BABE RUTH: HOME RUN NUMBER 714

By the spring of 1935, Babe Ruth's legendary career was nearing its end. His days as baseball's most feared hitter were largely behind him, and his brief stint with the Boston Braves had done little to recapture the magic that made him the sport's biggest attraction. But on May 25, 1935, at Forbes Field in Pittsburgh, Ruth delivered one last unforgettable reminder that even an aging Sultan of Swat could still put on a show unlike anyone else.

Facing the Pittsburgh Pirates, the 40-year-old Ruth enjoyed one of the most remarkable farewell performances in baseball history. He went a perfect 4-for-4 at the plate, blasted three home runs, drove in six runs, and nearly single-handedly kept the Braves competitive in an eventual 11-7 loss. The Braves lost the game, but nobody remembered the score. They remembered the home runs.

And not just because there were three of them.

The final blast of the afternoon was home run No. 714—the last home run Babe Ruth would ever hit in a Major League game. Think about that number for a moment. When Ruth retired, 714 home runs stood as one of the most untouchable records in sports. He didn't just hold the all-time home run record; he had completely redefined what was possible. Before Ruth arrived, no player had ever reached 200 career home runs. Ruth more than tripled that total.

His third homer that day was vintage Ruth. The ball rocketed off his bat and sailed completely out of Forbes Field in fair territory, becoming the first fair ball ever hit entirely out of the stadium. Witnesses offered varying estimates of the distance, with some claiming it approached 600 feet. Whether it actually traveled that far may never be known, but one thing is certain: nobody in attendance had seen anything like it.

The baseball eventually landed in a nearby yard beyond the ballpark. Ruth later signed the ball for the man who found it, and it ultimately found a permanent home in the National Baseball Hall of Fame, preserving a piece of one of baseball's most iconic afternoons.

The scene that followed was pure Babe Ruth.

After circling the bases for the final home run of his career, Ruth completed his trot, then casually made his way toward the Pirates' bullpen. There, according to popular accounts, he helped himself to a towel, sat down among the opposing pitchers, patted one on the knee, and remarked, "Felt pretty good out there today, boys. Felt pretty good."

It's hard to imagine a more fitting curtain call.

Three home runs in a single game. A perfect day at the plate. Six RBIs. Home run No. 714. The first fair ball ever hit completely out of Forbes Field. It was as if baseball's biggest star had saved one final performance for the closing act.

Ruth would play only a few more games before retiring, but May 25, 1935, remains one of the greatest farewell performances in sports history. It was the last time fans saw the Bambino at full power, launching baseballs into the stratosphere and leaving opponents shaking their heads in disbelief.

Baseball has spent nearly a century searching for the next Babe Ruth. It has produced Hall of Famers, MVPs, record breakers, and home run kings. Yet when conversations turn to the greatest player the game has ever seen, Ruth's name never stays out of the discussion for long. A career that ended with 714 home runs was impressive enough. Finishing it with three in one afternoon felt almost too perfect—a final reminder that the game's biggest legend still had one more Ruthian performance left in him.

--Alvin Izzo
BYB Yankee History Contributor

JASSON DOMINGUEZ PLAYED LIKE A TRUE THROWBACK

Maybe this is the old man in me talking, but baseball today feels a little… moisturized. Everybody’s worried about “load management,” preserving bodies, launch angles, recovery days, sleep metrics, hydration charts, and whether a guy’s heart rate got too high jogging to first base. Somewhere along the way, baseball stopped looking like a game played by maniacs and started looking like an HR department seminar.

I grew up watching players who treated the warning track like it was optional and basic human safety like a rumor.

Pete Rose didn’t slide into bases — he tried to assassinate them. The man played baseball like he had unpaid parking tickets waiting at every bag. Headfirst dives, dirt in his teeth, jersey permanently stained brown. Nobody ever accused Pete Rose of “taking a smarter angle.” The only angle he knew was full speed.

Then you had Ken Griffey Sr. and Dave Winfield scaling outfield walls in Yankee Stadium like rent was due at midnight. Those guys didn’t jog toward fly balls calculating risk assessment percentages. They went after baseballs with the kind of recklessness normally associated with action movies and bad financial decisions.

And don’t even get me started on Derek Jeter launching himself face-first into the stands against Boston. The man basically became an airborne folding chair just to record an out. Bloody face, bruised shoulder and Yankee fans still replay that clip like it’s the Zapruder film. THAT was baseball.

And honestly, that’s why I’m rolling my eyes at everyone ripping Jasson Domínguez for smashing into the wall making that catch against Texas. People are calling it stupid. I’m calling it beautiful.

The kid ran 81 feet tracking a rocket off the bat, went full speed into the chain-link part of the wall, got absolutely detonated on impact, lost his sunglasses, lost his hat, probably briefly lost contact with several ancestors — and STILL held onto the baseball.

That’s not stupidity. That’s baseball DNA. That is why you play the game. That is why Sportscenter invented the 10 ten plays!

That’s “the run doesn’t score because I’m catching this ball no matter what happens afterward.”

And yes, he got hurt. Shoulder sprain. Concussion protocol. He’ll miss a few weeks. But since when did effort become something we criticize? Since when did “he played too hard” become an insult?

Baseball was built on lunatics doing unreasonable things for outs. Why? Because it's the greatest game ever made.

You know who else played like this? Aaron Rowand. That man once smashed face-first into the center-field wall in Philadelphia so hard it looked like he got hit by a city bus, then walked away bleeding because he caught the ball anyway. ESPN literally dubbed players like him part of the “All-Run-Through-A-Wall Team.” Aaron Rowand played center field like every fly ball had personally insulted his family.

And then there was Jim Edmonds — a human highlight. The guy treated diving catches like performance art. Half the time he’d leave his feet so dramatically you’d think he got launched out of a cannon.  Jim Edmonds basically created baseball pornography for SportsCenter. Before every phone became a television studio, people waited all night to see the SportsCenter Top 10 because some lunatic center fielder sacrificed his skeletal structure robbing a double in July.

That stuff MATTERED.

Now everybody immediately turns into a risk-management consultant.
“He should’ve protected himself.”
“He needs to think long-term.”
“He’s too valuable.”
“He shouldn’t risk injury in May.”

Man… what happened to us?

 

You play to WIN THE GAME. You play to steal outs. You play to make the pitcher walk back to the dugout screaming into his glove because you just erased a guaranteed extra-base hit.

And what makes Domínguez’s play even better is this: the kid easily could’ve coasted. He JUST came back from an elbow bruise. Nobody would’ve crushed him for pulling up a step early. Most modern players probably make the “business decision” there, let the ball bounce off the wall, and jog after it while pretending they almost had it.

Not Domínguez. He went full-send. And that’s why I respect it.

That’s also why I’ll always love guys like Harrison Bader. Sure, the guy gets hurt a lot. But every inning looks like his mortgage depends on making the next catch. There’s something refreshing about players who still play with chaos in them. Because baseball is supposed to have some chaos.

It’s supposed to have dirt-stained uniforms, guys crashing into walls, catchers blocking the plate, infielders diving into the hole, and outfielders running like their cleats are on fire. Not everything needs to be optimized by a sports scientist with an iPad and a protein shake.

Of course players should be smart. Nobody’s saying careers should end for one catch in May. But there’s a massive difference between being smart and being soft. And lately, the line between those two keeps getting blurrier.

So no, I’m not criticizing Jasson Domínguez. I’m applauding him. Because for one play, baseball looked dangerous again.

It looked emotional again.
It looked gritty again.
It looked like the game I grew up loving.

And honestly?
We need more of that.

--Alvin Izzo
BYB Yankee History Contributor

IN SOME WAYS PETE GRAY WAS BETTER THAN ANTHONY VOLPE

In 1945, Pete Gray gave Major League Baseball one of the most remarkable “you can’t make this up” seasons in history. Playing for the St. Louis Browns, Gray hit .218—not Hall of Fame stuff statistically, but when you factor in that he did it with one arm after losing his right arm in a childhood accident, the man becomes baseball folklore. Born Peter Wyshner, Gray wasn’t supposed to be there. He wasn’t supposed to chase down fly balls in center field, leg out infield hits, or gun down runners. But he refused “no” as an answer. The war years had thinned the league’s talent pool, opening a door for him, but make no mistake—he shoved his way through it and made the majors on grit and sheer stubbornness.

The Browns signed him for $4,000 after buying his contract for $20,000, and on April 17, 1945, he debuted against the Detroit Tigers. A month later, in Yankee Stadium, Gray delivered a storybook moment—five hits and two RBIs in a doubleheader sweep over the Yankees. He’d play 77 games that season, mostly in left and center, and prove to the world that determination could close the gap between impossible and reality.

Now, let’s fast-forward to Anthony Volpe—Aaron Boone’s coddled pet project and the Yankees’ “elite” shortstop who, at the moment, is batting .219. Yes, that’s one point higher than Pete Gray’s 1945 average. The difference? Pete Gray was missing an arm. Volpe has two, and somehow they both come up empty at the plate far too often.

Volpe was a star in high school—Delbarton School, New Jersey. 2019 New Jersey High School Player of the Year. Strong glove. Speed. Solid bat. All fine and dandy… but that was six years ago, and high school trophies don’t mean much when you’re skipping college ball and getting vaulted straight into the pressure cooker of playing shortstop for the New York Yankees.

And here’s the problem: the kid wasn’t ready. He’s still not ready. He carries himself like someone who’s had everything handed to him, because—surprise—he has. When he makes a mistake, you see the palms go up, the face of disbelief, as if the baseball gods themselves are to blame. Accountability? Only if you count scripted postgame answers that sound like they were approved by a parent.

A month ago, the mask slipped. Meredith Marakovits asked Boone about a Volpe error, and Boone—visibly irritated—got up, looked her straight in the eye, and mouthed, “He’s effin’ elite.” Translation: “This is the company line, get with it.” 

Sorry, Aaron, but the rest of us aren’t buying the gaslighting. The Yankees already shipped off Oswald Peraza—a better defensive shortstop—just to keep Volpe’s spot warm. And for what? To watch him swing like he’s trying to hit flies off a picnic table?

Pete Gray fought through life with one arm, beat impossible odds, and lived his dream. Volpe, with every advantage a baseball player could want, is being anointed for mediocrity. Pete Gray earned his shot. Volpe’s getting a victory parade for holding a batting average you could get by closing your eyes and hacking.

 

Yes, in some ways Gray was better than Volpe. And a lot of it has to do in the fact that he earned his keep, despite the doubters.  For Volpe, he's losing favor among fans and yet the Yankees "Gaslighting" front office refuse to fold because they would have egg on their face if they admitted making a mistake.

What does that say about the Yankees? What does that say about the front office’s warped, spin-heavy “everything’s fine” culture? Simple. Pete Gray’s story was about grit. Anthony Volpe’s is about gifts. And one of those actually belongs in Yankee Stadium history.

--Alvin Izzo
BYB Yankee History Contributor

JUDGE IS THE BIG LEAGUE CHEW POSTER CHILD, BUT THERE WERE OTHERS

If you were a baseball-loving kid growing up, chances are you stuffed your cheek with a wad of Big League Chew and strutted around like you just got called up to the majors. It was sticky, it was stringy, and it was awesome. No tobacco, just pure sugar-fueled swagger—and maybe a little drool if you really committed to the bit.

These days, though? Rumor has it gum’s getting banned in some youth leagues. Why? Choking hazards. Yes, we’ve apparently reached a point in society where bubblegum is too dangerous for baseball. America: home of the brave, unless that bravery involves chewing grape gum in the outfield. We’ve gone soft, folks.

But thank the baseball gods, Aaron Judge is here to bring back a little edge—and a whole lot of nostalgia.

In a move that hits harder than one of his moonshots to center field, Judge will be featured on a pouch of Big League Chew. Starting this month, you’ll see his face on the Grand Slam Grape flavor at places like Dick’s Sporting Goods and Costco. It’s a full-circle moment for the Yankees captain—and for every one of us who thought we were hot stuff with gum in our cheeks and dirt on our uniforms.

Judge called it “surreal” in the press release. “Big League Chew has always been more than gum — it’s a part of the game,” he said. “I chewed it as a kid, and now being on the pouch is surreal.” Surreal, yes—but also incredibly well-deserved.

And because Judge doesn’t just hit homers—he gives back—a portion of the proceeds will go to his All Rise Foundation, which helps empower young people to become leaders on and off the field. Gum with a mission? We’re in.

But I found an interesting piece of info that isn't accurate (I don't think at least.) It was reported by Delilah Bourque on New York Yankees on SI that Judge is the first MLB player ever. But that's simply not true.  Back in 2013, Matt Kemp and Cole Hamels were on pouches of Big League Chew. Maybe because it's an actual partnership with MLB, rather than PLB Sports, who knows.  While my memory is sometimes foggy, I do remember the pouch, and so while it's not a big deal, it is a big deal for Judge and the Yankees. It's cool.

Now let’s rewind to how this glorious gum came to be. Picture it: 1977. A quirky left-handed pitcher named Rob Nelson, playing for the Portland Mavericks (aka baseball’s most chaotic underdog team), has an idea. What if players had a fun, chewable alternative to tobacco that still looked the part?

Rob Nelson

With help from future film director Todd Field (then a batboy) and Yankees pitcher Jim Bouton, they cooked up Big League Chew—literally in the bullpen. By 1980, it hit stores with its signature foil pouch and cartoon ballplayer, and the rest is bubble-blowing history.

Since then, Big League Chew has sold over a billion pouches, earned a spot in the National Baseball Hall of Fame, and remained the go-to gum for anyone who wants to feel like a slugger—without the nicotine habit.

Now, with Aaron Judge leading the charge, the gum is getting a second wind. Maybe kids will start chewing again (safely, of course). Maybe grape will become the flavor of champions. Maybe—just maybe—we’ll all remember that baseball is supposed to be fun.

So go ahead, grab a pouch. Blow a bubble. Feel like a kid again. And give a nod to Judge, the face of a new era in gum-chewing greatness.

--Alvin Izzo
BYB Yankee History Contributor

THE MOST AVOIDABLE YANKEE MISTAKE THAT HAL CAN FIX RIGHT NOW

It’s time to revisit something fundamental—not just in baseball, but in all of professional sports: why managers get fired.

Typically, it’s for one very clear reason: poor team performance. Especially when a team is underachieving or failing to meet expectations. You can’t replace the entire roster midseason—contracts, injuries, egos, and logistics make that impossible. So the quickest, most practical fix? Fire the manager.

It’s not just strategic—it’s symbolic. Firing the manager sends a message to the fans and players: we’re not settling. It’s the organization’s way of signaling a shakeup, and often, that kind of jolt is exactly what a stagnant team needs.

For fans like me—and like those of us here at Bleeding Yankee Blue—a shakeup right now isn’t just necessary. It’s long overdue.

So here’s the question: Why hasn’t Aaron Boone been fired yet?

 

The Yankees are flat. Lifeless. Playing like a team that either doesn’t believe in itself or doesn’t believe in the guy leading them. Boone has lost control of this team, and you don’t need a front office credential to see it. You just need eyes.

We’ve been talking about this for years, not just this season. We believed in fan pressure before it was trendy. And while the rest of Yankees fandom is just now calling for Boone’s job, we've been banging this drum since day one—because Boone has never looked the part. The fact that he's still in the dugout, still chewing seeds, still clapping politely after soul-crushing losses? It's not just baffling—it's insulting.

And don’t tell us about his “winning record.” You can have a winning record and still be a bad leader. Look around the league:

Joe Altobelli led the Orioles to a World Series title in year one. Two years later—fired.

 
Bob Brenly brought the Diamondbacks their first championship. The very next season? Fired after a rough start.

Joe Maddon, who broke a 108-year drought in Chicago, wasn’t even given a contract extension after 2019.

Why? Because in the real world, especially in big markets with big expectations, winning is everything. So is meeting expectations, developing talent and commanding respect.

Boone does none of the above.

 
He hasn’t won a pennant. He hasn’t developed the youth. He’s mismanaged bullpens and lineups. And worst of all, he’s failed to inspire. There is no fire. No edge. No sense that this guy knows how to lead a team through a storm—only that he’s along for the ride, hoping the ship doesn’t sink while he’s on duty.

Spoiler alert: it’s sinking.

Now let’s talk about expectations, because that’s where this really becomes embarrassing.

This is the New York Yankees. Not the A’s. Not the Marlins. Not some mid-market team with modest dreams of contending. This is the most successful, iconic franchise in sports. Here, a "winning record" without a World Series appearance means exactly nothing. Boone hasn’t delivered one. Not even close.

 
And if Hal Steinbrenner is content with keeping the money machine running while the trophy case gathers dust—fine. Keep Boone. Keep the status quo. Keep watching this team fall apart in the postseason, or worse, miss it altogether. 

But don’t expect the fans to go quietly. Don’t expect the bleacher creatures to stay patient. Because we’re not built for mediocrity. This franchise isn’t supposed to accept it. And frankly, neither are its fans.

The sad truth? Boone’s still here because the Yankees have lost the one thing that used to define them: STANDARDS.

This team has talent. They have stars. They have payroll. What they don’t have is a real leader at the helm. Aaron Boone is not that. He never has been. And if Hal has even an ounce of his father’s backbone, he’ll stop protecting him and start fixing what’s broken.

Because until Aaron Boone is fired, the Yankees are going nowhere.

--Alvin Izzo

BYB Yankee History Contributor

JESUS MONTERO & THE ALMOST ALL-STAR

Once upon a time in the Yankees’ farm system, there was a thunderous bat that made scouts’ jaws drop and pitchers sweat: Jesús Montero. With the kind of raw power that drew comparisons to hitting legends like Manny Ramirez and Miguel Cabrera, Montero looked like the next big Bronx Bomber. But for all the fireworks at the plate, there was a catch—literally. His defense behind the dish was...well, let’s just say, less than gold glove-worthy. Some scouts doubted he'd stick at catcher at all, predicting his size would push him out of the squat sooner rather than later.

Still, the Yankees rolled the dice. On September 1, 2011, Montero got the call to the bigs. His first 18 games looked like a Hollywood debut: a .328 batting average, four home runs, and 28 RBIs. He burst onto the scene as a designated hitter at Fenway Park—no pressure—and soon became the first 21-year-old rookie since Manny himself to mash two home runs within his first five games. Yankees fans had stars in their eyes.

But just as quickly as the legend began, it hit a snag. With the team desperate for pitching, and Montero’s position still a question mark, the Yankees flipped their shiny new slugger to Seattle in a high-profile swap for Michael Pineda in the 2011-12 offseason. Part of the reasoning? The Yankees were already sitting on a stockpile of catching prospects like Austin Romine and a young Gary Sánchez, and Montero’s glove never quite caught up with his bat.

Unfortunately, the move to Seattle marked the beginning of Montero’s rapid unraveling. His promise dimmed under performance struggles, weight issues, and then the real kicker: PED suspensions.

The Downfall: Two Strikes, You’re Out

• Strike One (2013): Montero got a 50-game suspension for his role in the infamous Biogenesis scandal—the same Florida clinic that took down a chunk of MLB’s elite for performance-enhancing drugs.

• Strike Two (2016): He was hit with another 50-game suspension for testing positive for DMBA, a banned stimulant. At this point, the comeback trail had become a steep cliff.

By the time the dust settled, Montero had quietly played his final MLB game on October 3, 2015. Despite the fireworks early on, his career ended not with a bang, but a whimper. Official retirement came soon after—a sad, cautionary tale of potential unfulfilled and power squandered.

--Alvin Izzo
BYB Yankee History Contributor

WHY DANDY THE YANKEE MASCOT REALLY DISAPPEARED

In the long, storied history of the New York Yankees—where legends are born, pinstripes are sacred, and facial hair policies are stricter than the TSA—there was once... a mascot. Yes, a mascot. His name was Dandy, and his existence was so brief, awkward, and ill-timed that the team has essentially memory-holed him like a bad haircut in a high school yearbook.

Let’s rewind to the summer of 1979. Baseball was a little looser, a little weirder. The Philly Phanatic was flopping around like a green fever dream, and mascots were quickly becoming MLB's hot new thing. So naturally, the Yankees—America’s most buttoned-up baseball franchise—decided to join the party.

Enter Dandy: a giant, pinstriped bird with a peach-fuzz mustache and a mop of brownish hair. Picture a love child between a cartoon pelican and Thurman Munson after a long weekend. Not that Dandy was intended to look like the Yankees’ beloved captain, but… let’s just say the resemblance wasn’t subtle.

Here’s where things take a sharp turn into tragic territory. Just days after Dandy waddled into Yankee Stadium for his debut, Thurman Munson died in a plane crash on August 2, 1979. Suddenly, Dandy’s cheery appearance felt more like an accidental tribute to a fallen hero. Understandably, fans and players were not in the mood for anthropomorphic comedy relief.

The Yankees swiftly pulled Dandy from the field, hoping to cool off the awkward vibes. But the damage was done. Dandy was relegated to the upper decks, far from the spotlight, and even further from anyone’s affection.

Adding to Dandy’s misery was a complete lack of support from Yankees management. The mascot had been commissioned by MLB, not directly by the team, and owner George Steinbrenner reportedly hated mascots—which is kind of like hiring a magician for your birthday party and then having your dad throw his hat at him. Steinbrenner later even claimed he didn’t remember Dandy, which might be the most New York passive-aggressive diss of all time.

Fans weren’t into him either. Yankees faithful weren’t exactly clamoring for slapstick bird antics between innings. They came for cold, hard baseball. Dandy? He came with a mustache, flailing limbs, and the worst timing in mascot history.

By 1981, his contract quietly expired. The Yankees chose not to renew it. No ceremony. No farewell. Just a giant bird being told to fly south—permanently.

Today, Dandy is a ghost in Yankee lore. No bobbleheads. No retro merch. No warm nostalgia pieces. It’s like the franchise collectively decided, “Yeah, that didn’t happen.” And given the Yankees’ famously corporate, no-nonsense image, it kind of tracks. Mascots are fun. The Yankees don’t do fun. They do business.

So next time someone tells you the Yankees have never had a mascot, lean in close and whisper: “They did. His name was Dandy. And they erased him like he was never even there.”

--Alvin Izzo
BYB Yankee History Contributor

THE BATTLE OF THE MULLET

In the long, dramatic, pinstriped history of the New York Yankees, there are stories of towering home runs, perfect games, postseason miracles, and then… there’s the tale of Don Mattingly’s hair. Yes, his hair. Not his bat. Not his back. Not even his mustache. Just his business-in-the-front, party-in-the-back mullet that dared to defy a billion-dollar empire.

It was 1991, and the Yankees were a hot mess. The postseason hadn’t been seen in the Bronx since Reagan’s first term, and the only thing more rigid than the Yankees’ offense was George Steinbrenner’s grooming policy. Enter Don Mattingly, the team's captain, a six-time All-Star, MVP, Gold Glove machine—and owner of a magnificent mullet that practically needed its own locker.

George Steinbrenner had a rulebook, and unlike most owners, he actually read it. The rules were simple: No facial hair below the lip. No long hair. No individuality that wasn’t pre-approved by the front office. Basically, if you looked like you might play guitar in a bar band on weekends, you were violating club policy.

Donnie Baseball, clearly not a fan of acoustic conformity, let his hair grow a bit past regulation. Nothing too wild—just a little business-casual rebellion. Then came Stump Merrill, the manager at the time, who found himself in the unfortunate position of being Steinbrenner’s style police. Stump told Mattingly to cut his hair or sit on the bench. Mattingly, being Mattingly, refused.

And so the Yankees benched their captain. Over hair.

The media had an absolute field day. Newspapers dubbed it “The Battle of the Mullet,” which honestly sounds like an off-brand pro wrestling pay-per-view. TV crews descended on the Stadium as if the Yankees had just signed Babe Ruth’s ghost. Fans were confused. Children wept. Stylists everywhere sharpened their scissors.

Steinbrenner, never one to back away from a good PR firestorm (he practically set them for warmth), leaned all the way in. In one of the more bizarre moments in Yankees broadcast history, Phil Rizzuto, Bobby Murcer, and Tom Seaver took to the WPIX pregame show to spoof the drama. Rizzuto, with clippers in hand, pretended to be Steinbrenner’s personal enforcer-barber. It was performance art, really. Three legends of the game riffing on their boss’s obsession with follicles.

Mattingly didn’t think it was funny. Publicly, he cracked a few smiles. Privately, he was fuming. He was the team captain, for crying out loud. He wasn’t some kid showing up late to rookie camp with dreadlocks and a backwards hat. He was Donnie freaking Baseball—the guy kids imitated in their backyards and whose mustache should be in Cooperstown by itself. And yet, here he was, benched over a mullet.

It got so bad that Mattingly briefly considered asking for a trade. From the Yankees. Because of hair. Somewhere out there, an 11-year-old future Derek Jeter probably said, “Wait, I’m not allowed to grow my sideburns either?”

But no story this goofy stays hidden from pop culture. Enter The Simpsons.

In the legendary 1992 episode “Homer at the Bat,” Mattingly appears as one of Mr. Burns’ recruited ringers. In a scene that can only be described as animated perfection, Mr. Burns demands Mattingly shave his sideburns—repeatedly. Mattingly insists he already has, but Burns screams, “You’re off the team, for good!” 

It was a brilliant, spot-on jab at the real-life hairgate, and Mattingly’s deadpan delivery made it even better. The man got benched in a cartoon again. This time, by a yellow billionaire with liver spots.

And yet, despite the absurdity, something kind of beautiful happened over time.

There’s no evidence that Mattingly and Steinbrenner ever became besties who went shopping for buzzers at CVS together, but they found peace in their own grumpy way. George, for all his eccentricities, admired work ethic and loyalty more than anything. And Mattingly, despite the mullet mutiny, never stopped giving 100 percent. Eventually, the two developed a working relationship built on—you guessed it—mutual respect.

When Mattingly retired in 1995, he was still the Yankees’ captain, still beloved by the fans, and still rocking a little extra length in the back. And years later, when he returned as a coach, there was no talk of hair—just hitting.

So while Mattingly never won a World Series ring with the Yankees, he did win something far more important: a cultural moment. A slice of Bronx folklore. A legacy that includes Gold Gloves, a retired number, and a full-on hair-based standoff with the most controlling owner in sports history.

George Steinbrenner wanted everyone in uniform, clean-cut, regulation-perfect. Don Mattingly just wanted to let it grow a little.

And for one glorious, silly, headline-making stretch in the early '90s, Donnie’s mullet led the league in defiance.

And honestly? That’s the most Yankee thing of all.

--Alvin Izzo
BYB Yankee History Contributor

THE DAY THE SCOOTER MET THE HOLY COW... LITERALLY

Some baseball tributes are solemn. Others are surreal. And then there's Phil Rizzuto Day—a ceremony that somehow combined Monument Park, a cardboard halo, and a runaway cow.

On August 4, 1985, the Yankees honored longtime shortstop and legendary broadcaster Phil “The Scooter” Rizzuto by retiring his No. 10 and adding a plaque in Monument Park. It was a long-overdue celebration of a Yankee icon—scrappy on the field, beloved in the booth, and known for his signature exclamation: “Holy Cow!”

Naturally, someone in the Yankees front office decided to have a little fun with that phrase. As part of the ceremony, they presented Rizzuto with a real cow, adorned with a cardboard halo—a literal “holy cow.” But the plan quickly went off the rails when the cow, clearly not briefed on stadium etiquette, accidentally knocked Rizzuto to the grass behind home plate.

Fortunately, Rizzuto was unharmed, and ever the good sport, he laughed it off. The moment was classic Scooter—chaotic, charming, and totally unforgettable.

Several of his former teammates showed up for the celebration, including Mickey Mantle and Whitey Ford. But the day held even more significance. As a young fan in attendance, Robert Casey, Editor-in-Chief of Bleeding Yankee Blue, recalled the atmosphere with me —how the crowd came for Rizzuto, but many were also buzzing about another milestone in the making: Tom Seaver, pitching for the White Sox, was chasing career win No. 300.

 
He got it. The Yankees lost. But in the end, it didn’t matter. The day belonged to Scooter.

In a moment that drew a roar from the crowd, Rizzuto told fans:

“This means more to me than the Hall of Fame ever could.”

At the time, Rizzuto still hadn’t been elected. That honor finally came on February 25, 1994, when the Veterans Committee voted him into the Hall of Fame, alongside Leo Durocher. They joined Steve Carlton to complete that year’s Cooperstown class.

Looking back through my research, it looked like Rizzuto Day had everything: a heartfelt tribute, a historic win, and an unscripted comedy moment that only the Bronx could deliver. A legend was honored. A milestone was reached. And a cow stole the spotlight—if only for a moment.

Holy Cow, what a day.

--Alvin Izzo

BYB Yankee History Contributor

THAT TIME 2 YANKEES PARTIED IN NEW YORK CITY WITH LINDSAY LOHAN

Sometimes a story just needs to be told again, if only to remind ourselves that yes, this absolutely did happen. 

Rewind the tape back to 2012, when Lindsay Lohan was still dominating headlines for all the wrong reasons, and toss in two former New York Yankees — Shane Spencer and Pat Kelly — and what you get is a bizarre, boozy, late-night cocktail of pop culture weirdness.

Let’s set the scene. It’s Manhattan. September is approaching, Fashion Week is on the horizon, and Lohan — reportedly preparing to move from L.A. to New York — is reintroducing herself to the NYC nightlife circuit. That alone sounds like trouble with a capital TMZ. But what raised eyebrows and triggered a tidal wave of confused laughter across the sports-and-celebrity blogosphere was where and with whom she was partying: at Dorrian’s Red Hand, the Upper East Side prepster institution, and flanked by none other than former Yankees Pat Kelly and Shane Spencer.

 
Yes, Shane Spencer and Pat Kelly. Obviously.

Why? How? Who organized this crossover episode of “Behind the Music” meets “Yankeeography”? Nobody knows. But it happened, and it was glorious.

Sources from the night reported Lohan was sipping vodka sodas and even jumped on the mic for some karaoke — belting out Lady Gaga’s “You & I,” no less. The very same Gaga who, around this time, had handpicked Lindsay to appear in one of her music videos. Because if there’s one thing missing from late-stage pop stardom, it’s 2000s tabloid energy.

As for the Yankee duo, this wasn’t exactly Old Timers’ Day. These weren’t Reggie and Yogi stopping by. But let’s not pretend Kelly and Spencer didn’t leave their marks in pinstripes.

Pat Kelly was a scrappy, glove-first second baseman drafted in 1988, who played for the Yanks from 1991 to 1997. He wasn’t exactly setting the league on fire — 26 homers over seven seasons — but he had his moments. His speed and defense kept him around, and his occasional clutch hits gave fans something to remember. He was the kind of guy you rooted for, even when he went 1-for-4 with a sac bunt and a diving stop that made Michael Kay scream.

Shane Spencer, on the other hand, was a comet. A roided-up comet? Who knows — it was the ‘90s! But the guy made an impact. In 1998, the very year 12-year-old Lindsay Lohan was probably rehearsing lines for The Parent Trap, Spencer was smashing 10 home runs during a ridiculous September call-up, including three grand slams in ten days. TEN. DAYS. That stretch earned him a 1.321 OPS and eternal Yankee cult hero status, plus a front-row seat to three straight World Series championships. He peaked faster than a Vine star, but man, what a peak.

So back to the story. Why were they out with Lohan? Was it karaoke night for ex-Yankees and ex-child stars? Were they working on a charity album called “Pitchers and Pitch Problems”? We’ll never know. And honestly, we don’t need to. That’s part of the joy.

This whole tale is less about logic and more about the chaotic harmony that only New York City can produce. Only in this town can you walk into a bar and find a fallen teen idol singing Gaga to a crowd of prep school kids, flanked by a light-hitting second baseman and a guy who once hit three grand slams in a week. It was weird, wild, and way too much fun to forget.

So here we are in 2025, digging up this little slice of madness and remembering that for one night in 2012, the Yankees’ forgotten heroes and Hollywood’s most chaotic energy collided — and for some reason, it worked.

Let this be your reminder: New York is undefeated in the weird department.

--Alvin Izzo
BYB Yankee History Contributor

THAT TIME WADE BOGGS PITCHED

Yes, you heard that right.

Wade Boggs is a baseball legend—one of the best hitters to ever step up to the plate. The man was an absolute machine with a bat in his hands, racking up hit after hit for years in the major leagues. And, of course, his dominance landed him in the National Baseball Hall of Fame in 2005 on his very first ballot. But while everyone knows Boggs could hit, did you know he also had a secret weapon? A knuckleball.

For years, Boggs dreamed of taking the mound in a real MLB game, reports are he was always bugging his managers to let him pitch and even showing off his surprisingly wicked knuckleball in warmups. But, of course, when you're one of the greatest players in the game, teams tend to prefer keeping you in your usual spot. That all changed on August 19, 1997.

The Yankees were getting walloped by the Angels, trailing 12-4 in the eighth inning. With a doubleheader coming up the next day and the bullpen running on fumes, manager Joe Torre knew he needed a position player to finish things off. His first thought was Charlie Hayes, but the Yankees players had a different idea—they wanted to see Boggs' infamous knuckleball in action. Torre hesitated. This was Wade Boggs, a future Hall of Famer, a hitting savant—was it really right to send him to the mound in an eight-run blowout?

The answer? Yes please.

Boggs finally got his shot, stepping onto the mound with the confidence of a seasoned pitcher. And guess what? He absolutely delivered. He pitched a scoreless eighth inning, allowing no hits, walking just one batter, and even striking out Todd Greene swinging to end the frame. That knuckleball? It danced. The ballpark may not have been packed with tension, but for Boggs, it was a moment of pure baseball magic.

And that wasn’t the last time Boggs took the hill. Two years later, in 1999, now playing for the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, he got another chance to pitch when his team was on the wrong side of a 17-1 rout against the Orioles. Tampa Bay manager Larry Rothschild didn't think twice. "There wasn't much of a choice. It was going to be a position player, and Wade had done it before. He throws a knuckleball, so I don't worry as much about him hurting his arm."

After his pitching debut in 1997, Boggs had said: "It's something I've always wanted to do in my career, and I never really had the opportunity. Then I started feeling like Phil Niekro. I was Phil Niekro and Charlie Hough all rolled into one. It was great. I was glad it worked out."

Wade Boggs wasn’t just a Hall of Fame hitter; he was a guy who loved baseball with every fiber of his being. 

Whether he was lining doubles into the gap or floating knuckleballs past unsuspecting hitters, he made the game fun. And let’s be honest—how many Hall of Fame hitters can also say they’ve struck out a batter in a major league game? 

Just another reason Wade Boggs is one of the all-time greats.

--Alvin Izzo
BYB Yankee History Contributor

ITALY NAMES A FAMILIAR YANKEE GUY AS MANAGER FOR THE WORLD BASEBALL CLASSIC

 Ah, che bello! Casey, told me to make this with alittle Italian flair!

Francisco Cervelli has been named the manager of Team Italy, and as an unapologetically passionate Italian (and lover of all things Italian), We are BYB couldn’t be more thrilled about this news! The Italian Federation of Baseball and Softball made the announcement Friday, and let me tell you, Casey has been grinning ever since. Cervelli, for me, isn’t just another baseball guy—he’s someone I’ve admired for a long time as a person and seeing him take on this role feels like the perfect match. And let’s talk about the World Baseball Classic! It’s one of the most exciting baseball events, blending global pride with the sport we all love.

Cervelli, now 38, has a unique story that ties perfectly into this role. Born and raised in Venezuela, his roots reach back to Italy through his father, which is why he suited up for Team Italy as a catcher in both the 2009 and 2017 World Baseball Classics. And now? He’s back, this time as the skipper. Italy’s had another iconic former big leaguer at the helm before—Mike Piazza—but swapping in Cervelli feels like a fresh, inspired choice that I’m fully on board with.

Let’s rewind to Cervelli’s playing days for a moment. He signed with the New York Yankees way back in 2003, eventually making his MLB debut in 2008. Oh, and by 2009? He’d already earned himself a World Series ring. He stuck around in the Bronx through 2014, racking up a .278 batting average, 10 home runs, 92 RBIs, and a respectable .729 OPS in just 250 games. While he wasn’t a superstar, Cervelli always brought heart and hustle—qualities that I’ve admired about him since day one.

When the Pittsburgh Pirates picked him up via trade ahead of the 2015 season, Cervelli found a steadier rhythm. Over five seasons in Pittsburgh, he played in 450 games, hit .264, and added 26 home runs and 169 RBIs to his stat sheet. His defense and leadership behind the plate didn’t always show up in the box score, but they mattered. Trust me, as someone who loves every nuance of baseball, Cervelli’s presence on a team was invaluable.

He wrapped up his playing career with stints on the Atlanta Braves in 2019 and the Miami Marlins in 2020. By the end of his 13 MLB seasons, Cervelli had compiled a .268 batting average, 41 home runs, 275 RBIs, and a .740 OPS. Not bad for a catcher, huh? Oh, and did I mention he earned nearly $40 million in the process? Bravo, Francisco!

But here’s what I really love about this appointment: Cervelli’s passion and authenticity. He’s a guy who’s always worn his heart on his sleeve, and now he gets to channel that energy into leading Team Italy. The World Baseball Classic is such a special event because it brings together players from all corners of the globe, uniting them through their shared love of baseball and their heritage. And as a fan of every kind of baseball—from MLB to small-town little league—this is exactly the kind of story that gets me fired up.

So, amici, mark your calendars and get ready to cheer for Team Italy under the leadership of Francisco Cervelli. With his Italian pride, his years of experience, and his undeniable charisma, this feels like the start of something truly special. And as an Italian who’s already dreaming of pasta, pizza, and a WBC trophy in Italy’s future, We're all in over here! OOOHHHH!

--Alvin Izzo
BYB Yankee History Contributor