Derek Jeter’s calf injury and ensuing DL trip definitely threw a wrench into his reaching the 3,000-hit milestone in the near future. Given Jeter’s flair for the dramatic and the way the Yankees hit Rangers pitching during the first two games, it would have been fun to see what could have been, especially at home.

Jeter’s two most recent milestones occurred at home. he benefited from home scoring when got his 2,000th on May 26, 2006 against the Kansas City Royals, and he broke Lou Gehrig’s franchise record for hits at home on September 11, 2009 against the Orioles.

Another thing that would have been cool: watching Jeter vie for history against the Cubs. Jeter has the most hits of anyone in interleague play, so in a way, it would have been fitting for him to reach 3K over the next batch of games. In addition, Saturday will mark six years to the day that Jeter launched the first and only grand slam of his career to date, a sixth inning shot off of Joe Borowski.

And there is precedent for the Yankees making history during interleague play. A banner year for this was 2003, when first, the Yankees were no-hit by six Houston Astros pitchers in the Bronx. Two nights later, Roger Clemens registered his 4,000th strikeout and 300th win against the Cardinals.

Clemens’ previous start, however, took place in Chicago, against Kerry Wood. It was Clemens’ third chance at 300. It was the marquee game in a series that marked the Yankees’ first visit to Wrigley Field since the 1932 World Series and Babe Ruth’s “called shot”. The Yankees beat Carlos Zambrano in the Friday afternoon opener, and the stage was set for the power matchup on Saturday. Clemens had an upper respiratory infection and there was doubt as to whether he would even start. He did, and he left the game in the seventh inning with a lead and two men on base, giving way to the immortal Juan Acevedo. Acevedo is immortal for what happened next. He delivered a first-pitch fastball to Eric Karros that was promptly returned to Waveland Avenue, and a 2-1 lead was suddenly a 4-2 deficit. That was the final. The following night, the Cubs chased Andy Pettitte after 1 2/3 innings and despite a valiant comeback effort against Mark Prior, it wasn’t enough.

Fast forward to today, where the Yankees head to Chicago coming off a three-game sweep of the Texas Rangers. They’re currently riding their sixth three-game win streak of the season. Only once, though, have they carried that streak past three. They’re not facing Big Z, Wood and Prior in succession; rather, it’s Doug Davis, Ryan Dempster, and Randy “Please don’t call me Boomer or Kip” Wells. With the Cubs struggling as badly as they are, this could be a weekend where the Yankees add to their winning percentage.

Sadly, no history to watch out for in this series. Only the moments to reflect upon. While the feeling of the games might be empty, at least the stands at Wrigley will be full.

I like to think I follow the Yankees very closely. I know all their prospects and most of their minor leaguers.  That’s not uncommon around here, but I wonder if any of you found yourselves in the same spot I did when checking the box score today. The game was started and finished by two pitchers I had no idea were on the team. And I had never heard of Brian Gordon before he threw a pitch.

I did not get to see any of the game, but following along I hoped Cano’s and Granderson’s failures to get runners from third home with less than two out would not prove fatal. Granderson I felt especially bad for, since he could have won the game by just keeping the bat on his shoulder on ball four in the ninth.

Brian Cashman had been on an insane gambling roll with the successes of Bartolo Colon and Freddy Garcia. But when Colon’s hammy crapped out, it looked like the luck had run dry. Instead of taking his chips to the cashier, he went right back to the table and put cast-offs Cory Wade and Brian Gordon onto the team and thrust them into prominent roles in today’s 3-2 extra inning victory over the Rangers.

Say what you will about his decisions, right now the man is on fire.

Brian Gordon is a converted outfielder who has spent 15 seasons in the minors. That’s a long time. Today, he makes his first big league start.

This is a cool thing.

Alex Rodriguez gets the day off:

1. Nick Swisher RF
2. Curtis Granderson CF
3. Mark Teixeira 1B
4. Robinson Cano 2B
5. Andruw Jones LF
6. Jorge Posada DH
7. Russell Martin C
8. Eduardo Nunez SS
9. Ramiro Pena 3B

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: Nina Papiorek]

Last night at the Stadium: Exterior and Interior.

The wife and I had a fine time in the Todd Drew box seats. Highlights included a beautiful slide home by Alex Rodriguez, Francisco Cervelli’s tag at the plate (and Curtis Granderson’s throw), Mark Teixeira’s nifty, unassisted double play (oh, yeah, and two more homers), a long home run by Robbie Cano, a high homer by Eddie Nunez and the delightful surprise of the night–a line drive home run by Ramiro Pena.

Ready (or not) for prime time…

1. Swisher RF
2. Granderson CF
3. Teixeira 1B
4. Rodriguez DH
5. Cano 2B
6. Jones LF
7. Nunez SS
8. Cervelli C
9. Pena 3B

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: NYC 3 by Tubes]

HE’S BRESLIN AND YOU’RE NOT

By John Schulian

The Evening Sun didn’t have the biggest staff in the world, so a lot of us had to do double duty. For me, that frequently meant coming in at 6 or 7 in the morning to work re-write for the first edition before they turned me loose on the world. It was great experience because when I was under the gun, I had to force myself to write fast. You know, a news story 700 to 1,000 words long in 20 minutes or less, and you had to get the facts right from the reporters in the field who were calling them in.

Just as often, I’d be the one out on the street, hoping I’d be able to get back to the office in time to write the story myself. I’d get a call from an assistant city editor at 4:30 in the morning to get over to a rowhouse fire in West Baltimore that killed a couple of kids, and by the time I got there, I could hear their mother or grandmother screaming “My babies, my babies!” from two blocks away. Or it would be a shantytown fire in a speck on the map called Principio Furnace, with more dead babies. Or a bunch of volunteer firemen who drowned while trying to rescue somebody in a hellacious rainstorm. Or maybe just two motorcycle gangs that shot each other to pieces.

The story that still haunts me was about a town out in Western Maryland called Friendsville.  Population 600 and six of its boys had been killed in Vietnam. I went out there to talk to the families of the first five casualties and wait for the body of the sixth to come home. I got a number for what I guess is best described as Friendsville’s general store, talked with the woman who ran it, and she wound up saying she’d have everybody ready to talk to me. And she did. If you want an example of small-town trust and graciousness, there it was. But the story was still a painful one to report because I knew I was opening old wounds for everybody I interviewed. The people I remember best were a couple my parents’ age, which is to say well into their 60s. They lived in a stone house on a dirt road outside town, just the two of them and the photos of the boy they’d lost in the war, their only child. All I could think of was how I could have been that dead boy instead, and my parents the ones stumbling around under the weight of their loss. Somehow I made it through the interview without crying, but as soon as I got in my car, I bawled like a baby-–for them, for my folks and me, for all the dead soldiers in that godforsaken war.

I wish I could tell you I turned Friendsville into a great story, but I didn’t. I didn’t have the chops yet. I wrote it in, I think, 1971, and I was still trying on styles for size, still pretending I was somebody different every time I sat down at the typewriter. When David Israel and Mike Lupica burst onto the scene a few years later, I was struck by how fully-formed they were as writers, and they were kids. To read them was to think they never suffered from self-doubt or indecision. Tony Kornheiser was that way, too, an absolute joy to read seemingly from Day One. I had days when I was good, I suppose, but mostly I was a work in progress.

Throughout my time at the Evening Sun, Jimmy Breslin was my greatest influence, just as he had been since the day before I went in the Army. I’d ordered his classic collection “The World of Jimmy Breslin” as soon as I’d returned from grad school, but it didn’t show up until 36 hours before I became Uncle Sam’s property. I sat down and read the book from cover to cover, swept away by Breslin’s great characters–Marvin the Torch, Fat Thomas, Sam Silverware–and touched in a deeper, more profound way by his column about the man who dug JFK’s grave. When I put the book down, I told myself that if I lived through whatever the Army had in store for me, I wanted to come home and write just the way Breslin did. And I tried mightily when I worked in Baltimore. Of course I wasn’t the only young buck who worshipped Breslin. You could see his influence on hot young newspaper writers everywhere, whether they were on the city desk or in sports:  Lupica in New York, Israel in Washington, Bob Greene in Chicago. And the hell of it was, they were all better at imitating Breslin than I was.

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

Latin Jazz King:

Drawing I did of my father, 1983

My father was an incorrigible name dropper. He called famous actors and directors by their first names, suggesting an intimacy that didn’t always exist. He had met a lot of celebrities when he worked as a unit production manager on The Tonight Show. One chance encounter with Richard Pryor and he was “Richie” forever. Dad reached the heights of chutzpah when he went to the theater with a friend one night and spotted the actress Gwen Verdon. He walked down to her, introduced himself, and kissed her on the cheek as if they’d known each other for years. Ms. Verdon was delighted. Dad’s friend was amazed.

I remember watching “12 Angry Men” with the old man when I was a kid. “It’s almost as good as the original,” he said, referring to the TV production. “You see how exciting a movie can be even if it takes place in one room?”

I was captivated and by the end, I felt intelligent, finally on the right side of the line that separates boys and men. It was directed by “Sidney,” Sidney Lumet. They had crossed paths once; Dad had wanted to turn “Fail Safe” into a movie, a project that Lumet eventually directed. The old man admired Lumet not just because he was a fellow New Yorker but also because they shared a similar aesthetic, a love of the theater and actors. Dad was an avid theatergoer starting in his early teens through his mid thirties when he became an independent documentary producer. He revered Lumet’s quick and efficient approach to shooting a movie.

“Sidney always comes in under budget and has it in his contract that he keeps the difference,” he told me, raising his eyebrows. “Now, that is a smart man.”

The Old Man with Senator Sam Ervin

Not long after my mother kicked him out, Dad saw “The Verdict” and raved about the performance Lumet got out of Paul Newman as a lawyer who became an alcoholic when he got screwed over, then sobered up when the chance for redemption arose. His clients got justice, he got back his self-respect, and I got squat because I was 11 and Dad said that was too young to watch the movie. The closest I got was the commercials on TV. Everything looked dark brown, courtrooms and bars alike, and Newman seemed so frail I didn’t even notice his famous blue eyes.

Dad holed up on his own in Weehawken, across the Hudson, after his next girlfriend gave him the boot as well. There were two things that he liked about New Jersey: the view of New York City from his bedroom window, and that the liquor store down the block opened before noon on Sundays.

I remember visiting him without my brother or sister one time in January 1983, shortly after “The Verdict” came out. It was a late Saturday afternoon, almost dark, and the sun reflected off the tall buildings overlooking 12th Avenue. The old man was lying on his bed in his underwear and t-shirt smoking a Pall Mall. The heating pipes clanged. The windows were sealed shut around the edges by duct tape but still rattled when it got windy. A glass of vodka sat next to the ashtray on his night table. I used to fantasize about emptying his Smirnoff bottle in the kitchen sink and filling it back up with water. But I never had the nerve.

Most of the time he’d make me entertain myself on the other side of the apartment, in the room without a view of the city. He didn’t want me reading comic books but I did anyway. Or I’d trace the movie ads from the Sunday paper. “The Verdict” was nominated for five Oscars including best actor and best picture. The movie ad showed Newman in a rumpled white shirt, tie loosened, his eyes half closed looking down. The light from a window washed over his face. He looked defeated. The text above read: “Frank Galvin Has One Last Chance at a Big Case.” I traced the movie poster and then drew it freehand. I felt the seriousness of the title “The Verdict.” I didn’t know what that term meant and didn’t ask.

Now I was content to sit next to Dad on his bed and look out the window at the orange light bouncing off the New York skyline. The view reminded us of how far we were from where we wanted to be.

There was a small black-and-white TV on the chest at the foot of the bed. An episode of M*A*S*H, the old man’s favorite show, ended. The familiar and mournful theme song, “Suicide is Painless” filled the room. Dad was talking about his girlfriend. He didn’t seem too bothered by their breakup. Leaving Manhattan was the bigger issue. With Mom, he was devastated. He still believed she was foolish to divorce him and was convinced that one day she’d come to her senses and have him back

Soon enough Dad returned to the subject of Sidney  because Lumet directed the Saturday Afternoon Movie. “He always comes in under budget, do you know why? Because Sidney is not stupid, that’s why.”

“Dog Day Afternoon” was on TV: an Al Pacino movie for grown-ups, but Dad let me watch it with him anyway. Maybe the vodka he was drinking softened his resolve. I knew enough not to question why. Pacino—Dad called him “Al”—played Sonny, a little guy who robbed a bank in Brooklyn. The movie was about what happened in the inside of the bank with Sonny and the hostages. It was tense but parts were funny and I laughed when Dad laughed.

During a commercial break, I saw that his eyes were closed. I studied him. His stomach inflated and deflated in short, hard spurts. Dad was forty-five, almost six years removed from a heart attack, and his deep, uneven breathing worried me. He flexed his right foot and his big toe cracked so I knew he wasn’t asleep. Maybe he was meditating. He opened his eyes and smiled at me, put his hand over mine and looked back at the TV. When he took it away, it was to reach for another cigarette. I stared at the movie until I heard him start to snore. So I slipped out of bed, moving like a cat on the branch of a tree, and butted out his cigarette in the ashtray sitting on a table covered with burn marks. Then I climbed back into bed, careful not to rouse him. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen to the old man. He didn’t have a job and wasn’t in show business anymore. If only he would quit drinking.

I checked to see the progress of the light on the skyscrapers during the commercials. The orange glow began to fade as the sun set, turning softer, then pink as the sky darkened to a purplish blue. I thought of what Dad said when Channel Five ran the same public service announcement every night: “It’s 10:00 p.m. Do you know where your children are?” He’d say, “No, I don’t know where they are. I know they are not with me and that makes me very sad.” He told me so himself.

In “Dog Day Afternoon,” things were only getting worse for Al. It was nighttime in Brooklyn in the middle of summer and the air conditioning in the bank was turned off. The cops brought his boyfriend, Leon, to speak with him on the phone. Al was robbing the bank so he could afford a sex-change operation for the guy. That made sense to me. It was the right thing to do.

At last, the cops agreed to give him an airplane to escape. I imagined what the inside of the plane looked like and where they were going to go. But when they got to the airport, the FBI nailed him, the hostages were freed, and the movie was over.

I put my hands behind my head, lay back and looked at a water stain on the ceiling. I thought about Al, pushed onto the hood of the car at the airport, the loud sounds of planes taking off and landing in the background. His eyes looked like they were going to bug out of his head and he was on his way to jail which didn’t seem fair even though he was a criminal. Then I imagined Paul Newman. I was happy the old man had let me be a grown-up with him for a little while.

The white lights of Manhattan were twinkling on the other side of the Hudson when he woke up and refreshed his drink. I didn’t want to say anything stupid so I kept my mouth shut. Another cigarette smoldered in the ashtray. He picked up the New York Times crossword puzzle and said,  “Good old Sidney. He never left New York.”

Found in a doorway last weekend in SoHo.

Jack Mann appreciation continues with three pieces by his colleagues. Please enjoy these memories of Mann from John Schulian, Tom Callahan and Dave McKenna.

Unvarnished Mann

By John Schulian

In the world according to Jack Mann, if a ballplayer dragged his private parts over the post-game spread while reaching for the mustard, a sports writer damn well better file it away for future use. Maybe he wouldn’t be able to re-create the scene for a family newspaper, but he could certainly offer some well-crafted hints. In fact Jack insisted on it when he was a visionary sports editor at Newsday because he would have done no less were he writing the story himself. He was, after all, a slave to the truth no matter how discomfiting.

Not everybody appreciated it. To this day, there are those who recoil at the sound of his name before recovering to rail profanely about his parentage, fondness for the grape, and well-worn mean streak. Jack was, in his time, the most complicated and divisive figure in sportswriting this side of Mark Kram and Dick Young. You either loved him or hated him, and if you loved him, there were still going to be times when you wondered why the hell he did some of the things he did.

Of course the legend occasionally got in the way of the facts. Jack may have thrown a tray of type out a window at the Washington Daily News, for instance, or it may have been his boss, Dave Burgin, who did the honors. God knows they were both capable of it in the days when they were making the sports section in that abysmal tabloid the liveliest reading in town. Or maybe the incident never happened at all.

What I can guarantee did happen was Jack’s constant and very public humiliation of Shirley Povich, the icon who anchored the Washington Post’s sports page for 70 years. Shirley was every bit as gracious and gentlemanly as Red Smith, and a fine writer, too, but by the early 1970s, his reportorial legs were gone and his column showed it. He covered more and more games by watching them on TV. Even the Redskins, who become more important than the White House during the NFL season, couldn’t get him off his couch. Jack smelled blood and went for the kill, parodying Shirley’s style (“The way it came across on Channel 9”) and sneeringly referring to the Post by its advertising slogan (“Over at ‘Quoted, Honored and Consulted’”).

It was not for nothing then that the Post never hired Jack full-time after the Daily News and his subsequent employer, the Washington Star, went belly up. To tell the truth, I was surprised he got so much as a freelance assignment at the Post, but when Casey Stengel died, there was that byline – Jack Mann – on the front of the next day’s sports page. I doubt the old Professor got a better sendoff. And there would be more pieces by Jack, not a lot of them but enough to keep his name alive. I still wonder how hard George Solomon, who was then settling into his job as the Post’s sports editor, had to fight for Jack. But they had worked together at the Daily News, and George understood just how good Jack was.

To read his prose was to get a sense of the man at the typewriter. It was blunt, no-nonsense, and it could, on certain occasions, feel like a punch in the mouth. And yet, while lyricism wasn’t his game, he wove enough literary allusions into his work to let readers in on the fact that he knew Hester Prynne wasn’t a baseball Annie from Boston.

(more…)

Eduardo Nunez plates the Yankees first run in the second inning (Photo: AP).

One of the charming things about baseball is the big spot always seems to find a player who is facing increased scrutiny. In the second inning of the Yankees’ series opener against the Texas Rangers, that’s exactly what happened when Eduardo Nunez strolled to the plate with the bases loaded.

Earlier in the day, Nunez was thrust into the spotlight when it was announced that the Captain’s Quest for 3,000 hits would be put on hold for at least 15 days. As a result, the rookie was given an invaluable gift just one day shy of his 24th birthday: a prolonged chance to prove he can play shortstop in the major leagues.

With six professional seasons and nearly 3,000 minor league plate appearances under his belt, Nunez has patiently bided his time for an opportunity to play regularly in the majors, and thanks to yet another rain delay in the Bronx, the eager rookie would have to wait an extra 45 minutes. Once the game started, however, Nunez took immediate advantage of his new found opportunity by lining a run scoring single to left field in his first at bat of the game. While the Yankees hope Nunez’ base hit bodes well for the next 15 games, the clutch hit proved invaluable in helping the team put last night’s bitter 1-0 defeat* behind them.

*According to Elias, the Yankees became the first team in the DH era to lose a game 1-0 after loading the bases with no outs in the first inning.

Alexi Ogando entered the game at 7-0 with a 2.10 ERA, so had the Yankees squandered another early opportunity, who knows if they would have had a chance to score again. As things turned out, the Bronx Bombers scored early and often, knocking Ogando out of the game after only 1 2/3 innings. In addition to marring his perfect record with a loss, Ogando also failed to go at least six innings for the first time all season.

Unlike in many games over the first third of the season, the Yankees didn’t rest on the laurels of their six-run second inning. Instead, the team doubled its run output over the next four innings, thanks in large part to home runs by Nick Swisher, Robinson Cano and Curtis Granderson, whose sixth inning homer tied Jose Bautista for the league lead with 21.

The Yankees have scored at least 12 runs on five occasions, and each time Sabathia has been on the mound. Perhaps that’s why after being staked to a big lead, C.C. seemed to channel his inner Jack Morris by pitching to the score? After all, he’s certainly had enough practice. Whatever the reason, the Rangers did threaten in the middle innings, but each time they tried to truly climb back into the game, the Yankees’ ace slammed the door.

Despite turning in a solid seven innings, the most impressive part of Sabathia’s outing had nothing to do with his pitching. In the first inning, the big lefty and first baseman Jorge Posada combined on two 3-1 putouts. With the image of Bartolo Colon pulling up lame on a similar play still fresh in the Yankees’ consciousness, you can just image the thoughts running through Joe Girardi’s head as his ace pitcher sprinted at full speed across the wet infield grass.

All season, the Yankees’ offense has been difficult to figure out. On the one hand, it currently ranks among the league leaders in various categories, while on the other, it has exhibited maddening inconsistency. Although scoring 12 runs is a satisfying response to the previous day’s shutout, it would be better if the offense could avoid going to such extremes…or, at the very least, find a way to have their outbursts when a different pitcher is on the mound.

Yanks vs Rangers tonight in the Bronx.

Cliff has the preview and we root:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: Andrew C Ko]

Check out this cool photo gallery of Brooklyn circa 1974.

Dig this wonderful piece by Jhumpa Lahiri from last week’s issue of The New Yorker:

Books, and the stories they contained, were the only things I felt I was able to possess as a child. Even then, the possession was not literal; my father is a librarian, and perhaps because he believed in collective property, or perhaps because my parents considered buying books for me an extravagance, or perhaps because people generally acquired less then than they do now, I had almost no books to call my own. I remember coveting and eventually being permitted to own a book for the first time. I was five or six. The book was diminutive, about four inches square, and was called “You’ll Never Have to Look for Friends.” It lived among the penny candy and the Wacky Packs at the old-fashioned general store across the street from our first house in Rhode Island. The plot was trite, more an extended greeting card than a story. But I remember the excitement of watching my mother purchase it for me and of bringing it home. Inside the front cover, beneath the declaration “This book is especially for,” was a line on which to write my name. My mother did so, and also wrote the word “mother” to indicate that the book had been given to me by her, though I did not call her Mother but Ma. “Mother” was an alternate guardian. But she had given me a book that, nearly forty years later, still dwells on a bookcase in my childhood room.

Our house was not devoid of things to read, but the offerings felt scant, and were of little interest to me. There were books about China and Russia that my father read for his graduate studies in political science, and issues of Time that he read to relax. My mother owned novels and short stories and stacks of a literary magazine called Desh, but they were in Bengali, even the titles illegible to me. She kept her reading material on metal shelves in the basement, or off limits by her bedside. I remember a yellow volume of lyrics by the poet Kazi Nazrul Islam, which seemed to be a holy text to her, and a thick, fraying English dictionary with a maroon cover that was pulled out for Scrabble games. At one point, we bought the first few volumes of a set of encyclopedias that the supermarket where we shopped was promoting, but we never got them all. There was an arbitrary, haphazard quality to the books in our house, as there was to certain other aspects of our material lives. I craved the opposite: a house where books were a solid presence, piled on every surface and cheerfully lining the walls. At times, my family’s effort to fill our house with books seemed thwarted; this was the case when my father mounted rods and brackets to hold a set of olive-green shelves. Within a few days the shelves collapsed, the Sheetrocked walls of our seventies-era Colonial unable to support them.

What I really sought was a better-marked trail of my parents’ intellectual lives: bound and printed evidence of what they’d read, what had inspired and shaped their minds. A connection, via books, between them and me. But my parents did not read to me or tell me stories; my father did not read any fiction, and the stories my mother may have loved as a young girl in Calcutta were not passed down. My first experience of hearing stories aloud occurred the only time I met my maternal grandfather, when I was two, during my first visit to India. He would lie back on a bed and prop me up on his chest and invent things to tell me. I am told that the two of us stayed up long after everyone else had gone to sleep, and that my grandfather kept extending these stories, because I insisted that they not end.

A young mother and her son were fighting on the train this morning. The mother sat near me with an infant strapped into a harness that pressed into her bosom. She was heavyset with blond hair and a pug nose. Her son, a toddler, got up from his seat and stood at the pole. I hadn’t been paying attention but I noticed them when he turned around the pole and the mother grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back next to her.

“You don’t say that to me, do you understand?” she said.

He stood up and reached for the pole, just a few feet away. She grabbed him by the ear this time, pulled him back. He got up again and she grabbed his arm and yanked him. The boy was strong, had round cheeks and green eyes.

“Stop beating me,” he said.

An older woman sitting across from them looked up and smiled.

The mother laughed. “You think I’m beating you?”

He stood up again and she grabbed his arm and twisted.

“Stop beating me.”

This tug of war went on for a while.

“I’m not so terrible,” he said.

He continued to get up and she’d pulled him back. Then she said, “When you get to school I’m telling your teacher you are in a time out for the whole day. Time out when you get home. No remote control.”

He started to cry. He sat down. Another woman sitting across from them smiled too.

I couldn’t concentrate on the newspaper, kept reading the same sentence over and over.

Now, the boy was sobbing. “Please don’t tell my teacher.” He grabbed his mother.

“Oh, now you are going to hug me? Maybe you’ll think before you talk to me like that again.”

“Please don’t tell my teacher.”

“You are almost four-years-old, stop crying.”

He settled down after awhile but I couldn’t go back to reading. When they got off the train a few stops later I realized that I wasn’t breathing.

[Photo Credit: Masao Gozu]

The Yankees lost 1-0 to the Indians, and I’m blaming Derek Jeter.

After loading the bases in the first inning with nobody out, the Yankees failed to score. Cashing in those runs would have really put the reeling Indians on the ropes and likely led to victory. Why didn’t they score? Alex Rodriguez hit a medium length fly ball, but Derek Jeter hesitated and did not run. I can’t figure out why he didn’t score, and I’m kind of obsessed to find out why. And since they lost 1-0, and this was their best chance to score, what the hell, let’s figure it out.

Alex skied the ball to center, so Derek had plenty of time to find the ball, find Brantley, the center fielder, and get back to the bag to tag up. Replays show his foot on the bag in plenty of time to run. He broke hard for a few steps and pulled up, so his intention was to bluff and draw a throw. A terrible play for sure, but why? Brantley never had any intention of throwing home; he was going to let Jeter score and throw to third base. He was as surprised as I was when Derek pulled up short. Derek would have scored standing up.

Did he think Brantley had an amazing arm? Brantley certainly didn’t think Brantley had an amazing arm, since he wasn’t even going to throw the ball. Perhaps a bad scouting report? Probably not, since this is the fourth game of this series and they’ve seen the guy throw. Did he think the ball wasn’t deep enough? The ball was in the air forever. Its path was clear, and it was obviously deep enough. This wasn’t a tough read. Was he injured? He did leave later in the game with a calf injury, but if he was injured, I doubt he would have bluffed as he did. Was he being uber-conservative because there were no outs and Cano was on deck? That sounds a little more likely, but stupid nonetheless. You take the sure run every time.

Or maybe he’s an old player, easing his way into the early part of the game, not yet fully engaged and not ready to wrap his arms around the play as used to be his custom? Maybe he wasn’t ready to sprint. Maybe he hadn’t checked the outfielder’s depth. Maybe he wasn’t mentally prepared to make all the quick calculations that he needs to make to execute the seemingly simple play.

I still don’t know why he didn’t run. But I do know this: if winning is all you give a shit about, and scoring a run is on your mind the moment you get on base, there’s no way you don’t score there. There’s no way rookie Derek Jeter doesn’t score there. There’s no way 2009 Derek Jeter doesn’t score there. In 2011 though, he didn’t score and they didn’t win. He did share a laugh with the third base coach after he failed to score. I’d rip Cano for the same thing, so I formally announce a ripping here for Jeter. The baseball gods agree; they struck him down with that calf injury later.

Ah hell, OK, I made too much of that one stupid play, but it’s another agonizing game and this ended up being the deciding inning. I’m at a loss with this team and their inability to take what’s given to them. And to see it from Jeter is just so surprising. I thought his skills were gone, but that his mind was still there, still attacking the game the same way, but it’s probably not.

Losing like this just sucks the air out of the room.

If you want, we can do a similar breakdown of Brett Gardner’s bunt-out in the seventh. … On second thought, let’s just forget about that one.

A.J. Burnett was great in the loss. I’ve had AJ in two 1-0 losses and a 2-0 loss, and in a whole bunch of other losses too. I wouldn’t mind a Nova game. Or even an A.J. win. Teixeira hit it to the warning track in the eighth, but it never looked like a homer to me. It was a long out all the way. And then I think Bob Feller crawled out of his grave and struck out the side in the ninth.

***

Derek Jeter might miss some time. He already had no chance to get his 3000th hit on this homestand. If he sits out at least six of the next nine games, he will get it on the next homestand. So those of you who are trying to see it live in Yankee Stadium, there is some hope. I think if he plays straight through, he’ll get it next Monday in Cincinnati. And if he takes a week off, he’ll get it Wednesday June 29th at home versus Milwaukee.

Picture By The Daily News

Yanks look to keep putting on the hits tonight as they go for the sweep.

1. Jeter SS
2. Granderson CF
3. Teixeira 1B
4. Rodriguez 3B
5. Cano 2B
6. Swisher RF
7. Posada DH
8. Martin C
9. Gardner LF

Never mind the lullaby: Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Picture by Joel Zimmer]

The Evening Sun Also Rises

By John Schulian

I’m always surprised and more than a little disappointed in myself when I tote up how many people helped me along the way and how easily I’ve forgotten some of them. The one I’m thinking of at the moment is Bill Tanton, who opened the door for me at the Baltimore Evening Sun. He was the sports editor there when I was using Army time to write letters in my campaign for a job at every paper that caught my fancy–the L.A. Times because of Jim Murray, the pre-Murdoch New York Post because of Larry Merchant and Vic Ziegel, the Washington Daily News because of Jack Mann. Tanton’s response was like most of the others in that he said he didn’t have any openings, but he didn’t let it go at that. He passed my letter and clips on to the Evening Sun’s city editor because he thought I had the makings of a good feature writer. It turned out that Tanton recruited a lot of the first-rate talent that passed through the paper –Tom Callahan, Mike Janofsky, Phil Hersh, Dan Shaugnessy–but I wouldn’t realize I was part of the parade until after I had rejoined the civilian world in August 1970 and chosen between job offers at the Evening Sun and the Miami Herald, which, by the way, didn’t want me as a sports writer, either.

Unfailingly, every editor I met yearned to save me from life in what serious newspaper people considered the toy department. It was, I suppose, the curse of being a relatively bright young man. They talked about transforming me into a cityside reporter who might one day cover the state house or the White House or even become a foreign correspondent. I could tell I was going to have to get to sports by my own devices. The important thing at the time, however, was to work, to get some experience, and to develop as a writer. I’m sure I could have done that in Miami — working there certainly hasn’t hurt Carl Hiassen. But what I remember best about my visit was sitting in an editor’s office and looking out at Biscayne Bay sparkling in the sunshine. I worried that if I said yes to the Herald I’d always feel like I was on vacation.

I didn’t have that problem when I visited Baltimore. The city looked the way I imagine Dresden must have after World War II-–burned-out, desiccated, hopeless. On the ride in from the airport, I saw a sign for Shilinksi’s Lithuanian sausage and, a short distance away, the landmark Bromo-Seltzer Tower. For me, a great first impression. The clincher, though was my interview with the city editor, a live wire named Ernie Imhoff who called everybody “babe.” We had a cup of coffee in the Sunpapers’ cafeteria, a setting about as joyless as Death Row, and then we went back upstairs to the city room, where I was treated to a view of the city jail. All this and the Evening Sun had to play second fiddle to the Morning Sun, which had overseas bureaus and a Washington bureau and, obviously, a far bigger budget than the A.S. Abell Company’s p.m. stepchild. Hell, the Evening Sun had yet to assign a single reporter to cover Washington, which was all of 30 minutes away by car. And it didn’t have enough money to send reporters around the block, much less around the globe. But it had been H.L. Mencken’s paper, and it put a premium on tough reporting and lively writing. Add all that to the view of the city jail and there was no way I could say no to Baltimore.

I knew I’d made the right choice when my first assignment was to go to what is called the Block to find out what the strippers and lowlifes there were doing to get ready for the World Series between the Orioles and the Cincinnati Reds. The Block was a stretch of East Baltimore Street downtown devoted to strip joints, dirty-book stores, the city’s only tattoo parlor, and Polock Johnny’s Polish sausage emporium, all in the shadow of police headquarters. The strippers, especially one who called herself Fanta Blu, turned out to be raunchy and wonderful, particularly when talking about big-name baseball and football players who occasionally stopped by. I could only quote them up to a point–the Evening Sun was a family newspaper, after all-–but the story I wrote still got me the right kind of attention.

Just the same, I spent my first year in Baltimore covering suburban Harford County. I shared an office with the Morning Sun’s reporter, Edna Goldberg, a middle-aged dynamo who doted on her two sons, had a husband named Sol, invited me to dinner with her family, taught me Yiddish curse words, and was as competitive as anybody I ever bumped heads with in the newspaper business. My salvation was that she loved doing stories about budgets and zoning, subjects I would write about only under threat of death. Mostly I wrote features and slipped back into the city to see if there was something there I might do. The one good political story I wrote was about Joseph Tydings, a liberal Democrat from Harford County who was driven out of the U.S. Senate by the pro-gun crowd. Years later, in Hollywood, when I was the head writer on “Hercules,” we hired Tydings’ daughter Alexandra as a guest star. She played Aphrodite as if the goddess of love were a surfer girl, and she was dynamite. Small world.

Once I moved onto the city desk full-time, I was in high clover. Baltimore embraced weirdness and lionized eccentrics, and the Evening Sun basically let me run amok. I wrote features about pool hustlers and singing newsboys; vice cops on the Block and a saloonkeeper who put up a billboard supporting Nixon and Agnew; Edith Massey (the egg lady from “Pink Flamingoes”) and a vastly overweight Depression-era bicycle racer who watched me make the most of his neighborhood bar’s 10-cent beers and get hammered on the job for the first and only time in my career. One day I waltzed off to write about the Block’s last surviving tattoo artist and came back with a story about a hooker named Rosie who was just out of jail and wanted a rose tattoo. Our education reporter, a sweet little lady named Sue Miller, accused me of making the whole thing up. But the beauty of Baltimore was that you didn’t need to write fiction. The truth had it beat every which way.

And yet no matter how woolly the people I wrote about were, I was still who I was, and there was no getting away from it. I remember one of the pool hustlers I was always pestering for stories looking at me one day and saying, “John, you’re the straightest guy we ever met.”

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

I talked to Bill Lee a few weeks ago for an article I’m working on and before I got off the phone we got around to the Yankees. I mentioned Graig Nettles. Lee still hates him.

“I carry his baseball card in my wallet so he’s pressed up against my right ass cheek forever,” he said. “He’s like the last dog in sled. The smell and the view haven’t improved as time goes on.”

I made Rick Bayless’ Habanero Hot Sauce yesterday.

It turned out a vibrant orange and is tasty but damn it kicks like a mule.

[Photo Credit: wind_of_change]