"It's great to be young and a Yankee."

Win.

That was so much fun to watch! Maybe not for my neighbors, who have now been officially (or unofficially, since I don't know what differentiates the two) been introduced to the sporadic whoops and groans and staccato claps and spontaneous yeahs, characteristic of apartment 6B during the season.

The Yanks have had extra inning games already, so this wasn't the first "good game," so to speak. But you know how once in a while an unnotable will become notable based on the context? Like someone relinquishing his subway seat can be the most chivalrous gesture in the history of mankind, if you're coming off the heels of a browbeating day.

Similarly, I was real tired by the time I got home. And I wanted nothing more than to just turn on my9 and not use my brain anymore. I needed a pitchers duel, because any more runs than that would have been too much for my mind to compute. (This ability to process big numbers, however, isn't necessarily exclusive to exhausting days, so much as it is basically a hallmark of every day that I exist.)

So I came home sans work folders, avec bottle of wine and avec committed interest in dedicating my attention to nothing other than the game. Also, I came home prepared to watch an awkward mess spearheaded by Hughes and Price, both of whom I considered prodigies emeriti.

I was actually picturing something along the lines of a hockey game intermission when they have a bunch of middle schoolers play a mini scrimmage on the ice, while on dollies. (I swear I've seen this at a Ranger game more than once.) Or better yet, an episode of GUTS (do-do-do-do-you-HAVE-it).

Boy, was I am wrong! Price and Hughes, with a combined ERA that would've been allowed to go to a PG-13 movie unaccompanied by an adult, both pitched sick. (Sickly? I hate using adjectives when adverbs are called for, as much as the next person, but "pitching sickly" doesn't really get my point across.)

The point being: the pitches were stunningly on point. I was impressed. That goes for you, too, Price. Not that I REALLY care if you go the way of Oliver Perez, because, you know, you're not a Yankee so do whatever you want. But I will say that if you keep dismissing your indelible talent. And Maddon, tough love this kid, for God's sake. He's not an overweight sophomore trying on prom dresses, so comments like this probably aren't necessary:

"We don't score enough runs and he doesn't feel as good about himself. That's just how this baseball thing works."

Hey now. No one can make you feel inferior without your consent! Whatever, moving on to Hughes...

Actually, their line scores were nearly identical: 7-8IP, 5-6Ks, 0-2 BBS... both starter similarly nervous and apologetic and self-deprecating. If they were stray cats that I found and took in, I would say things like, "I bet they were kicked and abused in their last home."

The game starts out with the Yanks in a 1-0 hole because Zobrist hit a sac fly in the 1st, but Hughes held on the game. Wells picked him up (Wells!! Can't get over this) with a ribbie in the 4th to tie up the game.

Excitement!

TB pulls ahead, bleh, with Molina's single. But here's the thing I noticed during this play. Yeah, damn Tampa takes the lead, BUT Loney getting thrown at 3rd was kind of like a microcosm of the game, sort of. Meaning that, aside from the weirdly impressive pitching from the two neurotics, the thing that made this so great to watch was the whole Winston Churchhill-ness of it all.

Yeah, that is straight-up my dad's genes right there. (When I was 10 and playing little league, he said to me before every at bat, "Remember, tis far better to dare mighty things and risk failure than to live in the grey twilight that knows neither darkness nor dawn...oh, and level swing.")

This was a 2-out, behind in the count kind of game. Down by a run, Sneach gets on base, steals 2nd, makes it to 3rd on Nix's single, and then is driven home by GGBG's groundout. And in the top of the 9th with the game tied, and 2 outs, Sneach comes through again.

Drives in Cano and Pronk, and just to prove my long-standing contention that he has approximately ZERO idea of where he is, what he's doing, what team he's on, etc, at any given point, Sneach had this to say after the game:

"I just had a feeling I could make it there. It was a steal and I was just running. I didn't see where he hit the ball but I heard it, and luckily when I looked up I saw the ball in front of me."

I don't call him Sneach for nothin'.

Anyways, bottom of the 9th and Mo terrifies us by giving up a moon shot to Longoria in about .42 seconds. Damn. And also, yikes.

That's all, though. Pfft. Game over, save for Mo. Win for D-Rob. Self-esteem boost for Hughes. And more labor-intensive productivity from the Decoys.

Maddon, however, not to be outdone by, well, anything ever, brings this to the table:

Maddon's effort during the current homestand to keep his team loose Tuesday featured a cockatoo, which he had in clubhouse and later on his shoulder as he held his pregame media session. In previous games, Maddon had a DJ play music in the clubhouse and a magician do card tricks, and promised a big animal finale on Wednesday night when the homestand ends.

"Snakes are out," Maddon said. "I will not be in the clubhouse with a snake. Regardless of what people say, I'm not on board with that."

Snakes are out. Got it. You tell 'em! Let the administration know that YOU. MEAN. BIDNESS.

Or better yet, tell 'em this.

Reads like baseball Mad Libs or something. Christ, what's next, Joe? WE GET IT. You march to the beat of your own drummer. You do things YOUR WAY.



But I guess you could only play in the Trop for so long until you finally called a spade a spade and recognized the venue for what it really is, which is a big top circus tent. Girardi should respond in kind, and make a big ball pit in the bullpen.

Great win, Yankees. Thank you for that. Keep up the good work, Decoys!