Daily Archives: May 15, 2003

ONE FOR THE MONEY…

ESPN is running a “Moneyball” blue plate special this afternoon. Catch an excerpt from Michael Lewis’ new book, along with related articles from Rob Neyer and Eric Neel. Neyer also has an excellent interview with Lewis that is worth checking out.

There are several compelling exchanges, but my favorite bit was when Neyer asked Lewis:

RN: …So what was the hardest thing to leave out of the book?

ML: Well it was funny to know that the players refer to Barry Zito’s San Francisco apartment “The Stabbin’ Cabin.”

RN: Hrmm, I think I’ll leave that one alone …

Anything else?

ML: There were story lines that spun right off the Oakland A’s that led more deeply into other clubs, especially the Yankees, Rangers, Blue Jays, and Red Sox. I wrote a chapter about watching a game with Blue Jays GM J.P Ricciardi that might have been the funniest thing in the book — J.P being a very funny man — but I had to cut it, because it just got in the way of the story. I think someone ought to do what I had hoped to do, and take apart the business mind of Rangers owner Tom Hicks. Again, it just didn’t fit in my story. The Oakland character I was saddest to lose was Tim Hudson.

I don’t know that I would have left the Zito thing alone, but that’s just me—I love that kind of “North Dallas Forty” bawdy horseshit. Plus, I don’t write for ESPN. I would also loved to have read more about Tim Hudson, and the Ricciardi segment sounds terrific too. But I admire Lewis’ criticial facilities, because anything that takes away from the story is ultimately superfluous, and must be cut (there goes my editing background rearing its ugly head).

Anyhow, don’t miss out on any of the fun.

FREDDY GOT FINGERED

After the Yanks bombed Seattle’s erstwhile ace Freddy Garcia last week, I wondered what had gone wrong with him (Garcia was roughed up again last night). Derek Zumsteg wrote an excellent column about Garcia over at Baseball Prospectus earlier this week. It seems that Freddy likes to party, and not only that, he may have playing hurt for some time now:

Garcia’s a partier. It’s known, and it’s been interesting to see local sportswriters tiptoe around the issue, once afraid to mention it and now going so far as to say he is in fact a partier, but offering no actual proof. There are questions about Garcia’s work ethic and preparation, and it’s particularly awful to see him when he comes completely unraveled. There’s a look on his face as if he’s already checked out for the game as he serves up fastballs hitters can smoke, and I start to wish Bob Melvin would walk out to the mound, ask Freddy if he was injured, and then kick him in the balls so he can call in an emergency replacement from the bullpen. I don’t really think anyone should kick anyone in the balls, by the way, that’s just how frustrating Freddy’s been to watch. I want to reach down from the stands and throttle him and say, “if you don’t want to pitch, fake a muscle pull, don’t keep giving up runs before we can get someone up in the bullpen. Intentionally walk every batter if you have to, it’ll be less painful.”

AND THEN THERE WAS ONE

The Angels handed the Yanks their ass on a platter once again at the Stadium last night. The Bombers have now lost three-straight, and now lead the Sox, who defeated Texas 7-1, by one game. Boomer Wells wasn’t terrible, but he lost his first game of the year. Scott Spezio went 4-4, and wishes he could play against the Yankess all the time. (The most interesting play of the night came when Hideki Matsui and Derek Jeter almost cut down Spezio at the plate as he tagged from third on a fly ball—Buster Olney has a great recap of the play in the Times.)

Point blank, the Yankee offense is slumping. Giambi still can’t see; Lil’ Sori—whose father passed away yesterday, isn’t hitting jack-boil-scratch, and Bernie has cooled down as well (Bernie kills me, when he slumps he turns into a poor man’s Rod Carew). Of course, the biggest concern in the BX, is the Yankees sorry excuse for a bullpen. Filip Bondy reports:

The Yanks lost again, however, and their bullpen has a gaping hole. There is nothing sexy about middle relief. Juan Acevedo isn’t comfortable in the role of baton passer. Acevedo gave up a grand slam to Spiezio on Tuesday, another scream for attention. Torre says there is something wrong with Acevedo’s mechanics, but the manager probably suspects it is more than that. Ever since the temporary closer has been asked to be a permanent middle man, he hasn’t approached the game the same way.

“They have to feel important,” Torre was saying yesterday, about the delicate egos of long relievers. “You always shower alone. You don’t start and you don’t finish.”

From a temperamental point of view, Osuna is much better suited to this sort of existence than Acevedo. His ego fits more easily into the corner of the clubhouse, and in the bullpen.

Olney hit the nail on the head when he wrote:

The Yankees need somebody to give the starters a breather, as they wait for their second wind to kick in.

I watched the game with Emily at her place upstate last night, and was smoldering from the 7th inning on (I couldn’t even enjoy watchin Benji Molina truckulate his fat ass around the bases, scoring from first on a double in the 8th inning). The worst part of it is that I didn’t want to cause a ruckus and yell and curse. Now I got indigestion, but what are you going to do? I’m going to my first Yankee game of the season tonight, so let’s hope they can avoid getting swept. Aaron Sele is pitching for the Angels, and if that dipshit shuts the Bombers down, then I’m going on strike.

Today’s papers are filled with tributes to former Knick (and former Chicago White Sox), Dave DeBusschere, who died of a heart attack yesterday. I best remember DeBusschere almost jumping out of his skin when the Knicks won the Patrick Ewing sweepstakes in 1985, but he was considered to be the heart and soul of the great Knick teams of the late ’60s and early ’70s.

On the train ride into the city this morning, I was standing next to two Wall Street suits: a wily veteran, and an eager youngster. The older guy was your classic Goomba, talking shit the whole way, as his young friend listened intently. The Goomba had a thick New York accent, slicked-back hair, and leathery skin. He was all of a piece–straight out of one of Eric Bogosian’s monologues.

“Hey, I remember when the subway was 35 cents, my friend. Can you imagine that? Those were the good ol’ days.”

I decided to bring up DeBusschere. The conversation didn’t last too long. My man had to get back to his riff.

He continued: “You wouldn’t believe this, but I saw Mickey Mantle play. I don’t look old, but it’s true. I’m 42, but I don’t look it.”

“How do you do it?”

“I drink. I fucking drink, man. Lemme tell you something, I work with all these guys who are work-out freaks. Health nuts. Guys in their twenties. They’re sick four, five times a year. Me? I’m in the bar five, six nights a week, I smoke three packs of cigarettes a day, and I feel great. Hey: I had three grandparents that lived past 90. When my grandfather finally went, he was 99. Guy says to me, ‘What was the cause of death?’ I say, ‘He was fucking 99, what do you mean ’cause’?” Hey, I haven’t spent one cent in a bar or restaurant in New York since Mayor Bloomberg passed that no-smoking law. I’m not kidding. Screw that. And I’ll tell you something else: I haven’t gone to a movie theater since they banned smoking there either. Hey, I’m single, I feel great, I’m going to drink and I’m going to smoke as long as I like. Right?”

Hey, whatever gets you through the night, brother.