Before Bob Sheppard left us, before George broke ground on a new park, before Skippy the squirrel ran up the foul pole, before Moneyball, before a dynasty that changed a franchise (and before they were a spark in Gene Michael’s eye), before Cashman, before Watson, before Bill Clinton’s first term, John Sterling was the voice of the New York Yankees. It was George Steinbrenner who barked on that rainy day in Milwaukee, “I just want you to know, you’ll always be the Yankee announcer, and if they try to hire anyone, I’ll veto it!”. And John was. George saw in him what we all grew fond of over time: John’s poised, unapologetic self-expression, the thing that nurtured the ease of his work. There is an effortlessness about John. In 2008, he was aboard a team flight which experienced dangerous levels of turbulence. Here’s what happened (per Andrew Marchand): “‘Everyone was freaking out, yelling, getting really nervous,’ YES’ Michael Kay said. John Sterling read a book. On the flight to Minnesota about a decade ago, when the [oxygen] masks fell, Sterling belted out a laugh and pushed it away. ‘I shoved it because it was bothering me,’ Sterling said.” When he broke his streak of 5,060 consecutive games in 2019, John said, “It’s just a number of games”. Only in that frame of mind could such an unfathomable streak be possible. Calling a baseball game for John was like eating a good meal: easy, fun, and routine. What made him a good broadcaster? He didn’t try to sound like one. When he sounded excited, it was bona fide. When he felt frustrated, he revealed it. He spoke in that silky, deep, Sterling-tongued (real) voice that never went hoarse, and never dissipated with age, because it was effortless. Breaking the streak was as matter-of-fact as building it, and he retired in just the same way. No pretense, no pomp and circumstance, no “last hurrah”. He called a few weeks, said “I’m tired”, and he went home. When the great Yankee announcer Mel Allen passed in 1996, John said, “[Mel] to me was like Sinatra, or Crosby, or Astaire. He was very unique. He was a tremendous personality.” John didn’t liken Allen to other broadcasters or radio hosts, instead he picked three titans from the arts, who evoked Allen’s elegance and professionalism more than a reference to a sports personality could. This was built-in to John: his love of entertainment, music, theatre, and the energy of New York. It bled into all of his calls, in decades upon decades of broadcasting. The references became increasingly dated and obscure, but they made calls compelling. When you bring sports into stuff of life, you make it an emotional place. On August 31st, 2004 at Yankee Stadium, the Indians put an historic beating on the Yankees, by a score of 22-0. Sterling called the game in the same concentrated, high energy manner he always did. When John Flaherty popped up to end the game, Sterling paused, and broke into song: “The sun'll come out Tomorrow Bet your bottom dollar That tomorrow there'll be sun” For the deranged listeners that were still tuned in at that late hour, those fans who, with John, surfed every pitch of that dynastic tsunami in 1996, 1998, 1999, and 2000 (which increasingly feels like a fever dream), a little meaning was sprinkled into a stupid, brutal night of baseball. A season is a failure if it doesn’t end in a title, but we experience every pitch regardless. And for many of us, every pitch we ever experienced was also experienced by John. So he paid tribute to Mel. And Mel’s “how about that!” evolved John’s “how do ya like that!”. And he was a professional like Mel, and Scully, and Barber, which we love. But we also love the eccentric quirky ones, like Caray, Rizzuto, and Dizzy Dean. How did John manage to do both? How could he just as well sing, “the sun will come out tomorrow”, and “the sun will come out Tanaka”? Who would John liken John to? Maybe the great Orson Welles, as they both possessed a booming voice and a loud personality, but were traditionalists and masters of their craft. Think about listening to John. Yes, he had his many famous faux pas, where he misjudged the flight of a fly ball. But pitch to pitch, inning to inning, was there not full clarity on exactly what was happening on the field? It wasn’t through any evocative phrases, or vivid, detailed descriptions. It was through simple, consistent rhythm: "Jeter fields | throws to first | IN time” “No runs | no hits | one error | one left” “At the end of three and a half | no score | on the New York Yankees radio network | driven byyyyy Jeep” “Ball game over | Yankees win | theeeeee | Yankees win” Through his repeated phrases, cadence, and rhythm, there was always a very distinct picture of the action. An expectation was established for the listener, which they could sink into. From this, John could mix in his own flairs, and these too would join in with his rhythm (like all of the quirky home run calls). It all made for a comfortable experience. Nostalgia in real-time. Feeding into the comfort was Suzyn Waldman, who was his perfect match. Both had been involved with the Yankees forever (in fact, they had first met on WFAN in 1987), and understood the team intimately. They shared a love of musicals, books, and life, but their chemistry was strongest in their sensibility toward game calling. For a child Yankee fan, they would feel like second parents, for their simple, accessible style. As they stayed partners for two decades, they grew old together. We only heard their unchanging voices, so we didn’t know they were growing old. When the Yankees established YES in 2002, they moved to cable. I didn’t have cable, so I listened to John. I listened when Jeter was boo’d at home, and when he hit his first and only grand slam. I listened to the first game after the curse fell. To Arod’s 400th home run in Milwaukee, and his 15th-inning home run in 2009. To a walk-off by Tony Womack. To that night when the midges swarmed Joba. To that first Chad Green/Nestor Cortes start. To his exuberant calls for Juan Soto’s heroics, which seem to bring something out of him not seen in a long time, like an embalming of a spirit. I’ll attend Sterling’s last game today. When Jeter retired, we prayed for another great Yankee and the baseball gods obliged. I don’t know if they’ll be another great voice of the Yankees, but there won’t be another Sterling. So maybe we won’t pray, but we’ll sing. The sun'll come out Tomorrow So ya gotta hang on 'Til tomorrow come what may Tomorrow, tomorrow I love ya tomorrow You're always, a day away Tomorrow, tomorrow I love ya tomorrow You're always, a day away

Not a single position player from the 2020 ALDS played in the 2026 ALDS. Both series ended in losses to Tampa. Yet his summation was exactly the same both years, and every year in between. So… no progress?

While it might seem substantively “correct” to lay blame on the players, if you have no explanation for their underperformance or takeaways/vision for a reconstruction, you’ve said nothing at all

There are far worse executives and leaders throughout the sport than those employed by the Yankees. The tragedy is not who we have. It’s the fact that we’re tethered to them indefinitely into the future with no end in sight. Tenure which is unprecedented in global sports.

Boone does not have “one last chance” to punch a ticket. That doesn’t even factor into what the Yankees measure. Cashman will be extended, as will Boone next year. They’re here until they choose to leave, and their successors will be the same. The modern era has only BEGUN.

Do we really need to debate Boone's role again? Isn't this part of the Groundhog Day we're in? If upper management wanted to change the org fundamentally, Boone would no longer be compatible. Though his "role" is minor - don't underplay him as a signal for everything going on.

Aaron Boone becomes the seventh manager in Yankees history to lead the team for 10 seasons. He’s the only one on that list who earned a 10th season without a championship.

If Tampa Bay has a 50% larger R&D staff than your $12B organization, you haven’t gone “all-in”. Just for starters.