Following the all-star break, the Yankees travelled to St. Louis for a matchup with the lowly Browns. For the fourth game in a row, DiMaggio secured his needed hit in the first inning, this time singling on a grounder to the hole at shortstop for one of just three Yankee hits on the day. It was lucky for him that he was able to take care of business so early, as the game was called for rain after just five innings, giving the Yankees a 1-0 victory.
It’s the All-Star Game. Hot stuff.
Have at it.
[Photo by Sarah Illenberger via This Isn’t Happiness; featured image by Joel Zimmer]
The Wife loves gazpacho. I make it for her all the time. Here’s a good recipe over at Lemon Fire Brigade.
The Yanks have the best record in baseball at the break. Alex Rodriguez is in decline, Russell Martin has suffered through his worst offensive season but first place is first place. So, what’s missing?
Mo, of course.
Here’s an article on Mariano by Joel Sherman in today’s New York Post.
Rafael Soriano has pitched well since Rivera went down. But if you think that’s going to continue indefinitely I’ve got a bridge in Brooklyn I’d like to sell you…
[Photo Credit: Getty Images]
Photograph by Amanda Marsalis via Rustic. Meets. Vintage.
All the nightmares came today/And it looks as though they’re here to stay…
[“Learning to Fly,” by carlybartel]
Wayne Coffey has a nice piece in the Daily News today about R.A. Dickey and my friend, the late Mike Gitelson. Mike died earlier this year from myeloid leukemia.
It is a touching story. Mike, who we called “Getty,” was my best friend in middle school. We collected comics, records, and pined for someone to take us to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show at the 8th Street Playhouse. Getty did not care about sports. At all.
My mother once took a group of us to Yankee Stadium for my birthday to see the Angels because Reggie Jackson was my favorite player. We sat in the bleachers. Mike made a placard at home and brought it with him. It read: Reggie Sucks. During batting practice, Reggie shagged flies near us and Getty waved the placard and yelled at him. At one point, Reggie turned in our direction, grabbed his crotch and spit on the ground. Getty whooped and laughed, his mission accomplished.
He was a political kid. Both of Getty’s parents were social workers and so he came by his left-leaning attitudes naturally. (I remember him railing about something once when we were in high school. We were in the car with his father, who was a funny guy, and his dad said, “Michael, you are the only socialist I know with a bank card.”) By the time we were upperclassmen in high school, Mike had gone through the Clash and the Sex Pistols and was listening to the Dead Kennedys and Jello Biafra. He was the only guy we knew who was into the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Fishbone and Bad Brains.
His senior quote came from a Chili Peppers song: Don’t be a slave/No one can tell you/You’ve got to be afraid.
Getty was an angry kid (then again, so was I). He couldn’t wait to get to college. We had a falling out by then and I didn’t talk to him again for more than twenty years. But because we still had some of the same interests, I ran into him periodically: at a rest stop in New Jersey in 1994 or ’95 on the way home from a Mumia Abu Jamal demonstration in Philadelphia; at Fat Beats, a hip hop record store in the village; in ’96, on the night the Yankees won the Whirled Serious, at a De La Soul/Fishbone concert at Roseland; on the subway platform of the Carroll Street station in Brooklyn. I approached him at the rest stop after the Mumia Abu Jamal rally and startled him. It was clear that he didn’t want to reconnect so the other times I saw him–“Getty Sightings”–I left him alone.
I was surprised, then, when he reached out to me about five or six years ago. We exchanged e-mails and whatever hard feelings that might have existed were gone. We didn’t see each other but touched base every now and then. Mike had become a baseball fan through his wife who was–and is–nuts for the Mets. I thought that was amusing coming from a guy who loved to ridicule overpaid, conceited jocks.
Mike suffered with Crohn’s and he died too young. Go figure that baseball would provide distraction and comfort for him. His encounter with R.A. Dickey was moving. You know, when we were kids, Getty laughed in the movie theater at the end of Terms of Endearment when everyone else sobbed. During The Breakfast Club when the kids bared their souls and the theater was quiet, Getty cackled. He was allergic to sentiment. But after R.A. Dickey called him on the phone, Mike cried. And I think he’d very much appreciate Coffey’s article.
Yet another reason to pull for Mr. Dickey who sounds like some kind of mensch.
[Photo Credit: Matt Cerrone]
Tonight gives the Home Run Derby.
For those of you who like that sort of thing. Chris Berman hosting so you might want to watch with the sound turned off.
[Photo Credit: David J. Phillip/AP]
Here’s Phil Taylor’s story from last week’s SI…If Reggie had gone straight the police, none of this would have ever happened.
SI‘s Scott Price was with Roger Federer yesterday after Federer won Wimbledon for the seventh time:
Finally he left the broadcast center, and stepped outside into the rain. Centre Court loomed a few hundred feet away. Federer’s sneakers squished on the slick tiles; workers hauling equipment stood aside to stare. This Wimbledon gives him 17 majors in all, six more than his archrival, Nadal: A nice cushion in the great race the two run but rarely admit. On Sunday, Federer just might have put the greatest-of-all-time title out of reach for good.
“Do I care?” he said. “I guess I do, because I’d be lying if told you I don’t care at all. But for me it’s the same thing as the Novak loss and trying to beat him. Rafa has an amazing career, we have two such separate lives and worlds and things we do and the way we do them. He’ll always be a legend and a great champion, so for me if he does beat my record it almost doesn’t matter. Because I did things he can never do. He did things that I can never do. It’s the moments that live and the memories that are with me that are most important.”
Still, he was asked, it’s nice to widen the gap?
“Yeah,” Federer said, smiling. “If you like.”
[Photo Credit: Getty Images]
From Charles Simic:
No city displays its mixture of beauty and ugliness as brazenly as New York does. It’s one thing to see a city with cathedrals and other church towers from an approaching train as one does in Europe and another to see Manhattan with buildings of every size thrown together more or less haphazardly and its streets packed with humanity all coming into view simultaneously. I still can’t believe my eyes every time I see it.
[Photo Credit: A crowd watching the news line on the Times building at Times Square, NYC, on D-day, June 6, 1944. Large-format nitrate negative by Howard Hollem or Edward Meyer, Office of War Information…via New York History]
Over at the Atlantic dig this from Elmore Leonard (and stick around to watch the video):
THE DAY VICTOR turned twenty he rode three bulls, big ones, a good 1,800 pounds each—Cyclone, Spanish Fly, and Bulldozer—rode all their bucks and twists, Victor’s free hand waving the air until the buzzer honked at eight seconds for each ride, not one of the bulls able to throw him. He rolled off their rumps, stumbled, keeping his feet, and walked to the gate not bothering to look at the bulls, see if they still wanted to kill him. He won Top Bull Rider, 4,000 dollars and a new saddle at the All-Indian National Rodeo in Palm Springs. It came to … Jesus, like 200 dollars a second. That afternoon Victorio Colorado, the name he went by in the program, was the man.
He left the rodeo grounds as Victor to celebrate with two Mojave boys, Nachee and Billy Cosa, brought along from Arizona when the boss, Kyle McCoy, moved his business to Indio, near Palm Springs. The Mojave boys handled Kyle’s fighting bulls, bringing them from the pens to the chute where Victor, a Mimbreño Apache, would slip aboard from the fence, wrap his hand in the bull rope tight as he could get it, and believe he was ready to ride. He’d take a breath, say “Let me out of here,” and the gate would swing open and a ton of pissed-off bull would come flying out.
“His mind made up,” he told the Mojave boys at Mi Nidito in Palm Springs, “to kill anybody’s on his back. See, he behaves in the chute. What he’s doing, he’s saving his dirty tricks till he has room to buck you off and stomp you, kick out your teeth.”
[Featured Image by Travis R. Wright; Drawing by Brett Weldele]
Lime on my mind.
The Sprouted Kitchen gives us: pasilla chile and lime cabbage slaw.
From Smitten Kitchen: cold rice noodles with peanut-lime chicken.
“Quantum Leap,” by Craig Wylie (Oil on Canvas”
Here’s a short but true story. On Saturday night, after gritting my teeth through a frustrating Yankee loss to the Red Sox, I looked forward to Sunday night’s game and the recap I’d eventually write. I mentally composed the opening line of that recap, and wondered if it would come true: “The Yankees opened the scoring in the first inning of each game this weekend, plating five runs in game one, four in game two, and three in game three, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise to anyone when they scored twice in the opening frame of Sunday night’s series finale.”
Really.
Yankee nemesis Jon Lester was on the mound, but he had been struggling, and the Yankees quickly jumped on him. It started out with another base hit from Derek Jeter, followed by a line drive single from Curtis Granderson. Next up was an angry Mark Teixeira. (Before Sunday’s game, noted philosopher Vicente Padilla indulged in some healthy misogyny while casting accusations of racism towards Teixeira.) Teixeira shot a ground ball down the third base line and into the left field corner for a double to score Jeter and push Granderson to third.
After an Alex Rodríguez pop-up and a walk to Robinson Canó (Canó would wait until the ninth inning to extend his hitting streak to fifteen games), Nick Swisher hit an easy grounder to third, a double play waiting to happen. Mauro Gómez, recently called up from AAA because of his bat, not his glove, fielded the ball cleanly enough, hopped over to third to force Teixeira, then threw across the diamond hoping to end the inning. Inexplicably — and perhaps unprecedentedly — Gómez’s throw actually bounced twice on its way to first. Probably because he had never seen anything like this before, Adrian González couldn’t dig it out, and Granderson brought home the second run I had predicted the night before.
Iván Nova, the de facto ace of the Yankee staff, took this early 2-0 lead to the mound in the bottom of the inning. He struck out Daniel Nava for the first out, but gave up a single to Pedro Ciriaco. No shame in that, though. No Yankee pitcher had been able to handle Ciriaco over the first three games of the series, and he would end the night hitting a robust .538. Ciriaco looks to weigh about 130 pounds, so I can’t imagine it’ll take the Fenway faithful long before they start calling him the Splendid Splinter.
Ciriaco promptly stole second base, allowing Nova to walk David Ortíz and then strike out the blistering hot González. (González would leave the game two innings later due to illness, snapping his eighteen-game hitting streak.) With two outs, Cody Ross lofted a high pop fly behind second base. Having gotten out of the jam, Nova pumped his fist and started walking towards the dugout. Jeter hovered beneath the ball, watched it into his glove… and dropped it. Ciriaco scored.
Jeter did this in Anaheim a few years ago, dropping a pop fly in a play that was so stunning that it caused my brain to convulse and inadvertently create a Banter banterism, the Score Truck. (Here’s the history.) There were no such revelations on this night in Boston, just an unearned run for Nova.
The Yankees added a third run in the second inning when Jayson Nix doubled, moved to third on a passed ball, then scored on a sacrifice fly from Chris “Whythehellaren’tIstarting” Stewart.
Nova was undone a bit by more shoddy defense in the bottom of the third. With one out, That Man Ciriaco hit a grounder slightly to the right of shortstop. Jeter was able to get to the ball, but it hit off the heel of his glove for a clear error — except that the Fenway Park official scorer is apparently already in love with Ciriaco, so it was ruled a base hit. Ortíz was due next.
It’s very rare that I watch a Yankee game live, especially a Sunday nighter, so I almost never watch Ortíz hit. Back when he and Manny Ramírez teamed up to form the most feared 3-4 punch in baseball, I started fast-forwarding through their at bats to get to the result. Watching pitch-by-pitch was simply too much. I still find myself doing this with Big Papi, so I don’t know how Nova pitched him, I only know that Ortíz ended up on second base, and Ciriaco scored a run he shouldn’t have.
Nova eventually loaded the bases on an infield single and a walk, but he rebounded to strike out Jarrod Saltalalalalalamacchia and get a ground out from Ryan Sweeney. It seemed like another step in the maturation of a young pitcher. His defense kept letting him down, kept making him work harder, but he never faltered. He would never be pushed after that third inning.
The Yankee hitters struck again in the fifth. Teixeira opened the inning with a single, bringing A-Rod to the plate. I just can’t figure him out. He goes through long stretches where he never seems to hit the ball hard, but just when I’m ready to write him off completely, he does something like this. Lester left a pitch up a bit on the outside half of the plate, and A-Rod took a mighty swing. My instant reaction watching the play was that he had failed again. The trajectory off the bat indicated another lazy fly ball to the center fielder, but when the camera found Ryan Sweeney, he was sprinting towards the Triangle, and it was clear he wouldn’t be able to make a play on the ball. A-Rod’s lazy fly ball landed 410 feet from home plate, allowing the speedy Teixeira to score easily from first as Rodríguez coasted into third with a triple.
Three batters later Andruw Jones bounced a one-out single to left field to score Rodríguez, and the Yankees were suddenly up 5-2.
I know a lot of people don’t like ESPN and are terribly critical of their baseball coverage, but I don’t fall with that camp. I do have one criticism, though. Their announcing crew doesn’t really concern themselves with calling the game. They’ve clearly spent the week gathering stories and statistics about the two teams, so they have a series of bullet points they need to get through during the course of the game. The play-by-play is secondary.
In general, I don’t have a problem with this. They’re talking to a national audience of fans who don’t follow these two teams on a daily basis, so it probably makes sense to rehash the Padilla-Teixeira feud, explain Ortíz’s contract situation, review Jeter’s ascent up the various all-time lists, and remind us of Lester’s health issues.
In their kibitzing tonight, though, they missed a great game pitched by Iván Nova. The shaky defense caused him to expend 111 pitches to get through six innings, but he did so with flair. He gave up only one earned run, and even that was gift-wrapped by Jeter’s non-error. He yielded six hits and two walks, but struck out ten. After having to sweat a bit in the third inning, he faced only ten batters (striking out four of them) over his final three innings. He looked like an ace.
After Nova’s night finished, Nick Swisher doubled off the Monster with one out in the seventh, bringing up Andruw Jones. Jones had turned the clock back to 1996, having hit three home runs during Saturday’s double header, and he put this game on ice when he somehow was able to get on top of a Scott Atchison fastball at his shoulders and pound it high into the seats atop the wall in left.
There are a lot of reasons why the Yankees are where they are (and where they are is sitting seven games in front in the American League East with the best record in baseball), but one of the biggest is the unexpected production from Raúl Ibañez and Andruw Jones. The two have combined for 22 home runs and 58 RBIs, but this weekend it was Jones who did all the damage. After sitting out Friday night’s opener, he pummeled Boston pitching on the weekend, going 5 for 14 with four homers and 6 RBIs in three games. It will be nice to get Brett Gardner back if and when he returns, but it will be even nicer to have production like this lurking on the bench in October.
The Red Sox scraped together a run in the eighth, but it didn’t really matter. The Yankees’ 7-3 win and three games to one series win strengthened their position atop the standings while pushing the Red Sox into the cellar. Boston’s .500 record is better than only three teams in the American League. How’d you like to sit with that over the All-Star break?
Thankfully, the Yankees don’t have to worry about such things.
[Photo Credit: Steven Senne/AP Photo]
We’ve reached the end of Side A.
Yanks-Sox, Nova vs. Lester.
Derek Jeter SS
Curtis Granderson CF
Mark Teixeira 1B
Alex Rodriguez 3B
Robinson Cano DH
Nick Swisher RF
Andruw Jones LF
Jayson Nix 2B
Chris Stewart C
Never mind the vacation: Let’s Go Yank-ees!
[Picture by Francois Leroy]
All-Star game statistics obviously have no bearing on regular season totals or records, so DiMaggio’s at bats would certainly have no effect on his hitting streak one way or the other, but there was still pressure. There was a feeling amongst fans and reporters that if DiMaggio didn’t get a hit in the All-Star Game, the streak would somehow be tainted. No one knew how long it might extend beyond the All-Star game, but if DiMaggio were to go hitless against the National Leaguers, there would be an asterisk applied, if not in the record books, certainly in the minds of many.
DiMaggio popped up to third for the final out of the first inning, flied out to center with a runner on second in the fourth, then walked and scored in the sixth. The way the game is played and managed today, he would’ve been showered, dressed, and back at the hotel by mid way through the game, but instead DiMaggio came to the plate in the eighth and rocked a double, eliminating the need for any mental asterisks. His brother Dom singled him home to cut the National League lead to 5-3, setting up the drama of the bottom of the ninth.
With one out in the final frame, Cleveland’s Ken Keltner singled with one out, then advanced to second on a Joe Gordon single. After Washington’s Cecil Travis walked, the stage was set for DiMaggio. He walked to the plate as the unquestioned star of stars, the most famous athlete in America in the middle of a streak that had captured the attention of the entire nation. And now, with his American League squad trailing by two, DiMaggio came to bat with the bases loaded in the bottom of the ninth. America’s Hero would be the hero. It almost seemed scripted.
Not quite. DiMaggio hit a ground ball to shortstop, and suddenly the game appeared to be over. The Boston Braves’ Eddie Miller fielded the ball cleanly at short and flipped to Chicago’s Herman Franks at second for the first out. Franks’s relay to first, however, was wide. DiMaggio was safe, Keltner scored, and Boston’s Ted Williams came up.
Williams, of course, was even hotter than DiMaggio, so maybe the outcome shouldn’t be so surprising. Williams found a fastball that he liked from Chicago’s Claude Passeau and roped it into the upper deck in right field for the game-winning three-run homer. The normally placid Williams literally skipped his way around the bases in celebration. American League 7, National League 5.
