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Sep 20, 2023

Aaron Judge on the Yankees, Injuries, and Home Run Records

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Baseball's mightiest slugger is bearing the weight of his blockbuster contract, his own records, and the supersized expectations that come with being the leading man of New York sports. Can he carry the Yankees to their first World Series title in more than a decade?

"The Yankees are, in many ways, the last vestige of old-time New York as New York has always liked to see itself: a stubborn belief that there is no other city. THIS is the city."

—New York Post columnist Mike Vaccaro

Spring afternoon, Yankee Stadium, the Bronx, and there's only one place to be: in the 99 Burger line. There are a few dozen of us, some out of breath from sprinting upstairs to Section 223 the instant the stadium gates opened. Everybody in line is wearing a jersey with the number 99 on it. No. Really. Everybody.

The 99 Burger is two four-ounce patties of Wagyu beef, American cheese, dill pickles, caramelized onions, and secret sauce on a brioche bun. The sauce is actually not so secret; Yankee Stadium executive chef Matt Gibson appears on the giant video board before games to show how to make it. But still. A small pennant with 99 on it is placed on top.

The 99 Burger can be had for the bargain price of $19.99.

The one catch is there will only be 199 of them sold today.

There's a buzz here like this is the line to see Hamilton.

"I can't believe we made it," one woman is saying to her boyfriend, and he nods happily and wordlessly—you get the sense that they’ve tried and failed before. See, the 99 Burgers will be sold out long before the Yankees game ends; they always are, because the 99 Burger is much more than an overpriced New York delicacy. The 99 Burger was created in honor of the most important Yankee since, well, in a long time.

He's No. 99 on your scorecard and No. 1 in the hearts of Yankees fans. He's Aaron Judge.

Judge wears the odd baseball number 99 in part because it was the first number given to him at Yankees spring training—Judge is a sentimental sort—but also because all the good jersey numbers were already gone. The Yankees already have retired every single-digit number, one of those numbers twice:

No. 1: Billy Martin

No. 2: Derek Jeter

No. 3: Babe Ruth

No. 4: Lou Gehrig

No. 5: Joe DiMaggio

No. 6: Joe Torre

No. 7: Mickey Mantle

No. 8: Yogi Berra and Bill Dickey

No. 9: Roger Maris

Those are not all of the Yankees’ retired numbers. In all, the Yankees have retired twenty-two jersey numbers—no other team is even close. (The St. Louis Cardinals, who have a pretty high opinion of themselves as well, are second on the list with thirteen retired numbers.) No team in sports celebrates itself quite like the Yankees. Then again, they have a lot to celebrate: The Yankees have won twenty-seven World Series titles, they have won forty pennants, and they have fifty-eight former players, coaches, owners, and general managers in the Baseball Hall of Fame, with twenty-one wearing their cap. No other team can match them in those categories, either.

What is it that Faulkner wrote? The past is never dead. It's not even past. That's the Yankees story. Every game is simultaneously past and present, yesterday and today. One day, the Yankees commemorate the one hundredth anniversary of Yankee Stadium, even though it was torn down more than a decade ago and the team actually plays in a completely different Yankee Stadium (opened in 2009). Other days, they pay tribute to a player like Bucky Fucking Dent (a light-hitting shortstop who hit a key home run against the Red Sox more than forty years ago) or Tino Martinez (a power-hitting first baseman for a time) or Ron Blomberg (the first designated hitter).

Twenty-seven placards line the facing of the luxury suites, one for each championship. People mill around Monument Park behind the center-field wall, an open-air museum of seven monuments and thirty-eight plaques honoring Yankees players, coaches, executives, managers, and announcers, as well as three popes and Nelson Mandela. Every great game is connected to an earlier game. Every great team is measured against the championship teams of, well, pick a year, any year, 1927 or 1936 or 1961 or 1977 or 1998. Every great player is faced with the same harsh question: "Are you a ‘True Yankee’?"

"Everything, and I mean everything, that the Yankees are now is a direct lineage to what they’ve been and who they’ve been," says Mike Vaccaro, the lead sports columnist at the New York Post for more than twenty years. "The expectations they carry are unique in all of sports. They aren't external expectations. They are entirely their own. Every year, without fail, the stated mission is this: Win the World Series or bust."

In other words, yes, the Yankees cherish their history like no other team perhaps in the world . . . but they are also trapped by that history. A century ago, someone asked the first successful Yankees owner, Jacob Ruppert, to describe the perfect day at the ballpark. "It's when the Yankees score eight runs in the first inning," he said, "and then slowly pull away."

That is the Yankees raison d’être. It isn't enough for the Yankees to win. They must win big. It isn't enough for the best players to be All-Stars. It isn't enough for the Yankees to merely be good.

Lately, though, that's exactly what the Yankees have been: good. Fans in Kansas City or Cleveland or Seattle certainly would not complain about the run they’ve been on. The Yankees have reached the postseason seven times in the past eight seasons. They’ve made three American League Championship Series.

But by Yankees standards, yeah, it's DEFCON 2. The 2010s marked the first decade since before Babe Ruth that the Yankees failed to play in the World Series. The team has won one championship in the past twenty-two years. This is not okay in the Bronx.

Even closer to the heart, the Yankees just seem less special. The sportswriter Jim Murray famously said that rooting for the Yankees was like rooting for U. S. Steel. He meant that as a knock (Murray made the comparison in a 1950 Life magazine story titled "I Hate the Yankees"), but Yankees fans generally liked that. They want to be U. S. Steel. They want to be Apple. They want to be the biggest, baddest, most fearsome team around. Score eight runs in the first inning. Slowly pull away.

Now? Well, now the Yankees are being outspent by their crosstown rival New York Mets. They lack the star power of either Los Angeles team and, yes, even the San Diego Padres. And, perhaps most disheartening, they find themselves mostly looking up in the standings at a crafty and overachieving team called the Tampa Bay Rays, who didn't even exist when Derek Jeter joined the Yankees. The Rays have little money (the Yankees payroll is roughly four times the size) and they play in a dank dome for a few thousand fans, some of whom are simply New Yorkers who have gone to Florida to retire.

And yet the Rays have won the division two of the past three seasons, and they got off to a rocket start in 2023, leaving the Yankees in the dust.

It's a lot for Yankees fans to endure.

But there is hope—and that hope comes in the form of a laid-back and attention-weary six-foot-seven, 282-pound force of nature who says all the right things, wallops Ruthian home runs, and has a smile that can light up Times Square. New York will buy a twenty-dollar burger for that guy.

Yes, Aaron Judge might be just the right size to restore the Yankees to their rightful place in sports.

Aaron Judge rarely opens up—he politely but firmly declined through his agent to speak for this piece—but he has told this story a few times: When he was about ten years old, living in the small farming community of Linden, California, Aaron asked his parents why he looked different from them. Patty and Wayne Judge, both physical-education teachers, sat him down and explained that they had adopted him on the day after he was born.

Aaron listened quietly, asked a couple of questions, let the answers sink in, and then, in his memory, he said: "Okay. Can I go outside and play?" That was that. He moved on. See, from his youngest days, Judge has had an almost supernatural ability to focus on the moment, eliminate distractions, control what he can control, and go forward. For all his athletic gifts, that might be his greatest superpower. Judge says he learned that from his grounded parents and small-town surroundings, and it has suited him well.

For example, in 2016, he was called up to the Yankees and was decidedly overmatched. He could barely make contact with big-league pitching. That might have crushed his confidence. It had the opposite effect, though. In 2017, Judge had one of the greatest rookie seasons in baseball history, hitting fifty-two home runs.

"You can't go back," he says. A cliché, sure, but it's something deeper with Judge.

Here's an even better example: In 2022, Judge and the Yankees had what might have been an ugly and irreversible break in their relationship. The two sides had been quietly negotiating a contract extension. Judge was set to become a free agent at the end of the year, and the Yankees obviously wanted to sign their biggest star before other teams could drive up the price. Judge, for his part, made it clear that his goal was to spend his entire career with the Yankees. It seemed like both sides wanted the same things.

Well, talks fell apart. The Yankees offered a seven-year, $213.5 million extension, which sounds like a lot of money, but it was part of a much smaller package than had been offered to the game's other biggest stars, such as Mike Trout (twelve years, $426 million), Mookie Betts (twelve years, $365 million), Francisco Lindor (ten years, $341 million), and Bryce Harper (thirteen years, $330 million), among others.

All of this is part of negotiating, of course: About to turn thirty, Judge was a bit older than those players and he had an unfortunate injury history—broken wrist in 2018, oblique injury in 2019, cracked rib and calf strain in 2020—and the Yankees were playing their hand. Judge said he didn't take that part personally.

"Negotiating is negotiating," he said.

But what the Yankees did next felt quite a bit more personal: On Opening Day, general manager Brian Cashman went public with the offer, saying he did it for "transparency purposes."

The Yankees, it probably goes without saying, are hardly the most transparent of organizations, so that explanation didn't track, certainly not with Judge. He believed—with good reason—that the Yankees made the number public so that people would see how much money he turned down and, as he later told Time magazine, to "put pressure on me, turn the fans against me, turn the media on me."

That's probably right. Baseball teams, particularly the Yankees, have been pulling negotiating stunts like this for a very long time. In 1938, Joe DiMaggio—a Yankees star in the constellation with Ruth, Gehrig, Mantle, and Jeter—wanted more money after having a spectacular season. The Yankees, instead, went public with what they had offered.

"Joe is an ungrateful young man," Yankees owner Jacob Ruppert said. "I’ve offered him $25,000, and he won't get a button over that amount."

DiMaggio was furious but helpless against the ploy; fans turned hard against him (even booing him) and the media sided with the team, and a chastened (but still angry) DiMaggio took the offer. Ruppert said, "I hope the young man has learned his lesson."

Judge only later conceded that he felt some of those same angry feelings. But unlike DiMaggio, he responded with a wry smile. "Cash has a job to do. This is what he does. I’m a ballplayer, he does what he does, I can't control what happens on the other side," he said. "Not getting it done right now? It stinks, but I’ve got a job to do."

Okay. Can I go outside and play?

Then Judge went out and had one of the greatest seasons in baseball history. He hit sixty-two home runs, more than Babe Ruth or Roger Maris or Mickey Mantle or Lou Gehrig or any other Yankees legend had ever hit. He hit for average (.311). He led the league in runs and RBIs. He stole sixteen bases. (He has said that he was more proud of those than he was of the home runs.) He played terrific defense. If you are into advanced statistics, he posted 10.6 wins above replacement, the most for a Yankees player since Mickey Mantle in 1957.

He became the toast of New York. The New Yorker put him on the cover, with artist Mark Ulriksen depicting him as a giant, twice the size of the stunned catcher. His No. 99 jersey became ubiquitous around town. He also became the first Yankee in fifteen years to win the Most Valuable Player Award—something even Jeter never did.

Then he became a free agent and allowed himself to be recruited by teams across baseball. "It was a fun process," he would say. And it was fun, surely, for him. But not for the Yankees. When Judge's hometown San Francisco Giants reportedly offered him $360 million to come home, the panic around New York was palpable.

"Who would be the face of the Yankees if we lost Judge?" asks lifelong Yankees fan Nick Pollack, founder of the Pitcher List baseball analytics website. "How could we stand tall if the Giants outbid us? I feared the impossible was going to happen: becoming jealous that I wasn't a Mets fan."

"Judge is not only the Yankees’ greatest star," says famed broadcaster Bob Costas. "He is the only one with a fully Yankee pedigree."

In the end, the Yankees were the ones chastened. They could not lose Judge, not under any circumstances. Something irreplaceable would have been broken. And so the Yankees pleaded. They promised. They kept reminding him about his place in Yankees lore. Teammate Anthony Rizzo texted and called Judge every day. Cashman stayed up nights trying to put the deal together. Even owner Hal Steinbrenner, who has long stayed in the background in contrast to his famously flamboyant father, George, got directly involved and personally met with Judge to convince him.

Steinbrenner told Judge he wanted him to be a Yankee for life. And he may have let it slip that if he returned, the Yankees would name him the team's sixteenth captain and the first since Jeter retired.

Most of all, they ponied up the $360 million necessary to bring him back to the Bronx.

Judge, being Judge, forgot and forgave and came back to New York.

"I told the Yankees from the very beginning that this is where I wanted to be," he said when mic’d up during a preseason game on ESPN. "I didn't want to go anywhere else. This was my home. These players, these fans, this city is family to me."

Yes, the Yankees had to keep Judge. But that doesn't make the deal less of a gamble. Judge will be paid $40 million a year every year until he's thirty-nine years old. As if the Yankees needed a reminder of the risk, in late April Judge hurt his hip sliding into third base on a steal attempt and had to go on the injured list. It won't be the last time Yankees brass and fans are left holding their breath.

Aaron Judge is big. On one level, this is obvious—at six-foot-seven, 282 pounds, he is, by body mass, among the largest players in baseball history. He is larger than Gronk, for crying out loud. But in person, he looks even bigger than you think. Wilt Chamberlain used to say there are some people who are big, and then there are big people, and there's a difference between the two. Chamberlain himself used to stand next to other seven-footers and somehow dwarf them.

In that way, Judge is a big person. Former Arizona Fall League teammate L. J. Mazzilli, the son of former Met and Yankee Lee Mazzilli, called Judge one of the biggest people he’d ever seen. He just carries himself big. This probably comes from the fact that Judge was always big. His parents used to call him the "Michelin Tire Baby," because he had so many little rolls on his arms and legs. When he was nine, he was playing ball with twelve-year-olds, and when he was twelve, he was competing with high schoolers. He was always so much bigger and stronger than everybody else that sports were laughably easy. His friend Trevor Snow told the New York Post that in T-ball, the other kids would turn their backs in fear every time Judge came to the plate.

It was like that in pretty much every sport. In basketball, Linden High's favorite play was simply tossing Judge a bunch of alley-oop passes. Football was where Judge really excelled: He scored seventeen touchdowns as a wide receiver his senior year and later told a reporter it was great fun going up against five-foot-eight defensive backs; nobody had a chance to cover him. Notre Dame and Stanford were among the big schools that showed interest in him as a football player.

But for Judge, it was always going to be baseball. When he was younger, his father had told him about Hall of Famer Dave Winfield, a six-foot-six athletic marvel who was drafted by an NBA team, an NFL team, and an MLB team. Winfield chose baseball because he wanted to have a long career. Judge wanted that too, but there was also something about baseball that appealed to his analytical mind. He enjoys making adjustments. He likes outthinking opponents. He likes the puzzle of baseball, trying to figure out how to get out of a slump.

Judge was drafted by Oakland in the thirty-first round out of high school as either a first baseman or a pitcher—both were possibilities then. (He had a fastball around 90 and a devastating curveball at Linden.) Instead, he went to play ball at Fresno State, where his parents had gone.

Here's something funny: One of the lingering questions surrounding Aaron Judge when the Yankees drafted him with the thirty-second overall pick out of college was "Can he hit with power?"

That seems ridiculous; the kid who frightened everybody in T-ball lacked power? But Judge's great physical strength did not easily translate to home runs. Yes, he wowed everybody with titanic blasts in batting practice, but when it came to live pitching, he faced numerous challenges. Because of his great size, he has one of the largest strike zones in baseball history. That's a lot of area to cover.

Judge adjusted to this by crouching and looking to make contact. It's telling that, growing up a Giants fan, Judge patterned his batting stance not after all-time slugger Barry Bonds or Jeff Kent but instead after a reliable and relatively unknown shortstop named Rich Aurilia. "I usually was third or fourth in line with kids who watched," Aurilia told MLB.com.

Judge was a terrific college player—he was fast, he hit for a high average, and he played good defense. But the power just wasn't there. When Judge was a sophomore, he was selected to participate in the College Home Run Derby in Omaha based entirely on his size and his reputation as a great batting-practice slugger. Judge was legitimately shocked. He’d hit only four home runs all season, a total so embarrassingly low that the public-address announcer did not even mention it in Judge's introduction, instead referring to his batting average.

This article appeared in the Summer 2023 issue of Esquire subscribe

Then Judge went out and won the derby anyway; down to his final out, he belted four home runs in a row, plus the "bonus ball," while the Omaha crowd roared. "I just hoped," Judge said afterward, "and they started flying out."

What do you make of a player like that? To scouts, Judge was a curiosity. They loved his athleticism, his strong arm, and his positive attitude. (On a pro day in the Alaska Baseball League in 2011, Judge decided to end any conversation about his arm strength by simply throwing a ball out of the stadium.) But they also worried that he was too big, that he wouldn't make enough contact, that his batting-practice power would not transfer over into games.

The Athletic's Keith Law, who has been scouting players since the late 1990s, was one of those early cynics. He is of the belief that a player as big as Judge usually will have a very hard time being a consistent hitter. But watching Judge a few times in that sophomore season made Law rethink things. "I saw him make real adjustment to his approach, and pitchers kept trying to find ways to exploit his size," Law says. "He's a smart hitter and a disciplined one, and that might be the only way a hitter his size can have sustained success."

Although Judge hit only those four home runs as a sophomore, two of them were against college baseball's best pitcher, Mark Appel, who would end up being the first pick in the 2013 draft. Law listed Judge as one of college baseball's top prospects.

There's no bigger stage for an athlete than the Big Apple. Here, by decade, we boldly present Esquire's list of the superstars—some larger-than-life, many of them Yankees—who have reigned supreme in the city over the past century. Let the debates begin.

As a junior, Judge hit a few more home runs—twelve in total—including a couple of titanic blasts, such as the five-hundred-or-so-foot home run he hit off Nevada's Tyler Wells that cleared two fences and rolled across Cedar Avenue and toward the track. There were still enough questions, though, that twenty-seven teams passed on him in the 2013 draft . . . including the Yankees, who took Notre Dame third baseman Eric Jagielo with their first pick.

Nothing came easily to Judge, but everyone marveled at his work ethic and positivity, and he made his way steadily through the minor-league system. He was called up in 2016, when he was twenty-four years old. In ninety-five plate appearances with the Yankees, he hit .179 with forty-two strikeouts.

He wrote .179 on his shoes to remind himself of the journey—"No matter how many home runs, what's going on, or we’re in first place, I know it can change in the blink of an eye," he told Sports Illustrated—revamped his swing, and the next year he set a rookie record with fifty-two home runs and became the biggest thing in New York City.

"It's too busy, seems hectic. I’m not sure I could ever live here."

— Judge to a reporter during his first trip to New York

Okay, here's my theory: There are two ways to be New York's biggest sports star. There's the Base Ruth way. And there's the Lou Gehrig way. Ruth and Gehrig were teammates on the great Yankees teams of the late 1920s and early 1930s, and their relationship was complicated.

"They were the original odd couple," says Jonathan Eig, author of the Gehrig biography Luckiest Man. "They loved each other, maybe because of their differences. Gehrig was painfully shy and knew he could never roll like Babe Ruth. But he didn't want to. He knew who he was. Babe, meanwhile, must have been befuddled, wondering, ‘Why isn't this guy out with us partying? Why is this guy sitting in his hotel room reading dime Westerns?’ This was New York during the Roaring Twenties—it was like the best time ever. I don't know that Ruth could ever really understand Gehrig. But they really liked each other."

They came at their stardom in totally different ways. Ruth was, of course, larger than life. He was always out on the town, surrounded by booze and starlets and photographers and writers. He was one of the first American athletes to see himself as a brand—as something more than just a ballplayer.

Gehrig, meanwhile, was stoic, modest, straitlaced—he lived with his parents until he was thirty—and Eig calls him one of the first (perhaps even the first) professional American athletes. "Think about it," he says. "These guys were all farmers, factory workers, blue-collar guys. They didn't put on a suit. They didn't need to act professionally. Gehrig was the first star to treat the job like a businessman."

Through the years, the sports stars of New York have fallen into one of those two camps. On the gregarious Ruth side, you’ve got Joe Namath and Reggie Jackson and Walt Frazier and Lawrence Taylor and Darryl Strawberry and Alex Rodriguez, among others, who ate up the New York scene, dressed the part, repeatedly graced (or disgraced) the back pages of the tabloids, and so on.

And then there have been the Gehrig types, players who stayed out of the limelight, who deflected attention, who always seemed to say the right things. The most obvious example is Derek Jeter, the Captain, who perfected the subtle art of being pleasantly boring in public.

"I told him early on to avoid the pitfalls that plagued me," Darryl Strawberry said of Jeter. "New York is a place that can swallow you up if you’re not able to handle the pressure. . . . He handles it with class and dignity."

Well, Aaron Judge was born to follow Gehrig and Jeter. The pleasant boringness comes easily and naturally to him. Sports Illustrated's Stephanie Apstein wrote that when Judge was at Fresno State, the players had a rule whereby anytime a player talked about themselves individually rather than the team, they were fined a dollar. Judge, in three years, never once had to pay the fine.

Look back at his quotes, going all the way back to high school, and you can see that he has been preparing to be the Yankees captain all his life.

When asked why he chose baseball over other sports after high school: "It's America's pastime."

When asked how to get out of a slump: "Just go to the next pitch, you know?"

When asked how it felt to get drafted by the Yankees: "It was a dream come true."

When asked how he felt after being named a Class A All-Star: "It is like a team award for me."

When asked by Jimmy Fallon on The Tonight Show how he came to return to the Yankees, he said: "After every team meeting, I would sit down with my wife [high school sweetheart Samantha], and we’d kind of look at each other and be like, ‘We’re Yankees.’ "

It has always been like that for Judge—team first, intrusions ignored, keep everything as simple and plain as possible. There have been three Yankees captains in the past thirty years—Don Mattingly, Derek Jeter, and Aaron Judge—and all three have represented Gehrig's quiet and professional approach to the game.

"To the Yankees, the pinstripes confer a certain elegance," Eig says. "To be the captain, you have to fit that image. Gehrig did. Jeter did. Judge does."

And if all of that still leaves open the question "Who is the real Aaron Judge?" well, he's perfectly content to leave that one unanswered.

In 2017, barely a month after Judge had become a Yankees starter, The Tonight Show decided to try something with him. They asked him to come out to Bryant Park and interview random Yankees fans about, well, the Yankees’ new guy, Aaron Judge. When Judge arrived, he went up to producer Mike DiCenzo and said, "This isn't going to work, man." DiCenzo grimaced. Judge was right. "When I saw him get out of the car, and stood up, I saw how enormous and clearly Aaron Judge he was in person," DiCenzo says.

"Um," DiCenzo said, "how about you put on these glasses? It worked for Clark Kent."

So Judge put on the glasses . . . and sure enough he did take on a more mild-mannered persona. He interviewed some Yankees fans who did not recognize him. (One fan said he only caught games on the radio.)

And here was the thing: He so clearly loved it. You can feel his joy as he asks one woman what advice she would give Judge ("Be yourself," she said) and asked a man what he thought about Judge's first month ("He's good," he said). You get the feeling that he’d love to hit home runs and steal bases and make great defensive plays and then, when the game ends, put on those Clark Kent glasses and disappear into the city.

Yankees fans are more than happy with that —if he can just lead the Yankees to championships. We talk sometimes about "True Yankees." The best definition of a True Yankee probably comes from Urban Dictionary: "A ‘True Yankee’ carries a magical aura that allows them to play a metaphysical, other worldly form of baseball which results in hyper clutchness."

The definition obviously drips with sarcasm—non-Yankees fans have long mocked the whole idea of the True Yankee—but taken literally, it is pretty close to how Yankees fans feel about their team and their stars. The best of them are magical. They are clutch. True Yankees.

Let's put it this way: When the Yankees win a game at Yankee Stadium, Frank Sinatra's "New York, New York" plays over the loudspeaker. It has been that way since 1980, only weeks after the song hit the charts.

"Only the Yankees would find zero irony in the words: ‘Top of the list, top of the heap, king of the hill, A-number-one,’ " Mike Vaccaro says. "This really is how the Yankees see themselves. Yankees fans literally believe that if a player can make it here, they can make it anywhere."

Sure, it's fair to wonder if there has been a puncturing of this Yankees aura since the team, you know, has not been in the World Series for a while and no longer spends the very most money on players and so on. But Yankees fans believe. Aaron Judge steps to the plate. The Truest Yankee hits a colossal home run. The Yankees are the Yankees again.

Joe Posnanski has been named the best sportswriter in America by five different organizations, including the Sports Media Hall of Fame and the Associated Press Sports Editors. He has also won two Sports Emmy Awards. He is the No. 1 New York Times bestselling author of six books, and he co-hosts the PosCast with television writer and creator Michael Schur.

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