Monthly Archives: September 2011

“Yellow Porch,” By Richard Diebenkorn (1961)

De La

+ Fela

= Fela Soul. Don’t sleep.

The Yankees started this West Coast trip in Los Angeles, against a great pitcher, after a rough travel schedule. They gagged a winnable game, 2-1, walk-off style. They won three of the next four. They seemed to have their feet under them, set to sweep Seattle, against a mediocre pitcher, looking ahead to their last day off of the season. And they gagged another winnable game, 2-1, walk-off style.

As easy as it was to anticipate the loss to Jered Weaver and the Angels on Friday night, the Yankees had to think this one was in the bag. But the Yankees did nothing for twelve innings and the Mariners, probably just out of sheer boredom, figured they’d better end the thing. Luis Rodriguez hit a game-ending home run off Cory Wade. He’s 31 years old, was out of baseball last year, and is hitting .176. Pretty much the same hitter as Jeff Mathis. It was his third extra base hit of the game.

It was Ivan Nova’s turn to shoot the fish in the barrel tonight. Against this team we have to recalibrate our expectations. A no-hitter would be a good game, a shut-out would be a quality start, etc. So Ivan Nova pitching over seven innings and allowing one run is an “OK job.”

The Yankees threatened to open the scoring in the third. Eduardo Nunez tucked a double inside the left field line, springing Andruw Jones from first with one out. Third base coach Rob Thomson waved Jones around third base. Given that Jones looked like he was reaching out for a little paper cup of water from Thomson at the time, it seemed like a bad move. Left fielder Mike Carp hit the second cut-off man Dustin Ackley, who relayed to Miguel Olivo, who ran out for a quick coffee from Zeitgeist around the corner, and then applied the tag with ease when he returned.

The Mariners broke the ice in the bottom half of the fourth, but to be fair, it was by accident. Ivan Nova lost the strike zone, walked two and threw a wild pitch. With two outs and men on the corners, a ball slipped high over Martin’s head. He got his glove to it, but couldn’t make the catch. Mike Carp was ready to run and scored the first run.

Flash forward to the seventh, yes, the seventh, and Nick Swisher notched the Yanks third hit with a solo homer to left. Eric Wedge removed Jason Vargas at that point. He held the Yankees to three hits and four base runners, and several trillion foul balls over six and two thirds. Even though the Yankees were pathetic, and they abandoned their patient approach after three innings, those first three frames served to jack up the pitch count so much that Vargas couldn’t even finish the seventh.

Ivan Nova came out for the eighth, and grooved a fastball to Luis Rodriguez. Having the night of his life, he doubled into deep right center. The Mariners bunted him to third. Eduardo Nunez vacated the position again, so Nova couldn’t nab the lead runner, even though the bunt was too hard.

The Yankees walked Ichiro intentionally in front of Kyle Seager and Dustin Ackley. Or as new pitcher David Robertson knows them, a couple of nails. The Hammer fell, pop out, strikeout, and preserved the tie.

Curtis Granderson led off the ninth and hit a long Yankee Stadium homer off of Brandon League. In Safeco, Ichiro caught it in front of the wall. Robinson Cano slapped a two-out double to left, and the Mariners walked Swisher to face Jesus Montero. League set him up with heat, and put him away with breaking stuff in the dirt. Montero struck out three times, popped out and squibbed one about ten feet in front of home plate.

Rafeal Soriano pitched the ninth. He blew away Mike Carp, but Adam Kennedy fisted one into shallow left. Eduardo Nunez could have caught it but didn’t. Friggin defense. Then Olivo lofted the ball down the left field line. Off the bat it looked like an out at medium depth. But when Gardner came in the picture, he was acres away from where the ball was going to land. He covered the distance in an instant and made a sweet sliding catch. Friggin A, defense! Soriano downed Wily Mo Pena to end the inning.

In the bottom of the tenth, Boone Logan came in for his first action since Baltimore. Logan got four outs and allowed two hits, but at least he got some lefties out. He stranded two runners in the tenth and then gave way to Cory Wade to strand one more in the eleventh.

In the top of the 11th, Mark Teixeira hit another deep out. It was well struck, but this place is just a black hole. The Yanks got four hits in twelve innings. They took two walks and got plunked twice. What a mess.

Justin Smoak and Jesus Montero were on the same field this series. It’s not Smoak’s fault, but as long as he is a Mariner, I’ll root against him. Smoak hurt his groin, Montero avoided injury, unless his feelings were hurt by having a really bad night. So advantage Montero, I guess. Montero sure doesn’t like to get a strike called on him. He spends a lot of time walking around the batter’s box, rolling his eyes and sighing.

Smoak’s dismal stats thus far in 2011 are .230/.324/.394, but somehow that OPS+ is above average, 103. How down is offense in general and how fallow a hitting environment is Safeco for that P.O.S. line to be above average? In Dodger Stadium in 1965, a dude named Lou Johnson hit .259/.315/.391 for an OPS+ of 104. So Safeco is basically a time machine.

This is getting depressing, let’s try some jokes.

Hey, how about this Mariner lineup? The Ghost of Ichiro, top prospect Dustin Ackley, and then seven guys they promoted from the food court earlier that day. No offense, but that’s no offense. How far gone is Ichiro? He grounded into a double play. Yeesh. Their best hope of moving out of the cellar next year is Bud Selig forcing the Houston Astros to relocate there.

And thank goodness Bud Selig’s fourteen year nightmare of having six teams in the NL Central might be over. Can you remember back in 1998 when that bastard owner of the Brewers, Bud Selig, forced the saintly commissioner, Bud Selig, to shoehorn the Milwaukee Brewers in there? He’s totally justified in strong-arming the potential new ownership in Houston to accept the move as a pre-condition of the sale.

Nah, not helping.

By the time this game reached extra innings, victory became secondary to just getting the hell out of that offensive graveyard. Heaven forbid the Yankees get permanently tainted by whatever’s going there to make that such a miserable team.

The Yankees have had every opportunity in these last eight games to take the division by the throat, make the next Boston series meaningless, and to rest their players in the final two weeks with nothing at stake. Instead they have lost four one-run heartbreakers, including three in extra innings and two as walk-offs.

If it feels like they never win in extra innings, you’re right. They are 4-10. But the Red Sox lost and they still have a four game lead, and something just as nice, a day off.

The Yanks say goodbye to the west coast tonight.

Here’s how they’ll roll.

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

Never mind the time difference:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

The Tigers are playing some great ball these days and are more than Justin Verlander. Over at SI.com, our man Cliff breaks it down:

The Detroit Tigers won their 11th straight game Tuesday night behind yet another gem from likely American League Cy Young award winner Justin Verlander, who pushed his record to 23-5 with seven scoreless innings against the White Sox. What that winning streak proves, however, is that the Tigers are more than a one-man show. In fact, their success has had more to do with scoring runs than preventing them, a fact that has been overshadowed by Verlander’s award-worthy season.

The Tigers’ hot streak also stretches back much further than the last 11 games. Detroit has gone 29-11 (.725) over its last 40 games dating back to the beginning of August, the best record of any team in baseball over that time. Research has shown that coming into the playoffs hot is no guarantee of post-season success, but the Tiger’s aren’t just hot, they’re very good. Detroit possesses a potent offense, an emerging No. 2 starter to complement Verlander and a a bullpen that is anchored by closer Jose Valverde, who has yet to blow this season.

Who knows? Maybe the Tigers go to the Whirled Serious. One thing is for sure, though, Valverde will blow at least one game along the way.

David Lebovitz makes chocolate ice cream.

Oh, hell yes.

On a certain night in October of ’03, Roger Clemens said, “Pick your two favorite super heroes, I’ll put Mo up against both of them.”

Here’s to saving the day, 600 times.

Some mornings, waking up is a chore. Maybe you stayed up to watch a late game or your kid had trouble sleeping. Perhaps one kid had trouble sleeping, and then you went into help him, and the other kid noticed, and all three of you ended up crammed into a skinny little toddler bed. Could be that all these things happened on the same night.

When morning comes, every minute is precious. Start by eliminating the shave. The coffee. The tie. The breakfast. Shudder, the shower?

What do you eliminate when you need to save a couple of New York Minutes in the morning?

A Message From Mr. Bochco

By John Schulian

In the midst of the terror that paralyzed me in my first Hollywood story meeting, I heard a voice from my newspaper days tell me to do what I’d always done when other people were talking: take notes. So I madly started scribbling down everything Steven Bochco and Terry Louise Fisher were saying. And I kept scribbling until the day was done (thank God) and the story was broken (no thanks to me).

The story would become a script called “Gibbon Take.” It was about, among other things, a trust for the poor people of Beverly Hills. Steven sent me off to write the beat sheet for it, so we could see how the story looked on paper and where it needed shoring up. A beat sheet is a scene-by-scene outline that serves as the foundation for a script and a safeguard if a writer (me, for instance) makes a hash of said script. In the movie business, it’s known as a step outline, but movies take forever to make and writers come and go, leaving step outlines trampled and forgotten. But in TV, where the pace is furious-–a new episode is shot every seven or eight days-–a beat sheet is a rock to cling to.

On my way out the door that day, with my head still spinning, Steven’s assistant asked me the magic question: “John, where would you like us to send your check?” I hadn’t done anything to earn it yet, but I’ve never been one to turn down an offer of money, so I gave her my address in Philly and hurried off before she learned the awful truth about me.

I was staying at the Hyatt on Sunset Boulevard–the fabled rock-and-roll Riot House from the 60s-–and I spent the next day or two arranging and rearranging the order of scenes, looking for coherent act breaks, and basically taking baby steps as a TV writer. I worked on the same Olivetti portable typewriter that I’d hauled around the country as a sports columnist.

Steven would make changes in what I concocted, but still what I handed him wasn’t so bad that he banished me back from the premises. Instead, he gave me a big smile, wrapped an arm around my shoulder and asked, “You all right?”

“I think so,” I said.

“Well,” he said, “you looked like a horse in a burning barn the other day.”

Then we sat down to do some more work on the story. He wanted to get me writing as soon as he could, just as he had the other two untested TV writers he was taking a flier on. One was a woman whose name I forget. The other was a young lawyer from Boston named David Kelley. Maybe you’ve heard of him. Created “Boston Legal,” “Ally McBeal,” and “Picket Fences,” to name but a few series. Wrote almost every episode himself (to the amazement of even the most prolific and best writers in the business). Won every kind of award they hand out. Married Michelle Pfeiffer. All that and he was a good guy, a certified Boston sports nut who kept asking me what his favorite ballplayers were really like. I told him they were all princes. I was in no position to disillusion anybody.

Anyway, Steven wanted to find out about me as a writer as fast as he could. The woman he’d taken a chance on had just delivered her script, and it was a disaster. If I turned out to be just as bad, he wanted to send me packing as quickly so he and Terry Fisher could do a salvage job.

This wasn’t anything he told me, of course, but I could see it written on his face just as he had seen the fear written on mine. Inspired by our mutual discomfort, I made a proposal: what if I wrote five or six scenes from my beat sheet as a test run? If he liked them, I would finish the script. If he didn’t, I’d go back to sportswriting and we would part as friends. It didn’t take any convincing for him to say yes.

By now I was staying at Mike Downey’s apartment in Marina del Ray while he was on the road for the L.A. Times. Just me and my Olivetti as I tried to bring those great Bochco-esque characters to life. If I had any gift at all for what I was attempting, it was that I was a decent mimic. Steven’s characters spoke with such specific voices that I could imitate them without embarrassing myself. So I wrote and re-wrote each scene, polishing them until they had as much shine on them as I could muster. Then, on a Friday afternoon, I stopped by Fox and handed them to Steven. He said he’d read them and get back to me as fast as he could. Both of us were nervous, though for far different reasons.

I spent most of the next day wandering around and didn’t get back to Downey’s apartment until 3 or 4 in the afternoon. The message light on the phone was blinking. It was Steven, with a verdict: “I don’t know what you’re doing hanging around with sports writers, kid. You’re in show business.”

Click here for the full “From Ali to Xena” archives.

More is more. More is better.

Mike Lupica on The Great Mariano:

This is what the great W.C. Heinz wrote once about Sugar Ray Robinson, the one the old-timers all say was the greatest fighter, pound for pound, who ever lived:

“When the young assault me with their atomic miracles and reject my Crosby records and find comical the movies that once moved me, I shall entice them into talking about fighters. (Sugar Ray Robinson) will be a form of social security for me because they will have seen nothing like him, and I am convinced they never will.”

Mo Rivera, who got to 600 saves Tuesday night, who got to his own magic number in the season of Derek Jeter getting to his own magic number on that 5-for-5 day against the Tampa Bay Rays, will be that kind of social security for us someday. Because after everything we have seen from the Yankees in this generation, all the winning they have done since the winning really started with Joe Torre’s Yankees in 1996, Rivera has been the greatest of all of them.

For eight innings in Seattle it was just a throwaway game on a Tuesday night. Robinson Canó hit a beautiful home run early on, A.J. Burnett was perplexingly effective with eleven strikeouts in six innings, and the Alabama Hamma pitched a perfectly imperfect inning in the eighth, loading the bases while striking out the side.

And then came the Great One.

He jogged in from the bullpen just the same as he had more than a thousand times before, not looking towards the mound but instead at the path that lay before him. One stride at a time, one save at a time. There was nothing different about this appearance except for the number attached. He came to the mound with 599 career saves, and since we like the round numbers more than the crooked ones, people were paying attention.

Every player, coach, and trainer in the Yankee dugout found a perch on the rail as the Great One took his warm-up tosses and prepared to face his first batter, pinch-hitter Wily Mo Peña. Peña struck out on five pitches for the first out, bringing up Ichiro. It’s looking like Ichiro will finish this season short of 200 hits for the first time in his career, but you never would have guessed that after watching this at bat. He took a ball and then a strike, exaggerating his bailout as if he were looking to drive a cutter over the fence in right. Perhaps noticing this (or failing to realize he was being set up) Russell Martin called for the fastball on the outside corner, and Ichiro pounced on it, neatly directing it between third and short as if he were hitting it off a tee.

Someone named Kyle Seager came up next, but his part in this narrative lasted just five pitches before he struck out and exited, bringing up Dustin Ackley. Ackley took ball one, then ball two, but suddenly Martin was jumping out of his crouch, the Great One was kneeling, and Martin was rifling a throw to Jeter, looking to nab Ichiro as he attempted to steal second. Ichiro was out, and Rivera had save number six hundred.

As soon as Jeter made the tag, the cameras cut back to Rivera, who was walking stoically down the mound towards his catcher just as he had 599 times before. In the days and weeks leading up to this, Rivera had spoken often about how neither this milestone nor the record that will come with his next save means anything to him, since he focuses only on winning. But sometimes people don’t understand the impact or importance of what they’ve done until they see how it affects those around them. When his teammates reached him, every single one of them embracing him and congratulating him, Rivera finally allowed himself to enjoy the moment.

Grumpy statisticians have dismissed the save as a misguided attempt to quantify the contributions of an overrated position, a pitcher who doesn’t get the most outs, simply the last handful. But more than any player on the roster, a closer is completely dependent on his teammates. A dominant starting pitcher can rise above poor hitting or shoddy fielding to lead his team to a win, but a closer can’t even get into a game unless the rest of the teammates have performed well enough to put the team in position to win. Equally important, the team cannot be successful in the end unless the closer gets those final, most precious outs.

There’s nothing new in any of that, but it points out that this record doesn’t belong only to Rivera. If you look closely you’ll see the fingerprints of John Wetteland, Bernie Williams, Jim Leyritz, Jorge Posada, Derek Jeter, Paul O’Neill, Jeff Nelson, David Cone, Scott Brosius, David Robertson, Joe Girardi, Andy Pettitte, and countless others. Was Rivera great because he played for the Yankees or were the Yankees great because he was in their bullpen? It’s impossible to rip one half of that question from the other, but one thing is clear.

Mariano Rivera is the best there ever was.

[Photo Credits: Otto Greule, Jr./Getty Images; Elaine Thompson/AP Photo]

Yanks in Seattle again tonight, working the late shift.

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

Never mind the Late Show:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Will the the Rays catch the Red Sox and win the AL wildcard. Don’t count on it writes Jonah Keri over at Grantland:

No team has ever squandered a lead of 7.5 games or more in September. Yes, the Sox have seen their 9.5-game cushion on Tampa Bay shrink to three games in just 12 days. But this isn’t horseshoes or nuclear war. No points are awarded for coming close. If the Sox merely play .500 ball the rest of the way, the Rays need to go 11-5 (.688) just to set up a tiebreaker.

The schedule says that won’t happen. Seven of Boston’s final 16 games come against the Orioles; the Rays have just two games left against them (and seven against the loaded Yankees). Baltimore owns the worst record in the American League, second-worst in the majors. Last night’s O’s lineup included Matt Angle, Kyle Hudson, and Robert Andino. The Red Sox could send a 51-year-old Oil Can Boyd out against the Orioles and they’d still win. Steamroll the O’s as expected, then win a handful of other games, and you force the Rays to play ostensibly perfect baseball for the next 2½ weeks.

Regression is coming. Everything that could have gone wrong for Boston has gone wrong. Dustin Pedroia, one of the best all-around players in the league, has gone ice-cold. He’s 3-for-34 in his past eight games, with nine strikeouts and one extra-base hit. He’s hitless in his past 13 at-bats with runners in scoring position. The recent RISP woes run deeper than that: The Sox are hitting just .228 in that situation over their past eight games, including a 1-for-15 stretch against the Rays.

These things don’t last.

[Photo Credit: N.Y. Daily News]

Dig this most cool photo gallery of American restaurants, cafes, and dinners of the 1950s and ’60s over at the even cooler site, Retronaut.

(Peace to Brad for showing us the way to this one.)

The wife and I went to Pittsburgh last weekend. Went to PNC, gained 46 lbs each and had a great time. The wife said, “It’s a nice little city,” which is what a New Yorker says whenever they visit a town that is not Mexico City or London or Rome.

Then to come back and see something like this?

Well, it’s good to be home.

[Photo Credi: Ribonyc]

Last week I told Ted Berg that I really like Mexican Coke and he challenged me to take a taste test to see if I’m just being a sucker. I’m going to take the test (and I’ll let you know the results) but the good folks at Serious Eats have beaten me to it:

Those folks who prefer Mexican Coke (like myself), really just like the idea of Mexican Coke—whether it’s because they think real sugar is tastier/healthier than corn syrup, whether it’s because Mexican Coke is more expensive and harder to find, thus more valuable, whether it’s because of its exoticism, whatever the reason—strip away the Mexicanness of it, and suddenly it’s a lot less appealing.

Which is what Ted was getting at to start with.

Jon Weisman on Moneyball:

There’s a level of sincere humility to the film version of “Moneyball” that might shock those expecting to see it cloaked in arrogance.

Next to the question about whether the material in Michael Lewis’ book was viable for a movie in the first place, the most common shot I’ve seen taken at the idea of the film, which I saw a screening of Monday, is “what’s the point?” Because Billy Beane’s Oakland A’s have never reached the World Series, much less won it, why would they worthy of the big screen?

Putting aside the fact that this criteria would eliminate about a thousand works of art – “Rocky,” “The Bad News Bears,” “Major League,” the entire history of “Peanuts” – note this well: The Billy Beane of “Moneyball” would share the same question. No one is more acutely aware of the A’s shortcomings than he.

But “Moneyball” does have a story to tell, a worthwhile and engrossing one. It is not a sermon. “Moneyball” is about faith in a calculated belief, and all the torment that comes when that faith is tested, and the unexpected kind of reward you can get for taking that test, no matter how it comes out. It’s a movie about a pursuit, not a coronation. It’s anything but a coronation.

It’s my belief that, while no movie is universally beloved, this approach opens the door for “Moneyball” to be accepted and enjoyed by those who took the book as a mockery of the game they love, by those who were entertained and embrace what was articulated in Lewis’ book, and by those who have no vested interest in the debate, or even the sport. It’s such a human movie – with Brad Pitt’s Beane a nuanced, multidimensional character, one with many faces – that it’s not easily dismissed.

Hell, I just want to see it for Phillip Seymour Hoffman chewing it up as Art Howe.

Ultra.

As sports fans, we’re on the lookout for “greatest of all time.” It matters. It’s Jordan. It’s Tiger. It’s why we react so viscerally, one way or the other, to Barry Bonds. Albert Pujols is one of the greatest players of all time, and he walks on water and hops on clouds for us. And of course Mariano Rivera is the greatest reliever of all time, and we revel in that almost every time we hear Enter Sandman.

Last night Novak Djokovic beat Rafael Nadal for the US Open championship. The Joker is 64-2 this season, and has taken out the world’s number two player six times. He holds three majors and only lost in the French Open semis to the the number three player in the world – who happens to also have a claim as the greatest tennis player of all-time. It might be the greatest season in the history of modern professional tennis.

The only real blemish on Djokovic’s season was the semi final loss at the French. If he had survived Federer there, and somehow managed to beat Nadal in the final, this would be an open and shut case. Beating Rafa on the red clay of Roland Garros would be as difficult as wrestling a great white in open waters. He never got the chance to test himself, but lest we forget, Djokovic did beat Nadal on red clay not once but twice in run-ups to the French Open.

The Joker’s only lost 23 sets this season. In his victories, he needed five sets only once, the epic semis in the US Open versus Federer. One of his two losses came in the tournament before the US Open in which he reitred to fourth-ranked Andy Murray. He won ten of the 12 tournaments he entered. It was a lesson in dominance.

The level of dominance is only as strong as the rest of the field. Since Nadal is at the top of his game and Federer is aging very gracefully, not to mention the excellence of Andy Murray, the field is quite strong. Rafa won the French and made two other Major finals. Murray made the finals of the Australian, and the semis of the three others and Federer made one final and two semis. None of the 2011 titles came easily.

Against these titans of tennis, Djokovic went 12-2. And he had to take out two of them, back-to-back in the same tournament four times. In his seven semi-final and finals appearance in the Majors, six of the opponents were either Nadal, Federer or Murray. His only “easy” match was Jo-Wilfired Tsonga in the Wimbledon semis.

There are a few other seasons in tennis history that might be as good as this one.  John McEnroe in 1984 went 84-3. But he only held two Majors. He lost the French to Lendl after being up two sets to none. Roger Federer went 81-4 in 2005, but also only managed two Majors. Going back to Rod Laver (1960s) and Don Budge (1930s), we can find Grand Slam winners, but tennis was a different game then and I’m not one to comment on the evolution. Several other players have won three Majors in a season, but not with the periphal dominance of the Joker.

I don’t know enough about tennis to say with any certainty how the Joker has risen so far above the rest of the top players. But watching him humble Nadal with his powerful forehand made a lasting impression. Also, Djokovic recently went to a Gluten-free diet and it has changed his life for the better.

The tennis season does not end with the Majors, so Djokovic can still add to his resume, or fall off the perch, but the way he’s playing right now, I don’t think anybody can take him out. However, after 1984, John McEnroe never won another Major final and fell out of the top tier faster than Ivan Lendl could chug a Snapple.