With the Milwaukee Brewers having left town after their first visit to the Bronx in 14 years, I can’t help but think of the 1980s. Something about the team’s light blue home pinstripes and cartoonish ball-in-glove logo must have made an indelible mark on a young fan growing up in the decade.

Unfortunately, the 1980s isn’t the best period for a Yankees fan to take a trip down memory lane. After starting off with consecutive division titles and an A.L. pennant, the team began a gradual descent into one of the darkest periods in franchise history. As a result, when the decade ended, the Yankees were without a World Series championship for the first time since moving to the Bronx.

Even though the team failed to win a ring during the 1980s, things really weren’t all that bad. As George Steinbrenner was fond of reminding everyone, the Yankees actually won more games than any other team over those 10 years (the Brewers were the only team against which the Yankees had a losing record). What’s more, the team also played host to Hall of Famers like Reggie Jackson, Goose Gossage, Dave Winfield and Rickey Henderson, not to mention a beloved fan favorite like Don Mattingly. However, each year, there always seemed to be at least one other team that was better.

During the 1980s, 11 of the 14 teams in the American League finished in first place at least once, an impressive level of parity in the two-division format. Perhaps that’s why a sentimental journey back to the era evokes just as many memories about opposing players as heroes in pinstripes. So, in honor of the decade and its many great players, listed below is an all-1980s team selected on the basis of how well they performed against the Yankees (all stats were compiled at the designated positions). I apologize in advance if any of these names cause the 30-somethings among the Yankees’ fan base to cringe a bit.

C – Ernie Whitt, Toronto Blue Jays: 1980-1989

Although one of the more beloved players in Blue Jays history, Whitt was never really a star…except when he played the Yankees. In fact, the only team against which he posted better numbers was the Minnesota Twins.

Honorable Mention: Regardless of what color Sox he was wearing, Carlton Fisk was always productive (.804 OPS with 15 home runs and 48 RBIs) against the Yankees. Perhaps that’s why the Yankees tried to acquire him from Chicago after the 1985 season. Unfortunately for the Bronx Bombers, the heavily rumored trade fell through and Fisk finished the decade hitting .295/.357/.534 against them.

1B – Darrell Evans, Detroit Tigers: 1984-1988

Evans spent most of his career in the National League with the Braves and Giants, but a resurgent 1983 season made him one of the hottest free agent commodities on the market that off season. Seventeen teams, including the Yankees, put in a claim for Evans in the free agent re-entry draft, but the Tigers came away the winners. Despite being 37 in 1984, Evans continued to produce throughout his time in Detroit, and the Yankees were one of the teams he most enjoyed facing.

Honorable Mention: No first baseman had more plate appearances against the Yankees during the 1980s than Eddie Murray, but despite posting solid numbers, the future Hall of Famer never seemed to really torment the team. For example, despite ranking in the top-10 in all-time RBIs, Murray never knocked in more than three in one game against the Bombers.

2B – Bobby Grich, California Angels: 1980-1986

Continuing a theme, when Bobby Grich became a free agent after the 1976 season, Yankees’ manager Billy Martin implored the team to acquire the second baseman. George Steinbrenner overruled him, however, and the Yankees opted to sign Reggie Jackson. Mr. October contributed to three pennants and two championships during his tenure, so the Yankees had to be happy with that decision. However, throughout the 1980s, Grich reminded the team of what they missed out on.

3B – George Brett, Kansas City Royals: 1980-1989

When you think 1980s and the Yankees, George Brett is one of the first opposition players to come to mind. Just ask Goose Gossage. Their epic battles were a thing of legend, sometimes quite literally, as the Pine Tar Game will attest. Ultimately, however, Brett’s bat is what left the biggest mark on the rivalry between the two teams. With his plate appearances as a first baseman and DH include, Brett ranks third during the decade in home runs (23) and RBIs (75) against the Yankees. His combined OPS of .920 also ranks fourth among players with at least 150 plate appearances.

Honorable Mention: If it seemed like the Yankees never got Wade Boggs out, well, that’s because they rarely did. In over 400 plate appearance, Boggs had an outstanding OBP of .431, not to mention a .503 rate at Fenway Park. Fortunately, most Yankees’ fans now remember Boggs riding atop a horse instead of lining balls off the Green Monster.

SS – Scott Fletcher, Chicago White Sox: 1983-1985, 1989; Texas Rangers: 1986-1989

Considering the caliber of short stops who played in the 1980s, Fletcher’s name might strike some as a surprise, but not if you grew up watching the Yankees during the decade. Whether with Texas or Chicago, the scrappy short stop always seemed to get a hit against the Yankees. Among players with at least 150 appearances, only Boggs topped Fletcher’s batting average of .332.

Honorable Mention: Alan Trammell knocked in 66 runs against the Yankees during the decade, while Cal Ripken Jr. belted 12 home runs. The highest OPS belonged to Robin Yount. Nonetheless, those Hall of Famers (Trammell’s current exclusion notwithstanding) still take a back seat to the unheralded Fletcher.

LF – Jim Rice, Boston Red Sox: 1980-1989

Contrary to popular main stream media opinion, particularly emanating from Boston, Jim Rice wasn’t the most feared hitter in American League…unless you happened to be wearing a Yankee uniform. During the 1980s, when Rice’s skills were in a steady decline, the powerful right handed hitter still managed to haunt the Yankees. Including his games as DH, Rice’s line improves to .324/.392/.607, while his home run and RBI increase to 24 and 82, respectively, totals surpassed only by teammate Dwight Evans (who had over 100 more plate appearances). Without question, Rice was the Yankees’ chief tormenter during the 1980s.

CF – Lloyd Moseby, Toronto Blue Jays: 1980-1989

In the middle of the decade, Lloyd Moseby was often the forgotten man in the Blue Jays heralded outfield that included sluggers Jesse Barfield and George Bell. Perhaps that’s why, of all the players on this list, Moseby’s inclusion surprises me the most. Nonetheless, Moseby’s impressive output in almost 400 plate appearances is undeniable.

Honorable Mention: Had Robin Yount not split the decade between short stop and center field, he would have earned the nod at either position. Combined, Yount’s 141 hits against the Yankees trails only Paul Molitor and Willie Wilson, who each had 142, while his 75 RBIs are tied with Brett for third. In other words, Yount’s honorable mention at two positions is well deserved.

RF – Larry Parrish, Texas Rangers: 1982-1988; Boston Red Sox: 1988

How many fans during the 1980s confused Larry Parrish with Tigers’ catcher Lance Parrish? When it came time to preparing a scouting report, maybe the Yankees did as well? In his 36 games as a right fielder against the Yankees, Parrish had prolific power and RBI numbers, which look even more impressive (17 and 61 respectively) when combined with his totals from other positions.

Honorable Mention: Dwight Evans had the most home runs (26) and RBIs (90) against the Yankees in the 1980s. However, he also had the most plate appearances, over 100 of which came at a position other than right field. Of all the candidates for this all-decade opposition team, Evans probably has the best case for being promoted to starter, but Parrish’s short-term dominance seemed a better selection. Or, maybe I just didn’t want two Red Sox in the starting lineup.

DH: Harold Baines,Chicago White Sox: 1980-1989; Texas Rangers: 1989

Harold Baines actually had over 300 plate appearances against the Yankees as a right fielder, but he saved his best hitting against them for when he was the DH. Combined, Baines’ 15 home runs and 65 RBIs rank among the top-10 of all Yankees’ opponents during the 1980s.

Honorable Mention: Hal McRae was a Yankees tormenter long before the 1980s, but he continued to do damage (.310/.368/.490) to the Bronx Bombers throughout that decade as well.

Starting Pitcher: Teddy Higuera, Milwaukee Brewers: 1985-1989

The term Yankee killer is often overused, but during the 1980s, no one embodied that moniker more than Brewers’ left hander Teddy Higuera. Whenever the two teams would meet, you can be certain that every Yankees’ hitter scoured the box scores to see if the lefty was on target to pitch in the series. During the decade, Higuera not only tallied the most wins (tied with Floyd Banister, who had nine more starts) against the Bronx Bombers, but he also posted the highest winning percentage and lowest ERA (among all pitchers with at least 65 innings).

Honorable Mention: Despite posting an 8-9 record, Blue Jays’ right hander Dave Steib had a 2.93 ERA in more than 208 innings against the Yankees, including nine complete games and three shutouts. What’s more, on August 4, 1989, Steib almost made history by tossing a perfect game against them, but his attempt at immortality was thwarted by a Roberto Kelly double with two outs in the ninth.

Relief Pitcher: Dan Quisenberry, Kansas City Royals: 1980-1988

Dan Quisenberry was one of the most dominant relievers during the 1980s, and his outings against the Yankees were no exception. During the decade, no other reliever had more saves against the Bronx Bombers than the side-arming righty, who also recorded the lowest ERA among all relievers with at least 35 innings.

Honorable Mention: In 34 1/3 innings covering 17 games in the early 1980s, the Yankees only scored two earned runs off the Angels’ Andy Hassler. However, the Angels only won five of the games in which he pitched.

Randy Wolf walked Brett Gardner in the bottom of the first this afternoon on a full count pitch. Gardner stole second. then Wolf went to 3-2 on Nick Swisher then walked him too. When he got to 3-2 to Mark Teixeira on a foul tip, Gardner had swiped third, with Swisher trailing him to second. The home plate ump threw Wulf a new ball. It went over his glove, so Wolf turned around, walked to the ball and picked it up. Gunna be one of those days, is it? he might have said to himself. Wolf struck Teixeira out but then gave up a line drive double to Robinson Cano. Before the inning was over, he’d thrown over thirty pitches.

Wolf recovered and went seven innings. Gave up another pair of runs in the third and the Yanks had more than enough because C.C. Sabathia was terrific. The Brewers didn’t stand a chance against him as Sabathia pitched into the eighth inning and struck out thirteen, matching a career-high. Mark Teixeira hit a solo homer run (25), career homer number 300, and Francisco Cervelli drove in two runs.

Final Score: Yanks 5, Brewers 0.

Ahhhhh. The Yanks swept the Brewers and will head across town against a hot Mets team feeling good about themselves. The only thing that could halt their good vibes is losing all three in Queens. Here’s hoping that doesn’t happen.

In the meantime, today was a good day. Every day in first place usually is.

Looks as if Bartolo Colon will be back to pitch against the Mets on Saturday. Phil Hughes will return shortly as well (and for you comedians out there, yep, the Yanks reacquired Serge Meatray and designated the vocal stylings of Buddy Carlyle for assignment). I’m curious, when Hughes comes back, who gets bumped from the rotation? Can’t be Nova, right? That leaves Freddy Garcia and Colon. Freddy won’t take well to losing his spot, and if he does, he may ask for his release. Colon has pitched better but may be more flexible. Whadda ya think?

It’s warm in New York.

Bombers and Brewha’s at it again tonightski:

Brett Gardner LF
Curtis Granderson CF
Mark Teixeira 1B
Alex Rodriguez 3B
Robinson Cano 2B
Nick Swisher RF
Jorge Posada DH
Russell Martin C
Eduardo Nunez SS

Never mind the letdown:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photograph by the most talented Robin Cerutti]

THE DEEP END OF THE POOL

By John Schulian

Like every other job candidate at the Post in those days, I had to get the approval of Ben Bradlee, the executive editor who had covered himself in glory with the paper’s Watergate coverage. One of the first things he said to me was that he liked my Jimmy Breslin style. As soon as I heard that, I knew I’d better develop my own style, and do it fast. If I was going to prosper at the Post, I couldn’t be a cheap imitation.

I realized I was in the deep end of the pool the instant I walked into the place. It was crawling with heavy hitters and on-the-make newcomers, intrepid reporters and positively wonderful wordsmiths, all of whom seemed to buy into Bradlee’s theory of creative tension. I’d hate to think of all the intramural treachery that went on there — and that was in addition to going out and bumping heads with the New York Times and L.A. Times and Boston Globe and Wall Street Journal. On top of that, the people at the Post seemed exceedingly full of themselves-–no surprise, I suppose, since I showed up in the wake of Woodward and Bernstein bringing down Nixon and his cronies. In fact, the paper was building its Batman and Robin an office back by the sports department. Nobody thought it was funny when I asked if they were going to take high school football scores on Friday nights. What did I know? I’d just come from Baltimore, where people took their work seriously, but not themselves.

I’m probably going to wind up sounding negative about my time at the Post-–it was not the greatest 17 months of my life-–but I want you to know that it was an honor to work there. I was never on a better paper, never kept company with more talented people, never had more of a sense of the glamour of the newspaper business. Bradlee was forever strutting around in his Turnbull & Asser shirts-–the kind with bold stripes and white collars-–and he loved to go slumming in the sports department so he could see what we’d dug up on the Redskins. He was big pals with the team’s owner, Edward Bennett Williams.

One day I get into the elevator to go up to the newsroom and a guy jumps in at the last minute. He’s dressed the same way I am: tan corduroy sport coat, blue button-down collar shirt, Levi’s, cowboy boots. One big difference, though: he was Robert Redford and I wasn’t. They were making “All the President’s Men” then, and Redford must have been hanging around to do research on Bob Woodward, whom he played in the movie. When we got off the elevator, it was like I was invisible.

There was a copy boy at the Post-–the head copy boy, to be specific-–who wore Gucci loafers and was said to have a degree from the University of Virginia. And there was a copy girl who was an absolute babe-–absolute babes are a rarity in the newspaper business–and was said to have a tattoo of a butterfly on her ass.

In the midst of all that whatever-it-was, there was Donnie Graham, son of Katherine, the publisher who stood so tall during the Wategate era. Donnie would be publisher one day, too, but on his way there, he spent time doing every kind of job there was at the paper, from loading trucks to reporting to taking a turn as an editor in the sports department. This in addition to having been a beat cop in D.C. for a year or two. All of which is to say he was as decent and down to earth as he could be. I forget what job he had at the paper when I was there, but he still used to swing by sports to shoot the bull. One day he comes up to me while I’m pounding away on my typewriter and asks what I’m working on. I tell him it’s a feature about a former University of Maryland quarterback who washed out of the NFL and is playing semipro football in Baltimore on Saturday nights. And I mean down-and-dirty semipro football, on a field as hard as an interstate highway. “Oh,” Donnie says. He didn’t need to say anything else. I could tell he thought this one was a loser. But I wrote the hell out of it, and when I came into the office the day after it ran, there was a note from Donnie saying that in the hands of a good writer, anything could be a wonderful story. With the note was a copy of George Orwell’s essays. Memories don’t come much better than that.

I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention the pressmen’s strike a month or so after I started at the Post on Labor Day 1975. The paper was getting ready to change from hot type to cold type and jobs were being lost in the backshop. One night everything went sideways, blood got spilled, the paper didn’t come out, and the next thing I knew, my fellow members of the Newspaper Guild and I were voting on whether to honor the pressmen’s picket line. I thought we should. Many more people thought we should cross it. And so we did. A few people actually left the Post because of that. I wasn’t one of them, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t feel a sense of shame and betrayal every time I crossed the picket line. I did, and it has stayed with me to this day.

I’m still not sure exactly why the Post came after me, particularly when so many good young sportswriters around the country would have sold their wives/mothers/firstborn for a chance to work there. Nor am I sure whether it was Donnie Graham or George Solomon who spotted me first. Sometimes I heard that it was my SI story on the Baltimore fight promoter that stirred their interest. Other times it was a funny but barbed Evening Sun feature I’d done about students at the school where the Colts trained standing up to the team’s abrasive general manager.

A funny thing about that fight promoter. Well, not funny, because he died in the time between my departure from the Evening Sun and my arrival at the Post. His name was Eli Hanover and he was barely into his 50s, one of those guys who’s so full of piss and vinegar that you figure he’ll outlive everyone. George Solomon told me he tried to get hold of me to write something about Eli, but I was off on an assignment for Sports Illustrated and nobody knew how to reach me. (Ah, those were the days.) The Post had a new sports columnist, a guy named William Barry Furlong who had had a truly distinguished career as a magazine freelancer, and he wound up writing about Eli. But all he did was lift things from my SI story, quotes and paraphrases and anecdotes. I don’t recall his having another source for his column. I hope he did. I hope he made at least one phone call. But if he did, I don’t remember it. Uncharacteristically, I didn’t say anything about it, not to Furlong, not to Solomon, not to anyone. It was one of those things I just filed away and said, Okay, pal, it’s good to know that’s how you play the game.

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

Still fit for magazine covers:

Joe Posnanski has the piece:

No man in the history of American sports—perhaps even in the history of America—has spent a lifetime facing more expectant silences. And it is happening again. Another afternoon. Another silence. Strangers stand at a respectful distance and wait for Lawrence Peter Berra to say something funny and still wise, pithy but quirkily profound, obvious and yet strangely esoteric. A Yogi-ism.

It ain’t over till it’s over.

When you come to a fork in the road, take it.

You can observe a lot by watching.

In this case the strangers waiting in the silence are a mother and son. They had been touring the Yogi Berra Museum in Little Falls, N.J., in anticipation of having the boy’s bar mitzvah here. The family had decided that there is no better place for a boy to become a man than in the museum of the greatest winner in the history of baseball. And when they got word that the legend himself was present, they had to meet him, of course. They found him here, in the museum office, looking for a glass of water.

“I cannot believe it’s really you!” the woman says to Yogi Berra.

“It’s really me,” he says.

Meanwhile, here’s a video from SI:

I loved to eat breakfast at my grandparent’s home in Belgium when I was a kid. I spent a few weeks with them during the summer, alternating years with my twin sister and younger brother. Bonmamon and Bonpapa lived in a farm house in a small village between Brussels and Waterloo. Bonmamon made sure that we visited all of our relatives during my stay there so we traveled around the country, but I preferred when we stayed home. The days passed leisurely and were based around lunch and dinner, and late afternoon tea. There was always the potential for something scary to be served at those big meals–and I was expected to eat what was put in front of me–but breakfast was safe. It consisted of a cup of tea, often Earl Grey, and fresh bread from a local bakery. At the time, there weren’t many quality bakeries in New York, not as many as you find today, so good, simple bread was something to cherish.

I ate slice after slice of bread, butter and jam. Bonmamon made all sorts of jams and jellies but red currant stood out. Maybe it was because it was sweet and tart. Back home in the States, my mom also made red currant jelly and to this day, I love it. Because of how it tastes, of course, but also because it takes me back to a far away place where they spoke French and I felt welcome, like I was home.

Our man in Paris, David Lebovitz tries his hand at Red Currant Jam.

Dig it.

In the latest issue of The New York Review of Books, Geoffrey O’Brien has a compelling piece on the new Terrance Malick movie, “The Tree of Life”:

Malick has never shied from grandiosity, and in The Tree of Life more than ever before he risks the humorless and overblown. Into what might in other hands have been the small-scale, melancholy tale—too elliptical even to be called a tale—of the not unusually eventful childhood of a boy in Texas, his two brothers, and his father and mother, he has managed to incorporate the creation of the universe, the origins of life on earth, the age of dinosaurs, and the prospect of future dissolution, with musical accompaniment by the powerful tonalities of Berlioz’s Requiem Mass. But he has made an audacious and magnificent film.

The extreme variations of scale are no afterthought in Malick’s scheme. To show the world in a grain of sand he must first establish what the world is. So he will walk us through the stages and conditions and outer boundaries of human existence, provide a basic introduction to annihilating and fecundating cosmic forces, move freely back and forth in time for lingering glances at birth and death and family and memory as if they were only marginally familiar phenomena, as if no one had ever done any of this before, in a movie at least—and indeed who ever did in quite this head-on fashion? He manages to make childhood (and The Tree of Life is beyond anything else a movie descriptive of childhood) seem a somewhat neglected condition, deserving of reexamination. He is continually trying out different ways of representing acts of perception: the perspective of a child looking up at the adult world, or looking down from some hidden perch, the abrupt rhythm of a child looking quickly at some terrifying outburst of adult anger and then looking away, the sheared-off gaps in editing that can mark a moment as a fresh eternity disconnected from what preceded it.

I have not seen the movie yet and Malick is the kind of filmmaker that drives me to distraction. But he always has something interesting to offer, especially visually, and I’m sure our pal Matt B has seen this. If he says it’s good, that’s enough of a recommendation for me.

The New Yorker movie theater (and bookstore), The Regency and the Metro, M.H. Lamston’s,  Morris Brothers, Big Apple Comics, Funny Business, Applause, Shelter, Broadway Bay, The Saloon, Paulson’s, O’Neal’s Ballon. Hell, Tower Records. That’s a quick jog down memory lane of places I used to go to on the Upper West Side when I was growing up. Long gone. And now that H&H Bagels is closed for good, some Upper West Siders feel that the old neighborhood is done, reports Alexandra Schwartz in the Times:

You can find dog accessories and artisanal soaps and Coach handbags, or trawl for oxidized silver pendants and kilt pins at Barney’s Co-op. You can withdraw cash on every corner from the bank branch of your choice. You can load up on chewing gum and razor blades at a host of Duane Reades. You can treat yourself to a perfectly mediocre manicure.

But some of us want more. We want to revel in a neighborhood brunch tradition that has nothing to do with endless waits and haughty hostesses and glasses of orange juice whose prices defy the logic of supply and demand — a tradition that means fresh bagels and whitefish with onions over the newspaper in the living room. When we’re wandering with a hangover down the silent stretch of Broadway at 3 in the morning and the need for an “everything bagel” is stronger even than the need for water and sleep, what are we supposed to do without H & H’s round-the-clock bakery at 80th Street?

Big Nick’s Burger and Pizza Joint, I think of you and your root-beer-stained tables with trepidation. The smell of grease from your nonstop griddles billows out toward 77th Street 24 hours a day, seven days a week — a siren scent taunting gymgoers and health food nuts. You’re an unrepentant West Side institution, and that means that you, bubele, must be in the cross hairs, too.

Of course, it’s only natural for neighborhoods to evolve. My generation of Upper West Siders grew up during the Clinton years in a scrubbed-up iteration of the place our parents knew. Unthreatened by the muggings that were routine a decade earlier, we claimed the identity handed down to us: a certain shabbiness, along with a good dose of brains and a scrappy sense of local pride. Few of us noticed that the neighborhood’s personality had come under assault long before we started to take the subway by ourselves, when Shakespeare & Company and Eeyore’s Books shut their doors after Barnes & Noble took over the old Schrafft’s building at 82nd Street.

I remember when Amsterdam Avenue was a scary place. And parts of Columbus and Broadway too. I knew which sides of the street to walk down and which ones to avoid back in the 1980s. I still have some family on the Upper West Side, but the neighborhood I knew as a kid is a memory. It’s safer now, well-heeled, less shabby. A different place. The old neighborhood has been gone for more than a minute.

[Photo Credit: Monika Graff, Marilyn K Yee, William Sauro, Bob Glass and James Estrin for the New York Times]

Over at Pitchers and Poets, Ted Walker has a long piece on Joba Chamberlain called “Private Anxiety Made Public in Baseball’s Age of Potential”:

Joba Chamberlain elicits a negative response from the average baseball fan that far outweighs his time spent as a big league pitcher. For a few years, Chamberlain was the lightning rod for Yankee-hating, embodying what outsiders disliked about the team.

The Yankees fan base, meanwhile, accustomed to a team that develops its own foundational members, asked too much of the kid. The Yankees called him up to the big leagues after just a year in the minors. In the hustle to nudge him, with Robinson Cano and Phil Hughes, up onto the Yankees pedestal once occupied by the four horsemen, Yankee fans made him Joba before he was Chamberlain. In the rest of the country, his unique first name became a slight, and a shorthand term for a long-held distaste for the Yankees. Soon, the name Joba came to symbolize a fatigue not only for the team’s ruthless big money practices, but also for the media’s clear favoritism towards East Coast franchises.

That Joba Chamberlain was the symbol of this sentiment is misguided and unfortunate, and more a result of bad timing than anything that Joba did. Because, generally speaking, Joba Chamberlain is the opposite of what people don’t like about the Yankees.

[Photo Credit: NJ.com]

Emma hipped me to this coolness: the average color of the New York City sky, updated every five minutes.

Over at SI, Joe Pos has a piece about Adam Dunn, “The Least Exciting Player Ever.” In it, he mentions former Yankee, Bobby Abreu:

I’m not talking about winning and losing here. I’m not talking about value. I’m talking about excitement. And that’s something different. I’ve often written that Bobby Abreu is the MBGPIBH — Most Boring Good Player In Baseball History. I have immense respect for what he has accomplished as a player, what he continues to accomplish. The guy has a lifetime .400 on-base percentage (and a .400 on-base percentage this year). He’s had two 30-30 seasons. He’s won a Gold Glove, and he really seemed to be an excellent fielder in his younger days. He has scored and driven in 100 five times. I’m assuming he has 21 more home runs in him (though his power has dwindled to almost nothing) and that will make him only the eighth member of the 300-homer, 300-stolen base club. I don’t want to get into it here because this post is already drifting, but it seems every couple of weeks I have a discussion with a friend about Abreu’s Hall of Fame case. I think he’s making a case. I also think he’s headed for the Hall of Not Famous Enough.

Abreu, though, is an agonizing player to watch, at least for me. His at-bats feel like audits. They just go on and on, an endless stream of near strikes called for balls, good pitches spoiled, swings and misses, more near pitches called for balls — he’s doing exactly what he SHOULD be doing. Abreu controls the batter’s box as few ever have. He is an artist at the plate, but an artist in the way that a good auto mechanic is an artist. I admire what he does. I appreciate the value of it. But I wish they would give me a magazine or something to read while he does it.

Excellence and excitement don’t always mix. In Abreu’s case, his lack of flair or visceral artistry will hurt his case for greatness. His artistry is there, as Pos notes, but it is not dynamic. He is a fine player, better than fine, a winning player, but he never put the asses in the seats. But I liked watching him more than Pos does. What makes him different than Hideki Matsui? That Godzilla hit more home runs?

There are thrilling players who have style to burn who aren’t nearly as accomplished as a guy like Abreu or Matsui. Sometimes, you can’t have it all. At least Bobby’s got good teeth and a nice smile.

When I think of the Brewers in the American League I remember the 1981 playoffs and names like Gorman, Cecil, Oglivie, and Robin Yount. Reggie hit a big home run in that series. Of course they were in the league for a long time after that but when I picture the Brewers I think of Harvey’s Wallbangers.

The Brewers still have a decent team with some pop, led by Prince Fielder. I’m sure the balls will be sailing through the Bronx sky tonight.

Over at ESPN, Mark Simon looks at the fielding of Robinson Cano and Mark Teixeira.

Up, Down, Up, and Out

By John Schulian

In my mind, it was going to be either a city column at the Evening Sun or a job at SI, and trust me, I campaigned like a mad man to get my foot in SI’s door. The magazine’s Baltimore stringer was a big-hearted, hugely energetic guy named Joe D’Adamo, who ran the backshop at the Evening Sun. Not a writer or editor, but a guy who oversaw the actual physical production of the paper. The editors at SI appreciated Joe because he was a fount of ideas, and Joe liked the way I wrote enough to talk me up to them. When Frank Deford came to town  to promote a novel he’d written, I did a visiting-author story in which I described him as looking like a waterbed salesman. I just couldn’t resist. Frank must have recognized the impulse, because he didn’t hold it against me. The next thing I knew, Joe D’Adamo was telling me that Frank had mentioned me to SI’s editors. Just the same, when Robert Creamer showed up in Baltimore to hustle his Babe Ruth book, I wrote about him, too.

Finally, in 1973, Pat Ryan, SI’s freelance editor-–soon to be known forever in my mind as the wonderful Pat Ryan-–asked me to send her a list of four story ideas. I did, and the one she liked the best was about the boxing promoter on the Block. When I sent in my first draft, Pat asked me to rewrite the ending so it involved a night at the fights. I did, and that was the last change that was made to the piece. Every word that appeared under my first byline in Sports Illustrated was mine. I was amazed, gratified, and filled with bigger dreams than ever.

Pat had a wonderful way with writers, a real gift for nurturing them. Her father, if I recall correctly, was a successful racehorse trainer, and she had started at SI as a secretary and worked her way up to writer and then editor. Nobody had strewn rose petals at her feet, and if she got the idea that you were committed to your work, she would beat the drum for you. She invited me to New York, took me to lunch, introduced me to other key editors, and treated me like I belonged even though I must have seemed like a rube. She kept giving me story assignments, too-–short items for the front of the book as well as longer stuff like the magazine’s first Moses Malone story and a piece on the amateur baseball team in Baltimore that produced Reggie Jackson and Al Kaline.

All the while I was still writing for the Evening Sun. It was a terrific place to work, as I’ve said, and the people I worked with were salt of the earth. They knew and cared about the city, and they were passionate about honest, energetic, imaginative reporting. They also knew how to put on a great ugliest tie contest. No, I never won. I was actually a pretty good dresser. I remember when I went to interview Jerry Lee Lewis, he looked me over with those spooky eyes of his and said, “I like a sharp-dressed man.” What I might have won at the paper was a bad temper award. Just about anything could set me off-–typos in a story I’d written, an inability to get a long-distance line, the list is endless, really. My standard response was to pound my desk or stand up and punch the nearest wall while yelling the obligatory “fuck!” It’s funny how in the 36 years since I left the paper, the legend of my temper has grown. One woman said I broke the window in the managing editor’s office. (Not true.) A guy said I broke a typewriter. (Also not true.) The only thing I might have broken was my hand when I punched a wall. The fact that I didn’t proves that God really does look out for drunks and fools.

By the time 1975 rolled around, I was starting to get antsy. SI didn’t have any openings for writers at my level and wasn’t expecting any. I could have lived with that if I sensed that I was about to be anointed the Jimmy Breslin of Baltimore. Instead, I was told that the managing editor had decided to kill my music column because nobody cared about rock and roll anymore. This, mind you, just as Springsteen was taking flight-–do I need to say more about the thickness of the managing editor’s skull? I was more than pissed off. I was crushed. Looking back, it was a great life lesson, because it was awfully easy to get comfortable at the Evening Sun and in Baltimore, which was just entering its resurgence. But the only way you’re going to get better is by challenging yourself, by going up against writers who are better than you are. If you do that, it’s sink or swim, and that was what I needed if I was going to make anything out of the career that consumed my life.

When I finally got my wits about me, I started plotting my great escape. I figured I could freelance for Sports Illustrated and a new magazine called New Times, which was showcasing up-and-coming writers like Bob Greene (already a star columnist at the Chicago Sun-Times), Frank Rich (in his pre-New York Times days), Paul Hendrickson (later a star in the Washington Post’s Style section), and Robert Ward (a novelist from Baltimore whom I didn’t meet until we both wound up in Hollywood). I was going to wait until my fifth anniversary at the Evening Sun-–September 1975-–and then I’d be gone. I just had to get through the next three months.

So I’m sitting at my desk one afternoon, not really giving a damn about whatever I was supposed to be working on, and my telephone rings.

“Hello?”

“Is John Schulian there?”

“You got him.”

“This is George Solomon, from the Washington Post. How’d you like to make George Allen’s life miserable?”

I’m not making this up. That’s exactly how the conversation went. Solomon was the Post’s new sports editor, and Allen was the Washington Redskins’ head coach and the Richard Nixon of the NFL. And I, as I hastened to point out, was a guy who had never written a sports story for a newspaper. I mean I’d cheated a couple of times and done features about Willie Mays in retirement and a great local playground basketball player, but I’d never written a story about a game. You know, one with a score in it.

So I said, “Are you sure you’ve got the right John Schulian?”

“I’m sure,” Solomon said.

My life had just changed.

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

Last Friday evening I saw these kids on the subway as I headed downtown.

Later that night, I saw the same crew again, this time on an uptown train.

Man, that’s the second time in a few weeks that I’ve run into people in both directions on the train. Weird but cool.

Bar none, it’s my favorite promotion on the Yankee calendar. It is “Old-Timers’ Day” and it arrived early this year. For the 65th time in their history, the Yankees officially celebrated their past glory. It is somewhat hard to believe, but Joe Torre and Bernie Williams participated in their first Old-Timers Day, several years after completing iconic careers in the Bronx. Their presence alone made the day special, but I was just as interested in seeing old schoolers like Moose Skowron and Hector Lopez, characters like Oscar Gamble and Joe Pepitone, and even those Yankees who made only cameos in the Bronx, including Cecil Fielder, Lee Mazzilli, and Aaron Small.

More so than any other sport, baseball revels in its ability to celebrate its past. Some would call it nostalgia; I’m more tempted to call it history. No franchise has had more cause to recall its own accomplishments than the Yankees, given the team’s longstanding on-field success, which began with the arrival of Babe Ruth in 1921. So it’s no surprise that the Yankees became the first team to introduce the concept of an Old-Timers’ Day to its promotional calendar.

The Yankees initiated the promotion in the 1930s, though they didn’t actually refer to the event as Old-Timers’ Day. Rather, the tradition began more informally as solitary tributes to retired stars like Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig. The salute to Gehrig became the best known of the early Old-Timers affairs. On July 4, 1939, the Yankees staged “Lou Gehrig Day” at Yankee Stadium as a way of paying homage to a legendary player whose career had been cut short by the onset of ALS.

After several former and current Yankees delivered emotional speeches lauding Gehrig as both a player and teammate, the retired first baseman stepped to the microphone. In an eloquently stirring address, Gehrig referred to himself as “the luckiest man on the face of the earth,” full knowing that he had only a short time to live because of the ravages of the disease. (Gehrig would succumb to ALS only two years later, at the age of 37.) At the conclusion of his speech, the capacity crowd responded with deafening applause, signifying its appreciation for an “old-timer” who had met with the unkindest of fates.

Seven years later, the Yankees introduced their first official Old-Timers’ Day to the franchise’s promotional slate. Rather than concentrate the honors on one retired player, the event became a celebration of teamwide accomplishments that had taken place over past years. Inviting a number of the team’s former stars to the Stadium, the Yankees introduced each one over the public address system, with each player acknowledging the applause from the 70,000-plus fans in attendance.

Ever since the 1946 event, the Yankees have held Old-Timers’ Day on an annual basis, always on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, and usually sometime from mid-July to mid-August. (Other teams followed suit in the 1960s and seventies, particularly older franchises with sufficient history to draw from. Even an expansion franchise like the Mets participated in the tradition by celebrating the New York roots of the Giants and Dodgers.) In the earlier years of the event, the Old-Timers’ Game pitted former Yankees against retired stars from the rest of baseball, with the non-Yankees wearing the opposition uniforms of their most prominent teams. In more recent times, the Yankees have invited only former Yankees to the party, largely because they have so many retired stars from which to choose, some as far back as the 1940s. The retired stars now play a kind of celebrated intra-squad game, pitting the “Bombers” against the “Pinstripes.”

Other than the game itself, the format of Old-Timers’ Day at Yankee Stadium—with an on-field announcer introducing each retired player, who then jogs (or walks) from the dugout to a spot along the foul line—has remained relatively unaltered. Yet, the voices have changed. For years, famed Yankee broadcaster Mel Allen handled the emcee duties exclusively. Standing at a podium behind home plate, Allen introduced each retired player with his stately Southern drawl. Eventually felled by declining health, Allen gave way to the less acclaimed but highly professional Frank Messer, the team’s longtime play-by-play voice who was best known for his on-air partnership with Phil Rizzuto and Bill White. In recent years, radio voice John Sterling and television play-by-play man Michael Kay have shared the announcing chores—a far cry from Allen’s dignified presence at the microphone.

Over the years, Old-Timers’ Day has occasionally managed to overshadow the events of the “real” game played later in the day by the existing version of the Yankees. This has especially been the case during the franchise’s lean years. In 1973, the Yankees staged one of their most elaborate Old-Timers events as part of a 50th anniversary celebration of Yankee Stadium. The front office invited every living member from the 1923 team, the first to play at the Stadium after the relocation from the nearby Polo Grounds. With Gehrig and Ruth long since deceased, the Yankees invited their widows to participate in the ceremony from box seats located along the first base dugout. Mrs. Claire Ruth and Mrs. Eleanor Gehrig, both outfitted in oversized Easter hats, helped bid farewell to the “old” Yankee Stadium, which was slated for massive renovation after the 1973 season. The day became even memorable because of a development in the Old-Timers’ Game that followed; the fabled Mickey Mantle, retired five years earlier, blasted a home run into the left-field stands. The Mick still had some power in his game.

One of the most indelible Old-Timers’ moments occurred only five years later. After the usual introductions of retired players, the Yankees stunningly declared that Billy Martin would return as Yankee manager. Martin had been fired only five days earlier, done in by his damning declaration that “one’s a born liar, and the other’s convicted,” a reference to the duo of Reggie Jackson and George Steinbrenner.

In spite of the omnipresent New York media, the Yankees somehow succeeded in keeping news of Martin’s return a complete secret. There were no whispers, no rumors, no hints in the local newspapers. Having managed to keep the agreement with Martin in tow throughout the morning and early afternoon, the Yankees arranged to have all of their old timers introduced as usual by Allen, clearing out a final announcement for their deposed manager. Explaining that Yankee Stadium public address announcer Bob Sheppard would now deliver a special announcement, Allen turned over the microphone to his announcing counterpart. Maintaining his dignified delivery throughout, Sheppard revealed that Martin would return to the Yankee dugout two years later, in 1980, with recently hired manager Bob Lemon moving up to the front office as general manager. As a gleeful Martin trotted onto the field at a sun-splashed Yankee Stadium, a capacity crowd greeted him with a prolonged standing ovation that was motivated as much by shock as it was by joy.

In terms of dramatic theater, it was as timely and well orchestrated as any announcement I’ve seen during my lifetime as a fan. It showcased Old-Timers’ Day at its best, combining the predictable and orderly splendor of a ceremonial day with an unexpected and newsworthy development that bordered on spontaneity.

We didn’t see that kind of news making event yesterday, but that didn’t make the day any less significant. Seeing former Yankees in uniform, sometimes for the first time in years, is something that will always prompt the goose bumps. If you like and appreciate the history of this franchise, then Old-Timers’ Day remains the one day that cannot be missed.

[Photo Credit: Ron Antoneli, N.Y. Daily News]

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

Mike Lupica on Mariano Rivera:

Rivera reaches into his locker now, touches the home uniform he will wear. No. 42 on its back of course. This was Jackie Robinson’s number, one that will be retired permanently when Rivera retires.

“I think about putting on my uniform today,” he says, “and don’t worry about tomorrow. I think about the new day, the new challenge.”

He smiles.

“Let’s try to do it one more time,” he says.

He’s my favorite athlete.

Word to Ron Darling.

After the usual sentimental events of Old Timers’ Day, which featured an extended and loving tribute to Gene Monahan, there was not much to cheer about for Yankee fans in the early going of their game against the Rockies this afternoon. Juan Nicasio retired the first thirteen Yankees and the Rockies had a 3-0 lead. Robinson Cano singled to break up the perfect game with one out in the fifth and Nick Swisher followed with a two-run homer into the right field bleachers. Jorge Posada was next and he hit a high home run and the game was tied. Just like that.

Ivan Nova wasn’t great but didn’t fall apart either. Ty Wigginton wore him out, that’s for sure. His second homer put the Rockies up 4-3 in the sixth, but the Yanks answered with single runs in the sixth, seventh and eighth. Alex Rodriguez tied it with an RBI single and Eduardo Nunez put them ahead for good with an RBI base hit of his own.

Perhaps the most encouraging performance came from Boone Logan who got three outs in the seventh. David Robertson pitched a scoreless eighth and won a long battle with Troy Tulowitzki to start the eighth. Onions.

Oh, know this: Tulo made a critical error in the bottom of the seventh but also made a sensational play look easy in the eighth when he fielded a ball, moving to his right and threw Nick Swisher out easily, from deep in the hole. Man, it was impressive.

And what better way to end a long afternoon love-in than with the Great One, Mariano Rivera?

Three up, three down. Three strikeouts. It never gets old as we savor the greatness that will never be replicated.

Final Score: Yanks 6, Rockies 4.

[Photo Credit: from the most cool site, I really Like the Rain]