I never thought anyone would seriously need proof that Babe Ruth existed, but here we are.
Cubs All-Star Pete Crow-Armstrong recently repeated the bizarre claim that Ruth may not have been real. On the podcast “Let’s Be Honest” Crow-Armstrong was referring to was a 2024 interview with Mariners pitcher Tayler Saucedo, in which Saucedo argued that because there are not many videos of Ruth playing baseball, he must not be real.
That might be the most ridiculous baseball theory in recent history.
It also perfectly represents a generation that gets most of its news from TikTok. If there is no high-definition video, alternate camera angle or 30-second clip with captions, apparently the event never happened.
Look, Babe Ruth played from 1914 through 1935. During most of his career, motion-picture cameras were bulky, expensive and mounted on tripods. Raw film stock was costly, and newsreel crews were not recording complete nine-inning games. They usually captured a few swings, pregame warmups, dugout footage or a home-run trot.
Regular live television broadcasting did not exist during Ruth’s prime. That is why limited footage survives—not because Ruth was some character invented by baseball historians.
The actual historical record is enormous. Ruth’s career was documented through official scorebooks, newspapers, photographs, contracts, eyewitness accounts and surviving newsreel footage.
And those records describe a player unlike anyone else.
Ruth began as an elite left-handed pitcher before becoming baseball’s greatest power hitter. He finished with 714 home runs, a .342 batting average, a record .690 slugging percentage and a 1.164 career OPS. In 1927, he hit 60 home runs. During certain seasons, Ruth personally out-homered entire major-league teams.
He did not simply dominate baseball. He changed its basic strategy, helping move the sport away from bunts, stolen bases and low-scoring “small ball” toward the power game fans recognize today.
Questioning history is healthy. Ignoring a mountain of historical evidence because there are not enough TikTok clips is not.
Babe Ruth existed Crow-Armstrong, don't be ridiculous. Critical thinking is one thing, but this is just stupid.
There are certain symbols in sports that have become larger than the teams that wear them. The New York Yankees' interlocking "NY" is one of those icons. It's recognized around the globe, worn by celebrities, tourists, die-hard baseball fans, and people who have never watched a single inning of baseball. But here's a question that might surprise even the most knowledgeable Yankees fan:
Did you know the Yankees weren't the original organization to use the famous interlocking "NY" design?
That's right.
Long before Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Joe DiMaggio or Derek Jeterever wore it, the now-famous emblem had an entirely different purpose—one rooted in courage, sacrifice, and New York City history.
It started with heroism. The story begins in 1877, when legendary jeweler Louis Comfort Tiffany of Tiffany & Co. designed a New York City Police Department Medal of Valor.
The medal featured the now-famous interlocking "N" and "Y" as part of its elegant design. It wasn't intended to become a sports logo. It was created to honor extraordinary bravery among New York's finest.
One of the earliest recipients was Officer John McDowell, remembered as the first New York City police officer shot in the line of duty. The medal became one of the NYPD's highest honors, symbolizing courage, commitment, and service to the city.
Think about that for a second. One of the most recognizable logos in sports actually began as a tribute to heroes.
Enter "Big Bill" Devery. Years later, Yankees co-owner William "Big Bill" Devery entered the picture.
Before becoming involved in baseball, Devery served as the Chief of the New York City Police Department, making him very familiar with the Medal of Valor and its distinctive interlocking design.
When the American League franchise relocated from Baltimore and became the New York Highlanders in 1903, the club was still searching for an identity that represented New York itself. In 1905, the Highlanders experimented with an interlocking "NY" on parts of their uniforms. It wasn't yet the polished emblem fans recognize today, but it planted the seed.
By 1909, the organization officially adopted a refined version of the Tiffany-inspired interlocking "NY" for its caps and uniform sleeves.
The rest, as they say, is history. Over the next century, the interlocking "NY" became synonymous with excellence.
Aaron Judge carrying the franchise into a new generation.
But despite everything the logo has come to represent in baseball, its origins remain tied to something much deeper than wins and championships.
It began with public service. It began with bravery. It began with New York City.
And let me go further. Many newer fans also don't realize that the Yankees weren't always called the Yankees.
The franchise actually began as the Baltimore Orioles of the American League in 1901—not to be confused with today's Orioles franchise. Financial problems forced the club to relocate to New York in 1903, where it became the New York Highlanders, named in part because their ballpark sat atop one of Manhattan's highest points in Washington Heights.
The nickname "Yankees" slowly gained popularity through newspaper headlines because it fit more easily than "Highlanders." By 1913, after moving into the Polo Grounds, "Yankees" had become the club's official identity.
The famous interlocking "NY," however, had already become part of the team's visual identity years earlier. While the interlocking "NY" became timeless, it wasn't the organization's only historic logo.
The Yankees' second official logo introduced the now-famous image of Uncle Sam's top hat resting on a baseball bat inside a baseball, complete with stars and patriotic imagery. That design evolved over the decades into the club's primary corporate logo and remains one of baseball's most recognizable marks, even though the interlocking "NY" continues to be the symbol players wear on the field.
It's fitting, really. One logo represents America. The other represents New York. Together, they've become inseparable from Yankees history.
It's amazing how many fans wear the interlocking "NY" every single day without knowing its remarkable backstory. What began in 1877 as Louis Tiffany's elegant Medal of Valor honoring courageous New York police officers eventually became the emblem of the most successful franchise in baseball history.
The Yankees didn't invent the design. They immortalized it. And maybe that's the coolest part of the story. Sometimes the greatest symbols aren't created for sports at all.
Sometimes they're born from history, courage, and the spirit of a city—and the Yankees were fortunate enough to carry that legacy onto the baseball field for more than a century.
Oh my. How this Yankee Franchise has changed. Mediocrity leads the day. The New York Yankees have officially gone from first-place powerhouse to baseball's biggest mess.
Sunday's 7-3 loss to the Detroit Tigers extended the Yankees' losing streak to five games. It wasn't just another defeat—it was the latest chapter in an ugly collapse that included a four-game sweep at the hands of the Boston Red Sox and an offensive drought unlike anything in franchise history.
For the first time ever, the Yankees have been held to three hits or fewer in four consecutive games.
The offense has completely disappeared. Ben Rice, who carried the lineup for stretches earlier this season, is batting a miserable .103 over his last 10 games. Cody Bellinger has gone ice cold as well, leaving enormous holes in the middle of the order. But let's be clear, for these guys, they have just reached a temporary cold stretch but have been consistently hot all year. The others? Guys like Wells, guys like Volpe are handed the keys to their positions and don't deserve to be there. THEY HAVE NOTHING TO SHOW FOR THE SEASON. That's where handing automatic outs to the opponent stings most for the fans. That's on Boone.
The catching position has become a black hole. Austin Wells is hitting just .157, and Yankees catchers own an MLB-worst .264 slugging percentage. That's not just bad production—it's practically automatic outs. That's the fault of the front office.
The pitching hasn't helped either. Carlos Rodón and Gerrit Cole have had inefficient outings that have forced the bullpen to absorb too many innings. The relievers, who were brought in to lock down games, have instead delivered crushing losses, including Sunday's devastating 10-inning walk-off defeat against Boston.
But if we're talking about giving away outs, nobody embodies the Yankees' problems more than Anthony Volpe. At what point do we stop pretending this isn't a major issue? Over the Yankees' last five games, Volpe is hitting .059.
That's one hit in 17 at-bats.
One. His game log reads like a horror movie:
June 24 at Detroit: 0-for-4, one strikeout
June 25 at Boston: 0-for-3, one walk, two strikeouts
June 26 at Boston: 1-for-3, one double, one run, two strikeouts
June 27 at Boston: 0-for-3
June 28 at Boston: 0-for-1, one walk, one run after being benched
June 29 vs. Detroit: 0-for-3
No home runs. No RBIs. One hit.
Yet every day, Aaron Boone pencils him right back into the lineup.
How many times do fans need to watch the same movie before admitting the ending isn't changing? You cannot win baseball games by giving away outs. Every time Volpe steps into the batter's box right now, opposing pitchers get a breather. In the middle of a historic offensive slump, the Yankees simply cannot afford passengers in the lineup.
This is where managing is supposed to matter. When a team is healthy and Aaron Judge is launching baseballs into orbit, almost any manager can sit back and let talent carry the day. But when injuries pile up and the offense disappears, that's when managers earn their paychecks.
Winning ugly requires adjustments. It requires accountability. It requires putting the best possible lineup on the field. Boone is not doing that.
Boone has struggled in these situations throughout his managerial tenure because his style is built for cruise control, not crisis management. Even his messaging feels detached from reality. Describing the Yankees' play as merely "not clean" after repeated defensive mistakes and fundamental breakdowns is the definition of fair-weather managing.
This isn't a team making one or two errors. This is a team forgetting how to play winning baseball. The defense has been sloppy. The offense has vanished. The fundamentals are deteriorating. And the response from the manager has largely been to stay the course.
Fans deserve better than this. The Yankees are supposed to be baseball's gold standard. They're supposed to be elite. Ruth. DiMaggio. Mantle. Jeter.
Instead, they look like a team more interested in padding Aaron Boone's regular-season managerial win total than fixing the glaring problems that are dragging them into the abyss.
Right now, the Yankees aren't contenders. They're a team in a full-blown free fall. And unless something changes soon, this historic slump may be remembered as the moment an elite season completely unraveled.
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.
Baseball has a funny way of sneaking history up on you. One minute you’re watching a routine Thursday doubleheader, the next you’re blinking at a stat that makes you do a full-on cartoon double take.
Here it is—the kind of number that deserves a dramatic drumroll:
Through 1,321 MLB games, Babe Ruth smashed 348 home runs.
Through 1,321 MLB games, Kyle Schwarber… hit 350.
Yes, you read that right. The Sultan of Swat has company, and it’s a guy who looks like he could just as easily be grilling burgers at your neighborhood cookout as launching baseballs into orbit.
Let’s set the stage. Ruth isn’t just a legend—he’s the legend, still sitting third all-time with 714 home runs, trailing only Barry Bonds and Hank Aaron. His name isn’t just in the record books—it practically is the record book.
So when Schwarber’s name pops up next to Ruth’s in any statistical sentence, it’s not just notable—it’s borderline absurd in the best way.
And yet, here we are.
On a breezy day at Citizens Bank Park, with the Philadelphia Phillies locked in a tight game against the San Francisco Giants, Schwarber casually did what Schwarber does: he went yard. That swing marked his 350th career home run, delivered with the same no-nonsense energy he brings to every at-bat—step in, grip it, rip it, admire the chaos.
The kicker? He reached that milestone in his 10th season, at age 33, putting him squarely on a trajectory that could see him cruise past 500 if he keeps this pace. That’s not just “pretty good.” That’s “start-clearing-space-in-Cooperstown” territory.
Schwarber’s rise isn’t built on myth or mystique like Ruth’s. There’s no sepia-toned nostalgia, no called shots—just raw power, a sharp eye, and a swing that treats baseballs like they’ve personally offended him. He’s the modern slugger: efficient, fearless, and perfectly comfortable living in the three-true-outcomes era.
But stats like this? They bridge eras. They connect black-and-white legends to high-def heroes. They remind us that while the game evolves, greatness still leaves the same unmistakable mark—over the fence.
So the next time Schwarber digs into the batter’s box, remember: you’re not just watching another at-bat. You’re watching a player who, game for game, kept pace with the most iconic power hitter baseball has ever known.
Not bad for a guy just casually rewriting expectations one moonshot at a time.
What I have noticed is that the New York Yankees have become incredibly good at one thing over the past decade: marketing prospects like they’re blockbuster movie premieres. Development? Well… that part sometimes feels like it happens after the merchandise orders are placed.
Enter Jasson DomÃnguez, better known as “The Martian,” a nickname that the Yankees’ marketing department embraced with the enthusiasm of a kid discovering a new toy. Martian jerseys, viral highlights, breathless hype—DomÃnguez wasn’t just a prospect, he was practically a brand.
And yet, barely a few seasons later, I feel like there’s a very real chance the Yankees could trade him.
Start with the roster mess they created. Aaron Judgeobviously isn’t moving from the outfield. The Yankees then handed a massive contract to Cody Bellinger, effectively locking up another spot. Defensive specialist Trent Grisham is around, and the designated hitter role still belongs to Giancarlo Stanton whenever he’s upright and swinging.
So, the once-untouchable DomÃnguez suddenly looks like the odd man out. I would rather him in the outfield and Grisham off the bench, but Boone uses him as a lead off, so no chance of that.
It doesn’t help that Jasson's defense in left field has been shaky, posting ugly metrics that make a supposedly defense-conscious organization nervous. Meanwhile, his bat still has questions—especially after struggling against right-handed pitching last season. That being said, Dominguez is making a huge argument to keep him around this spring. The dude's raking and impressing, but so is Spencer Jones and as you can see from Jones being sent down the minors this week, you can be a Babe Ruth hitting prospect and it doesn't matter.
But my point is, the marketing if too much, overhyped. All of this creates the perfect storm: a team desperate to win during Judge’s prime, a crowded outfield, and a still-valuable prospect whose reputation might be worth more on the trade market than on the roster.
If the Yankees do move DomÃnguez, it’ll be another classic Bronx storyline—build the hype, sell the jerseys, then trade the player before the development is finished. And if the Martian eventually becomes a star somewhere else, Yankees fans will probably watch those highlights and wonder why the organization that hyped him the loudest didn’t have the patience to actually let him become great.
See that word? Patience. They do it with dud Volpe. Why not do it for a guy like Dominguez?
The Yankees are down to their final seven regular-season games, and the finish line comes on Sunday, September 28. Six of those games will be in the Bronx—a closing homestand that screams “season finale” vibes against the White Sox (Sept. 23–25) and Orioles (Sept. 26–28).
As for tonight? Giancarlo Stanton went full Marvel superhero, belting career homer No. 450 in a 6-1 win over Baltimore. Only four legends—Mark McGwire, Babe Ruth, Alex Rodriguez, and Harmon Killebrew—ever had more homers through their first 1,719 games. Stanton also leads all active players in career blasts, which feels like a polite way of saying: “he’s still terrifying.”
The playoff picture? The Yankees’ magic number is down to five, and thanks to the Blue Jays losing to the Royals, Toronto’s division lead shrunk to two games. That crown is still up for grabs.
On the mound, Carlos Rodón looked the part of an ace, breezing into the seventh on 87 pitches and nudging his ERA down to 3.04. He’s heating up at exactly the right time. And yes, even Anthony Volpe chipped in tonight. Sure, he’s still hitting .207, but hey, baby steps.
With Stanton flexing, Rodón cruising, and a six-game Bronx sendoff on deck, the Yankees suddenly look like a team that could snatch the AL East title.
When a team loses its fan base, there’s only one person who can change the temperature of the room—the owner. The man who signs the checks. The man who’s supposed to set the tone. That means you, Hal Steinbrenner. And right now, you’re nowhere to be found.
You’ve ducked behind closed doors while the Yankees collapse under the weight of their own incompetence. Radio silence. No leadership. No statement. Nothing. And let me tell you, Hal: it’s sickening.
Meanwhile, we’ve watched Aaron Boone suck the life out of this franchise year after year, handing him extensions like participation trophies while he delivers absolutely nothing. Boone’s in-game management has bled this team dry of millions, and in return? Smiley faces on the lineup card and excuses in the postgame pressers. He should be thanking you for his job security every day, because the fans sure as hell aren’t.
Then there’s Brian Cashman. Oh, Brian. The man who strutted out of the trade deadline acting like he just cracked the code to baseball itself, only to deliver a worse team than the one we had before. His grand plan? A spit-and-duct-tape rotation that can’t get past the fifth inning. A Frankenstein pitching staff that collapses nightly. Even Max Fried—when he’s on the mound—looks exhausted from carrying this circus. I wonder if this poor guy wishes he never came to the Yankees.
And so, my question is what’s the approach here? What’s the strategy? Because from where the fans sit, there isn’t one. It’s pathetic.
And again, where the hell are you, Hal Steinbrenner? Do you even care?
This is the Yankees we’re talking about. The franchise of Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio, Jeter. The pinstripes that once struck fear into opponents. And yet, we just dropped three straight to the Red Sox. We are 1-8 against Boston this year. Let that sink in: one win, eight losses. These are games you absolutely must win, and instead, we’re getting humiliated.
Yesterday’s loss was maybe the worst I’ve seen in 15 years of covering this team. And the most insulting part? Nobody in that clubhouse seemed angry. Nobody smashed a bat, nobody flipped a table, nobody even looked ticked off. No fire, no edge, no pride. Just another day at the office for these guys.
You know it’s bad when even the broadcasters can’t hide their disgust. Michael Kay and Paul O’Neill could only sit there and watch in horror as the Yankees melted down in real time:
“It can’t get much worse than this,” Kay said.
“Every once in a while, you get embarrassed on the field and this game has just snowballed…” O’Neill admitted. “The Yankees have absolutely fallen apart here in the last couple innings.”
“Quite frankly, the Yankees are getting schooled by the Red Sox…” Kay jumped back in.
That’s your brand right now, Hal: embarrassed on national television. Schooled by the Red Sox. Fallen apart.
A few weeks ago, I did something I never thought I’d do: I wrote, HEY HAL STEINBRENNER, WE HATE THIS TEAM RIGHT NOW. Guess what? Nothing’s changed. In fact, it’s gotten worse. I’ve reached a point in my 15 years of Bleeding Yankee Blue where I flat-out don’t give a damn anymore. That’s how far this has gone.
I haven’t been to Yankee Stadium in almost two years—and it’s not because I don’t love baseball. It’s because I refuse to spend a dime on this embarrassment. Not on tickets. Not on food. Not on merchandise. Nothing. Why should I? Why should any fan bankroll this clown show while you sit in silence?
Hal, you need to speak. You need to act. You need to care. Because right now, Yankee fans are losing their minds as they watch the team they love sink deeper into mediocrity while Cashman counts his job security and Boone happily sharpens his pencils for tomorrow’s lineup card.
We’re furious. We’re exhausted. And yes, we HATE this team. Not because we’ve stopped being fans—because we are fans. Because we know what this team should be, what it once was, and what it’s failing to be now.
This? This ain’t it.
Fix it. Fire someone. Light a fire. Make a statement. Do something. Because if nothing changes, then what’s the point? What the hell are we even doing here?
We are the Yankees. Start acting like it.
And here’s the thing, Hal—it’s not even the roster. On paper, this team should be stellar. It’s not the players, it’s the philosophy. The Yankees have become slaves to numbers, strangled by analytics, blinded by spreadsheets. They’ve let computers replace common sense and they’re dying by their own algorithms.
Clint Hurdle once described what’s missing in baseball these days: “guts and nuts.” The intangible traits that actually win games. He’s right. You can’t measure heart, toughness, or ice in your veins on an Excel sheet. You need guts. You need balls. You need a front office willing to trust its instincts instead of its calculators.
But guess what? We’re running out of time. The postseason is slipping away fast, and honestly? I don’t see this team making the playoffs. And maybe—just maybe—that’s exactly what needs to happen.
Maybe missing October is the only wake-up call that’ll force you to fire Boone. Maybe it’s the only thing that’ll make you finally show Michael Fishman and his analytics cult the door. Maybe it’s the only thing that’ll burn this failed philosophy to the ground and let real baseball people take over.
Because right now, Hal, this isn’t baseball. This is an embarrassment. And it’s happening on your watch.
So, I’ll ask it one last time: Where the hell are you, Hal Steinbrenner?
You ever watch someone fail so hard at their job that you genuinely start to worry they might be doing it on purpose? That’s where we are with Aaron Boone. At this point, it’s not just poor decision-making or lying to the press and fans—it’s just stupid. Yes, I said it. Stupid. And the latest example of Boone’s misguided nonsense? His defense of Anthony Volpe in the face of very real, very deserved fan frustration.
But does Aaron Boone listen? Nope. He holds a weird, almost unsettling loyalty to Volpe—like he’s guarding some dark Yankee secret. It’s beyond favoritism. It’s delusion. Boone was asked about fans booing Volpe and, in a moment that may go down as the dumbest soundbite in Yankees managerial history, he responded with this gem:
Aaron Boone uses his shirt to explain why he's not worried about Anthony Volpe getting booed pic.twitter.com/31Qfv3Kl4D
“Look, I bet you every guy on this shirt’s been booed here,” he said, pointing to his shirt... which had pictures of Derek Jeter, Babe Ruth, and Lou Gehrig on it.
Boone tried to equate Anthony freaking Volpe—who couldn’t find the strike zone with GPS—to three of the greatest players to ever breathe in Yankee Stadium air. Jeter? The Captain. Ruth? The Sultan of Swat. Gehrig? The Iron Horse. And then there’s Volpe: the struggling, erratic shortstop who’s only “legendary” for lowering fans’ blood pressure by getting benched. Volpe is in the Gallo category.
It’s not even funny anymore. It’s offensive.
Boone went on to wax poetic about how “everyone gets booed,” including Mariano Rivera. Yeah, Mo got booed. After he gave up runs. In the major leagues. In the World Series. Volpe gets booed for botching routine ground balls and hacking at pitches like he’s trying to kill a mosquito with a tennis racket. There’s a difference. A big one.
And look, it’s not Volpe’s fault he was crowned the future King of the Bronx before ever proving he belonged. That’s on the Yankees. That’s on their “trust the projections” analytics team that thought he was going to be Ozzie Smith. Instead, he’s barely hanging on as Jack Wilson with worse instincts.
What’s worse is Boone’s press-conference gaslighting. He acts like we—the fans—are crazy for being upset. Buddy, we’re not asking for Volpe to be perfect. We’re asking for competency. And when we don’t get it? We boo. That’s the Bronx. Deal with it.
Even MLB insider Joel Sherman had acknowledged the Volpe problem the ohter day. His recent report said, “No one should be surprised if they add one more bat before the deadline, preferably right-handed with the ability to play shortstop.” Translation: the Yankees know. The press knows. Everyone except Boone knows.
And it’s not like the team hasn’t made moves. They brought in Amed Rosario. They traded for Jose Caballero. Why? Because Volpe is a liability, plain and simple and I am positive they are "keeping an eye on it". If he keeps playing like he has—spoiler alert: he will—Joe Maddon’s suggestion makes perfect sense: send him down. Let Caballero, who actually has baseball instincts, take over. He's fast, smart, right-handed, and doesn’t look like a deer in headlights every time the ball is hit his way. And yes, Caballero can play, unlike Volpe.
Bottom line: the Yankees made the wrong bet. Boone made it worse. And now, we’re all stuck watching Volpe flail and Boone spin the kind of nonsense that makes you wonder if he’s managing with a Magic 8-Ball.
And while we're on the subject: Boone isn’t a Yankee legend either. Let’s stop pretending. He hit one big home run in 2003. Great. Did we win the World Series that year? Nope. Yet the Yankees play that home run like it was Gettysburg. Boone was a moment, not a movement. And the only thing more tragic than his presence in Yankee lore is the fact that we now have to watch him protect Volpe like a bodyguard at a boy band concert.
Honestly, they should just bunk together at this point. Call it Camp Clueless.
I love the Yankees. I live and breathe this team. But this? This ain't it. This is some weird cosplay version of Yankee greatness where accountability died and mediocrity gets a standing ovation. And if this front office, this manager, and this shortstop are the future?
Then maybe the fans should start booing a little louder.
Seriously, kidding. I know she's with Paul Skenes. Also, Seriously—Babe Ruth's old apartment should be the headline here. We're talking about The Sultan of Swat. The King of Crash. The guy who basically made Yankee Stadium famous. But instead, we’re stuck hearing about how Livvy Dunne, TikTok gymnast and general vibe enthusiast, got denied from buying his old NYC place.
Yeah, she didn't get it. That’s the story. The board said “no thanks,” and instead of moving on quietly, Livvy ran to TikTok like she was just cut from the Olympic team.
“Guys, I’m so upset,” she said in a video, sounding like a teen who just found out her favorite Starbucks drink was discontinued. “Two months ago, I decided I was going to make my first real estate purchase… but the gag was, it was Babe Ruth’s apartment.”
First of all—the gag? Babe Ruth just rolled over in his grave and called his shot again—this time, straight at Gen Z slang.
And while Livvy's clearly still salty about the board’s decision (not everyone gets to live like a legend, sorry), she’s at least romanticizing it a bit.
“It was just iconic,” she added. “It was so cool that it was Babe Ruth’s apartment.”
Sure, kid. It was iconic. Because of him, not you. And frankly, if your pitch to the co-op board sounded anything like your TikTok script, we get it. They probably feared the hallway would become a ring light runway.
So let’s call it what it is: Babe Ruth stays undefeated. Livvy Dunne struck out. And now we can all go back to caring about actual baseball history… or at least something more pressing than influencer real estate FOMO.
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.
The Yankees kicked off the 2025 season like they were shot out of a cannon. Scratch that—more like they brought the cannon and started launching baseballs into orbit like it was their full-time job. And honestly? It was glorious.
From the jump, Yankee bats weren’t just hot—they were volcanic. I lost count of the home runs somewhere between my third slice of pizza and the fifth souvenir ball flying into the seats. It was a festival of dingers, and nobody was enjoying it more than... Russell Wilson? I loved what Wilson tweeted a few weeks back.
By the way, Wilson is now fully living his best New York sports life being with the football Giants. He took to Twitter during the homer-fest and posted:
“So sweet! The Great Bambino is smiling!”
Now that is elite-level fan energy. Wilson is out here referencing Babe Ruth like he’s quoting scripture. The man is in it. And honestly? Same. The Bambino might actually be smiling, somewhere up in baseball heaven, puffing a cigar and watching Aaron Judge go full Paul Bunyan with the bat.
Because let’s talk about Judge for a second. The guy isn’t playing baseball; he’s putting on a power-hitting clinic. Six home runs in his first seven games—including a grand slam—because when you’re Aaron Judge, you don’t “go deep,” you go galactic.
And he’s doing it his way.
While some Yankees players have been experimenting with the so-called "torpedo bats" (which sound more like something out of Star Wars than the MLB rulebook), Judge wants no part of that.
“I’m not hopping on the bat trend,” he said, casually after launching another moonshot.
And to drive the point home—literally—he went out the next day and crushed another homer in his very first at-bat. Four homers in the Yankees’ first three games. No Yankee has ever done that before. Not even Ruth. Not even Reggie. Not even Alfonso Soriano in his "I’ll hit the first pitch I see into the East River" days. I kid, I kid.
The numbers are absurd. Judge is batting .379 with six home runs and 17 RBIs through just seven games. This after putting up a ridiculous .322 average with 58 homers and 144 RBIs last season, on his way to winning his second AL MVP in three years.
At this point, Judge isn’t chasing Ruth—he’s walking right alongside him. Fun fact: both hit 321 home runs in their first 1,000 games with the Yankees. That’s not a stat, that’s folklore. Judge is becoming a living legend, and if you’re watching this era of Yankee baseball, you are witnessing something genuinely special.
If you know me, you know how much I LOVED being a part of this series on Babe Ruth and the Called Shot. Check it out! https://t.co/qMVX2Mn88P
Speaking of Ruth, there’s a must-watch FOX documentary out now about The Called Shot and it is hosted by one of our favorite BYB contributors, Mike O'Hara!
Apparently, Babe Ruth calling his shot has been debated since the 1932 World Series when Babe Ruth (supposedly) pointed to the stands before blasting a home run off the Cubs. It’s baseball’s version of Bigfoot, but with pinstripes and hot dogs.
I caught David Wells talking about it during one of the shows on FOX—still one of the most entertaining voices in the game—and he swears Ruth did it. “No doubt in my mind,” he said.
Technically? Ruth was probably pointing at the Cubs dugout with some good ol’ fashioned Bronx attitude, not the bleachers. But who cares? Bill Dickey, Ruth’s teammate, once told the Washington Post:
“So we just made an agreement not to bother straightening out the facts.”
Translation: the truth is boring. The myth is better.
Back in 1992, the Babe Ruth Museum asked fans if they believed in the Called Shot. 85% said yes. That tells you everything you need to know about baseball fans—we’re romantics with great taste in legends.
For what it’s worth, I don’t think Ruth literally called his shot. I think he taunted, then obliterated. But hey, semantics. Ball left the park either way.
Fast forward to 2025, and while Babe Ruth may be a myth, Aaron Judge is pure reality.
Now let’s clear up two things:
Torpedo bats? Fake news. Despite what Dave Portnoy might be yelling from a rooftop somewhere, Judge isn’t using anything fishy.
Judge’s power? 100% certified real.
“What I’ve done the past couple of seasons speaks for itself,” Judge told MLB.com’s Bryan Hoch.
And he's right. What he's doing is absurd. He's already rewriting the history books—and he’s doing it while carrying the most legendary franchise in sports. The Yankees are launching bombs like it’s 1927 all over again, and Judge is the one swinging the sledgehammer.
Yes, the pitching needs some work (and yes, I’d like to see someone other than Anthony Volpe field a routine grounder cleanly). But when this offense is clicking, it's like watching The Avengers assemble every night—with Aaron Judge playing the role of Thor, hammer and all.
So, here's to Yankee bombs, Babe Ruth smiles, and Russell Wilson fully leaning into his inner baseball nerd. It’s all just... fun. And in a sport built on drama, nostalgia, and raw power, fun is the secret sauce.
Now if we could just get a little better defense and a manager who doesn’t treat the bullpen like a game of spin-the-bottle, we’d be set.
But hey, Ruth didn’t need perfection. He just needed a bat—and a little belief.
Juan Soto. What a time we had, huh? The lefty phenom strutted into the Bronx, wore No. 22 with pride, smashed baseballs, flexed on pitchers, and led the Yankees to the World Series in 2024. Sounds great, right?
Yeah, well, we didn’t win it. So as far as Yankee fans are concerned, it’s a wash. A very entertaining wash, but a failure nonetheless. You don't hang a banner for “almost.” That’s a Mets thing. They practically throw parades for wild card appearances.
So, while Soto did his best one-year rental impression of Babe Ruth meets a TikTok influencer, the Yankees came up short. And now? He’s wearing blue and orange. Yes, the Mets — the team that thought giving nearly $800 million to one guy was a surefire plan for a championship. Honestly, good for them. Seriously. It’s adorable. But if the Mets think one superstar is going to fix their deeply Metsian DNA, they might want to go ahead and replay the 2024 Yankees season on loop. Case closed. Exhibit A.
Back in the Bronx, meanwhile, the Yankees started 2025 by lighting the baseball world on fire — launching a league-leading 22 home runs in their first six games. That’s not a typo. Twenty-two bombs. No Juan Soto? No problem.
Why?
Because there's a new sheriff in town wearing that freshly vacated No. 22. His name? Ben Rice. Remember it. Rice, originally called up to fill in for the perennially creaky Giancarlo Stanton, didn’t just grab a temporary spot in the lineup — he inherited Soto’s jersey number, which was still radiating superstar vibes when he pulled it over his head. Instead of wilting under that weight, Rice said, “Thanks, I’ll take it from here.”
And he’s done exactly that. As of Friday, Rice is 7-for-19 (.368), with two home runs and two walks. Meanwhile, over in Queens, Soto is hitting .240 with one lonely home run.
Now, let’s pause for a second. Is this a small sample size? Of course it is. But are we still going to overreact and declare Ben Rice a better investment than $800 million Soto? You bet we are. Because here’s the thing: Rice didn’t get handed a Brinks truck. He got handed a chance. And he’s running with it like he’s stealing home.
Back in February, the New York Post reported that Rice had packed on about 10 pounds of muscle during the offseason — mostly in his upper body. Translation: he did not spend his winter thinking about real estate in Battery Park or what temperature the champagne suite needs to be for his family. He trained like a guy who wanted to earn something, not be gifted it.
And it’s paying off.
“I think the ball’s coming off the bat harder, for sure,” Rice said this spring. “Putting more mass on the ball, so it’s going to come off harder.”
In other words: he’s built different. Quite literally.
No one’s saying Rice is a guaranteed star. But he’s already showing heart, hustle, and a bat that cracks like thunder. He doesn’t have a family suite at Yankee Stadium. He has a locker and a number — the same number worn by a guy who’s now a trivia question in Yankees lore: “Who was great for one season but didn’t deliver a ring?” Oh right. That guy.
The Yankees have turned the page. New year. New team. New No. 22. And frankly, it looks better on Ben Rice — because he’s not carrying expectations, he’s earning them.
So thanks for the memories, Soto. Hope the Citi Field sushi’s fresh and the limo to Queens doesn’t hit traffic. Meanwhile, we’ll be over here enjoying a team that doesn’t need $800 million to mash 22 homers in six games.
