A.J. Burnett toed the rubber Wednesday night looking to extend the Yankees recent string of good starting pitching.  The Yanks’ current five-game win streak had been fueled by a 5-0, 2.25 ERA run by “CC and the question marks” (Burnett was the last starting pitcher before the streak, and was coming off a horrible, winless July).  They had also jumped out to early leads in most of those games, 23-2 in the first three innings of the last four games.  In Gavin Floyd, the Bombers were facing someone who had gone 3-0 with a 0.81 ERA in his last three starts, and 2-1 with a 3.06 and 32 Ks in 35.3 innings in his last five games versus the Yanks.

Brett Gardner started the game with a perfect bunt on the grass near the third base line and then Derek Jeter followed that up with his own perfect bunt that stayed fair in the dirt portion of the third base line.  (So when is the last time a team has started a game with two bunt singles?  Anyone? Bueller?).  After 90 total feet of singles, Curtis Granderson got badly jammed on a Floyd fastball, but muscled it out into short center, dunking it just in front of Alex Rios to put ducks on the pond.

Hot-hitting Mark Teixeira lofted the first pitch he saw to deep center for a sac fly, and Rios inexplicably tried to nail Jeter going to third.  Jeter made it safely, and Granderson moved to second on the throw.  The White Sox elected to pitch to, and not pitch around Cano with first base open, and he made them pay with a three-run shot to the right-field bleachers on an 88-mph cutter.

So Burnett had a comfy 4-0 lead as he took the mound.  Juan Pierre led off with a line drive down in the right field corner that bounced into the stands for a ground rule double.  Omar Vizquel then offered up his own bunt down the third base line that was moving from foul territory back fair.  Eric Chavez tried to pick it up while it was still foul, but was too late, putting runners on first and third.  Carlos Quentin lofted a sac fly to Gardner, and Burnett escaped the inning still leading 4-1.

The Yanks extended the lead to 6-1 in the second on a Gardner hit-by-pitch, a Jeter single to right and a Granderson double, all coming with two out, as Floyd’s breaking ball was sitting up in the strike zone and being hit hard.   But Burnett was still not comfortable as he yielded consecutive one-out singles (both on 3-1 counts) to Rios and Alejandro de Aza.  But he recovered to get Brent Morel to ground into a force, and Pierre to fly to center to end the threat.

New York decided to put Floyd out of his misery in the third as four of the first five batters reached base, including Chavez’s first homer as a Yankee, a 404-foot shot to right.  Will Ohman came in and was no better, allowing a single to Gardner and a 2-run single to Jeter.  After Granderson struck out, Teixeira lined a shot towards center field.  Rios took a bad route to the ball (even though it was in front of him), and played it off to his left side.  The ball bounced just in front of Rios, and skipped past his glove, rolling all the way to the wall.  It was mysteriously scored a triple for Teixeira, and after Cano singled him in, the Yanks had a seemingly-Burnettproof 13-1 lead.

But the enigmatic and frustrating Burnett yielded five runs on five hits in the bottom of the fourth, capped by a Carlos Quentin three-run shot on a hanging curve.  So the Jets led the Bears 13-6.  Chicago drove down the field again the next inning, knocking Burnett out of the game after a single, a double and a hustling double by de Aza pared the lead down to 13-7.  Joe Girardi walked to the mound, Burnett shoved the ball in Girardi’s hand, and A.J. then tore off his uniform top as he descended the dugout steps into the tunnel.  Cory Wade put out the fire without any more runs scoring.  Burnett’s final line: 4.1 IP, 13 H, 7 R.

Wade kept things quiet in the sixth, and the Yanks pounded former teammate Brian Bruney, and then Matt Thornton, for four more runs on five hits in the 7th to take the pressure back off.  Jeter collected his fifth hit (and fourth run) of the night in the 8th as the Bombers tacked on another run, and the Yanks had an 18-7 win.

But the big question remains, “what to do with Burnett?”

A.J. Burnett has to be a stud if the Yankees are going to win the World Serious this year. Maybe not an ace, but damn close to one. He should be as nasty as Erwin Santana has been of late. I’m not confident that he will be but you never know.

We’ll be pulling for the big lug.

Meanwhile: Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Picture by Michael Shapcott]

The Job, Chicago Style 

By John Schulian

The best advice I ever got about business came from my old baseball coach, Pete Radulovich: “Nobody plays for free.” My lawyer passed Pete’s wisdom along to the brass at the Sun-Times when the New York Times was courting me, and the next thing I knew, I got a raise and a deal with Universal Press Syndicate, which had made a fortune with “Doonesbury” and a host of other wildly successful comic strips. Funny how a little leverage works, isn’t it?

Close to 100 papers bought my column at one point, some because they actually used it, like the Atlanta Journal and Miami News. The talent-rich Boston Globe, on the other hand, bought it just to keep it out of the Boston Herald’s hands. Whatever their motivation, those big city papers all paid a decent buck. It was the small papers, however, the ones in Iowa and Louisiana, that relied on me most heavily for a national voice, even though they paid only a couple of dollars a week. But I stopped worrying about the price when John Ed Bradley, that most poetic of sports writers, told me his father used to cut my column out of his hometown paper and mail it to him at LSU.

With syndication, I was traveling the same road that Red Smith, Jimmy Cannon, and Jim Murray had before me. That was an honor in itself, but Universal Press made things even better by publishing my first book, “Writers’ Fighters and Other Sweet Scientists.” It’s a collection of my boxing writing that came out in 1983 and has achieved what is best described as cult status. God knows it was never a big seller, but there are still people who speak of it fondly, not just old goats of my vintage but young writers and fight fans who stumble upon it. I’m not sure it deserves to be mentioned in the same breath with any book by Hugh McIlvanney, the superb British boxing writer, but I’m still grateful that people haven’t used it for kindling.

For all this talk about the fruits of being a columnist, it’s high time I said a something about the job itself. At the Sun-Times I wrote four a week–Sunday, Monday, Wednesday, Friday. They ran 1,000 words apiece, which was standard for my generation but looks like literary abuse compared to the three that today’s columnists get by with. Of course the old-timers thought guys like me were pansies because they had written as many as seven a week. Red Smith, when he worked for the Philadelphia Record, even covered a beat in addition to writing his column. And then there was Arthur Daley of the New York Times, who was writing seven when his editor cut his load to six. Instead of celebrating, Daley thought his boss didn’t like him anymore.

Whether you’re doing seven columns a week or three, it’s still tough to do them right. Anybody can fill space, whether it’s an overmatched kid or an old hack running on Jack Daniels fumes. But if you really care about the craft right down to the last syllable, you inevitably wind up feeling like you’re married to a nymphomaniac: as soon as you’re finished, you’ve got to start again. For all the joy that attends a column you get right, whether it’s funny or sad or angry, you’re still staring into a black hole when you wonder what you’re going to do for an encore. There were times I started worrying before I finished the column I was working on. Other than that, it was the best job on the paper.

I’ve always felt lucky that I worked in Chicago, which, in addition to being a great city, overflowed with sports to write about, professional and college. The National League was on the North Side, the American on the South. I could write about the Bears any time of year. I could have done the same with Michael Jordan, but I was gone by the time he arrived. The best I could do in basketball was DePaul, which had a great run in the late ’70s and early ’80s. Talk about an embarrassment of riches. Better yet, most of the time I was there, the teams were terrible-–and terrible teams are a hell of a lot more fun to write about than good teams. When a team is good or, worse, great, most everybody connected with it turns secretive. They don’t want to run their mouths for fear the fates smite them. But when a team is bad, the fear is gone. Players start to reveal their true selves, whether they’re hilarious or soulful or complete assholes. There’s always something going on, always somebody running his mouth, always somebody begging to have his ears pinned back.

There isn’t a more reliable bunch of losers in all of sports than the Cubs. And yet, in my Chicago years, they had a world-class right-hander in Rick Reuschel and a great reliever in Bruce Sutter and a batting champion in Bill Buckner, whose bad legs should have qualified him for handicapped parking and who was the bravest player I ever covered. Each was a good guy in his own way. Not the life of the party, by any stretch of the imagination, but honest and insightful and professional in surroundings that would have turned lesser men into drooling loonies. There was one year when, miraculously, the Cubs were still in the pennant race on September 1 and Buckner came to Wrigley all fired up for a game he thought would sell the old joint out. Instead, it was almost empty. “It’s like they turn the lights out every August 31st,” he said. He deserved better. They all did.

No, let me amend that. There were exceptions. There were those Cubs who were such chowderheads that they were like batting-practice fastballs for a columnist. The biggest one of all was Dave Kingman. Of course you couldn’t say much bad about him the year he hit 48 homers, but he showed what a wasted blob of protoplasm he was when he spent most of the next season lolling on the disabled list. He’d come in early in the morning for treatment on whatever his injury was, but he wouldn’t hang around to watch the game, ever. One day, one of the team’s good guys pulled me aside and told me Kingman was hustling jet skis at a big summer blowout called ChicagoFest when he should have been at the ballpark. I did my due diligence as a reporter and then ripped him as a feckless, narcissistic slug. I thought he’d try to strangle me the next time our paths crossed, but he didn’t say a thing. He just looked scary, the way he always did: 6-foot-6, with a permanent Charles Whitman stare.

Herman Franks did two tours as the Cubs’ manager while I worked in Chicago. It’s hard to believe a bigger lout ever darkened baseball. Some days his greatest joy in life seemed to be throwing his dirty laundry at the clubhouse man and telling him, “Get the brown out, Jap.” The clubhouse man was, as you probably guessed, Japanese.

To say Herman was an uninspired manager would be understatement. He consistently made a bad team worse, and when I kept calling him on it in print, he whined to friends back home in Salt Lake City. That’s right. We came from the same town. We even went to the same high school, albeit 30 years apart. “Get this goddamned Schulian off my back,” Herman begged a friend with whom he had played CYO ball. Not a chance. Herman was just too much fun to write about. There was, for instance, the day he said the difference between Jose Cardenal, who’d been traded from the Cubs, and Greg Luzinski was the difference between ice cream and horseshit. I seized the moment and wrote that the difference between Cardenal and Herman was the difference between ice cream and, taking my readers’ sensitivities into consideration, horse manure. The next time I was beside the batting cage at Wrigley, Herman challenged me to a fight. When he saw that I couldn’t stop laughing, he stomped away.

I wasn’t wild about George Halas, either. Forget the Monsters of the Midway and the Decatur Staleys and the running board of the car that he and the NFL’s other original owner posed beside. All of that was real, but it became part of a mythology that served Halas as a protective shield. He was about 1,000 years old when I worked in Chicago, and he could give you an E.T. smile that was supposed to pass for charm, but underneath it all, he was still a tightwad and a mean SOB. For years he employed a team physician who did nothing but screw up players’ knees. Big name players like Gale Sayers and Dick Butkus. I always wondered about Halas’s feelings about race, too. He was, if I recall correctly, the next-to-last NFL owner to integrate his team. And even at the end of his reign, he publicly tortured Neil Armstrong, an eminently decent man who happened to be a less than wonderful head coach. I’m not sure Halas a word of what I said about him, but it still felt good to tee off on the old bastard.

All things considered, I’d rather be remembered for the work I did that wasn’t the product of outrage–the magazine pieces about Josh Gibson and Chuck Bednarik and the old Pacific Coast League, the newspaper columns about Muhammad Ali and Pete Maravich and a high school basketball star named Ben Wilson whose dreams were canceled by a stranger with a gun. But raising hell was part of the job, too, and I did my share of it. Maybe I even liked it too much. I remember Mike Royko telling me there’s no sense in peeling a grape with an ax. Sometimes I forgot to heed his advice. But other times the grape deserved the ax.

Unquestionably the toughest column I ever wrote was about Quentin Dailey, a basketball player the Bulls shouldn’t have drafted. He’d terrorized a student nurse at the University of San Francisco. Didn’t rape her, mind you. But left her with bad dreams that still may not have gone away. The Bulls drafted him No. 1 in 1982, and I went to the press conference where they introduced him. I was the only one there who asked if he had had any regrets, was getting any counseling, was doing anything positive to make amends for the harm he had done. And he turned out to be utterly unrepentant. I went back to the paper and wrote the harshest column I could. It might be the harshest column I’ve ever seen by anyone. Then I waited to see what would happen.

There were calls and letters that accused me of being a racist, lots of them. But there was also an invitation to appear on Oprah Winfrey’s show as a defender of women. I accepted, of course. NOW thanked me and started making plans to picket the Bulls’ games. Reggie Jackson called and said he’d paid for Dailey’s lawyer because his niece had been going out with Dailey. Bill Veeck called and said he wanted me to know he was in my corner. Best of all, my wife said she was proud of me.

Still, it felt like I was breathing thin air, maybe having an out-of-body experience. I felt terribly self-conscious. It wasn’t like seeing my face in an ad on the side of a bus, and it wasn’t like my wife nudging me in a restaurant and saying, “Those people over there recognize you.” It was disconcerting. When I walked to a courthouse a few blocks from the Sun-Times to take care of a ticket-–I’d raced a stoplight and lost-–I couldn’t help wondering if some cop was going to get in my face and call me a racist motherfucker. And if I would have the stones to hold my ground and say that race had nothing to do with what I wrote. It never happened, though. Life went on, the way it usually does.

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

Here’s Robert Whiting, author of You Gotta Have Wa, on the late Hideki Irabu:

Irabu could be a likable young man when he was in a good mood. Cap pushed back, chewing bubble gum, and talking about his forkball, he seemed quite personable. He could also be very generous—to cite one example, he paid off most of his translator George Rose’s graduate-school loans with part of his first World Series bonus.

But Irabu was often morose and given to long fits of depression. Despite efforts by Derek Jeter, David Cone, and David Wells to help him integrate into the team, he spent much of his time alone, sitting by himself in the Yankee stadium bullpen out in right center field. On the road, he would shut himself in his hotel room poring over anatomy books, trying to understand physiology. (He liked to draw pictures of the human body and became quite skilled at it.) Still, acquaintances described Irabu as being lonely for company—if he hooked up with you for dinner one night, then he’d call you up the next and the night after to go out. It seemed that when he drank, he liked to do so in the company of others, not home alone as others might.

[Picture via The Name’s Duke, MaDuke]

Who?

Evidence of delusion? On the heels of the 2003 ALCS (not to mention 86 years of futility) how better to celebrate reaching the promised land than with a t-shirt that doesn’t even mention your team?

Yankee snark? None, since Yankee fans sprinted to wallow in the mud of the lame t-shirt wars. “Got Rings?” is by far the lamest of all entries on either side. When the Red Sox win next, maybe as soon as this year, will “Got Rings?” wearers rush out to buy an updated version to keep track of Boston’s progress?

Here’s Charles Simic on the lost art of postcard writing:

Until a few years ago, hardly a day would go by in the summer without the mailman bringing a postcard from a vacationing friend or acquaintance. Nowadays, you’re bound to get an email enclosing a photograph, or, if your grandchildren are the ones doing the traveling, a brief message telling you that their flight has been delayed or that they have arrived. The terrific thing about postcards was their immense variety. It wasn’t just the Eiffel Tower or the Taj Mahal, or some other famous tourist attraction you were likely to receive in the mail, but also a card with a picture of a roadside diner in Iowa, the biggest hog at some state fair in the South, and even a funeral parlor touting the professional excellence that their customers have come to expect over a hundred years. Almost every business in this country, from a dog photographer to a fancy resort and spa, had a card. In my experience, people in the habit of sending cards could be divided into those who go for the conventional images of famous places and those who delight in sending images whose bad taste guarantees a shock or a laugh.

I understand that impulse. When you’re in Rome, everyone back home expects a postcard of the Coliseum or the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel: send them instead one of a neighborhood pizzeria with five small tables, three potted plants and the elderly owner and his wife wiping their hands on their aprons and smiling broadly. Fans of quaint and kitschy postcards spend their entire vacations on the lookout for some especially outrageous example to amuse their friends back home, while their spouses consult serious guide books and stroll for hours with moist eyes past great paintings and sculptures in some museum.

Once they find the right card, they are faced with the problem of what to write on the other side. A conventional greeting won’t do. A few details about the trip and an opinion or two about the country they are visiting are okay, but even better is to come up with something clever, since every postcard is written with a particular person in mind.

Sweet essay.

Over at Baseball Prospectus, Sam Miller has a fun piece about Error Faces.

Check it out.

[Photo Credit: N.Y. Daily News]

Yanks are in Chicago for a four-game series against Ozzie’s White Sox. This weekend, of course, they’ll be in Boston for three against the Red Sox.

Over at PB, Cliff has the preview. And Jay Jaffe write about the imminent arrival of Jesus Montero:

Montero’s overall .283/.342/.429 line at Scranton is still not terribly impressive, but he finally showed considerable pop in July, batting .271/.346/.514 with four homers, upping his season total to 10. He’s drawing his walks, too — eight in 78 plate appearances during the month, the second in a row in which he’s taken passes in at least 10 percent of his PA. His defense is still cause for concern, but there are modest signs of improvement; while he’s gunning down just 20 percent of would-be base thieves, opponents are running somewhat less often against him this year, and he’s cut his rate of passed balls almost in half.

On the other hand, Baseball Prospectus’ Kevin Goldstein compared his defense unfavorably to one of the more notorious bat-first backstops of recent memory: “Mike Piazza is a MUCH better defensive catcher than Jesus Montero. We need to get away from that comparison, because it’s a bad one.” Ouch.

Left unsaid in the report of Montero’s near-imminent rise is where he’ll be picking up his at-bats. Aside from an early-season power spike, Russell Martin’s overall numbers (.225/.326/.366) are no better than in recent years, and since May 1 he’s hit just .201/.309/.287, which is basically what one might accomplish by swinging at pitches with a rubber chicken. Francisco Cervelli (.235/.305/.306) is even worse, as usual, and he’s thrown out just two out of 24 base thieves. Jorge Posada’s hitting .235 /318/.383 overall, and .284/.351/.406 since the Big Sitdown, having gone a whole month without homering; furthermore, he’s just 6-for-53 against lefties, with a lone double as his only extra-base hit. Andruw Jones (.227/.315/.445 overall) hit .242/.342/.545 in July, and is up to .268/.348/.524 against lefties; that thin slice may be the most likely segment of these players’ time to be preserved.

Jeter sits tonight as the Yanks go to a six-man rotation.

Brett Gardner LF
Curtis Granderson CF
Mark Teixeira 1B
Robinson Cano 2
Nick Swisher RF
Eric Chavez 3B
Jorge Posada DH
Eduardo Nunez SS
Francisco Cervelli C

Oh, it’s all just so exciting.

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Who? Guy at the grocery store. What? First time caller, long time listener. Gist? Who brought the Yankee fan? Evidence of delusion? “We’ll be happy to take those rings from you.”

Yankee Snark? “They make new rings every year, and the Giants won last year, but otherwise, good luck.”

I’ve been involved in this type of conversation a lot, but usually it’s my father-in-law that instigates it as means to a friendly introduction. This time, the guy at the grocery store started things off and seemed genuinely a little bit hurt that a New Englander would marry outside the Red Sox family.

I felt a little sad for him, until I realized my in-laws were not disagreeing with him. Hey, I’m standing right here guys.

Overall? Mostly good-natured, slightly delusional, hugely confident. Not too bad, but let’s see what happens at the beach.

A Summons to Manhattan

By John Schulian

It’s startling to think of how much movement there was among sports writers in the 70s and 80s, especially when you consider the state of the business today, with everybody frozen in place, just glad to have a job. Dave Kindred took his column from Louisville to the Washington Post, Skip Bayless traded feature writing at the L.A. Times for a column at the Dallas Morning News, Bill Nack gave up his column at Newsday and became one of Sports Illustrated’s most venerated writers. I suppose it was inevitable that I would have my day in the barrel.

Oddly enough, it was the New York Times again, and this time I got a call from someone who really was the sports editor there, Le Anne Schreiber. She was the first woman to hold that job at a major American daily, and one of her first challenges, in 1979, was to find a successor to Red Smith. He was in his 70s but still wrote with the elegance and gentle wit that was his trademark. I remember in particular a column about morning at Saratoga, and how Mike Lupica and I instantly started quoting lines from it the next time we saw each other. Just the same, the Times wanted an heir apparent in house for the day Red crossed the finish line.

I went to New York to meet executive editor Abe Rosenthal and the paper’s other mucky-mucks, and they pumped me full of praise and told me my picture might one day be hanging on a wall filled with photographs of the paper’s Pulitzer prize winners. The job they were offering was a big step down from the one I had at the Sun-Times: one column a week and long features the rest of the time. When Red left the paper, I would be first in line to replace him as a four-times-a-week columnist. The money they were offering wasn’t what I was making in Chicago, either. But this was the New York Times. Better yet, this was a chance to claim a small piece of newspaper history by being the man who succeeded Red Smith.

I was married at the time, and my wife, Paula Ellis, wanted me to take the job. Not only would she have been closer to her family, in Bethesda, Maryland, she would have had more opportunities professionally. She was in the newspaper business, too-–very smart, very driven, with a glorious future ahead of her as an editor, publisher, and journalism foundation executive. I understood where Paula was coming from. I felt more than a little guilty, too, since I was giving far more of myself to my column than I was to being a husband. But I was the one whose career would be at risk if I went to the Times. I didn’t want to be sportswriting’s answer to George Selkirk, the poor soul who replaced Babe Ruth.

I thought about the Times’ sports section, which Tony Kornheiser, bless his heart, once compared with to Raquel Welch’s elbow. It seemed to be improving steadily. But no matter how brainy and talented Le Anne Schreiber was-–and, buddy, she had brains and talent in spades-–there was no guarantee that the section might not backslide into mediocrity. Beyond that, I wasn’t sure the Times would give me the freedom I enjoyed in Chicago. Rosenthal and Co. might have loved the character sketches I did, but some of my commentary got pretty rough. I don’t recall ever seeing a Times sports columnist peel the hide off someone the way I did.

So there was that. And there was the thought that people would think I was sitting around waiting for Red Smith to die. Worse, maybe Red would, too. And the money bothered me, even though it was only a couple grand shy of what the Sun-Times was paying me. And then there was New York itself, which was decidedly short on charm in that era, a point that was driven home every time I visited and saw the decay, poverty, and violence.

But I also heard the siren song of friends and colleagues who said the Times would give me the biggest soapbox in the business. There would be chances to write books that would never come my way in Chicago. Dave Anderson, a wonderful guy as well as a pro’s pro, called to say how much he was looking forward to working with me. Lupica told me he was looking forward to reading me regularly, although I suspect he really wanted to see if I was as slow a writer as he’d heard.

Long story short: everything was up in the air when I arrived for my final visit with Abe Rosenthal. He ushered me into a small sitting room off his office. It was the essence of plush–perfect furniture, exquisite Oriental rugs, pricey art on the walls. All together, it was probably worth more than my entire house in Chicago. I’m sure I gawked like the hoople I was.

Rosenthal offered me tea and I said no thanks. After some obligatory chitchat, I told him, nicely, that I wasn’t sure I would be comfortable perched on Red’s shoulder, waiting for him to finish his last stand. If I said no, would the Times come back to me when Red was gone? And Abe Rosenthal said, “John, the brass ring is coming around now. You better grab it.”

In that instant, I knew I wasn’t going to take the job. No way I was going to be told to take it or leave it. Some friends who heard the story later told me I was nuts to be offended, that Rosenthal had every right to put things in those terms. But grabbing his brass ring wasn’t my style.

I read later in the Village Voice that Frank Deford and Pete Axthelm had turned down the Times, too. That was good company to be in. And the guy who ultimately took the job was good company as well. Ira Berkow was a perfect fit at the Times–a thoroughly engaging writer who came at his column subjects from a unique angle and had a big heart for the underdog. What Ira wasn’t, of course, was Red Smith. He was Red’s biographer, and a damned good one, but that was as close as he was going to come.

I wouldn’t have been Red Smith, either. I would have tried mightily and I would have failed and I have no idea how I would have reacted, only that it wouldn’t have been pretty. One Red Smith is all you get. It was one of those basic truths that took a long time to sink in, but once it did, it made me gladder than ever that I said no to the Times. And when I tell you that I never second-guessed my decision, feel free to factor Red into the equation.

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

We’re proud to reprint this story by Pete Dexter which originally appeared in Inside Sports (May 31, 1980).

By Pete Dexter

The child in the child is somehow faded. She is eight years old but there is nothing in her manner to say she isn’t nineteen, with a house full of screaming babies and a high school sweetheart who doesn’t always come home at night anymore.

She walks the front yard like walking is already a chore, collecting the mongrel puppies. There are nine of them and her fingers disappear into the long coats as she picks them up, then puts them in a cardboard box next to the front door.

The house is a shack, about a block from the abandoned half-mile dirt track where LeeRoy Yarbrough, the most famous man ever to come out of west Jacksonville, Florida, got his start racing automobiles. About three blocks from the place where, a month before, cold sober, he tried to strangle his own mother.

“He live right up that road there,” she says, pointing a puppy. “Him and Miz Yarbrough, but they ain’t there now. Everybody knows LeeRoy, sometime he come by and sit on the steps, but now he wrung Miz Yarbrough’s neck, he ain’t home no more.”

The screen door opens and a woman in white socks steps halfway out the door. Missing teeth and a face as narrow as the phone book. “You git them puppies up yet? You know what your daddy tol’ you.”

The door slams shut, but the woman stays there, behind it in the shadows. In west Jacksonville it always feels like there’s somebody watching behind the screen door.

“We got to take the puppies down to the lake,” the girl says. “Daddy got back from the country [farm] and says so. He goin’ take them out to the lake with him tonight.”

I ask her why she just didn’t give the puppies away. She shakes her head. “I tol’ you,” she says. “Daddy got back from the country.”

I’m going to tell you right here that I don’t know what picked LeeRoy Yarbrough off the top of his world in 1969 and delivered him, eleven years later, to the night when he would get up off a living room chair and tell his mother, “I hate to do this to you,” and then try to kill her. I can tell you some of how it happened, I can tell you what the doctors said, what his people said. But I don’t know why.

It has business with that little girl and her puppies, though. With not looking at what you don’t want to see, putting it off until you are face-to-face with something unspeakable.

And tonight those nine puppies go to the bottom of the lake.

A Short History

“They ain’t ever been no fits on neither side of the family. That’s how the doctors knowed it was them licks on the head that made LeeRoy how he is.” Minnie Yarbrough is LeeRoy’s mother. She is seventy-six years old, and she’s sitting on the couch in her living room, as far away from the yellow chair in the corner as she can get. That is where it happened.

It’s an old house on Plymouth Street, in west Jacksonville, brown shingles, a bad roof, the porch gives when you step on it. An empty trailer sits rusting in the backyard. Inside it’s dark. The windows are closed off and Minnie Yarbrough keeps the door to her room locked any time she isn’t in it.

“I was born and partial raised in Clay County, Florida. Mr. Yarbrough was partial raised in Baker County. Both of us come from Florida families, Baptists, and there was never no fits on either side. Mr. Yarbrough died in 1974, but he’d of mentioned it if it was. We was together forty-three years…”

Lonnie LeeRoy Yarbrough was one of six children. He was the first son, born September 17, 1938, and named after his father, who ran a roadside vegetable stand.

Lonnie Yarbrough hauled the vegetables in an old truck and played penny poker with his friends to pass the time.

LeeRoy passed his time at Moon’s Garage. He put his first car together when he was twelve—dropping a Chrysler engine into a 1934 Ford coupe—and wore the police out stopping him along the back roads of west Jacksonville. He quit Paxon High School after the tenth grade, and he won the first race he was ever in at Jacksonville Speedway when he was sixteen.

Even now, sitting in the Duval County Jail, waiting to be processed out to a state hospital, he can tell you exactly what he was running that day. A 1940 flat-head Ford, bored out 81/1,000ths of an inch, with high-compression heads.

He can tell you that, but he can’t tell you who is president.

(more…)

The Yankees did not make a move before the trade deadline yesterday. Did Brian Cashman blow it? Or was he wise to not panic?

Here’s Joel Sherman in the Post:

Cashman said he never got close to a trade. Not for Ubaldo Jimenez. Not for Hiroki Kuroda. Not for Heath Bell. Not for anyone.

Instead, Cashman decided a 106-game sample size was significant. The Yanks are 64-42 after trouble was forecasted following Cliff Lee’s decision to go to Philadelphia and Andy Pettitte’s retirement. The Yankees have the majors’ third-best record, are sitting on Boston’s doorstep and are 6½ games up in the wild-card race.

So Cashman did not feel desperation, though he knew his trade-deadline inactivity would trigger a new round of “the Yankees are doomed.” Cashman, in fact, feels sure the Yankees have enough depth, even in pitching, to weather the rest of the season.

And over at The Yankee Analysts, Larry Koeslter writes:

Bottom line, Brian Cashman and company didn’t like any of the hypothetical deals they were mulling enough to pull the trigger, and that’s OK. The Rockies were asking for a Cliff Lee-type package for Ubaldo Jimenez, and Ubaldo is not Cliff Lee. NL Central lifer Wandy Rodriguez wasn’t exciting anyone enough to surrender anything worthwhile, and Hiroki Kuroda decided he likes being on a losing team too much to leave Los Angeles. I personally wouldn’t have minded seeing Erik Bedard come to the Bronx instead of Boston, but he’s not exactly a sure thing either.

One thing seems almost certain now — Jesus Montero will be making his Major League debut for the Yankees soon; it’s really just a matter of when. And with the news that Manny Banuelos was promoted to AAA today, it’s not out of the question that we could see the Yankees’ prize pitching prospect pitching important innings in another month as well.

Oh, and Alex Rodriguez comes back in roughly two weeks. So for those upset that the team didn’t make a trade, it’s probably best to keep in mind that help is still on the way, only this time it isn’t costing the Yankees anything except time.

[Photo Credit: Magritte via todayandtomorrow]

During the winter, Freddy Garcia’s signing was looked upon as a stop gap measure intended to tide the Yankees over until reinforcements could be acquired in the summer. However, when the clock struck 4:00 PM, all was quiet on the trade front, meaning the veteran right hander will now be counted upon to help the Yankees reach the finish line. If Garcia continues to pitch as well as he did today, the Yankees should be just fine.

Leading up to the trade deadline, which passed during the eighth inning, there had been a lot of speculation about the Yankees acquiring another pitcher. However, lost amid the trade talk was the fact that the Yankees currently lead the American League in ERA+, and a big part of that has been Freddy Garcia. In fact, by limiting the Orioles to two runs over six innings, the soft tossing right hander recorded his 14th quality start, and eighth in his last ninth games. Along with fellow veteran retread Bartolo Colon, Garcia has not only helped hold down the fort, but lessened the need for reinforcements.

Garcia’s quality outing was not only a symbolic comfort for the Yankees, but a vital part of winning the series finale against the Orioles. One day after scoring a combined 25 runs in a doubleheader sweep, the Yankees’ bats were a little sluggish in the early going. Over the first three innings, the Bronx Bombers squandered two bases loaded opportunities, but the third time proved to be a charm in the fourth. After Eric Chavez walked to lead off the frame, Russell Martin hit a routine groundball right at Baltimore shortstop J.J. Hardy. It should have been Martin’s 16th double play of the season, but instead, the ball rolled under Hardy’s glove and set the stage for Brett Gardner’s bases clearing triple two batters later.

The Yankees wound up scoring four runs in the fourth, but they also lost their shortstop. One inning earlier, Derek Jeter was struck on the right hand by a pitch from Jake Arieta, but only when his next at bat rolled around was he forced to exit the game. Because of a lack depth on the bench, Francisco Cervelli was sent to play second base for the first time in his professional career, which must have had Brian Cashman reaching for his phone, if only for a moment. However, X-rays on Jeter’s finger were negative, and the Yankees dodged a bullet (also known as Eduardo Nunez’ throwing arm).

Following the four run outburst, the Yankees’ offense went dormant, but the combination of Garcia and three relievers was more than enough to lock down the game. In particular, David Robertson was summoned with two outs in the seventh to retire Hardy, who came to the plate as the tying run. Then, as an encore, Robertson plowed through the middle of the Orioles lineup in the eighth by striking out the side. All that was left was for Mariano Rivera to polish off the game and the homestand, which the Yankees finished at 7-3.

Cannonball A meets Extra P.

[Photo Credit: Herbert List]

The Yanks play two against the O’s today as the trading deadline enters the home stretch. Rob Neyer has a piece on the summer trade-a-thon in today’s New York Times:

The most important thing to know about baseball trades made in July is that most of them do not amount to much. Few of the stars traded to contenders will be the difference between winning and losing, and few of the young prospects traded for stars will become stars. Still, we have had a flurry of activity leading to Sunday’s deadline for nonwaiver trades (don’t ask), with stars like Carlos Beltran, and numerous lesser lights changing teams and kindling hope among their new teams’ fans.

And although most of these deadline deals are ultimately good for all parties — contrary to popular opinion, baseball executives are generally intelligent — there have been a few notably disastrous deadline trades over the years.

Meanwhile, at the Stadium, Bartolo Colon takes the hill.

1. Gardner CF
2. Nunez SS
3. Teixeira DH
4. Cano 2B
5. Swisher RF
6. Chavez 3B
7. Posada 1B
8. Dickerson LF
9. Cervelli C

Long day of baseball ahead of us. Stay hyrdrated and:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: Natasha Dominguez via Je Suis Perdu]

On July 28th, the St. Petersburg Times had nine journalists write about a game between the Yankees and Rays:

FIFTH INNING

Meter tells a story that the box score doesn’t

ST. PETERSBURG — In his taxi parked outside the stadium, Steven “Sven” Erikson cautiously admitted that he is not a big Rays fan. He followed the game on his laptop so he’d have something to talk about with his fares afterward.

In his 60 years, Erikson said he has been a wrangler in Colorado, sold men’s clothing in New York City, attended seminary in Pennsylvania and worked as a financial planner in Michigan. Tired of corporate culture, he moved to Treasure Island a couple of years ago and got a job driving a cab.

Some fans are giddy after a win, or despondent after a loss. Some drink too much and can barely remember where they live. A few offer an opinion on the Rays’ stadium debate. In the first inning, a woman who forgot to lock her car hired Erikson to drive her a mile to where she parked. She didn’t like the $5.80 fare and tipped him 20 cents.

Back in line, the Rays put two men on before Longoria hit it deep to center where Curtis Granderson snagged the ball at the wall.

The Yankees fans he drove home never mentioned it.

Chris Zuppa, Times staff writer

Most cool.

I’m a frequent traveler to New England, got in-laws stretching from Worcester, through Boston, up Cape Ann and into Maine. I lived in Boston one summer. And now I take long vacations there to visit family and friends.

I have never had a bad experience regarding my Yankee hat. Some light-hearted ribbing here or there. Most just ignore it completely. But there’s one caveat to this track record. Every time I’ve been up there for an extended period, the Yanks have been on top.

That summer I lived in Boston? 1998. I think they made it a Federal crime to pick on Yankee fans that year.

So I now I trek up for week’s vacation into the heart of Red Sox country wearing the lessor team’s hat. I wonder if they’ll treat me differently? I’ll let you know next week as I relay the choicest encounters leading up to the Yanks visit next weekend.

Could the Yanks figure out a way to take that series and get back in the Division race for reals? It would certainly make my return to New York all the sweeter.

Hey Now Friday, from that drooltastic site, Worship The Feminine.

It isn’t often that the death of a former pitcher with a career record of 34-35 makes national news, but that’s what happened on Thursday. On NBC’s Nightly News, anchor Brian Williams included a story on the death of former Yankee Hideki Irabu, a suicide victim at the age of 42. The inclusion of Irabu during a 23-minute national broadcast tells us about his overall impact; he was an internationally known name and a full-fledged legend in his native Japan, where he was often described as the “Japanese Nolan Ryan.”

In major league circles, Irabu was hardly legendary. By the time he joined the Yankees, he no longer had the Ryan fastball. He pitched well for the 1998 Yankees, becoming an important part of their five-man rotation, but he was certainly not spectacular and failed to improve in subsequent seasons. Continually out of shape, he did not improve his conditioning and he did not work hard to become a better pitcher. By the end of 1999, he was out of Yankee pinstripes, and by 2002, he was out of the big leagues. He became a disappointment, a flop, a bust who did not live up to the hype.

Unfortunately, Irabu also became a punch line, largely because of the “fat toad” label that George Steinbrenner pinned on him. Like a lot of other people, I feel bad about that now, after learning that Irabu took his own life. I doubt that the toad jokes had anything to do with his suicide; it’s far more likely that his severe alcoholism, which contributed to incidents involving assault and driving under the influence and ultimately led to the departure of his wife and children, had far more to do with his sad decision to hang himself. Still, it makes me wonder about the cost of making fun of people who have obvious, even blatant weaknesses. Irabu does not seem to have been a bad guy, but simply a lazy one; he deserved a little less cruelty than what the fans and media, including me, gave him.

In the hours after hearing of Irabu’s suicide, I began to think of two other players. One was Don Wilson. The other was Danny Thomas. You might not have heard of either of them, but their tales deserve to be told.

Wilson was one of a flock of blazing right-handers the Astros featured in the 1970s. A smaller version of J.R. Richard, he could throw the ball through a wall, and appeared headed for a long career. He had already thrown two no-hitters, compiled an 18-strikeout game, and struck out 235 batters in a season, all before his 30th birthday.

During the winter that preceded the 1975 season, Wilson’s lifeless body was found in the passenger seat of his Ford Thunderbird, which had been left running in his own garage. Not only did Wilson die from carbon monoxide poisoning, but the gas seeped into the Wilson’s Houston home and took the life of his son, while leaving his daughter and wife in comas. (Thankfully, his wife and daughter would survive.)

Initially, Wilson’s death was reported as a suicide. Because of those initial reports, I assumed that the 29-year-old Wilson had indeed taken his own life. I also considered him a villain because his recklessness had claimed the life of one of his innocent children.

And then, a couple of years ago, I decided to re-visit the Wilson story on the Internet. I read that the official coroner’s report listed Wilson’s death as accidental, and not as a suicide. I didn’t quite understand how the coroner came to that conclusion, but if it happened to be accurate, then Wilson fell into a more sympathetic light.

The Astros gave Wilson the benefit of the doubt. They retired his No. 30 and wore a memorial patch on their uniform jerseys for the entire 1975 season. The Astros continue to honor Wilson at Minute Maid Park, where his plaque is featured on the franchise’s Wall of Honor.

The case of Danny Thomas was more clear-cut, but no less somber. A highly touted prospect in the Brewers’ system, Thomas also had emotional concerns and required psychiatric care. After the 1976 season, he decided to join a religious group known as the Worldwide Church of God. According to the group’s religious beliefs, it was not appropriate to work from sundown on Friday to sundown on Sunday. As a result, when Thomas reported to spring training in 1977, he informed the Brewers that he would have to miss a number of weekend games. Thomas became known as “The Sundown Kid.”

Thomas had enormous power and hit well in two stints with the Brewers, but several disciplinary infractions and his refusal to play on weekends curtailed his career. He seemed to have legitimate mental health problems. Ultimately, the Brewers felt he was too much trouble and demoted him to Double-A; when he refused the assignment, the Brewers gave him his release. In 1979, he attempted a comeback, playing minor league ball for the Miami Amigos in the ill-fated Inter-American League, which folded in the middle of its first season.

The following June, his playing days over, Thomas was arrested on charges of rape and sodomy, a situation made even more complicated because he happened to be married with two young children. On June 12, as he sat in jail awaiting trial, Thomas cut strips from his jeans, tied them to his jail cell, and hanged himself. Like Wilson, Thomas was only 29 years old. To make matters worse, Thomas’ family was so poor that it could not afford to pay for a funeral.

I’m not sure what to make of all this. Perhaps the lessons are two-fold. Athletes, no matter how young and talented, are not invincible or immortal. And athletes, no matter how good they are at what they do, have the same kind of emotional problems that many of us face.

Wilson, Thomas, and Irabu were vulnerable. We all are.

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