Yanks in Toronto and Cliff’s got the preview. Score truck anyone?
Alex Rodriguez won’t play tonight though he may play tomorrow or Sunday.
Meanwhile, C.C. goes for win number 20.
Derek Jeter SS
Curtis Granderson CF
Mark Teixeira 1B
Robinson Cano 2B
Nick Swisher RF
Eric Chavez 3B
Jorge Posada DH
Russell Martin C
Brett Gardner LF
Never mind the scoreboard-watching:
Let’s Go Yank-ees!
[Photo Credit: The Harsh Truth of the Camera Eye]
Alex Rodriguez may return to the lineup tonight. Over at Pinstriped Bible, Jay Jaffe makes a good pernt:
The Yankees are now up four and a half games on the Red Sox, who with a 3-11 September record are themselves just three games ahead of the Rays for the Wild Card spot. Given that cushion, the bigger question is why the team doesn’t give Rodriguez even more time to heal, as there’s no urgency for him to return other than to potentially quell — or on the other hand, further — the anxiety about a condition that won’t fully heal. If Rodriguez were to sit for another series or another week, he would still have five or seven or 10 games to recover his timing before the postseason start. It’s not as though he’s got individual milestones at stake, or that he has to prove anything to the yutzes who think he’s gone soft. As we’ve reminded several times in the recent past, and as the Yanks to a man will acknowledge, it’s all about being ready for October.
Yup, what he said.
Here’s a great site–I mentioned it the other day: Retronaut. There’s just oodles of good stuff to be found there.
This story originally appeared in the April, 1994 issue of Life Magazine. It is included in The Best Sports Writing of Pat Jordan and appears here with permission from the author.
The Curious Childhood of an 11-Year-Old Beauty Queen
By Pat Jordan
It’s eight a.m. The lobby to the Riverfront Hilton in Little Rock, Ark., is crowded with pretty young girls. Their faces are elaborately made up — lipstick, mascara, false lashes; their hair is in curlers. The girls are not playing or giggling. They are just standing there.
These girls are some of the 100 contestants, ranging from infants to 21- year-olds, who will compete this afternoon in the second annual America’s Queen of Queens beauty pageant. They want to be named Baby Queen, Toddler Queen or Empress Queen — and win the cash prize that goes with each title. The overall winner, Grand Supreme Queen, will get $5,000. In room 2046, Dr. Bruce Pancake, a Chattanooga plastic surgeon; his wife, Debbie, a former Miss Chattanooga runner-up; and Tony Calantog, their 23-year- old ”pageant coordinator,” are preparing the Pancakes’ eldest daughter, Blaire Ashley, for the event.
Blaire started entering contests when she was five. Now, six years later, she has competed in more than 100 beauty pageants — and won 90 percent of them. It’s a costly hobby: Entrance fees for national contests range from $250 to $800, and that doesn’t include the elaborate gowns, voice lessons, drama lessons, Tony’s $40-per-hour fee, or traveling expenses. Blaire’s prizes range from hair dryers to television sets to a red Ford Festiva to, last year, $12,000 in cash. ”I like the cold cash,” says Blaire’s mom, Debbie. Blaire likes the crowns. ”I fell in love with this one crown,” says Blaire. ”God! I wanted that crown.” But, she says, she sympathizes with girls not as wealthy as she, girls for whom a crown is not enough. ”I feel sorry for them,” she says. ”They have to win a car because they don’t have one. Their parents yell at them. One girl dieted so much she fainted onstage.”
Child beauty pageants –3,000 or so a year–take place mostly in smaller southern cities but are spreading rapidly; more than 1.5 million contestants vie for the money, cars, trips to Disney World and, most important, the experience that will take them one step closer to becoming Miss America. There is even a magazine — Babette’s Pageant and Talent Gazette — to fuel their dreams. The cover features recent pageant winners wearing crowns and sashes. One section announces innovations like pageants for children missing an arm or with cerebral palsy. Ads pitch banners, robes, crowns, trophies, costumes and the services of makeup experts and pageant coaches. Articles advise little girls on the importance of eye contact and offer tricks for overcoming puffiness and dark circles. But the real problems are saved for the Letters page.
”The kids end up victims,” according to one mother; another writes, ”There is more to life than pageants.” Perhaps, but for some girls and for some girls’ families, pageants are the past, present and future.
Blaire Pancake’s bedroom at home looks like Cinderella’s — after she married the prince. It is filled with crowns, tiaras, batons and trophies, all glittering with rhinestones, that make her old Little League trophy look shabby. She has a bulb-lined makeup mirror and two walk-in closets overstuffed with evening gowns just perfect for a miniature adult. (When Blaire was crowned Little Miss Hollywood Babes Superstar, she had a dress named after her. The Blaire is tulle-skirted and sequined in a herringbone pattern.) Blaire doesn’t play organized sports anymore, though she skis occasionally ) with her family, and she’s just started to make time for a sleepover or two. (School is no problem: Blaire gets A’s.) ”Pageants are my only interest,” she says. ”They’re all I want to do. I love what I’m doing. I want to become Miss America.” Which is why there are no posters of Blaire’s favorite rock stars in her room. No posters of a fantasy heartthrob. Blaire’s room is a shrine to her own fantasy.
Room 2046 of the Riverfront Hilton is something else altogether, a shambles of toys, clothes, rumpled beds, potato chips, Pop Tarts, curling irons, makeup, cans of Coke. The Pancakes have brought three of their four daughters along. Alexis, one, also a pageant winner, is home with a sitter. While their mother, Debbie, hides in the bathroom — where she will stay until she is totally made up — and Tony prepares Blaire, Bruce plays with Elise, three, Miss Southern Charm 1993, and Erin, eight, who used to win pageants until she discovered art and sports.
”When Erin quit, we were sick!” Debbie calls out from the bathroom.
”White-blonde is the perfect look,” says Bruce, dreamily fingering Erin’s hair. Bruce says, ”I’m a plastic surgeon only from the neck up. I enjoy the beauty of the face. No doubt that’s why I’m so involved with Blaire.” Bruce is captivated by his daughter’s beauty but prefers it enhanced: He apologizes to strangers when she is not wearing makeup. Some parents have accused Bruce of enhancing Blaire’s looks with surgery.
Debbie, from the bathroom: ”They can be ugly.” ”It’s ridiculous to operate on children,” adds Bruce. ”But if Blaire wanted me to do something when she’s older, I’d consider it.”
This contest has the Pancakes worried. Blaire will be competing against 12- year-olds, some of whom, according to Bruce, ”have the breast development of women.” Blaire is tall and thin, like a stick figure, but this talk of breasts does not seem to bother her. She sits in a chair, dressed in a nightshirt, her hair in curlers, and watches cartoons while Tony fusses over her. Blaire is used to hearing adults talk about the tools of competition. Like the fake tooth she’ll wear today to hide the missing baby tooth. When Tony begins gluing on Blaire’s fake nails, she holds out her hands, limp-wristed, like the delicate wings of a bird. Finished, Tony dabs makeup on Blaire’s eyelids, which flutter shut, then open.
”Now Maybelline Great Lash,” says Tony. ”All the models use it.” Bruce looks over. ”New makeup! Oh, perfect!” he says. Finally, smiling, Tony holds up a lipstick. ”Lasting Kiss,” he says. ”We can kiss collars and napkins, and it won’t come off.” He turns, puckers his lips and blows a kiss across the room.
At 14, Tony Calantog weighed 250 pounds. He went on to play offensive and defensive tackle on his Pensacola, Fla., high school football team. His teammates called him Otho, after the interior decorator in Beetlejuice. But Tony preferred to decorate the faces of little girls. Word of Tony’s expertise in makeup, dance, modeling, dressmaking and fashion coordinating soon spread throughout the child beauty pageant subculture.
”I saw Blaire five years ago in a Jacksonville pageant,” Tony says. ”I didn’t think much of her. Come on! She wore blue eye shadow!” Bruce asked him to help redesign Blaire. After he did, Tony says, ”she became glamorous. She had a certain look, and beautiful hair.”
”Some parents said it was hair extensions,” calls out Debbie.
”Blaire loves the stage,” says Tony. ”She totally turns on. She becomes . . . Blaire! A total package. It’s who she is.”
”She comes alive,” adds Bruce. ”She has that sparkle of spontaneity judges look for.”
”I love pageants,” Blaire interjects, speaking in a precise, adult voice. ”Except when I have to do two back-to-back. Then I have to tell my father I can’t take it anymore. I need a break. Pageants are easy for me, except for doing my hair. I’m very tender-headed. Oh, and the interviews. I try to make the judges like me. If I don’t win, I try harder to make them like me next time.”
”In our first pageant we had no talent,” Debbie says. ”She, not we, honey,” says Bruce. ”Now Blaire looks the judges in the eye,” boasts Debbie, still in the bathroom. ”She smiles, turns on that charm that makes them look at her. That’s talent.”
”We try not to enter too many pageants where the interview is important,” says Tony.
”We put Blaire in a package deal,” says Debbie. ”Clothes, beauty, talent, because she’s got a blah personality, like me.”
”Oh, honey,” says Bruce. Blaire is oblivious.
When Tony begins combing out Blaire’s hair, so thick with curls it almost obscures her face, Debbie emerges from her lair. ”Hi!” she says. ”I’m the mom.” Her face is heavily made up, her blond hair stiffly curled. She is wearing a black velvet pant-suit trimmed with gold brocade. Debbie has a doctorate in pharmacy, which comes in handy whenever Blaire is sick, like now. She has had the flu and was coughing and nauseated until Debbie gave her Dimetapp and an antibiotic. Today Blaire is feeling better. She is eating grapes, grasped delicately between her red fake fingernails. She eats each grape in three bites, with her front teeth, her lips curled back so as not to muss her lipstick. Debbie looks at Blaire’s hair and frowns.
”It’s too full.” Tony says, ”It’ll fall.” Debbie says, ”The main thing is to frame the face.” There is a knock on the door. Tony cries out, ”Oh, my shoes! My shoes!” He rips open a box and takes out a pair of shiny silver high heels. ”Cinderella’s slippers,” says Bruce. Blaire puts them on. ”They’re too big,” she says, without expression. ”Just watch out for the cracks in the stage,” says Debbie.
Tony holds up a black rhinestoned cocktail dress and stares at it in the mirror. ”I couldn’t wait!” he says. The dress is for the talent competition, in which Blaire will sing ”On My Own” from Les Miserables as one of her numbers. Blaire usually wears coral (”her best color,” says Tony), as she will in the western-wear, sportswear and formalwear competitions, which are really exercises in modeling. (The girls walk up and down a runway, posing, hands on hips, a little turn here and there.) Tony and Debbie make most of Blaire’s costumes. When she outgrows one, they sell it, often at a profit because of Blaire’s winning reputation. Everyone wants an original Blaire. Blaire unself-consciously strips down to her panties, a seasoned performer in a crowded dressing room. Tony helps her pull on her pantyhose, then her black dress. Blaire grabs a cordless microphone. (”You should have heard her before voice lessons,” Tony says.) While Blaire performs in front of the mirror, Tony stands behind her, pantomiming her act. He spreads his arms at the finale and bows, mouthing silently but with great exaggeration, ”Thank you!” Behind them, Erin faces the wall, drawing furiously. Elise, meanwhile, is holding up a bruised finger to her mother. Debbie looks at it and says, ”Did you cry? No. Good. Don’t ever make a scene.” Bruce stares lovingly at Blaire.
The ballroom at the Hilton is packed with parents, many of them overweight women in sweat suits or jeans, and their beer-bellied husbands in long-haul $ truckers’ caps. Bruce, Debbie, Erin and Elise, all wearing badges on their chests with Blaire’s photograph on them, are standing against the back wall, trying to be inconspicuous. Some of the parents have complained that the Pancakes get too much attention. Blaire is waiting in line with about 20 other girls. She stares, without expression, at the floor while Tony fusses with her hair. A few places behind her stands Ariel Murray, her main competition. Ariel has already won three cars, and last August she defeated Blaire in an Atlanta pageant.
”Blaire won Miss Photogenic,” says Debbie. ”And we were missing teeth.” When Blaire goes on, it is a seasoned performer who stalks the stage, belting out ”New York! New York!” moderately well, except for the high notes. For the first time in hours, Blaire is truly alive. She bows and leaves the stage. As Blaire and her mother walk back to the hotel room, Debbie says, ”If you had held the mike closer, you would have been more dynamic. But you wouldn’t. Ariel did it.”
Back in room 2046, Blaire wraps herself in her mother’s white satin kimono. Outside, little girls race down the hall, squealing. But Blaire has work to do.
Debbie: ”What’s your favorite color?”
Blaire: ”Coral.”
Debbie: ”Say ‘Because it looks good on me.’ ”
Bruce: ”If you could be anyone in the world, who would you be?”
Blaire: ”Myself, so I can obtain my goals.”
Bruce: ”What’s your secret weapon?”
Blaire: ”When people have problems, I try to help them.”
Bruce: ”You mean, help your sisters?”
Blaire: ”Aw, yeah, help my sisters.”
Debbie: ”Don’t say ‘Aw.’ ”
Bruce: ”If you went to the moon, who would you take with you?”
Blaire: ”My mom, because she never goes anywhere.”
Bruce: ”If you could be like anyone, who would you be like?”
Blaire: ”Leanza Cornett, because she was Miss America.”
Bruce: ”When you look in the mirror, what do you see?”
Blaire: ”Myself. I like what I see.”
Debbie gets down on her knees and begins rubbing moisturizer into Blaire’s legs because she will be wearing shorts for the interview. ”If you cough, say ‘Excuse me,’ ” Debbie says. Blaire holds out her arms, and Debbie rubs moisturizer into them. ”If they ask what the smell is,” says Tony, ”say ‘Wings.’ ”S He throws out his arms. ”Tra-la!”
Tony takes Blaire to the interview, which is conducted in private, and Bruce goes out for some fast food. With them gone, Debbie expresses her true fears: ”You got to watch out for them Louisiana girls. They pull ’em out of the swamps. They’re dumb but gorgeous.”
When Blaire returns, she says she thinks she did well. ”It’s not hard for me to talk to adults,” she explains in her precise voice. ”I like to spend time with adults, even though I have to act older because they expect more from me.” Maybe Blaire, who has given up a child’s spontaneity, shows so little offstage emotion because she’s so busy editing herself with adults.
On Sunday morning, the third day of the pageant, all the girls, in their gowns, and their parents assemble in the ballroom. When last year’s Grand Supreme Queen gives up her crown, the pageant organizer, a short, bald man, begins to cry. Then the winners in each group are announced. When Blaire’s name is not called for her group, the Pancakes turn to leave. But the pageant organizer urges them to stay. Finally, after each of the group winners has been introduced, the name of the Grand Supreme Queen is called out: ”Blaire Ashley Pancake!”
Her parents scream with joy as Blaire takes the stage to receive her crown and her five $1,000 stacks of $1 bills. The huge piles weigh heavy in her hands, like bricks. Blaire stands there for only a moment, smiling, looking slight and a little bit lost, before she leaves the stage. On the nine-hour ride back to Chattanooga, Bruce, Debbie and Tony are still too excited to sleep. Tony says, ”I feel great. I did everything correct.”
Debbie says, ”My parents think we go overboard with pageants.”
Blaire says nothing. She is asleep, clutching her crown in her hands.
Couple of days ago guy asks me, “What’s the best pastrami in New York.”
“Katz’s.”
I didn’t know if it was a question or a test but I didn’t hesitate. And that’s part of what it means to be a New Yorker, being certain. Now, I could be wrong, and these things are a matter of taste, of course. Mile End makes a tasty sandwich out in Brooklyn. But it is not like Katz’s. And not only is the food tasty but the ambiance is usually just right. Has always been better than Ratners, the Stage or the Carnegie or even the 2nd Ave Deli, rest in peace.
Any other nominees for the best pastrami in town? Get at me.
[Photo Credit: Joel Zimmer]
We’ve talked about eating on the subway. But shouldn’t hot coffee be a much bigger hazard? I’ve seen all sorts of coffee containers on the subway over the years, and I’ve never seen one spill. Do New Yorkers have mad balancing skills? Advances in coffee cup technology?
What’s your theory? Or have you seen a coffee disaster?
“Yellow Porch,” By Richard Diebenkorn (1961)
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 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.
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.”
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.
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]
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.
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.
The Yanks will have nobody to blame but themselves if they don’t win the American League East. Yeah, they are facing Felix Hernandez tonight but you gotta figure they should win this series against the Mariners.
Up all night, we cheer:
Let’s Go Yank-ees!
Mariano is three saves away from setting the all-time saves record. I liked this bit from Craig Calcaterra over at Hardball Talk:
I think that Rivera is just showing — again — how true greatness and dominance can get actually get boring after a while, causing us to lose sight of it. I mean, it would be one thing if there was a dramatic arc to Rivera’s career. But really there isn’t. It’s been greatness since he began, followed by greatness, and continuing on through greatness, basically unabated. Sure, you have a season of him as a mediocre starter for spice. A high-profile blown save a decade ago. But really that’s not enough to break the chain.
Say Word.
