Yankees (Warren) vs Blue Jays (Corbin): 6/14/26, 1:37pm

[Brownie19]

4 hours ago, Jays24 said:

Yup, because he got a fat contract that he hasnt earned on the field so the Jays feel compelled to make it work.  He's statistically one of the worst relievers for the past 1.5 seasons based on his ACTUAL performance lol.  

Teams make decisions based on projected performance, not on previous results.  You may not like that, or understand it, but that's what they all do.

[Bob_Gratton]

12 minutes ago, Stangstag said:

Yeah the team just stopped hitting for any kind of power. Idgaf about the contact hitting narrative from last year, you win games by hitting homers. The Dodgers and Yankees aren’t winning games hitting 15 singles a night.

Last year they was more patient and used the entire field to hit. Now it's like they do contrary, so I wonder if Popkins was overated and Mattingly was the one who should have been praised for last year results🤔

[Jays24]

10 minutes ago, Brownie19 said:

Teams make decisions based on projected performance, not on previous results.  You may not like that, or understand it, but that's what they all do.

[Stangstag]

3 minutes ago, Jays24 said:

Im not sure how you’re able to just ignore the discrepancy between expected stats vs real results with Hoffman? He SHOULDNT be this bad. Its a complete anomaly case here which is why he’s gotten so much rope.

The front office didn’t take as long to punt a guy like Green because every metric said he was sht.

[philly30]

I guess we just have to accept it’s not their year maybe next year when Springer is gone, they can sign a better bat

[Stangstag]

8 minutes ago, philly30 said:

I guess we just have to accept it’s not their year maybe next year when Springer is gone, they can sign a better bat

Doesn’t look so hot right now but its not over yet. Team has about 4-5 weeks to get their act together and pull above .500 before the trade deadline.

Santander replaces Springer next year. Vlad needs to get his head out of his arse.

[Jays24]

43 minutes ago, Stangstag said:

Im not sure how you’re able to just ignore the discrepancy between expected stats vs real results with Hoffman? He SHOULDNT be this bad. Its a complete anomaly case here which is why he’s gotten so much rope.

The front office didn’t take as long to punt a guy like Green because every metric said he was sht.

Yes I understand there should be an extent to which you look at the expected results but its been 1.5 years of pathetic results.  He is not some youngster where you want to keep giving unlimited chances to.  

The fact it took the Jays so long to move him off the closer role was infuriating.  I think his performance plays differently if he was moved to the 7th/8th inning role that he's had during the best part of his career.  

Also, Hoffman was given a 3 year deal so its harder to cut bait whereas Green was coming off major surgery with less money remaining in regards to tnat comparison.    

[Stangstag]

3 minutes ago, Jays24 said:

Yes I understand there should be an extent to which you look at the expected results but its been 1.5 years of pathetic results.  He is not some youngster where you want to keep giving unlimited chances to.  

The fact it took the Jays so long to move him off the closer role was infuriating.  I think his performance plays differently if he was moved to the 7th/8th inning role that he's had during the best part of his career.  

Also, Hoffman was given a 3 year deal so its harder to cut bait whereas Green was coming off major surgery with less money remaining in regards to tnat comparison.    

Yeah I agree with all this.

You’re just so emotional about it day to day which is why people call you out. Hoffman isn’t someone who should be DFAd or released but he should be lower on the depth chart than guys like Varland and Rogers… which he currently is

[philly30]

I used an AI website to give description of Hoffman this is long but hilarious

They call him **The Guarantor**, but not in the way you want a bank to guarantee your loan. Jeff Hoffmann stands on the mound at Rogers Centre—mound being a charitable term for the elevation from which he delivers his particular brand of athletic catastrophe—and he is the living, breathing, jersey-sweating proof that God, if He exists, hates Toronto with a specificity that borders on obsessive. 

You remember the night. Everyone remembers the night, though the PTSD makes the details swim in and out of focus like a fever dream. Game Seven. Bottom of the Ninth. The Blue Jays up by one, the champagne on ice in the clubhouse, the city outside pulsing with the electric possibility that maybe—*maybe*—this cursed franchise could wash the taste of Joe Carter’s ghost and all those October failures out of its mouth. The banner was being sewn. The parade route was being drawn. And then the bullpen door swung open, and out he came, jogging to the mound with the loose, arrogant gait of a man who believed his own press clippings from that one decent month in June when his slider actually slid.

Jeff Hoffmann. The closer. The **Arsonist**.

What followed was not a baseball game. It was a war crime committed in slow motion, a systematic dismantling of civic joy that should be studied in criminology departments. Then the home run. Not a towering, majestic Bautista-style bat flip into the second deck. No. A cheap, ugly, Yankee Stadium porch-job that barely cleared the left-field wall, a flare of the bat that carried with it the collective soul of 50,000 Canadians, depositing it into the glove of a bleacher creature who probably couldn’t find Toronto on a map.

Tie game. The silence that followed was not the silence of shock. It was the silence of recognition. The recognition that you had trusted a broken machine with your dreams, and the machine had done exactly what broken machines do: it had shattered into pieces, scattering your hopes like shrapnel.

that was six months ago. The snow has melted. The cherry blossoms have bloomed and died along Lake Shore Boulevard. And Jeff Hoffmann is still here.

But he wasn’t done. Oh, no. Hoffmann doesn’t merely blow saves; he **detonates** them. Another walk. A wild pitch that sent the winning run to third—a pitch so errant the backup catcher had to sprint to the backstop to retrieve it, giving the runner enough time to hydrate, stretch, and update his Instagram story before scoring. Then the final single, a seeing-eye ground ball that Hoffmann himself deflected with his glove because he falls off the mound toward first base like a man tripping over a curb, his mechanics so thoroughly broken that kinetic chain specialists weep when they study the film. Game over.

He shouldn’t be. By every metric known to baseball, by every moral standard of competitive sport, he should be pitching in independent leagues, or selling insurance, or perhaps enrolled in a witness protection program under an assumed name in a country that doesn’t have extradition treaties with Canada. But the Blue Jays—those geniuses of the front office who looked at the World Series meltdown and decided what this team really needed was *continuity*—brought him back. Not as a middle reliever. Not as a mop-up man. As the closer. Because they owe him money, or because they’re stubborn, or because they’ve simply lost the plot so thoroughly that they think the problem with Jeff Hoffmann is usage, not existence.

You watch him in Spring Training, and it’s a horror show. The velocity that once touched 98 is now a flat 92, hittable as a BP fastball. The slider that he hung in Game Seven still hangs, a spinning lollipop that hitters track like they’re tracking a pigeon with a broken wing. He walks the ballpark. He throws a pitchout that hits the on-deck circle. In intrasquad games, minor leaguers—kids who should be intimidated by the big-league lights—are teeing off on him like they’re hitting off a pitching machine set to “lob.” And the coaches stand there, arms crossed, nodding, making notes on clipboards as if there’s something to salvage, as if this isn’t a five-alarm tire fire consuming the entire bullpen.

The fans know. The fans always know. When Hoffmann jogs from the bullpen now—same loose, arrogant gait, same empty confidence—it’s not a sound of anticipation. It’s a groan. A primal, guttural sound that rises from the 100 level and spreads upward like a contagion. It’s the sound of 30,000 people realizing they’re about to witness a crime in progress. The “Hoff-mann” chants don’t exist anymore. They’ve been replaced by a silence so heavy it has gravity, or by the scattered, bitter laughter of fans who’ve simply given up and started drinking heavily in the fourth inning to pregame the inevitable ninth.

The sports media has turned feral. The columnists, usually polite to a fault, have sharpened their knives. They write about the **Hoffmann Tax**—the tax paid in broken televisions, in therapy bills, in the spiritual cost of watching a man who is fundamentally, irrevocably unworthy of the uniform he wears. They calculate the wins he has cost the team, the playoff spots he has incinerated, the faith he has destroyed. The radio call-in shows are a 24-hour vigil of despair, fans screaming into the void, asking, pleading, *Why is he still here? Why do they keep running him out there?* 

And the answer is always the same: because they’re stuck. Because cutting him would be an admission of failure so profound it might collapse the front office’s entire philosophy. Because they’re hoping against hope—against physics, against evidence, against the very fabric of reality—that the man who destroyed the World Series might somehow find redemption in a Tuesday night game against the Royals in May.

He is not worthy. He stands on that mound, and he is a fraud, an impostor, a ghost haunting the late innings. Every pitch is a reminder of what was lost, of the champagne that went flat, of the parade that never happened. He is the closer who closed the coffin on a championship, and now he remains, day after day, forcing you to watch him try to close games that don’t matter, against teams that are tanking, in a season that is already lost. 

You sit in the stands. You watch him warm up. The ball goes to the backstop. The catcher sighs. The umpire checks his watch. And you know—*you know*—that when the games actually count, when the pressure returns, when the October air starts to bite, Jeff Hoffmann will be there, waiting, ready to burn it all down again, unworthy, unrepentant, and utterly, maddeningly, inexplicably employed.

[jaysblue]

2 hours ago, Stangstag said:

Not really sure what happened with the defense from last year to this year but its embarrassing. Mental mistakes and sloppy play have cost us a handful of games already this year

Yeah definitely not as sharp as it was last season. Noticed back in April.