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If This Isn’t Happiness…

I don’t know what is.

I saw a young woman crying on the subway platform today. From fifty feet away I could tell–her head was bowed, her hands covered her face. As I moved closer, she came into focus and yes, she was crying, the corners of her mouth turned down. My first instinct was to offer her comfort. That was quickly replaced by another thought–Who do you think you are, bro? What are you going to do? It’s none of your business.

Why was she crying? Did someone die, did she get into a fight with her boyfriend? I wondered as I walked past her and said nothing.

[Photo Credit: Le Xuan-Cung]

Our pal Diane Firstman has a new site–with a great name–Value Over Replacement Grit. Bookmark it and make it a regular stop.

Tonight’s game has been postponed.

[Picture by Bags]

Dig what I came across in Midtown yesterday…

Although this is a 2009 vintage I officially nominate this vehicle as the 2011 Bronx Banter Scoretruck. Can I get a witness?

Fresh direct from the Lo Hud Yankees oven comes news that Rafael Soriano is sorry that he split without talking to reporters last night.

Here’s tonight’s line-up:

1. Gardner LF
2. Granderson CF
3. Teixeira 1B
4. Rodriguez DH
5. Cano 2B
6. Swisher RF
7. Chavez 3B
8. Nunez SS
9. Molina C
Garcia P

Forget the chumps–or that Chump, in particular–here comes Fab Five Freddy and

Let’s go Yan-Kees!

Here’s Gelf Magazine’s interview with George Kimball:

Gelf Magazine: Boxing continues to enjoy cinematic minting—latest in The Fighter—even as it loses luster as an American spectacle, or as the career of choice for young and hungry athletes. How do you explain this dichotomy?

George Kimball: Don’t even get me started on The Fighter. I covered pretty much Micky Ward’s entire career. I’d have been much more comfortable with the film if they’d just changed the names and presented it as a work of fiction. There are so many things in the movie that didn’t happen, or at least didn’t happen the way they claimed they happened, and so many actual aspects of Micky’s career—the three Gatti fights, for instance—that did happen but aren’t in the movie that it was fraudulent, in my view. It was at the very least bad history. Claiming it was a true story, or even “based on a true story,” is ridiculous. The worst part of it is that most moviegoers now think Micky actually did win a world title—the welterweight title, yet—in the Shea Neary fight. To me, the most salient aspect of Ward’s career was the fact that he is so universally respected as a blue-collar, blood-and-guts fighter despite the fact that he lost the only world-title fight he was ever in.

Kimball and Thomas Hauser will be speaking at Varsity Letters tomorrow night in the Village.

Ever feel lonely in the big city? I constantly talk to strangers, or communicate with them through eye contact or a head nod. My family is here. I’m out there in the world. But sometimes the loneliness is impossible to escape and it will creep up on you, even briefly, when you least expect it.

Old kicks on the wall at a running store…

Here’s more Albert, with his real life brother:

Sometimes there is a scene in a movie that is so good that the rest of the movie pales in comparison. I always felt that Albert Brook’s second movie, “Modern Romance” never recovered after this sequence, where Albert is high on ‘ludes. Enjoy (Mr. Popularity, Mr. Popularity):

The rest of the movie is fun–and we’ll feature another good scene shortly–but this one takes the cake.

C’mon Everybody Do the Baseball!

Some baseball fans, like my buddy Joe Sheehan, are not interested in the private lives of the players. Joe doesn’t care a whit what goes on in the clubhouse. He cares about the performance on the field, period.

Now, the beat writers and columnists might not care about a player’s personal life either but if a player makes their job difficult, well, it will become a story. Last night, Rafael Soriano pitched poorly, helped cost the team a win, and then did not talk to reporters after the game, leaving his teammates to do the talking for him. This kind of behavior does not sit well with the press (and perhaps it doesn’t sit well with his teammates). If it continues, Soriano will eventually blame the writers for creating a story, and they, in turn, will shake their heads and say, “You made your bed, dude.”

For a guy like Joe Sheehan this is all distraction, a lot of noise signifying nothing. How will Soriano pitch in his next outing? That’s what counts.

We’ll be watching.

Before I got off the subway in the Bronx tonight, I checked the MLB app on my phone and was pleased to see the score: Yanks 4, Twins 0. Mark Teixeira with another dinger, again of the three run variety. Andruw Jones with a solo shot–Hey, Now.

I ran for the bus on 231st Street and put on the John Sterling radio call once I got on board. Ol’ Silver Throat usually annoys me but tonight I was comforted by the sound of his voice. In the early innings of an April game, with the Yanks ahead and C.C. Sabathia on the mound, Sterling was unhurried, almost sedate and entirely pleasant.

Now, if you stand too close to the back door of a New York City bus an automated voice comes over the loud speaker and says, “Please step away from the rear door.” A man wearing earplugs was too close to the door and the message repeated. This didn’t bother him any on the count of the earplugs. I focused on Sterling’s patter when I heard a vendor in the distance on the radio broadcast. A thick Bronx accent barked, “Hot dogs…hot dogs…hot dogs.” You know the tone–imploring and insistent.

So the music in my ears went from electronic to authentic: “Please step away from the rear door,” “Hot Dogs,” Please Step away from the rear door,” “Hot Dogs.” The rhythm made me happy and I remembered an old Simpsons episode: “Dental plan,” Lisa needs braces,” Dental plan,” “Lisa needs braces.”

I got home and watched the rest of the game. Sabathia was visibly frustrated with himself but he sailed through the Twins lineup anyhow, retiring the last 17 batters he faced.

So it was a mild surprise to see Rafael Soriano come out to pitch the eighth and disconcerting when he walked two of the first three men he faced (and the comments section here at the Banter lit up like a suicide hotline in Detroit). Denard Span slapped a single to left and the bases were loaded. But Tsuyoshi Nishioka, a slender guy, struck out on three pitches, and waved his hand at the umpire. Enter Joe Mauer, and restlessness at the Stadium. Soriano walked him on five pitches and his night was over.

(more…)

It’s the big fella, tonight.

Nevermind the napkins, Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Nice gams…from the New Yorker’s Photo Booth. 

[Picture by Stan Douglas]

Our man Glenn Stout is the latest writer to be interviewed by Chris Jones over at Son of Bold Venture. I love this bit:

CJ: As either a writer or an editor, you’ve had a hand in more than eighty books. Your blog is called verbplow. I get the sense that you must treat words like work, like a more manual brand of labor—that during the course of most days, you must sit down and force yourself either to read or to write something. How do you make yourself do it?

Glenn Stout: That’s funny you ask about that because just the other day I had this realization that all the things I’ve ever really liked to do are activities that require me to use my hands and my brain simultaneously. You are right that in a sense I do see writing as manual labor, and the metaphor in verb plow is intentional, but that doesn’t mean it’s not valued, or necessarily laborious, because there is also that “labor of love” thing. I love doing what I do and can’t believe I get to do this every day. Growing up the idea of becoming a writer was unimaginable. We didn’t have a lot of money. My parents didn’t read much. Words saved me. They took me away, sent me to college, delivered my life. Now I get to mine the language every day, and talk and work with other writers—that’s dreamland stuff.

I don’t see my work as a chore, and only rarely does it feel forced—I want to do this and by now it’s all a part of my life, like breathing. I spent a number of years doing actual manual labor and I have to say I learned as much about writing from pouring concrete and hauling steel as I ever did in any workshop, or any course. Manual labor teaches you to work in increments, to maintain, to stick to things, to finish what you start, and that’s what I do. On a practical level, I’ve been on my own, completely independent as a writer, mostly working on projects that I think have real value, for almost twenty years. I’m not on the faculty somewhere, on the staff of some publication, or living off a trust fund. For every second of the last twenty-one years I’ve always had book contracts to fulfill and deadlines to hit and either I take that seriously or I’m done, out of work.

Serving as Series Editor for Best American Sports Writing is like a part-time job at minimum wage, and is only a small part of what I do. People assume I’m incredibly disciplined, and in their terms, maybe I am, but I’ve never understood writers who say that they write 2,000 words a day, like punching a clock. I mean, good for them, but I don’t work that way, I can’t be that rigid. I think every writer has to discover that what works for others might not work for you. For me it’s like the old Earl Weaver line: “This ain’t football; we do this every day.” A significant part of doing anything stems from getting up early and putting your ass in the chair every day, and I do that. The rest is experience—learning how not to sabotage yourself.

Right on, Big Dog. Or as Woody once said, “Eighty percent of success is just showing up.”

Slow-cooked pork tacos from Food 52.

Most certainly, “Yes, please.”