On Joba and Yankee Idiots

“Snake-bit” doesn’t really cover it, y’know. Not unless it’s a really big snake, more like that Harry Potter’s basilisk. This Mets team just can’t get a break. When their starting pitcher, Fernando Nieve, went down to injury early in yesterday’s game, it seemed just too much.

As small as it may have seemed, losing a journeyman pitcher, it proved to be big. The Mets filled in with a guy they’re soon either sending down or releasing, Tim Redding, and then looked lifeless for nine long innings. In the face of such disaster, why even try? The gods of baseball had already decided their fate, this day and most days in this horrible 2009 injury-fest.

It’s difficult to watch, of course, so you wind up turning the game off. Almost anything would be more interesting, say, a reality show featuring celebrities watching grass grow. Did they do that one yet?

Of course, there is an alternative, but it’s a bad one. Watching the hated Yankees. Yesterday they even had Joba going, and it’s really difficult not to like Joba, even if he is on the wrong team. Joba was great yesterday, and the announcer only mentioned pitch counts maybe 63 or 64 times in the game.

But there’s an even better alternative…two actually, but one is turning off the TV altogether, unthinkable for a baseball fan of limited means. After all, the weekly fantasy baseball contests wind up on Sunday. The other alternative is watching the MLB channel when they’re covering things live.

I had wanted to re-acquire Joba in my fantasy league on Saturday night. I was tied in wins and losses with my weekly opponent and only slightly ahead in ERA and WHIP and strikeouts. Plus, he had three pitchers going, three pretty fair pitchers, Matt Cain probably the least of them, but I had been afraid that if Joba turned in another clunker, I’d lose the advantages I had.

Bad choice. Even the idiots in the Yankee dugout, not to mention the one behind the plate, couldn’t shake Joba’s confidence yesterday. He pitched into the seventh inning, giving up just a lone home run and 3 hits overall, struck out 8 batters and looked confident until the very end when the idiots finally prevailed. Girardi pulled Joba with two outs and nobody on in the seventh. Much to my delight, the crowd booed lustily, and never was a panning more deserved.

The announcers stressed that it was the right move. Sure it was. The crowd got to watch Coke, Hughes and Rivera finish the Tigers off and Joba got the win. And he got a tremendous ovation from the crowd when they finally stopped jeering.

As I found out later on, Joba went home for the break and forgot about baseball except for a bullpen session with a good friend. He “did not think about baseball one time”. He also said, “I needed that” before resorting to the typical Yankee line, how he loved the place to death yada yada (insert finger down throat).

If he loves the place to death so much, why was it so wonderful to get away? Why did he come back renewed? Why did his fastball attain upper-90’s and where did he finally get all that confidence? In Nebraska, that’s where, well away from the idiots and the corporate atmosphere that is the Yankees.

Joba’s a great pitcher on the wrong team. If he pitched for the Rangers, where Nolan Ryan has loudly excoriated all the crap written about the significance of pitch counts, he’d be much better. If he had a catcher who didn’t drive him crazy, if every pitch and every location wasn’t dictated from the bench, the sky would be the limit on Joba.

But that’s just wishful thinking. Joba won’t go anywhere. They’ll throw money at him when the time comes and wheel out some of the old-timers and that will be that. In a couple of years, they’ll remove the shackles and let him breathe. But until then, you won’t see any complete games from Joba.

You won’t see a fist-pump after striking out an even dozen batters over nine. You won’t see the jubilation achieved only after really having completed something you started. You won’t experience any late-inning buzz, the kind of group near-frenzy that typifies baseball at its finest.

What you’ll get is those corporate guys congratulating themselves after the game, after they’ve counted the daily take from those thrice-over-priced tickets, after the W.B. Mason guys have celebrated still another sighting of a Yankee pop-up sailing over that embarrassingly short wall.

The Yanks are a game out of first and Cashman is already celebrating his acumen. They have a glut of fine talent, Arod and Teixeira, all the rest of the aging Jeters and Pettites and Posadas and now Sabathia and Burnet too. They’ll undoubtedly be there at the end of September, especially if all these old guys can hold on until then.

But at what price? I’m not just talking about the tickets. I’m talking about the cost of a stifling atmosphere in the dugout, the clubhouse and even the broadcast booths, the cost of hearing the same Yankee line from every player and announcer, an announcer who knows nothing about baseball but can tell you only how many strikes and how many balls have been thrown.

This is an emphasis that can only come from above, from that embarrassingly stupid Yankee hierarchy that has only managed to achieve a higher form of mediocrity these last several years, this achieved despite spending double and triple that of virtually every other team in major league baseball.

And while I won’t be seeing any blue and orange in this year’s festivities, the Mets having all gone to the trainer’s room, I’ll take solace in watching those Torre-less guys in pinstripes go down once again, hopefully to a team that still has fun playing baseball, the Red Sox or the Rays, or in a perfect world, the Rangers.