Daily Archives: December 10, 2009

Do You Want Some More? 

Granderson and Pettitte are official.

So, what next? Scott Boras is talking up his client, Johnny Damon, right on cue.

What about Halladay? Coming to the Yanks? Not likely, opines Joel Sherman.

The Yanks done at these meetings? What do you think?

UPDATE: From Buster Olney at ESPN:  “Heard this: The Yankees are in the process of negotiating with Johnny Damon’s camp.”

UPDATE: Chad Jennings, who has been doing a terrific job covering the winter meetings, just posted a few final words from Brian Cashman as the Yankees General Manager was on his way out of town:

“I am definitely not in a position right now where I feel like I’m ready to do anything,” he said. “The next step isn’t ready to happen now, based on my conversations. There shouldn’t be another shoe to drop immediately.”

Cashman has options, and he has little need for urgency. He has to act, obviously, but the past four days have surely eased any need for desperation. Yesterday, Cashman acknowledged having talked to John Lackey’s agent. Today, he acknowledged talking about Ben Sheets. He’s met with the agents for Johnny Damon and Hideki Matsui. He’s been engaged with multiple trade talks. As soon as something makes sense, he’ll be ready to move.

“Patience can benefit you, (or) it might not,” Cashman said. “You can wait something out and see if it falls in your lap, but by doing that you risk losing something that you want. It’s a little riskier for us to play that game. If we really want something and it fits in our criteria at some point, waiting it out to see if it gets cheaper, I’m not sure that’s the way we go about it.”

Much as I miss Pete Abraham over at Lo-Hud, I’ve got to give credit to Jennings, Sam Borden, and Josh Thomson for maintaining the blog’s high standard.

Forty-Two
by Hank Waddles

All eyes are drawn to the hero’s routine
The moment he stands and steps into the night.
He pauses so slightly, surveying the scene,
Then readies to rescue his team from its plight.

It starts all at once with a simple steel ball
Whose weight gently pulls on the golden right arm.
The stakes might be high when the manager calls,
But the Great One reveals not a trace of alarm.

He enters the field as the gate opens wide
And runs with head down towards his stage on the mound.
The crowd claps along, watches each graceful stride,
Lets loose a crescendo of glorious sound.

Each pitch he precedes with a bow to third base,
Then lowers his glove and the ball to his belt.
The batter awaits with fear etched on his face,
The outcome assured though the ball’s not been dealt.

They tell us he throws just one pitch, but they lie.
His fastball can cut, disappear, or explode.
Three pitches in one means as hard as they try,
The batters aren’t hitters, they’re outs to unload.

The first goes down quickly, taps back to the mound,
The next is called out by a pitch on the black.
The third out’s foretold by the hideous sound
Of splintering wood as he makes the bat crack.

It’s five hundred times he’s done this before,
Reacting the same at the end of each game.
A nod towards his catcher, beneath the crowd’s roar,
He steps off the mound towards what’s next: Hall of Fame.