Blog Archives

Over at SI.com I’ve got a 30-minute podcast interview George Vecsey about his new Stan Musial biography.

Dig it…(There is no direct hyperlink to the interview, just go to May, 2011 and you’ll find it there.)

Alex Rodriguez fouled off a 2-0 fastball right over the plate in his second at bat against James Shields tonight, didn’t even put a good swing on it. When Rodriguez is hitting well, he crushes that pitch. Shields didn’t mince around and came at Rodriguez with nothing but fastballs, but with the count 3-2 he tried to get fancy and sneak a change up past Rodriguez. “He did him a favor,” said Al Leiter on the YES broadcast after Rodriguez hit a long home run into the left field seats. Rodriguez hit another homer, this one to straight away center, in his next at bat, a sight for sore eyes indeed. Jorge Posada added a couple of hits, Brett Gardner had three, and both Derek Jeter and Chris Dickerson had RBI singles.

Ivan Nova allowed one run. When he got into trouble David Robertson came to the rescue and when Robertson got in trouble, Joba Chamberlain rescued him. By the time the 9th rolled around the Yanks had a five-run lead and so Mariano Rivera, who had been warming up, sat down and Amauri Sanit came in. Sanit got a couple of outs but then walked a man and allowed a run-scoring double. So Mo saved him, though not the game, got Johnny Damon to ground out to first, and that, as they say, was that.

Final Score: Yanks 6, Rays 2.

And we’z heppy kets.

James Shields tonight. Soriano to the DL. Chris Dickerson called up.

Yanks in need of a “W.” Doesn’t matter how they get it, does it?

Derek Jeter SS
Curtis Granderson CF
Mark Teixeira 1B
Alex Rodriguez 3B
Robinson Cano 2B
Russell Martin C
Jorge Posada DH
Brett Gardner LF
Chris Dickerson RF

We’re discouraged but we’re still here.

Never mind the apathy:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit By Raumskaya]

Well this is just about the funniest site you’ll come across in a long time.

Believe it.

[Photo Credit: Gintare Dainelyte]

[Photo Credit: Harry Callahan: Chicago, 1948]

Simply pleasures are the best.

Like tomato sauce with butter and onion, adapted by the incredible food blog Smiten Kitchen from the Goddess Marcella Hazan.

The Yankees are a mediocre team right now and are dealing with the inevitable ugliness of their aging core. Jorge Posada is the first on the firing line, and Derek Jeter, who came to his friend’s defense, is next. Yesterday, team executives met with Jeter.

Tyler Kepner has a good piece on the latest behind-the-scenes business today in the Times:

The Yankees could have publicly ignored Jeter’s all-is-well stance on Sunday. But to do so would have let his words hang there as the official record of the Yankee captain’s stance on quitting. And if the captain were to condone a player bailing on his teammates and fans … well, then what?

…They were not afraid of further angering Posada, because they knew he was wrong — and, ultimately, he knew it, too. And they were not afraid of taking on Jeter, who clearly gave up his bulletproof status when he signed his new contract last off-season.

It was all to prove a point: that a player cannot quit on his team and expect the team to pretend everything is fine. It was a teaching moment for everybody, from aspiring young players to veterans like Posada and Jeter. Someone, it turns out, actually reads those hokey signs in spring training.

It was pouring when I left my apartment in the Bronx this morning so instead of walking to the subway I jumped on a bus and only had to walk a block-and-a-half to the train station. I stayed as close as  to the buildings as possible  because the awnings keep some of the rain away. I wasn’t alone. There was a parade of us, single file,  moving down the block, as if a magnet held us close to the buildings.

A New York moment.

It ain’t that bad, chum. Cliff’s got the preview.

Never mind the pity party:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Oh, Ursula. What an exotic-looking beauty. And what a name: Ursual Andress.

Man, John Derek must have been one smooth sombitch, huh?

One Isn’t the Loneliest Number

By John Schulian

Somehow I survived the constant moves and my social backwardness. When I went back to East as a junior and senior, I found a comfort level that I’d never had before. I played baseball and football, got good enough grades, wrote for the school newspaper, emceed the farewell assembly my senior year, and had friends, the best of whom I’m still in touch with all these years later. By some wonderful twist of fate, I’d landed in a public high school that had all the qualities prep schools charge $20,000 and $30,000 a year for today. Great teachers cared about you and pushed you. I had a U.S. history teacher who actually got me to spend one Christmas vacation working on a paper for her class. I got an A on it, too. I’ll bet 90 or 95 percent of the class of 1963 went on to college of some kind. The best and brightest went to schools like Yale and Columbia and Berkeley. I, like most everybody else, just moved down the street to the Univesity of Utah.

Looking back, I’m amazed at what an innocent time it was. Maybe it was the last innocent time. A couple of years later, it seemed like half the kids who’d been underclassmen when I was at East were drinking and screwing and raising all kinds of hell. (No drugs yet, however. You have to remember this is Salt Lake I’m talking about.) My class, on the other hand, was tame in the extreme. There was a small group that boogied until they puked, but the vast majority seemed to get their high from sugar and make-out sessions. Me, I went to Utah basketball games and hung out in poolrooms with some buddies who were as inspired by “The Hustler” as I was. Never had a date, I’m embarrassed to say. I came close with a long-haired girl who reminded me of Audrey Hepburn–I even walked her home a couple of times–but I was still too damn shy. Graduation night, a friend from the football team and I–he was the good fullback, I was the other fullback–went to a Coast League baseball game instead of the dance. But a terrific girl (not Audrey Hepburn) came up and kissed me as I was on my way out the door. She may not remember it, but I do. It was a lovely moment.

The biggest thing about bouncing around the way I did as a kid was that I learned to never be afraid of solitude. I was pretty self-sufficient emotionally before I was self-sufficient in the sense of being able to actually take care of myself. If there was a high-school dance, I’d hang around the house until 8:30 or 9, then walk over to the neighborhood variety store and look through the magazines and paperbacks. (I had a driver’s license but no car; the car wouldn’t come until I was a sophomore in college.) That’s how I discovered “Rabbit Run” by John Updike. I read the first page and thought it was about basketball. Let’s just say I had a rude awakening when I bought it and read the second page, and the third, and so on. I made it all the way through, eventually. But it wasn’t until years later that I read “Rabbit Run” again and finally realized what it was about.

Maybe the ability to entertain yourself comes with being an only child. It just seemed natural to me. Lots of days there wasn’t anybody around to play with me, so I’d dream up something on my own. Or I’d turn on my little table radio and listen to Mutual’s Game of the Day or, when I was living in L.A., the Hollywood Stars’ baseball game. I listened to a lot of music on the radio, too. Not just Elvis, either, though he was the coolest thing going. I found myself, at the age of 10 or 11, attracted to black music. There were two disc jockeys in L.A.–Hunter Hancock on KPOP and Johnny Otis on KFOX–who played nothing but black music, and there I was, this blond, blue-eyed kid utterly mesmerized by Sam Cooke and Jackie Wilson and a guy named Sonny Knight, who had a hit with a song called “Confidential.” It was as though I considered this black music an antidote to the Pat Boone 45 my mother gave me as a birthday present. (Pat Boone singing Little Richard? For the love of God, Mom!) There was that incredible mix of Saturday night and Sunday morning in the music-–saxophones straight out of whorehouses and voices right from the choir. I can tell you for sure that I was the only kid in my neighborhood who made Ivory Joe Hunter’s “Since I Met You Baby” the first 45 he bought. Only later did I hear the influence of country music on the song, so in addition to being proof that I loved my rhythm and blues as a child, I was harboring the inner hillbilly who would emerge later.

Click here for Part One of From Ali to Xena…

Over at ESPN, Tom Friend has a nice takeout piece on Kevin Durant.

The Thunder–thanks in large part to Durant’s 39 pernts yesterday–will face the Mavericks in the Western Conference Finals.

Meanwhile, check out this piece on the demise of the L.A. Lakers from George Kimball.

GQ has an excerpt from the highly-anticipated new oral history of ESPN.

The book is: “Those Guys Have All the Fun.”

Pasta Primavera, The Bittman Variations, in the Times Magazine.

I made peas and asparagus yesterday, with a serrano pepper, tarragon, chives, chicken stock and butter. No pasta but it was yummy. Love the spring vegies.

[Photo Credit: N.Y. Times]

Sculptures by Yasuhiro Sakurai

Christopher Hitchens on “To End All Wars,” Adam Hochschild’s new book about WWI:

We read these stirring yet wrenching accounts, of soldiers setting off to battle accompanied by cheers, and shudder because we know what they do not. We know what is coming, in other words. And coming not only to them. What is really coming, stepping jackbooted over the poisoned ruins of civilized Europe, is the pornographic figure of the Nazi. Again, Hochschild is an acute register. He has read the relevant passages of “Mein Kampf,” in which a gassed and wounded Austrian corporal began to incubate the idea of a ghastly revenge. He notes the increasing anti-Semitism of decaying wartime imperial Germany, with its vile rumors of Jewish cowardice and machination. And he approaches a truly arresting realization: Nazism can perhaps be avoided, but only on condition that German militarism is not too heavily defeated on the battlefield.

This highly unsettling reflection is important above all for American readers. If General Pershing’s fresh and plucky troops had not reached the scene in the closing stages of the bloodbath, universal exhaustion would almost certainly have compelled an earlier armistice, on less savage terms. Without President Wilson’s intervention, the incensed and traumatized French would never have been able to impose terms of humiliation on Germany; the very terms that Hitler was to reverse, by such relentless means, a matter of two decades later. In this light, the great American socialist Eugene V. Debs, who publicly opposed the war and was kept in prison by a vindictive Wilson until long after its ending, looks like a prescient hero. Indeed, so do many of the antiwar militants to whose often-buried record Hochschild has done honor. (Unsentimental to the last, though, he shows that many of them went on to lose or waste their lives on Bolshevism, the other great mutant system to emerge from the abattoir.) This is a book to make one feel deeply and painfully, and also to think hard.

Click here for an excerpt...

I am a great admirer of Hochschild’s book “King Leopold’s Ghost” as well as his wonderful memoir, “Half the Way Home.”

His new one looks riveting.

First, dig this tune sung by Richie Allen.

Next, how about this groove from Banter-favorite, Cal Tjader:

It’s raining and windy in town today. Got soaked on my way to work, still half-asleep and had to laugh…

Top of the morning to you.

[Picture by Larry Roibal]