Verlander vs. C.C. Here we go.
You guys know the rules. Cursing is allowed but no bitching at each other.
Time to git it on.
Derek Jeter SS
Curtis Granderson CF
Robinson Cano 2B
Alex Rodriguez 3B
Mark Teixeira 1B
Nick Swisher RF
Jorge Posada DH
Russell Martin C
Brett Gardner LF
Never mind the pending Cy Young Award:
Let’s Go Yank-ees!
Rays vs. Rangers Game Thread. Have at it, y’all.
‘Cause when I’m on the mic I like to speak freely.
An apple a day, the old saying goes. But I eat a carrot every day. Or almost every day. Don’t ask me why, but it’s been that way for years.
David Lebovitz has a good recipe for grated carrot salad.
Dig in.
“Excavation,” By Willem de Kooning (1950)
Around the dial, dig these ALDS previews, predictions and other good stuff:
First up, our man Cliff over at SI.com:
1. Three Days’ Rest
No need to speculate about when these team’s aces will pitch. Managers Jim Leyland of Detroit and Joe Girardi of New York have already announced it. CC Sabathia will pitch on three days’ rest in Game 4. Justin Verlander won’t. That’s consistent with their histories. Verlander has never pitched on three days’ rest in the major leagues. Sabathia is 3-1 with a 1.01 ERA in four regular-season starts on three days’ rest, three of which came in his final three starts of the 2008 season and helped lift the Brewers into the playoffs for the first time in 26 years. He also posted a 2.45 ERA in two quality starts on three days’ rest in the 2009 postseason, both of which were won by the Yankees on the way to their 27th world championship.As a result, those two aces, arguably the first and fourth best pitchers in the American League this year, will only face off once in this series and will be opposed by lesser pitchers should their second starts be necessary. That also means that Doug Fister, who went a Doyle Alexander-like 8-1 with a 1.79 ERA and 11.40 K/BB in 11 games after being acquired from the Mariners at the trading deadline, will only start once, even if this series goes the distance.
2. Ivan Nova
Verlander and Fister will still start three times in this best-of-five series, which is good news for the Tigers, who were 18-3 in games started by those two since the latter’s acquisition. In two of those starts, including a potential double-elimination Game 5 against Verlander, the Yankees will counter with Ivan Nova, a rookie who was farmed out to Triple-A in July. That’s a heady assignment for a rookie, not that he hasn’t earned it. Nova went 8-0 with a 3.18 ERA in 11 starts after returning to the Yankees rotation, and really shouldn’t have been demoted in the first place (though one could argue that he returned with greater purpose and effectiveness). However, even over those last 11 starts, Nova’s peripherals have been underwhelming (5.7 K/9, 2.35 K/BB). If the Tigers’ formula for winning this series is taking the three games started by their top two starters, the Yankees’ formula for winning the series just might require winning one of Nova’s two starts against the Tigers’ big two, and if the Tigers take Game 1 behind Verlander, there’s no other way for the Yankees to win the series.
Larry Koestler at The Yankee Analysts
Tyler Kepner in the New York Times
Steven Goldman at Pinstriped Bible
And over at Was Watching Jeff F offers 25 things we didn’t know about the 2011 Yankees.
Be sure to check out these sites as well as Replacement Level Yankees, YFSF, River Ave Blues and No Maas for all the Yankeeness you can handle.
[Photo Credit: Your Very Own Contrapasso]
It was warm and humid in New York until yesterday evening after a rain. Then, the autumn was back in the air. And the coolness is still there today although it’s not cold. But it is playoff weather and for Yankee fans the change to fall means more baseball. This won’t last forever, the Yankees making the playoffs annually, but it has been a constant in New York life for a generation now and you have to be a selfish fool not to take a moment to breath it in and give thanks.
[Photo Credit: I Spy NYC]
For weeks I’ve been thinking that if the Yanks play the Tigers in the ALDS they’ll lose. Too much pitching from the Tigers, too much Miguel Cabrera. I’ve held to that, but last night, as I tried to fall asleep I started to change my mind. This is a series the Yanks can win. Yeah, the Yanks should fear the Tigers but the Tigers should also be ascared of the Yanks.
I like Freddy Garcia pitching Game 3 in Comerica more than down in Texas. I like C.C. holding his own against Verlander. I like the Yankees’ offense, even if I think that Cabrera, win or lose, will be the best player in the playoffs this year.
Here’s the guy that worries me. Doug Fister. Game 2 is the series. He’s been great since joining the Tigers. But he’s got to pitch on the big stage in New York now. Still, he’s the guy that scares me.
If the Yanks win Game 2 I think they advance. If not, even if they win Game 1, I think they’ll lose.
“Seated Woman,” By Willem de Kooning (1940)
Thanks to Deadspin for linking to this bit of wonderfulness. Dig these drawings by Summer Anne Burton. And pass along the word of what she’s up to. Fantastic work.
A few weeks ago I bet my old pal Johnny Red Sox that his team would make the playoffs. He said they were going to blow it. Here’s the bet: If the Sox won, he takes me out to dinner. If they lost, I take him out.
Figured it was a win-win for me. Now, let’s just hope his tastes are reasonable. That doesn’t mean Gray’s Papaya, but let’s hope it doesn’t mean Del Posto either.
A favorite Bronx battle rhyme from the Teacher and Mr. Foxxx.
From Glenn Stout: “Hangovers were instantaneous, severe and violent.”
I wondered about being hungover as I passed this guy today and felt the ground vibrate.
Mike Torrez screamed “I’m off the hook!” Darrell Johnson was sprayed with champagne in the Met clubhouse. Bill Buckner danced a jig on his ranch in Idaho, while Carl Crawford, Jonathan Papelbon and a cast of thousands not named Jacoby Ellsbury pushed Pesky aside, their careers distilled into a single moment, the lead of their obituaries already written. The whole 2011 roster elbowed their way past Stanley and Schiraldi and Galehouse and Willoughby. Don Zimmer, Joe McCarthy, Joe Cronin, John McNamara and Grady Little welcomed Terry Francona to the brotherhood while Joe Maddon looked on in sympathy, Buck Showalter grinned and pushed the pin into the voodoo doll a little deeper and Theo Epstein felt the pain and tried to peel the target off his forehead. Robert Andino joined Aaron Boone and Mookie and Bucky as an improbable villain and regional epithet. The dark corner deep in the heart of all Red Sox fans everywhere, the one that appeared to have healed got ripped open and suddenly seemed a little darker, a lot more crowded, and a whole lot more unpleasant.
More than one Boston fan woke the next morning and either logged on or turned on the television or clicked on the radio to confirm that the ultimate nightmare had indeed taken place. It had.
Early this morning I got this e-mail from a Red Sox pal of mine:
You’ll get the whole season recap from me tomorrow, but the short story is that I really did stop caring about this team about three weeks ago. In fact, I hate that I actually gave a shit again tonight, for about forty-five minutes. (Great baseball story, though.)
What happened is they stopped being any fun to watch sometime in late August, but I have to say, they weren’t that great to watch in the first place. (Something like 3-57 when trailing in the 8th inning this year.)
They were kind of like the loud guy at the party who’s having a great time, and you sort of keep your distance from him as the night goes on, and suddenly he gets WAY too drunk…a little funny, sure, but mostly pathetic.
Or think of those hammered guys on “Cops” that just got pulled over by the cute little PO-lice lady from Tennessee.
So what you do about it? If you’re at the party, you just get the hell away from that guy, maybe take off. But when it’s on TV? All you have to do is reach for the remote and change the channel…
The Yanks jumped all over David Price last night. Slapped him silly. Mark Teixeira hit two dingers, including a grand slam and the Bombers led 7-0 and were cruising. You could practically hear a pin drop at the Trop. The Rays had nothing, they were done, even though the Yankees trotted out thirty-six pitchers. Then in the eighth, the Rays scored six runs, capped by a three-run shot by Evan Longoria. A final, noble gasp, right?
Cory Wade retired the first two men in the ninth, had pinch-hitter Dan Johnson down to his last strike, and then the sombitch hit a line drive home run to tie it. And that’s the truth.
Enter Scott Proctor. Now, it’s not what you think. Proctor got the final out in the ninth and made it through the tenth and eleventh. The Yanks had runners on first and third with one out in the top of the twelfth and couldn’t score. Then, at 11:59 p.m., after he’d struck out the first two men in the ninth and given up a double, Jonathan Paplebon, one strike away from a win, gave up a game-tying double. That was followed two minutes later by another hit from the man whose name will be burned into Red Sox Nation’s collective memories forever–Robert Andino. Little fly ball to left, Carl Crawford charged, had it, and then it popped out of his glove. And the winning run scored.
The crowd at the Trop went nuts when they heard the news. Proctor had to step off the mound. No matter what happened, there was something noble about the way Proctor performed. He was the last guy out there. Maybe if the Yanks got the lead, someone else would come in but so long as the game remained tied, it was Proctor’s game, Proctor–there to lose it. And he toughed it out. It was his best performance since rejoining the team.
He got the first out and had two strikes on Longoria before the best player on the Rays hit a low line drive down the left field line. Was it fair? It was. And just over the wall. The times was 12:06 a.m.
My goodness. The art of fiction, dead, for sure.
What a finish.
The Tigers won and so did the Rangers so the Yanks will play the ALDS against the Tigers. Tough match-up. Should be fun.
[Photo Credit: Fur Affinity]
Derek Jeter SS
Curtis Granderson CF
Mark Teixeira 1B
Robinson Cano DH
Alex Rodriguez 3B
Nick Swisher RF
Andruw Jones LF
Jesus Montero C
Eduardo Nunez 2B
Sit back, relax, enjoy the show.
Let’s Go Base-Ball!
Hell, yes.
Dellin Betances will start his first big league game tonight.
[Photo Credit: N.Y. Daily News]
My mom was in town and came over for dinner last night. Ted Berg had given me some of the pulled pork he cooked over the weekend so I figured I’d make a couple of sandwiches, and as luck would have it, mom brought a loaf of challah. I’m not sure why, maybe in honor of the Jewish New Year that I don’t celebrate. She doesn’t celebrate it either, though she was once been coerced into “converting” to Judaism.That expired, at least in spirit, well before she divorced my dad. Still, maybe she brought the challah to remember the old days. Or just because she thinks it is delicious.
Anyhow, the bread was ideal for the pork, and we topped it with some homemade coleslaw and a vinegary bbq sauce. I usually only think of challah for french toast but it’s more than lovely for a pulled pork sandwich too.
Happy New Year, indeed.
[Photo Credit: James Ransom for Food 52]
Crockett and Tubbs (Mostly Crockett)
By John Schulian
Even though it disappeared from prime time more than 20 years ago, “Miami Vice” still has a hold on people, whether it’s because they dressed like Crockett and Tubbs at a bar mitzvah or they’re looking for cocaine residue on those of us who helped make cultural icons of TV’s hippest cops. Myself, I’ve never looked good in white loafers without socks, and I’ve never done coke. But I didn’t realize I should have said so to Robert Wuhl before I went on his radio show last spring to promote “At the Fights,” the boxing anthology that the sainted George Kimball and I edited. I was primed to talk about everyone from Muhammad Ali and Roberto Duran to Norman Mailer and A.J. Liebling, but as soon as Wuhl saw “Miami Vice” on my resume, he wanted to know about all the coked-out shenanigans on South Beach. When I told him I didn’t know anything, he gave me the kind of look Hillary Clinton must have given Bill the first time she asked him about that Lewinsky woman and he lied his presidential ass off.
I was telling the truth, though. I really didn’t know anything beyond the same rumors everybody else seemed to have heard. When I was on “Vice,” the last thing on my mind was getting high. I wanted to establish myself in Hollywood, and this was my chance to do it. We wrote the scripts at Universal Studios and shot them in Miami, which gave everybody there plenty of chances to go native. The most outrageous behavior I heard of, however, was when Dick Wolf called Don Johnson only to be told that Don had gone skiing in Aspen. I suppose you could excuse him because he’d run off on a Friday when he didn’t have much work to do, just a couple of scenes in which we could shoot his double from behind. Of course his double had the world’s worst wig and looked the way Don would have on a diet of Krispy Kremes, but Don got away with it. It’s good to be the star.
If Don had been anything less, he wouldn’t have directed an episode I’d written called “By Hooker By Crook.” He lobbied for Melanie Griffith, his ex-wife, to play a socialite who moonlights as a madam, and, wonder of wonders, she got the part. In a cast that was magnificently goofy – Captain Lou Albano, the wrestler; Vanity, who had been Prince’s main squeeze; George Takei from “Star Trek” – Melanie was the main attraction. She and Don did a lot of rolling around in bed for the sake of the episode; in dailies she’d pull a sheet tight around her at the end of each take and laughingly tell the crew, “Quit looking at my tits.” Don and Melanie must have done some rolling around off-camera, too, because they wound up giving marriage a second try. That one didn’t work, either.
The fact that Don was directing didn’t mean much to me until I came home one night to my apartment in a complex crawling screenwriters, guys going through divorces (who may have been screenwriters too), stage mothers and their children, strippers, and hookers. The phone was ringing as I opened the door. It was Dick Wolf.
“Don wants you in Miami,” he said.
“I’ll catch the first thing smoking in the morning,” I said.
“No, you don’t understand. Don wants you there now.”
Apparently our star had developed a case of the yips as his first day of directing drew near. So I took the red-eye to Miami, where a driver picked me up and drove me to the art deco hotel where the company was quartered. I slept for a few hours and then went out to the set. The first person I saw coming out of Don’s trailer was Kerry McCluggage, the president of Universal TV. That’s when I knew how big a deal this was, and just how skittish Don was.
As it turned out, he asked very little of me. I expected a demand for major revisions, but all he wanted to do was look out for his character, Sonny Crokett. He combed the script looking for the few good lines I’d given Crockett’s partner, Ricardo Tubbs. Every time he found one, he’d say, “I think Crockett should say that,” and I would dutifully make the change. Poor Philip Michael Thomas. He wasn’t much of an actor, but he was a good enough Tubbs, and here was Don turning him into a nonentity in his one shot at glory. It was as if Phillip didn’t realize what was at stake. Don certainly did. He’d been the king of failed pilots until Kerry McCluggage talked him into doing what Brandon Tartikoff, the wizard who ran NBC, famously called “MTV Cops.” Now that Don had finally found success, he was biting down on it like a pit bull.
Because I was in Miami to aid and abet him, he invited me to dinner at his home on Star Island. It was just Don, his son, and me (and the hired help, of course). He kept calling the boy “son,” as if he couldn’t remember his name. It was all perfectly pleasant, though: a nice meal, a little light conversation. And then Don looked at me very seriously and said, “They tell me you used to be a sportswriter. That’s a strange way to make a living, isn’t it?”
This from a guy who played an undercover cop who wore pastel clothes and sockless white loafers, drove a Ferrari Testarossa, had a pet alligator named Elvis, ran around glorious mansions shooting bad guys, and spent more than a little time staring moodily into the distance while Phil Collins or Simply Red or some other hot music act played in the background.
And he wanted to know if writing sports is a strange way to make a living.
“Yeah,” I said. “I suppose it is.”
Click here for the full “From Ali to Xena” archives.
Read anything about “Moneyball” lately?
I haven’t seen the movie yet but I did read this article on Billy Beane in the New York Times Magazine.
And over at The Atlantic, Allen Barra has a critical essay on Michael Lewis’ book.
