Bob Ryan retired last night. A veteran newspaperman, he distinguished himself covering basketball. Here’s a book he co-wrote with Terry Pluto that is worth reading; here’s another, about minor league baseball that’s solid, too.
Ryan loves baseball–his final column (subscription required) is about Kevin Youkilis. He’s also one of the few TV talking heads who is funny, smart, but doesn’t take himself too seriously.
He’s had a fine career. Salute.
[Photo Credit: Yoon S. Byun/Boston Globe]
Tonight, Carl Crawford is expected to be in the line-up for the Red Sox. Kevin Youkilis will be in the house too, starting for the visiting White Sox. And Daniel Bard will still be in the minors. Over at Grantland, Charlie Pierce has a story on Bard’s interesting and horrible season:
There was an ill-starred attempt to make him a starting pitcher, which seemed to get deeply into his head. He started thinking like a starter, not like the blow-them-away reliever he had been. He was nibbling, trying to induce ground balls, the way starters are supposed to do it. As a starter, he was 5-6, with an ERA over five. He had 37 walks as opposed to 34 strikeouts. He hit bottom on June 3 against Toronto, his last start in the major leagues so far this season. He lasted 1⅔ innings, walking six and hitting two dudes besides. He told the Red Sox he thought he should be a reliever again. They sent him down to Pawtucket.
There were whispers that it might be gone from him for good, that whatever it was that had brought him to the majors had abandoned him at 27. The whispers were in Boston, but they carried down Interstate 95 to this small ballpark tucked amid the abandoned factories. Outside Gate A at McCoy Stadium, there is a cyclone fence covered with canvas billboards that display some of the players who have passed through Pawtucket on their way to the big club in Boston. The very last of these, right where the fans entered the park for this weekend’s series with the Buffalo Bisons, is a picture of Daniel Bard, his arm like a whip, throwing the ball very hard, looking very young.
In the clubhouse, as he got ready for whatever fresh hell baseball was going to hand him this day, I told him about that extraordinarily vivid evening in Fenway a few years earlier. “The first time I hit 100 was in college, I think,” he mused. “It was some time ago, and it was kind of a gradual thing. It was cool, like when you hit 90 in high school. It doesn’t really mean anything. It just sounds cool.”
He still looked very young. He sounded very old.
[Photo Credit: Charles O’Rear via It’s a Long Season]
Here is a piece that Pat Jordan wrote for the New York Times back in 1989. It is reprinted here with permission from the author.
A Team Divided Can Still Win
At the Yankees’ spring training clubhouse in Fort Lauderdale, Fla., Rickey Henderson tells reporters Yankee pitchers drink too much. Dave Righetti tells reporters Henderson should mind his own business. Don Mattingly tells reporters he thinks maybe Henderson has a point. Dave Winfield, seated at his locker, watches with a big mischevious grin as schools of reporters swim back and forth from Henderson’s locker to Righetti’s locker like tiny fish being led blindly by the pilot fish of dissension.
A few days later, at the Mets’ training camp in Port St. Lucie, Fla., Darryl Strawberry threatens to walk out of camp if the Mets don’t renegotiate his contract. He sulks on the field during photo day. Keith Hernandez tells him he’s acting like a baby. Strawberry takes a swing at Hernandez while cameras click. They scuffle and are finally pulled apart by teammates.
Back at the Yankee camp, Winfield, laughing now, says that the Mets have outfoxed the Yankees and now it’s the Yankees’ turn to find some way to get attention back on them. His teammates laugh.
Reporters, however, take the two disturbances seriously. They wonder, in print and on television, if dissension is ripping apart what they perceive as the delicately stitched fabric of clubhouse harmony each team must weave if it is to be successful? They see it all so clearly from their perspective, as men and women who have never been part of such clubhouses. They have always imparted to clubhouse harmony a certain romance of brotherhood they would only laugh at if someone tried to impart it, say, to the boardroom of I.B.M. They see relationships among players in a baseball clubhouse as merely an extension of the child-play relationships they remember from their youth.
In a way, this is condescending to the players, implying as it does a childishness on their part, which, as grown men, they don’t have. What reporters see, then, exists only in their mind’s eye. Which is why the players laugh. They know that clubhouse harmony or the lack of it hasn’t much to do with a team’s success on the field. Players know that good-natured camaraderie in the clubhouse, shared intimacies over a locker, plans to get together with families for a cookout on a day off, all have nothing to do with a team’s success.
Many a sublimely contented baseball team has finished out its season dead last, while more than a few angry, squabbling teams have gone on to win their league titles and the World Series. The Oakland A’s of the Reggie Jackson-Sal Bando era, and the Yankees of the Reggie Jackson-Thurmon Munson era are perfect examples of the latter.
Jackson and Munson may not have shared too many intimacies in the clubhouse before a game, but that certainly never affected their play on the field. Which is the point. The only thing that matters to players is the game. It unites 25 grown in spite of the fact that they all come from diverse backgrounds and may not have much in common.
The game is what gives players great tolerance for their teammates’ foolishness in the clubhouse. (”Oh, Rickey. He’s just being Rickey.”) They can accommodate themselves to Rickey being Rickey or Darryl being Darryl in the clubhouse as long as Rickey is Rickey and Darryl is Darryl once they step across those white lines. Then, everything is forgotten, fades from memory, becomes trivial.
Like most men in business, baseball players compartmentalize their jobs. What goes on across the white lines is infinitely more important than what goes on behind them. A close friend who consistently strikes out with the bases loaded isn’t as much use to a ballplayer as a despised teammate who consistently strokes game-winning hits. The respect a player feels for a teammate’s personal life has nothing to do with the respect he feels for a teammate’s baseball talent. Babe Ruth, Pete Rose and Wade Boggs are three of the greatest hitters ever in the game, and yet not many teammates might envy their personal lives. Yet to a man, every player in the game would want one of those three at the plate if a World Series championship was on the line.
Dissension then, although it may exist in the clubhouse, doesn’t much affect the game beyond it. That possibility is a creation of the news media, which mistakingly judges the game by the same standards it judges other jobs in ”the real world,” a phrase ballplayers use. In the real world, workers work in their clubhouse or office. The mood of their workplace does affect their jobs. A writer can’t write in a hateful environment any more than a salesman can sell his wares in one.
Employee recognition, unlike the occasional dissension in a sports clubhouse, plays a significant role in shaping workplace productivity and satisfaction. While media narratives might overlook the nuanced impact of workplace dynamics, statistics from Workhuman reveal that a positive environment fueled by regular recognition can profoundly influence employee performance. Just as a writer’s productivity suffers in a hostile atmosphere, so too does an employee’s engagement and output in a lackluster environment.
Effective recognition fosters a supportive and motivating workplace, enabling employees to thrive despite challenges and contributing to overall organizational success. This underscores the importance of acknowledging achievements and creating a positive atmosphere to enhance job satisfaction and effectiveness.
In the real world, a worker can sabotage a despised co-worker, and get away with it, because it generally won’t affect his job in a negative way. Often, it affects his job positively. He leapfrogs above his sabotaged co-worker. But baseball players work before a vast, all-seeing audience, not in the private confines of their clubhouse. If Henderson were to drop a fly ball deliberately to show up Righetti on the mound, it would be he, Henderson, who would be heaped with ridicule by the fans. Ballplayers’ egos are too big for them to expose themselves to such abuse. Therein lies the beauty of the game. It appeals to both an individual’s ego and his sense of team play.
Baseball isn’t like other team sports where the play of the individual and the team are often blurred. A running back in football can’t show much without the help of his linemen anymore than a basketball player can score points without sharp picks and passes from his teammates. Dissension in those sports can spill over onto the court and field and affect team play. Basketball players can freeze out a despised teammate, just as a football quarterback can freeze out a wide receiver.
In baseball, an individual’s play is distinct from the team’s success even though it contributes or detracts from it. Every player does his own solo dance before the fans. The shortstop, gliding into the hole like a skater on ice, backhands a sure hit, straightens himself, and throws the runner out to thunderous applause. His individual play is rewarded at the same time that his team is rewarded with an out. That’s the beauty of baseball. It’s the only team sport where an individual’s accomplishments or failures are first chalked up to him, personally, and only then added or subtracted from the team’s success or failure in a peripheral way. And always the team’s success or failure is greater than the sum of it’s individuals’ contributions.
In the late 50’s and early 60’s, I played minor league baseball throughout this country. I spent four years in baseball clubhouses with players who cheated their teammates in cards, who seduced their teammates’ wives, who were drunks or bigots or just plain mean, and I can’t remember one time when any of those players’ characteristics affected the play of their team on the field. In fact, I remember one time most clearly of all when I had a fistfight with a teammate who was most closely tied to my success or failure as a pitcher. The player was Elrod Hendricks, now a coach with the Baltimore Orioles.
Then, in 1959, we were playing for the McCook Braves in McCook, Neb. Elrod and I squared off on the sidewalk on Main Street one sunny afternoon in July. It was a brief fight. I lowered my head and charged Elrod like a bull. He grabbed me around the neck and began punching me in the stomach until I lost my wind and collapsed to the sidewalk. I sat there, ridiculously, legs spread like a child, gasping for breath.
That night, all of our teammates knew about the fight, as did our manager, who fined us both $25. When I took the mound in only my third professional game Elrod was my catcher. He called a beautiful game. He threw out two runners trying to steal second base and he tagged out the potential tying run in the eighth inning in a play at the plate. The runner slammed into Elrod with his shoulder and they both went tumbling in the dust. But Elrod held onto the ball, despite being spiked in the shin, drawing blood.
In the ninth inning, I struck out the last batter of the game with a nice curveball to record my first professional shutout. Elrod caught that third strike and leaped out of his crouch, grinning. He ran to the mound and threw his arms around me and hugged me.
Sorry I’m late in sharing this story about Arnold Hano.
For more on Arnold read Hank Waddles’ two part interview (part one and part two).
[Photo Credit: Scott Smeltzer]
Wayne Coffey has a nice piece in the Daily News today about R.A. Dickey and my friend, the late Mike Gitelson. Mike died earlier this year from myeloid leukemia.
It is a touching story. Mike, who we called “Getty,” was my best friend in middle school. We collected comics, records, and pined for someone to take us to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show at the 8th Street Playhouse. Getty did not care about sports. At all.
My mother once took a group of us to Yankee Stadium for my birthday to see the Angels because Reggie Jackson was my favorite player. We sat in the bleachers. Mike made a placard at home and brought it with him. It read: Reggie Sucks. During batting practice, Reggie shagged flies near us and Getty waved the placard and yelled at him. At one point, Reggie turned in our direction, grabbed his crotch and spit on the ground. Getty whooped and laughed, his mission accomplished.
He was a political kid. Both of Getty’s parents were social workers and so he came by his left-leaning attitudes naturally. (I remember him railing about something once when we were in high school. We were in the car with his father, who was a funny guy, and his dad said, “Michael, you are the only socialist I know with a bank card.”) By the time we were upperclassmen in high school, Mike had gone through the Clash and the Sex Pistols and was listening to the Dead Kennedys and Jello Biafra. He was the only guy we knew who was into the Red Hot Chili Peppers and Fishbone and Bad Brains.
His senior quote came from a Chili Peppers song: Don’t be a slave/No one can tell you/You’ve got to be afraid.
Getty was an angry kid (then again, so was I). He couldn’t wait to get to college. We had a falling out by then and I didn’t talk to him again for more than twenty years. But because we still had some of the same interests, I ran into him periodically: at a rest stop in New Jersey in 1994 or ’95 on the way home from a Mumia Abu Jamal demonstration in Philadelphia; at Fat Beats, a hip hop record store in the village; in ’96, on the night the Yankees won the Whirled Serious, at a De La Soul/Fishbone concert at Roseland; on the subway platform of the Carroll Street station in Brooklyn. I approached him at the rest stop after the Mumia Abu Jamal rally and startled him. It was clear that he didn’t want to reconnect so the other times I saw him–“Getty Sightings”–I left him alone.
I was surprised, then, when he reached out to me about five or six years ago. We exchanged e-mails and whatever hard feelings that might have existed were gone. We didn’t see each other but touched base every now and then. Mike had become a baseball fan through his wife who was–and is–nuts for the Mets. I thought that was amusing coming from a guy who loved to ridicule overpaid, conceited jocks.
Mike suffered with Crohn’s and he died too young. Go figure that baseball would provide distraction and comfort for him. His encounter with R.A. Dickey was moving. You know, when we were kids, Getty laughed in the movie theater at the end of Terms of Endearment when everyone else sobbed. During The Breakfast Club when the kids bared their souls and the theater was quiet, Getty cackled. He was allergic to sentiment. But after R.A. Dickey called him on the phone, Mike cried. And I think he’d very much appreciate Coffey’s article.
Yet another reason to pull for Mr. Dickey who sounds like some kind of mensch.
[Photo Credit: Matt Cerrone]
SI‘s Scott Price was with Roger Federer yesterday after Federer won Wimbledon for the seventh time:
Finally he left the broadcast center, and stepped outside into the rain. Centre Court loomed a few hundred feet away. Federer’s sneakers squished on the slick tiles; workers hauling equipment stood aside to stare. This Wimbledon gives him 17 majors in all, six more than his archrival, Nadal: A nice cushion in the great race the two run but rarely admit. On Sunday, Federer just might have put the greatest-of-all-time title out of reach for good.
“Do I care?” he said. “I guess I do, because I’d be lying if told you I don’t care at all. But for me it’s the same thing as the Novak loss and trying to beat him. Rafa has an amazing career, we have two such separate lives and worlds and things we do and the way we do them. He’ll always be a legend and a great champion, so for me if he does beat my record it almost doesn’t matter. Because I did things he can never do. He did things that I can never do. It’s the moments that live and the memories that are with me that are most important.”
Still, he was asked, it’s nice to widen the gap?
“Yeah,” Federer said, smiling. “If you like.”
[Photo Credit: Getty Images]
It’s Andy Murray vs. Roger Federer in the Wimbledon Final. Enjoy.
[Photo Credit: Daniel Berehulak/Getty Images]
Roger Federer is back in the Wimbledon Finals. It’s the eighth time he’s made it this far–he’s won six of ’em. On Sunday, he’ll face Andy Murray, who just became the first Brit since 1938 to reach the Wimbledon Finals.
I’ll be pulling for Feds but should he lose it’ll be a cool story for Murray, who has never won a Major, and for Great Britain.
[Photo Credit: AP]
The Yankees finally found a cure for TB. After losing nine straight games at Tropicana Field in Tampa (OK fine, St. Petersburg), the Bronx Bombers finally broke the schneid on Robinson Cano’s game winning two-run single with the bases loaded. If not for Cano’s timely hit (and Kyle Farnsworth’s four consecutive walks), the Yankees, who have seemingly saved their worst baseball for the unfriendly confines of the dome, would have recorded their seventh double-digit losing streak at a road stadium.
Yankees’ Longest Losing Streaks at a Road Stadium, Since 1918
Source: Baseball-reference.com
Even though the Yankees probably weren’t heart broken about the three game sweep in Tampa that occurred at the end of last season, the nine game skid was still the longest in any one road ballpark since the Bronx Bombers went winless in 15 straight games at Arlington Stadium from 1989 to 1991. Unfortunately, the Texas heat wasn’t the only thing that caused the Yankees to wilt during that span. Over the same period, the Yankees dropped 10 consecutive games to the Athletics at the Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum. Of course, during that period, the Yankees didn’t have much luck beating the Bash Brothers, or anyone for that matter. From 1989 to 1991, the team’s .437 winning percentage was the fifth lowest of any three-year span in franchise history and the worst since 1913-1915.
Yankees’ 15 Game Losing Streak at Arlington Stadium, 1989 to 1991
Source: Baseball-reference.com
As you’d expect from a team with the highest road winning percentage in baseball, the Yankees have had more double-digit road ballpark winning streaks than losing skids. The all-time high run of 13 straight victories dates back to 1939-1940 against the hapless St. Louis Browns at Sportsman’s Park, but the most recent double-digit streak was also deep in the heart of Texas, as the Yankees reeled off 10 straight victories versus the Rangers from 2005 to 2007. That mark, as well as the all-time franchise record for most wins in a single road ballpark, could be in jeopardy later this month when the Yankees visit Oakland. The last time the Bronx Bombers lost at the Athletics’ home field was on April 22, 2010, the same day that Alex Rodriguez violated the sanctity of Dallas Braden’s mound. Since then, the Yankees have won nine straight victories in “the 209”, and could tie the current longest streak of 13 road ballpark wins with a four game sweep in the teams’ final series in two weeks.
Yankees’ Longest Winning Streaks at a Road Stadium, Since 1918
Source: Baseball-reference.com
Here’s another bowling story. This one, by the late Jeff Felshman, is a keeper, a funny and understated gem:
Only the dead don’t bowl. Everybody’s tried it, anybody can do it, nobody wants to see it. Would you pay to watch bowling? Of course not. Not if the match featured the greatest bowlers of all time. Who are the greatest bowlers of all time? Who knows? As a spectator sport, bowling isn’t much. Most bowlers don’t pay much attention to their own game much less anyone else’s, especially after a couple of beers. That’s the downside of bowling’s great accessibility: even when you’re good at it, nobody cares.
Most of the bowlers at Timber Lanes the first Saturday in June don’t watch; most of them can’t see. It’s the last day before the summer break for the blind bowling league from the Chicago Braille Center. They won’t be getting together again until the middle of August. By then they should know if they’ve repeated as national champions of the American Blind Bowling Association. The results from this year’s tournement (which was held over Memorial Day weekend in Atlanta, and drew about 700 bowlers from 170 blind bowling leagues) won’t be tabulated until August. The league secretary, Virginia Okada, doesn’t think Chicago Braille Center won this year; but until they hear otherwise they’re still the national champs.
A sign on the door says Timber Lanes welcomes seeing eye dogs, but no one brought the dog today. The group is large enough as it is, about 40 being a crowd in the small bowling alley on Irving Park Road. There’s someone here from practically every American group–that’s–black, white, Spanish, American Indian, Asian, old, young, middle-aged. Usually in America when people try to put together such a broad-based racial and ethnic coalition they fail, but the blind bowlers not only can’t see much difference they have a common cause: they’re all trying to stay out of the gutter.
Somehow, it didn’t make The Best American Sports Writing. Glenn Stout has more.
[Photo Credit: Xaxor]
There’s a major George Bellows retrospective at the National Gallery in Washington D.C. through early October.
Might be worth a road trip.
From D Magazine comes a bowling story by Michael J. Mooney.
Viciedo's ninth-inning homer cooked the Yankees (AP Photo/Kathy Willens)
Going into Thursday night, Ivan Nova had a 1.27 ERA in four starts in June. This is good, because Ivan Nova is suddenly much more important to the Yakees than he was supposed to be. A day after CC Sabathia and Andy Pettitte both headed to the disabled list, with Adam Warren and Freddy Garcia looming, an authoritative, effective performance from Nova was an oasis of relief — though, speaking of relief, that part of the equation didn’t go so well. The bullpen, specifically Clay Rapada and David Robertson, worked together to take turn a 3-1 lead in the ninth into a 4-3 loss thanks to a three-run homer from Dayan Viciedo. It was not a particularly charming party trick.
Any last-minute loss is a tough one, but this one was particularly so because it wasted a now-precious good start. Stinging even more was Clay Rapada’s ninth-inning throwing error, which cost the team a double play and probably the win, and the question of whether it all could have been avoided if David Robertson had just started the inning. Girardi said afterwards that he was trying to avoid overusing Robertson given his recent injury and use. I think that’s understandable, but of course Robertson ended up pitching anyway, and there’s room to second guess if you’re so inclined. It was hard not to feel for Rapada watching his postgame interview, in which he looked downright haunted, as if he had just accidentally run over Derek Jeter’s dog.
The runs the Yankees did get came from two doubles in the fifth – Alex Rodriguez knocking Granderson home, and then Cano doing the same for A-Rod – and a Mark Teixeira solo shot in the eighth. Chicago starter Dylan Axelrod ended up with a solid line, even though at times it seemed the Yankees were about to crack him wide open: 7 innings, 6 hits, 3 walks, 4 Ks, 2 ER. In fact, it was just about identical to Nova’s except that the Yankee hurler tossed an additional third of an inning, struck out one more batter, and allowed one less run.
This series also gave Yankees fans their first glimpse of Kevin Youkilis in another kind of Sox uniform, which took me aback even though I was of course expecting it. Youkilis’ odd bat-waggling stance still makes me want to yell obscenities at my TV, just because – the guy is inherently infuriating – but I’m nevertheless a bit sad about his unpleasant separation from Boston, where up til just recently I imagined he might stay for his entire career. It’s not one of the world’s tragedies, but seeing him in the Chicago uniform – and whatever other uniforms are to come – will always be odd. He was 0-for-4 on the night.
How much panic is necessary about the Yankees’ sudden pitching concerns is still unclear, and will largely depend on your individual brand of fandom. It doesn’t sound like Sabathia will miss much too much time, though of course you never know and I just reached down to knock on the wood floor after typing that. But we will not see Pettitte again until September, at best, bringing to a crashing halt one of the best stories of this baseball season. I was in upstate New York visiting my dad when the Yankees announced Pettitte’s return; there’s not much reception where he is, and when I checked my phone as we drove through a rare three-bar zone, the news was so unexpected that I wondered if the phone was actually working properly — as if somehow I had just received a delayed tweet from 2007. That he would not only come back, but do so the tune of a 130+ ERA and regularly pitch into the eighth inning, surpassed my dreams of a best-case scenario. Even his injury was caused by a comebacker, a freak accident, not age or rust. But so it goes.
Hopefully, the Yankees have employees guarding Phil Hughes, Hiroki Kuroda and Nova 24/7, preventing staircase trips and cooking cuts and fending off stray meteors, lightning strikes and coyote attacks. I want their best men on it.
If the opposition has the Yankees seeing red tonight, you really can’t blame them. When the White Sox take the field at Yankee Stadium, their lineup will include Kevin Youkilis, the latest rivalry castoff from the Red Sox whose .942 OPS against the Bronx Bombers is one highest in the long running feud between Boston and New York. However, Chicago didn’t acquire Youkilis before their series in the Bronx just so they could antagonize the Yankees. Rather, GM Kenny Williams jumped at the opportunity to fill one of the most cavernous holes on a major league roster. That he was able to do so with a three-time All Star was icing on the cake.
Best and Worst by Position, 2012
*DH excludes National League teams.
Note: Player in parenthesis has most plate appearances at the position.
Source: fangraphs.com
Other than catcher for the Oakland Athletics, no position has been more undermanned from an offensive standpoint than third base on the South Side. Before Youkilis was acquired, the combination of Brent Morel, Orlando Hudson, and Eduardo Escobar turned the position into the cold corner, so even with a hot start (5 for 12) by the former Red Sox’ star, it will take some time before the team’s woeful production from third base starts to thaw out.
Now that the White Sox have filled their deepest hole, the onus shifts to the Detroit Tigers, who have frittered away the benefits of having sluggers like Miguel Cabrera and Prince Fielder by giving away outs from two positions on the diamond. In order to keep up with the White Sox, who currently reside in first place in the A.L. Central, Detroit may also need to make a deal. As the trade deadline nears, the Cubs are expected to hold a fire sale, so, who knows, the answer to the Tigers’ troubles may also reside in Chicago?
For the most part, the primary player who has helped their team lead the league in offense at each position also happens to be in line for an All Star Game start (who says the fans don’t know how what they’re doing?), leaving only Jed Lowrie and Carlos Ruiz as mild surprises. It’s also interesting to note that no team has enjoyed top production from more than one position, which speaks further to the level of parity that currently exists in the game. In the past, a team like the Yankees would dominate the “best list”, but these days, the Bronx Bombers are more of a streamlined offense. Other than second base, the Yankees only rank in the top-five at shortstop, even though they have maintained above average production at every position but left field and catcher.
Yankees’ Relative Production at Each Position, 2012
*DH excludes National League teams.
Source: fangraphs.com
Thanks to the revised postseason structure, the period leading up to the trade deadline promises to be unique, if not active. With so many teams now contenders because of the added wild card, buyers could wind up outnumbering sellers, making the cost of a trade increasingly prohibitive. By striking early, however, the White Sox were able to take advantage of extenuating circumstances in Boston to address their greatest needed without paying too high of a price (or, according to some, any price at all). Because of how well Youkilis has performed against the Yankees, fans of the team may rue the White Sox good fortune over the next four days, but with 15 games left against the Red Sox, the Bronx Bombers could also wind up being one of the early winners of the trading season.
Or: How to Insure You Won’t Get a Holiday Card from one Omar Vizquel.
Jay Jaffe examines the Hall of Fame candidacy of a gifted infielder who has enjoyed a fine, long, career. In the process, gets lumped with Jose Mesa on Vizquel’s enemies list.
[Photo Credit: Ron Vesely]
Wanna know your favorite big league ball player’s home town?
Another place I found because I read Kottke, the dopest site on the ‘Net.
Over at Grantland, Michael Schur presents this Requiem for a Hardass:
In his prime, Youk was an elite hitter, and he fielded two positions quite well. His OPS+ from 2008 to 2010 were 144, 146, and 157 (all OBP-heavy), and over those three years he was among the five or so very best hitters in most ways that matter. He was one of the best players in the game. But what made him special was how weird it was that this was true.
Kevin Youkilis is one of the most oddly shaped human beings in professional athletics. His torso is giant and cylindrical — he looks like a cartoon poor person wearing a barrel. He is completely bald — like, aggressively bald, like he hates hair — except for a fiery red goatee bush that tumbles out of his face like Play-Doh from a fun factory. When he hits, he stands with his feet so close together the ump could tip him over with one quick index-finger jab to the sternum — an action that must have been tempting for many umps over the years — and as he raises the bat above his head and aims the barrel back toward the pitcher in a manner any Little League coach would surely curtail (“No, Kevin, not like that, that’s all wrong … just … is your dad here? I need to talk to him”), his hands are a foot apart on the handle of the bat, and he then slowly slides them toward each other as the pitcher moves through his delivery. It’s fucking insane. (“Kevin? Buddy? Hands together, buddy. See? Like this? … Is your dad here?”) From this stevedore’s frame, alopecic head, and just completely goofy stance came a truly elite ballplayer. Who is also kind of a dick.
[Photo Credit: AP]
Kevin Youkilis has been traded to the Chicago White Sox. Jon Heyman broke the story. Details to come…
Youk was a classic Boston Red Sox, one of the dreaded “dirt dogs” and out of respect, I hated his guts. He was a tough, pain-in-the-ass out for a long time. Now, other than Pedrioa and Ortiz, the old Red Sox are but a memory.
[Photo Credit: Willa Dios]
