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So I text my buddy before the game starts: Game 114. Cano is player of the game. You know, cux 1+1= 2. Then 4."

It's so much easier (and more accurate, oddly) to base my predictions on numerical coincidences than it is to actually base expectations on statistics and historical evidence.

What a lovely game. The only downside to an afternoon delight like this one is that my hangover comes before people are even settled into happy hour. So here I am, home, chugging gatorade, looking for ibuprofen by tearing through the 8 boxes in my apartment that are still unpacked, and may very well remained unpacked for the rest of my natural existence the way things are going, and getting geared up for the night games which will serve as a comfortable backdrop for my inevitable comatose delirium.

I went to the game with Matt and Jay and Matt's friend Art. (My parents: "I don't know if I like you meeting strange boys on the internet. How do you know they're really Yankee fans?" What was her horrifying worst case scenario, I'm wondering. They're really Boston fans? So their master plan is to lure me to a Yankee game and brandish--not an impressive arsenal of torture devices--but a Trot Nixon jersey?)

None of those things happened. What DID happen was:

  • The Yankees took the game into 11 innings underneath the skies of the Bronx that looked 5 seconds away from treating us to a monsoon.

  • I'm not the only one who a little banged up today. Considering the Yanks weren't even playing the Sox, or that they didn't even get into any kind of bench clearing brawl (or even a terse word-exchange for that matter), the Yanks got the shit kicked outta them everywhere but the scoreboard.

    A-Rod got drilled so hard, I could hear it in the upper tier and I can't hear outta one ear. Jeter hurt his foot and had to be taken out of the game, after trying to limp unsuccessfully to first. Posada caught the angry end of a foul ball pretty hard and now his hand is all swoll'd up. Apparently, Mo's flirting with the infirmary too, whose arm was reportedly "cranky" this morning. (I'm probably just a little dehydrated from today, but I'm imagining Mo getting into tiff with his arm now, a la Chris Griffin and his zit.)

  • There was roughly 9,210 passed balls. I'm not kidding. Exagerrating, ok. But not kidding. I was really kind of surprised some douche with a name jersey* didn't erupt into a Bring Back Cervelli chant.

  • Chad Gaudin had his orientation seminar today, coming in for relief and then getting the W. 2 scoreless innings. Please for the love of all that is holy ditch the Troll facial hair.

  • In his last nine games, Johnny Damon has five homers and eight RBIs.

  • Cano got a whipped cream pie in the face. Seriously, AJ looks more and more intense and aggressive every time he rolls out this little ritual. And not in a Will Ferrell in Old School locker room kind of way. Like a Mama Fratelli chasing after the Goonies kind of way.

  • The Jays got 14 hits, 10 off AJ. How is this mathematically possible to score 3 runs off 14 hits? Seriously. Blows my mind.
  • AJ also K-ed 7 and threw wild thrice. I love him. He's like a tougher Steve Dalkowski, my original blog's namesake.

  • 5 relievers came in after AJ and let up zero runs. This is how good our pen's been playing: Phil Hughes' 2K, 2H outing was worrisome for a moment or two.

  • 23 Ks between the 2 teams today. Like the punctuation, seemed excessive.

  • Ramiro Pena got picked off and bobbled a grounder to short, but I still think he'll plug up the occasional empty roster spots nicely.

  • The Yanks head to the West now. I hate when they leave home. And they have to travel with all those injuries and everything. Grumble grumble. Come back soon please. I'll be halfway empty until then.

I was so excited about the win that I went home and learned how to play the song from the NBA commercial.** It didn't make me more fired up. But it's so, so, so pretty. Too bad it's wasted on professional basketball.

*"That's a cool jersey. Wish I knew who number 8 was though. OH! Berra! Cool." Die, fake jersey. Die.
** Over/under on how long my new neighbors petition to get my evicted on account of anything ranging from playing the piano in the middle of the night, to having the annoying acidy jazz song that comes on MLB EI when the game's over, running on a loop all night when I pass out on couch before tv off: 7 weeks.


  1. Anonymous said...
    Don't call him Matt, call him Boof.
    Crazy Yankee Chick said...
    Hey, Anonymous? Be more aggressive.

    I dont know how I feel about chicks calling guys by their last names, especially ones I've known for only about 17 hours.

    But then, protocol for normal male-female relations is pretty much the opposite of in my wheelhouse.

    So, you're the boss applesauce.

    Anonymous: 1, CYC: 0.
    Matt said...
    I'd just like to state, for the record, that while I had been drinking since about 11:30 AM, I was not nearly as drunk as I appear to be in that picture.
    Crazy Yankee Chick said...
    Ha, I like it, I thought it was a good picture of you guys. I kept telling Jay over and over, 'AND ITS SUCH A HARD ANGLE TO DO WELL!'

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