Peace to Matt Cerrone for the link:
Today on 
‘s New York Baseball Today, SNY’s Brian Custer and Ted Berg, and Alex Belth from Bronx Banter, talk about who could be called upon to replace John Maine in the rotation, and whether the Yankees need to sweep the Red Sox to stay in the race, which you can watch by clicking play below:
So there I was bummed out by the news of my barber’s retirement when, apropos of nothing, my twin sister sent me this link:
Jonah Keri weighs in on Mike Mussina’s fine career over at ESPN:
Mussina deserves to be a Hall of Famer, even if he never wins 20 games in a season, or 300 in his career for that matter.
If you insist on using wins as a barometer, you could argue that only six pitchers in major league history have as many wins as Mussina, with a higher winning percentage: Hall of Famers Lefty Grove, Christy Mathewson, Grover Cleveland Alexander and Jim Palmer, and Roger Clemens and Randy Johnson, two of the 10 best pitchers of all time. If you’re into fancier analysis, you could point to the Gray Ink, Hall of Fame Standards and Hall of Fame Monitor tests, all of which show Mussina with more than enough credentials to surpass the average player already enshrined in Cooperstown.
But the argument over Mussina’s candidacy based on his (in)ability to win 20 games in a season raises a bigger issue: Baseball’s media and fans (mostly the media) butcher the numbers in their attempts to evaluate a player’s accomplishments, or his overall worth.
For most of us, death will not announce itself with a blare of trumpets or a roar of cannons. It will come silently, on the soft paws of a cat. It will insinuate itself, rubbing against our ankle in the midst of an ordinary moment. An uneventful dinner. A drive hom from work. A sofa pushed across a floor. A slight bend to retrieve a morning newspaper tossed into a bush. And then, a faint cry, an exhale of breath, a muffled slump." *
A Ridiculous Will —Pat Jordan
The summer is almost over: The last days of Yankee Stadium are upon us. Over the weekend, my neighborhood was crowded with kids returning to Manhattan College. A few days ago I went to Brooklyn to get my haircut. I hadn’t been in a few months and was starting to look downright shaggy. When I walked into the shop, early in the morning, the owner Ray was sitting in his chair. I noticed the place looked bigger and asked where my barber, Efrain was.
"He’s gone," said Ray.
As in retired, not dead. Up and left three weeks ago. Moved to Florida with his wife. Didn’t tell any of his few remaining clients. He only gave Ray a few days notice.
"His legs have been hurting him," said Ray.
I felt stunned although not surprised. I had been waiting for the day that I walked into the shop to discover that Efrain was gone–retired or dead–for some time now. I sat in Ray’s chair and listened to him as he cut my hair. But I didn’t really hear him. I could only think back on Efrain.
