It’s been a relatively busy week in Yankeeland. Aside from the Andy Pettitte retirement, which has been covered well by other writers here, the Yankees signed a free agent pitcher and made a trade for a minor league outfielder. Thirty-five-year old Freddy” The Chief” Garcia, a onetime legitimate No. 2 starter, signed a minor league contract, while Justin Maxwell, a 27-year-old former prospect with the Nationals, landed on the 40-man roster.

Let’s begin with Garcia. If he pitches reasonably well this spring, he’ll take his place as either the fourth or fifth starter. He pitched surprisingly well for the White Sox last year, logging 157 innings to the tune of a 4.63 ERA. If nothing else, he pitched far better than the enigmatic Javier Vazquez and the puzzling A.J. Burnett. If Garcia duplicates his ChiSox numbers this year, the Yankees will be more than satisfied; he’ll also be able to top the 12 wins he accrued now that he’s pitching behind a very capable Yankee offense. All in all, a good move for the Yankees, who protected themselves by signing Garcia to a minor league deal that allows them to cut bait if he has a poor spring.

Maxwell joins the Yankees at the minimal cost of minor league right-hander Adam Olbrychowski, a 24-year-old reliever of the non-prospect variety. Maxwell is a lesser known quantity than Garcia, but at first glance, he appears likely to battle Greg Golson for the fifth outfield spot. At 27, Maxwell can no longer be considered a real prospect; he hasn’t put up impressive minor league numbers since 2007, when he hit 27 home runs and slugged .533 for a couple of Class-A teams. On the plus side, Maxwell is athletic at six-feet, five inches and 225 pounds, with enough speed to play center field and enough arm to play right. On the whole, he might be considered a less speedy version of Golson, but with more patience at the plate and more power. Maxwell will have to outplay Golson this spring in order to make the 25-man roster; otherwise, he’ll be heading to Scranton/Wilkes Barre to start the season.

As with the Garcia signing, there’s little to lose here–with the potential upside of adding a complementary piece to the 25-man roster…

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Like the rest of the Northeast, I can’t wait for the arrival of spring. In addition to warmer weather and baseball, here’s another reason to look forward to springtime: the release of Bill White’s autobiography. The former Yankee broadcaster has written his memoirs, entitled Uppity: My Untold Story About the Games People Play. Based on the previews I’ve read, the 320-page book, published by Grand Central, promises to be a hard-hitting, brutally honest tome, which isn’t too surprising considering White’s broadcasting style.

For those Yankee fans too young to remember the days before the YES and MSG networks, Bill White was one of the three broadcasting staples of Yankee games on WPIX, not to mention the radio coverage on WMCA, WINS, and WABC. Along with Phil Rizzuto and Frank Messer, White became synonymous with Yankee broadcasts throughout the 1970s and much of the eighties. He was also a pioneer; when he signed on to do Yankee broadcasts in 1971, he became the first African American to do play-by-play for a major league team.

At one time a star with the St. Louis Cardinals, Bill White became one of my broadcasting heroes. He was the man who brought reason and stability to Yankee broadcasts, counterbalancing Rizzuto’s hijinks and Messer’s occasionally overoptimistic outlook. When the Yankees played well, White praised them. When they didn’t, he called them out, tough but fair. He even criticized the front office at times, a habit that was not shared by many other Yankee broadcasters

White was also a versatile talent in the broadcast booth. Unlike most former players, White could handle any role on radio or TV. He was equally adept at doing color or play-by-play, which made it easy for him to work with either Rizzuto or Messer. In addition, he smoothly handled pre- and postgame interviews, so much so that ABC hired him to work some playoff clubhouses in the mid-1970s.

I haven’t heard much about White since he vacated the presidency of the National League in 1994. But I suspect we’ll be hearing more about him this spring, as his tell-all book begins to gain traction. I have a feeling that William De Kova White will be naming names for about 320 pages.

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

The Andy Pettitte goodbye gala will stretch into tomorrow. Seems that fans are both nostalgic for the past, reflecting on Pettitte’s fine career, and concerned about what his retirement means for the 2011 team.

He was an easy guy to watch, especially these past few years, and we’ll always remember the Pettitte “look,” cap drawn low, eyes focused in on the catcher’s sign. As Ralph Kramden used to say, “Ohh, yer a good one.”

Say goodnight, Andy:

Looks like Andy Pettitte’s playing days are over. Michael Kay’s got the scoop.

It’s been a wonderful career, Andy, and we’ve appreciated watching you pitch. Thank you, kindly.

I don’t thank you guys enough, the regulars who come by to add their two cents. But yesterday’s food post about greasy spoons made me proud that I run this blog. I love it when a topic engages you guys. Sometimes, it’s about the Yankees and baseball, or life in the city, or a movie, or food.  

I learned new things reading through the comments yesterday and relished the banter. Made me stop and appreciate the moment.

Thanks for helping make this site what it is.

A large woman sits next to me on the train this morning. Plops down…what’s up with women who go to sit down and then practically fall with a thud into the seat?  I move over the best I can, now jammed between two people. Fair enough. But then the lady gets up after two stops and leaves the train.

Yo, you shouldn’t be allowed to sit, unless you are old, sick or hurt, if it is just for one or two stops. Sister gets the gas face.

Yanks made a small move yesterday: River Ave Blues has the skinny. Cliff chews the fat.

Check out Chris Ballard’s piece in SI this week on Blake Griffin.

Nothing like a good greasy spoon diner, eh? Do they call them greasy spoons outside of the city? I haven’t traveled enough around the country, so let me ask a question: Can you find a good diner just about anywhere?

Also, what do you eat when you go to one? I usally stick to a burger or a grilled cheese or breakfast. Occasionally a BLT.  But I’ve never had a salad at a diner, for instance. Just never seemed worth being adventurous at those joints.

From the terrific documentary, “Visions of Light,” here is Gordon Willis, “The Prince of Darkness,” talking about his work on the Godfather movies.

I must admit that I never warmed up to Dave Winfield as a Yankee. Initially, I was excited when the Yankees signed him as a free agent during the winter of 1980-81. With an aging core of position players, the Yankees desperately needed a relatively young and athletic outfielder like Winfield. They also lacked thump from the right side of the plate; with Winfield now available to complement Reggie Jackson in the middle of the batting order, the Yankees appeared to have a thunderous righty-lefty combination.

Almost immediately, the New York media tried to sour the fan base on Winfield. I remember Mike Lupica, a poison pen if there ever was one, lamenting that the Yankees had spent millions of dollars on a “singles hitter” like Winfield. Admittedly, Winfield hit only 13 home runs in his first summer as a Yankee, the strike-shortened campaign of 1981. At times, Winfield looked more like a line-driver hitter than a pure power hitter. I think Winfield would have hit more home runs if not for the fact that he hit the ball so hard, with such incredible overspin. When Winfield connected with a pitch firmly, he hit searing line drives that tended to reach the outfield and then dip. For some reason, his swing lacked the lift of a classic power hitter.

Still, Lupica’s assessment of “singles hitter” was borderline ludicrous. Winfield had just come off a 20-homer season in San Diego. In 1982, his second season in the Bronx, Winfield would hit 37 home runs. By the time his career ended in 1995, he would compile 465 home runs and a lifetime slugging percentage of .475. Singles hitter, my eye. Perhaps Mr. Lupica would like to revise that description.

I’m not sure why I paid so much attention to Lupica, and all the other naysayers in the New York media who tried to belittle Winfield’s ability. Of course, I was all of 16 years old at the time, an impressionable teenager who took the words of older baseball experts too closely to heart. Still, their words seemed to carry more resonance in the fall of 1981, after Winfield endured a brutal World Series, gathering one hit in a disappointing six-game loss to the Dodgers. George Steinbrenner certainly bought into the perception, dubbing Winfield “Mr. May.”

With the seeds of postseason futility sown, I began to view Winfield as something of a disappointment as a hitter, and a failure in the clutch. First off, I was frustrated by Winfield’s log-cutting approach to hitting. Starting with a discernible hitch, he took a ridiculously large swing, unfurling his long arms toward the ball in such an exaggerated way, almost like a cartoon character in an old Bugs Bunny clip. (One frame of that gargantuan swing can be seen on his 1985 Topps card, which is probably the best of all the Winfield cards.) Too many times, his bat ended up hurtling down the third base line, threatening the livelihood of the poor third base coach, or the fans watching from the box seats near the dugout. The bat-throwing underscored the criticism of his hitting in the clutch. Unlike Jackson, Winfield rarely seemed to deliver that late-inning, game-turning blow that could transform a Yankee loss into an unlikely win. To this day, I have trouble remembering any landmark home runs, or even extra-base hits, that Winfield delivered for the Yankees.

Just for fun, I decided to take a look at the “clutch” statistics for Winfield’s career. With two outs and runners in scoring position, he batted a mediocre .255 with a pedestrian .431 slugging percentage. In late and close situations, he hit a bit better, .266 with a slugging percentage of .444. In tie games, his numbers improved to .271 and .455. All in all, the numbers show Winfield to be a mediocre player in the clutch, not as good as his usual performance, a little better than what I might have thought, and hardly Herculean.

Beyond his playing ability, Winfield could raise eyebrows through his demeanor. Trying too hard to sound cool and hip, he came across as arrogant in interviews. Cocky and confident, he walked with an exaggerated strut that looked like a Hollywood caricature. When a Yankee beat writer asked him to attend a charity event, Winfield agreed, but only after coming up with enough demands to make a diva proud. If anything, Winfield was out of touch with the common man.

None of this means that Winfield damaged the Yankees. On balance, he helped the franchise, albeit during the frustrating decade of the 1980s. He was durable, almost always playing 140 or more games a season. He was consistent, four times slugging .500 or better in pinstripes, and six times reaching the 100-RBI mark. Clutch or not, the man always played hard, running out every ground ball with a World Series passion, taking out middle infielders on double play balls, and chasing full bore after every fly ball that he could reach in left and right field.

When Winfield came up for Hall of Fame election, I did not hesitate to offer my own imaginary vote. I would have immediately put a check next to his name on the ballot. The man put up Hall of Fame numbers, and did so for a long time, his big league career lasting 22 seasons. He was a gifted and hard-working five-tool athlete who hit with power, stole bases, and played a wonderful right field.

He might have been a little hard to root for on a personal level, but if Winfield were in his prime today, I’d gladly add him to the Yankees’ starting lineup. David Mark Winfield could play right field for a winning team any day of the week.

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

From Banter reader, Emily Lemole Smith:

The other day while I was waiting at the bus stop the guy next to me and I were engaged in general ‘bus banter’: about how MTA is cutting back on bus services, how certain bus lines never seem to stick to their schedules, how disappointing it is when the driver shuts the door in your face just as you get to the bus… 

And the guy smiled and said, “But you gotta remember – this is New York.  The meek ain’t gonna inherit this one.”

[Photo Credit: New York in Photographs]

Emma and I will be part of an all-star line-up at Varsity Letter’s 5th Anniversary Gig tomorrow night. Dig the details… 

If you are around downtown Manhattan fall through, we’d love to see ya.

Did you know that the late Joe Strummer loved him some Bruce Springsteen?

It’s the emmis, man.

Never seen anything like the sheets of ice on the streets and sidewalks of the Bronx this morning. I’m just glad I didn’t bust my ass getting to the subway. All I could think of was Cloris Leachman saying, “The stairway…can be treacherous.” By the time I reached midtown, it was raining and there wasn’t much ice to be found, just slush.

But the ice uptown, man, that was crazy. I told one of the security guards in my building about it and she said, “Welcome to the ‘hood.”

Direct from the SI Vault twitter feed, check out my man!

Like our man Phife, the 5-foot assassin after the Sundance screening of the new Quest documentary.

Here is the official website for the movie.

What is your go-to sandwich for lunch? I got back-and-forth between salami and ham with assorted fixings…

“I don’t want to achieve immortality through my work; I want to achieve immortality through not dying.”
– Woody Allen

I couldn’t help but think of this classic Woody quote yesterday after Rob Neyer announced that he’s leaving ESPN. Almost immediately, a series of appreciations appeared on-line, from the likes of Will Leitch, Craig Calcaterra, Tommy Craggs and the boys at Pinstriped Bible (to name just a few). Rob is one of the most influencial baseball writers of the Internet Generation, and he’s a nice guy to boot, so it was warming to see all the love thrown his way. Especially, since he’s not, you know, dead.

Rob might have left ESPN but he’s not retiring. Today, he started blogging for SB Nation.

Here’s a cool Super Bowl primer from the SI Vault–game recaps for every Super Bowl every played.