Yankees have stumbled before, but this one will be different. They will see a drop in season tickets. They will see streaming channels, such as Amazon Prime and Apple TV, turn to other, more exciting teams. The crisis will grow exponentially if some West Coast owner outbids the Yankees for Aaron Judge, or if the slugger simply decides he's had enough of NY and wants to return home. Giancarlo Stanton and Gleyber Torres won't sell tickets in 2023.

If this debacle continues, Cashman will have to take the fall. Surely, he knows this. In the end, the Montgomery trade will fester around his neck like a career albatross. Someday, Harrison Bader might be a beloved Yankee, but right now, he looks like the worst deal in memory. The Yankees need hitters, and Bader will not solve that problem. (In the last 10 games, only one - the Hicks debacle against Tampa - might have been won if we'd had a decent CF.) It's uncertain if Bader can return be mid-September, and if so, he must survive the "Welcome to NY" slump that many hitters endure. Worse, some fans might boo him as a walking symbol of Cashman's hubris.  

Sunday, the team will honor Paul O'Neill, who famously smashed water coolers after tough games. If the Yankees lose another - or get, gulp, swept - who will go crazy on the dugout fixtures? Or will they just shake their heads and pack for the flight out? 

Like Albert Abreu, the Yankees are out of options. Soon, the media will start wondering who comes next, after Cashman/Boone. Surely, one name will come up: Derek Jeter. 

Once Jeter's name is floated by the big media, the alignment of the planets would be intoxicating. He represents everything that Cashman is not. If Jeter were to take over, would Don Mattingly follow as manager? 

Of course, this is just a parlor game. We are slightly more than halfway through the most excruciating August in our Yankee lifetimes. Believe it or not, we will still probably make the playoffs, but then quickly make an exit - like all the other teams built by Cashman and his algorithms: Good enough to contend, bad enough to lose. 

But I do believe the end is near for Cash. The other night, before Donaldson's HR brought a few hours of peace, the fans were chanting "Fire Boone." One of these nights, they will turn their voices to Cashman. And maybe, just maybe, they'll bring back the post-Reggie chant of "Steinbrenner Sucks." You can hear it on the wind, folks. The big one is coming. And it will bring about change. 

And now, your Buck Showalter "Moment of Bliss"

 

This week, Buck celebrates "the ability of airplanes to get people here," after watching the family of Mets call-up Brett Baty celebrate his home run in Atlanta, on Baty's first major-league at-bat. 

“When I think about not only Brett but all the people who got some joy out of it.  Especially his parents.  It’s when you love the ability of planes to get people here.  But you know, I thought about him acknowledging there, but unfortunately in today’s game you just gotta move on.  That’s the thing isn’t it?  It’s one of those things you kinda wanta go down the runway.  You know, maybe I should.”

This has been your Buck Showalter Moment of Bliss.

The Yankee miracle resurgence lasted exactly one and two-thirds of an inning

Well, that was fun, eh?

The dramatic Josh Donaldson photo. (Turns out, there IS crying in baseball.) The sparing of Aroldis. The belief that all would be okay - that the Death Barge would launch a winning streak, put Toronto in the rearview mirror, and end this cringy sense of holding a wet paper bag filled with dead kittens. 

Last night, our jubilation lasted all the way into the top of the second, when Frankie Montas - hailed by the midway barkers, Kay, Flaherty, Sterling & Waldman - walked the BJ's 9th batter, setting up  a five-run rally that every Yank fan in captivity viewed as a death blow.

Interesting, that ninth man. It was former all-star Whit Merrifield, whom Toronto secured from KC at the trade deadline. He's a 33-year-old, lifetime .285 hitter who plays everywhere. KC wanted to shed salary, and Toronto - like Houston, which grabbed Christian Vasquez and Trey Mancini at the deadline - had no problem adding to payroll. 

I'm not saying Merrifield should be a Yankee - we needed a LH bat - but he's the kind of savvied vet that the franchise - (2009 world champions!) - used to chase on July 31. This year, the goal was contractual control - in each of our acquisitions, Brian Crashman assured us of how smart the team is with charts and graphs: Check out them contracts, boys and girls! - so Food Stamps Hal Steinbrenner could maintain his precious bottom line. 

In essence, we swapped Mont for Mont - Jordan Montgomery ($6 million) for Montas ($5 million), who just spent another postgame show claiming he is not Sonny Gray.

We saved ourselves some money.  

Look... sometimes you gotta just laugh. You gotta just sit back, take a stiff shot of a name-brand cleaning fluid, and smile into the jaws of hell. This 2022 team looks like a practical joke by Ashton Kutcher. We've been Punk'd. If we live long enough, we might someday giggle over the mention of Aaron Judge's home run chase, or all those comebacks and meltdowns of Aroldis Chapman. The Yankees win a big game, and we're like Charlie Brown kicking the field goal: We think the world has changed - and all it did was spin another rotation. 

People: After all is said and done, the Earth is just a hanging curve thrown by Albert Abreu.

You gotta laugh. Last night, in the second, after Oswaldo Cabrera trapped the lead runner in a hotbox,  though a run scored, John Flaherty went on a mansplaining bender, telling us how a veteran like Montas knows the importance of yielding one run in order to forestall a big inning. This was why the Yankees obtained the wily Montas. He is a gamer, the kind of Olympian who won't wilt because one measly run scored. The Yankees had dodged a bullet. 

And then Montaz walked their ninth man, leading to four more runs. 

Damn. One of the cruelest jokes by the juju gods all season. 

Well, we have three left with Toronto. If we can win two, we can right this listing ship. We knock back Toronto and hope to split with the Mets. But he we are, once again waiting for something, someone, to save us. You gotta laugh, even with tears in our eyes. 

"There's no predicting baseball."

 

Brian Cashman slowly unwrapped an Auerbachian victory cigar and lit it up, as he watched the national media corps rush into the press room after the last night of the 2022 World Series. He said nothing, just listening to them clamor for his attention for a long minute, before he let a Cheshire-cat grin slowly spread out around his stogie.

Then he began.

"You know, putting together a champion baseball team," he said, "is a lot like putting together a jigsaw puzzle."

"Mr. Cashman! Mr. Cashman! What was the final piece???"

"I think you have to say it was getting Tots Bader."

"Do you agree that the catch he made tonight was better than the one Willie Mays made in the World Series?"

"Comparisons are odious." Cashman replied, blowing out a large, lazy smoke ring and frowning at first. Then the grin returned. "But...not even Willie Mays made catches like that three innings in a row!"

"Mr. Cashman! What do you have to say to your critics now?!"

"Everyone has a right to their own opinion. You come to the ballpark, you pay your money, you have the right to express yourself—within limits, of course."

"But it got pretty bad there, back near the end of August, when the team seemed dead in the water. All those 'Ev-il Weas-el' chants. Wasn't that over the line?"

Cashman shrugged and held his hands out, palms up.

"Look, it just shows that the fans care. And I share their frustration. It's just that sometimes they don't see the whole picture. That's my job."

"The whole jigsaw puzzle?"

"Right. I mean, we just needed everybody to get better. Once we got Giancarlo back—"

"Is it true he's dating J-Lo these days?"

"No comment. Then DJ and Rizzo. And of course, Hicksie—"

"Who nobody knew was actually playing on a broken leg."

"Right. He kept that quiet. I think some of our fans are feeling a little embarrassed about just how much they got on him, once they found that out. But he's all better now—in case you didn't catch that, watching him steal home tonight. Again!"

"Would you agree that Gleyber Torres' postseason was better than any that Derek Jeter ever had?"

"Derek Jeter? Who's that?"  

(laughter)

"No, really the big thing was getting the pitching together. A lot of people—I mean, a lot a lot a lot of people said Frankie Montas couldn't pitch outside of Oakland. I think we proved them wrong this fall. I don't know where we would've been without Effross as the closer."

"How about the games Clarke Schmidt pitched this month?"

"You know, some people wanted us to keep him up in New York, just to see him pitch a little relief. I said no. I saw the potential in him. I said, 'Take him down to Scranton, get him stretched.' Then they came back and said, 'Okay, he's stretched.' And I said, 'No, stretch him some more.' So they stretched. And I think you saw the results."

"Whose idea was it to have John Sterling manage, once Boone went down with appendicitis?"

"That was all my idea, of course."

(Sound from the back of the room of a muffled scream of protest, followed by calls of 'Security!' and the sound of truncheons hitting flesh and bone.)

(Cashman, pretending to scan the room): "Alex?"

(more laughter)

"And how about Suzyn Waldman, as the first ever, female third-base coach?"

"Here on the Yankees, we're all about supporting women breaking those glass ceilings."

"Donaldson looked dead to rights when she waved him around third in the ninth, but that throw got away."

"As we all know, Josh Donaldson is a very special ballplayer. And I'm happy to announce, we just gave him a two-year contract extension."

"What about your own future here, Mr. Cashman? Isn't your contract up?"

(Hal Steinbrenner enters, dressed in an elf costume. There is astonished laughter. Hal holds up a contract.)

"Hey, Hal, what with the get-up?" Hal smiles grimly.)

(Cashman, grinning) "Oh, that's just a little bet we had! Whattaya got for me, Hal?"

"Today, the New York Yankees would like to announce that we are offering Brian Cashman a new, six-year contract, at double his previous salary!" (pulls out a pen, hands it to Cashman) "You can sign right now, if you care to!"

(Cashman stands to embrace Hal—then sits back down)

"That is so kind of you, Hal. My people will get back to you in the morning."

"Mr. Cashman! One more question! What about Joey Gallo? How did you arrange it so that he was hitting for the Dodgers with two out in the bottom of the ninth and the bases loaded?"

"Well, as a great man once said: 'There's no predicting baseball.' Unless you're a genius!"

"Who said that, Mr. Cashman?"

"Why, I believe it was me, of course!"

(More sounds of muffled screaming and truncheons from the back of the room.)

 

It's over, done, kaput, and good riddance. (Correction)

(Editor's Note: This post has been slightly amended.)

Enough! No more! I quit! 

This team is dead to me. From now on, I'm ghosting these losers.

That 10th-inning, bases-clearing double by their No. 9 hitter... that meltdown by El Chapo... the continuing inability to hit in the clutch... nope... I'm done! I have effectively removed myself from the Yankiverse.  

When Aroldis Chapman blew last night's game, something snapped. Before another Tampa batter could step in, I clicked off the TV, installed a Parental Control block on all Yankee-keyword applications on my computer and laptop, deleted the YES app on my phone and smart TV, wiped links to all Yankee websites and sports outlets, canceled the NY Times and the local rag, then took a Louisville Slugger to the vintage AM radio that for 50 years had served as my portal into the Master & Suzyn's universe. It had been appraised at $100,000 on Antiques Roadshow, but I don't care. I'm just glad to be done with this sorry team. 

I know what you're thinking: But El Duque, shouldn't you at least have waited- DON'T 'BUT-EL-DUQUE' ME, YOU SPINELESS TOADIE. Today, I am FREE of that sorry bunch of losers. No more Hicks. No more  Gleyber. And most of all, NO MORE DONALDSON. That guy... Haha, I'm done, done, done. Trust me here, because I've been a fan all my life, and I can tell you, as sure as the sun is coming up, HE WILL NEVER, EVER, GET ANOTHER HIT FOR US. And I'm free, you hear me? Free, haahahahaha.  

You know what? I don't even know what the final score was last night, and I don't want to know. My guess is Tampa scored four or five MORE runs - the final score was probably 10-4, and I hope they rubbed it in. I hope the Rays pissed all over home plate, dancing in front of the, say, 50 fans still in attendance. 

Lemme tell you... this has been a long time coming. But for the sake of mental health, I must simply accept defeat, detach from this hell-spawned team, and move on. 

The NY Football Giants' season will soon begin! That Daniel Jones! He's amazing! I'm seeing a big year, sky's the limit! 

As for the Yan- NO, I WON'T EVEN SAY THEIR NAME. As for that soulless bunch of deadbeats, whose name I shall not speak, they can rot in hell, as far as I'm concerned. I'm free, do you hear me? FREE! HAHAHAHAHA!

Big game tonight. Hope it doesn't rain.

Say, anybody out there know  how to fix vintage AM radios? 

Will the Yankees' Collapse Bring Aaron Judge's MVP Run Down With It?

As some of you may have noticed, I've never been a big believer in this Yankees team.  Yes, blowing a 15 1/2-game lead is a disgrace I'd like to see them avoid, but...with Brian Cashman at the helm, all things are possible. Except, I guess, a World Series.

But I digress!

My main fear now is that the Yankees' collapse—just getting started, my friends—will bring down Aaron Judge's MVP prospects with it. Not sure if he's pressing too much or what—understandable, now that he's pretty much the only hitter left in the Yanks' lineup—but The Big Fella is currently 1 for his last 14, a single single, with 7 Ks, no walks, and 2 double-plays.

Unsurprisingly, sportswriters—the same Knights of the Keyboards who can't figure out a criteria on whether or not juicers should get into the Hall of Fame—have never really defined what should make an MVP.

Usually it's the player deemed (often erroneously) to be having the best season. But there's also a "winner" element attached to it. Very fewer players have made it if their team isn't even contending (looking at you, poor ol' Ralph Kiner).

It seemed that, this season, despite vociferous protests from the Sabremetricious and the salesmen at MLB, that Judge might ride to the award not only on his splendid season, but also on the Yankees' winning ways. Well, scratch that last part.

Which leaves...another crown for MLB's favorite, international road show and carny attraction? The Greatest Player What Ever Was, Period, hitting .255 as a DH and beating some second-rate team on the mound every week or so?

Hey, could be. Shohei Ohtani has now won 10, count 'em, 10 whole games. If the Yanks continue to deteriorate—and if Judge's game continues to fall apart—well, then he's no longer "a winner," and loses that claim to the MVP.

It would be a major bummer. Will it also speed his departure?

 

Meanwhile, some words of wisdom from Dillon Lawson, Yankees batting coach.

Yankees' runs per game over the first 105 games of the season: 5.4

Over the last 12: 2.75

Reaction of Dillon Lawson, as reported in today's New York Post:

“I think one of our biggest strengths the entire season has been the depth of the lineup. So right now one of our biggest strengths is no longer there. The thing right now even when we’ve got some guys missing from the lineup, we also have some guys that are in the lineup that have performed all year that are going through their first real slumps since maybe April."

So true.

“So when you get all of that put together, we just have to continue to put our head down and push forward.”

Right!

“Even when things were going right, we were always questioning the process. We were still making changes to what we would do. We were still coaching, even when things were going well. Even with Judge, with Stanton, with [Anthony] Rizzo, with DJ, still coaching them through great seasons, knowing that if it’s not right when we’re going good, it’s probably not right when we’re going bad.”

"Great seasons"?  But all right...

That mindset, Lawson added, “turns into panic or second-guessing,” so he and manager Aaron Boone have constantly preached that the Yankees can’t “rest on the fact that we were winning games.”

Uh-huh.

“Is it good baseball? Is it a good process? For us now, that gives us comfort going through this, knowing that the process is good. It allowed us to play at a high level before. It’s constantly adjusting, not to say that we’re blind to any new changes. There’s always a healthy sense of insecurity or paranoia, of ‘are we good enough?’"

Good process.  Right.

“We have to continue to get better. Continue pecking away and take steps forward, even though we believe we have the best offense in baseball.”

All righty, then. This has been your daily blather, from Yankees blather instructor, Dillon Lawson.

Estevan Florial and Oswaldo Cabrera: The Yankees are promoting two lyrical baseball names

 Estevan Florial
(Fun fact: This is his fourth try.)

Oswaldo Cabrera

(Fun fact: He wore #3 at Scranton.)

With the loss column lead down to eight, only one word describes the Yankee human condition

Go ahead, Tampa. Sweep away!  

Unleash the dogs. Ryan McBroom! Bring us closer to an end to this shitshow.

That's right, shitshow - a purely American, never more relevant, all-star word. Politics? Shitshow. Media? Shitshow. Yankees? A show of shit.

Yeah, go for it, Rays. Make it hurt. Make it insane. Make the sound of booing so loud, so earsplitting, that it echoes all the way to Tampa, where Shallow Hal counts his money.  

Why such shitty thoughts? Well, we're watching the worst Yankee collapse since 2004, and - frankly - if we blow this, it will be worse than what Boston did to us. (By the way, have you noticed; once they stopped playing a tomato can, the Redsocks are back to losing.) 

I'm serious. I can't take it any more. The Yankees are so bad - so decomposing- mayonnaise-level rancid - that they have achieved the impossible: I'm actually yearning for the NY Football Giants' season to begin. 

Let me repeat that odious, out-of-body statement:

The Yankees are so bad that I'm actually yearning for the Giants. 

Dear God, what's next? Should I become a Knicks fan? Root for the Jets? October will get lonely, folks, as only fan in Gotham not obsessed with the Mets, who tries to manufacture happy memories when Joe Namath shouts, "Call now! It's FREE!" 

Shitshow. Everywhere...

1. So, now... after all this wasted time - the 14 wasted HRs and 32 wasted SBs in Scranton - as Hicks transformed into the new Gallo, the Death Barge is said to be promoting Estevan Florial? 

Leave it to Brian Crashman: Wait until the flood before you buy the boat. Right now, could the Yanks even play Hicks without inciting a riot? And here comes poor Florial, who should have been here last month, facing a no-win conundrum. If he succeeds, he embarrasses the Yankee brain trust, a ticket to KC. If he fails, well, Crashman boasts that he told us so, Hicks rides to the rescue, and it's just another ludicrous chapter in the shitshow.

2. Clay Holmes is apparently going on the Injured List. He says his back is barking. That and his ERA. He's been terrible, sliding from all-star closer to batting practice gopher ball machine. He's needed a rest for two weeks. We'll probably promote Ron Marinaccio, who - like Florial - should have been here weeks ago. If he succeeds, we screwed up. If he fails, shitshow. 

3. Then there is Ruth Bader-Bootsberg, walking on eggshells. Insert sigh here. This is not his fault. We should not hold it against him. They say Harrison Bader vows to return in September, and a) What does that even mean?) b) The Yankees always underestimate healing times and c) In a period when we are desperate for a hitter, we're breathlessly waiting on a glove guy who bats .256 with 5 HRs. WTF have we done?

Shitshow.