Monthly Archives: September 2010

Nice piece by Joe Lemire over at SI.com on umps.

[Picture by Norman Rockwell]

Banana bread gets no respect.

Dig this found treasure from Mon Appetit.

Dig Jonah Keri’s exhaustive profile on Nolan Ryan and the Rangers’ new/old approach to pitching.

Mmm, Mmm, Good.

Jose Antonio Vargas profiles Facebook co-founder, Mark Zuckerberg in the New Yorker:

Zuckerberg may seem like an over-sharer in the age of over-sharing. But that’s kind of the point. Zuckerberg’s business model depends on our shifting notions of privacy, revelation, and sheer self-display. The more that people are willing to put online, the more money his site can make from advertisers. Happily for him, and the prospects of his eventual fortune, his business interests align perfectly with his personal philosophy. In the bio section of his page, Zuckerberg writes simply, “I’m trying to make the world a more open place.”

The world, it seems, is responding. The site is now the biggest social network in countries ranging from Indonesia to Colombia. Today, at least one out of every fourteen people in the world has a Facebook account. Zuckerberg, meanwhile, is becoming the boy king of Silicon Valley. If and when Facebook decides to go public, Zuckerberg will become one of the richest men on the planet, and one of the youngest billionaires. In the October issue of Vanity Fair, Zuckerberg is named No. 1 in the magazine’s power ranking of the New Establishment, just ahead of Steve Jobs, the leadership of Google, and Rupert Murdoch. The magazine declared him “our new Caesar.”

Despite his goal of global openness, however, Zuckerberg remains a wary and private person. He doesn’t like to speak to the press, and he does so rarely. He also doesn’t seem to enjoy the public appearances that are increasingly requested of him. Backstage at an event at the Computer History Museum, in Silicon Valley, this summer, one of his interlocutors turned to Zuckerberg, minutes before they were to appear onstage, and said, “You don’t like doing these kinds of events very much, do you?” Zuckerberg replied with a terse “No,” then took a sip from his water bottle and looked off into the distance.

Congrats to Rafa on winning the US Open. He’s not got the career Grand Slam.

Here’s more tennis from the New York Review of Books.

What’s with Nick Swisher? The Yankee outfielder with have an MRI–his second in ten days–today. According to the Times:

“Short term, I’m worried about it because I don’t know how long it’s going to take,” Manager Joe Girardi said of Swisher. “But I don’t perceive it to be two weeks or anything like that.”

It has been almost two weeks since Swisher fouled a ball off his knee on Aug. 24 in Toronto, and after a period of slight improvement, he said Sunday in Texas that the pain had started affecting other parts of his body. It grew noticeably worse Wednesday, when he fell after taking a swing, and he ran with a limp his first two games against the Rangers. Swisher, receiving treatment before Monday’s game, was not available to comment.

Did last night happen? It sure am did. It was damp and chilly in the Bronx this morning but the sun was out and today is a new day. The city is sparklin’, and a win tonight puts the Yanks back in first place.

Hope is the thing called Nova. Today will be a better day, ya hear?

[Picture by Iyasu Nagata]

Because today we need to laugh.

I can get you a cheeseburger.

Tonight’s pitching matchup proved equal to the hype: it was Sabathia vs. Price, and neither ace gave an inch. Both went eight innings and walked two; I guess Sabathia gets a bit of an edge for allowing 2 hits – as opposed to Price’s whopping 3 – and striking out 9 men, compared to Price’s 4. But basically, for most of the game, nobody was hitting anything. Sabathia changed speeds and spotted his pitches precisely; Price’s fastball blew away the Yankee hitters, who for the last week or so (if not, in many cases, a bit longer) have looked old and tired and tonight looked even more so, although to be fair, most people look that way when facing David Price.

So why, after the game, did Joe Girardi say of the two aces, “both of them were tremendous” in the same flat, soul-crushed tones one might normally use to say, “my girl ran off with my best friend and took my dog with her”? Well, the Yankee hitters didn’t do any better against the Rays’ relievers than they had against Price, and with the score tied 0-0 and the game heading into extra innings, Girardi inserted Chad “Abandon Hope” Gaudin and Sergio “Pushing Your Luck” Mitre to pitch the 10th and 11th innings, respectively. The many viewers who pessimistically assumed that Gaudin would lose the game, particularly after he loaded the bases, were proved wrong when instead it was Mitre who allowed the big game-winning homer — to Reid Brignac, the first batter he faced.

Well, according to Joe Girardi’s testy and dispirited post-game press conference, David Robertson and Joba Chamberlain weren’t available (though why Joba wasn’t, having not pitched since Friday, I don’t know), and Mo (possibly because he looked so dreadfully un-Mo-like in his last outing?) was only going to be used in a save situation. Still, that doesn’t necessarily explain why Kerry Wood was pulled after one quick and easy ninth inning, or why Boone Logan only faced one batter, or why Curtis Granderson bunted against a righty to bring up… Collin Curtis. Coming on the heels of a series of brutal Yankee losses, this latest fiasco dunked New York into second place and left Girardi open to plenty of criticism.

Of course, the Yankees haven’t been making Girardi’s job any easier lately – questionable managerial moves are prone to be noticed and leaped upon much more often when the team of the manager in question isn’t hitting worth a good goddamn. And I’m quite sure Girardi didn’t call for two of his team’s most boneheaded plays: Jorge Posada getting thrown out trying to steal second in the fifth inning and, far worse, Brett Gardner getting thrown out trying to steal THIRD with two outs in the tenth. After the game Gardner apologized to his teammates, and in postgame interviews he looked like he wished desperately for the ability to melt into a guilty puddle of shame on the locker room floor, but even he could not really explain what he’d been thinking.

I’m not somebody who feels strongly about winning the division rather than going in through the Wild Card; I just want playoffs. But if the Yankees don’t start playing better, on both sides of the ball, it’s pretty hard to imagine them lasting long in October no matter how they get there. So here’s hoping they rouse themselves from their slump soon, because a beautifully kickass performance like the one C.C. Sabathia gave us tonight should not go to waste. And also because Joe Girardi sounds like he’s maybe three more bad losses away from taking a fungo bat and going after the next reporter who asks him about his pitching choices.

AP Photo

CC Sabathia meets David Price tonight. First place is on the line. Man, this should be good.

Let’s Go Yan-Kees!

[Picture Credit: Craig Robinson, 2009. Drawn with the iPhone application Brushes.]

Is Bill James losing it? Check out this rambling essay for Slate and you tell me.

Saturday Night Fever was based on a New York Magazine story by Nik Cohn called Tribal Rites of the New Saturday Night (It appeared in July, 1976):

Within the closed circuits of rock & roll fashion, it is assumed that New York means Manhattan. The center is everything, all the rest irrelevant. If the other boroughs exist at all, it is merely as a camp joke—Bronx-Brooklyn-Queens, monstrous urban limbo, filled with everyone who is no one.

In reality, however, almost the reverse is true. While Manhattan remains firmly rooted in the sixties, still caught up in faction and fad and the dreary games of decadence, a whole new generation has been growing up around it, virtually unrecognized. Kids of sixteen to twenty, full of energy, urgency, hunger. All the things, in fact, that the Manhattan circuit, in its smugness, has lost.

They are not so chic, these kids. They don’t haunt press receptions or opening nights; they don’t pose as street punks in the style of Bruce Springsteen, or prate of rock & Rimbaud. Indeed, the cults of recent years seem to have passed them by entirely. They know nothing of flower power or meditation, pansexuality, or mind expansion. No waterbeds or Moroccan cushions, no hand-thrown pottery, for them. No hep jargon either, and no Pepsi revolutions. In many cases, they genuinely can’t remember who Bob Dylan was, let alone Ken Kesey or Timothy Leary. Haight Ashbury, Woodstock, Altamont—all of them draw a blank. Instead, this generation’s real roots lie further back, in the fifties, the golden age of Saturday nights.

The cause of this reversion is not hard to spot. The sixties, unlike previous decades, seemed full of teenage money. No recession, no sense of danger. The young could run free, indulge themselves in whatever treats they wished. But now there is shortage once more, just as there was in the fifties. Attrition, continual pressure. So the new generation takes few risks. It goes through high school, obedient; graduates, looks for a job, saves and plans. Endures. And once a week, on Saturday night, its one great moment of release, it explodes.

I don’t know from his best, but The Conformist is far and away my favorite Bertolucci movie. If you’ve got a big TV, do yourself a favor and rent it. If not, wait for it to play at a revival house. It’ll be so worth your time.

Movie is gorgeous to watch in more ways than one:

Jay Jaffe presents a reason to be cheerful, forget what happened down in Texas…

About Last Night…

This girl is the Vanessa Del Rio of food pern.

Peace to Brad for hipping me to this on-line collection of William Gottlieb’s photography. It’s wonderful.

Man, imagine going back in time to witness 52nd street during its heyday?

Is Carl Crawford’s time in Tampa close to being over? Ben Shpigel reports in the Times:

…With every game this month and next, the clock also ticks louder toward Crawford’s free agency — and his likely departure from the only organization he has ever known. It is the perpetual challenge for small-market teams like the Rays: how to prevent a homegrown star from bolting for a big payday.

The Rays’ payroll has steadily increased over the last four years, to roughly $71 million from about $24 million in 2007, but their principal owner, Stuart Sternberg, said in spring training that it would plunge below $60 million for 2011. Even with the money they receive in revenue sharing, team revenue has not increased in lock step with the Rays’ success. Devoting what could be a quarter of their budget to one player would run counter to their operating philosophy.

“We could sign just about any player in baseball,” said Andrew Friedman, the Rays’ general manager. “The issue is whether we could field a competitive team around that player. Our job is to balance that. We certainly can’t win a bidding contest for any top player. It’s kind of Math 101 when you look at our resources relative to most every team in the game.”

I once saw the actor Kevin McCarthy, Mary’s brother, walk out of my grandparent’s apartment building. I felt happy to see him, a recognizable face from so many forgettable movies. He was tall and elegant and though I didn’t say anything to him, I felt better just being near him for a minute.

He died on Saturday, 96 years old. R.I.P.