Monthly Archives: May 2010

Tasty new spot on the Upper West Side. Corner of 81 and Amsterdam Ave. Twenty-five years ago there was an ice cream shop called American Pie in the same space. Used to serve pies from Umanoff and Parson–the strawberry rhubarb was slammin. The place didn’t last long but my brother, sister and I spent many hours there with our old man, who worked down the block in a hardware store.

The neighbhorhood is much different now, but the Tangeled Vine is worth the trip, especially the Pork Montaditos (Berkshire pork belly sliders, pickled radish,garlic dijonaise) and the Grilled Hanger Steak (duck fat smashed potatoes, watercress, red wine escargot butter).

I also loved the Charcuterie but I’m a sucker for that stuff on any day.

Dig this column the late Ron Fimrite once wrote about his old man for Sports Illustrated. A friend e-mailed me about it, said he was 14 when he read it and it made such an impression he tore it out of the magazine and kept it in his wallet:

Then, inevitably, we drifted apart. No, that’s not it; our split was a lot more like atomic fission. The shrinks say this is perfectly normal, that the son must metaphorically slay the father in order to live his own life. But as close as we had been, our breakup was pretty painful for both of us. Suddenly, Trux and I couldn’t agree on anything. His politics seemed to me to have moved overnight from New Deal liberalism to somewhere to the right of Calvin Coolidge. The very man who had put food in my mouth during the Great Depression now looked to me like some sort of Babbitt. For his part, I was headed straight for hell in a handbasket. I didn’t know the meaning of a dollar, and I insisted upon living in San Francisco, a city that, he felt, made Sodom and Gomorrah look like Peoria and Waukegan. The bay that separates Oakland and San Francisco might as well have been an ocean. We had even lost our shared interest in sports. He was an Athletics fan; I was for the Giants. He loved Al Davis’s Oakland Raiders; I was a 49ers man. We didn’t like the same movies. He wouldn’t read the books I sent him, most of which cruelly portrayed the American businessman as either misguided or pathetic. I turned down his suggestions that I “grow up” and buy a house in the suburbs. It was not a good time for Trux and me.

Hilarious profile of Buzz Bissinger by Sandy Hingston at Philadelphia Magazine. I knew the guy had the red ass but dag, he comes across like the lead in an Oliver Stone movie:

The funny thing is, Buzz’s Inquirer writing verges on the sort of Internet screed he says he despises. He utilizes a blogger’s ramped-up emotional outrage. And while the columns draw on his reservoir of knowledge of the city, they don’t break new ground. “That’s become the norm in the blogosphere and increasingly in print — strong opinion without a lot of new reporting,” Stalberg says. All that sound and fury runs the risk of signifying nothing. Buzz has gone after his old hero Rendell harder than he has anyone, but when Cohen’s asked what Ed thinks of Buzz’s handiwork, “I don’t think I’ve ever discussed the column with the Governor,” he says.

Still, Buzz is proud to be bucking the trend. “Steve Lopez told me, ‘You’re the only person in America who’s gone back into newspapers,’” he says, like it’s a badge of honor. He views his column as a reaffirmation of the power of the press, and to those of a certain age, it is. “Your average newspaper columnist still has considerable influence today,” Stalberg says, “because it’s print, and it stays there.” Well, no. Print gets recycled. Words only live on forever on Buzz’s bête-noire Internet. (“By the way,” Stalberg says, “is he still wearing those leather pants?”)

Speaking of Lopez, when you repeat Buzz’s “eradicate the memory” quote to him, he retorts: “He’s going to eradicate my memory? How, with eight columns a year? Tell the little sissy to write three a week and get back to me.” Then adds, “I love the bastard like a brother.” Buzz has devoted friends, and they cut him the slack they feel he deserves. “Nobody I know is more miserable in success,” Lopez says of his old buddy. Asked if writing his column makes Buzz happy, Ceisler says, “Buzz is not the type of person who strives for happiness.”

I don’t know if there is anything particularly noble about Bissinger returning to the newspaper business. He’s one of the few writers who can afford to make that move. Still, he might have the right amount of ego and outrage to blow up the spot.

Nick Johnson is still coming to bat to the Miley Cyrus earworm “Party in the USA” (a song so insidious that even our own Cliff Corcoran, normally a pillar of taste and decency, could not stop humming it at Monday night’s Yankees game, until I threatened to stab him with a pencil). But I will not make fun of Johnson for that today, because he got on base all five times he came to bat, with a home run, a double, and three walks. The Yankees ended up needing every run they could scrape together, as seven innings of fairly stress-free cruising turned into a nail-biter thanks to Andy Pettitte’s early exit (with elbow stiffness) and the twitchiness of the Mariano- and Joba-less bullpen; New York held on by their fingernails for a 7-5 win and a sweep of the Orioles.

The Yanks are increasingly banged up, and today it was Battlecat Pettitte’s turn to leave the game early with stiffness. This came shortly after the fourth inning, in which he loaded the bases with one out, got Matt Wieters to strike out, walked in a run, and then wriggled out of further trouble with a Craig Tatum groundout – the quintessential bend-don’t-break Pettitte of recent years. Early reports are that his subsequent MRI indicated mild inflammation, which doesn’t sound too bad… but then, who knows – multiple members of the 2009 Mets left games with a mild inflammation and were never seen again.

The New York hitters never exactly bludgeoned O’s starter David Hernandez, but they knocked him around for a few innings, much like my friend’s cat behaves when it has a spider cornered. He wasn’t helped by a number of sloppy plays and lackadaisical baserunning on the part of his teammates, and neither, I’d wager, was Dave Trembley’s blood pressure. Nick Johnson hit a booming home run in the first; Nick Swisher homered in the second; Alex Rodriguez singled Jeter home in the third. In the fourth the Yankees put together a messy rally through walks, singles, a bunt and a fielder’s choice, knocking Hernandez out of the game and putting the score at a then-comfortable 6-1.

Sergio Mitre kept things under control for several innings after Andy Pettitte’s departure – and maybe earned himself a spot start if Pettitte needs to miss a game – before giving up a two-run homer to Ty Wigginton (ASIDE: I only just realized I have been incorrectly writing “Wiggington” for many, many years). Damaso Marte got New York out of the eighth, but Joe Girardi’s Reliever Roulette luck ran out in the ninth: Dave Robertson was awful, giving up two homers and swelling his ERA to 14.21, and Boone Logan could not staunch the bleeding, getting one out but walking two Orioles, and leaving the game with the go-ahead run at the plate. Finally, Alfredo Aceves came to the rescue and induced a fly ball from Wigginton. No harm, no foul, but nothing shakes up a baseball fan’s soul like a terrifyingly unpredictable bullpen — and for Yankees fans, pretty much any bullpen that does not have Mariano Rivera available qualifies as terrifyingly unpredictable.

***

Meanwhile, it seems Dallas Braden has still not recovered from the emotional scars he received when his pitching mound was stepped on several weeks ago. He also actually said the words “We don’t do a lot of talking in the 209,” with “the 209” apparently referring to Stockton, California. This is now officially the most inane, ridiculous baseball story we’ve had in quite some time, and I have to say I’m enjoying it immensely.

It’s hookey-gorgeous in the Bronx this afternoon as the Yanks look to sweep the Orioles. Been a good series so far. Andy Pettitte is on the hill for the Bombers.

Go git ’em boys.

[Photo Credit: Lassie, Get Help]

Good long piece by Hillel Italie in the Huffington Post on Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, and cooperative biogrpahies:

“Before I got to Aaron, the best advice I got was from David Halberstam, who wrote a book on Michael Jordan without getting Jordan and a book about Bill Clinton without getting Clinton,” [Howard] Bryant said of the late Pulitzer Prize-winning author and journalist.

“He said to me, `The strategy was very simple – for every day they didn’t talk to me, make three phone calls to other people.’ You have to work around obstacles. It was the best piece of advice anyone’s given me.”

After Bonds overtook Aaron, in 2007, Aaron opened up to Bryant.

“When Henry and I finally spoke, he was tremendous, he was unbelievably gracious,” Bryant said. “He was even somewhat embarrassed someone was taking an interest. He didn’t ask for any money. He didn’t ask for any review copy of the book. He could have made the one phone call that every author dreads – which is to call all of his people and say, `Hey, this guy is writing a book about me. Don’t talk to him.'”

Earlier this week, Allen Barra gave his take on Bryant’s book:

Just when it seemed as if all the great baseball subjects had been done, Howard Bryant checks in with this biography of Henry Aaron, which, amazingly, Mr. Aaron had to wait 34 years to get.

Mr. Bryant, author of “Shutout,” the definitive study of race in baseball, and “Juicing the Game: Drugs, Power and the Fight for the Soul of Major League Baseball,” is a great writer for a great subject. Mr. Aaron’s story is the epic baseball tale of the second half of the 20th century, in many ways the equal to Jackie Robinson’s.

And in the Village Voice, Barra praises Bryant’s frank handling of the relationship between Aaron and Mays:

Bryant argues that “so much of the relationship between Mays and Aaron was perceived, often rightly, as tense if not acrimonious, stemmed from their personalities — the self-centered Mays and the diplomatic Aaron.”

There’s no doubt, says Bryant, that “Mays exemplified the rare combination of physical, athletic genius, and a showman’s gift for timing. What went less reported and, as the years passed, became an uncomfortable, common lament was just how cruel and self-absorbed Mays could be.”

…Bryant cites a first-hand account from 1957, a United Press/Movietone News reporter named Reese Schoenfeld, that Mays ragged on Aaron from the sidelines while Henry was being interviewed in front of a TV camera: “How much they paying you, Hank? They ain’t payin’ you at all, Hank? Don’t you know we all get paid for this? You ruin it for the rest of us, Hank! You just fall off the turnip truck?”

While Aaron became more and more agitated, Mays laid it on thick: “You showin’ ’em how you swing? We get paid three to four hundred dollars for this. You one dumb nigger!”

According to Bryant, “Henry’s reaction for the next fifty years — to diffuse, while not forgetting, the original offense — would be consistent with the shrewd but stern way Henry Aaron dealt with uncomfortable issues. The world did not need to know Henry’s feelings towards Mays, but Henry was not fooled by his adversary. Mays committed one of the great offenses against a person as proud as Henry: he insulted him, embarrassed him in front of other people, and did not treat him with respect.”

Say Hey: fight, fight!

One last thing about the Aaron book that’s interesting to me is that it was written by a black man. So many sports biographies of black and Latin players, from David Maraniss and Larry Tye, to James Hirsch and Brad Snyder, are written by white guys. That’s not a knock just a fact. And it’s not to say that race is enough to judge the merit of the final product. Reporting and writing is what makes a great book no matter if the author is white or black, man or woman. Bryant wasn’t magically granted access to Aaron’s inner circle because he’s black, he did so because he’s an ace reporter who has paid his dues.

Still, I can’t help but wonder what kind of sensitivity and empathy he brings to the subject that a white writer might not. For instance, when I was writing about Curt Flood, I had to imagine what it was like to be a black kid playing ball in the deep south in the mid-1950s. I was earnest, no doubt, but it was largely an intellectual excercise, one where, through reporting and research, I attempted to intuite something beyond my experience. That’s a distance Bryant doesn’t have to cover. It doesn’t necessarily mean his writing will be better, but it’s sure to be palpably different.

Moreover, I think great biographies often tell the story of the subject and in some way, even if it is largely subconscious, the story of the author as well. My Flood book was no great biography, it was a first book, but when I look back on it, I see that I was drawn to it for several personal reasons too. The first was to learn more about Flood (and to learn how to write a book) and share his story with a YA audience.  But I think my attraction to him had everything to do with my relationship with my father. Flood was talented and troubled, alcoholic. My need to find out more about him, to appreciate his accomplishments, and forgive his failings, was directly related to how I felt about my Old Man.

[The Tortoise and the Hare picture by Esoule]

Ernie Harwell, the longtime voice of the Detroit Tigers, died Tuesday night at around the time the Yankees and Orioles were completing the second inning. Harwell was 92. At that age, time usually is the bringer of death. “Natural causes,” they call it — whoever “they” are. In Harwell’s case, it was cancer.

Harwell’s Wikipedia page was updated faster than news of his death could be disseminated over traditional channels.

For anyone who loves baseball and appreciates the nostalgic element of the game when radio ruled, or for generations of people who either entered sportscasting or just aspired to do so, Harwell was a familiar, relatable, friendly voice. Vin Scully, the man who replaced him in Brooklyn in 1950, described Harwell to the Associated Press in the wire service’s obituary: “Probably the best word, he was gentle. And it came across. He just cared for people and he loved baseball. I mean, he loved it beyond just doing games,” Scully said. “You can understand how the people in Detroit just loved him. I followed him into Brooklyn, and then I followed him into the Hall. He was such a lovely man. However that word is defined, that was Ernie.”

I can attest to Scully’s assessment. I was lucky enough to meet Harwell and spend five minutes with him in the Press Dining Room at the previous Yankee Stadium. It was 2002 and my first year at YES, my first year covering pro baseball. For all intents and purposes, I was a punk. Harwell had been in the business longer than two of my lifetimes to that point. He didn’t have to be nice to me and ask me to sit down at a table with him and Bob Sheppard. He didn’t have to wish me luck when he left the table to prepare for his pregame show in the visitors’ broadcast booth.

But he did, and I’ll never forget that.

In those five minutes I got a sense of exactly who Ernie Harwell was as a person. I’ve worked with a great number of high-profile actors, broadcasters and athletes, and have met others in those fields who were either dismissive or worse, condescending, for no reason. I didn’t know if they were jerks before they achieved their level of perceived greatness, or if fame blew their egos out of proportion. That was not Ernie Harwell. His demeanor, tone, delivery, folksiness; there was nothing phony. He was the same person at the dinner table as he was in the broadcast booth.

Harwell said in his farewell last year at Comerica Park that whatever happened, he’d be “ready to face it.” Now that it happened, are we?

It’s a sad day for baseball. It’s a sad day for the broadcasting industry. But in the grand scheme, that doesn’t really matter, does it? Ernie Harwell will  be remembered beyond his achievements and signature calls as simply being a good person. So many people in and out of the sport recognize that — because in some way, Harwell touched all of them. Now, that’s special.

[photo credit: N*ked on the Roof]

A few years ago I realized that one of the qualities I appreciate most in people, and value most in friends, is enthusiasm. I’m not talking about perkiness or a simple excess of energy–unrelenting positivity can be grating, and someone who is revved up all the time can be exhausting–but the capacity to nerd out over something specific, to get almost inappropriately jazzed about some little thing in life that brings you joy, seems to me to be a key to happiness, and when I see someone I know showing that kind of oddball affection for something, it fosters affection in me for that person.

That has a lot to do with why I absolutely love watching Francisco Cervelli. It’s not that I think he’s a coming star in the major leagues (he’ll stick around due to his defense, but he has no power at the plate and seems headed for a career as a Plan B starter or well-regarded backup). I have no real desire for him to get more playing time as long as Jorge Posada is still active and hitting and Jesus Montero is still catching. Whenever Cervelli does get into a game, however, I can’t keep my eyes off him.

It’s not just his superficial resemblance to a young Chris Penn. Cervelli has enthusiasm for miles, and he’s not your typical sour-faced, hard-nosed baseball red-ass (Cervelli hits without batting gloves and wears his socks high, but he didn’t balk at wearing a silly-looking, newfangled batting helmet per his doctor’s orders), nor is he a Nick Swisher-style flake. Cervelli just loves to play the game. When he’s on the field, every move he makes broadcasts how much fun he’s having, whether he’s celebrating a big play, making a dramatic windup to throw strike three around the horn, cracking up his pitchers during his quick, energetic mound visits, or recounting the previous half inning in rapid-fire speech between explosive smiles in the dugout. Cervelli did all that and more Tuesday night as he went 3-for-3, made an entertaining circus catch on a foul ball, and scored two of the Yankees’ four runs in their 4-1 win over the Orioles.

A.J. Burnett cruised through the first two innings of Tuesday night’s game, using his fastball almost exclusively until Garrett Atkins led off the third with a single off Alex Rodriguez’s glove. Burnett’s command briefly evaporated while pitching from the stretch, leading to a five-pitch walk of Rhyne Hughes. Ninth-place hitter Cesar Izturis followed with a bunt to the third-base side of the mound, but Burnett’s throw sailed into the basepath and tipped off Robinson Cano’s glove at first just before Izturis crossed the bag, forcing Cano to pull his glove back to avoid injury.

That error put Burnett in a serious jam with one run in, men on second and third, and no outs, but with the lineup turning over, A.J. turned to his curveball and struck out Adam Jones, Nick Markakis, and Matt Wieters in order, getting all three swinging over curveballs and going to the curve for three consecutive pitches at the end of both the Markakis and Wieters at-bats.

The man who called those pitches, our pal Cervelli, hit the first pitch Baltimore starter Brian Matusz threw in the bottom of that inning into the right-center-field gap. Center fielder Adam Jones dove for Cervelli’s sinking liner but came up several inches short, and Cervelli legged out a stand-up triple, his first three-base hit since he was with High-A Tampa in 2007 and just the third of his professional career. Four pitches later, Ramiro Peña drove him home with a groundout and the game was tied.

In the top of the fourth, with two out and Miguel Tejada on second via a leadoff ground-rule double into the right-field corner, Atkins hit a foul pop toward the Yankee dugout. Cervelli raced back toward the camera pit, adjusted slightly, then made a lunging catch over the protective screen in front of the dugout. His momentum then tipped his center of gravity a bit too far, and he began to slide, on his belly, down the railing along the stairs only to be caught by his manager and hitting coach.

In the bottom of the fifth, with the game still tied 1-1, Brett Gardner led off by battling back from 0-2 to work a seven-pitch walk. Cervelli followed by also falling behind 0-2 on a pair of called strikes, then singled into right field to put runners at first and second. Peña followed with a sacrifice bunt to the third-base side of the mound only to have an exact replay of Burnett’s error on Izturis’s bunt unfold with Matusz’s throw tailing into the basepath and beyond second baseman Ty Wigginton’s reach allowing Gardner to come around with the go-ahead run. After a pair of outs, Matusz walked Mark Teixeira and Alex Rodriguez (the latter after a nine-pitch battle) to force in Cervelli and give the Yankees a 3-1 lead.

An inning later, Cervelli came up with Marcus Thames on first via a single and one out and, after taking strike one, dropped down a perfect surprise bunt up the third-base line and beat it out for a hit. The Yankees failed to score in that inning, but when they did add an insurance run in the eighth, there was Cervelli again, bunting Gardner, who had beaten out a slow-roller up the third base line and stolen second, to third to set up a sacrifice fly from Peña.

Burnett, meanwhile, was excellent again, allowing just the one unearned run on his own throwing error while striking out eight in 7 1/3 innings against just two walks and five hits. Damaso Marte, who struck out switch-hitter Matt Wieters, and Alfredo Aceves, who needed every inch of the ballpark to retire Miguel Tejada on a fly that backed defensive replacement Greg Golson up against the Yankee bullpen, finished the eighth. Joba Chamberlain pitched around a harmless single in the ninth, striking out two (one of them on a curve) to earn his second save in as many days.

As for how the other half lives, Brian Matusz can’t catch a break. The rookie’s last two appearances were both quality starts against the defending champions, but he got a total of one unearned run of support in the two games and took the loss both times. The Yankees, meanwhile, have a backup catcher who is 12-for-31 on the season and leads the league in enthusiasm.

The Yankees got through April relatively unscathed, but hurtin’ time arrived this past week with Nick Johnson (stiff back), Jorge Posada (knee contusion/calf strain), Alex Rodriguez (sore knee/fatigue), and Mariano Rivera (side tightness) all missing games due to aches and pains of varying degrees. Amid all of that, Curtis Granderson suffered a major injury, a Grade 2 groin strain that will have him out until June, but thus far the injuries have only revealed the Yankees’ depth.

Joba Chamberlain saved Monday night’s game in Rivera’s stead. Brett Gardner and Randy Winn delivered unexpected home runs in Granderson’s absence, and Marcus Thames, who has been raking all season, actually made a nifty sliding play in left field with Gardner relocated to center. Francisco Cervelli has played well in Posada’s place, hitting .346 in his limited opportunities and even making his first regular season appearance at third base, adding to the team’s infield depth. Nick Swisher has flipped the switch in his home park, leading the Yankee charge of late by picking up eight hits, including two homers, in his last 12 at-bats, and Phil Hughes has been everything the Yankees had hoped Javy Vazquez would be and more, starting the season 3-0 with a 1.44 ERA.

That’s not to say that these aches and pains won’t start hurting the team as a whole if they keep piling up. Winn and Gardner aren’t likely to go deep again any time soon (after homering on Sunday, Gardner said “That’s my one for the year.”). Thames remains a butcher in left. Cervelli’s bat is cooling. Hughes is due for a big correction given his .158 opponents’ average on balls in play (though I think he’ll survive it). Not every starter is going to hand the ball directly to Joba the way CC Sabathia did last night. The good news is that Johnson and Rodriguez are back in the lineup, Rivera could be back as soon as tonight but more likely tomorrow, and Posada is merely day-to-day.

An encouraging sign regarding Posada, who is expected to return to the lineup for the opener of the Boston series on Friday and can pinch-hit in the meantime, is that outfielder Greg Golson, not a third catcher, is the minor leaguer being called up tonight to restore the “balance” on the roster to four men on the bench and seven in the bullpen. Sadly, Mark Melancon will once again board the Scranton shuttle to make room having made just one appearance in his time with the big club.

Golson is here because he’s on the 40-man roster, is a legitimate center fielder, and has good fifth-outfielder tools (speed and defense). Still, I’m a bit frustrated to see him because the 24-year-old wasn’t exactly setting the world on fire for Scranton (.253/.289/.430 with four steals in four tries), and it was my assumption that the Yankees claimed Golson off waivers as a high-upside fixer-upper. To be fair, his strikeout rate is way down (from one every 3.6 plate appearances in Double-A in 2008 to one every seven PA in the early going this year), which is a good sign, but I wouldn’t consider him ready for the big reveal just yet and there are other Scranton outfielders who are off to better starts and could have been added to the 40-man at the expense of perpetually injured righty Christian Garcia, who just underwent a second Tommy John surgery. David Winfree (.301/.344/.470) and Colin Curtis (.339/.435/.441) aren’t center fielders, but I’d be fine with Randy Winn as an emergency backup to Brett Gardner with Golson a game away should Gardner get hurt.

The other good news is that the Orioles are still in town for two more days. Tonight, O’s rookie Brian Matusz takes on A.J. Burnett. Twenty-three-year-old lefty Matusz, a first-round draft pick in 2008, is off to a solid start in his first full big-league campaign. His last three starts, including a game at Fenway and a loss to the Yankees in Baltimore, were quality starts, and he has struck out 29 men in 30 2/3 innings on the season while allowing just two home runs (one to Robinson Cano).

A.J. Burnett has been superficially better, but on closer examination has only been more dominant in his three quality starts, while posting inferior overall peripherals. Burnett flat-out dominated the O’s in his last start, holding them scoreless on three singles and a walk over eight innings, but he has struck out just seven men in his last 14 1/3 innings and struck out just one in seven frames in his second start of the season. Burnett hasn’t been walking as many men as he usually does either, and hasn’t had a real disaster start yet either, but his perfect 3-0 record and 2.43 ERA imply a consistent dominance that hasn’t really been there.

Of course, I’m always down on Burnett, always expecting his next start to be a disaster. Still, I think if the Orioles are going to pull out a win in this series, tonight’s their best chance, with Matusz on the hill, Posada on the shelf, Rivera’s availability in question, and Burnett (who, according to the two alter kockers in my section last night, “has a lot of jailhouse tats”) taking the ball for the home nine.

Joe Girardi’s lineup against the lefty Matusz has Marcus Thames in left, Derek Jeter at DH, Ramiro Peña at shortstop, and Francisco Cervelli catching, with Nick Swisher batting second and a bottom four behind Robinson Cano of Thames, Brett Gardner, Cervelli, and Peña.

Ron Fimrite, one of the signature voices at Sports Illustrated (he was at the magazine for more than thirty years) passed away late last week of pancreatic cancer. He was 79. Fimrite worked the baseball beat for SI as well as anyone ever has, and from what I understand he was an old smoothie to boot, a real stand-up guy.

Here’s a short selection of some of his memorable work at SI:

On Ralph Branca and Bobby Thomson.

On Pete Rose.

On Hank Aaron’s 715th home run.

On Jackie Jensen.

And finally, peep this bonus piece on Harry Caray:

In the face of…adulation, Harry exhibits a generosity of spirit common only to those who know they deserve the best. He stops to chat and sign autographs. His manner is engaging, familiar: “Hiya, sweetheart…. Whaddya say, pal?” Earlier in the evening, Harry had hit a couple of spots, and in each he was accorded the sort of welcome John Travolta might receive should he appear in the girls’ locker room of a small-town junior high school. “Hey, Harry!” “You’re the greatest, Harry.” “Hey, Harry, say hello to the people of the world.” This had been a day like any other in his life, which is to say, utterly chaotic, a continuing test of his pluck and durability.

Harry had arisen brightly that morning after a revivifying four hours of sleep. He placed a call to Jon Matlack, the Texas Ranger pitcher, identifying himself as Brad Corbett to the hotel operator when informed that Mr. Matlack was not in his room. It is Harry’s conviction that even baseball players will return telephone calls if the caller is someone of recognizable financial clout, and Corbett is the principal owner of the Texas baseball team. Harry wanted to discuss with Matlack some intemperate remarks the pitcher had made to the press, to the effect that Harry should be “killed” or, at minimum, have “his lights punched out” for saying on the air that the tumultuous booing Matlack’s teammate, Richie Zisk, had received from Chicago fans was richly merited.

Zisk, a White Sox player last year, had himself been critical of Chicago fans, a sin in Harry’s eyes comparable to denouncing the game itself. Matlack returned the call and Harry said he would see him in the visitors’ clubhouse at Comiskey Park that evening. There Harry found Matlack to be more contrite than murderous. Zisk was less conciliatory, but he concluded a protracted harangue ambiguously by insisting, “You say anything you want, Harry. O.K.?” Harry, ever unflappable, agreed he would do just that. When the crowd booed Zisk even more ferociously that night, Harry apologized, in a way. “There must be something wrong with your television sets,” he advised his listeners.

One morning last week I got on the 1 train at 238th street and the car was empty. I sat down, half-asleep. The doors closed. I looked left and then right and then waited. Nobody. Sun flooded the car. As we left the station I realized I had a few minutes to do or say anything I wanted as loudly as I wanted.

That was when Carol Burnett doing the Tarzan yell popped into my head.

So I did one, my voice croaking. I liked the way it felt so much and I did again, louder this time. The train approached the 231st street station and so I let out a few more, full-tilt, cause when was the next time I’d get the chance, right? Three people got on the car and 231 and my one-man show was over but I was content with my little performance for one.

[photo credit: Fan Interference]

Javy Vazquez will not pitch against the Red Sox this weekend in Boston.

Yesterday, Jay Jaffe, took a detailed look at Vazquez over at BP:

Taking a more dramatic route, if not necessarily a smarter one, the Yanks could also start Sergio Mitre in Vazquez’s stead, though it’s tough to imagine Mitre’s lone supporter (Girardi) subjecting a pitcher with a career ERA of 5.48 to such brutality even given Boston’s recent struggles. More elaborate solutions are unlikely, at least at this juncture, given that the Yankees have few places to stash an $11.5-million pitcher in a funk. In years past, struggling pitchers like Jeff Weaver or Jose Contreras have been sent to the team’s spring training facility to work with pitching guru Billy Connors, taking the so-called “Tampa Cure.” But that would require a DL stint, and thus far, nobody has suggested Vazquez is injured. Short of a serious injury which could shelve the struggling starter for awhile, the one thing the Yankees almost certainly won’t do is haul Chamberlain back to the rotation, particularly given the concerns they have about their set-up corps, with Chan Ho Park lost to a hamstring injury and David Robertson and Damaso Marte just lost, period.

So the Yankees and their fans will have to endure Vazquez for the foreseeable future. Which shouldn’t be so hard, given that they sit at 16-8, with the second-best record in the AL, and that despite the weight of his personal history in the Bronx and in the league, Vazquez’s current rough patch still amounts to only five starts. In recent years, upstanding hurlers such as Sabathia, Jon Lester, Josh Beckett, and Justin Verlander have overcome similarly ugly season-opening patches to wind up ranking among the majors’ top pitchers, and a change in Vazquez’s fortunes may only be a mechanical tweak or two away.

Even with his patchy situational stats, it’s simply too early to resort to panic over a pitcher not expected to carry the team, one whose overall track record is as long and as solid as Vazquez’s is. Expect Cashman, Girardi, and company to resist the temptation to resort to more drastic measures—firing squad, stoning, trepanning, or Clockwork Orange-style loops of the 2004 ALCS—while riding out the storm for a while longer.

[photo credit: YOM]

The off-season acquisition of Randy Winn evoked much consternation amongst Banterites and associated Yankee fans. It wasn’t like Winn was a lifetime fourth outfielder. Through 2008, he had compiled a .288/.347/.425 line (102 OPS), with 104 homers and 193 stolen bases.

But here was a player who couldn’t add much punch to an impotent Giants lineup in 2009, posting a .262/.318/.353 line in 597 PAs, with a mere two homers and twice as many strikeouts as walks.

His range in the outfield, as he turned 35, was diminishing a bit from above average towards slightly above league-average. And now the Yanks wanted to add him as a 4th/5th outfielder . . . asking him to come off the bench for the first time in his career.

This season, he had started three games, and appeared in nine others, with one single and five strikeouts in 13 ABs. This was Winn’s first start since Curtis Granderson’s groin strain and DL stint Saturday.

Starter CC Sabathia endured very little trouble with the Orioles line-up, save for an opposite field line drive homer to Matt Wieters to lead off the 2nd. He struck out only two through his first four innings, but kept the ball on the ground, to the tune of nine groundball outs.

Orioles’ starter Jeremy Guthrie, who had faced Sabathia only last Wednesday, was also locked in early in the game, allowing only two walks and a single in the first three innings.

Alex Rodriguez led off the bottom of the 4th with a single to left. Robinson Cano flied out to left and Posada grounded out to second (A-Rod moving to second on the out). Nick Swisher, who owns Guthrie (now 13-24 lifetime) laced a long single off the right field wall, scoring Rodriguez to tie the game.  Brett Gardner was fooled on a change-up, but managed to punch a single up the middle.

Winn then stepped to the plate. With an 0-1 count on him, he plastered a 91 mph fastball deep into the Yankee bullpen . . . his first homer in 491 at-bats.  That would be all Sabathia needed in a 4-1 win in a tidy 2:29.

CC sailed through eight innings (106 pitches), assisted by two double plays.  There were only two flyball outs against him all night. He didn’t have his best stuff, striking out only two despite throwing 69 strikes out of those 106 pitches.

The only drama after the fourth inning took the form of Yankee injuries.  Jorge Posada took himself out of the game after the fifth inning, citing tightness in his right calf. This was the same leg he got plunked in last week, so the possibility of a cascade injury may be there.  [Late news from Mark Feinsand: MRI reveals mild calf strain.]

With a three-run lead heading to the ninth, the (heretofore unknown) other injury came into play, as it turned out NOT to be Mariano Rivera time. Joba Chamberlain came on to finish it out. Joe Girardi later revealed that Mo had awoken Saturday to stiffness in his left side (after pitching Friday night). Rivera threw a bit during pre-game, and said he felt better, but not 100%. Girardi stated he would like to hold him out at least one more day.

Otherwise, the big news from the game was the red-hot Robinson Cano Nick Swisher. Prior to this game, Swisher had gone 16-45 (.356) with three homers and 11 RBI in his last 11 games, raising his average from .200 to .282. Michael Kay mentioned during the broadcast that Swisher had been working with hitting coach Kevin Long on “quieting” his stance, allowing the bat to rest on his shoulder with less wiggling prior to the pitch. It seems to be paying off, and facing Guthrie didn’t hurt either, as Nick added two singles and a double.

With the win, the Yanks moved to within one game of the idle Rays, with AJ Burnett set to face Brian Matusz Tuesday night.

When the Yankees arrived in Baltimore a week ago, the Orioles were 3-16 and I wrote that they weren’t that bad. This week, the O’s arrive in the Bronx coming off a three-game sweep of the Red Sox and have won five of their last seven games (four against Boston and one against the Yankees last Tuesday), and I’m here to say, the Orioles aren’t that good (I also believe the Red Sox aren’t that bad, but I’ll save that for Friday’s series preview).

Nothing has changed about the Orioles other than their luck.While the Yankees were in Baltimore last week, Alfredo Simon was called up and installed as the closer, with Kam Mickolio returning to the minors. Since then, the O’s have made just one roster move, sending former closer Jim Johnson to the minors in order to return Brad Bergesen to the fifth spot in the rotation. The Yankees won’t face Bergesen in this series and they’ve already seen Simon. Nothing has changed about the Orioles. (Incidentally, I noticed I forgot to fill in the “Who’s Replaced Whom” section in my O’s post last week, so I’ve included the full 2009-to-2010 comparison below).

The O’s swept the Red Sox by outlasting them. Two of the games were decided by one run in ten innings, and the other had a final score of 12-9. I like the Yankees chances of winning a slug-fest with the O’s, but with CC Sabathia, A.J. Burnett, and Andy Pettitte lineup as the Yankees starters in this series, I don’t see one developing. The O’s counter with Jeremy Guthrie, Brian Matusz, and David Hernandez. Hernandez, the only one of the three the Yankees didn’t see (and beat) last week has been a five-inning, keep-you-in-the-game sort of pitcher in the early going, but has walked nearly as many men as he’s struck out and gives up a ton of fly balls, which is a recipe for disaster when facing the Yankees in the Bronx. Matusz vs. Burnett Tuesday night looks like the O’s best chance of a win on paper as Matusz has been solid (three straight quality starts including his loss to the Yankees last week) and I always feel like Burnett is due for a stinker, no matter how well he pitches (and he flat-out dominated the O’s in Baltimore last week, allowing just three singles and a walk in eight shutout innings). Tonight, CC Sabathia faces Jeremy Guthrie for the fifth time since joining the Yankees. Sabathia is 3-1 those matchups thus far, including last Wednesday’s 8-3 Yankee win in Baltimore.

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Fumee d’Ambre Gris (Smoke of Ambergris), By John Singer Sargent (1880)

One Time…(this record is smokin’ hot)

Two Times (tighter than the jaws of a gator)…

Jimmy Cannon: Sportswriter.

Riding the Harper’s Magazine bandwagon today. They’ve earned it. Just published a terrific collection called Rules of the Game: The Best Sports Writing from Harper’s Magazine. Lots of good stuff in there including Pete Axthelm’s memorable essay The City Game (which became an excellent book), Pat Jordan on the shady baseball prospect Toe Nash, another good baseball essay by Rich Cohen, and a spot-on piece on sports writing by the critic Wilfrid Sheed, a guy who is real hit or miss for me.. Also work from Mark Twain, John R. Tunis, Shirley Jackson, Tom Wolfe, and George Plimpton. It’s the goods.

Harper’s has also made Gary Cartwright’s memorable recollection of his days at the Fort-Worth Press (included in the book), Confessions of a Washed-Up Sportswriter, available for us all on the Internet. Whoopee!

Here we have a first-hand account of Shrake and Jenkins, Blackie Sherrod and the Forth-Worth Press in the Fifties:

I did not know it at the time, but The Press sports staff was ten years ahead of the game. In 1955 The Press was perfecting what most, but not yet all, sports staffs believe they have just created: a competitive art form. Significant television competition was years away, but already The Press was rebelling against the stiff, bleak who/what/when/where architecture of its predecessors, exposing myths, demanding to know why, and treating why as the only question. It was funny about 1961 when Newsweek devoted its press section to the wry progressive sports editor of Newsday, Jack Mann. Newsday hired good, creative writers. They worked as a unit, pruning cliches from wire copy, pepping up hard news by tracing angles all over the country, barreling over dogma where they confronted it. Was Yogi Berra a lovable gnome, like it said in Sporting News? Did he sit around reading comic books and eating bananas? Or was he a noncommunicative boor whose funniest line was, “How the hell would I know?” Newsday, the magazine pointed out, demanded an answer.

There was no way for Newsweek to know it, but sports editor Blackie Sherrod had been preaching a better anarchy at The Press in 1950. Sherrod surrounded himself with such men as Dan Jenkins and Bud Shrake, now well-known and excellent writers at Sports Illustrated, not to mention the irresponsible Crew Slammer. He let them write from the gut.

Cartwright recalls the early days with great fondness but he doesn’t romanticize the sports writing profession:

…Let me make one thing plain: most sportswriters have no business in journalism. They are misfits looking for a soft life. The worst sportswriters are frustrated athletes, or compulsive sports fans, or both. The best are frustrated writers trapped by circumstances. Westbrook Pegler called sportswriters “historians of trivia,” but Pegler learned his craft by writing sport. Scotty Reston, Heywood Broun, Damon Runyon, Ring Lardner, and Paul Gallico wrote about sport. Winston Churchill covered cricket during the Boer War. TheNew York Times‘ John Kieran was a sportswriter, but he was much more. When students at Yale protested that a sportswriter had been invited to address them, Kieran delivered his speech in Latin.

Sportswriting should be a young man’s profession, No one improves after eight or ten years, but the assignments get juicier and the way out less attractive. After eight or ten years there is nothing else to say. Every word in every style has been set in print, every variation from discovery to death explored. The ritual goes on, and the mind bends under it. Ask a baseball writer what’s new and he’ll quote you the record book. Baseball writers are old men, regardless of age.

…There is no spectacle in sport more delightful than witnessing members of the Baseball Writers Association, who invented the box score, trampling each other at the buffet table. The first time I actually saw Dick Young, the New York Daily News‘ very good baseball writer, he was smearing deviled egg on the sleeve of Arthur Daley’s sport coat and discussing Casey Stengel’s grammar. Ben Hogan was rude and gruff but he impressed me when I learned that the caviar at his annual press party cost $45 a jar. Tony Lema had a genius for public relations at least as great as his genius for golf. Champagne Tony! I covered his funeral. It was an assignment that I did not want, but I was there, thinking that it may be years before I taste champagne again. They served some on the flight home. Bear Bryant used to insist that the way to handle a sportswriter was with a fifth of Scotch. Sportswriters deplored this attitude, but no one ever thought to sue Bear Bryant.

This was the title piece of Cartwright’s collection of his best work, Confessions of a Washed-Up Sportswriter (including Various Digressions about Sex, Crime, and Other Hobbies). If you can ever find a copy of that on the cheap, get it, it also features a wonderful piece on Candy Barr, the famous Texas stripper, and a vicious story about dog fighting that would make the dudes at Deadspin moist. Cartwright regarded it as the best piece he ever wrote even though it was rejected by Playboy, Sports Illustrated and Esquire. It was his favorite, anyway. Probably worth signing up for Texas Monthly (it’s free) for the Cartwright archive alone.

Kudos to Harper’s here. They are doing a real mitzvah and other publications like Rolling Stone, Esquire, GQ, and The New Yorker could take notice and make some of the gems from their vaults available to us on occasion. Share the wealth, just a little taste, good Internet karma and all that. A little love goes a long way.

[Life picture of Jimmy Cannon via A Continuous Lean]

Diane hipped me to this piece in the Chicago Sun-Times on the current state of food photography. It’s a good ‘un.

[Photo Credit: Last Night’s Dinner]

Got a treat for you from the good people at Harper’s Magazine. They’ve taken Edwin “Bud” Shrake’s classic piece “In the Land of the Permanent Wave” out from behind the pay wall and made it available for all. If you’ve never read it before, do yourself a favor and check it out:

For about five hours I had been drinking Scotch whiskey and arguing with a rather nice, sometimes funny old fellow named Arch, who was so offended by my moderately long hair that he had demanded to know if I weren’t actually, secretly, a Communist. “Come on now, you can tell me, hell, I won’t hate you for it. Wouldn’t you really like to see the Communists take over this country?” Arch had said, placing his bare elbows on the table and leaning forward to look trustingly at me, as though he was certain that if I had one virtue it would prove to be that I would not lie to him about such an important matter. Arch was wearing a jump suit; swatches of gray chest hair, the color of his crew cut, stuck out where the zipper had got caught in it when last Arch had excused himself from the table. We were in the guest lodge of a lumber company in a small town in East Texas. Arch is an old friend of the president of the company. Sitting around the table or nearby were my wife, a State Senator in town to crown a beauty queen at a “celebration” the next evening, a U. S. Congressman who had come down from Washington to make a speech between the parade and the barbecue the following noon, a lumber lobbyist who is mayor of still another town owned by this same lumber company, and I think one or two more people but my memory of that evening has a few holes in it.

Willie Morris ran Harper’s during the magazine’s heyday in the Sixties. He said that Shrake’s story, along with Seymour Hersh’s devastating account of the My Lai Massacre, were his two favorites.

In his memoir, New York Days, Morris recalled Shrake as:

…a large, tall Texan with a blunt exterior that disguised a lyric but misdoing heart. This piece was infiintely less ambitious than “My Lai,” but struck a chord in me that I have never quite forgotten, having to do with how clean, funny, and lambent prose caught the mood of that moment in the country and mirrored with great felicity what we were trying to do at Harper’s. To me few finer magazine essays have ever been written.

The genesis of “The Land of the Permanent Wave” was itself a germane story of the magazine business of that era. Sports Illustrated sent Shrake down at his insistence to do a piece on the beautiful and haunting Big Thicket area of East Texas. This was about the time a Texas lumbering company was becoming a major stockholder in Time Inc. Shrake’s story on timber choppers and developers ruining the Thicket was not happily greeted at SI. Andre Laguerre, the managing editor later to be dismissed by the money men, broke the news to the writer at their daily late afternoon gathering in the bar around the corner from the Time-Life Building where many of their editorial decisions took place. It was the only SI story Shrake ever wrote that the magazine would not print and Laguerre embarrassed. Shrake got his permission to rewrite it and give it to Harper’s. He sat down and changed the main angle of the story from the mercenary destruction of the Thicket to his and his young wife Doatsy’s travels through Lufkin and down to the Thicket, about permanent waves and long hair in the Sixties and cowboy hats and rednecks and cops and the fumes from the paper mills.

This story speaks to that time and place as well as a movie like Easy Rider, but it is not at all dated (the same can’t be said for Easy Rider).

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