How do you feel about Phil Hughes on the mound in a kinda, sorta, gotta win sitchie-ation?

Right. Less said about it the better.

Curtis Granderson CF
Alex Rodriguez DH
Robinson Cano 2B
Alfonso Soriano LF
Vernon Wells RF
Mark Reynolds 1B
Eduardo Nunez 3B
J.R. Murphy C
Brendan Ryan SS

Never mind the gloom:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: Ian Beesley via MPD]

 From Awful Announcing, this sums up last night pretty well:

The Yankees loaded the bases against in the first inning as R.A. Dickey approached 30 pitches but he struck Mark Reynolds out without allowing a run. In the 2nd, Alex Rodriguez grounded out softly with runners on first and second to end the inning.

That, I’m sad to report, was as close as the Yanks came to scoring all night. A pair of solo home runs was enough for the Jays to beat a punchless Yankee team, 2-0. The only reason it doesn’t hurt more is because our nuts are still numb from getting kicked repeatedly last weekend, so what’s a few more belts?

So there’s no real shock. It’s just disheartening is all. Especially because Andy Pettitte really pitched a nice game. But we see where this is headed, don’t we?

[Photo Credit: Madein Sheffield]

There’s no cutting corners here. The Yanks have 12 games left. I figure they need to win 9 and hope for the best. My gut tells me that it’s going to be a frustrating two weeks. I hope they sweep the Jays but I don’t think they will.

Must remain positive, but I’m strugglin’ folks.

Either way, I like that the Yanks haven’t given up. I like their fight.

Tonight gives Andy.

Never mind the odds:

Curtis Granderson CF
Alex Rodriguez DH
Robinson Cano 2B
Alfonso Soriano LF
Lyle Overbay 1B
Mark Reynolds 3B
Ichiro Suzuki RF
Brendan Ryan SS
Austin Romine C

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: Arnold Newman (1941)]

Excerpted from From Black Sox to Three-Peats: A Century of Chicago’s Best Sports Writing (University of Chicago Press), edited by Ron Rapoport and featuring stories from the Chicago Tribune, the Chicago Sun-Times, the Chicago Daily News, and the Chicago Defender, among other papers. It’s an excellent collection, and this week we’ll be selecting a story every day to give you a taste. First up: Westbrook Pegler’s “The Called Shot Heard Round the World,” from the Chicago Tribune, Oct. 2, 1932.

There, in the third ball game of the World Series, at the Cubs’ ball yard on the north side yesterday, the people who had the luck to be present saw the supreme performance of the greatest artist the profession of sport has ever produced. Babe Ruth hit two home runs.

Now, Lou Gehrig also hit two home runs, and Jimmy Foxx of the Athletics or any other master mechanic of the business might have hit three or four home runs and you would have gone away with the same impression that a factory tourist receives from an hour of watching a big machine lick labels and stick them on bottles of mouthwash or pop. The machine might awe you, but would you love it?

The people who saw Babe Ruth play that ball game and hit those two home runs against the Cubs came away from the baseball plant with a spiritual memento of the most gorgeous display of humor, athletic art and championship class any performer in any of the games has ever presented.

The Babe is 38 years old, and if you don’t know that he is unable to hike as far for fly balls or stoop as nimbly as he used to for rollers coming to him through the grass, that must be just your own fault, because he would not deceive you. As an outfielder he is pretty close to his past tense, which may mean that one more year from now he will be only a pinch-hitter. He has been breaking this news all year to himself and the customers.

Why, when Bill Jurges, the human clay pigeon, hit a short fly to him there in left field and he mauled it about, trying for a shoestring catch, he came up off the turf admitting all as Jurges pulled up at second.

The old Babe stood up, straightened his cap and gesticulated vigorously toward Earl Combs in center. “Hey!” the old Babe waved, “my dogs ain’t what they used to be. Don’t hit them out to me. Hit to the young guy out there.”

The customers behind him in the bleachers were booing him when the ball game began, but they would have voted him president when it was over, and he might not be a half-bad compromise, at that. Somebody in the crowd tossed out a lemon which hit him on the leg. Now there are sensitive ball players who might have been petulant at that and some stiff-necked ones who could only ignore it, boiling inwardly. But the Babe topped the jest. With graphic gestures, old Mr. Ruth called on them for fair play. If they must hit him with missiles, would they please not hit him on the legs? The legs weren’t too good anyway. Would they just as lief hit him on the head? The head was solid and could stand it.

I am telling you that before the ball game began the Babe knew he was going to hit one or more home runs. He had smacked half a dozen balls into the right-field bleachers during his hitting practice and he knew he had the feel of the trick for the day. When his hitting practice was over he waddled over toward the Cubs’ dugout, his large abdomen jiggling in spite of his rubber corsets, and yelled at the Cubs sulking down there in the den, “Hey, muggs! You muggs are not going to see the Yankee Stadium any more this year. This World Series is going to be over Sunday afternoon. Four straight.”

He turned, rippling with the fun of it and, addressing the Chicago customers behind third base, yelled, “Did you hear what I told them over there? I told them they ain’t going back to New York. We lick ’em here, today and tomorrow.”

The Babe had been humiliating the Cubs publicly throughout the series. They were a lot of Lord Jims to him. They had had a chance to be big fellows when they did the voting on the division of the World Series pool. But for a few dollars’ gain they had completely ignored Rogers Hornsby, their manager for most of the year, who is through with baseball now apparently without much to show for his long career, and had held Mark Koenig, their part-time shortstop, to a half share. The Yankees, on the contrary, had been generous, even to ex-Yankees who were traded away months ago, to their deformed bat boy who was run over and hurt by a car early in the season, and to his substitute.

There never was such contempt shown by one antagonist for another as the Babe displayed for the Cubs, and ridicule was his medium.

In the first inning, with Earle Combs and Joe Sewell on base, he sailed his first home run into the bleachers. He hit Charlie Root’s earnest pitching with the same easy, playful swing that he had been using a few minutes before against the soft, casual service of a guinea-pig pitcher. The ball would have fallen into the street beyond the bleachers under ordinary conditions, but dropped among the patrons in the temporary seats.

The old Babe came around third base and past the Cubs’ dugout yelling comments which were unintelligible to the patrons but plainly discourteous and, pursing his lips, blew them a salute known as the Bronx cheer.

He missed a second home run in the third inning when the ball came down a few feet short of the wire screen, but the masterpiece was only deferred. He hit it in the fifth, a ball that sailed incredibly to the extreme depth of center field and dropped like a perfect mashie shot behind the barrier, long enough to clear it, but with no waste of distance.

Guy Bush, the Cubs’ pitcher, was up on the top step of the dugout, jawing back at him as he took his turn at bat this time. Bush pushed back his big ears, funneled his hands to his mouth, and yelled raspingly at the great man to upset him. The Babe laughed derisively and gestured at him. “Wait, mugg, I’m going to hit one out of the yard.” Root threw a strike past him and he held up a finger to Bush, whose ears flapped excitedly as he renewed his insults. Another strike passed him and Bush crawled almost out of the hole to extend his remarks.

The Babe held up two fingers this time. Root wasted two balls and the Babe put up two fingers on his other hand. Then, with a warning gesture of his hand to Bush, he sent him the signal for the customers to see.

“Now,” it said, “this is the one. Look!” And that one went riding in the longest home run ever hit in the park.

He licked the Chicago ball club, but he left the people laughing when he said good-bye, and it was a privilege to be present because it is not likely that the scene will ever be repeated in all its elements. Many a hitter may make two home runs, or possibly three in World Series play in years to come, but not the way Babe Ruth made these two. Nor will you ever see an artist call his shot before hitting one of the longest drives ever made on the grounds, in a World Series game, laughing and mocking the enemy with two strikes gone.

Westbrook Pegler (1884-1969) was one of America’s most widely read sportswriters during the Golden Age of Sports in the 1920s. He then turned to political reporting, for which he won a Pulitzer Prize for articles on union racketeering, and wrote columns that were reviled in many quarters for their mixture of personal invective and right-wing politics. 

During my freshman year of college there was a girl down the hall who happened to be dating one of our RAs. The RA’s birthday was coming up, and the girl — we’ll call her Caroline — had a brilliant idea for the perfect birthday gift. Since the RA — we’ll call him Neil — loved to sing, Caroline decided to make a donation to one of the campus a cappella groups, which would then allow Neil to sing a song with them. Ah, but here’s the beautiful part. Caroline chose a love song, knowing that Neil would end up serenading her in front of the entire dorm. Needless to say, it worked like a charm. So Caroline got a gift for Neil that was actually a gift for herself.

All of this came flooding back to me as I watched the Red Sox fumble their way through the pre-game ceremony meant to honor Mariano Rivera. Mo’s been getting gifts at every stop this season, so I knew there’d have to be something special at Fenway, but I had no idea the Sox could screw it up so badly. (I should’ve been paying attention; the Sox can’t do ceremony. Exhibit A: Pedro Martínez and Kevin Millar completely butcher Fenway’s 100th birthday celebration; exhibit B: Big Papi’s F-bomb during the Boston Strong ceremony.)

As the festivities began, Master of Ceremonies Dave O’Brien directed the crowd’s attention to the video board where they showed a clip of the sarcastic cheers Mariano received on opening day at Fenway Park in 2005 after blowing those two saves in the 2004 ALCS. I have to say that I’m curious to know how long it took them to come up with that angle.

“Okay, so we have to plan something for the Rivera ceremony. Any ideas?”
“Sure, why don’t we just give him something cool and talk about how great he is?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Okay, well why don’t we tie it into the Yankees-Red Sox rivalry?”
“That sounds better, what do you have in mind? Maybe Rivera’s greatest moment?”
“Yeah, I was thinking about that three-inning relief stint in the ’03 ALCS. That was wicked awesome.”
“No, that won’t do. Why don’t we tie it into one of our greatest moments? Like ’04?”
“You want to honor him by reminding him of one of his greatest failures?”
“No, I want to honor the Red Sox while we give him a cheap painting!”

I wish I could say that I’m making that up, but they really did choose that moment as the one that said the most about Rivera. To his credit, he simply smiled and played along.

But things got worse. As Dustin Pedroia presented Rivera with the #42 placard which was slid into the Fenway scoreboard each time he took the mound, O’Brien couldn’t just introduce little Pedroia, he had to sing his virtues. “Presenting that gift is another Red Sox player who, like Big Papi, might join you one day in Cooperstown, our brilliant second baseman, Dustin Pedroia.” Who was the ceremony for again?

The next gift was presented by Koji Uehara, whose brilliant 2013 season stands as a reminder of how great Rivera has been for so many years. He really said that.

The ceremony closed with a video montage. I’m not sure if it was produced by the Red Sox and shown in the park, or if it was something that ESPN put together for the viewers at home, but it was more of the same. The first clip — the very first clip of the video meant to honor Rivera — showed Dave Roberts stealing second base in that ’04 ALCS, and the next highlight was the line drive going back through the middle past Rivera, bringing home Roberts. The rest of the video focused on the Rivalry and included Pedro throwing Don Zimmer to the ground and Jason Varitek punching A-Rod in the face. You know, all the touching, emotional stuff you’d expect to see when an organization is honoring a retiring athlete.

Stay classy, Boston. Stay classy.

If you think I sound bitter about that, imagine how I felt once the game got started. When I wrote the recap for last Sunday’s game against the Red Sox, I referenced the Boston Massacre. What happened in Boston this weekend could hardly be called a massacre. It was nothing so dramatic as that. This was a slow death, a syringe in the arm, the victim left to bleed out over the course of several hours — or in this case, three days.

It wasn’t long ago that I believed the Yankees were actually better than the Red Sox. I can’t imagine how I ever thought that.

The Yankees picked up an early run in the first inning after Granderson walked, went to third on an errant pickoff attempt, and scored on Alex Rodríguez’s ground out. It was meek, but it was a run.

Fifteen minutes later, the game was over. It seems pretty clear that Ivan Nova isn’t healthy, but that’s not the way Orel Hershiser sees it. The Ol’ Bulldog believes that Nova simply isn’t trying hard enough, isn’t bearing down, isn’t emotional enough. I don’t want to stir things up, but comments like that sound an awful lot like the criticisms Latino players have been hearing for the past fifty years. But perhaps Hershiser knows better than I do. Maybe Nova simply stopped caring after being the best pitcher in the league in August.

Either way, Nova isn’t right. He was hit hard in the first inning, giving up a double to Daniel Nava, a single to Ortiz, and a homer to Mike Napoli. The score was only 3-1 and there were eight innings left to play, but the hole felt a lot deeper than it might’ve a few weeks ago.

The Yankees couldn’t do a thing against Clay Buccholz after that gifted run in the first. Buccholz was having serious trouble with his control, but the Yankees could never take advantage. The Red Sox, meanwhile, kept adding to their lead in quirky ways, one run at a time.

Jarrod Saltalamacchia was credited with a steal of home in the fourth when Brendan Ryan, the defensive specialist, dropped a throw to second on the double steal, then kicked it around long enough to allow Saltalamacchia to score. In the fifth, Nova plunked Mike Carp with the bases loaded, making it 5-1, then they scored two more in the 6th and two more in the 7th to stretch the lead to 9-1.

The Yankees scraped together a run in the ninth, but it hardly mattered. The game and the series were over. Red Sox 9, Yankees 2.

Of all the games I’ve watched this season, there is no question that this one was the most difficult. The backhanded ceremony, the irritating ESPN announcers, the dominance of the Red Sox, and the increasing possibility of a postseason without the Yankees was simply too much to take. Monday’s off-day couldn’t come at a better time, and not just for the Yankees. I could use a break, too.

Oh, and that song that Neil sang for my friend? Wouldn’t it have been fitting if he had sung “Sweet Caroline”? Thankfully, that wasn’t it. “Only You,” by Yaz. It was absolutely adorable.

[Photo Credit: Jared Wickerham/Getty Images]

Yanks got a ray of luck this afternoon when the Twins came from behind to beat Tampa. In order to avoid a catastrophic weekend, they need to stop mincing around and beat the Red Sox.

Curtis Granderson CF
Alex Rodriguez DH
Robinson Cano 2B
Alfonso Soriano LF
Lyle Overbay 1B
Mark Reynolds 3B
Ichiro Suzuki RF
Brendan Ryan SS
Chris Stewart C

Never mind the scoreboard:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Via: Colorado Democrat]

“I’ve always been a guy that’s said bend, don’t break,” C.C. Sabathia said after the game today. “I’ve been breaking a lot this year.”

Sabathia wasn’t great, Jon Lester was. Minus Lil’ Sori, the Yanks got 3 hits, while the Sox chipped away with 5 runs as the Sox beat the Yanks again.

Final Score: Red Sox 5, Yanks 1.

Boo, Hiss.

[Photo Credit: Robert Herman]

Every game is critical now, we know that. Kuroda wasn’t great last night but he was tough and he kept his team in the game. Today, the Yanks once again look to their Big Guy to come up Big.

Curtis Granderson CF
Alex Rodriguez DH
Robinson Cano 2B
Alfonso Soriano LF
Mark Reynolds 3B
Vernon Wells RF
Lyle Overbay 1B
Brendan Ryan SS
J.R. Murphy C

Never mind the Fox announcers: Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Picture by Bags]

I played high school baseball with a mountain of a kid named Burns. He was an offensive lineman, really, and he played third base for us. He was the kind of guy who struck out or hit the ball 350 feet. He wasn’t mobile in the field but he had a strong arm, the kind of guy you hated to have a catch with warming up because he threw so hard. One day during infield practice, a ground ball took a bad hop and hit Burnsie in the nuts. He remained in his crouch for a moment and then, in the same position, fell to the ground. I was at second base and it was hard not to laugh. But you had to admire his lack of fear.

I thought of Burnsie last night when Shane Victorino led off the bottom of the 7th with a screamer to third. Eduardo Nunez, no third baseman by trade, took one look at it and ducked out of the way. You couldn’t blame him but it was play he had to make. It was the last hitter that Hiroki Kuroda faced and before the inning was over the Red Sox turned a 4-4 game into an 8-4 advantage. Losing the game wasn’t Nunez’s fault, but it was a drag because after giving up 4 runs in the first and looking absolutely lost, Kuroda pitched valiantly.

The Yanks ran into some back luck, hitting the ball hard but not getting hits (having a gimpy Alex Rodriguez on the bases failing to score from first on a double in the gap by Robinson Cano), and their recent string of tough loses to the Red Sox continued. Worse than their hurt feelings was the fact that the Rays, Orioles and Indians all won.

A cruddy night for our boys, no other way to put it.

[Photo Via: MPD]

Yanks are hunting for a playoff spot; Sox are looking to fuck shit up for them.

It’s our man Hiroki.

Curtis Granderson CF
Alex Rodriguez DH
Robinson Cano 2B
Alfonso Soriano LF
Lyle Overbay 1B
Eduardo Nunez 3B
Ichiro Suzuki RF
Brendan Ryan SS
Chris Stewart C

Never mind last weekend: Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Via: The Minimalisto]

“Get me Hughes,” said the Captain.

“Is Hughes the right guy for this Cappy?” asked the Lieutenant.

“Of course not,” said the Captain and he slammed the door leaving the Lieutenant on the other side with his stupid questions.

The newspaper pressed the headline before the clerk opened the case file. The crime scene was so fresh it didn’t even stink yet. Two patrolmen waited for a detective to arrive. They stretched yellow tape around the perimeter and snuck glances at the mess inside, hoping they wouldn’t shudder and diappointing themselves when they did.

The city disgorged a heavy case load that week. All over town, things were falling apart and each detective paired up a new crime until all the dance cards were full. Well, all except for Hughes. Hughes had once been a hot-shit-detective, advancing through the academy with unprecedented talent – the test scores and the muscle to back them up. Now he was just hot-shit.

Hughes had at a desk in the back corner of the records room. If you searched his mug, you’d have to sift through equal parts Bailey’s, sugar and donut chunks before you’d find any coffee. His muscles and test scores were now buried under fat layers of failure. Everyone knew he was gone the next time the department made cuts, so everyone ignored him. Until the night the Lieutenant ran through the room yelling his name.

Hughes blinked his eyes repeatedly to wipe the fatigue away. He cracked a raw egg into his coffee mug and swallowed the whole thing in one gulp before his brain could formulate the question, “how long have I had that egg?” He felt the fat on his ribs jiggle when he belched.

He could tell the Lieutenant was eyeing him slantways as they walked upstairs to the Captain’s office. Hughes still had great instincts, especially when he directed them towards himself. The Lieutenant was thinking “why Hughes?” but didn’t have the guts to say it out loud. He didn’t have to; Hughes was thinking the same thing.

Why accept the assignment then? It occurred to Hughes to just hand the file right back to the Captain. In fact, that was what he intended to do, but when his fingertips touched the thick manilla folder, he felt a spark and a current ran up his spine. He stood taller than he had in years.

Hughes looked the Captain in the eyes so there was no misunderstanding between them. Neither man thought Hughes could do the job. But both men knew the department in and out, and while maybe one or two of the junior guys could make a go of it, Hughes was the only one that had a prayer in Hell of bringing it all the way home.

Hughes knew all the usual suspects. On the back side of that coin is that all the usual suspects knew Hughes. Whatever happened that night, it wouldn’t be a surprise. Hughes would get his man, like he had many times in the past, or the man would get Hughes. The only real question was how long it would take.

The rain didn’t make a difference. The evidence had been preserved and Hughes got to work. His tools were rusty, but the hammer still hammered and before long he had a lead. He also had support. Perhaps the rest of the department didn’t count on him anymore, but they didn’t hate the guy. And what the hell, they all wanted to close the case.

Hughes had that lead and he was going to follow it to the ends of the earth. He came to work the next day in pinstripes that mostly fit. But the Captain looked at him and he couldn’t see the muscles and the test scores. He thanked him for the lead and he handed it to Huff. Hughes didn’t even know Huff’s first name, but he understood. He went back to his desk.

Before he sat down, he grabbed his mug and went to the sink to give it a good wash.

Of course Hughes took the case. When his wife introduced him to her friends at parties, she would say “This is my husband Phil and he’s a cop.” At least that’s what she would say if anyone would marry him or invite him to a party. A bad doctor couldn’t pretend he was a shoe salesman if some poor soul walked up to him with a knife stuck between his ribs. He rolled up his sleeves and did his best. A bad cop is still a cop.

***

Rain delays suck the most on school nights. A nuclear meltdown by David Robertson in the 8th inning threatened to extend this game deep into the recesses of a responsible bed time. But after a fortunate run in the ninth to retake the lead, Mariano Rivera ended things on the happy side of midnight with a 6-5 win.

The game moved quickly enough through six innings – even though the Yankees led 4-1, Chen settled down and began striking out Yankees with alarming ease. Then in the seventh Granderson homered off Chen and that started the Orioles bullpen machine. In the bottom half of that inning, a Markakis homer off Huff got the Yankees up in arms. Joe Girardi used three pitchers to get through the seventh – including rookie Cesar Cabral facing the tying run with two outs.

David Robertson started the eighth with a three-run bulge. Machado took him deep to left and Soriano raced to the wall on a collision course with the burgeoning homer. His leap looked perfect but he hung his head as if he missed it and everybody held their breath. He popped the ball out of his glove and snatched it with his bare hand and smiled. If you weren’t laughing with him, you were probably cursing at him. Maybe both.

Michael Kay blathered about how that play had to knock the wind out of the Orioles. The Orioles tied the game four batters later and the fifth was standing on second with two outs, poised to take the lead. The big blow was Danny Valencia’s three run homer off a grooved first pitch fastball. Soriano’s antics would have played better if the O’s didn’t splatter Robertson all over the infield grass. Somehow, Robertson rebounded and found his curve ball to strike out Wieters and “preserve” the tie.

Brendan Ryan chose a good time to notch his first hit as a Yankee to lead off the ninth. Jim Johnson air-mailed second base on the subsequent bunt and the Yanks had two on with no out. Granderson also bunted and set up Alex Rodriguez for the big moment. The third pitch to Alex was short on a Little League field and bounced to fence allowing Ryan to score. I am not sad that happened, and I’m not certain Alex was going to come through, but I didn’t dread his at bat there like I did a year ago. I thought he was going to get it done.

The O’s walked Alex and got Soriano to bounce into a double play to hold the score at 6-5 for Mariano. He’s pitched a lot lately and not always well, but he was on today. He mowed through three hitters in ten pitches, many of them unhittable. Manny Machado almost broke his wrists swinging at an inside heater.

The strange night didn’t end with the ball game. Turns out the official scorer was so offended by Robertson’s performance that he refused to give him the win. He transferred the win to Mariano, which is all well and good, but if Mariano gets the win then he doesn’t get the save. Nobody should really care about that, but if in 20 years, Craig Kimbrel is breaking Mo’s record, I wonder if they will remember this one.

Rays and Indians won. The Yankees kept pace and head to Boston. Probably without Brett Gardner, who strained an oblique in the first inning. That’s not a quick heal usually, but hopefully Gardner is back out there very soon. All hands on deck and all that.

***

Hughes spent the rest of the week in those pinstripes. He watched the Captain put the file on a merry-go-round from Huff to Warren to Cabral to Robertson and of course they fucked it up. He could have told the Captain that if you keep looking you’ll find the guy that doesn’t know what he’s doing.

Luckily there was one guy in the department that could close any case, Rivera. He picked up the case where it was left for dead and meticulously put the pieces back together. He got the usual suspects to talk. How did he do it? Hughes never really knew but he suspected there was a pile of broken bats somewhere. Hughes was satisfied to be a small part of a happy ending.

Rivera walked past Hughes desk. There was no reason for him to be in the records room. “Nice suit,” said Rivera.

It’s supposed to rain for much of the night down in Baltimore so we’ll see if they get the game in or if there are delays or what. Phil Hughes gets the start. Given his luck he’ll begin the game, do ok, then it’ll be delayed for a few hours and that’ll be that for him. But if the weather holds up and if he’s given the chance to pitch uninterrupted the call here is that he’ll do just fine. I’m not predicting brilliance but I say he’ll be better than average.

Brett Gardner CF
Alex Rodriguez DH
Alfonso Soriano LF
Robinson Cano 2B
Vernon Wells RF
Eduardo Nunez 3B
Mark Reynolds 1B
Brendan Ryan SS
Chris Stewart C

Never mind the rain drops:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Painting by: Nikolai Nikanorovich Dubovskoy, Silence, 1890 ]

Our pal Emma on DJ’s 2013 season:

Derek Jeter’s near-magical ability to hit his mark in the big moment, to rise to the occasion, has been the subject of some of this century’s worst sports writing, and sparked an understandable backlash in baseball fans who got sick of hearing him slobbered over. But even those who rolled their eyes when the sports media went off on one its over-the-top paeans to Captain Clutch would concede that Derek Jeter deserved a large percentage of that slobber.

So this season — a “nightmare,” as Jeter has repeatedly called it — has been jarring, even though we all know even the most larger-than-life stars are just people, and that people age and their bodies change, and that the end of the road for athletes is rarely neat or easy.

When Jeter came off the disabled list for the second time this season on July 28 (after just a one-game return earlier in the month), he did it yet again: In the very first pitch of his very first at-bat, he homered. “He’s back!” crowed the headlines. But he wasn’t; Jeter strained his calf four days later. Determined to help the Yankees with their tantalizing playoff hopes — only one game out of a wild-card spot, going into Thursday, despite everything — he came back in late August… this time for all of 12 games.

That makes 17 total games played in this lost season. And Jeter is 39. The number of players who have performed at a high level at that age, let alone those who’ve come back from very serious injury to do so, is not very large.

[Picture via It’s About The Money]

So it’s the bottom of the 7th last night and Andy Pettitte has just thrown his 106th pitch, a breaking ball that Nate McLouth won’t chase. Then Andy’s got the ball back from Chris Stewart, glove over his face looking it at the sign, nodding. He’s in rhythm. There’s one out in the inning and it’s 2-2 on McLouth. Pettitte throws a couple of more breaking balls–one inside, another one low–nodding, in time, working. This is what he does. Might not be much longer, but this is a man at work.

McLouth doesn’t bite and draws the walk. That’s the end of Pettitte’s night. Just an inning before a double play got him out of trouble and Andy pumped his fist. He gave up a bunch of hits but kept the team in the game. A prol plying his trade.

Couple of innings later the Yanks had a two-run lead, thanks to a home run by Robinson Cano, a triple by Curtis Granderson and an infield single by Lyle Overbay. And so now here’s Mo, emptying the tank. The Yanks have been riding him hard and there’s something thrilling about watching the old guy respond. He got weak ground balls from the first two hitters, and gracefully ran to first base to cover the bag on both outs. Then, there’s this bastard McLouth again, down to his last strike again. Mo tries to backdoor him and throws the ball to the spot but McLouth guesses along with him, squares the pitch up and hits it over Brett Gardner’s head in center field.

Okay, so Mo gets ahead of Brian Roberts too. Down to the last strike. Throws a cutter high but right where Stewart wants it and Roberts is waiting, gets on top of it and drives the ball to right scoring McLouth. One run game. Manny “the Future is Now!” Machado, who could be Mo’s son is next. Mo does something we rarely see, he uses a slide step. Throws a cutter for a strike and then another one, lower, called a strike. An improbable strike, a groaner for Buck Showalter and the home team, and good fortune for the Yanks. Still with the slide step Mo throws a fastball, high and out of the zone. The kids chases it. It’s only 92 mph but he’s late.

And behind two old pros–with some help from the home runs by Cano, Alex Rodriguez and a long one by Granderson–the Yanks win, 5-4.

They’re just a game behind the Rays.

[Photo Credit: Patrick Semansky/AP]

With all the carrying on about Mariano and a lost season for Derek Jeter*, it’s easy to overlook Andy Pettitte who likely has just a handful of starts left in his fine career.

So let’s take notice of Ol’ Reliable tonight with some extra appreciation.

Brett Gardner CF
Alex Rodriguez DH
Robinson Cano 2B
Alfonso Soriano LF
Curtis Granderson RF
Mark Reynolds 3B
Lyle Overbay 1B
Brendan Ryan SS
Chris Stewart C

* Here’s a tweet from Mark Feinsand:  Cashman said Jeter is being put on the DL which will “effectively end his season.”

Never mind those Birds;

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: Bill Keane]

Tough night for Austin Romine who took a foul ball off the noggin late in the game. And we’re hoping Ivan Nova and Alex Rodriguez aren’t badly hurt too. Meanwhile, the  Yanks acquired the gifted fielder Brendan Ryan yesterday. Over at Sports on Earth Jack Moore thinks it’s the best available solution. 

When the Yanks are down to their last game then the final three outs of the season I always think, well at least they’ve got a shot, at least we can watch a few more pitches, a few more swings. It’s like when you are falling asleep and you hear things louder–everything is heightened. Well that’s the way I feel about the last three weeks of the season but in a less acute, anxious way. Every game is something to savor because soon enough it’ll be cold and all we’ll have is football and hot apple cider.

There will be no more Andy Pettitte, no more Mariano Rivera. We likely won’t see Curtis Granderson back, and who knows when we’ll see Alex Rodriguez again?

Okay, so the 2013 Yanks aren’t a great team. They could make the playoffs but nobody around here is holding their breath. Still, they’re play night and they keep us company.

Last night they made enough mistakes–an error by Eduardo Nunez, a bone-headed cutoff by Rodriguez–to lose. But then they knocked the crap out of the ball in the 8th inning–double for Rodriguez, who scored on a single by Cano (he was pulled from the game due to a tight hamstring but the injury isn’t reported to be serious), home run by Lil’ Sori (his second of the game), double by Granderson who scored on a double by Mark Reynolds. They went from trailing 4-3 to leading 7-4.

Mariano came on to get the final out in the 8th and put heads to bed–order restored!–in the 9th as the Yanks beat the Orioles, 7-5. If you can’t drink in every pitch from Rivera now, whether they are good or not, I feel for you.

And so for one night it was the Orioles who were left smarting while hope remained the thing with feathers for the Yankees. Course tonight could be different.

But that’s baseball, Suzyn…you can’t predict it.

It’s been getting late early for the Yanks for a long time now (g’head and check out the preliminary 2014 schedule if you’d like). They need to win almost every game in order to make the playoffs.

It’s Nova and you better you better you bet.

Brett Gardner CF
Alex Rodriguez 3B
Robinson Cano 2B
Alfonso Soriano LF
Curtis Granderson DH
Mark Reynolds 1B
Ichiro Suzuki RF
Eduardo Nunez SS
Chris Stewart C

Never mind stealing signs:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: Thomas Prior]

Are the Yankees moving down your radio dial? Neil Best has the story for Newsday. 

[Photo Credit: adrien toubiana via Je Suis Perdu]