Blog Archives

The Great One:

[Photo Credit: Bixentro]

The Bombers look to secure another winning series with a victory tonight.

Alex? Here’s hoping for a Saturday Night Special.

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Cool out.

[Photo Credit: bitchassbidness]

 Good stuff from Alex Rodriguez via Chad Jennings:

“I look at Cal Ripken,” Rodriguez said. “He was always my role model. He played to about 40 or 41. The one thing about third base is (you need) a strong arm and one step and dive. When you think about center field or the middle of the infield, you have to do so much more. As a shortstop, I always felt like that. As a third baseman, even if you have limited range, if you have good hands and a strong arm, I think you can play there forever.

“As long as you’re driving the ball offensively, it’s very important to be out there at third base because it allows your team, your roster and the organization to have a solid bat at DH, or have it as a rotator where you can have guys like Tex, Jeet, myself and Robbie to occupy it. You kind of strangle the team a little bit by just being an everyday DH when you can go out and play third base. You can always go out and find a guy that has a little more range at third, but if you can be a guy that can produce 30 runs, drive in 100 runs and make 10 or 12 errors, I think anybody would sign up for that.”

Here is tonight’s batting order…

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

And that’s word to Sy Ableman.

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

For the comic book heads out there…

…check out 1979semifinalist.

It’s a really good blog.

Boo.

Here is an excerpt from Roger Ebert’s forthcoming memoir:

My blog became my voice, my outlet, my “social media” in a way I couldn’t have dreamed of. Into it I poured my regrets, desires, and memories. Some days I became possessed. The comments were a form of feedback I’d never had before, and I gained a better and deeper understanding of my readers. I made “online friends,” a concept I’d scoffed at. Most people choose to write a blog. I needed to. I didn’t intend for it to drift into autobiography, but in blogging there is a tidal drift that pushes you that way. Getting such quick feedback may be one reason; the Internet encourages first- person writing, and I’ve always written that way. How can a movie review be written in the third person, as if it were an account of facts? If it isn’t subjective, there’s something false about it.

The blog let loose the flood of memories. Told sometimes that I should write my memoirs, I failed to see how I possibly could. I had memories, I had lived a good life in an interesting time, but I was at a loss to see how I could organize the accumulation of a lifetime. It was the blog that taught me how. It pushed me into first- person confession, it insisted on the personal, it seemed to organize itself in manageable fragments. Some of these words, since rewritten and expanded, first appeared in blog forms. Most are here for the first time. They came pouring forth in a flood of relief.

The book is due out next month.

[Photo Credit: Babelsdawn]

The farmer’s market wins again. Really, it makes life in the city even better than it already is.

Jim Henson and the Muppets Take…Queens.

New Dot X, with some help from Richard Pryor.

SADAT X – THE PROPHET from MOTIONGRAFF on Vimeo.

The Yanks are in Minnie for four games. Cliff’s got the preview:

A popular pre-season pick to repeat as AL Central champions, the Twins have had nothing short of a disastrous season. On June 1, the Tigers completed a sweep of the Twins at home, dropping Minnesota to 17-37 (.315) and 16.5 games back in last place. The Twins perked up a bit from there, going 33-22 (.600) in June and July and cutting their deficit in the division to five games on July 20, but they were playing over their heads during those two months as they allowed as many runs as they scored during that span and never got above fourth place. They have since returned to their early-season level, playing .286 ball in August and falling 10.5 games back in the Central, which seems closer to their actual level. According to third-order wins, only the Astros have been worse this season, and a quick look at the Twins roster shows little reason to expect them to pull out of their current slump.

To begin with, the Twins had Joe Mauer and Justin Morneau in the lineup at the same time in just eight of their first 117 games. They went 2-6 in those games, two of them coming against the Yankees in early April, both losses. With Morneau being activated from the disabled list on Friday, the Twins have now had Mauer and Morneau in the lineup in each of the last five games, but have won just two of them, scoring a total of four runs in the other three. It’s too early to know what to expect from Morneau, who hit .226/.281/.338 through early June before hitting the disabled list with a herniated disc in his neck that required surgery later that month. Mauer, who missed two months early in the season with bilateral weakness in his legs, a neurological condition effecting the strength of his leg muscles, has hit just .289/.356/.353 since his return in mid-June and has started behind the plate on four consecutive days just once since then and three consecutive days on just two other occasions.

Tonight, Ol’ Reliable, C.C. Sabathia aims to regain his form.

Derek Jeter SS
Curtis Granderson CF
Mark Teixeira 1B
Robinson Cano 2B
Nick Swisher DH
Andruw Jones RF
Eduardo Nunez 3B
Francisco Cervelli C
Brett Gardner LF

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Check out this coolness from My Modern Met:

[Pictures by Tang Yau Hoong]

The good folks at Saveur offer a gallery of pesto recipes.

Hey, it’s that time of year, isn’t it?

[Photo Credit: Zumaorganic.com]

“Northeaster,” By Winslow Homer (1895)

Kurious Jorge on the welfare line.

Nice note about C.C. Sabathia’s visit to the Negro League Museum in Bats over at the Times. In the same piece, David Waldstein has an update on Alex Rodrgiuez:

Alex Rodriguez is still expected to join the Yankees in Minnesota on Thursday, but Joe Girardi said that he might not be immediately activated from the disabled list because of uncertainty about whether his right knee is ready.

“We may not activate him for a couple of days,” Girardi said.

Rodriguez, who had arthroscopic surgery on the knee last month, played third base for Class AAA Scranton/Wilkes-Barre on Wednesday, then was expected to fly to Minnesota. (He went 1 for 2, with two walks.) Girardi said he wanted to talk to Rodriguez and perhaps have him get some treatment from the trainer Gene Monahan, work in the batting cage and take ground balls before making a decision.

“A couple of days, if you rush it, could cost you a couple of weeks if you end up hurting something else,” Girardi said. “That’s why we want to take a look at him with our own eyes tomorrow and see how far he is away and see if he’s ready.”

Girardi said he might initially use Rodriguez as the designated hitter in order to ease him back into action.

It’s Bruce Chen Fireworks Night, folks. Seems to good to be true. Which means the Yanks’ll lose, right?

Let’s hope not.

Derek Jeter SS
Curtis Granderson CF
Mark Teixeira 1B
Robinson Cano 2B
Nick Swisher RF
Andruw Jones DH
Russell Martin C
Eduardo Nunez 3B
Brett Gardner LF

And Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Photograph by Dorothea Lange, 1939

I can’t listen to this without cracking up.

A Vanishing Art 

By John Schulian

Somewhere along the line, human beings went out of fashion in America’s sports pages. You wouldn’t think it was possible, given that flesh-and-blood people play our games, but the tastemakers have deemed statistics and cockeyed opinion more important. There are exceptions, of course, like Joe Posnanski when he was pounding out a humanity-infused daily column that would have been a treasure in any era. And there are others who would love to craft character sketches and mood pieces, but realize that won’t put any biscuits on their table. And then there are the glory seekers who latch onto people only when they have a sob story to tell, because sob stories win prizes. But all the prizes tell me is that the writers who chase them so shamelessly are manipulative at best, hypocritical at worst. Forgotten are the small dramas that are played out every day in sports, and the people who inhabit them, and the artistic impulses they stir.

Over lunch, a friend who has just finished writing a non-fiction book about a boxer tells me he used a column of mine from 1980 as part of his research. The column opened with someone describing Joe Frazier’s manager, Yank Durham, in full flower as a hard ass. Frazier was about to fight Ron Stander, whom he could have beaten blindfolded, but Durham bitched loud and long about some TV lights he said were part of a plot to blind Smokin’ Joe. The people televising the fight pleaded innocent, but Durham refused to believe them. “That’s it,” he said. “We ain’t fightin’.” The TV people went into shock. So, for that matter, did Frazier. But Durham didn’t let up until the lights were taken down. That was how boxing worked then, and that’s how it works now. The guy with the biggest balls wins.

“Great column,” my friend said, “but you couldn’t write it today.”

I couldn’t write it because I used the tools of fiction – character, dialogue, dramatic tension – to depict a hard man in a hard business. I couldn’t write it because I populated the column with human beings, and I didn’t pass judgment on them. It was up to the reader to choose between Yank Durham and the TV people. I thought it was permissible for a columnist to do that. What did I know?

Let me tell you what else I couldn’t write today. Once in a great while, I would do a column about duende, an Andalusian word that is best defined by example: Willie Mays had duende, Henry Aaron didn’t; the Rolling Stones had it, the Beatles didn’t. I was borrowing shamelessly from the late George Frazier, an eccentric general interest columnist who made his last stand at the Boston Globe with a red carnation in the lapel of his Brooks Brothers suit and a quote from F. Scott Fitzgerald for every situation. I was following in the tradition that inspired many another columnist to borrow Jimmy Cannon’s pet gimmick, “Nobody asked me, but . . . ” You didn’t think Mike Lupica came up with “Shooting from the Lip” by himself, did you? He and I were indulging in what Hollywood likes to call “an homage” because it sounds so much better than “theft.”

Whatever, I had a fine time passing myself off as an arbiter of style in my duende columns. In fact, I would encourage today’s columnists to do the same, but my friend Randy Harvey, once an intrepid sports writer and now one of the top editors at the L.A. Times, says duende wouldn’t fly. The wounded look on my face when I hear his verdict seems to touch something deep inside him, though. “Okay,” Randy says, “I’d let you write duende once a week if your other three columns were on the Lakers.” Call me an ingrate, but that still doesn’t sound like such a great deal.

I’m the product of an era when a sports columnist was pretty much left to his own devices. Sometimes the news dictated what I wrote about, and sometimes there were subjects that just couldn’t be ignored whether I was interested in them or not. But the rest of the time, my column reflected who I was, for better or worse. When I wrote a sad one, it was because the subject touched my inner blues man. When I did a rip job, I was putting my mean streak on display. But never was I so infatuated with myself that I thought readers wanted a dose of my opinions every day. They were smart enough to figure out where I was coming from personally and politically without my beating them about the head and shoulders with the first person.

More than anything else, I wanted to write about the human condition, good or bad, happy or sad. The fact that the people I wrote about wore uniforms, had their names in headlines, and cashed big paychecks for their labors was mere coincidence. The important thing was to let my readers know that their heroes were people, too, not the remote gods who dwell in the parallel universe that exists today.

One of the beautiful things about newspaper work is that you never know whom you’re reaching, or what your words mean to them. There are letters to the editor and angry phone calls, of course, but there are also the personal notes that become small treasures. And one night at the Chicago Sun-Times, I heard the highest praise I ever received. It came from the cleaning lady who swept the floor and emptied the wastebaskets in the sports department. She had a bad eye and a balky hip that crabbed her stride, and she was there the day I started at the paper and probably long after I left it. I’d say hello to her, but I never wondered whether she read the paper or, if she did, made it as far as the sports section. But when she reached my corner of the office that night, she looked at me and said, “You got a lot of soul.”

I know I thanked her more than once. Other than that, everything is a blank. I’m only guessing when I say I think she liked a column I had written about Johnny Bratton, a former welterweight champion who was living on the street. But maybe the subject isn’t as important as the fact that this woman had seen something in my work that had nothing to do with winners and losers and everything to do with the forces that drove me.

Still, there were times I wasn’t aware of just how much of myself I was revealing in print. I’m thinking of one column in particular, written in 1983 about regrets and missed opportunities. It opened with my musings on the White Sox, who were very good that year, as I drove home from Wisconsin on a rainy late-summer night, and then it veered into personal territory I rarely visited. By the time I finished writing, I had quoted William Blake and Tom T. Hall and pretty much revealed myself to be a ball of confusion. I could feel the first rumblings of profound changes in my life, and change was a stranger to me.

A few days later, I ran into a documentary maker named Ken Solarz and the first thing he said was, “Man, you were really hurting.” Though he and I would later arrive in Hollywood at about the same time and become great friends, I barely knew Kenny then. But he was very perceptive. I was hurting. And it would only get worse.

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

I won’t abide lousy service in a restaurant, never mind smugness. My wife thinks I’m nuts, even though she’s the same way with clerks in retail stores. I don’t just want a waiter to be attentive, I want them to be warm and knowledgeable.  Earlier this summer, we went a trendy restaurant near Columbia and I asked the waiter what he’d recommend. He pointed at the menu and said, “Well, it’s all really good,  you can’t go wrong.”

Right, then.

On that note, check out this recent GQ column by Alan Richman:

I should long ago have paid attention to this disastrous decline in service. Casualness in restaurants does not automatically make customers feel more relaxed. It often has the opposite effect. Remember how tense my friends became when we received no attention at M. Wells.

I appreciate an atmosphere lacking formality. I love Momofuku Ssäm Bar in Manhattan and Schwa in Chicago, both unpretentious and unfussy—but also attentive. They employ people who know how to take orders, fill glasses, clear plates, drop checks. Neither neglects customers. These days, too many new restaurants do. Their motto might as well be Too Cool to Care.

Well-run restaurants recognize that thoughtful service enhances an evening out, and that a bit of formality might be required in order to reach that goal. Customers these days tend to confuse discipline and manners with arrogance. Perhaps they are remembering the excess stuffiness of decades past. That hardly exists any longer. Arrogance today is exhibited by inconsiderate servers who do almost nothing for customers other than slap plates down in front of them and expect a generous tip. Arrogance is a restaurant believing it can prosper without looking after its customers.

I will tell you what else is extraordinarily self-defeating: We empower popular restaurants, and M. Wells is very much one of them. All we care about is accessibility, getting through the door. Such restaurants are rarely held accountable, no matter how uncaring they might be. I doubt that the people who operate these sought-after spots ask themselves if they are treating their customers properly. They are not obliged to do so.

M. Wells gets the Gas Face.