Monthly Archives: May 2011

[Photo Credit: Gintare Dainelyte]

[Photo Credit: Harry Callahan: Chicago, 1948]

A sad day for Twins fans and the baseball community, as legendary slugger Harmon Killebrew passed away this morning at 74, from esophageal cancer.

Personally, Killebrew was on the down side of his career by the time I got into baseball, but I still vividly remember the Yankees yearbooks of the early 70s featuring pictures of the Twins masher as part of their “Visiting Stars”.

For what it was worth, Killebrew compiled a line of .239/.333/.455 with 22 homers in 121 career games at Yankee Stadium.

May he rest in peace.

(Over at SI.com, Steve Rushin has a nice obit.)

Simply pleasures are the best.

Like tomato sauce with butter and onion, adapted by the incredible food blog Smiten Kitchen from the Goddess Marcella Hazan.

The Yankees are a mediocre team right now and are dealing with the inevitable ugliness of their aging core. Jorge Posada is the first on the firing line, and Derek Jeter, who came to his friend’s defense, is next. Yesterday, team executives met with Jeter.

Tyler Kepner has a good piece on the latest behind-the-scenes business today in the Times:

The Yankees could have publicly ignored Jeter’s all-is-well stance on Sunday. But to do so would have let his words hang there as the official record of the Yankee captain’s stance on quitting. And if the captain were to condone a player bailing on his teammates and fans … well, then what?

…They were not afraid of further angering Posada, because they knew he was wrong — and, ultimately, he knew it, too. And they were not afraid of taking on Jeter, who clearly gave up his bulletproof status when he signed his new contract last off-season.

It was all to prove a point: that a player cannot quit on his team and expect the team to pretend everything is fine. It was a teaching moment for everybody, from aspiring young players to veterans like Posada and Jeter. Someone, it turns out, actually reads those hokey signs in spring training.

It was pouring when I left my apartment in the Bronx this morning so instead of walking to the subway I jumped on a bus and only had to walk a block-and-a-half to the train station. I stayed as close as  to the buildings as possible  because the awnings keep some of the rain away. I wasn’t alone. There was a parade of us, single file,  moving down the block, as if a magnet held us close to the buildings.

A New York moment.

Heading into the bottom of the sixth, the Yankees looked to be in firm control of tonight’s game with the division-leading Tampa Rays. Curtis Granderson had drilled a deep three-run home run off ace David Price and increased the Yankee lead to four runs, 5-1. A.J. Burnett had allowed only three hits and walk and, while not dominating, was in fine form.

In the bottom of the sixth, the Rays struck quickly like a sunburst. A double and home run by slim Sam Fuld tightened the score. Burnett has been pitching to terrible support this year, with the bullpen, defense and offense all taking turns abandoning him. Sometimes all in the same game. When Derek Jeter couldn’t circle a soft grounder to end the sixth, Burnett must have thought, “Screw it, I’ll do it myself.”

After a series of bad pitches and solid contact, the Rays were within one with B.J. Upton at the plate. Burnett’s mechanics were shot and his head was who-knows-where. He whipped a perfectly normal looking fastball three feet into the opposite batter’s box. Uh-oh. Instead of calling for a conference on the mound or a relief pitcher, the Yankees let A.J. straighten himself out. He did just that, straightening out a curve ball on the next pitch. Upton scrabbled it. B trumped A as the J’s cancelled each other out.

What’s so striking about the wild pitch in replay is that Burnett doesn’t stumble, or jerk his arm or even appear to have a major problem with his slot or release point. He just lined up his body to throw it that far outside. Like a “hit-the-bull” moment, without the purpose. At that point in the game, with a parade of red flags trotting around the bases already that inning, I don’t know how you let him throw the next pitch without someone going out there to help him clear his head.

So Burnett had a stinker of an inning; he was entitled given how badly his team has played for him lately. The Yankees trailed by one run and had three big innings left. They went down nine in a row and saw a total of 31 pitches. Even that paltry number is deceiving because rookie Eduardo Nunez worked a ten-pitch at bat to start the seventh. The next eight batters saw 21 pitches. Derek Jeter, Alex Rodriguez, Robinson Cano and Nick Swisher saw five pitches combined and not one of them even had the courtesy to take a good hack. The game effectively ended on Upton’s home run, 6-5 Rays.

A long losing streak is always a combination of deficiencies and bad timing. Viewed in a close up, it seems the bats quit on the pitcher once he blew their lead. But in the wide angle, I doubt this is the case. They all wanted to hit the home run that tied the game, hence the first pitch swinging and over-aggressiveness when the opposite was needed. The result is the same – inept offense, but at least their hearts were in the right place.

I will stop short of saying they just need a big hit or a strong pitching performance and everything will be OK. That might end the losing streak, but one-night heroics won’t turn a decent team into a great team. Right now they’re looking up at decent.

It ain’t that bad, chum. Cliff’s got the preview.

Never mind the pity party:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Oh, Ursula. What an exotic-looking beauty. And what a name: Ursual Andress.

Man, John Derek must have been one smooth sombitch, huh?

One Isn’t the Loneliest Number

By John Schulian

Somehow I survived the constant moves and my social backwardness. When I went back to East as a junior and senior, I found a comfort level that I’d never had before. I played baseball and football, got good enough grades, wrote for the school newspaper, emceed the farewell assembly my senior year, and had friends, the best of whom I’m still in touch with all these years later. By some wonderful twist of fate, I’d landed in a public high school that had all the qualities prep schools charge $20,000 and $30,000 a year for today. Great teachers cared about you and pushed you. I had a U.S. history teacher who actually got me to spend one Christmas vacation working on a paper for her class. I got an A on it, too. I’ll bet 90 or 95 percent of the class of 1963 went on to college of some kind. The best and brightest went to schools like Yale and Columbia and Berkeley. I, like most everybody else, just moved down the street to the Univesity of Utah.

Looking back, I’m amazed at what an innocent time it was. Maybe it was the last innocent time. A couple of years later, it seemed like half the kids who’d been underclassmen when I was at East were drinking and screwing and raising all kinds of hell. (No drugs yet, however. You have to remember this is Salt Lake I’m talking about.) My class, on the other hand, was tame in the extreme. There was a small group that boogied until they puked, but the vast majority seemed to get their high from sugar and make-out sessions. Me, I went to Utah basketball games and hung out in poolrooms with some buddies who were as inspired by “The Hustler” as I was. Never had a date, I’m embarrassed to say. I came close with a long-haired girl who reminded me of Audrey Hepburn–I even walked her home a couple of times–but I was still too damn shy. Graduation night, a friend from the football team and I–he was the good fullback, I was the other fullback–went to a Coast League baseball game instead of the dance. But a terrific girl (not Audrey Hepburn) came up and kissed me as I was on my way out the door. She may not remember it, but I do. It was a lovely moment.

The biggest thing about bouncing around the way I did as a kid was that I learned to never be afraid of solitude. I was pretty self-sufficient emotionally before I was self-sufficient in the sense of being able to actually take care of myself. If there was a high-school dance, I’d hang around the house until 8:30 or 9, then walk over to the neighborhood variety store and look through the magazines and paperbacks. (I had a driver’s license but no car; the car wouldn’t come until I was a sophomore in college.) That’s how I discovered “Rabbit Run” by John Updike. I read the first page and thought it was about basketball. Let’s just say I had a rude awakening when I bought it and read the second page, and the third, and so on. I made it all the way through, eventually. But it wasn’t until years later that I read “Rabbit Run” again and finally realized what it was about.

Maybe the ability to entertain yourself comes with being an only child. It just seemed natural to me. Lots of days there wasn’t anybody around to play with me, so I’d dream up something on my own. Or I’d turn on my little table radio and listen to Mutual’s Game of the Day or, when I was living in L.A., the Hollywood Stars’ baseball game. I listened to a lot of music on the radio, too. Not just Elvis, either, though he was the coolest thing going. I found myself, at the age of 10 or 11, attracted to black music. There were two disc jockeys in L.A.–Hunter Hancock on KPOP and Johnny Otis on KFOX–who played nothing but black music, and there I was, this blond, blue-eyed kid utterly mesmerized by Sam Cooke and Jackie Wilson and a guy named Sonny Knight, who had a hit with a song called “Confidential.” It was as though I considered this black music an antidote to the Pat Boone 45 my mother gave me as a birthday present. (Pat Boone singing Little Richard? For the love of God, Mom!) There was that incredible mix of Saturday night and Sunday morning in the music-–saxophones straight out of whorehouses and voices right from the choir. I can tell you for sure that I was the only kid in my neighborhood who made Ivory Joe Hunter’s “Since I Met You Baby” the first 45 he bought. Only later did I hear the influence of country music on the song, so in addition to being proof that I loved my rhythm and blues as a child, I was harboring the inner hillbilly who would emerge later.

Click here for Part One of From Ali to Xena…

Over at ESPN, Tom Friend has a nice takeout piece on Kevin Durant.

The Thunder–thanks in large part to Durant’s 39 pernts yesterday–will face the Mavericks in the Western Conference Finals.

Meanwhile, check out this piece on the demise of the L.A. Lakers from George Kimball.

GQ has an excerpt from the highly-anticipated new oral history of ESPN.

The book is: “Those Guys Have All the Fun.”

Pasta Primavera, The Bittman Variations, in the Times Magazine.

I made peas and asparagus yesterday, with a serrano pepper, tarragon, chives, chicken stock and butter. No pasta but it was yummy. Love the spring vegies.

[Photo Credit: N.Y. Times]

Sculptures by Yasuhiro Sakurai

Christopher Hitchens on “To End All Wars,” Adam Hochschild’s new book about WWI:

We read these stirring yet wrenching accounts, of soldiers setting off to battle accompanied by cheers, and shudder because we know what they do not. We know what is coming, in other words. And coming not only to them. What is really coming, stepping jackbooted over the poisoned ruins of civilized Europe, is the pornographic figure of the Nazi. Again, Hochschild is an acute register. He has read the relevant passages of “Mein Kampf,” in which a gassed and wounded Austrian corporal began to incubate the idea of a ghastly revenge. He notes the increasing anti-Semitism of decaying wartime imperial Germany, with its vile rumors of Jewish cowardice and machination. And he approaches a truly arresting realization: Nazism can perhaps be avoided, but only on condition that German militarism is not too heavily defeated on the battlefield.

This highly unsettling reflection is important above all for American readers. If General Pershing’s fresh and plucky troops had not reached the scene in the closing stages of the bloodbath, universal exhaustion would almost certainly have compelled an earlier armistice, on less savage terms. Without President Wilson’s intervention, the incensed and traumatized French would never have been able to impose terms of humiliation on Germany; the very terms that Hitler was to reverse, by such relentless means, a matter of two decades later. In this light, the great American socialist Eugene V. Debs, who publicly opposed the war and was kept in prison by a vindictive Wilson until long after its ending, looks like a prescient hero. Indeed, so do many of the antiwar militants to whose often-buried record Hochschild has done honor. (Unsentimental to the last, though, he shows that many of them went on to lose or waste their lives on Bolshevism, the other great mutant system to emerge from the abattoir.) This is a book to make one feel deeply and painfully, and also to think hard.

Click here for an excerpt...

I am a great admirer of Hochschild’s book “King Leopold’s Ghost” as well as his wonderful memoir, “Half the Way Home.”

His new one looks riveting.

First, dig this tune sung by Richie Allen.

Next, how about this groove from Banter-favorite, Cal Tjader:

It’s raining and windy in town today. Got soaked on my way to work, still half-asleep and had to laugh…

Top of the morning to you.

[Picture by Larry Roibal]

Believe it or not, everything started out well for the Yanks on Sunday night, better even than the most optimistic amongst us could’ve expected. Even though I usually look forward to the Yankees and Red Sox playing on ESPN on Sunday nights, I have to admit that I wouldn’t have been disappointed with a rainout. Everything was stacked against the Bombers: the four-game losing streak, the robotic Jon Lester on the mound, and the Jorge Posada Drama* looming over everything. The division standings were tighter than a six o’clock uptown train, and there was a sense that the Yankees had failed to take advantage of slow starts by their main competition, the Rays and the Sox. (Of course, fans of those teams might be saying the same thing, but I don’t really care about fans of those teams.)

But then something strange happened. In the opening innings Lester looked less like the T-1000 and more like the solution to the Yankees’ problems. Derek Jeter opened the first by reaching on a hit by pitch and advanced to second on a Curtis Granderson groundout. Then the Yanks did what they don’t usually do when Mark Teixeira simply grounded a ball through the infield and scored Jeter for 1-0 lead.

The Sox tied it at one in the second when Jed Lowrie’s sacrifice fly cashed in the first of two huge Yankee mistakes on the night. Kevin Youkilis had led off the inning by striking out, but he reached base when Russell Martin allowed the tailing breaking ball to bounce all the way to the backstop. Youkilis would get to third on a David Ortíz single and a walk to J.D. Drew, but it was the passed ball that started the whole thing.

No problem, though. Andruw Jones (in for Posada) snatched the lead right back with a no doubter into the bleachers in left, and four batters later Granderson, the only consistent hitter in the entire lineup this season, launched a laser into the right field bleachers with Martin on base to push the lead to 4-1.

After just two innings, it looked like this game was going exactly as the Yankees would’ve drawn it up. They had gotten the timely hit from Teixeira, the home runs from Jones and the Grandy Man, and Lester had already thrown well over forty pitches. What we didn’t know at the time, though, was that the Yanks would only manage two more hits the rest of the way, Lester would return to his usual dominant self, the Yankee defense would make a critical error, and the bullpen would falter. Aside from that, everything would be fine.

When the Red Sox came to bat in the top of the third, they did so against Freddy García, who had looked shaky in the second but still seemed confident enough to hold on to that three-run lead, at least for a while. He held it for four batters. Jacoby Ellsbury doubled to right, Adrian González followed a Dustin Pedroia strikeout with a walk, and everyone’s favorite meathead, Kevin Youkilis, came up. Youkilis fell into an 0-2 hole but quickly worked the count full before lifting what appeared to be an easy fly ball out to left. The pitch had run into him a bit, sliding down towards the handle of the bat at contact, so I fully expected Brett Gardner to settle under it easily, but instead he kept drifting back and drifting back until he ran out of room and watched the ball settle into the stands for a three-run home run that erased the lead and added a layer of trepidation to the proceedings. Given a new life, Lester worked efficiently the rest of the way, allowing just a hit and a pair of walks but never really letting the Yankees back in the game.

(There was one moment in the bottom of the fourth that didn’t have much to do with the outcome of the game but certainly has significance in the larger view of the season. Gardner was on first base with two outs, having reached on a fielder’s choice. With Jeter up, it seemed like a perfect time to steal, and when Jeter pushed the count to 2-1, everyone in the house knew Gardner would be going. He went, but he misread Lester’s move, the pickoff throw came to first, and Gardner was eventually caught in a rundown. I’m pretty sure a play like this is officially labeled a caught stealing, but the ESPN box score is a bit mysterious here. Here’s what is says:

CS: B Gardner (6, 3rd base by J Lester/J Saltalamacchia)
Picked Off: B Gardner (2nd base by J Lester)

The second part of that seems accurate, but the first part never happened. Either way, it underlines a disturbing trend with Gardner. Here are his stolen base numbers (SB/CS) from 2008 through 2010: 13/1, 26/5, and 47/9 for a total of 86/15. That’s a Tim Raines-like success rate, and we probably shouldn’t have expected that to continue, but this year Gardner has five stolen bases and his been caught six times. I suppose you could argue that his offensive struggles over the first month prevented him from getting in any sort of rhythm on the base paths, but that number is still a complete mystery to me. I’d love to hear a plausible explanation.)

So back to our game. With one out in the fifth Ortíz looped a short home run around the foul pole in right, giving the Sox a 5-4 lead and pushing manager Joe Girardi towards and interesting strategy decision. Still facing a one-run deficit in the top of the seventh, Girardi went against the book and brought in David Robertson. Typically managers use their “winning set” of pitchers only when they’ve got a lead, but Girardi trotted out Robertson, Joba Chamberlain, and even Mariano Rivera in succession, all to pitch with a deficit. Anyone would agree that you should try to use your best pitchers in high leverage situations, but there is a school of thought that holds that a one- or two-run deficit is just as high leverage as a one- or two-run lead. The point is to hold down the opposition in a game that is winnable. I tend to agree with this theory, even if it didn’t work this time.

Robertson pitched well enough in the seventh, but he was undone by a stunning error by Alex Rodríguez. Robertson started out by whiffing Ellsbury, but then walked Pedroia who eventually stole second, necessitating an intentional walk to González. Youkilis followed by dribbling a ball directly down the third base line, and it appeared Robertson might’ve wriggled free of yet another jam. A-Rod waited patiently for the grounder just a step away from third base, but he wasn’t patient enough. Hoping to field the ball, step on the bag, and fire across the diamond for the inning-ending double play, he started towards the base a bit early and the ball trickled between his legs, allowing Pedroia to race all the way home. It was a play a Little Leaguer could’ve made, and it turned into a play you’d only expect to see on a Little League diamond. Robertson recovered to strike out Ortíz and Lowrie, but the damage was done.

Girardi stuck with his plan, though, and brought Joba in for the eighth down by two. Joba was dominant, getting two ground outs, a strike out, and a short fly ball to right. The problem, though, was that Jarrod Saltalamacchia’s short fly ball travelled 332 feet. Had it travelled only 331, it likely would’ve settled into Nick Swisher’s mitt for an out; as it was it bounced atop the wall and bounded into the stands for a home run. (For his part, Rivera would retired the Sox without incident in the ninth. I’d love to know the last time he entered a game trailing by two.)

Jonathan Papelbon avoided his usual Yankee Stadium drama by retiring Granderson, Teixeira, and Rodríguez in order in the ninth, and it was over. There will be much hand-wringing over the sweep, the five-game losing streak, and the tightness of the divisional race, but I’ll leave that to others. Instead I’ll just give you the final score: Red Sox 7, Yankees 5. It will get better, I promise.

* I won’t recap that here, because Will did such an excellent job Sunday morning. If you haven’t read it yet, you should. It should be noted, though, that the fans are behind Jorge. He received a prolonged standing ovation when he came to the plate as a pinch hitter in the eighth.

Yanks look to keep things simple by winning a ball game.

The team is vexed, the fans are frustrated but we’ll be rootin’:

Let’s Go Ding-bats!

[Picture by Adam Fuss]