Blog Archives

The Juice Crew is good for you.

A.J. Burnett, John Lackey. They both pitched yesterday and not very well, though their teams won anyhow.

Here’s Burnett:

“Well, I didn’t get through the fifth because I wasn’t allowed to get through the fifth. It wasn’t that I couldn’t get through the fifth,” Burnett said of Girardi lifting him with a runner on second and none out in that inning. “Whatever people want to yell or whatever people want to think, I always have confidence in myself and that’s all that matters.”
(N.Y. Daily News)

And Lackey:

“Physically, arm-strength wise, I felt about as good as I had all year,’’ said Lackey whose ERA rose to 6.49 after he allowed 11 hits and eight runs in 4 1/3 innings. It marked the 13th time in the last 19 games a Sox starter has gone five innings or fewer.

“I’m glad we won, but I’m pretty frustrated,’’ Lackey said.
(Boston Globe)

Burnett or Lackey. Pick one.

Ground ball, fly ball, strike out (looking). That’s how Mariano Rivera became the all-time saves leader this afternoon as the Yanks beat the Twins, 6-4.

The best. The greatest. The pleasure has been all ours.

Thank you, Mo.

[Picture Credit: Ricardo Lopez Ortiz]

I won’t belabor the pernt but this is a game the Yankees should–and must–win. They are playing a hapless Twins team. So no excuses from Burnett. He needs to shut them down. Score Truck should take care of the rest.

Cliff has the preview.

1. Jeter SS
2. Granderson CF
3. Teixeira 1B
4. Rodriguez 3B
5. Cano 2B
6. Swisher RF
7. Jones LF
8. Montero DH
9. Martin C

No excuses. Just win, baby:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: someonethatunderstands]

I finally went to Motorino where I enjoyed the pizza. It wasn’t the best I’ve ever had or my pick for the best in the city (I don’t have a “best”) but I could see how the Neapolitan style would appeal to some, so much so that they’d call it their favorite. It was good. The place was loud and it wasn’t cheap but the meatballs were outstanding. And I’m picky about meatballs, but these were worth the trip. Word to your moms and your grandmoms.

[Photo Credit: Serious Eats and Serious Eats]

The Show Must Go On

By John Schulian

With Steven Bochco’s stunning message–“You’re in show business, kid”–playing on a loop in my head, I headed back to Philadelphia to write the rest of my script. No sooner did I get there than his collaborator, Terry Fisher, called to say they needed the script sooner than planned. It was a lesson in the reality of episodic TV, and there was nothing I could do but roll with it. Just as I as picked up the pace, though, my father died.

He and my mother had lived in Marshall, Minnesota, since he retired from the hotel business. It was a farming town of about 12,000 near where my mother had grown up and far from what I think my cosmopolitan dad would have preferred. He let her have her way, though, as if he were trying to make up for all the long hours she had sat at home alone while he was working.

For him to do anything else would have been out of character. He was the only true gentleman I’ve ever met, a lovely guy with an abundance of charm and grace. I don’t recall ever hearing him swear, and I know for sure that he never lost his Danish accent. Unlike my mother, he was at peace with my decision to chase my dreams from one side of the country to the other. And yet I don’t think I realized just how proud he was of me until I was going through his things after he died. It seemed as though every time he found my syndicated sports column in the St. Paul paper, he clipped it out and saved it in a shoebox. I wish he had lived long enough to see me go to Hollywood. It would have been the perfect reward for all the Saturdays he took me to see the great old movies that captured my imagination when I was a kid.

This was the first time death had struck so close to me, and I’m still not sure I’ve ever grieved properly. There wasn’t time. After the funeral, I had to hustle back to Philly to make the new deadline for my script. If it hadn’t been the script, it would have been something else. That’s the way things work, as I’m sure we’ve all learned at some point. I’m just glad I was working for Bochco when things went sideways, because he was cool through it all. He told me to take care of what needed taking care of -– the show would still be there when I returned to Hollywood to work on a re-write. I’m sure he was feeling pressure himself – he had a lot riding on “L.A. Law” – but he never passed the pressure on to me.

I was already creating enough of it for myself. For one thing, the idea of re-writing would take some getting used to. I’d done a bit of it for magazine pieces, but in newspapers there was rarely time for it. In Hollywood everything was about re-writing. For my “L.A. Law” script, I worked with the show’s executive story editor, Jacob Epstein, the garrulous son of a New York literary family, who was a veteran of “Hill Street Blues” and happened to be 11 years younger than me. That was something else about Hollywood that took some getting used to: everybody seemed to be younger than me. Here I was, 41 years old, and the first headline I can remember reading in Daily Variety was about how writers in their 40s couldn’t get work. Sweet Jesus, I thought, I’m dead on arrival.

Maybe the talk about no work for writers of my vintage held true in comedy, where staffs skewed young, but in drama, where I was working, was filled with guys my age. Bochco, for one, was only a year or two my senior. His star writers on “Hill Street” had been around my age. Same with a lot of the writers on “Moonlighting” and “St. Elsewhere,” to name two other hot shows from that era.

So age wouldn’t do me in yet. I just had to lean into my work. Jacob and I would talk about how a scene needed to be different, and then I’d go into a room by myself, re-write it, and emerge an hour later. My newspaper training never served me better, though I’d always hated deadlines for the compromises they forced you to make. I’d been a slow newspaper writer, but by Hollywood standards, I was almost a sprinter. Or maybe I was more like Pavlov’s dog: tell me to re-write a scene, any scene, and I’d do it and come back begging for more.

Jacob turned out to be my greatest advocate at “L.A. Law,” lobbying hard to get me on the show’s writing staff. But Steven was too smart for that. He was also too gracious to be that blunt about it when I finished my re-write and started wondering what came next. I didn’t have any background in law, I was a rookie as far as TV writing went, and, quite frankly, Steven may have realized that I didn’t possess the magic he was searching for. I can tell you for certain that he re-wrote every word of my script, though the on-screen credit read “Written by John Schulian.” Jacob assured me that Steven was re-writing every script as he searched for the right staff. It would go on this way, Jacob said, until later in the season, when fatigue set in and the surviving writers had a handle on what he wanted.

Even though I wouldn’t be one of them, when I stopped by to visit the day it was announced that the premiere of “L.A. Law” was number one in the ratings, Steven gave me my first big Hollywood hug. (I’ve got to tell you this is the hugging-est damn town I ever was in.) Better yet, he arranged for me to meet with Bill Sackheim, a veteran of the Hollywood wars, who had been his mentor at Universal.

From day one, Steven had been the antithesis of what I’d heard about powerful people in show business. That was partly because he wasn’t producing a show that was on the air when my letter landed on his desk. He was contemplating what “L.A. Law” would be, and that gave him the time to give me more attention that he might have otherwise. Never was he was less than supportive, classy, and generous. He could easily have forced me to split the writing fee on my script with him, but he was too big for that. He didn’t need the money. He had already made millions, and he would make millions upon millions more.

I took him to lunch as a token of my gratitude, and since then I’ve only run into him once. It was at a prizefight in Las Vegas, in 1992, when I was working on an ill-fated script for HBO. He recognized me then. I’m not sure he would now. But that doesn’t matter. Everything I managed to accomplish in Hollywood in the next 20 years, every penny I made, can be traced back to the fact that Steven Bochco took a chance on me. I can never thank him enough.

Click here for the full “From Ali to Xena” archives.

Take a New York Minute out to look at this great photo gallery of the disappearing face of our city. From Retronaut, where else? Oh, and dig the book, by James and Karla Murray.

“Seated Figure with a Hat,” By Richard Deibenkorn (1967)

It’s the B-Squad and A Rod today in Toronto.

Brett Gardner CF
Eduardo Nunez 2B
Robinson Cano DH
Alex Rodriguez 3B
Nick Swisher RF
Eric Chavez 1B
Russell Martin C
Chris Dickerson LF
Ramiro Pena SS

Never mind the pigskin:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Because there is no clock in baseball–or because the clock is controlled by outs not time–a single play or at-bat can become its own mini drama. Take Saturday afternoon. Bartolo Colon got smacked around and the Yanks made some base running mistakes (Robbie Cano, lookin’ at you, son) and were trailing 6-1. Then Alex Rodriguez hit a line drive, three-run home run in the sixth inning and suddenly they were back in the game, down 6-5. It was the first pitch and it was inside but Rodriguez tucked his hands in and turned on it, an encouraging sign.

Derek Jeter led off the seventh with an infield base hit and then Curtis Granderson had an at bat that was long and memorable. It lasted twelve pitches but there was a time out in the middle of it when a foul tip struck catcher Jose Molina on the forearm that lasted almost five minutes. When play resumed, with the count 2-2, Granderson kept fouling pitches off, and some good pitches at that–fastballs and especially good curve balls, diving down in the strike zone. He fouled one ball on the ground by his feet and it bounced straight up and knocked the bill of his helmet. “A painful at bat,” said Michael Kay on the YES broadcast. Finally, pitch number twelve, a change up, also a good one, down and away, was put in play. Or out of play, as Granderson skied a home run to left center field, his 40th of the year.

How good must that feel? He’d already gotten two hits and drawn a walk. Then he hung in there, fouling pitches off, and hit a tough change up for a home run.

It was the difference in the game. Mariano Rivera worked a scoreless 9th for the save, tying with with Trevor Hoffman at 601.

Final Score: Yanks 7, Jays 6.

A most satisfying win–a come-from-behind special–especially since the Red Sox also lost.

Mr. Rodriguez returns…encore une fois.

Derek Jeter SS
Curtis Granderson CF
Mark Teixeira 1B
Robinson Cano 2B
Alex Rodriguez 3B
Nick Swisher RF
Jesus Montero DH
Brett Gardner LF
Austin Romine C

Never mind last night:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: Malice]

Saturday mornin’ brehf’st

[photo credit: foodaddict]

Bed, Bath and Beyond.

[Photo Credit: This Isn’t Happiness]

C.C. Sabathia had a live fastball but little control. Nick Swisher had a pair of two-out RBIs and Eric Chavez hit a two-run home run, otherwise, the Yankees’ offense was stuck in customs or wherever the hell they’ve been for the better part of the past week. And Boone Logan screwed the pooch in the end–though it was Cory Wade who allowed the game-winning hit–the dog being none other than one of those damned Molina brothers.

Yanks lose: 5-4.

Fug.

[photo credit: Nick Laham/Getty Images]

Yanks in Toronto and Cliff’s got the preview.  Score truck anyone?

Alex Rodriguez won’t play tonight though he may play tomorrow or Sunday.

Meanwhile, C.C. goes for win number 20.

Derek Jeter SS
Curtis Granderson CF
Mark Teixeira 1B
Robinson Cano 2B
Nick Swisher RF
Eric Chavez 3B
Jorge Posada DH
Russell Martin C
Brett Gardner LF

Never mind the scoreboard-watching:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: The Harsh Truth of the Camera Eye]

Alex Rodriguez may return to the lineup tonight. Over at Pinstriped Bible, Jay Jaffe makes a good pernt:

The Yankees are now up four and a half games on the Red Sox, who with a 3-11 September record are themselves just three games ahead of the Rays for the Wild Card spot. Given that cushion, the bigger question is why the team doesn’t give Rodriguez even more time to heal, as there’s no urgency for him to return other than to potentially quell — or on the other hand, further — the anxiety about a condition that won’t fully heal. If Rodriguez were to sit for another series or another week, he would still have five or seven or 10 games to recover his timing before the postseason start. It’s not as though he’s got individual milestones at stake, or that he has to prove anything to the yutzes who think he’s gone soft. As we’ve reminded several times in the recent past, and as the Yanks to a man will acknowledge, it’s all about being ready for October.

Yup, what he said.

Still Illmatic.

Thanks to Nas for beating Primo on this one.

Saveur gives us a recipe for Memphis-Style dry ribs.

Hey Now.

[Photo Credit: Todd Coleman]

Here’s a nice piece by Bryan Hoch on the history of Mariano Rivera’s theme song.