Monthly Archives: October 2012

Over at SB Nation’s Longform, here’s Pat Jordan on his days pitching in the minor leagues:

The closest I ever came to pitching a “Big Game” in the minors was in my last minor league season, and it was a “Big Game” only because it was my last game. The year was 1961, and I was pitching for the Palatka in the Class D Florida State League, against the Tampa Tarpons, a farm club for the Cincinnati Reds. I was wild as usual, walking batter after batter, sweating in the merciless August heat, kicking the dirt, cursing myself, my teammates, the umpires, the fans, the opposing batters just standing at the plate, relaxed, grinning even, their bat resting on their shoulder, not even expecting to swing, just waiting out their four balls before they trotted to first base. Their fans cheered my ineptitude at first, but even they got bored with so many walks and runs for their team, the game, for all intents and purposes, already over in the first inning. They began moaning and jeering, pleading with my manager to free everyone from this painful public disgrace, “Take him out, he’s done on both sides.”

The next batter stepped into the batter’s box. I already knew he would be the last batter I would ever face in my aborted career. I glared at him, my final chance to salvage some pride, to go out on my shield on a boat filled with burning straw into that vast sea of an ordinary life that awaited me in Bridgeport, where I expected to work one shit job after another to support my wife and squalling kids; Mason laborer. Soda jerk at a drugstore. Ditch digger on a construction crew. And then, after work, dirty, depressed, and disgusted, I would drink too many beers before I went home to my poor beleaguered wife.

So I decided to plant my fastball in this final batter’s ear; Pete Rose.

Ken was at the game two nights ago. This afternoon, a win gives the A’s the AL West title.

[Photo Credit: Ezra Shaw/Getty Images]

Over at Grantland, check out this great piece on the Red Sox by Charlie Pierce:

The franchise needed a year like this. It needed a year like this not just because it was forced to clear out the lumpy deadwood in the clubhouse, though it certainly needed that. It needed a year like this not just because it was a humbling experience that let the air out of the inflated hubris that had been keeping the franchise’s collective ego aloft since the wonderful autumn of 2004, though the franchise certainly needed one of those, too. The franchise needed a year like this because people like me are getting older and we missed the days when being a Red Sox fan wasn’t so much work. The franchise needed a year like this because we kept telling young folks that it wasn’t always like this, that, in fact, things can be much worse than simply piddling away a playoff spot to the Rays in September, that baseball — Red Sox baseball — can be so thoroughly, unremittingly awful that you can stop worrying every game to death long before it’s time to get back to school.

And, yes, it is sometimes possible that good seats indeed will still be available, phony shutout streak or no.

From a strictly baseball sense, this looks like a middling- to long-range rebuilding process. The manager has to go. The farm system is nearly desiccated, and there isn’t enough talent on the roster to contend anytime soon. Neither Jon Lester nor Clay Buchholz looks remotely like a consistent no. 1 starter anymore. Also, it doesn’t look as though life in the American League East is going to get any easier. (Sooner or later, even the Blue Jays will forget to underachieve.) And I don’t want to hear anything about rebuilding that most noxious of all marketing department curses — “The Brand.” Sooner or later, you realize that no matter how many things you can find to commemorate, The Brand is simply whether you win or not. Stop losing, and your Brand is all bright and shiny again.

So, I rather enjoyed the second half of this Red Sox season. I was reminded of all the afternoons I spent with my grandfather, watching lousy baseball while, bit by bit, he drank and smoked himself into the Beyond. Those were good days, and isn’t that what the baseball people tell us the game is all about? Generations, sitting together, watching players bumble and stumble while the old folks teach the young’uns new and exciting curse words? Let Ken Burns set that to banjo music. I’ll be in the Parakeet Bar, waiting for the show to begin.

[Photo Credit: ]

Serious Eats gives us the best carrot cakes in town.

[Photo Credit: A Spoon Full of Sugar]

Broolyn Botanic Garden by Joseph O. Holmes

Don’t You Worry (worry)…

[Photo Via: VersusAll]

Handball is maybe the best city game of them all.

[Photo Via: Retro New York]

It’s the last day of the regular season–perhaps–and the only thing we know for sure in the American League is that the Tigers have won the Central. If the Yankees win tonight they’ll be the champs of the AL East and own the best record in the league. If they lose and the Orioles lose, they’ll still win the East. If they lose and the Orioles win the regular season will be extended one day and the two teams will play for the East title tomorrow in Baltimore. If the A’s beat the Rangers tonight the A’s will win the AL West and the Rangers will be the wildcard.

Got that?

It’s foggy in New York this morning and we’ve got all day to wait, wonder…

…and hope.

[Picture Credit: Andrew Moore, from The World’s Best Ever via This Isn’t Happiness]

It isn’t love if it’s easy. Home-run binges, clutch hits and flawless closers put happy bubbles in the brain.

It isn’t love if it doesn’t hurt. A division clincher in mid-September is a breezy balm.

It isn’t love if your eyes are dry. It’s just a game, after all.

It isn’t love if your pulse is flat and blood is settled. The level head is free of passion.

It isn’t love if you never want to give up.

It isn’t love if you give up.

***

I thought I wrote all that for us when they were going to lose. To help us get psyched for tomorrow. But now after watching him draw one of the grittiest walks I’ve ever seen, Paul O’Neill 2000 World Series gritty, I think I wrote it for Francisco Cervelli.

The New York Yankees beat the Boston Red Sox in a game that tested the very fabric of fandom, 4-3, in 12 innings. The Orioles also won. They beat the Rays in a tough-as-nails 1-0 duel in Tampa, so that means the Yankees have clinched at least a tie for the American East crown. Even if everything goes to pot tomorrow, the Yanks get to go head-to-head with the O’s in Baltimore on Thursday to decide things once and for all.

But everything is not going to go to pot tomorrow.

This game served as an unpleasant reminder of every single RISP frustration we experienced as fans this season. Mark Teixeira would have earned a place next to Javy Vazquez in Yankee infamy had they lost this game. He came up with a man on third and less than two outs three times. He registered five outs in those at bats and drove in zero. I felt awful for him, even as I cursed him to burn for eternity. The Yankees left runners on all game. Much like their loss in Toronto, but with more on the line, they came up small when even medium would have done the job.

Joe Girardi deemed Ivan Nova too risky to start this game and wisely opted for David Phelps instead. Phelps put in 5.3 solid innings before giving way to the bullpen. He left down 2-1 thanks to Teixiera’s woes with RISP. It stayed that way through many torturous innings. The Yankees seemed sure to break through almost every inning, and then they wouldn’t.

After Brett Gardner got picked off / caught stealing to end the eighth, the Yankee closer came on to pitch the ninth. We’re not expecting Mariano Rivera anymore, and that’s sad in itself, but when Soriano coughed up a looping homer to James Loney to push the bulge to 3-1, Mo’s absence was shining.

Curtis Granderson led off the ninth with a single off Sox closer Andrew Bailey. Girardi sent up Raul Ibanez to bat for Eduardo Nunez. Ibanez, who has only 91 hits this year, but about 40 HUGE ones, lashed a 1-2 fastball into the short seats in right. Bailey caught too much of the plate, but it was mostly a fantastic job by Ibanez of staying down through the ball and yanking it just high enough to be a homer.

With one out, Derek Jeter doubled and the Red Sox intentionally walked Swisher to get to Arod. Alex put up a wonderful at bat, even got jobbed on a call, and still worked a walk. Bases loaded. Bobby Valentine called on Mark Melancon, owner of a 6.44 ERA, to get Teixeira. I never, for one second, entertained the thought that Teixeira would fail to drive in the winning run. It was the perfect redemption to his horrid night.

Melancon worked carefully, but after several pitches and another questionable call (the ump was wide all night long according to Cone), Melancon threw the kind of pitch that is no doubt responsible for his 6.44 ERA. It was right down the middle, belt high, and Teixeira saw it clearly. But his timing was off. He swung too late and extended too far and what should have been devastating contact was broken lumber. His bat exploded and the ball popped into shallow center. Robinson Cano followed, failed to hit, failed to hustle and the threat was over. Raul Ibanez’s inspirational homer seemed like it happened a year ago and I felt like the Yankees were losing a game they had just tied.

It stayed tied for a few more innings. Rafael Soriano may not be Mo, but it was damn gutty of him to come out for his second inning and hold the line. Derek Lowe chipped in with two good innings. The Yankees didn’t do much for awhile, but Swisher’s two-out hit in the 11th brought Alex up again with a chance to win it. Alex crushed a ball to the gap, but as we have well noted, those shots fall short these days and Ellsbury did a heckuva job to run it down. Kay was fooled, but I doubt the fans watching on TV were.

I got up from the living room and retreated to the kitchen to pack tomorrow’s lunch. It was the top of the order for the Red Sox and Derek Lowe is not good. I took extra care cutting off the crusts and washing the apple. I packed it away in the fridge and knew it was time to face the music.

The game was still knotted at 3, Cervelli was up, down 0-2 in the count with two outs. Michael Kay talked about what a tough year it had been for Cervelli. He had been the “forgotten man” – left to languish in AAA all season as another guy took his job backing up Russell Martin. Chris Stewart might be a little better than Cervelli, but by not by enough to make that an easy situation to accept. I thought about a homer, but it didn’t seem possible.

Cervelli fought all the way back to work a walk. Curtis Granderson followed by taking four straight balls. And Raul Ibanez deflected a fastball into left field. It was a harmless roller and if Boston had an infielder anywhere near it, they would have thrown the lead footed Ibanez out by plenty. But there was no one there. If Francisco Cervelli did not touch home plate I would have forgiven him. He was flying.

Photos by AP & Getty Images via ESPN.com

Derek Jeter SS
Nick Swisher RF
Alex Rodriguez 3B
Mark Teixeira 1B
Robinson Cano 2B
Russell Martin C
Curtis Granderson CF
Eduardo Nunez DH
Ichiro Suzuki LF

Dave Phelps in the biggest start of his career. Ellsbury and Pedrioa are back. And I don’t care how poorly Lester has pitched this year, he’s still tough.

It’s wet in New York. Let’s hope they can get this one  in.

Never mind the butterflies: Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Via: This Isn’t Happiness]

Who says we can’t do Sunday on Tuesday? Check out Food 52’s recipe for Sunday Steak with French Butter.

[Photo Credit:  thirschfeld]

It’s Tommy John surgery for Manny Banuelos.

[Photo Via: It’s a Long Season]

Via Kottke…

Fun.

Go to Pinhole New York and check out Stefan Killan’s beautiful black-and-white photographs of our city.

It’s like havin no Latins in Manhattan/It Just Won’t Happen.

[Photo Credit: Totots]

Collage by Richard Diebenkorn

I spent much of the weekend being pissed off at the Red Sox, who couldn’t win a single game against the Baltimore Orioles. Not one. In my irrational state of mind I even wondered if there might be some foul play at work. After all, what better way for Boston to get at the Yanks than by rolling over three days in a row in Baltimore?

With this poison still working its way through my system, I sat down to watch the Yankees and Red Sox on Monday evening, and it all became clear as soon as the Boston lineup flashed onto the screen: Pedro Ciriaco, Daniel Nava, Cody Ross, Mauro Gomez, Ryan Lavarnway, Jarod Saltalamacchia, Danny Valencia, Che-Hsuan Lin, and José Iglesias made up the Red Sox starting nine, and three of those guys ended the night hitting less than .200.

CC Sabathia was on the mound for the Yanks, and he showed no mercy. As he was slicing and dicing through Boston’s makeshift lineup (Dustin Pedroia was out with an injured hoof, and Jacoby Ellsbury was on the bench suffering from the 24-hour-lefty-on-the-mound flu), I missed the old Red Sox. Do you remember what an event these series were? Do you remember how every pitch carried with it the weight of the world and a world of possibilities?

I miss the swagger of Pedro Martínez, the horror of Manny Ramírez and David Ortíz, the robotic fierceness of Jonathan Papelbon, the impossible smugness of Josh Beckett, and even the nauseating arrogance of Curt Schilling. I miss the way Jason Varitek would tuck his batting helmet beneath his arm as he crossed the plate after hitting a home run, and the way Kevin Youkilis would slide his hand up and down the shaft of his bat as if he were, well, you know.

I hated all of that, but now I miss it like crazy. These Red Sox? About as compelling as milk. So even as CC was busy dismissing one anonymous BoSock after another, I couldn’t help wondering what this series might’ve been like. Worse than that, when the Yankees sent 13 men to the plate in the second inning to score nine runs and put the game on ice, my heart didn’t beat any faster.

Robinson Canó led off the inning with an absolute monster home run that ricocheted off  the Mohegan Sun Sports Bar a mere 446 feet from home plate, becoming just the second player in four years to turn the trick. Three batters later Curtis Granderson laced a two-run homer into the second deck in right, and before the cheering stopped, Russell Martin backed him up with a homer of his own for a 4-0 Yankee lead.

Canó came up later in the inning and rocked a double to right center, scoring two more runs. A quick word about Canó. Even though some have criticized him this season and accused him of playing below his ability, it should be remembered that people whispered the same things about Roberto Clemente, probably for the same reason. Canó finished the game 3 for 5 with a home run and two doubles, giving him a total of 48 two-baggers and 31 homers on the season. Not bad.

Following Canó was Mark Teixeira, playing in his first game in weeks. He had struck out in his first at bat against Boston starter Clay Buchholz, but he liked something he saw from the new Boston pitcher, Alfredo Aceves, and quickly jumped on it. It was a no-doubter; the ball leapt off Tex’s bat and settled in the second deck. If Teixeira can get his swing together in time for the playoffs (or keep it together), the Yankee lineup is suddenly much more formidable.

Nothing much happened the rest of the way — a solo home run from Nava and a sacrifice fly from Saltalamacchia accounted for the Boston scoring — save for the bottom of the eighth. I’ve always loved watching players get their first hit, so I was thrilled for Melky Mesa when his two-hopper found its way into center field for his first career hit and RBI (Eduardo Núñez scored easily from second). Mesa started clapping and smiling half way down the line, and the Yankee dugout exploded behind him as they officially welcomed him to the major leagues with their cheers and good natured ribbing (Eric Chávez jokingly yelled for him to be sure to touch first base). The smile never left his face during that eighth inning.

The 10-2 Yankee win combined with a Baltimore loss gives the Bombers a tie with Texas for the best record in the league and a luxurious one-game lead in the American League East. I expect that they’ll take care of business on Tuesday and Wednesday. You can count on it.

[Photo Credit: Kathy Willens/AP Photo]

Derek Jeter SS
Ichiro Suzuki LF
Alex Rodriguez DH
Robinson Cano 2B
Mark Teixeira 1B
Nick Swisher RF
Curtis Granderson CF
Russell Martin C
Eric Chavez 3B

It’s CC. Shit’s On.

Never mind the preamble: Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: Josh Adamski; 4096 Colours]

Here’s our pal Mark Lamster’s Q&A with Christopher Bonanos, author of Instant: The Story of Polaroid:

ML: One aspect of public relations at which Land was especially adept was in building relationships with artists. Because a Polaroid camera is a bit clumsy in the hand and hard to focus, because the saturation of the film is so idiosyncratic and rich, and because the format is so unique, Polaroid encourages, as you note, a kind of self-conscious artiness. It’s amazing what a broad spectrum of artists ended up working with Polaroid. I know when I started taking Polaroids, I was influenced by Walker Evans, one of the “house” artists.

CB: That’s somewhat true — though I’d say that it even more encouraged a kind of casual artless shooting that equates with what we do on social networks. The other day, I met an artist named Tom Slaughter who was a huge Polaroid user back in the eighties. We were going through his photos — he has thousands — and it’s striking how much each box of them looks like an Instagram feed. They’re the same kinds of casual snapshots that somehow also feel documentary and a little profound: people eating and drinking, sitting on the porch, whatever. And it’s even the same square format, which is not an accident: the Instagram guys explicitly pay homage to Polaroid in their logo, and have a display of old Polaroid cameras in their offices. On the genuinely arty end of things, though, it’s true that Polaroid opened up its own big niche. The spontaneity was valuable to some people, like Andy Warhol; the color was especially useful to others, like Marie Cosindas; and the unique technology was valuable to Ansel Adams and a lot of other people.

I’ll never forget my father’s Polaroid camera, the sound of it being unfolded, the pleasure in pressing the red buttom to take a picture (always a treat), watching the image come out. And then fighting with my brother and sister to see which one of us could shake the photograph until an image appeared. It felt like magic.

Oh, and it ain’t over…

[Photo Credit: Sincerely Lola]