Daily Archives: August 11, 2009

My wife doesn’t like yelling or screaming. It makes her uneasy. So you can imagine the scene during a ball game. She can put up with me only so long. I’m far less volatile than I once was, honest. But the truth is, my wife just doesn’t get it.

The Yankees had a 3-0 lead in the second inning when Alex Rodriguez came to the plate with the bases loaded and two out. Johnny Damon hit his second double of the game two batters earlier–it bounced over the center field fence, keeping Derek Jeter, who singled for his second time in as many at bats, at third, a bad break for the Yankees. Mark Teixeira walked and then Rodriguez popped out.

So I yelled. My wife got annoyed and said, “What’s your problem? They’re winning.”

Like I said, she doesn’t get it. Ah, if only her name was Mae.

Joba Chamberlain had a tight breaking ball working in the first couple of innings but he labored in the third as he lost command of his fastball and sure enough coughed-up the lead. Scott Richmond, on the other hand, got his act together. He featured a hard, sharp slider and a wicked 12-6 curve ball and struck out eight. After getting Rodriguez out, Richmond pitched four scoreless innings. Each starter went six.

I watched the game with a puss on my face. I stopped yelling, opting to stew instead. At least my cat, Moe Green (pictured below), understands. I resisted the temptation to tell my wife a thing or three about baseball and how the game works. It was not easy to hold my tongue, believe me. But why be a schmuck? 

Jesse Carlson, the left-hander who struck Jorge Posada out in a twelve-pitch at bat on Monday night, came in to pitch the eighth. Godzilla Matsui hit a 2-2 pitch deep to right but foul. Next pitch, different result, as Matsui hit a bomb into the right centerfield seats, tying the game. Posada was next and he skied a back-door breaking ball deep to right. Joe Inglett, his back to the wall, jumped and missed the ball. A fat man wearing a beige Yankee cap and an off-white Mickey Mantle t-shirt stood in the first row and placed his black mitt on top of the wall. The ball fell into the pocket, another cheapie Yankee Stadium dinger, and the Yanks had the lead. The home run was reviewed but it stood–nice job by the fan.

Melky Cabrera, celebrating his 25th birthday, added an RBI single (his second RBI of the game) against Josh Roenicke and Damon drove the birthday boy home with an RBI base hit of his own–his third hit of the day (he was also robbed of a double). Jeter had three hits as well.

With one out the ninth, Mariano Rivera left a cutter over the heart of the plate and Edwin Encarnacion crushed it over the center field fence for a home run. Rivera grimaced–hey, that’s how I’ve been feeling all night!, I said (…to myself). A base hit to Rod Barajas brought the tying run to the plate. But Rivera caught Inglett looking at an outside fastball, and got Marco Scutaro to chase a cutter to end the game.

Final Score: Yanks 7, Blue Jays 5.

Fist pumps and cheers. Relief.

My wife resisted the urge to tell me a thing or three about the Yankees. She did not call me a schmuck–even if that is what she was thinking–and we went to bed happy.

Last night I was standing on a subway platform when a train whooshed into the station. I noticed that my car was almost empty before stepping inside. An empty car in the middle of the summer can mean one of two things: the AC is broken or someone smelly is inside (worse case scenerio brings both). Turns out the AC was busted. But I got in anyhow and enjoyed the space. The Russian Baths on the IRT, why not?

I’ve run into several mentally ill people on the trains lately. Last Friday night, on the Brooklyn-bound B train, a man walked through the car and said, “My man, my man, m-m-m-m-my man.” He held a cup in his hand and kept repeating these words in an insistent, almost pleading voice. I thought about the stuttering character in “Do The Right Thing.” The doors opened and closed but the dude didn’t get off the car. He just kept chanting. It was upsetting. A man sitting next to me looked up from his newspaper and muttered something derogatory about the guy. He’s a sick man, I thought.

Then on Saturday I saw a black woman standing on Broadway and 231st street. She was wearing powder blue shorts and a purple shirt. She had white facial hair under her nose and on her chin. She spoke with an English accent. “Would you kindly spare some change?”

I crossed the street and walked north. Sitting at the bottom of a flight of stairs was a wino I recognized from around the neighborhood. He looked like he could be fishing buddies with Thurman Munson and Dirt Tidrow.

“Hey, can you spare like $1,500?” he asked me.

I smiled and kept walking.

Joba on the hill tonight, weather permitting. Time to start another winning streak, don’t ya think?

As we all know, 1979 marked the final season of Thurman Munson’s career as a Yankee—the end result of one of the game’s worst tragedies. A number of other Yankee also played their final games in pinstripes that summer, though for far less heartbreaking reasons. Dick Tidrow left in May, traded to the Cubs in an ill-fated deal for Ray Burris. Mickey Rivers left in August, traded to the Rangers for Oscar Gamble and prospects. After the season, longtime Yankee mainstay Roy White moved on, opting to continue his career by playing in the Japanese Leagues.

A future Hall of Famer also left the team that winter. Jim “Catfish” Hunter decided to call it quits, his right arm having buckled under the stress of so many innings and far too many sliders.

Like most great pitchers, the 33-year-old Hunter owned great inner pride. He had no interest in hanging on as a mop-up man wallowing in long relief. The refusal to accept life as a fringe pitcher probably came as no surprise to people who had followed Hunter since his early days with the Oakland A’s. Prior to the 1971 season, A’s owner Charlie Finley had angered the pitcher when he offered him a mere $5,000 raise, which Hunter considered inadequate after winning a career-high 18 games in 1970. Finley preferred emphasizing Hunter’s 14 losses and his extreme reliance on closer Jim “Mudcat” Grant, who had rescued eight of Catfish’s wins with late-inning relief work. (Yes, it was a different baseball world back then.) Hunter didn’t appreciate the suggestion that he had depended so heavily on Grant to enjoy a successful season. “Mudcat was a good relief pitcher last year,” Catfish told The Sporting News, “one of the best I’ve ever seen. But I didn’t like it when some sportswriters suggested that he get half my salary this year. He did his job and I did mine.” Without minimizing the efforts of one of his teammates, Hunter had provided a thoughtful defense of his own contributions to the team.

Yet, Hunter didn’t take himself too seriously. He enjoyed playing practical jokes, which served to loosen up a clubhouse that was sometimes sidetracked by tension and mistrust. He never really liked being the center of attention, which was exactly where he found himself in 1964, when a horde of scouts had initiated an all-out raid on his home in Hertford, North Carolina, and its population of 2,012 residents. Scouts considered the young Jim Hunter one of the best high school pitchers in the country. Finley, at the time the owner of the Kansas City A’s, succeeded in signing Hunter to his first professional contract. The following spring, the A’s wanted to send the 19-year-old Hunter to the minor leagues, but his surprising maturity convinced management that he should remain with Kansas City.

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Today’s news is powered by Blue Jays . . . and the Fab Four:

• Joe Sheehan wonders about Sunday night’s late game  pitching choices:

Joe Girardi committed himself to Phil Coke in the eighth inning despite having six right-handed relievers on his roster, meaning Coke would have to face four straight right-handed batters after Jacoby Ellsbury. With Philip Hughes apparently unavailable after pitching Friday and Saturday—but for just one out each day—Girardi reacted by making none of his other righties available. It mattered less in the important matchup—letting Coke face Victor Martinez, batting right-handed, would have been the play in any case—but had Coke retired Martinez, he would have been asked to get Kevin Youkilis and Jason Bay with the tying run on base, and that would have been a huge risk. It was yet another odd decision by a man for whom running a bullpen is a daily challenge.

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