Daily Archives: June 12, 2008

C’mon.  Please.

Let’s go Yan-Kees.

Two days ago I saw a guy in a suit talking on his i-phone. It was 8:15 in the morning on the northeast corner of 7th avenue and 50th street.

“Hi, the is Willie Randolph,” he said smiling, “I’m looking for a new job.”

It’s just about come to that for the Mets who lost another game today that can be safely described as pure agony. It’s been like Groundhog Day for Met fans only each day brings new and horrible twist. I mean only a nihilist, an absurdist, sadist or a true Met-hater could take pleasure in what’s happened, really ever since Yadier Molina hit that dinger a few years ago. Otherwise, there isn’t much funny about what’s going on with this team.

These Mets aren’t as bad as the worst team money can buy, they’ve got some great stars, but they’ve also been a constant letdown for a year now. If there has been anything funny about them it’s been the steady stream of caustic, often furious commentary that I’ve heard from my fellow New Yorkers, the Met fans. They are self-knowing in their suffering and they roll with that quality during the worst of times. They aren’t funny because they are suffering, they are funny because they are just funny as they are suffering. And I mean that as the highest of compliments.

I’m left thinking, “Whew, at least that’s not us.”

2004 and 2001 aren’t that long ago. Reminds me of Eddie Murphy’s old routine about getting hit by a car in Brooklyn. “Damn, that looked like it hurt too.”

Our team has it’s own problems but there isn’t the same degree of angst in the Bronx, is there? It’s maybe not happy but it isn’t rock bottom. Girardi’s job isn’t on the line. Whether the Yankees officially recoginze this as a re-building season or not, it is considered just that by a sizable part of their fan-base. And the team will provide pleasure regardless of the final record–watching A Rod hit, Joba start, Jeter strut, Jorgie, squat, Mariano close. Giambi’s Porn Stach of Doom. If they aren’t going to be great the least they can be is fun.

Over at River Ave Blues, Ben Kabak rounds up the latest on the new Yankee Stadium.

Bronx Liason features a Q&A with Dan Graziano of the Newark Star-Ledger:

BL: You said earlier that this team’s clubhouse has shown some fire of late. What sort of uncharacteristic behavior would the casual baseball fan be surprised to hear about the Yankees who are often portrayed as robotic, corporate, drones?

Graziano: The mustache thing, I guess. Mussina’s quote board. I just get a different feel in there than I used to. I mean, fans like to talk about those Tino Martinez/Scott Brosius/Paul O’Neill teams playing with “fire,” but that didn’t translate to the clubhouse. That clubhouse was quiet, corporate and stuffy. This one is much looser in general, and a more comfortable place for us to do our jobs for sure. This is a more approachable, friendly group of players who seem to like each other a great deal. They’ve even come to tolerate Alex. [laughs]

Finally, in the New York Observer, Howard Megdal profiles the new best thing for the Bombers.

Boys, when they are young and troubled, do not talk to each other about what bothers them, no matter how close the friendship. There is no real intimacy among us. We talk about things of the exterior, about sports. Baseball was not merely a subject for us, it provided us a social form as well.

From “Why Men Love Baseball,” by David Halberstam

Halberstam was talking about boys, but I think the same often applies to us when we become men. Not that the conversation here at Bronx Banter, and so many other blogs, is just for men, of course. Still, I believe that most men are drawn together because of a mutual interest–sports, cars, video games, record collecting–and that’s how we express intimacy.

The Halberstam bit quoted above is part of a satisfying collection of the author’s sports writing, Everything They Had (edited by Glenn Stout). It is a handsome volume that features pieces on fishing, baseball, football, and basketball. The Stuff Dreams are Made of, an expert analysis of the Lakers and Celtics in the 1987 NBA Finals finds Halberstam at his best, and is just one of many highlights.

An ideal father’s day gift if there ever was one.

Oh no, I’m getting Happy Feet!

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Monday afternoon’s loss and the subsequent reaction from the press served as a reminder that Mariano Rivera has been so good for so long that analysts and writers alike seem to forget that he’s fallible and is, in fact, capable of giving up home runs. The unusual component was that this was the second home run Rivera allowed in the series against the Royals, only the fourth time, as the New York Times pointed out, Rivera had allowed two homers in a series in his career.

Rivera’s reaction, throwing down the rosin bag in disgust and grimacing at his mistake, made backpage headlines here in New York. Why? It’s a natural reaction for anyone who is accustomed to excellence. It wasn’t bratty. It was born out of frustration at making what he deemed to be a basic mistake.

“I got too much of the plate,” Rivera told reporters. “If I make my pitch, I’ll be OK.”

Rivera has blown saves before, and has given up game-costing home runs in the regular season before. (See Bill Mueller, Bill Selby, etc). He has even uttered those same words when explaining home runs he’s allowed.

Four years ago, after blowing two of his first three opportunities of the season, all you heard on talk radio and read in the papers was, “Is Mo done? And if so, who will replace him?” Rivera then rattled off 33 consecutive saves to prove he wasn’t done, and continues to take care of himself to ensure he’s healthy enough to honor the remainder of his contract. Mariano Rivera is many things and has been the Yankees MVP for many years. By reputation and numbers, he may still be the best closer in baseball. One thing he is not, is perfect. This should not be huge news or treated with the level of drama that resulted from the Guillen home run.

Readers of this blog and many other Yankee fan blogs recognize that. The general tone was that the team still is not hitting with runners in scoring position – a trend that has been consistent for four seasons now – and that the Yankees split a four game series against a Royals team that wins as many road games as the Washington Generals.

Thank you, Mark LaMonica, for bringing sanity to the discussion.

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Michael Bamberger has a good piece on Chipper Jones, professional craftsman, in the latest issue of SI. The story reminded me of just how difficult it is to play the game, as well as how hard it is to stay healthy once an athlete reaches his mid-thirties. The mental and physical grind is considerable, no matter how well-paid these guys are. But my favorite part concerns just how tricky it is to measure success, even for a sure-fire Hall of Famer. Numbers are so enlightening in baseball, much more so than in the other major sports, but they can’t tell us everything:

When Atlanta was in Philadelphia in May, Glavine started the second game of the series, still looking then for his first win of the season. In the fourth, with the Braves leading 5-0, Phillies cleanup hitter Ryan Howard headed to the plate. With the Howard Shift on, Jones moved from third to short, and the shortstop, Yunel Escobar, a young Cuban émigré whom Glavine barely knows, moved to the outfield grass just to the right of second base. Glavine walked out to Jones and said, “I’m hearing whistling, from their dugout or bullpen — from somewhere. I don’t know if they’re stealing signs or what. Tell me if you hear or see anything.”

Jones was surprised. He could never remember Glavine coming off the mound to ask him a question before, let alone one about possible sign stealing. He was flattered that Glavine recognized that Jones could stay focused on the batter but also open his ears to the external sounds of the game, if that’s what his pitcher needed him to do. More than anything, he was impressed. He could feel Glavine’s urgency, his need to win a baseball game.

Glavine retired Howard, and when the inning was over, Jones told Glavine that the whistling was coming “from one of our guys” — from Escobar, a serial whistler — and that fans in the stands were whistling in response to him. Nobody, he said, was stealing signs.

The Braves won, and Glavine got the decision. The box score shows that Jones went 2 for 4, with a home run. It doesn’t show how he helped settle down his pitcher. What Chip Jones did that night was nothing and everything.

He went to the team hotel, slept in, woke up, got his old body moving again and headed back to the park, looking for any little baseball thing that he could do right.

There is always more to learn about the game. I feel as if the more I know, the more I realize how much I have yet to learn. There are always more nuances, details and insights to soak up. And that’s why we do this every day.

“We’re consistently inconsistent. That’s the best way to put it.”
Derek Jeter

There isn’t much mystery left for baseball fans today when batting averages and ERA’s are updated by Game Day after each at-bat. You don’t have to wait an entire week to see the league leaders. It’s all right there at our finger tips. Not only can we see pitch sequences, we learn how fast the pitch was thrown and at what angle.

One of the last remaining elements of suspense for me are west coast games, because I don’t generally stay up for them, and I never have. When I was a kid, I’d doze off in the first few innings. Now, I just won’t put myself through it. I get too worked up. If I had been watching Tuesday night’s nail-biter I don’t know how I would have settled down to fall asleep. So I’ll watch the first few innings and then turn the TV off. After I saw Alex Rodriguez strike out for the second time–he was absolutely baffled by Justin Duchscherer–I said, that’s it for me.

I like the anticipation that comes with waking up in the morning, wondering what actually happened while most of the east coast was sleeping–or at least the early birds like me. The heat wave is gone in New York, and there was a lovely, cool breeze that accompanied me on my walk to the subway. I don’t check the scores on TV the moment I get up, or catch them on the radio or turn my computer on. I walk to the subway and buy the papers.

What a drag it was to discover that the Yanks took it on the chin last night in Oakland, 8-4. “Damn,” I said as I scanned the back page of the News; the kid who sells the papers looked up at me with a quizzical expression. And such a nice morning too. Oh, well. On with the day. Still, no matter the result, I cherish the moments of anticipation, filled with fantasy and imagination, the ten minutes it takes to reach the subway, that lead up to discovering what actually happened.