Yo, fellow nerdlicks, dig this: 20 essential blogs for the NYC bookworm.

As promised, we’re now polling the Banter masses regarding various Yankee-centric items for 2011:

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Jimmy Breslin’s new book on Branch Rickey was reviewed in the Times a few days ago.

Meanwhile, our boy William asks: Was Rickey the father of sabermetrics?

Last week, the gifted Jeff MacGregor, who has unfortunately been buried somewhere in the ESPN wilderness, offered up this gem about the cage down on West 4th:

There is no inside game at all, except on the putback. Nobody drives, nobody works down low or inside. Sometimes the airball falls straight from the sky, is caught, is lifted back or is lofted downrange. But it is a shooter’s game without shooters.

This is strange, because the game at West 4th is historically tough, all elbows and grunt and hard feelings. The miniature court rewards ruthlessness and body mass, not speed. Games here in August, played by older, angrier men, unfold like long-form fistfights in the heat. Not today.

The Cage is filled instead with city peacocks. Black and white and brown. Dazzling and radiant and useless.

Perfect.

[Photo Credit: NYC Gov Parks]

My first few apartments in New York were near the 6 Train. Using the 6 Train as your primary train is like eating from a salad bar and filling your bowl with only croutons. It may work for you, but only if you have specific, limited requirements and a tiny imagination.

It was several years before I felt comfortable with the rest of the system. If I was on the West Side and I needed to get to Yankee Stadium, I had to actually consult the map and think twice.

Now I live Uptown, work in Midtown, and have a wide variety of routes at my disposal. The labyrinth went from over-my-head to back-of-my-hand, though I can’t pinpoint the moment when the information fully settled. But it’s there now and it feels good to master something that seemed so complex at first.

As long as we’re not talking about Brooklyn and Queens. That’s just a mess.

Check out this Vanity Fair piece on Richard Burton and Elizabeth Taylor.

[Drawings by Larry Roibal]

I was poking through a book of interviews with Al Pacino and found this:

I don’t go to fights. I saw De La Hoya fight because he invited me. I was put in a seat pole; I kept looking to see it on the monitors. It was weird. It’s easier to see on television. Except when you’re there you really see the craft of a fight, which you don’t see on television. You see the dance. Everybody thinks they’re fighting, but they’re doing something else. They’re thinking, they’re measuring each other, countering. You can see it in the ring, it’s beautiful to see live. I know it’s brutal, and I don’t want to like it the way I do, but it’s a great sport.

I really love Al because as crazy as he is, the man is serious about his craft.

Let’s poll the Banter masses regarding which teams will be playing meaningful games in October:

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Here’s Peter Gammons writing about Game Six of the 1986 World Series in the ’87 SI Baseball Preview:

“Last year should be remembered not for one inning or one game,” said veteran relief pitcher Joe Sambito, “but what for most of us was the best of times.”

The worst of times, of course, came in the bottom of the 10th inning of Game 6 of the World Series, when the Boston Red Sox turned a 5-3, two-out, bases-empty lead into a 6-5 loss to the New York Mets. In order, Gary Carter singled, Kevin Mitchell singled, Ray Knight singled to score Carter and send Mitchell to third, Mitchell scored on a wild pitch as Knight went to second, and Knight scored the winning run when Mookie Wilson’s grounder went through Buckner’s legs. Though it has been used many times before, the first paragraph of Charles Dickens’s A Tale of Two Cities truly does describe Game 6: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way….”

Game 6 has now taken its place with the other great World Series contests: Game 8 in 1912, Game 4 in 1947, Game 7 in 1960 and Game 6 in 1975. But in a way it stands alone as the greatest “bad” game in Series history. The Mets, who in 1986 won more games (116) than all but two teams ever, were facing the Red Sox, who hadn’t won a World Series since Babe Ruth pitched for them. For much of the Series, the two teams bumbled around like a couple of September cellar dwellers. And managers McNamara and Davey Johnson, otherwise sound strategists, often seemed to be off in other worlds.

I was in 10th grade when the Mets beat the Red Sox and was pulling for Boston all the way (I knew more Mets fans at school and even though the Red Sox beat my second favorite team, Reggie’s Angels, in the playoffs, I was an American League man first and foremost). I wasn’t crushed, of course, when the ball went through Buckner’s legs but I was furious thinking of all the mess the Mets fans would be talking at school the next day.

When you leave New York people tend to be more open, easier with saying “hello” or “thank you” if you hold the door open for them. That doesn’t mean that we’re unthinking brutes, even if we are rough around the edges. It’s just that New Yorkers are more measured with their kindness. It doesn’t come automatically, which makes you appreciate it more when you find it. I’ll tell you this, though–I’m a hopeless snob against people who move to New York and are unfriendly. Maybe they are just trying to fit in, but hey, pal, it doesn’t hurt to be nice.

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Doesn’t matter how cold it is, we’re almost there, Opening Day. This will be the ninth season for me at Bronx Banter and I’m as happy as I’ve ever been as a blogger. Of course, I’ve written more about the arts and New York culture over the past few seasons than I did in the early years and that has helped sustain my passion and focus. But following the Yankees remains central to why we gather round and I’m stoaked to experience another season with you.

Thanks for coming, and coming back.

[Painting by Roger Patrick]

Alex Rodriguez has enjoyed a monstrous spring. Here’s hoping the good times roll into the season.

Kansas v VCU and UNC v Kentucky. Let’s hope for some more hoops goodness this afternoon.

Yeah, this is pretty wunnerful (thanks to Mr. Cliff for the hook up):

C.C., A.J., Hughes, Nova, Fab Five Freddy. That’s the rotation. The intrepid Chad Jennings has more notes as the Yanks gear up for the regular season.

A Gay bar mourns the death of Liz Taylor. The Times has the story.

Interesting piece on stolen bases in the Wall Street Journal.

And, according to Jerry Crasnick, you won’t have ol’ Serge Mitre to kick around anymore.

[Painting by Roger Patrick]

I got a DM on Twitter today from a respectable print journalist who, in the course of researching Brett Gardner, came across one of his baseball-reference player comps named:

Johnny Dickshot.

Dickshot played mostly for Pittsburgh and the White Sox in the 30s and 40s. To make matters worse, Johnny’s nickname was “Ugly”. So, yes, Ugly Dickshot. I do like that apparently I am the person you get in touch with when you find a player with Dick in his name. It makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something.

What becomes a Legend most?

[Pictures by Hobbylady and Unknown Artist]

Over at Deadspin, here’s my guy Pat Jordan on Bo Belinsky:

No character in sports was more authentic than Robert “Bo” Belinsky, a left-handed pitcher in the ’60s. Bo personified “cool,” real cool that was intrinsic to his nature, not his public persona. As a rookie, Bo pitched the first no-hitter in California major league history for the Angels. It made him a star and an instant celebrity whose name became synonymous with a lifestyle that was cool and slick and dazzling. But that no-hitter was the high point of Bo’s career, which, after eight years, saw him leave baseball with a 28-51 record.

After his no-hitter in 1962, Bo said, “If music be the food of love, by all means let the band play on.” Bo instantly became the first original playboy-athlete. He f**ked Ann-Margret, Mamie Van Doren, Tina Louise, Connie Stevens, and he partied with Eddie Fisher, Dean Martin, and Henry Fonda. But in those days f**king Hollywood starlets and showing up at his team’s hotel at 5 a.m., “reeking of bitch and booze,” was not exactly what team owners, managers, sportswriters, and fans expected from their idols. Bo was suspended, arrested, banished to the minor leagues, traded, and traded again and again, which confused him. Bo never understood an essential fact of celebrity in those days. He never had that knack of later, more beloved playboy athletes like Joe Namath of cultivating his persona precisely up to, but not beyond, that point at which his public would become annoyed, bored, and eventually furious with him. By the time Bo left baseball his name had become synonymous with dissipated talent.