Monthly Archives: September 2011

First Place Yan-Kees

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First Place Yan-Kees

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FIRST PLACE YAN-KEES

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Ivan Nova, stud. Seven strong against a team that can hit. One friggin’ hit after the first inning. ROY? Let’s discuss.

Brett Gardner, come on back to the sunny side of par, baby. We’ve missed you. Two-run bomb to tie it. And the usual sick defense that never takes a day off.

Robinson Cano, DH, game-winning RBI, not bad for your day off. Dude is making the turn around second base on a heckuva career. HOF? Let’s discuss.

Mariano Rivera, the GOAT makes mince meat of MVPs.

Jose Bautista, siddown, sucka.

If that AB didn’t pump blood through your system, you’re following the wrong sport.

It’s September. The Yankees just took two of three up in Fenway. They’re in first place thanks to a brisk 3-2 victory over Toronto. And they control their own destiny from here on in. The weather in New York City was piped in straight from Heaven (or San Diego, depending on your definition of Heaven). The season can go anywhere from here, but man, summer’s ending in a perfect convergence of elements. Step back, drink deep, and smile. The Yankees are back on top. Even if it’s just for one night, it’s my kind of night.

Yanks back home to face the Jays.

Cliff’s got the preview.

Brett Gardner LF
Derek Jeter SS
Curtis Granderson CF
Robinson Cano DH
Nick Swisher 1B
Eric Chavez 3B
Andruw Jones RF
Russell Martin C
Eduardo Nunez 2B

We root:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

The Yankees finally did the right thing: they called up their best hitting prospect, a future star named Jesus Montero.

Of course, it took the expansion of the roster from 25 to 40 men to create a space, but at least Montero is here now, with a chance to contribute over the final month of the season. Already one anonymous Yankee executive has predicted that by the time the postseason rolls around, Montero will be their best DH option. I tend to agree. Jorge Posada has very little left to offer, while Andruw Jones and Eric Chavez are best used sparingly, as bench players and not as regular DH’s.

Montero’s final numbers at Scranton/Wilkes Barre were not eye-popping (a .348 on-base percentage and a .467 slugging percentage), but they were much better over the second half of the season, so they reflect a hot hitter on an upward trend. It’s also easy to forget that Montero is still only 21. Not too many 21 year olds put up the kind of numbers that he has over the last two years at Scranton. He deserves a chance to contribute to the Yankees in the race for the top spot in the AL East.

The next question is this: how much will Montero play during the stretch run? Given the way that he has walloped left-handed pitching at Triple-A (to the tune of a 1.039 OPS), I’d expect that Joe Girardi will find a way to play him every time there is a southpaw on the mound, and at least some of the time against right-handers. If Montero hits well from the get-go, he could be the everyday DH long before the postseason becomes a reality. And I have a feeling that Montero will hit, not only because of his talent but because he feels like he has something to prove after laying in wait all summer at Scranton.

The promotion of Montero is a good move by the Yankees. In the end, the flexibility of the 40-man roster finally won out over sentimentality. And that is a good thing when you‘re trying to win a division…

***

Bernie Williams may have a tough time gaining induction to the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, but on Thursday, he won election to the Latino Baseball Hall of Fame, as part of its third ever induction class. A native of Puerto Rico, Williams was elected from the post-1959 ballot, a group that also includes Yankee bench coach Tony Pena and former Yankee third baseman Aurelio Rodriguez.

Hall of Fames such as these generally have lower induction standards than Cooperstown, but Williams is still joining good company in the Latino Hall, which is based in the Dominican Republic. Other Latino members include Roberto Alomar, Luis Aparicio, Rod Carew, Orlando Cepeda, Roberto Clemente, and Juan Marichal–all of whom are duly enshrined in Cooperstown. While Williams was not as good as most of those players (with the exception of Aparicio), I’d put him on a tier just below them. His hitting, his power, his patience, and his early-career play in center field made him an excellent player, an outstanding all-round performer, and a major contributor to numerous championship teams, and none of that should be treated as an afterthought.

Additionally, one other ex-Yankee was elected to the Latino Hall this week, and that was through the Veterans Committee. Yankee fans of a certain age (particularly over 50) will remember Luis Arroyo, the Puerto Rican left-hander who was one of the first standout Yankee relief aces, beginning a long trend that would continue with Lindy McDaniel in the late sixties, Sparky Lyle and Goose Gossage in the 1970s, Dave Righetti in the eighties, and the current Baron of the Bullpen, Mariano Rivera.

Like a lot of relievers, particularly southpaws, Arroyo was a late bloomer. He did not make his major league debut until he was 28. At five-feet, eight inches tall and 180 pounds, Arroyo could charitably be described as “stocky,” though some scouts might have preferred calling him chunky, or even pudgy. Clearly, he did not have the body of an Adonis. Nor did he throw particularly hard, which coupled with a streak of wildness, explained his early career struggles with the Cardinals, Pirates and Reds before he landed in the Bronx. The Yankees acquired him from Cincinnati in the midst of the 1960 season, in a straight-up cash deal.

Arroyo turned his career around that mid-summer, as he refined the screwball, which would become a devastating out-pitch for him in the late innings. He pitched well during the second half of 1960, before blossoming in ‘61, a season that saw him lead the league in games (65) and saves (29), while winning 15 games (all in relief) and posting a 2.19 ERA in 119 innings pitched. All in all, he had a hand in 44 of the Yankees’ 109 wins. The American League’s top reliever that summer, Arroyo did this all at the tender age of 34.

As with many great relievers, especially those who depend on the demands of the screwball, Arroyo’s brilliance did not last. He injured his arm during spring training in 1962, struggled after returning to action, and was never the same. Arroyo retired after making only six appearances in 1963.

Younger Yankee fans might not have heard of him, but Luis Arroyo, now 84 years of age, can enjoy a prestigious honor, one that he shares with Bernie Williams.

Bruce Markusen writes “Cooperstown Confidential” for The Hardball Times.

Oh, Julie.

David Lebovitz does pizza.

Found on-line: Joan Didion’s famous 1966 piece for the Saturday Evening Post, “Some Dreamers of the Golden Dream.”

This is a story about love and death in the golden land, and begins with the country. The San Bernardino Valley lies only an houreast of Los Angeles by way of the San Bernardino Freeway but is in certain ways an alien place: not the coastal the California of subtropical twilights and the soft westerlies off the Pacific but a harsher California, haunted by the Mohave just beyond the mountains, devastated by the hot dry Santa Ana wind that comes down through the passes at 100 miles an hour and whines through the Eucalypts windbreaks and works on the nerves. October is the bad month for the wind, the month when breathing is difficult and the hills blaze up spontaneously. There has been no rain since April. Every voice seems a scream. It is the season of suicide and divorce and prickly dread, wherever the wind blows.

The Mormons settled this ominous country, and then they abandoned it but by the time they left the first orange tree had been planted and for the next hundred years the San Bernardino Valley would draw a kind of people who imagined they might live among the talismanic fruit and prosper in die dry air, people who brought with them Mid-western ways of building and cooking and praying and who tried to graft those ways upon the land. The graft took incurious ways. This is the California where it is possible to live and die without ever eating an artichoke, without ever meeting a Catholic or a Jew. This is the California where it is easy to Dial-A-Devotion, but hard to buy a book. This is the country in which a belief in the literal interpretation of Genesis has slipped imperceptibly into a belief in the literal interpretation of Double Indemnity, the country of the teased hair and the Capris and the girls for whom all life’s promise comes down to a waltz-length white wedding dress and the birth of a Kimberly or a Sherry or a Debbi and a Tijuana divorce and return to hairdressers’ school. “We were just crazy kids” they say without regret, and look to the future. The future always looks good in the golden land, because no one remembers the past. Here is where the hot wind blows and the old ways do not seem relevant, where the divorce rate is double the national average and where one person in every thirty-eight lives in a trailer.

Here is the last stop for all those who come from somewhere else, for all those who drifted away from the cold and the past and the old ways. Here is where they are trying to find a new life style, trying to find it in the only places they know to look: the movies and the newspapers. The case of Lucille Marie Maxwell Miller is a tabloid monument to that new life style.

Check out this cleverness from BP:

Rest in Peace:

Kase 2.

The King of What? King of Style.

Tribute to Kase 2 by Dame

Over at the Paris Review, dig this interview with the late Budd Schulberg. Here he is talking about his debut novel, “What Makes Sammy Run?”:

INTERVIEWER: I didn’t grow up in Hollywood. I grew up in Indianapolis. But when you wrote this book, I said, “This guy’s got to be crazy. Putting himself in such terrible danger.” Didn’t you realize it was a dangerous thing to do?

SCHULBERG: Well, yes I did. Of course, with the warnings that my father gave me, I realized it was dangerous, but I couldn’t help it. I wrote it, and I wanted to write it. I was doing what Sidney had told me to do—to write what you feel, what you want, what you know. I had to do it. I should also add that before I saw Goldwyn, just after I got back, I went into Chasen’s Restaurant, which was the place, the in place, where all the big shots hung out. I knew so many of them, so many familiar faces, and they literally turned away from me. They turned away so they wouldn’t have to look at me and say hello.

I heard that at a meeting of the producers’ association presided over by Louis B. Mayer and the head of MGM, Mayer had looked down the long table at my father and said, “B.P., I blame you for this. Why didn’t you stop him? You should have stopped him!” My father said, “Well, as a matter of fact, Louie, I did write to him—” Mayer said, “Well, you know what I think we should do with him? I think we should deport him.” He really meant it. In Mayer’s mind he was the king of a country. Hollywood was like Liechtenstein or Luxembourg. The district attorney was on the studio payroll; you could and did commit murder, and it wouldn’t be in the paper. That was the kind of power that he wielded. My father—who was much more intelligent than Louie, but not nearly as street smart or studio smart, whatever—said, “Louie, he’s one of ours, for God’s sake. He may be the only novelist who came from Hollywood instead of to Hollywood!” Then he said, “Well, where do you think his St. Helena should be? Maybe Catalina Island?” My father reported that rather proudly because he was sort of proud of the joke. He was proud of the jokes that often got him in a lot of trouble.

That’s the kind of thing that he got on their shit list for. Because Mayer wasn’t kidding. Anyway, it was at that point I quit. I didn’t want to stay there any longer and, of course, if I had wanted to, I couldn’t, and that was it.

Schulberg led a fascinating life. Hollywood, boxing, novels. This is a solid interview, I only wish it were longer. This bit is good, though:

Scott Fitzgerald often wished that after Gatsby he had never done anything but just stuck to his last. Sometimes at night I feel that way. I have a little bit of that feeling, that I probably would be more respected as a novelist if I had just stayed on that track. Instead, I have this sort of fatal problem of versatility. Because I was raised in such a writing atmosphere, it got so I could write anything. I could write a movie; I could write a novel; I could write a play, I could even write lyrics, which I did for A Face in the Crowd. Always there were these different strings, so many different ones. I was sort of cursed with versatility. My problem is that I’m just not going to live long enough to do all the different things I want to do.

Montero + Rivera = The Ruler

It’s hard to imagine a vital September clash between the Yanks and Sox being overshadowed by a rookie’s debut, but Jesus Montero’s arrival has done just that. You all know the 21-year-old. Here are some other 21-year-olds (and a couple of 22-year-old geezers) you know from Yankee history. Bobby Murcer. Roy White. Thurman Munson. Don Mattingly. Bernie Williams. Derek Jeter. Robinson Cano. They came through the Yankee system and made their debuts around this age or younger (Murcer was 19).  And not one of them hit as well, as young in the high minors as Jesus Montero. You have to go back to Mickey Mantle to find better teenage minor league stats for the Yankees. (Nick Johnson would have been on this list, but he blew out his wrist at 21 prior to his first AAA season.)

When the trade deadline passed and Jesus was still a Yankee, I was relieved. It meant that the Yankees lost their last chance to trade him before they had to bring him up. There was no way to avoid a September call-up given the Scranton season is all but over and the Yanks are in a divisional title race. The questions raised by not calling him up would have further reduced his trade value which has taken consistent hits from poor defensive scouting reports and an cranky attitude which has surfaced more than once.

In the best case scenario, he hits a ton in September, and plays a few harmless innings behind the plate without costing the Yankees their right to operate a Major League franchise, the Yanks will be in position to do whatever they want with him in the off-season (hopefully that will be grooming him to be their future star attraction). In the worst case scenario, he doesn’t hit and he doesn’t look like a catcher when he gets back there, in which case the Yanks will pretty much be in the exact same position they are right now: sitting on a great hitting prospect who other teams profess to perceive as a non-catcher. He can’t hurt his trade value by playing poorly down the stretch – but he can enhance it by catching without killing an umpire.

Evidence indicates that the Yankees have not come to this call-up entirely voluntarily. They definitely tried to trade Montero for Cliff Lee and it’s possible he was dangled for Roy Halladay, though those rumors flowed both ways. It seems that Cashman’s first choice was to trade Montero at his highest value before displaying his catching skills on the Major League level, and taking the risk that he’d prove he couldn’t hack it. It’s not a knock on a prospect to be traded for the very best pitchers in baseball, and either trade would have been a smart move by Cashman.

But when those top-tier pitchers did not become Yankees, Jesus Montero stayed put. And that’s got to mean the Yanks will try him as a catcher. If the Yankees truly thought Montero couldn’t catch, surely they would have traded him for Dan Haren or Ubaldo Jimenez? Better to get a legit number two starter, and CC opt-out insurance, than to wet-nurse a 21-year-old DH? Russell Martin’s competence gives them the perfect scenario to break Jesus in over the rest of 2011 and 2012 as a secondary catcher and primary DH.

So enjoy this month of Jesus Montero Yankee fans. It’s a wonderful reminder that their are plenty of rewards for rooting for a Major League Ballclub apart from the attention-hogging quests for World Championships.

Oh yeah, the game…

Jon Lester is one reason the Red Sox will likely to be favored to beat the Yankees in the Postseason. He’s Boston’s second excellent pitcher, and though the Yankees have handled him for the most part in 2011, he’s 8-2 lifetime against New York with an ERA close his career average. The Red Sox can throw up a Cy Young candidate where the Yanks are stuck with retreads, unreliable youngsters and a mega-bust. They’ll need someone to step up and keep stride with Lester.

Tonight, it was the mega-bust. The Yanks looked to A.J. Burnett for the rubber game of the series, and then figured to quickly look past him to his younger, more effective teammate in the bullpen. But Burnett was actually quite good. He made relatively short work of the exacting Boston lineup. A.J. Burnett, for all his faults, has an out pitch. And when he’s ahead on hitters, and when his curve ball is sharp – two caveats not to be taken for granted by any means – he can put hitters away with the bender.

He wasn’t ahead of Dustin Pedroia in the fourth however. Holding a fragile 1-0 lead, he was down 3-0 to Dusty with Adrian Gonzalez standing on second after a ground rule double. He threw a get-me-over fastball for strike one. Pedroia measured it and must have been happy to see the same thing coming on the next pitch. He jumped it like a bandit in a blind alley. The ball soared to center and fell just over the wall. Given what we have seen of the Red Sox this year, it was hardly an unforgivable sin, but nevertheless, it put Boston in their natural position, ahead of the Yankees.

Robinson Cano continued his career-long assault on Fenway Park with two ringing doubles. His second shot was a 415-foot screamer over Ellsbury’s head. He stood as the tying run on second base with Nick Swisher at the plate. There was one out. Nick Swisher bunted routinely to Lester for the second out. There can be no mistake, this was not a drag bunt or a good-idea, bad-execution surprise kind of play. He had already shown bunt on the first pitch of the at bat. This was a straight sacrifice.

It would have been an idiotic bunt if there had been no outs. What’s the point of playing for the tie in the fifth in Fenway Park against on of the elite lineups in the game? How did he know Boston was done scoring? Has he not been paying attention for the last 14 games? But there was already an out in the inning, which means that Swisher did not know how many outs there were (a horrible mistake) and thought the no out bunt was the smart move (a just slightly less horrible mistake). Trying to catch this Boston team is hard enough, with plays like that, they might as well run up the white flag and save us all the trouble.

The rest of the Yankees gave better efforts. They pushed Lester beyond the limit in only five innings. Jesus Montero batted with two outs and runners on three times and stranded all six, but at least he didn’t bunt. Robinson Cano was sublime. He had a chance with bases loaded and two outs in the sixth and came through with a bullet – but it was right at the third baseman.

Burnett pitched well into the sixth and battled with David Ortiz with one out and Pedroia on second. A.J. threw one of his best pitches of the night with a full count to Papi, but the ump couldn’t see it as a strike. Perhaps A.J. Burnett doesn’t deserve the call when a gorgeous curve ball hovers over the edge of the outside edge and drops right to the top of the knee, but he certainly needed it. Burnett left the game after five and third with 96 pitches. Be prepared to puke: Along with five decent innings by Freddy Garcia earlier in August and six credible innings by Bartolo Colon in May (both Yankee losses), it was arguably the best performance a Yankee starting pitcher has had against Boston this season.

Boone Logan was good on Tuesday, bad on Wednesday and good again on Thursday. In true Loogy fashion, he whiffed Carl Crawford and left for Cory Wade. Jed Lowrie served a soft sinking liner into center. Curtis Granderson came charging low and hard and dove head first with glove extended. It was at least two runs if it dropped and more if bounced past him. He snagged it and sprawled to the ground. It looked like his right wrist or shoulder might be smarting as he rolled over, but he was OK.

No matter who the Red Sox put on the hill, the Yankees continued to mount pressure. Jesus Montero reached base for the first time in his career when Al Aceves grazed his jersey with a brush-back pitch.

(Forgive a slight digression on the many, many times the Red Sox have beaned the Yankees. Most will say that it was not an intentional HBP, and by all logic of the scoreboard, it would seem it wasn’t. But it sure looked like Aceves was trying to move Montero off the plate to set him up for a slider kill pitch. If the pitcher cannot control his pitches precisely when they throw towards the hitter, a resulting HBP is on the pitcher same as if he wanted to hit him. Roger Clemens did not intend to hit Mike Piazza in the head, but he certainly wanted to bother Piazza up and in. He had complete disregard for Piazza’s safety and knocked him cold. This is what the Red Sox do as an organizational philosophy. They throw inside all the time and don’t worry if they hit anybody in any given situation. It’s why they lead the league in hit batsmen every year and why nearly every single time they drill somebody some witless announcer will prattle on about how it was clearly unintentional given the scoreboard, the time of day, and the unwritten blah blahs. It’s a crock. They’ve beaten the system with their bullshit and the Yankees have every right to treat every single beaning as an act of aggression.)

Terry Francona summoned Daniel Bard to get the last two outs of the seventh, which he did, but not exactly in the order Francona envisioned. Two nasty sliders had Martin in the hole but he battled back full. Girardi decided to put the runners – a pair of rookies – in motion on the full count and Russell made the strategy pay off with a blue dart off a high hard one into right center. The ball found the wall and Jesus Montero chugged all the way from first to score. The young man be many things in his career, but fast is not going to be one of them. Still what a thrill it must have been to work up that head of steam and drive it towards home plate with the go-ahead run. Eric Chavez pinch hit for Eduardo Nunez and singled in an insurance run.

The Yankees needed nine outs from there and had their top three relievers rested and ready. Rafael Soriano got through the seventh on the strength of two strikeouts. David Robertson walked Adrian Gonzalez to lead off the eighth, but appeared to erase the mistake when Dustin Pedroia sent a double play grounder to second.  Jeter’s turn was just a touch slow and though he was out at first, Pedroia got the hometown call on a very close play. Robertson rebounded to strike out Ortiz on filth. Should have been the end of the inning, but thanks to the missed call, Crawford had another chance. David Roberstson has a hammer though. And the hammer doesn’t care what inning it is, who’s on base, how many blown calls the umps make or how many foul balls Carl Crawford hits. The hammer just pounds. Crawford flew out to left.

That left three outs and Mariano Rivera. Most days he has it. Some days he doesn’t. Some days he has to face Marco Scutaro. And on some of those days, he even gets beat and we weep until dawn. This day he had to work for it. Three different left handed batters looked at possible third strikes close to the outer edge and the umpire sent two of them to first base. Marco Scutaro got his obligatory cheap hit. But Mariano saved his best pitches for Adrian Gonzalez and after wearing him out on cutters in, he finally got a call on the outside corner to end it and delivered one of the sweetest victories of the year 4-2. A.J. Burnett was reborn, even if it was just for a night. Jesus Montero arrived. But even with Jesus on the team, it’s Mariano who saves.

If A.J. Burnett gets lit up again tonight it will come as no surprise. If he pitches reasonably well, nothing shocking. In fact, the only thing that would turn heads lies behind Door Number Three, if he pitches well, and not only that, but deep into the game. He’s won just one game in his last ten starts so the odds are against him. But let’s go against the grain, go beyond hope, and dream a little dream.

Get at of your head, Numbnuts and go git ’em.

Derek Jeter SS
Curtis Granderson CF
Mark Teixeira 1B
Robinson Cano 2B
Nick Swisher RF
Andruw Jones LF
Jesus Montero DH
Russell Martin C
Eduardo Nunez 3B

Chuck and Duck (ahem, Scott Proctor is back) and Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: Icekingg]

For minor leaguers, September 1 is like the day after high school tryouts when you check the list on the gymnasium wall to see if you made the team. After being confined to only 25 men, the active rosters expand to 40 once the calendar turns from August, allowing for reinforcements from the minors. Dating back as far as the beginning of the last century (the concept was based upon a delicate business arrangement with what was then the independent minor leagues), this tradition of promoting serviceable journeymen and/or promising young prospects marks not only a rite of passage for the players finally getting a crack at the big leagues, but also heralds the final month of the pennant race.

This year, the Yankees announced that their lone September call-up will be Jesus Montero, a 22 year-old catcher who ranks among the best prospects in the game. Although many September promotions are regarded more as a chance to give a young player a taste of the major leagues, Montero is expected to play a significant role for the Yankees as they head down the stretch. There has even been some speculation that Montero will take over as the Yankees’ DH against left handers.

Whatever role he plays, the promotion of Montero is a bit of a departure for the Yankees, who have not had a position player make a September debut since 2008. In addition, the team has not had a raw rookie compile more than 25 plate appearances in the final month since Gerald Williams came to bat 27 times in 1992. So, if Montero does in fact see regular playing time, he will distinguish himself in that regard.

Yankees’ September Call-Ups, Since 1919

Note: Only those players making their major league debut in September are considered. Years without call-ups are omitted.
Source: Baseball-reference.com

Of the 84 position players that the Yankees have promoted for the first time in September, only 17 have had more than 25 plate appearances. With a few notable exceptions like Roy White, Bobby Murcer, and Hank Bauer, not many from the list went on to make a lasting impression. In fact, only a handful made much of a first one. Included in the latter group is the aforementioned Williams, who posted an OPS of 1.000. Meanwhile, on the other end of the spectrum, is Charlie Spikes, who managed an OPS of .348 in his September call-up. However, Spikes made up for his lackluster debut during the off season when he was traded as part of package that helped the Yankees acquire Graig Nettles from the Indians.

What makes Montero’s promotion different from most in the above list is the Yankees’ place in the standings. Aside from Hank Bauer in 1948 (1.5 games behind) and Fenton Mole in 1949 (three games ahead), all of the prior September call-ups were given their shot when the team was playing out the string (i.e., seven or more games out of a playoff spot).

Yankees’ September Call-Ups with At Least 25 PAs, since 1919
Source: Baseball-reference.com

Just because the Yankees haven’t had much of a meaningful impact from their position player call-ups is no reason to despair. After all, the team has promoted several impact players who were only given a September cup of coffee. Included on that list is Yogi Berra, Don Mattingly, and Jorge Posada, so if Montero falls in line, the Yankees should be more than happy.

Notable by their exclusion from the call-up list this year are Manny Banuelos and Dellin Betances, the two most heralded pitching prospects in the Yankees’ farm system. Once again, that’s mostly par for the course in the Bronx as only seven Yankees’ pitchers have made their major league debut in September since 1992. However, that doesn’t mean the team hasn’t had rookies make an impact on the pennant race. Mel Stottlemyre and Joba Chamberlain are two examples to the contrary, but each was promoted before the final month. When confined to September, there haven’t been many notable additions.

Yankees’ September Call-Ups with At Least 3 GS/15 IP, since 1919

Source: Baseball-reference.com

Once again, with the exception of Walter Beall in 1924 (one game behind) and Ian Kennedy in 2007 (five games behind), if a Yankees’ pitcher was given a significant look in September, it was done at a time when the team wasn’t competing for the post season. Among those with at least three games started or 15 innings pitched in their September debut, the most notable call-ups were Vic Rashi, Al Leiter, Dave Righetti, and Kennedy. It’s also worth noting that both Righetti and Stan Bahnsen won the rookie of the year award two years after their initial September call-up.

Montero’s ascension to the major leagues has been long awaited by Yankees’ fans, so expectations are bound to exceed reason. Nonetheless, the young catcher has a chance to make a rare September contribution for a Yankees’ team in pursuit of a championship. More importantly, however, the Yankees hope their wunderkind will do much more than help out this year. After all, making it the majors is often said to be the easy part for the most talented players. Remaining there is another story. A look at the Yankees’ past September call-ups illustrates that often repeated adage. That’s why what Montero does in his first month will be nowhere near as important as the impact the Yankees hope he will have over the rest of his career.

Walking down the street today I saw a big woman having an intense conversation. She didn’t look pleased.  But we made eye contact as I passed by and without thinking, I smiled. I was by her when she cut off what she was saying.

“Hi, Love,” she said to me.

“Morning,” I said.

Who says New Yorkers aren’t friendly?

[Photo Credit: Joel Zimmer]

I found these at the farmer’s market a few weeks back. At first I thought they were baby tomatillos but they are called huskberries. Beautiful, bright color. Unwrapping a bunch of them is tedious but also like opening little gifts.

They have the most peculiar taste. I can’t do justice to the flavor, they are  a cross between a cherry tomato and a gooseberry. It is a little strong for me so I’ve been using them in salads along with regular cherry tomatoes and they provide a nice accent. I spoke to a chef last week who said she’d dip them in chocolate. Why not?

Fun.

Jesus Montero will be with the Yanks tonight. According to Jack Curry, he’ll be in the starting lineup. A debutt against Jon Lester is a grown man’s welcome to the big leagues, for sure.

A Love Letter to NYC from the Life Archives.

Here’s another good one from our man, Dexter. The following originally appeared in Inside Sports (September 30, 1981).

No Trespassing

By Pete Dexter

The old lion is still a bad mother,” he said. “He just wants to roam. Leave him alone. He’s fading, but he’s still a lion.”

St. Simons Island lies four miles off the coast of southern Georgia, connected to the mainland by a two-lane road, separated by saw grass and swamp.

It’s a quiet place with miles of hard-sand beaches, a place the big developers and the resort hotels somehow missed, where people work for a living and nobody has decided yet that you and your dog can’t drink beer on the beach.

For the first nine years of his life, Jim Brown lived on the island in the care of his grandmother and great-grandmother. He still calls the great-grandmother the love of my life. “She would say, ‘I love you forever,’” he said, “and for as long as I was on St. Simons, there was always the ocean and the white sand, and there was never a question of belonging.”

Jim Brown is 45 years old now. It hasn’t been like that for him since.

The island is a town. There is a main street, a couple of small shopping centers, churches, bars. A few rich neighborhoods, a few dirt poor. The poorest is Gordon Retreat, a dead-end mud road three blocks past the firehouse. Two-room houses, falling down, porches filled with old women and flowers. A long-armed girl stops jumping rope in the road when she sees the car. She stands, as still as the sun, and watches. The rope rests in her hair.

The address is on the right, halfway to the end. An old man sits on the porch in front of a television set, eating watermelon with a pocket knife, watching soap operas. Inside an old woman is dying of cancer.

She is on a hospital bed in the front room, staring at the ceiling. Her arms are as thin as the rails that keep her from falling into the night. There is a fan in the corner, the room is still hot. But it is her room, it is her home, her island. She has almost lived her life here now, and she would not move and have it finished somewhere else.

The old woman struggles up to shake hands, then drops back into her pillow. “Simple things,” she says. She catches her breath. A line of sweat shines on the bones of her chest, then tears and runs off into her nightclothes. From where she lies, she can look up and see the wall behind her. There is a picture there, freshly dusted, of a football player.

The football player is Jim Brown, the woman is his last connection with the white sands and a time when there was no question he belonged. The woman is his grandmother.

The house sits in the mountains over Hollywood, a couple of hundred feet off Sunset Plaza Drive. It’s a clear day and from the living room you can look out over the swimming pool and see Los Angeles County all the way to the ocean. At night, the lights could be your carpet.

“The house is worth a million-two, a million-four; and there’s the view and the pool and all that, but that’s not why he lives there. It’s the privacy.”

The man who said that is George Hughley, who is in the room off the kitchen with Brown now, playing backgammon. They play a loud game—a lot of standing up and shouting. The birds have left the tree outside the window until it’s over. Hughley was a fullback, too, a couple of years in Canada and one season with the Redskins. He is one of a handful of people Brown allows in close. “With George,” he says, “you don’t have to be more than you are.” There is Hughley and Bill Russell and maybe the girl who lives with him.

Her name is Kim, he met her at a roller-skating rink. She is 19 or 20, so pretty you could just stick a fork in your leg. She comes out of the bedroom to answer the phone with a pencil in her mouth, wearing Brown’s slippers and carrying an open book. The phone rings every five minutes. It is always for Brown.

“You’ve been around long enough to see that people come by all the time,” George said later. “They come and go—only a few matter to him—but it gives him the chance to choose who he’s around. As long as he lives, he’s going to be Jim Brown, the football player. He went to a place in human activity where he was all alone, where no one else was, and he’s one of the few human beings to achieve that singular status who didn’t insulate himself with flunkies. Up here, he’s got some control over who he sees.”

And they come by all the time, these people who don’t matter.

Just now, though, it’s only George and Jim and the backgammon board. They are playing for $50. A mason jar filled with vodka and apple juice is next to Brown on the table. George drinks from a glass, and he is winning. You can tell because he is making most of the noise. When the game turns, Brown does the talking.

George rolls the dice. “I’m the lawn mower now,” he says, “and your ass is the grass.”

“Where is it?” Brown says. “Where is your move?”

“Where you think it is, turkey butt?” George moves. “I don’t hear you now, do I?”

“I’m watchin’ your chubby-ass hand, Rufus.”

“I don’t care what you watch. Gammon….”

Brown takes the gammon, doubling the stakes. He rolls. George rolls. They accuse each other of rolling too fast, then too slow.

Brown looks across the table. George says, “C’mon, man, move.”

Brown says, “Go slow, Negro.”

They play for two hours and then, toward the end, in the middle of all the shouting and insults, something changes. George rolls before Brown has finished his moves—they have both done it 20 times—but this time Brown makes him take it over. George argues but finally gives in. The new roll beats him.

“Who was wrong?” Brown says.

George argues, points. Brown sits still, asking, “Who was wrong?” over and over.

And George gives in again. “I was wrong.”

Brown nods, it relaxes. It seems like a strange thing to want from a friend.

They play out the game and then George writes a check. The house is suddenly quiet, the birds come back to the tree outside the window.

Brown makes a new drink and sits down at the table. No matter how much he drinks, it never shows. “You got scared, George,” he says. “When you’re scared you don’t get nothin’. From the dice or nothin’ else.”

“Scared of what? Fifty dollars?”

“You went blind in your anxiety.” Brown is preoccupied with why people lose; it means as much as the winning or losing itself. A couple of days later, playing golf with Bill Russell, he will watch a man in the foursome ahead top a wood off the tee. The ball skips into some trees and the man screams and throws the club after it. Brown smiles. “I always wonder about those cats,” he says.

“Is that the first time that’s happened? I mean, is he surprised? The man’s a 22 handicap, how did he get to be a 22?”

Now he says to George, “Anything you do, if you lose, don’t let it be because you give it up.”

Later, George says, “People who don’t know us, they think somebody is about to die on the kitchen table. Of course, that what it sounds like, but it’s also Jim’s reputation. Smoldering violence. People want to believe that he won’t argue with them. He isn’t going to sit around explaining himself.

(more…)

The Godfather.

Finesse Flip: