Tagged: Mets

All Alone At The Top


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I know. It’s only one day…in June. But first place is first place, and given all the injuries on this team it’s pretty satisfying for the Yankees to be where they are right now. What a game today, right? It had a little of everything – superb pitching by CC, a granny by Tex for his second homer in two days, a bunt by Swisher, an amazing catch by Gardner, a near-ejection by Posada (loved how Girardi had to clap his hand over JoPo’s mouth), another save by Mo, etc etc. What does it all mean as the Yanks head west?
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It means that with the Rays, Red Sox and Jays all playing well, we’re in for a real dogfight.
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(I decided to show kissing instead of fighting, but you get the idea.)
If A-Rod’s hip is OK and Tex gets hot and stays hot and Aceves comes back to help us out of the pen, I think we’ll be just fine. In the meantime, we’ve got Gardner. Seriously, I knew he was fast (duh) and could slap the ball around Damon style, but I never figured him to be this good. He’s hitting .312, for God’s sake. It seems as if he’s always on base and scoring a run. What a bargain he’s turned out to be.
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Right now I’m in countdown mode. It’s only six days until I’ll be at Dodger Stadium watching the Yankees in person. Michael and I will be sitting with Twitter buddy @SunnySoCal, and lots of other friendly faces will be there too, including this blog’s Yankee she-fans, Peggy and Ladyjane, and our Dodger counterparts, Cat and Emma. And, of course, it’ll be a reunion for the players with Torre and Mattingly. I’ve gotten used to seeing Joe in Dodger blue, but not Donnie. Never Donnie.
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Maybe the Yankees missed me?

I couldn’t watch the game today, but the Yankees won….So maybe they needed a break from all my moaning? I had a Cinema Society screening of the new movie “Cyrus” and a party afterwards for the directors. I really liked the movie, by the way. Ten fingers up.
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“Cyrus” is an indie comedy with Jonah Hill like you’ve never seen him before. He’s not playing a goofy slacker kid this time; he’s the seriously creepy son of Marisa Tomei. John C. Reilly is fantastic – funny and so likable. Anyhow, here’s the trailer for anyone who’s interested.
None of the stars came up from LA for the gathering, but Michael saw Oprah at the supermarket the other day (in the produce section, to be specific). Does that count?
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The second I got out of the theater, I checked the Yankees’ score on my phone and screamed when I saw Huuuuuughes had won #10 – and that Tex and Grandy had big homers. Just watched the replay of the game now. It’s a good thing I knew how it ended, because when I saw Reyes smack his two into the seats I was not happy. But it did end happily, thanks to the Joba/Mo combo. And now, onto the rubber match tomorrow. Should be a good contest.
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There’s just one thing….Jeter hurt his heel the day before? Enough with the injuries. Seriously. 

It’s Official: Yanks Suffering From Debilitating Virus

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Apparently, this virus affects otherwise healthy young men and turns them into hitters who can’t hit. It doesn’t matter if the pitcher is Jamie Moyer or Hisanori Takahashi or assorted no-name relievers. It really doesn’t. The virus causes the bats to fall asleep anywhere, any time, in any position.
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Last night the virus sufferers wasted a gem by Andy Pettitte. Tonight they ate into a brilliant performance by Javy Vazquez. The poor guy pitched his heart out and his teammates stood by and watched. Strange. Very strange. If there’s a doctor out there with any experience in curing this virus, I hope he or she will step forward before it’s too late. 
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I know, I know. It’s only May. So what?

I still don’t like losing – May or no May. In fact, this is practically my anniversary of the article I wrote in the New York Times announcing I was divorcing the Yankees after they lost a series to the Mets.
CHEERING SECTION

To Love and to Cherish for All Eternity, or Not

Published: May 27, 2007

I am no stranger to divorce. I am a two-time loser, having severed my unions with both the man I married when I was too young to know better and the man I wed when I was too work-obsessed to pay attention.

But I honestly thought I was over that particular brand of heartbreak — the accusations, the recriminations, the tears, the lonely nights, the division of property. I was determined not to put myself through another breakup, and yet I do not see any other way out. My current relationship has unraveled.

I gave it everything I have. I am sick and tired of the “I trieds” and the “What do you expect me to dos?” I’ve been begging for answers and all I have gotten are platitudes. Enough is enough.

And so I am divorcing the New York Yankees — all 25 men on the active roster, in addition to the manager, the coaches and the general manager. Oh, and the trainer, too. And, of course, the owner and all his baseball people.

The grounds for the divorce will be mental cruelty. I mean, I made a commitment to these guys, emotional and financial, and they betrayed and humiliated me by allowing the Red Sox — the Red Sox! — to run away with the division. When I think how I defended the Yankees to their legions of detractors, it hurts. It really hurts.

I was so loyal, so trusting, so willing to shell out $165 so I could buy Major League Baseball’s Extra Innings package and watch all the games from my house in California. And yet look at how they treated me. I will tell you how they treated me — as if I were a Kansas City Royals fan.

Yeah, I know. There have been injuries. A sore back. A cracked fingernail. A bone spur. A hammy. Please. I am not stupid. If a guy does not want to show up for me, he should simply say so and stop making excuses.

And yeah, there have been disruptions in routine. But again. A rainout is no reason to act all out of sorts and say, “I guess I just didn’t have good stuff.”

When, exactly, did I fall out of love with the Yankees? (To clarify: I will always love them, but I am no longer in love with them. There is too much anger, too much baggage between us now.)

Maybe it was when Cashman started spending a fortune to acquire pitchers who suddenly could not pitch, at least not in pinstripes. Vázquez. Loaiza. Contreras. Weaver. Wright. Pavano. Every time one of these guys would take the mound (or consult a surgeon), my heart would crack a little more. I kept wanting to slap Cashman, to make him feel the pain I was feeling, to strike back against what I perceived to be his abusive behavior toward me.

And do not get me started on how he breached my faith by overpaying for Clemens, a man who forced me to care about him only to leave me for Houston. It is still too raw.

Or maybe the love died when Zimmer quit and Torre had to make managerial decisions on his own. There were all those nights when Joe would call for Tanyon Sturtze in relief — so many nights that he turned that poor guy’s arm into a pretzel, the way he is doing now with Scott Proctor. There were also the nights when he would pull Mussina or Wang or whichever starter was actually pitching brilliantly and efficiently in favor of a reliever who would blow the game. (See Sturtze.)

And then there was his flip-flopping: “I won’t use Mo in the eighth”; “I have to use Mo in the eighth.” Those mixed messages can really get to a person in love. We all need to know where we stand, don’t we?

But my passion — that mad, crazy, dizzying feeling — really petered out as a result of the team’s collective offensive slump. (No, this is not about you, Jeter, although I have not forgiven you for not sticking up for A-Rod last year; and Jorge, you are not to blame, given your smoldering-hot bat.)

When I first fell in love with the Yankees, players knew how to bunt. They knew how to get runners over and get ’em in. They knew how to make productive outs. And — here is the biggie — they knew how to hit consistently and in the clutch.

Watching the current lineup flail at the ball was what finally made me decide to take action. I will pack up my Yankees T-shirts and caps and anything else I own with the interlocking N and Y and donate them to charity. I will stop checking the scores hourly. I will no longer dream about what might have been.

The truth is, I have already started to look elsewhere for satisfaction and companionship, which is how you really know a relationship is over. I have been watching the Devil Rayslately, and let me tell you: They do for me what the Yankees could not. They entertain me. They make me laugh. They put me in a good mood. They run and hit and they are young and cute. They do not win often, but they are fun!

Do you know how refreshing that is? How liberating? I am feeling frisky and free and unburdened now that I am with the Rays. (That is our little pet name.) It is not quite love. Not yet. But I am open to it.

As for the Yankees, if they suddenly start winning and somehow become not only the American League champions this season but the World Series champions, I will take that as a sign that they want me back and I will give them serious consideration. But as of right now, we are over. I am not that into them anymore.

Jane Heller is the author of 13 novels. The latest is “Some Nerve.” She lives in Sant
a Barbara, Calif., but grew up in Scarsdale, N.Y., worshiping at the cathedral in the Bronx.

The article led to my She-Fan book, which led to this blog. Fortunately, I came to my senses and got back together with the Yankees for better or worse. Still, watching tonight’s game made me remember the “worse.” Poor Yanks. They looked like this.
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Sure, they teased us with yet another late-inning comeback, but it was too little too late and the series was lost. Santana was great and CC was horrible and the offense continues not to be clutch. I really expected Girardi to shuffle the lineup, just to shake things up, but no. So here’s what I think needs to happen to get the boys back on track.
1) AJ should shove a whipped cream towel in every player’s face, just to remind them what come-from-behind wins feel like.
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2) Their traveling secretary should arrange for oxygen masks to be available during the entire charter flight to Minny.
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3) On the plane they should be forced to watch nothing but this.
Any other ideas? Besides hiring a faith healer to work on everybody who’s injured?
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Tonight’s Loss To The Mets In A Nutshell

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* The Yankees left 13 men on base and were 3-for-14 with RISP.

* Mark Teixeira is killing us with the bat, although he’s still a genius with the glove.

* Jeter isn’t a very impressive leadoff guy right now.

* Randy Winn is about as good a left fielder as I am.

* Kevin Russo, a call-up from Triple A, is our hottest hitter.

* Phil Hughes wasn’t sharp, but three runs shouldn’t have been insurmountable.

* Chan Ho Park isn’t getting people out.

* I miss Damon and Matsui.

* I sound like a yapping dog, but I can’t help it.

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Another Game, Another Casualty

Here’s the setup….Javy Vazquez pitches like the ace of the staff against the Mets and lays down two perfect bunts. He gives up one hit through six innings and his pitch count is low enough for a complete game. Here’s the punch line….Vazquez shakes his arm, is led into the dugout by the trainer, is said to have injured a finger on that last bunt and is headed for x-rays. Talk about a sick joke. HAHAHAHAHA.
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The x-rays turned out to be negative, but still. Will he miss a start? Will he pitch but have his mechanics thrown off again? Will we have to call up, oh, say, someone like him?
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Who knows. The good news is that the first installment of this year’s Subway Series went to the Yanks, but not without drama – naturally. After Joba did his job and preserved the Yankees’ slim 2-0 lead, the stage was set for Mo. Why were my hands so clammy?
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I guess they have a mind of their own (my hands, I mean). They remembered Mo’s last two outings and got nervous – with good reason, as it turned out. Did he have to give up that run, which could easily have led to more? Mo, Mo, Mo. I’d really like him to default back to his shut-them-down self – and at his earliest convenience. In the meantime, I’d like to compliment both the Yankees and Mets for making this game a quickie. I probably sound like Joe West, but it wasn’t the worst thing in the world to spend less than four hours watching baseball.
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