Hoops documentary directed by Adam Yauch.
Wednesday
April 8, 2026
Since 2002
Blog Archives
Afternoon Art
Rothko.
Exit Light
For most of us, death will not announce itself with a blare of trumpets or a roar of cannons. It will come silently, one 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 home 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.
Pat Jordan, “A Ridiculous Will”
All that remained in Mariano Rivera’s incomparable career as the finest short-inning closer in baseball history was an ending. Last night Rivera fell to the ground on the warning track in Kansas City before the game. He shagged fly balls, something he’s done his entire career–teammates and reporters have always said he’d be a smooth outfielder. He sprinted after a ball and jumped as he reached the warning track. Then he was on his back, his mouth open in pain.
But that isn’t the image that replayed in my mind this morning. What I remember most is watching Rivera being driven off the field in a cart and the smile on his face. Maybe he was embarrassed or maybe he wanted to reassure his teammates that he was okay. Or perhaps Rivera, a spiritual man who has always attributed the events in his career– from his accidental discovery on the cut fastball to losing the seventh game of the World Series–to an act of God believed this was just meant to be and who was he to question it? As if he’d been secretly waiting and now he had an answer.
Things fall apart. For everyone.
The loss for Yankee fans, and the team, isn’t just about Rivera’s production. It is emotional and aesthetic. Even looking at Rivera’s statistics, a parade of type-o’s, has an aesthetic beauty to it. When we talk about Rivera’s pitching motion, his mulish imperturbability, his athletic grace under pressure, we think of artists not ball players: Buster Keaton, Fred Astaire, Al Hirschfeld. His career was a reminded that athletic excellence is closer to art than science.
His career might be over. If so, the last out Rivera recorded was a ground ball to Derek Jeter which was turned into a 6-4-3 double play to end the game against the Orioles on Monday night. Rivera may decide to rehab his knee and pitch again. Nobody would blame him if he walked away. He has nothing left to prove. It is our loss. The beauty part of Rivera’s greatness is that he made us appreciate every performance, every pitch, in a way that kept us in the moment, aware that what we were watching was special.
And so I’ll remember the smile on his face as he was carted off the field. It was a smile of acceptance. And it made me feel better the way he always does. That peaceful, easy feeling. Knowing that he could be seriously hurt, that his season or his career could be over, only reinforced my gratitude. He’s given me more pleasure than any other athlete. For that, I can only give thanks.
Don’t Get Me Started
The kid Phelps gets the start tonight in Kansas City. First of four against the Royals. Chad Jennings has the lowdown.
Derek Jeter DH
Curtis Granderson CF
Mark Teixeira 1B
Alex Rodriguez 3B
Robinson Cano 2B
Andruw Jones RF
Eduardo Nunez SS
Russell Martin C
Jayson Nix LF
Never mind the butterflies, son: Let’s Go Yank-ees!
[Photo Credit: Marvin E. Newman]
Picture This
Don Mattingly by Dave Choate.
Tools of the Trade
Check out this article in the L.A. Times by Martha Groves about typewriter enthusiast Steve Soboroff.
[Photo Credit: Francine Orr/Los Angeles Times]
New York Minute
Checkout counter at Fairway.
I ask the older kid, “How much for a case of seltzer?”
He says, “One hundred dollars.”
“How much for your brother?”
“He is for free.”
Top of the Heap
Our pal Eric Nusbaum says goodbye to his car:
When I say I drove my car for the last time, I mean that my car will never be driven again by anybody. It has a blown head gasket. (A head gasket is what prevents coolant and oil from leaking into the engine’s cylinders.) Fluids pouring into the engine have damaged it to the point of no sane return. In other words, the car would be more expensive to repair than it’s actually worth. My mechanic—his shop is actually called My Mechanic—all but refused to fix it. Replacing the gasket itself would cost about $1,500. And that would only be an appetizer to the ensuing main course of engine damage. For context, the Kelley Blue Book Value on the Legend in “fair condition” was $2,781. What about cars in poor condition? “Kelley Blue Book does not provide values for cars that meet this criteria.”
This was a long time coming. In the last two years, I’ve spent about a thousand dollars repairing cylinders, brakes, and other assorted parts. Meanwhile, much has been left in semi-intentional disrepair. The bumper was only about three-fourths attached. The driver-side window hadn’t shut properly since 2007; when I took the car over 40, air would stream in and whistle in my ear. Much of this is typical of Acura Legends, I’ve learned recently. They drive great, but their engines are set in such a way that makes them difficult to access, and costly to repair. Thousands upon thousands of words have been written in online forums about the regularity with which they blow their head gaskets.
I got my license when I was sixteen. My mother, a mechanic’s daughter, made sure I learned to drive a stick shift. I like driving fine but I’m 40-years-old and I’ve never owned a car. City living and all.
Fightin’ Words
Gatti-Ward, Virginia Woolf? It’s all there in this intriguing piece by Sergio De La Pava over at Triple Canopy.
[Photograph By Devin Yalkin]
Back in Gear
The rain will hang around tonight. Hopefully, they get this one in–and yes, that’swhatshesaid:
1. Jeter SS
2. Granderson CF
3. A-Rod DH
4. Cano 2B
5. Tex 1B
6. Ibanez RF
7. Chavez 3B
8. Jones LF
9. Martin C
Never mind the umbrellas: Let’s Go Yank-ees!
Darkness
According to this report, Junior Seau is dead at 43. Police are investigating this case as an apparent suicide.
My God, this is sad.
[Photo Credit: Sasha Kurmaz]
Breast or Bottle?
Head on over to Grantland for a long appreciation of the Chipmunks by Bryan Curtis. Nice to see Shecter, Merchant, Isaacs, Vecsey and company celebrated.
The only problem I have with the piece is how Jimmy Cannon is portrayed. It’s not that Curtis is inaccurate in saying that Cannon was tired and bitter by the mid-’60s, or that he was the foil that the Chipmunks needed (too bad there is no mention of Dick Young). Curtis lampoons Cannon’s writing style but I wish it was balanced with a sense of how good Cannon was in his prime. Cannon is seen here as he’s most often remembered these days–an out-of-touch old timer who had become a parody of himself. That’s a shame because while Cannon was sentimental to a fault when he was bad, he was terrific, one of the very best, when he was good.
[Picture by Bags]
"This ain't football. We do this every day."
--Earl Weaver
--Earl Weaver