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

As you may have noticed, I’ve been less than reliable with the posting for the last year. My dad, the whole reason I even have this passion for baseball, was sick for the past year and half. There was this time I was home and I had just finished watching the game with my him, and I went to my computer to write the recap and he says, "What are you doing?"

And, you know, I wasn't doing anything that was more fun than hanging out with my dad, so... it wasn't a hard choice. I'd rather be hanging out with him than anything else.

My hero.

He passed away a few weeks ago, before/if/when I resume my normally scheduled recapping, I wanted to honor him with a memorial post. I wanted everyone who reads this to know how amazing the world was with him in it.

Not that anything I could ever write about him would ever truly capture the superhuman force of nature that he was, but, as my dad always said, “Never strike out looking. At least try to hit it.”

Swing away.

I used to make up reasons to call my dad because I knew that, like me, he wasn’t a phone talker. The concept of calling “just to chat” was preposterous.

So I’d call him with some ruse, like “Dad, I’m completely blanking on this. But how many cans of tomatoes do I need for sauce? And do I need crushed or diced??”

I never tired of hearing my dad teach me about things, which was only partly due to my interest in learning about whatever subject he was talking about.

The majority of my interest stemmed from the sheer joy in listening to HOW my dad taught.

It was just complete lunacy most of the time, but yet with this air of specificity that made it authoritative.

Because everything Dad did was with not just with conviction but with this mysticism and excitement, like he was letting you in on a secret.

From as far back as I can remember, sitting at the kitchen island in my childhood house, watching him cook for their annual Memorial Day party, he’d narrate his cooking process. He’d have these inexplicably specific food measurements, like “You need exactly 3 and 1/3 sticks of celery CUT LONG WAYS. If you can’t cut it long ways, don’t bother making it.”

And then other times the measurements would be wildly vague, like: “All this says is ‘garlic.’ How much garlic does that mean?”

And he’d look at me like I just asked if we could rent a llama for the weekend, and say, “What do you mean, how much does it mean? It means all the garlic in the house.”

A few years ago, my sister Lauren got me a cell phone case for Christmas. I remember sitting in the living room with her and dad, as I tried slipping the plastic cover on my Blackberry only to discover it wasn’t fitting.

I was just about to ask if it was for the right model when Dad had already grabbed the phone and cover from my lap. “Here, I’ll do it. Let me take care of this.”

(As if he was privy to some insider info on the mechanics of cell phone accessories.)

But that’s the thing about my dad. He never let a lack of knowledge on a subject keep him from plowing ahead.

So he fiddles with it, sighing laboriously every now and then, over the distinct sound of plastic cracking…as he wrestled with the Blackberry and the now obviously wrong size cover. Finally he tossed it on the couch and announced, “Well, it doesn’t fit. That's the end of it.”

And that’s another thing about my dad. He is, in every sense of the phrase, the be all and end all. Nothing is over until my dad gives an official ruling that it’s impossible.

The concept of “impossible” wasn’t something my dad readily acknowledged, though. And I don’t mean in a sweaty determination, Nike-commercial kind of way. I mean it in a if-he-couldn’t-do-it, it-wasn’t-something-worth-doing-and-maybe-didn't-actually-even-exist-in-the-first-place kind of way.

For example, once when we had plans to get dinner, he decided that he couldn’t wait til our 6pm reservation, and wanted to eat at 4.

(The only time my dad ever entertained a modicum of patience was when he played poker. Beyond that, it was strictly, "Ok, ok, what's the bottom line, hurry it up here.")

So, ignoring our protests that restaurants typically aren’t open that early for dinner, he’s storming up and down the streets of Chelsea, and says, “Ok, what about that place?”

“Uhh… is it open?”

“Hmpf. Well, forget it. If it’s not open, I’m not gonna eat there.”

You tell ‘em, Dad.

So, yeah, trying to pinpoint the quintessence of Dad is like trying to drive a nail through a tomato seed.

As my mom would say, “He’s a very complex person.”

Yes and no.

"Yes" in the sense that every time you think you had reached the limits of his character traits and interests, you’d find out something else. And "no" in the sense that when it came down to it, my dad could be boiled down to the fact that my dad just didn’t have limits period.

You could say that my dad’s done it all, but I can think of one think he’s never done, and that is utter the phrase: “Ok, let’s not go overboard.”

Excess was in his nature. It defined him. I once called him and asked how his day was, and he pauses for a moment, then happily replies, “It was great! I made 8 meatballs. I ate them all.”

That. That may be the essence of my dad. He ate them all. Whether it was meatballs, or life, he never left anything on the plate. He devoured everything. He wanted to meet the new adventure and had no interest in leaving anything untouched.

He loved everything and didn’t believe in just having a lukewarm affair with any interest. Whether it was food, his family, life, school, or his work. Sometimes you could look at it as “going the extra mile.” Other times you could say it was “taking it one step too far.” It went both ways.

Like how he wouldn’t just write my name on my lunch bag like everyone else in middle school. He would draw cartoon sketches of monsters. He didn’t just staple my book reports together. He spiral bound them with a clear plastic cover and thick paper stock sheets.

He sent me mail every day when I was in sleepaway camp, and they were typed missives riddled with SAT words that I needed a dictionary to decipher: “Hey, does anyone in this cabin know what a pleth-OR-a of opportunities means?”

His intellect was unlike any other. He was accepted to college when he was 15, and was one of those math prodigies that just looked at numbers and it made sense.

(Which must have made it maddening for him to live with 4 women who’d sit around and say things like, “I mean, what the heck is an imaginary number anyway? I mean, it’s not like I can submit gibberish to a professor and say Oh it’s cool, it’s an imaginary word.”)

To truly understand the extent of his larger-than-life existence, you must first understand what he had to endure in the last 2 years of his life. He developed a rare, fatal brain tumor that’s untreatable, that literally takes over your entire brain and infects every area.

And yet he was still smarter than all of us, still answered every Jeopardy question, still did our taxes, still cracked jokes, still fought for everything.

He suffered a disease that took away everything that was important to him. But it never took his spirit. If it were me, I would have honestly tossed in the towel after 3 months of this, tops. But my dad never gave up. He never let the disease beat him. He outlasted it, as far as I’m concerned. My dad won, as he always did, because he never let it beat him.

I was thinking the other day of this time maybe 2 months ago when my dad was lying in bed and I was sitting in the arm chair next to him, and he turned to me and said, “Kristen, I need you to do something for me.” So of course I say “What is it?? Anything."

I’m sitting there on the edge of my seat, waiting for the substantive and profound favor, and he says, “I need you to look up the poker schedules at Foxwoods for this weekend.”

He was just That. Amazing. It was just a few months ago my mom called and said, “We’re at Foxwoods. Your father just called, he’s in the poker tournament finals. I just went to this table to bring him a Snickers bar, and he’s hanging out with James Woods.”

Every day with my dad was like MadLibs.

(He came in 8th in a tournament of 500, by the way.)

He never let anything get in his way of his love of life and laughing. Nothing. When he was sick and the hospital attendants would come in and scan his hospital bracelet, he’d say, “Ooh wait I have a coupon for that!” My dad got thrown every insidious blow in existence, and he never lost himself. He was undaunted, and unafraid. Throughout all of it, he was still Dad.

He underwent 2 brain surgeries, each time they warned us he might not be able to speak when he woke. And after the first one? I walked into the recovery room and there he was with a bandage wrapped around his head, and he opened his eyes and said, “Kris, just because I’m here doesn’t mean I can’t take care of you, ok? I’ll always be able to take care of you.”

That’s the first thing he thought of when he woke up from brain surgery. His first thought and first concern was that his children knew he would always be there for them. He lived his life like that, and everything he has ever done or said in the 34 years I was blessed to have him in my life, was a testament to his overwhelming devotion to his family.

I spent this past New Year’s Eve with my parents, and my mom told Dad that my sister's boyfriend was planning on proposing that night. My dad’s response? To hoist himself out of his chair and start dancing. He says, in all seriousness, “Ok, we gotta start practicing our dance moves now. I don’t want you guys embarrassing yourselves at the wedding, so let me teach you a few moves.”

He just was so proud of all of us. He was so proud of being a family. At his memorial service this past weekend, it was a full house, and friends from all walks of life came up to me and said the same thing: “Your father never stopped talking about you and your sisters and your mother. He never stopped bragging about you. Ever.”

Everything we did, in his eyes, was gold. I remember when my youngest sister was on the diving team when she was 8, and she was one of 2 kids in her age group at the diving meet. My dad spent the next month proudly announcing to anyone who would listen, “This one right here? Came in 2nd in the County Championship.”

He came to every. Single. Softball game. Never missed a game. He’d sit in the bleachers and when my crazy softball coach was giving me signs, I’d look over to my dad to see if he’d confirm or reject the sign.

More often than not it was the latter, and while this did not make me popular with my coach, I always followed my dad’s signals. Because he was always right. He never steered me wrong. He just got me. He was my best friend in the world.

I remember a time when I was in the throes of an ungodly horrendous day at work. Not just one of those cranky “work sucks” days. But a crying-outside-by-the-side-of-the-building day.

The phone rings, and it’s my dad, who never really called, mostly because he didn’t know how to use his cell phone, and he says, “Hey Kris! I’m at the Yankees spring training game, and I was just thinking about you and how much I wish you were here.”

To use a line from our shared favorite book:

Franny & Zooey. Me and my dad's favorite book.

He just knew when to call. When I’d be watching a Yankee game and it would get to the point where you start thinking in your head how many grand slams it would take for the Yankees to be back in the game, and just as my panic would reach a fever pitch, the phone would ring, and it’d be my dad saying the same thing: “Kris, you’re not watching the game, right? It’s a rerun. I already saw this game, and the Yankees end up coming back in the 8th and winning it, so don’t worry.” And I wouldn’t.

My dad basically mastered life. He just got it.

It was like he had figured it all out and then thought “well, what do I do now?”

And the answer to that was: everything. He did everything. And he loved how great it all was. Once he made his own turkey salad and he makes us both a sandwich and we’re sitting on the porch in Long Beach about to eat lunch and life was good.

And my dad takes a bite of his sandwich and says to no one in particular really, almost talking to the sandwich even, “Wow. I am so good at things.” And he was. He was good at everything. You couldn’t compete with Dad, which was ironically all Dad ever really wanted to do.

He went on vacation to Block Island and manages to find the one dive bar in town, marches in and announces, “I want to play pool, but I only want to play whoever is the best one here.” Dad only dealt with the superlative.

Just hanging out in the backyard.

He was the father you brag about. He was the one who was always ready with a magic trick. He was the one who makes the impossible pool shot, the one who wins not one but 2 super bowl pools.

When the Yankees would find themselves in a bases loaded, 2-out, close and late situation, and the announcers would invariably say, “So, who do you want to see up right now?”, my answer would always be the same: My dad. Without question.

A day will never go by where I won’t think, “Oh, I gotta call my dad and tell him about this.” I thought it during the memorial service, how I couldn’t wait to tell him about how many people came.

I will never get past losing him, just as he never got past the death of his own father. In an email he sent me a few years ago, he wrote:

In December of 1980, about three months before you were born, I had a talk with my father. He was sick and wanted to talk to me. Similar to my current condition, he had suffered a heart attack and a mini stroke. Now many years later, I realize that he knew that he would not be with us much longer. In fact, he died a month later in January. He said that family trumps all things. He said that it was only when we have the experience of age that we realize this. It was his wish that absolutely nothing should ever come between Uncle Joe, Uncle Anthony and me. I feel that my father's wish is now my wish for you, Lauren and Amy. 

He gave himself to everything and everyone, but the most important thing he gave me, by far, was his golden rule. Family above all. He adored me, my sisters, and my mom with every fiber of his being.

He looked at my mom like the sun rose and set for her, and if he were here right now, he would be saying the same thing he said every time he went out with her: “Your mother was the prettiest woman there.” His love for us was truly endless, and that will never leave me.

My dad is invincible in this way. Nothing will ever take away everything he was and everything he meant to the people whose lives he’s changed. He was loyal, funny... I just idolized him. He was my favorite person in the world.

Everything I am I owe to him. He made me better than I ever could have made myself. So despite the hole in my heart, there’s an even more profound emotion eclipsing my feelings of grief.

And that’s my feeling that I’m lucky.

I’m lucky to have had him in my life. I got to know him, I got to have him as a father, as a role model. No matter what blows the world may deal, I can feel nothing but fortunate for the fact that I got to live in my dad’s magical world.

I would give anything to have him back, to be able to make another one of my fake-excuse calls, to ask him what kind of syrup is needed for a proper egg cream, or how much breadcrumbs to put in my meatballs.

After I confessed this to my mom last week, how so many of my calls to him were thinly veiled excuses just to talk to him, my mom says, “You know what? He used to do the same thing with you.”

Loss

Sweet Christ. I kind of thought I’d have a little bit of buffer time before one of These Games came into the mix.

Like, “Oh yeah, you’re the new copywriter, right? Ok today is just gonna be orientation-type stuff, setting up your password, IT policy, etc. Tomorrow, you’re going to be the Key Note Speaker at ASCO. Sound good? Great! Here’s my extension if you need anything.”

That’s sort of like what just happened. ROARRR. Where do I even begin with this one? You know what? This is exactly why bulleted lists came into mainstream play.

(Are you allowed to say that anymore? Seriously, take note: it’s going to be a situation like this. Or this. Pretty soon, my beloved bulleted lists are going to become “M-dashed-Lists.”)

Til then, giddy up:

• This game started at 7, and social was fueled by the rampant Yo Momma-esque jokes (“Yo, this Yankee game so old, it’s social security is ONE. WHAT WHAT!” “Yo, this game so long, there’s some automated woman’s voice blaring an estimated hold time.” I’m fairly confident it was only yesterday that I was extolling the virtue of the expedited pitch rule. 

Ah, little did I know that the expedited pitch rule is only a thing if the delays of game are related to the pitcher. Not, for example, related to the lights on the façade that just went out mid game. How does that even happen?

• No offense, Crew Over There, but lightbulbs going out mid-game is probably someone’s fault. My dad never believed in getting mad at a situation. If something makes you mad, there is a human being‘s choices behind it. Thus, you should direct rage at said person. FIND THE LIGHTBULB MISCREANT THAT ADDED 16 MINUTES TO THE GAME. NOW.

• Which leads me to my next point: you’d think I’d be all enraged at this game, but here’s this thing: I’m NOT. At first I thought it was because I was so tired, but then I realized it was because it was sort of the same way I felt, minus the exuberance, after the Giants lost to the Pats on December 28, 2007 (35-38).

It was fought tooth and nail every second of the game, for no reason other than to prove a point. The Giants could have rested, they already were in the playoffs, the game wasn’t going to decide anything.

Similarly, the Yanks could have gone the sensible route and remembered that they have a game in less than half a day, and maybe they don’t want to deplete everyone. No, they fought.

• They lost, and I hate losing, but they didn’t go down without a fight. If this was a 48 Hours Episode, Keith Morrison would be interviewing a detective who would be saying, “No, no, yeah, this one was a fighter. She fought for her life, and that’s why we got the DNA under her fingernails to nab the guy.” 

I think we got the Sux skin cells under our fingernails.

In terms of game recap, in the conventional sense of the word “recap,”…uh..

• Well, the Yanks were down by 3.

• Then they scored 2. Headly tied it up with a homerun (what a lovely creature this one is. Odd, but lovely). Ortiz juiced out one to make it 4-3, and it took forever because he never moves out of the batter’s box after a bomb, until he counts in his head “one Mississippi, two Mississippi.” 

• But lo, then Tex goes deep to tie it up at 4 (and people were realllly excited about the fact it was his BIRTHDAY and he hit a HOMERUN! On his BIRTHDAY! Of all days!) 4-4 game, until Pablo Sandoval’s supreme lack of metabolism drives in Pedroia in the 18th. 

• Only for the Yank’s to come back with Beltran (who I’m pretty sure wasn’t in the game when I was first watching it, but that was nearly 10 hours ago at this point, so who knows. 

• All of a sudden it was like he was the only person ever at-bat, and all he did was this.

• But then he drove in a run, and the game is tied once again, and it’s the 19th inning, and it reached the point in the night when I realized that there weren’t going to be enough hours in between going to sleep and waking up that would make going to sleep a worthwhile endeavor. 

• Mookie Betts hits the game winner for the Sux, and the Yanks can’t cobble anything together in the bottom of the 19th. Game over. At 2:16am. But here’s the thing: the game was nip and tuck or whatever, but it 100% did not have to be. For either side. 

• I’m happy the Yanks raged against the dying of the light (literally and figuratively) with every last breath, but I’m tempering this with the acknowledgement that they squandered away a number of REALLY good scoring opportunities. 

I mean, it’s one thing to do the whole leaving-runners-stranded thing. It’s another all together to take said runners off the basepath all together.
 

• GGBG got picked off. GGBG GOT PICKED OFF. SERIOUSLY. He also got caught stealing! He’s like the worst stealth ever now! 

Ok, it’s easy to say this now, but what the hell. GGBG doesn’t get removed from the basepath on those plays, and the Yanks and their fans are already in bed, spooning the memory of their sweet W over the Sux.

Ah, but GGBG took the basepath less travelled. And that has made all the difference.

Other observations:

• Cone’s pitching analysis was really sparkling tonight. I gotta say, there wasn’t a lot of fluff given that it went into 19 F@#$ing innings. I wouldn’t have blamed him for trailing off into a monologue about powdered milk or something. But his shit was on tonight. 

• On Headly’s game-tying ding: “Wow. Yeah, with all due respect, what was he thinking with that pitch?” Awesome reaction from the booth. 

• Pablo Sandoval is so goddamn fat that it’s uncomfortable. There’s CC. There’s Prince. And then there’s this.

Ok, clearly I could talk about this game for twice as long as it actually lasted. And honestly, if the next one wasn’t at 1, I would. I’m very interested to see how this next one plays out.

 Cheers to kicking off the rivalry in style, if not substance, Yanks. I found the entire evening “encouraging.” And that’s the last time you’ll hear me go all communist everyone-wins-no-matter-what-the-score!-mentality.

Oh ps, the pitching was excellent. EXCELLENT. On both sides. No kudos to Dickey, since, well, he’s a knuckleballer. That’s like showering the plaudits on when a chick has long luscious hair. Yes, technically she grew it herself, but it’s not like it took anything out of her to do so.

So, yeah, aside from that lay-z-bones, I was suitably impressed by the majority of the 627 pitches thrown tonight. It’s almost 5am. See you in a few hours, Yankees! And don’t forget:

 

Loss

First off, HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE ONLY AUSTRALIAN BASEBALL PLAYER TO SPORT A WS RING! Cheers to a former Yankee who embodied class in every sense of the word.

WIN

*"GO" emphatically. Not this. 

Magic number is 161! Right? 1st win of the season. First time also I had to compete with a Mets fan in a household for game watching privileges. Whatever, they lost, and the Yanks won!

And so the season starts.

I’ll go ahead and say it right now that it wasn’t exactly a seamless trip to the W. It was less like an Acela trip from NYC to DC, and more along the lines of any flight that goes through O’Hare—it’s a maddening experience, angering, depressing, deflating…but then all of a sudden, you’re on the plane and en route home, and you’re happy because no matter where you’re flying to, it’s not that long a flight.

And you wonder why you ever got so agitated in the first place. I mean, look at all the dining and shopping options O’Hare has to offer. You got a whole slew of shit in the 8-hours it took for the plane to finally take off, and now you’re able to get the ball rolling on your journey. So you shake it off and concentrate on that.

The box score belies the reality of the game, in that you’d think a 4-3 game with such an anemic Hit Column would be indicative of some pretty sharp play. I’d go ahead and say it was kind of the opposite of that.

I didn’t see a WHOLE lot of defensive pearls there, but then again, the Web Gems on MLB Tonight are galatically amusing this time of the season. (Oh wait you know who had a good play? GGBG. Of course. A nice neat sliding catch that he made look zippy and fun.)

But for most part, in league as a whole, everyone is playing like they just got called into a meeting that they weren’t planning on attending. You can throw in a couple of “Wait, can we go back to the last slide for a second?”’s and get some gold stars, but when it comes down to it, you’re gonna have reacquaint yourself with the agenda. Sooner rather than later.

 You know how I know this? Because none of the Yankees really scored in way that wasn’t akin to scratching on the 8 ball. This means their runs were “manufactured” by some a fell-off-the-back-of-a-truck supplier, aka a wild pitch, a HBP, and an infield single by Headley.

Even that third one counts as a ridiculous way to score, because really? Headley? Didn’t this guy teeter around in San Diego for a middle-management-accountant esque of a career? Sure, why not. Welcome aboard, Headly. Don’t let it go to your Headly. Yes, I said it. Sigh. Whatever, if Teixeira’s allowed to be all “What, I don’t hit until June, that’s just who I am, man!” then I’m allowed to ween into baseball recap writing pun exploration.

That said though, Tex HAD a hit today, along with Drew, Jacoby, and this Headly guy (who had 2, a big RBI and a palpably surprised interview on the YES post-game.) Pineda looked as shady as he ever did. You know how AJ was our token wild card, whose tats and blithely trailer trash essence made for some uncomfortable viewing experiences?

And by that I mean that any time the ball left his hand, even if he had been pitching a scoreless game til then, I’d still anticipate the likelihood that the ball would somehow end up somewhere it shouldn’t be. Whether that place is over the left field wall, or in the visitor’s dugout, or wedged in some fan’s ear canal somehow.

Ok, so yeah, you know that feeling?

Well it’s sort of similar to that with Pineda, only instead of having the expectation of toothlessly piercing wild pitches coloring the outing, there’s more of a sense that Pineda is like a pet tarantula. “You can hold him! He doesn’t bite!” Yeah, as far as YOU know. He seems awesome, but I don’t know if I now or ever will trust Pineda to not go all rogue on me. Oh yeah, ps he did a good job today.

A smattering of hits, but it was good enough to lead us to Andrew Miller. I gotta say though, I like this guy. He’s not half bad. And the best part is, he’s not anywhere near good enough for Mo comparisons to come out. Not that anyone is, but I couldn’t stomach the thought of another year of hearing things like “Who will be the next MO? Robertson? Betances?”

Yeah. Betances. He’s on track to pick up exactly where Mo left off. Delin Betances.

 I shouldn’t make fun, he got the W today. He followed Chris Martin, and the Coldplay jokes notably ebbed. As far as the Jays go, well, they played almost the same game as the Yanks, except with 1 less run. Seriously. Think about it. I bet some Canadian blogger somewhere is writing the same things as me right now, except more politely and with more focus on metrics. And hockey.

 So there you go. WIN 1. The start of big things for this team, yeah? It sort of feels like the sequel to any sports movie, in the sense that if there’s a sequel, that means that the first one was dynamite, which means the good guys probably won it all in the end.

But then the sequel comes out, and since they can’t get the entire cast to come back for the sequel, you’re looking at an almost completely new team that tries faithfully to retain the spirit of competition and tenacity that characterized the first movie’s Sport Team That Went All the Way.

Here’s the good news though:

Another piece of good news is that this shortened time between pitches thing is moving the game along pretty swimmingly (based on an N of two of course). Another game that went under 3 hours. On the one hand, I kind want this to attract people who are all “Baseball’s boorrring” but on the other hand, I think, “To hell with you. You can’t beat the clock. You can’t beat baseball. You can’t be my friend.”

See you Thursday night, when ROUND BOY TAKES THE MOUND!!! (on a side note, Fatso took over Jeter’s locker a la a coworker takes over the mini fridge of a coworker who quits. No surprise here, he wanted the locker closer to the player’s lounge. Oh my God, can you be any lazier? Amazing. I like his style.)

(L)

Actually, the biggest surprise to me was the A-Rod reception. It was almost like the judges on American Idol or something, right before the token Susan Boyle/Paul Potts/homely plain jane opens up to shower the cynics with their golden pipes.  

So it was the first opener in a loooonngg time without one of the Core Four. And for the first time in, like, ever, I felt a twinge of the apologetic subscription to the Seinfeld theory. 

C’mon, let’s call a spade a spade, here. When you watched today’s game (or listened to Sterling/Waldman, as the case may be), tell me you didn’t feel this stymieing mix of hope, confusion, and nostalgia. Then, maybe because I’m Catholic, maybe because I’m a chick, I felt guilty about that, because “CMON! THIS IS YOUR TEAM! FORGET ABOUT THE GUYS WHO AREN’T ON THE FIELD ANYMORE, AND LET’S PLAY BALL.”

The Blue Jays didn’t seem to skip a beat, seeing as they’ve been inexplicably knocking the ball all over the continental United States for the last 3 seasons. Encarnacion and Travis both went deep, which actually wasn't THAT bad, but since for the last few months, I've seen no one take anyone deep (because there was no baseball), 2 seemed like a lot. Plus, every fan has carte blanche to overreact to everything on Opening Day, and I'm taking that privelege and running with it.

I mean, Tanaka actually seemed pretty sharp in the beginning, but doesn’t everyone? No one shows up on your first day of work dressed like a slob. You put your best foot forward and wear a suit and tie. Tanaka just switched to creative department attire a little more quickly than we would have hoped.

He got taken out after 4 innings, which was probably about an inning and a half too much. 6Ks, 2 BBs, 5 hits, 5 runs. It was superbly lackluster. Not terribly blow-you-away knocked around, which for some reason made it even worse. Like, if you’re gonna ruin opening day, at least be epic about it.

To add insult to injury, the Yankees were getting whiffed by a fetus. A-Rod came to the rescue by getting on base, and boy was he happy about this. Good on you, buddy. Keep up the strong work!

McCann finally got a hit off Hutchinson, and then a rally looked like in was in the works, but then it cartoonishly was over before it began. I say cartoonishly because when you see play like that, the only things that come to mind are: tuba decrescendo noises, anvils, balloons popping, bodies deflating, and things running full speed into brick walls.

Gardner funly enough went yard, and I’d love to just bite the bullet and put him in the 4 spot. Why not? Arod’s in the 7 spot, and pound by pound, I’d have given a LOT to be a fly in the room of that talk. “NO POUTING THIS TIME. Ok? Are we clear? Say, ‘Yes, Joe, we’re clear.’”

In terms of non-hitting items, our SS Gregorious was caught stealing, our 3B had an error, and the team as a whole took 37 fewer pitches than the Jays, and scored 5 fewer runs than them. Toronto scored 6 runs on 6 hits and 167 pitches. Also, the Yankees reliever was named Chris Martin, and the booth let the Coldplays on Words go on a touch too long.

You know what though, I think we should all embrace the new Yankee squad in the same optimistic gusto that Sterling is. He’s not looking at it as a team that lacks the Core Four, he’s looking at it as a whole weekend’s worth of brainstorming Homerun calls!

Welcome back, baseball. It was the longest winter of my life, but it’s beyond comforting to say and embrace the same words I do on this day every year.

Jk, I’ve been on a break in a non Ross-Rachel way, since my dad became sick last October. I don't want to go too into it, but suffice to say he's tackled it the way he’s tackled everything in his life: “Ok, tell me what I have to do, and let’s just get it done.” As if he’s talking about refinancing a car. He's the most amazing person I'll ever know.

And still, never ceases to awe me (as evidenced by the fact he took 15^th out of 150 in a poker tourney at Foxwoods last week. WHAT WHAT. I like to brag about my dad because he makes me proud to know him.)

Not impossibly brown, Mom, since they exist.

Hashtag seeyagoodrelationshipwithlandlord

WIN.

This one was more the kind of Yankees/Socks game to which we've all grown accustomed. Because it was close and dramatic and had drama involved. It's kind of weird that the drama isn't related to Boston-NY animosity though, yeah.

The Yanks win by a hair, thanks to some clutch plays from Beltran (a homerun), Nova (outstanding outing), Sneach (who sneached a ball out of the air when Ortiz hit a long shot and did a premature obnoxious pause at the plate), and Cervelli (who SuperMario'd to first and drove in what ended up being the winning run).

Farrell got thrown out for breaking the rules when he argued the replay ruling. I mean, c'mon guy, everyone knows this.

Jacoby made a great, albeit possibly unnecessarily embellished, catch to end the game. Shawn Kelley struck out Carp with bases loaded to end the 8th, and Girardi made more walks to the field mid-inning to check out hurt players.

Even the announcers were like, "Yeah, how many times do you think Joe's done that in the last few years?"

And then, "Now he's just gotta hope that McCann stays unhurt, since he's down to 1 catcher."

Cut to a few innings later when McCann gets a zinger in the hand, probably broke it, who knows.

The announcers then something along the lines of "And unbeknownst to Dean Anna, he's the emergency backup catcher."

Ha! Is this like a surprise clause in his contract? Like "Heretoforth signer agrees to an undisclosed clause of emergency situation nature e pluribus habeas corpus mens rea etc ad nauseum. Fin."

I would have loved to see a "DEAR ANNA! THROW ON SOME GEAR AND GET BEHIND THE PLATE AND DON'T ARGUE BECAUSE YOU'RE THE EMERGENCY CATCHER EVEN IF IT UNBEKNOWNST TO YOU BECAUSE LISTEN UP BUDDY, IT'S NOW OFFICIALLY KNOWNST."

That didn't happen though.

So, the boys pull out a W and get the day off tomorrow, and I hope they use it productively, ie doing trust exercises and ice breakers and other assorted games of "getting-to-know-you" ilk.

Because as funny as it is in movies to watch a group of unrelated misfits band together to overcome the odds and realize the sum is greater than the parts or whatever...I'm not on board unless I see a montage.

WIN.

Kevin Long was really excited today. I mean, I don't remember seeing any shots of him during the game or anything, but I really wish I did.

The whole game was sort of like watching a movie or something. Or a Central Park softball game.

John Lackey/Gomer Pyle/Terrifying

It had a nice lazy feel to the game, and I'm pretty sure that's the first time I've ever used "nice" and "lazy" in the same sentence.

Unless I said something like "It's nice that the Yankees got rid of his lazy ass." But that doesn't sound like a sentence I'd say, so I'm sticking with my original claim.

The Yankees went old school and won with the long ball. 5 bombs--2 from McCann, the rest from Beltran, A-So, and Kelly Johnson.

(Kelly Johnson can now be added to the list of players whose name is for some reason always said using both first and last names.)

Only one Sock went yard, and it just really wasn't their day.

Farrell tried to overturn a call in the 8th, and I'm sorry, but when I was trying to wrap my head around the whole instant replay thing, I thought you weren't allowed to use a challenge after the 6th inning?

Don't you lose your challenge in the 7th inning? I'm almost positive that's what I read somewhere.



Challenging?

Also, I'm also fairly positive the replay showed that Dear Anna was very much out. but the umps ruled him safe. Either they were just like, "whatever, I don't feel like overturning this in Yankee Stadium. I want to make it back to my car in one piece."

Or they remembered that there was no challenging after the 6th?

Whatever, it was a good day for the Yanks. The only real glitches were A-So dropping an easy one in the first play that came his way. Also, I hate to stay this, but I wish there was a little more team chemistry. I never understood when in business it's cited as a bad thing to not have team chemistry. I get that it's desirable, but if the work's getting done right, who cares?

But now I get it. Sort of. I'd rather have the Yankees even if they don't really know all the names of their teammates yet, than have the Red Socks who equate idiotic irreverance with victory.

Tomorrow, the Yanks pit Nova against Felix, and based on their performance so far this year, it could be a little like watching a WNBA game..

Loss.

Well, Tubbo.com was dealing like the Tubbo.com v2009. Which was awesome. I have to say, though, I severely miss watching him wipe sweat off his hands on his X (x 10⁹)L jersey. I miss Fatso's fat(so). 

Lester pitched really well, sadly, and doubly sadly because I look at the kind of Red Sock he's become, and it's like a Lifetime movie plot about a guy who just goes down the wrong path and he thinks he's got it allll under control but everyone is noticing something's amiss.

I don't remember the original Lester version having such a hair-trigger temper. This guy was like a Lester/Papelbon freak/Lackey.

Argh. So, the two much hyped aces battle it out, and it looked like a quiet iteration of your standard Yankee-Boston fare. Pitcher's duel, which I love but yet also hate because once the whole thrill of an exciting game wears off, I'm left with the stark realization that my team barely eeked out AH run. Let alone many runs to necessiate an entire rack.

Then A-So hits a homerun, and don't get me wrong, I like anyone who takes a Boston pitcher deep (pause?) but I weirdly have some inexplicable residual disgruntled-ness over his early refusal to get on base. I'm turning into my parents, I swear.

Who never seem to age at all, who still look 30 years younger than they are, but what they preserved in youthful appearance the make up for in lost interest in supporting data. ("Well, I saw Cathy doing her laundry today, and I think she's in over her head." "Like...in life or in laundry?" "Um...both. Life, mostly. And laundry.")

I digress, of course, A-So hits a great shot and it's a nice 1-0 game for a little bit until Jonny Gomes goes deep to tie it up, and Round Boy was mad at himself.

He even cursed into his glove between innings, which was a notable step above the stations muting "F%&!" but not blurring out the very defined slow motion mouth gyrations.

Thank you for being considerate even in your hour of frustration, Big Guy.

Lester wasn't as classy. But he was better. Very similar outings from the 2 starters, the stats were nearly identical except an impressive 9Ks for Lard, vs 6 for Lester. Oh, yeah. And there was a homerun discrepancies. 2 vs 1. This is why stats are useless, yeah?

Because that 9Ks make our boy look like a stud, but the only number worth reading in the line score is the HR box. Because that second one to Sizemore broke us.

3-run bomb. 4-1. Yanks started to answer with a mini-rally (a "baby mouse bite" rally, as my youngest sister would say). Kelly Johnson looked terrified batting with 2 outs and 2 men on. Like, big time terrified, a la that scene in "Rookie of the Year" when the kid is batting for the first time ever.

The Socks make it out of the game without further incident, and SPEAKING of no incidents, I'd like to go on record saying that I think Girardi is acting like a weirdo.

When Tubbo was clearly laboring big time in the 6th inning (and starting to show signs in the 5th, I think), Girardi watched. And watched, and watched. Until the no-spring-chicken pitcher went a good amount beyond the 100 mark.

WHY? Because you're trying to preserve your money bullpen? Who the hell are Cabral, Warren, and Betances that you can't take out your work horse?

The relievers did well, but the damage had already been done. Girardi also had Yangervis throwing down a bunt to lead off, a guy whose batting average looks more like an SAT score.

Sneach is mysteriously in and out of the lineup, even though you should always put him in, ALWAYS, if for no other reason than to facilitate the inevitable moment when Sneach reveals he's not human, by rounding the bases without ever touching the dirt.

GGBG is the pinch hitter with 2 outs in the 9th.

And Brian Roberts, who's batting an anemic .150 or something, remains in play. He is aggressively mediocre.

But apparently so is the rest of the league. As my dad said, "I saw the Yankees were in first..."

Me: "YEAH! Cool, right??"

Dad: "Well, I think everyone's in first, though."

He's right, as usual.

Now let's hope that Girardi snaps out of whatever bizarro delirium he's in. He's managing his team like he's a substitute teacher or something.

(It should be noted that what I know about managing a professional baseball team is based on a resume that boasts approximately zero percent experience in this field. I usually give the dude the benefit of the doubt for this very reason, but I'm now going based on his glassy, vacant stare.)

In fairness, I probably wouldn't like it very much if Girardi started saying shit like "Oh c'MON, Kris! Jesus, what's wrong with this girl? Everyone knows that you gotta make the headline big and you gotta make it red if anyone's gonna pay attention to it! These are poor copywriting decisions that I feel comfortable enough to unequivocally criticize."

Lackey faces off against Kuroda on Saturday, and I'm really looking forward to watching the game on the couch and passing out in the 2nd or 3rd inning and waking up an inning and a half later, with drool dried on my cheek and the afternoon sun coming in the window, and seeing the Yankees have taken a 7-run lead.

Woot woot! Yanks take the first of the series with the BIGGEST RIVAL IN THE HISTORY OF SPORTS, thanks to an absolutely sterling performance from Michael Pineda. Is it weird his first name is Michael and not Miguel? Yes. Yes, I think it is. That's a totally normal, not offensive comment, seriously.

Well, I guess it depends on who you ask. And I mean that in reference to the "sterling performance" comment, since from where I was sitting, it looked pretty badass. From the visitors' dugout, on the other hand, it look pretty "dark."

"Not Miguel" has pine tar on his hand. Or dirt. Or a fundamental demonstration of the shadow and light principles. Or sweat with dirt. I can't really tell. The old pine tar accusation gag, eh. Ha. Red Socks will do anything, ANYTHING I tell you, to win the Who Can Pantomime the Yankees Best? Contest.

Well, nothing really came of the pine tar shit, as far as I can tell, which means ESPN will probably escalate it to cinematic proportions, because how else can a pitcher have a good outing? I mean, just look at this schmuck who spent his career completely irrelevant and then magically has a good outing?

In the aggressive campaign to completely ruin the game of baseball, the ESPN ESPublicRelations are just doing their part, because it's not fair for the instant replay and plate collision rules to do ALL the heavy lifting.

Anyways, the Yankees prevailed despite Not Miguel's insidious crime, not BECAUSE of it. Of course. The Yanks' bullpen didn't implode, which was cute--thank you Cesar Cabral and Phelps. Tomorrow we may hear that John Farrell played the game under protest after accusing the relievers of zapping magic spells on the baseballs.

See, Farrell never even brought up the pine tar. It's basically ESPN being like the bitchy Trouble-Stirrer-Upper in high school who says shit like, "I mean, I don't know if I should say anything, but Tommy looked a little TOO friendly with Kelly last night."

In actual baseball performance news, Nava hit a homerun for the Bean Team, which meant the announcers fell over themselves to relay the apropos stat about Nava being only 1 of 2 players ever to hit a grand slam on his first pitch in the majors ever. Not for nothing, but that IS a pretty ridiculous stat. Even more ridiculous is the fact it's happened more than once.

Continuing along the lines of being magnanimous in victory, I'll give credit again to the Red Socks for a) a couple of sick catches in the outfield and b) for Cheekbones' pitching performance. I don't know why--because his pitches are unassailably filthy--but he just doesn't scare me. You know, there's pitchers like Halladay. Or Lee. Or Darvis. At some point all those guys struck fear into my heart like the sight of Mo struck fear into the hearts of opposing fans in the 9th inning.

But Cheekbones doesn't do that. Probably because I can't get past how his bone structure could cut through glass.

HEY! UMP! LET'S GO AHEAD AND CHECK THAT SHIT OUT, YEAH?

That's it with niceties about the BIGGEST RIVAL IN THE HISTORY OF SPORTS. Did anyone think Ortiz was dangerously close to pulling a drop-your-bat-and-pause-like-an-asshole-after-going-yard move...when he hit a ground rule double? Asshole. Also, moron. Furthermore, faulty depth perception. Yeah, you heard me, Papi. Your visual acuity's so fat, when it sits around the house, it sits AROUND the house, na wuh im sayin? Yeah, me neiter.

Dear Anna hit a homerun, but unfortunately he didn't grin in wild exuberance when running around the bases. He must have a dad who told him not to celebrate in the end zone and to act like he's been there before.

Yangervis didn't have another 2934 for 2934 game, but had a broken bat shot that culminated in a pretty good play by Nava. Whatever. Sorry, I was too distracted by the weirdass move Yangervis made to like 2nd base which I guess was some kind of lefty shift? But at first I thought our neophyte just forgot what position he played (which would be understandable considering how erratic this whole musical infielders thing has been.)

Also, the Yankees won, so there. And we got your boy Jacoby, who brought in a run. A-So brought in a run, too, in a very A-So way, ie by grounding into a double play.

Fatso starts against Jon "The Red Socks were a bad influence on me. I'd look better in Pinstripes" Lester. The Yanks win. Boston doesn't do well. And their flag remains at the end of the AL East section of the Yankee Stadium façade.

LOSS.

The Baltimore Orioles rallied in the 9th the beat the New York Yankees.

This collection of words should only be seen in one place and one place only.

Tanaka was aces tonight, though, despite giving up a quick 3 runs right from the get go (which means we're at 100% with an n of 2, in the developing hypothesis that he's using the ol' Teixeira "Slow Start is Really a Pretty Money Move, Trust Me" playbook.)

He starts off a liitttttle questionable, and then he looks like a million bucks. (Which is technically an insult, I guess, to him. So, let me revise my statement to he starts out looking like a million bucks and then settles down and starts dealing.)

10 Ks from the Japanese guy is impressive. The O's starter is the type of pitcher that most teams salivate over. And when I say "salivate over," I mean that in terms of batting against him. Like cartoon dogs floating in the air hooked to the smell of bacon. Gonzalez is hittable but not toooo hittable to make your overswing. He's really what me and my college housemates would term a NGB. "Nice guy/girl, but...." Eh.

That said, the Yankees aren't most other teams. In fact, they're not ANY of the other teams, as it were. They're the Yankees, so they made this pitcher look like freaking Bob Gibson or something. Except they were hitting him, but not. I don't know how the numbers in this game make sense.

Gonzalez was staked to a 3-0 lead (oh GOOOOOOD for you), and then the Yankees did that thing were they're like "You know what? Let's go ahead of just take a stab at throwing the whole 'run manufacturing' thing to the wind."

The Yankee bats sometimes like to spead their money on scratch off tickets instead of sensible toiletries for the home. That is an analogy and, as far as I know, not something the Yankees actually do.

Kelly Johnson connects for a ding, which brought his average up to a number that I think more closely reflects how I've perceived it to be. A-So drove in a run, which is befuddling but appreciated. Beltran was a stud and went like 2304 for 2304 or something. I'm not sure, but I felt like he was up every other batter, and he was "connecting on all cylinders" as the kids like to say.

Robinson Sheffield forgot to connect on the cylinders, though, and in fairness, I do believe that that particular topic is an upper level cource and hence may require a special trip.

You are still a nice peanut of a stud, Yangervis. So much so that I've waved off my ridiculously intelligent and informed baseball guru Ollie, when he told me that Yangervis Solarte is NOT > Tyler Ross. Hey all things being equal, I'm gravitating towards the weird name. Any additional info on the origin of this name and the correct pronunciation would be appreciated.

You know who isn't being relevant? Brian Roberts.

And you know who hasn't been in the line-up again? Sneach. WTF? This is like when my sis and I were in the same fantasy league, and the commissioner of the league kept offering one BS trade after another for Brandon Phillips, and after I'd turn them down, he'd be all, "What! No, seriously, Amy Smart has like a lot of keeper league value."

Anyways, so my sister offers me something like Jeter and Aramis Ramirez (this was 2008), so I give her Phillips, and she promptly benches him. SOLELY to piss of the commish. He predictably goes ape shit, and she responds by saying: "What. I think he's gotten a big head from all the attention, and I think he needs to spend a few weeks on the bench thinking about how he sees himself as a part of this franchise."

The point being (aside from the fact that this is why chicks shouldn't play fantasy) is that perhaps Girardi is doing something similar to Sneach, BECAUSE WHY ELSE WOULDNT YOU PUT THE LITTLE LOONY TUNE ELF IN???!!

Sigh.

Anyways, I don't want to belabor the whole Shawn Kelley screwing us out of our first walk-off chance and marching us into a disappointing game loss as well as a series loss as we head into the Boston series. I do no want to belabor this point because it's 9 games into the season, and I'm guessing that with D-Rob injured, there will be quite a few opporunities to wax cranky about life post-Mo.

Also, speaking of melodramatic: what's worse/worst? The fans running onto the field. The ridiculous amount of attention it got when I thought that was exactly what the game hopes to avoid. Or the disproportionate reaction from Adam "If I can't play like Cobb, maybe my Tom Ripley-ing of him will do the trick" Jones.

Red Sock time. Which means:

Loss.

Two day games in a row? Is that normal? Yes, that's what was most notable about the 2nd home game. The fact it was another 1:05 start time. Not the drubbing the Yanks received at the hands of a team whose name is almost always uttered with the same inflection/intonation as someone who says he/she met his/her significant other online. You know what I mean, it's like this staunch loyalty mixed with a slint hint of apologetic sheepishness.

(Oh yeah, no post for the home opener because I was in attendance, and now that I'm at the ripe old age of 33, a day of drinking beer in 40 degree weather in a relatively tight ie intense game, renders me so useless that even when me and my buddies tried to extend the celebration to a bar post-game, I  realized I had exactly enough energy left in me to get home, do laundry, and google "how to plant tomato seeds." And even that was an overestimate, since I never made it to the google.)

So after beating the Orioles in a tight game on Monday, I returned to work Tuesday and patched together a game-viewing experience through a variety of media, because no one likes an employee who parks herself in the kitchen and changes "Law & Order" to a Yankee game.

Opening Day Win.

Actually, I think it's one of those weird workplace standards where it's ok to eat lunch in the kitchen to follow the stories of two separate yet equally important groups: the police, who investigate crime; and the district attorneys, who prosecute the offenders.

But skipping in with your grilled cheese and getting highly invested in a day game--for whatever reason--can potentially undermine your work ethic.

Whatever, I was very much okay with getting the stoic updates from Gamecast rather than indulging in a depressing film noir showing of a dramatic shots of dejected fans.

And I can count myself lucky, since how much does it suck to go to the trouble of using a day off from work, only to witness Showalter's boys smack us around for 20 hits, seemingly every other one of those a long ball.

Nova didn't last 4 innings even, and got yanked probably later than he should have, but it's not like the bullpen did anything helpful in terms of putting a tourniquet on the run hemorrhaging. Every O got a hit AND a run--ridiculous--which is a quantity matched on by the number of apologies/explanations/self-flagellating deprecation comments that Nova stammered in the post-game.

Unfortunately, he failed to default to the best ever rationale ever given by a Yankee pitcher. Or maybe just ever given by a human being, actually.

I like this breed of TMI better than the the "sinker ball was in the zone, off day, blah blah" TMI. The only person whose little "layman's terms" pitching clinics I really enjoy are those of Al Leiter when he's in the booth.

In the land of silver lining stuff, there's Jacoby who continues to be a better-than-bad-it's-good pick-up. Like, a lot better-than-bad. I hope he doesn't feel like Adam Banks when he got traded to the slow-starting Mighty Ducks.

Then there's Robinson Sheffield who Ollie lol-ed me when I impulsively grabbed him up in fantasy after Game 2. He's putting up a bunch of Kevin Maas-esque binge stats, so at least Elias Sports Bureau is keeping busy.

See?? Tell me you can't see where I'm coming from...

Kelly Johnson had a bomb in the 8th, a quiet one, which is somewhat comical since you know what would happen if Arod had gone yard late in the game when the Yanks were down by 10? Mostly, a lot of vitiol, etc.

I was actually surprised Kelly Johnson's average was as low as it was when it showed up on the Jumbotron at Monday's game. Hasn't he been the requisite John Olerud of the bunch, the put-yout-head-down-and-work-and-do-your-job-satisfactorially-if-not-spectacularly?

Beltran chipped in a ribbie, but when the entire Baltimore line-up is eating pieces of shit sinker balls for breakfast, the luke-warm stabs at run-manufacturing are kind of wasted and all.

You know, eating pieces of shit sinker balls for breakfast probably wouldn't do your stomach any favors.

Oh yeah, and speaking of luke-warm and favors (pause?), Soriano hit a home run. Fantastic. Now he's never going to f'n try to get base hits, like, ever.

And speaking of things that don't happen in ever, Super Mario played 1B today. Normal. Nope. God, please don't let Girardi start tapdancing into the Maddon Scientology School of Management. Please, no.

Anyway, Wednesday's game brings our expensive toy gun to the mound for his first Bronx debut. Not sure how forgiving the stadium's going to be if he gets TANAKA-ED AROUND. Yep, said it. Can't unsay it.

WIN.

Oh, Tanaka. Welcome to American baseball.

Oh, Lauren Pollina, WELCOME TO YOUR BIRTHDAY!!!

Me and Ldawgzo at Old Timer's Day 2005

Unlike my sister who ALWAYS surpasses the hype, the Japanese kind of just answered the hype in an appropriate if not spectacular manner?

Yeah, there was a LOT of hype around this guy, as there generally for any pitcher whose starting salary could bankroll implementation of a small off-shore civilization.

Also, he's Japanese, so his talent is worth more because it's never been actually demonstrated in American Major League Baseball.

Also, the mysterious does-he-doesn't-he around the speaking/language barrier is an asset that is worth its weight in gold.

I'm sorry, I'm giving the kid a hard time for no reason. Except the reason that was he let up a homerun to Melky Cabrera within 3 pitches of his very first outing. Somewhere, Stephen Strausberg is exhaling a sigh of relief, as he tightens his grib a little more possessively on his "I beat the hype" trophy.

It was a veritable smorgasboard of Japanese tv shots, from the panning around the dugout to the Asian players, to the terrifyingly austere shots of the Japanese film crews and photographers. We get it. Japan loves their baseball players.

I love when the Yankees win. Which is what they did tonight in a very, very odd manner.

Game notes:

The Yankees overturned a call by virtue of some extremely complicated relay system between Tony Pena and Joe Girardi that I don't even remotely understand. Sneach beats out the throw to first, as Sneach is want to do, and he's called out. Girardi challenges it. And so opened a whole ginormous can of worms that I wish I never saw.

"Call Overturned" is something I should never see flashed across my tv screen in relation to a baseball game, and I say this after said overturned call realllly worked to the Yanks' favor, allowing Robinson Sheffield to hit a go-ahead double in the 3rd.

The game lasted 3:26 minutes but for some reason it felt much longer...maybe it was the creative medley of game delayers, like the fan who ran across the field, the challenges, then reviews, and of course the strange exit of Teixeira (Teixit). Ok, apparently he got hurt, but since it was right after his, like, 3rd error in as many games, I legitimately thought Girardi came out to serve Tex with an arrest warrant or something.

And Tex DID look pretty much storming off the field. No news yet on whether Tex is just being "first 3 months of the season carte blanche" Tex. Or whether we got to start getting more comfortable with Kelly Johnson at 1st.

I know that in the past few years, the Yankee line-up isn't always what we remembered it to be in the classic Yankee sense. But there was something particularly Central Park softball league-y about today's murderer's row.

Like they were the lineup you assemble when it's 4:45 and half of your team emails to say they can't come to the game, and you're scrambling to pick up enough players before 6 so you don't have to forfeit a game to a team call "McCormack's Half Pints" or something.

Especially, Jeter's esteemed back from SD: "Dear Anna."

No, I didn't mean Dean. Dear Anna. That's his name.

Seriously, when I saw the infield positions at the beginning of the game, I was basically positive that they couldn't field a team, so they called someone's girlfriend to come in and play and that's how someone named "Anna" ended up at SS.

His defense? Ehhhhhh.

He got a hit though, as did every Replacement Yankee today, except B-Rob. I continue to be impressed by this team's speed, though. Like Jacoby had 2, GGBG had 1, and B-Rob threw on another. And I'm pretty sure Kelly Johnson randomly posted a triple today. Just for fun.

Robinson Sheffield had another ridic day, going 2 for 5 with 2 doubles, and 3 ribbies, and a lot of smiling, and stellar fielding. He looks and plays like a kid who will play as absolutely hard as he can because he knows how lucky he is to be here.

And that's straight up Mom-genes talking, as I can now cite April 5, 2014 as the day I first started doing my Mom's thing of inventing stories about complete strangers and passing them off as hush-hush fact.

In terms of the pitching, Tanaka gets up through 7 innings, with 8Ks, and only 3 runs (2 earned), and I gotta say, I was not as impressed as I guess I was prepared to be, but I've already forgotten about my lack in impression since the Yankees won. The relievers bridged to the way nicely to the W, with Thorton, Betances, and D-Rob synthesizing their forces to yield a hit-less final 2 innings.

You know what's weird? I don't think I've ever said this before, but if I had to pick a weakness on the Yankees right now, a weak skill set (or lack their of, etc)...it wouldn't be the batting, the manufacturing runs, the slugging, the RISP BAs....not the pitching, relief, or otherwise...no, the biggest weakness I see right now is the the infield defense.

Maybe I'm just spoiled from the whole Jeter-Robbie-Tex-Arod-iron curtain thing. But the Yankees just don't commit errors (fielding ones anyway), and they looked a little less that crisp out there. Like, I was finding myself excited to see successfully turned routing double plays.

Which reminds me, congrats to the Mets for their 1st win!

Tomorrow Pineda goes up against Dickey. This should be interesting.. (Yeah, let's go ahead and add Toronto to the list of teams/fan who are officially never allowed to make the inane "Yankees buy their team" hiss.)

CHEERS!