Yanks-Jays tonight in the BX.

Cliff has the Preview, we do the cheerin’:

Let’s Go Score Truck!

[Picture by Craig Robinson]

This is what I imagine Derek Jeter will look like one day.

It’s the eyes.

THIS TRAIN GOES ONLY SO FAR

By John Schulian

I wouldn’t cross paths with McGurk again until I was out of grad school and holding an Army draft notice. By then, his promise to keep an eye on me didn’t matter. I was fully aware of the fact that I wasn’t good enough for pro ball. But that doesn’t mean I stopped loving the game. Of I hadn’t love it anymore, it wouldn’t have hurt so much to make the first truly difficult decision of my life. I was a sophomore at Utah and we were working out in the fieldhouse, an old barn with worse lighting than an abandoned coalmine. It seemed like every day I’d wind up catching this left-handed maniac who eventually signed with the Giants. He had a great fastball, a wicked curve, and absolutely no control. While his pitches bounced off my chest and shins, I started looking at my future in a different light.

In the fall quarter, for the first time in my life, I’d done really well in school. Something like three A’s and a B. And it felt good. Better still, I was starting to think I might want to be a newspaper reporter. But if I played baseball, I was going to miss classes and not have as much time to concentrate on my writing as I needed, and, really, for what? For the chance to sit in the bullpen when the wind was turning Laramie, Wyoming to ice? For the chance to do that for one season and maybe two before I got a decent shot at starting? Baseball wasn’t my future anymore. My brain was, for better or worse. Whatever the future held for me, I knew I wasn’t going to stay in Salt Lake. I needed to get the best grades I could so I could use them as my ticket to ride. So I walked away from my baseball scholarship. Nothing dramatic. No pleas for me to stay. The team would get along fine without me. I cried a lot of tears that nobody ever saw, but I knew I’d done the right thing. And I graduated Phi Beta Kappa, which is something I’ve never made a lot of noise about, mainly because I’ve never fit my idea of what a Phi Beta Kappa should be. A Phi Beta Kappa should be legitimately smart, a true intellectual. I’m just the guy Pete Radulovich turned into a catcher.

I thought that was the end of me and baseball. But come summer Utah Power & Light’s amateur team called and offered me a chance to play. I promptly went out and had the worst year of my life. I’m not sure I hit .250. But they asked me back the next year, when the team added two terrific players from BYU, one of whom happened to be a catcher. I wasn’t sure why UP&L needed me, but I hung around, doing a little catching and wondering if I was wasting time. And then one night I whacked a pinch-hit double over the left fielder’s head, and everything changed. They made a place for me in the lineup, sometimes catching, sometimes at third, but mostly in the outfield because our other catcher’s idea of playing there was to wait until he saw where a fly ball landed before he went after it. I led the team in hitting and he was right behind me.

The next year was even better. I caught full-time and my friend Steve Radulovich, Pete’s son, who’d been drafted by the Yankees and Cincinnati but never signed, played first base. We had a lot of good college players and a couple of former minor leaguers on the team, plus a curve-baller from Utah who went 8-0. We won our league and the state amateur championship, and I hit .397, best year I ever had, even if Radulovich out-hit me by 70 points. (It’s almost embarrassing to remember this stuff, but I do.) One of the guys I played with—we called him Starchy—still says I was the craziest SOB he ever saw, and he’s probably right. After doing nothing but study in school, I had a lot of steam to let off. I hardnosed our pitchers, bitched incessantly at umpires, challenged a lot of opponents who could have kicked my ass, and swore like a stevedore if I hit a weak ground ball. I’ve still got the trophy they gave me as the team’s most valuable player. But the story I want to leave you with has nothing to do with that.

We had a pitcher, one of those kids who’d been a monster all the way through high school and then hurt his arm. I could have caught his best fastball barehanded. But one night he’s throwing a beautiful game — it might even have been three innings of no-hit ball–and he calls me to the mound. Our manager, a big guy with the face of a baby bird, trots out immediately.

“What’s the problem?” our manager says.

“I’m tired,” the pitcher says.

Our manager looks at him for a beat, then slaps him on the back and says, “John will tell you when you’re tired.”

Click here for more “From Ali to Xena.”

[Painting by Dane Tilghman]

For years Woody played his clarinet every Monday night at Michael’s. Missed the Academy Awards when “Annie Hall” won Best Picture because he was there instead.

How I pined to go when I was a teenager. But I never made it.  It was such a New York thing.

Anyone ever see him play there?

[Picture by François-Marie Banier]

Thai Heaven in Queens.

Took the trek last Friday night and it was as good as ever.

When I was sixteen the Regency Theater on the Upper West Side ran a Buster Keaton-Charlie Chaplin-Woody Allen revival for a few months. That was my introduction to Buster and it was love at first sight. I adore Chaplin too but Buster speaks to me in a more direct, personal way.

There’s a wonderful article on Buster by Jana Prikryl in the latest issue of The New York Review of Books. If you are not familiar with Buster, this here is a fine introduction:

More than fifty years have passed since critics rediscovered Buster Keaton and pronounced him the most “modern” silent film clown, a title he hasn’t shaken since. In his own day he was certainly famous but never commanded the wealth or popularity of Charlie Chaplin or Harold Lloyd, and he suffered most when talkies arrived. It may be that later stars like Cary Grant and Paul Newman and Harrison Ford have made us more susceptible to Keaton’s model of offhand stoicism than his own audiences were. Seeking for his ghost is a fruitless business, though; for one thing, film comedy today has swung back toward the sappy, blatant slapstick that Keaton disdained. There’s some “irony” in what Judd Apatow and Adam Sandler do, but it’s irony that clamors to win the identification of the supposedly browbeaten everyman in every audience. Keaton took your average everyman and showed how majestically alone he was.

And here’s James Agee from his classic essay, “Comedy’s Greatest Era”:

Very early in his movie career friends asked him why he never smiled on the screen. He didn’t he realzie he didn’t. He had got the dead-pan habit in variety; on the screen he had merely been so hard at work it had never occured to him there was anything to smile about. Now he tried it just once and never again. He was by his whole style and nature so much the most “silent” of the silent comedians that even a smile was as deafeningly out of key as a yell. In a way his pictures are like a transcendent juggling act in which it seems that the whole universe is in exquisite flying motion and the one point of repose is the juggler’s effortless, uninterested face.

Starting tonight, the Film Forum is hosting The Best of Buster Keaton. They will be showing a Buster movie, along with a couple of two-reelers, every Monday for the rest of the summer. Tonight gives Buster’s first feature  for MGM–and arguably, his last good movie: “The Cameraman.” It’s worth seeing on the big screen for  many reasons (the pool scene), not the least of which is this gorgeous sequence filmed at the original Yankee Stadium.

“De La Soul is Dead,” one of my favorite records, is twenty years old.

Check out this extensive piece on the De La’s second album.

Freakin’ Lick ’em.

[picture by Jeff P Faller]

Over at the Village Voice, Allen Barra talks Murray Chass and the New York Times.

Compelling.

Big article on Fred Wilpon, Bernie Madoff and the Mets by Jeffrey Toobin in the New Yorker.

Alex Rodriguez had four hits yesterday, all singles. The softest of the four drove in the go-ahead run.

“I showed them, didn’t I?” Rodriguez said after the game.

Hey, a funny!

“We’ve been talking about playing small ball for the last week or two,” Rodriguez said. “I don’t think it could have gotten any smaller.”

[Illustration by Michael Marsicano]

Ivan Nova looked confident and smooth in the first inning today but gave up three runs in the second. Nothing hit too hard and he had to work out of trouble after that but he was strong enough to get into the seventh with the Yanks down, 3-1. Mike Pelfry, on the other hand, gave up an early home run to Curtis Granderson–there’s that man, again–yet looked hittable. In the second inning, Jorge Posada and Brett Gardner narrowly missed homers, but then Pelfry settled into a nice groove, used four different pitches and “really pitched,” as the announcer like to say.

I was watching the game at home with the wife. It moved along without much incident. The crowd at Yankee Stadium, again, was subdued. In the sixth, the Yanks turned a 5-4-3 double play, “around the horn,” said Michael Kay on the YES broadcast.

That’s when the wife, who had been unsuccessful in an attempt to nap, sprung to life.

“Round the horn,” she said. “I hate that. Round the horn, merry go round, I’m a putz. In your wheelhouse. Right in your kitchen. Why not your laundry room or your unfinished basement? Put the bat right in your stupid merry go round.”

I laughed. This is what happens when the wife doesn’t nap.

She said, “I’m just a little cranky.”

Most Yankee fans were irritable too. Then came the seventh inning when luck was on their side in the form of swinging bunts, seeing-eye singles and bloop doubles. Brett Gardner started it off with a base hit that went between Pelfry’s legs. Pelf, a tall dude, mumbled, cursed and walked Chris Dickerson. Then Francisco Cervelli squared around to bunt and took a fastball off his shoulder. At first I thought it beaned him in the head.

DJ was next.

Jeter hit the ball hard up the middle. Sitting at home I thought it was a sure double play. But it found the hole, a Luis Sojo Special!, and darted into centerfield. Two runs scored and the game was tied. Pelfry’s day was over.

Against a left handed reliever, Curtis Granderson sacrificed the runners along and Mark Teixeira was intentionally walked, loading the bases for Alex Rodriguez. Another pitching change and then Alex swung at the first pitch and hit the ball weakly toward third, went maybe 50 feet.

But it was soft enough for a run-scoring infield single. Robbie Cano followed and hit a flat, 2-0 sinker hard into right field, scoring another run. Jorge Posada was called out on strikes but then Gardner hit a bloop double to left and Dickerson followed up with an even luckier bloop double and all of a sudden it was 9-3, Yanks.

That’s how it ended. And now, we kick back, relax and enjoy the rest of the day.

A few of my co-workers are Yankee fans. One of them is a classic glass-half-full personality. On Friday morning when I talked to her about the Yankees’ 13-2 win against the Orioles she shook her head.

“You think they could save a couple of runs for tonight.”

“Jeez, aren’t you happy they won?”

“Eh, they shot their wad.”

I thought about her last night when the Yanks scored a single run, knowing that she was watching the game going, “See, I told you so.”

Thing is, I’ve thought the same thing before when the Yanks have scored a ton of runs–save some for tomorrow!–even though I know it’s neurotic thinking. One thing doesn’t have anything to do with the other, right? I mulled it over as I lay in bed last night wondering what the numbers say. But then I thought, well, I’m sure my co-worker doesn’t think the reverse is true. I’m sure she wasn’t watching the game last night thinking, “Welp, they only scored one run tonight, tomorrow they’ll score ten.”

The Yanks didn’t score ten runs tonight against the Mets but they did score seven and it was enough for the win. A.J. Burnett wasn’t super but he got out of a bases loaded, no out, fix in the first inning allowing just two runs to score. Russell Martin tied it with a two-run homer and later on Mark Teixeira put them ahead for good with a two-run home run of his own. Curtis Granderson and Alex Rodriguez also hit solo shots, and David Robertson got the Yanks out of a first and third, one out jam in the seventh with the tying run at the plate.

The crowd was subdued, the game was under three hours, and for one night, there was no angst in the Bronx. But there might be some tomorrow afternoon…you never know, right?

Final Score: Yanks 7, Mets 3.

[Photo Credit: Mike Stobe/Getty Images]

Yanks host the Mets against tonight in the Bronx.

Never mind the preamble:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Image from We Love Typeography]

Well, not entirely clear blue skies but the sun is out and what a sight for sore eyes.

I’m taking the wife for a picnic.

Back for more angst tonight.

[Photo Credit Lariverola by four.one.five]

Kick the Bobo:

D-Day…

The Mets hospital ward team came into Yankee Stadium Friday night missing starting third baseman David Wright, center fielder Angel Pagan, first baseman Ike Davis and staff ace Johan Santana. Since the beginning of the 2010 season, the anticipated heart of the lineup (Beltran, Wright and Jason Bay) have been active at the same time for a total of 27 games. Their starting infield tonight: Daniel Murphy (1B), Ruben Tejada (2B), Jose Reyes (SS) and Justin Turner (3B). Not quite the ’77 Dodgers. Despite this, and a 5-13 start to the season, new manager Terry Collins had them at 21-22, five games behind the first place Phillies.

R.A. Dickey, the Mets knuckleballing starter, had been cuffed around for most of the early season (1-5, 5.08 ERA).  The Yanks countered with Freddy Garcia, who was probably salivating over the depleted opposition, given the way the Red Sox treated him in his last start (5 IP, 6 H, 2 BB, 2 HR, 5 ER).

Unfortunately for Garcia, Dickey had an ally on this night, namely the Yankees continued inability to get a clutch hit.  Going into the evening, the Bombers were 9th in the AL in batting average with 2 out and runners in scoring position (.219).  The worst offender, Nick Swisher, finally got his first hit in 20 tries Thursday night in Baltimore.  He couldn’t offer a repeat performance.

Alex Rodriguez doubled to right-center to start the bottom of the 2nd.  Robbie Cano struck out and Russell Martin grounded out.  Jorge Posada worked a walk and Swisher was plunked on the knee by a 68-mph flutterball to load the bases.  Alas, Brett Gardner hit a two hopper to Turner for a force at third to end the threat.

Mark Teixeira cracked his 11th homer of 2011 with two out in the third for the game’s first run . . . a wall-scraper that landed in the first row of the right field seats just over Beltran’s outstretched glove.  The Mets got the run back in the fourth on a two-out double by DH Fernando Martinez and a double down the right field line by Turner (one of his three hits on the night).

The Yanks had chances to retake the lead over the next two innings.  Swisher came up with two outs and Martin on second in the fourth and struck out.   Gardner and Derek Jeter reached safely to start the fifth, but Curtis Granderson flew to right, Teixeira was caught looking and Rodriguez grounded to short.

The Mets reclaimed the lead in their half of the sixth on a leadoff homer by Daniel Murphy inside the right field foul pole.  Garcia subsequently walked Beltran and two outs later Turner dunked a ground rule double in front of a diving Swisher (fortunate for the Yanks as Beltran would have scored had the ball stayed in play).  Garcia wiggled out of trouble by getting Josh Thole to bounce out to Teixeira.   Dickey survived another runner in scoring position jam in the bottom of the inning, as Russell Martin’s one-out double went for naught with strikeouts of Posada and Swisher.  And that was the last threat (and baserunner) the Yanks would muster, as three Met relievers combined to strike out five of the last nine Yankee batters.

In all, the Yanks went 1-10 with runners in scoring position, and wasted a good bounceback effort by Garcia (with solid relief from David Robertson and Joba Chamberlain, each of whom allowed one single and struck out two in their respective inning of work).

Final: Mets 2, Yanks 1.

Another year, another Subway Serious.

Yawn.

That said, here’s hoping the Yanks win the series.

Cliff has the preview, and we’ll be rootin’:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: Keep Cool but Care]

Ted and I tackle the subway serious:

[Photo Credit: Washington Post]

Hullo, Sailor.

[Photo Credit: Rene Burri]