Daily Archives: April 29, 2010

From Joe Sheehan at SI.com:

[Mark] Teixeira is, in some ways, lucky. Whether it’s the afterglow of a championship, a bigger target in Javier Vazquez or the team’s 12-7 mark, his brutal April has escaped the tabloids’ spotlight. Perhaps this is progress, because in every measurable way, Teixeira, 30, is the same hitter he was a year ago. There are some fluctuations in his contact numbers — not quite as many line drives, a few more ground balls — but nothing that indicates a change in talent level given the limited number of plate appearances. No, Teixeira is mostly hitting in bad luck; he has an absurd .137 batting average on balls in play, the second-lowest mark in the game to Travis Snider, who has just been sent back to Triple-A. Also, just 9.5% of his fly balls have left the yard, about half of his career rate. Teixeira is doing what he does, just not getting the same results; his slow start in 2009 featured similar, if less extreme characteristics. There’s nothing to worry about here.

Be nice to see Teix break out tonight. Here’s hoping AJ Burnett is strong–but not too strong–and that the Yanks take the series before they return to the Bronx for the weekend.

Ya hoid?

[Photo Credit: Ken Aviation]

Supper at Emmaus, By Caravaggio (1610)

The b-side wins again:

On a more distressing note, here are more details on a sad story that just keeps getting sadder.

Okay, I know it’s early for blueberries but this just looks so damned tasty I couldn’t resist:

The Wall Street Journal ranks the the greatest Yankees by their stats, economic impact and cultural relevance. No surprise at number one.

If you didn’t see this story by Jason Fry, do yourself a favor, it’s a gem.

I also really dug this piece by King Kaufman about playing catch with his seven-year-old son:

It is fun. I’d forgotten that. It’s been coming back to me as we toss the ball back and forth, usually from only 40 feet or so. I just love playing catch. I always have.

…I’ve never really felt that some great mystical communication was going on when I was playing with a friend, or with my dad. It’s fun to play catch with someone I hardly know too. I love the rhythm of it. The simplicity. I love the sound, the pop of the glove when there’s a little mustard on the throw and it’s caught square in the pocket. Catch is a little hypnotizing. It ought to be the most boring thing in the world, but I’ve never ended a game out of boredom. I’ve worn out my arm a few times, though.

I love playing catch with my son not because some magical, wordless discourse travels between us but because I love playing catch and I love that he enjoys playing it with me.

I don’t know about anything mystical but having a catch is one of the great pleasures in this life, at least when you’ve got the right partner. My brother is one of those guys (Jon DeRosa is one of those guys, Glenn Stout is too). Can’t think of many things better, really. My bro knows how to throw, how to pitch, how to toss pop flys and grounders, just the way I like. We have fun with it, and have a lot of laughs.

Don’t even have to talk. I like that. The satisfying pop of the glove when the ball hits the pocket just right, the appealing sensation of hitting the target dead-on. I like the feeling of knowing how to throw and catch, knowing that I’ve got good mechanics and that I look good doing it. My vanity about it cracks me up. In my mind’s eye it makes me feel competent and good, the realization that I could have a catch with a big leaguer and not humiliate myself. I may not have been any good as a player but I’m certain that I can at least imitate one.

[photo credit: Weblog of the Turner Family]