Breaking news from The Bronx: Joe Girardi is apparently living in the Lakehouse.

On Monday, Girardi made the following comments in reference to Joba Chamberlain: Do we start him or do we leave him in the bullpen? We have four days to kick it around, and we don’t really need that fifth starter until (July 21).”

If you’ve been listening to what I have to say on the subject, you probably know that I’ve been what some might call a proponent of the move. (Proponent being what those of us in polite society call a person who won’t shut up about something.)  I’ve been pretty clear about the fact that I think of Joba as a closer. Yet, call me crazy and contradictory, but at this particular moment in time, the fact that this is even a discussion makes me wonder if perhaps Joe Girardi isn’t maybe, just possibly, not totally paying attention to what’s going on.

Let’s review the current state of our starting pitching.  Chien-Ming Wang is on the DL indefinitely – we’re probably looking at a return sometime in August. Phil Hughes is in the bullpen, and it seems like that’s where he’ll stay for the remainder of the season. The Great Alfredo Aceves Experiment yielded results that were unfortunate enough to deem it unlikely to be repeated.

So, where does this leave us?

More likely than not, it leaves us with Sergio Mitre as our fifth starter, assuming he’s able to rise to the occasion. Mitre is currently 3-1 with a 2.40 in 7 Triple-A starts.  At the moment, we’re hoping that record translates into an ability to get the job done in the majors. Historically speaking, making it click in the Bigs has been something of an issue for Mitre. (Exhibit A: 10-23, 5.36)  Best case scenario: Mitre works out until Wang is healthy again.  In the aforementioned scenario, Wang is not only healthy but performing to ability.

In light of the above, who, dare I ask, was Girardi planning on using to fill Joba’s spot in the rotation if we were, in fact, to move him to the pen?

Well, of course the obvious answer to that is Roy Halladay.  I didn’t say correct. I said obvious.  With the All-Star Game over and the trade deadline approaching by the day, the Halladay as a Yankee story continues to gain a disproportionate amount of momentum.  Disproportionate, that is, to the likelihood that it will pan out. Of course, the recent story that Jay’s director of player development Dick Scott showed up at a Florida State League game between the Yanks and Cubs Single-A affiliates only helps fuel that gossip.  The speculation is that the people in the Jays camp have their eyes on Yankees prospect Jesus Montero.

Maybe it’s just wishful thinking on my end, but I still don’t see it happening. It’s a move that seems short-sighted in a way that’s extreme — even for us. Particularly since we seem to be moving away from that kind of boneheaded blunder.

Assuming we do go on the prowl for another starter, this shouldn’t be the play. The potential cost is far too high. Until we do, with Chien-Ming Wang on the DL, I think Girardi’s got to focus less on where Joba belongs and more on how to get the most out of him as a starter in our rotation. At the moment, it’s clear we need him there.

But, then, if Girardi is in fact stuck in the aforementioned Lakehouse, we have no idea where he is on the spacetime continuum.  Maybe May? Maybe a month from now?

Given this, we should allow for the possibility that raising the debate at this otherwise completely impractical  moment actually makes sense.

Well, the All-Star Game is over (it was so frickin’ boring that MVP was awarded to Carl Crawford for a catch), and we all know what that means. Tomorrow, the second half of baseball season begins. What’s more, football season will soon be upon us. Sadly, that signifies that we’re coming to the end of yet another round of, “Who wants to be a retiree-ionaire?”

The longevity of this phenomenon can be largely attributed, of course, to the gumption of one man, and that would be Fav-ruh. The gift that keeps on retiring.

With training camp approaching, Fav-ruh recently told the Associated Press that he’d give the Vikings his decision by July 30. The deciding factor is going to be whether or not he he’s fully recovered from recent surgery on his bicep tendon. Brett claims that he feels ready. That he has the velocity, the power, the strength. So what, then, is the problem? Something intangible. Complicated. In order to help us better understand, Fav-ruh helps out with a golf analogy.  He likens himself to an injured Tiger Woods:

“He goes out and hits a 2 iron and he thinks it will go the normal distance it has all his life, then all of a sudden it’s 13 yards short, and he says, ‘I don’t know why that is because everything felt perfect,’ so that’s what I have to get through.”

So, it’s sort of like if he used to be able to throw the football around 90 yards, but now he’s a few yards short and he doesn’t get it because he thought everything was fine. Except he said it with a golf analogy, which made it make more sense.

In Fav-ruh’s analogy, of course, Tiger doesn’t realize that he’s short 13 yards until he’s actually on the course.  It sort of seems like he couldn’t.  So, now, truth be told, I’m actually a little bit confused. Is the issue one that Brett is or isn’t going to be able to assess in advance?  For someone so seemingly dense, he has the uncanny capacity to befuddle me to the point of paralysis.

Brett’s been working out with the Oak Grove High School football team three times a week all summer. (That sounds just about right.)  He plans to up the ante by adding a Sunday routine into the mix.

For those of you who are golfers, that would be like if Tiger Woods typically went to the driving range three times a week (with a high school golf team), and then he started going to the driving range on Sundays as well.

Hope that clears things up for you.

The LA Angels of Anaheim.

Talk about a team name that’s just oozing with insecurity. A team name that was more or less dreamt up by some marketing department to trick people into joining the Angels fan-base. Now, the ozone layer may be a little thinner out West, but I’m pretty sure that Dodgers fans were never going to start a mass Exodus to Anaheim Stadium just because someone stuck an “LA” in front of the word “Angels.”

Yet, in 2005, someone PR genius made it happen, and the Angels, who have changed the geographic location at the front of their name more than once to tap into media trends, became the LAnaheim Angels.

Basically, they’re like The Monkees of baseball. (Well, them and the Rays.)  I don’t truly believe that anyone abandoned the Dodgers to cheer for the Angels, but if you did, congratulations, you like The Monkees more than The Beatles.

But easy as it is to mock them, there’s one thing we can’t seem to do with them, and that’s beat them.

Here’s the thing, there’s no reason that I can see that we shouldn’t be beating them.

Game one: four-run lead. Twice.  Game two: four-run lead. Game three: one-run lead. In the third instance, nothing astronomical. But, still, the point remains that this was not a team we faced with a clear disadvantage.  This series shouldn’t have resulted in a sweep. We certainly shouldn’t lose game one or game two.

Ultimately, pitching — a combined effort from our starters and our bullpen – as well as a couple of costly errors on routine plays from Jeter and A-Rod were what did us in.  (I might also note that former Yank Bobby Abreu didn’t do us any favors — he went 6-13 and drove in 6 runs.)

And the paradigm remains intact: For whatever reason, the Angels are a team that the Yankees just can’t seem to beat.

Here’ the thing, I’m not feeling all gloom and doom about our season because of our series. I think we bounce back from this and likely go on to postseason.  However, in today’s Post, Mike Vaccaro raises a good point, which is that the Angels and the Chowdas are two teams that the Yankees are likely going to need to be able to beat in order to make it to the Big Dance. True, the fact that we’re currently 0-11 against these teams doesn’t necessarily preclude us from earning a spot in the DS.  However, if we intend to proceed beyond there, it would be reassuring to figure out a way to beat them during the regular season.

As an aside, for those of you familiar with my old blog, you know I take a particular interest in names. You also know that I think it is only practical that the pronunciation of a person’s name should match its spelling. For this reason, I’m somewhat baffled by the name Chone Figgins. Now, Figgins, that makes sense. Spelled Figgins, pronounced Figgins. Chone, on the other hand, sounds like it should rhyme with hone, right? (Like, “Chone should hone his skills at the plate so that he doesn’t accidentally knock into Posada and knock the mitt off his hand.”  Yes, this happened.)  But, not so.  It’s pronounced “Shawn.”

I suppose that makes s little bit of sense.  If we were using the Cyrillic alphabet.

With the recent announcement that the Jays might be open to dealing Roy Halladay, the New York media just can’t seem to stop talking about what seems to me an entirely ridiculous prospect.  Bringing him to the Bronx.

Some of the recent headlines include “Halladay’s availability presents Yankees with a Challenge,” “Why Not Roy Halladay and the Yankees?” and “Tied For First Yankees Dream About Halladay.”

This last headline, from the Post, is accompanied by an article that goes onto talk about all the current Yankees who are pining for just such a trade.  The piece reads, “One Yankee fantasized about how good Toronto ace Roy Halladay would look in pinstripes.”

One only wonders why this Yankee would be unwilling to go on the record with such a statement.

This same article goes onto to talk about all the nameless Yanks who have expressed interest in acquiring Halladay, saying, “Others asked what the chances were of baseball’s best right-hander landing in The Bronx.”

If you’re wondering why the Post would run a whole piece on all the Yankees who were interested in bringing Halladay to their team and not be able to cite the name of even one of them, the answer may be revealed in the question posed by one of the Bombers on the subject: “What will it take?”

If recent rumors are correct, we have an answer to that question: It would take Joba Chamberlain or Phil Hughes, Mark Melancon, and Austin Jackson or Jesus Montero.

So, any Yankee who doesn’t want to risk creating tension in the clubhouse would be wise to attach his name to such comments. Plus, well, you could see why the one who was fantasizing about Halladay in pinstripes wouldn’t want to.

Don’t get me wrong. I understand that this is par for the course – a big-name, big-money player goes up for grabs, the Yankees have to be a part of the discussion. We have the payroll, we have the prospects, we have the media to spark life into the discussion and, well, that’s what we do – acquire big-name, big-money players.

Still, I have to confess that sometimes I find it to be a little tiresome. Ultimately, the Yankees don’t really need a guy like Halladay, certainly not enough to sacrifice our top young pitchers and some of our best minor league prospects in exchange. I know we’ve had our fair share of pitching woes lately, given that Wang’s on the DL. Last night’s disappointing start from Aceves only fuels the conversation.

In my mind, the obvious solution is to bring Phil Hughes back into the rotation as a starter.  However, for reasons that are completely confusing, the Yanks refuse to try it.  Apparently, during his brief stint in the bullpen, Hughes has been robbed of the stamina necessary to fill a starting role.

It sort of reminds me of that time they told us that people were hitting so many home runs out of the new Yankee Stadium because of irregular wind patterns. You know, it’s got that fresh pile of crapelbon smell to it.

If we need a guy to fill our number five-spot, we’re in the lucky rare position of having someone on hand to do it. With the recent recalling of Melancon, we have an extra arm to fill in that blank in our bullpen.

Regardless of what Yankees fans, the New York media, apparently even players for the Yankees, have to say about our pressing need for a guy like Halladay, I don’t see it happening. If for no other reason, if you’re J.P. Ricciardi, already struggling to compete against the teams in an impossibly good division, do you really want to deal your best pitcher to the Yankees, or the Chowdas for that matter, just so he can come back and haunt you down the road?  No, I’m thinking that if you’re Ricciardi, and you can get a deal that’s worth your while, you go out of the division, preferably out of the league with this one.  (At the moment, the Phils are looking to be the frontrunners.)

Like I said, we’re the Yanks. If somebody somewhere hear someone whisper something about the availability of a guy like Halladay, it’s going to come up. At the moment, however, I’d say that it’s media more than reality driving this train.  And for the anonymous Yankee dreaming away in the clubhouse about how good Halladay is going to look in pinstripes, your fantasy is likely to remain just that: a fantasy.

Readers, I bring you another entry from our resident Dodger fan, Chris Yamaoka Esq.  As always, it’s a gem, so I hope you enjoy it. I’m sure you will.

Manny’s back, and we couldn’t be happier.

That’s how I ended my last Manny-themed post, all of four months ago, back in those heady, innocent, loosey-goosey days. Four months ago. Or maybe more meaningfully, about two months and 50 days ago.

I’m tempted to write: “and it was a long 50 days.” But it wasn’t. The Dodgers have been playing great baseball, the Lakers won an NBA championship, and I’ve been able to avoid reading most of what I’m sure was generally sanctimonious, high-horse commentary and analysis. Yes, avoidance. That’s been my primary coping mechanism. And Vin Scully helped. A lot actually. I could turn on a game and Vinny would be telling some story about the other team’s second baseman’s offseason ranch, and things would feel just fine.

But like any fan — at least any irrationally obsessive and overly-analytical fan — I haven’t been able to avoid thinking about it entirely. This steroids thing is obviously nothing new. It’s not even anything new for Dodger fans. I have a Mitchell Report t-shirt (Lo Duca) and a Mitchell Report autograph (Gagne). But this is the first time it’s hit a current player — and at the peak of our euphoric love for him, no less. This is the first time it’s been headline news, and the first time it’s directly affected the team. And so, this is the first time I’ve thought about this steroids thing from this perspective. I spent years chanting “ste-roids!” at Barry Bonds; I reveled in Selena Roberts’ great schadenfreudian gift to the world; I would’ve hated on Manny so much if the story had broken while he was in Boston — what now? What now that it’s a guy in blue?

Well, to answer a question I’ve been asked more than once, I’m not going to boo him. And yes, I’m going to cheer for him. That realization has forced me to two conclusions. First, no fan should be getting on a my-team-is-cleaner-than-yours high horse anymore. Back when Barry was hitting an unreasonable number of balls into McCovey Cove, I was fond of saying, “yeah well, at least we’re not cheating.” (I was also fond of wishing that someone would slip some HGH into Shawn Green’s milk. Because even in an everyone’s-a-suspect era, I’m willing to bet that milk was the most performance enhancing substance that guy ever ingested.) Point is though, I can no longer question how Giants fans could get themselves to root for Barry. Or actually, I can, but only because he seems like such an unlikeable jerk, not because of the cream and the clear.

But more significantly, I’ve realized that if we’re serious about wanting a clean game, and most of us probably are, then there’s a price we have to pay as fans, too. Some of the stuff that we loved, some of what had us on our feet, screaming with real excitement and joy — some of that was the product of what we’re now so eager to villify. I’ve been going to Dodger Stadium my whole life, and some of the best moments I’ve ever had there were in those first few seconds of “Welcome to the Jungle” during Eric Gagne’s reign as the best closer on earth. As soon as the 8th ended, we’d start craning our heads towards the bullpen. The gate would swing open and from the first note of that echoing opening riff, the whole place was on fire. But if the guy who ran onto the field was taking steroids, and I say I want the game to be free of all that, then I have to be willing to give up some of the glow of that memory.

And yet, even if some of the luster is gone, I am going to cheer for Manny. And to be honest, I’m not going to feel guilty about it. As long as he still works like crazy, has fun with the fans, and makes the games more fun to watch, I think he still deserves our support. And I don’t think, as has been suggested, that Mets fans have a moral obligation to boo him this weekend because he hasn’t taken what he did seriously. I’m willing to bet that he — someone with such a transparent desire to be liked — was wrecked by it. His legacy is tainted forever. And that’s the other thing you realize when it happens to one of your own: these guys are being punished. As hard as it is to have sympathy for famous millionaires who play a game for a living, as easy as it was for me to enjoy every moment of A-Rod’s awkward, baby blue confession, these players are being punished in a very real way. Mark McGwire has essentially gone into hiding. Sosa, Palmeiro, cheaters, yes. But villains? I’m not so sure.

On the day the story first broke, Vinny started the broadcast like this:

“Hi, everybody, and a very pleasant Thursday evening to you, wherever you may be. The Dodgers and the city of Los Angeles and all of California and for that matter, all of baseball, still shocked and stunned over the suspension of Manny Ramirez. We’ll have more to say about that a little bit later on — but no one man stops baseball . . .”

I don’t intend to say that cheaters don’t deserve punishment; they absolutely do. But how do we move on from there? The only thing I can think of is to get back to watching baseball, the way we always do. For me, that means cheering for the Dodgers — all of them. And I fully expect Mets fans to boo Manny. Booing the other team is part of watching sports, and when you have extra ammunition? Why not? I just don’t think there’s any need to Boo In Order To Express Appropriate Moral Indignation. I think you can just boo the guy because it’s fun and it’s part of how you enjoy baseball. So sit back, relax, and enjoy the game. Cheer your team; boo the other. Save the overthinking for a blog post.

Last night, I was making my way north to Connecticut on I-95, and in an effort to stay awake, I was listening to talk radio. (I own that it was, perhaps, a misguided effort.)  I was zoning out a bit, but the show’s host caught my attention when he started in on a rant about justice and the application of the law. For, truly, there are few concepts that I care about more than justice.

Those of you who know me know that I’m nothing if not just.

The host, perhaps a bit misguided himself, was talking about the upside to the Giuliani Administration.  The host appreciated that Giuliani acknowledged that the law was the law and took it seriously as such, even in cases when it seemed inconsequential in the grand scheme of things.  The specific examples he cited were panhandling and guys with squeegees.

Ah, yes. It begins with the squeegees but then before you know it, in the immortal words of W.B. Yeats, “mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.”

He went on from there to say, “You see, it starts with, say, a petty robbery, a break-in and the police saying, ‘Well, you can file the report, but we’re not going to do anything about it.’  Yes, it starts with selling drugs in the street, and maybe you say, ‘Ah well that’s not such a big deal.’  Keep doing enough of that, the next thing you know, you’ve got total lawlessness. You’ve got Deadwood.”

No, this was not Rush Limbaugh or a one-off conservative guest on NPR talking about the need to invest more money in our police force.  It was Richard Neer on WFAN. And he was talking about last night’s blown call at third base.

Like I said, it starts with the squeegees, and then it’s only a matter of time before you’re turning and turning in the widening gyre.

Leaving aside the fact that Neer’s rant took a kind of weird ideological turn, he’s right about one thing: Marty Foster made the wrong call. Derek Jeter tries to steal third in the first, the ball beats him there, and Foster calls him out even though Jeter’s hand is clearly ahead of the tag.

Now, it would be one thing if Foster had just gotten it wrong, said, “Sorry, according to what I saw, which is incorrect, you did not beat the tag.”  I think I’ve already made my feelings on umps and bad calls pretty clear. Human error has always been and always will be part of the game. Until we can just get robots to play the damn thing, anyway. It’s part of the joy, getting to yell, “What are you, blind, ump?”  Sometimes, the cookie crumbles your way, sometimes, it doesn’t. (Truth be told, I don’t actually understand this expression.)

However, last night’s call did not boil down to a failure to see the action correctly.  When Jeter and later Girardi went to Foster to argue, he told them that third baseman Scott Rolen did not have to tag Jeter to make the out.

To quote Derek Jeter, “I wasn’t aware there was a rule change.”

Ultimately, last night’s issue was about either the misunderstanding of or the willful misapplication of the rules. Of baseball. By the guy who’s supposed to be enforcing the rules. Of baseball.

In either case, it’s a bit of a worry.

One of the duties of the umpire is “enforcing the rules of the game.”  By definition, if an umpire doesn’t know the rules of the game, he’s going to have trouble enforcing them.  So, if the issue was one of misunderstanding, the Foster is generally going to have trouble performing one of his primary duties.

However, if it was a question of misapplication, then we’ve got possibly a bigger problem on our hands.  A problem of the mere anarchy is loosed upon the world variety.

Some of you may recall a piece I wrote about a treasure of a girl named Jessica.  She seemed to think that because she worked at some kind of a summer camp, she was entitled to go in the express lane at the super market despite having what was clearly more than the appropriate number of items in her cart. (Well, it was clear if you could count, anyway.)  I compared her to Vicente Padilla, who had received two balk calls, perhaps not totally earned in spirit. However, this was my ultimate conclusion:

“While you could argue that the law exists for the sake of its spirit, the only real way to make reasonable assessments is to follow the law to the letter. Rules exist for a reason, and since there’s no good way to determine intent, perhaps the only way is to use the guidelines that are pre-prescribed.”

This is more or less what Neer was trying to say. Except, nothing against Neer, but my way makes a little more sense.

According to crew chief John Hirschbeck, “It used to be if the ball beats you, you’re out.”  However, even Hirschbeck owns that that’s not the way we do things anymore. I don’t care how they did things in the Days of Yore. The rules are the rules. If Foster was aware of them and didn’t adhere to them, that would fall under the umbrella of willful misapplication.

The best lack all conviction, while the worst are full of passionate intensity.

Ultimately, Jeter had no business running. With no outs in the first, getting called out at third is something of a little league mistake.  You don’t steal, and as Girardi put it, if you do, you damn sure better make it.  Jeter was quick to point out in response that, technically speaking, he did.

I guess we’ll know more when Marty Foster makes his statement.

Surely some revelation is at hand.

Last year, when the Cincinnati Reds came to New York for a visit for the first time in thirty years, Ken Griffey Jr. was decidedly unenthusiastic, commenting to the press, “My favorite Yankee Stadium memory?  It’s leaving Yankee Stadium.”

He was subsequently dubbed, “Grumpy Griffey” by the New York Post. (They’re very clever over there.)

I prefer to call him “The Kid.”

It all began over twenty years ago when Griffey Sr. was a utility player for the Yanks.  A group of fourteen Bombers’ kids were playing in the corridor, and apparently Billy Martin, not a fan of Pop Griffey, decided to giver the Brothers Griffey a bit of the old Martin guff.

In a Times article from 1991, Griffey was quoted as saying, “Martin told one of his coaches to go up to my dad.  He wanted us out of there. Just me and my brother, nobody else. Not Lou Piniella’s kid. Not Graig Nettles’s kid. Not Don Baylor’s kid.”

Clearly, it was an event that had a strong impact on Griffey, and he famously vowed never to play for the Bombers.

Griffey goes on, “I hold it against them and I will always play harder against the Yankees.  It’ll never change. Every time we play these guys, I try a little extra.”

When you’re twenty-two, it’s easy to say this or that will never change.  Ultimately, only time will tell. Based on his statement from last year, his grudge remains intact.  “I never forget,” he comments.  “That’s just who I am.”

This says something about Griffey, though it’s hard to know exactly what.  His dogged refusal to let go of something that happened so many years ago might seem a bit stubborn, almost petty.   Yet, Griffey Jr. is one of the most universally liked players in baseball. He has integrity, class, and has made it consistently and abundantly clear that he values family above all other things. Moreover, he is one of the few power hitters in this era of performance enhancing drugs whose name will almost certainly never be tainted by an accusation of steroid use.

If it seems strange that more than twenty years after getting kicked out of the Yankees clubhouse by a manager who has long since been dead, Griffey Jr. still uses this event as a source of motivation, bear in mind that the man has over 600 career home runs. Far be it for us to judge.

True to his word, The Kid. tried “a little extra” last night in the Mariners outing against the Yankees.  He hit his 621^st career home run, putting the punctuation mark on a Hall of Fame career spent torturing the team he so resents. It was a two-out, sixth-inning, first-pitch fastball from Pettitte.  Griffey Jr. knocked it over the right field wall with a swing that’s just as graceful as it ever was.

One of my readers, The Thunderphobe, pointed out that long before any current member of the Yankees team, including coaches (leaving aside special advisor Mr. October) had set foot in the House That Ruth Built, The Kid was there, running around those hallowed halls with dear old dad.  That he was, in fact, being ejected from those hallowed halls by a surly Billy Martin before some of the younger Bombers, such as Joba and Hughes, were even born.

For better or for worse, the Yankees have loomed large in Griffey Jr.’s imagination for the greater part of his career, for the greater part of his life, it would appear.  If this does in fact turn out to be The Kid’s last season, it’s fitting, poetic almost, that his swan song should come in the form of a solo home run in The House That George Built.

It was May 11th at Citi Field, and Johan Santana had the Braves on the Tomahawk chopping block.  The score was tied at 1, and the earned run count for Santana was 0. So it was to everyone’s confusion that Jerry Manuel trotted out to the mound with one on and one out in the sixth to tell Johan that he was done for the night.

In case you missed it the first time, let me repeat myself. The score was tied at 1, and the earned run count for Johan was 0.

So what was the problem?  The problem was that Santana had thrown 108 pitches, putting him over the preordained 100-pitch limit. After the game, Santana claimed that he was feeling fine — that Manuel hadn’t even bothered to ask. So what gives?  Are we so wed to the rules about pitch counts that that we don’t even have that discussion before yanking a pitcher from a game anymore?  Even when we’re dealing with arguably the best pitcher in baseball? (Yes, recent setbacks notwithstanding. I think we can all acknowledge this to be the case.)

In case you’re curious about the outcome of this maneuvering, the Mets lost that one — 8-3.  Bullpen collapse.

But what does a game that took place on May 11^th have to do with anything?  The answer to that question is everything.

You see, it’s not just about pitch count. Though, that is becoming more and more of a prohibitive issue. (For more on that, you might want to read Bill James’ recent interview in Sports Illustrated if you haven’t already.)  It’s about being too formulaic — too committed to a plan to be able to gauge what’s happening working with it.

Joe Girardi has let it be known in no uncertain terms that Phillip Hughes is a full-fledged reliever now.  In fact, I think his words might have been, “He is a full-fledged reliever now.”  Moreover, he’s a reliever who Girardi has said he could see using for multiple innings.  So, given all this, why not treat him as such?

Last night, Hughes had yet another terrific outing, retiring the Mariners in nine pitches in the 7^th. Yet, Brian Bruney — ailing elbow and all — comes in to take over in the 8^th.  Why, you ask?  Because he’s our 8th inning guy. And that’s what we do.

Bruney gave up two runs to tie the game. The Yanks ultimately came back to win, but that’s beside the point.

I understand the anxiety about pitchers and their arms — that the dynamics have shifted since big money salaries have entered into the picture. But if you’re managing the Mets, and you have Johan Santana on the mound, you keep him there. That is, unless he gets struck by lightning, gives up ten runs in the third or tells you his arm is about to fall off, you keep him there. Barring all of the aforementioned circumstances, Johan Santana is the best you’ve got. Period. If you’re managing the Yankees, and Phil Hughes brings you easily through the 7th, you leave him in to start the 8th.  Why? Because at the moment, he’s better than Bruney.  Hell, sometimes, you even bring in Mo to face a batter in the 8^th.

There, I said it.

When Sandy Koufax was a pitcher, if the score was tied or he was only up by a run or two in late innings, he always stayed in the game.  Why?  Because the goal was to win, and there was no pitcher more likely to help the Dodgers meet that goal than Koufax.

One game does not a season make, and every manager must constantly take into account the big picture.  Still, every win counts, as does every loss. When the win is within your grasp, you do what you can to take it. Even if it’s not part of the game plan. Your season may depend on it.

In baseball, as in life, it’s good to come armed with a plan.  However, as the saying goes, people make plans, and God laughs. So, in baseball, as in life, always be prepared to improvise.

Joe DiMaggio once famously said, “I would like to thank the Good Lord for making me a Yankee.”

Decades later, Mariano Rivera took the sentiment a step further when he asserted, “I think the Good Lord is a Yankee.”

As the person to bring the Principle of Separation of Church and Sports to the world, you would think I might take umbrage at this statement.  Yet, having now earned 500 saves in pinstripes in addition to four World Series rings, I understand how Mariano Rivera might have come to such a belief.

I have joked in the past about the possibility that Mariano Rivera is an alien, who hails from a planet of mutant adorable perfect people.  After all, what other explanation could there be for all that, well, mutant adorable perfection?  It’s not just the numbers — the 2.30 career ERA, the 1.02 WHIP.  Nor is it the remarkable longevity of Mo’s career as a closer –  at fourteen seasons, his tenure exceeds that of any other closer in baseball by over six years.  It’s his eerie calm on the mound, the confidence he inspires in his fellow teammates. When “Enter Sandman” blasts over those loudspeakers in The Bronx, it brings a crowd of tens and of thousands to a fever pitch.  Yet, meanwhile, Mo trots his way onto the field, carrying with him the energy of someone who’s steady, grounded.

Mariano attributes his unusually even keel to his faith in God. A devout Christian, more often than not, Mo can be found reading the Bible in the clubhouse. (As previously established, back when Edwar Ramirez was around, on the rare occasions when Mo wasn’t occupied with the Good Book, he could always be enticed to play a round of Chase Edwar Around The Locker Room.  And why not? That’s just good clean fun.)  Lest he forget his devotion to God while he’s working his magic on the mound, Mo has inscribed a reference to Phillipians on his glove: “I can do all things through Christ, who strengthens me.”

I do not claim to know from whence Mo gets his strength, but at times it appears that he can, indeed, do all things.

Mo was not always such a religious zealot, but there is a compelling argument that suggests that he may well have been born blessed. As the son of a fisherman in a small impoverished village in Panama, Mo wasn’t what you’d call a likely candidate to be a major leaguer — let alone a first ballot Hall of Famer. (That, he certainly will be.) Growing up, resources were scarce — so scarce that Mo did not have the advantage of learning the game with some of the equipment that is typically thought to be helpful when playing baseball, such as a glove or a bat.  So, Mo and his friends created makeshift mitts out of milk cartons and fashioned tree branches into bats. Of course, all Mo ever really needed in order to develop into the player he is now was the ball, and even those were precious rare commodities — often tattered and taped together.

But, still, it was enough.

Despite his natural abilities on the field and his love of the game, Mo had not always planned on becoming a ballplayer.  After he graduated from high school, he went to work for his father as a fisherman.  It was a job he abandoned rather quickly as he found it to be “way too tough.”  He came to this revelation shortly after he had to abandon an 120-ton capsizing commercial boat.  Go figure.

Mo was no fool, however.  Like any young Central American fisherman, he had a fallback — professional sports.  He went out for the Panama Oeste squad, where he actually got his start as a shortstop.  As fate would have it, the Panama pitching staff was so lousy that they were more or less looking for volunteers wherever they could find them — Mo agreed to step up to the mound.  He was eventually scouted by Herb Raybourn,  director of the Yankees Latin American operations, who saw Rivera’s great potential.  Having had no formal training as a pitcher, Mo had not yet developed his velocity, but his was clearly a raw talent.  Despite the fact that Mo was throwing a fastball in the 85-87 mile per hour range, Raybourn was able to recognize this. He knew he had something special in front of him.

And Mo has been nothing if not special.  From the time he emerged on the scene and established himself as a closer, he has impressed players and fans alike with the artistry and near perfection of his signature pitch.  For a batter facing Mo, the question is never so much, “What’s he going to throw this time?”  With Mo, you know.  It’s going to be a cut fastball in the 92-94 mile per hour range.  The question for a batter facing Mo is always, “How in the hell am I going to hit it?”

It’s for this reason that Mo is the likely candidate for a nickname such as
“The Hammer of God.”

This brings me back to my original point, if I’m Mariano Rivera, reflecting back on my tenure as a Yankee — the pennants, the championships, the saves, the All-Star Games, the awards — maybe I would feel inclined to believe that the Good Lord was, in fact, a Yankee.

While the Good Lord’s team allegiance is subject to debate, particularly in recent years, Mo is a strong believer in the idea that God has a hand in everything that happens. For example, Mo doesn’t regret that blown save in 2001. You know the one — Arizona Diamondbacks, bloop single, total travesty. While Mo may not have saved the game, he believes the loss of the game may have ultimately saved his friend. Had the Yanks won that championship, Enrique Wilson is on American Airline flight that ultimately went down, and he doesn’t survive.  It’s like Mo says, God has a hand in everything.

Whether or not I share Mo’s faith, I have to respect it. Never has he displayed anything resembling hypocrisy or vanity. He doesn’t seek out attention or accolades.  When he credits God with his success, he doesn’t appear to be saying it simply because it’s the thing to say. One gets the sense that he believes it. He doesn’t talk about Christ and then show up later that same day on the pages of the Post with reports of the latest scandal in which he has become embroiled.  He talks about Christ and then he builds schools and churches in his native Panama, holds sermons on off-days in New York. He plans to move to Panama when he retires and live out his days as an evangelical minister – far away from the glaring limelight of the New York City press corp.  Mo plays baseball because he loves baseball.  One never senses, however, that he needs the attention or the approval of the adoring crowds.  When he retires, I presume he’ll be just as content to disappear into obscurity, living a life of religious servitude and local celebrity somewhere in Central America.

Two nights ago, Mo became the second pitcher in history to reach the 500 save milestone.  (Trevor Hoffman was the first.) Rivera, for his part, claimed to be more excited about having earned his first major league RBI — a run-scoring walk against K-Rod. It was certainly his night on both counts.  Moreover, it was a tribute to the fact that so many years later, Mo remains one of the best in the game.  If you evaluate his overall career, the best in the game. However, the cracks are beginning to show. He is not, after all, an alien from another planet. He’s a person from Panama. Consequently, he’s fallible — fallible, and getting older. Every time I re-learn this lesson, I’m a little surprised.

When the day finally comes when Mo decides to turn in his pinstripes, I like the image of him in white linen suit and straw hat, preaching the word in a little church somewhere in Panama City with the sun blazing at his back.  In the meantime, if the Good Lord really is a Yankee, then for the time being, Mo remains the Hammer of God. After last Sunday, there can be no doubt.

Write it down: It’s June 29, and Chien-Ming Wang has finally earned his first win of the season.

True, a pitchers success cannot be measured in wins and losses. True also that yesterday was not Wang’s first good outing since his return from the DL. His last two losses can be attributed in part to what I like to refer to as Johan Santana Syndrome — otherwise known as no run support.  However, I don’t care what anyone says about the actual significance of wins and losses — a 0 in the win column is a heavy psychological burden to bear for a guy who has been struggling all season.  For this reason, last night must have been a relief.

More importantly, perhaps, last night was Wang’s third solid outing in a row.   I, for one, am starting to exhale. No, Wang has not yet returned to his 19-win form of yore. No, he has not yet pitched a six-inning outing since his stint on the DL.  No, he doesn’t even have a single-digit ERA just yet.  At the moment he is what I would describe as simply, well, solid — solid and increasingly improving. Still, I have always expressed nothing but confidence in Wang.  My trust in him has yet to waver.  Sometimes, patience is the thing.  I stand behind my assertion that Wang can be our guy — our homegrown ace.

Wang’s performance last night, backed by the backup relief duo of Phils capped our sweep of the Mets, closing out interleague play. On the subject of pitching, CC and A.J. really came through for us this weekend, delivering the kind of stellar performances that make you go, “Wow. Now that’s why we paid those guys stupid amounts of money.” On Friday, CC allowed three hits and one run in seven innings, which apparently served as A.J.’s inspiration on Saturday. A.J. commented, “I thought about it all night.  He established what a starter wants to do.”  As did A.J. who threw a one-hitter himself on Saturday.

More than earning bragging rights — frankly, I only care about those where the Chowdas are concerned — I’m just happy about the sweep.  Hell, I’m happy about the win.  After a a rough week, it’s nice to see that we’ve finally been able to string together a couple of series victories in a row.

By the way, if in reading this you find yourself wondering why it is that I’ve buried the lead on last night’s game, don’t worry. There will be Mo on that later.  As they say in the Midwest, it’s gonna happen.