Blog Archives

Check out this fantastic post over at WFMU on the early career of Dave Letterman.

Seth Mnookin profiles Derek Jeter in this month’s GQ:

By all accounts, when Jeter has felt at risk of being exposed, he’s taken swift steps. About ten years ago, a freelancer working on a piece for The New York Times was in the Yankees locker room after batting practice. Jeter and some other players were joking around—”it was something totally innocuous,” the reporter says—when Jeter realized there was a tape recorder in the room. Later that night, the reporter was buttonholed by a Yankees PR staffer and one of the team’s security guards. When the reporter tried to apologize to Jeter for any misunderstanding, he says, Jeter refused to acknowledge that anything had happened in the first place.

Even those people whose job it is to dig up dirt on celebrities can only shake their heads in amazement. “Derek Jeter could be a guru,” says Richard Johnson, the Los Angeles bureau chief of The Daily and legendary former editor of the New York Post’s gossip column, Page Six. “There’s never been any kiss-and-tell stuff where a girl breaks up with Jeter and then says what a creep he is. I don’t know how he avoids it. He must have some sort of vetting process—maybe he makes them fill out a questionnaire or has a psychological profile done. He’s incredible.”

…Over the course of two days, I spent more than four hours talking to Jeter. I haven’t spent a lot of time talking to boldfaced names, but he was without question one of the nicest, most genuine celebrities I’ve interviewed. Perhaps that was because he no longer feels awkward providing answers that inevitably disappoint reporters looking for scooplets about the “real” Derek Jeter—and because I had no illusions about being the first person to succeed in getting Jeter to open up about his hopes and dreams. There were several times when I asked Jeter a question—about playing in the steroid era, or about players who preferred playing out of the spotlight of New York—and he’d slow down and grow more cautious. Eventually I realized he was worried I’d take what he was saying and make it sound like he was talking about a specific person or situation. When I called him on it, he readily acknowledged that had been exactly what he’d been thinking: “A lot of times, when you say things, people will try to turn it into [something else]. Sometimes someone asks you a question, and if you don’t comment or dispute what they say, they’ll take it as though you agree. I’ve always been very aware of what I’m saying, but I’m also aware of what you’re saying. I always want to make sure that my point is clear.”

Crystal.

[Photo Credit: Day Life]

The Yankee-Red Sox game was blacked out in most of the Metropolitan area last night, but Manny Banuelos didn’t pitch badly:

“That guy’s 20 years old?” Red Sox second baseman Dustin Pedroia asked. “He’s really good, and he seems to have an idea. Shoot, when I was 20, I was swinging with an aluminum bat [in college].”

“I think for this young man’s future they should go slow with him, very slow,” Red Sox manager Terry Francona said with a smile.
(Costello, New York Post)

Alfredo Aceves started for the Sox, who beat the Yanks, 2-1.

Manny Banuelos gets the start tonight against the Red Sox. Game will be on ESPN.

[Photo Credit: Pinstriped Bible]

There was a nice, long appreciation of the late Edward Gorey in the Times a few weeks ago:

Intriguingly, explanations for the mounting popularity of Gorey’s art rarely touch on its air of hidden, maybe even unknowable meaning. Whatever Gorey’s work appears to be about, it’s forever insinuating, in its poker-faced way, that it’s really, truly about something else. The philosopher Jacques Derrida might have said it is this very elusiveness — the sense that meaning can never be pinned down by language — that is Gorey’s overarching point.

For his part, Gorey, who rolled his eyes at anyone looking for deep meaning in his work, would doubtless have groaned (theatrically) at any attempt to make intellectual sense of his posthumous popularity.

As he liked to say, “When people are finding meaning in things — beware.”

Excellent.

Frank Bruni reviews Gabrielle Hamilton’s new memoir:

After much anticipation, the inevitable memoir has arrived. “Blood, Bones and Butter” traces nearly all of Hamilton’s life and career, from an unmoored childhood through her triumph at Prune, which didn’t end the search for a sense of place and peace that is the overarching theme of this autobiography, as of so many others. It’s a story of hungers specific and vague, conquered and unappeasable, and what it lacks in urgency (and even, on occasion, forthrightness) it makes up for in the shimmer of Hamilton’s best writing.

Recalling her mother’s penchant for heavy eyeliner, she flashes back to “the smell of the sulfur every morning as she lit a match to warm the tip of her black wax pencil.” Hamilton invokes the “voluptuous blanket of summer night humidity,” captures the tantalizing promise of delicate ravioli by observing that “you could see the herbs and the ricotta through the dough, like a woman behind a shower curtain,” and compares breast feeding to being cannibalized, “not in huge monster-gore chunks, but like a legion of soft, benign caterpillars makes lace of a leaf.”

The description of the ravioli is great. I’ve never been to Hamilton’s restaurant, Prune, but it sounds tempting.

George Plimpton once wrote, “The smaller the ball used in the sport, the better the book.” But this doesn’t account for boxing, a sport that word-for-word has produced more great writing than any other. For hard evidence, look no further than “At the Fights: American Writers on Boxing,” an outstanding new collection edited by George Kimball and John Schulian.

All of the heavyweights are here–from Jack London, James Baldwin and Norman Mailer, to A.J. Liebling, W.C. Heinz, Red Smith and Jimmy Cannon. And that’s just for starters. How about Gay Talese, Pete Hamill, George Plimpton, Pete Dexter, David Remnick and Mark Kriegel, not to mention the veterans of the boxing scene like Larry Merchant, Mark Kram, Vic Ziegel, Pat Putnam and Richard Hoffer.

I’m not a huge boxing fan but I adore boxing writing and this is the finest anthology I’ve ever come across.

Check out the Library of America’s website for a fascinating and in-depth interview with Kimball and Schulian.

Here’s Kimball:

The wonder shouldn’t be that there are two Liebling pieces, but that there are only two. (He and Schulberg have the only double-barreled entries in the anthology.) If I’d been compiling that list, The Sweet Science would be No.1, and A Neutral Corner, Liebling’s other collection of (mostly) New Yorker pieces No. 2.

Putting At the Fights together was a painstaking, year-long process that was often like a jigsaw puzzle, because sometimes the decision to include a par- ticular piece would, due to subject matter or tone or approach, displace others. John and I made a conscious decision early on to hold Liebling in reserve. We knew whichever of his pieces we wound up using, they were going to work. Our initial inclination, for instance, had been to include Liebling’s terrific account of his visit to Sonny Liston’s training camp, but if we’d used that we probably wouldn’t have been able to include Joe Flaherty’s wonderful “Amen to Sonny,” and if we hadn’t used Liebling’s “Kearns by a Knockout” we’d probably have had to find two more pieces to adequately address Doc Kearns and Sugar Ray Robinson. It was sometimes like playing Whack-A-Mole, because every time you’d hammer one down, three more would pop up somewhere else. But in that respect Liebling was a constant security blanket, our wild-card, because of our unshaken confidence that whatever we wound up using was going to be great.

Anyone who has written about boxing for the last fifty years owes a great debt of gratitude to Joe Liebling, so yes, his influence has been both pervasive and profound, but woe be unto the conscious imitator. Any writer who sets out trying to write his own “Liebling piece”—and there have been a few—is inex- orably doomed to fall flat on his face.

And Schulian:

It’s too much to say that the best boxing stories are about losers. That argument is contradicted time and again throughout the book. But losers and eccentrics and guys who never quite made it to the mountaintop have inspired some classic writing. You want to weep for Primo Carnera after read- ing what Paul Gallico had to say about the way he was used as a patsy and a stooge and a pretend heavyweight champion. And then you have Stanley Ketchel and Bummy Davis, two crazy-tough fighters who would have been swallowed by the mists of time if it weren’t for the stories written about them. Was John Lardner’s piece on Ketchel better than the fighter himself? Absolutely. And Bill Heinz’s on Davis? Without a doubt. And the amazing thing is that Lardner and Heinz never met their subjects, both of whom were prematurely dispatched from this life by gunshot. But Lardner and Heinz were intrepid reporters as well as stunning writers, and they proved it with their renderings of the two fighters’ hearts and souls.

Click here for an excerpt.

Don’t sleep, pound-for-pound, this will be the most rewarding book–never mind sports book–you’ll buy this spring.

Let’s make it a New Orleans-themed week, shall we?

When I first saw Eric Puchner’s GQ story, “Schemes of My Father” last week, I ignored it. Too close to home, I figured. From the sounds of the title it could have been my old man he was writing about. So I stayed away, but eventually, I went back, read the lead and was hooked. Turns out Puchner’s father wasn’t much like mine at all–a schemer of a different color–but I’ll tell you this: I aspire to write as well as Puchner. Here is is describing his father’s pretensions, having moved his family from Baltimore to California:

Growing up, I’d more or less sub scribed to his Gatsbyesque invention of himself as an aristocrat. There were the ascots, of course, usually paired with tweed. He liked to go bird hunting on the weekends, despite being a terrible shot. For a brief period he insisted we dress up for dinner every night, which for my brother and me meant coats and ties. He boarded horses in the country and prodded my oldest sister to take up polo. He refused to let us wear baseball caps indoors and liked to keep a Manwich-thick wad of cash in his billfold, flaunting it in front of cashiers. Even before the ascots and the polo, he’d saddled his children with increasingly absurd names meant to conjure riding breeches and hunt clubs: Alexander, Laurel, Pendleton, and his pièce de résistance, my own: Roderic. I didn’t know that my dad had been one of the poorest kids at his wealthy private school in Milwaukee, and so I’d always accepted these affectations as part of my father’s identity, as essential to who he was as his love of bratwurst.

Now, though, his blue-blooded habits began to seem absurd. For the first time I saw them in the same light as my own desperate attempts to fit in, which had begun to seem absurd to me as well. Despite an aggressive marketing campaign, I’d failed to become Californian in a way that would convince anyone but the drunkest tourist. I wore jungle-print Vans and shirts with wooden buttons and Wayfarers that were also made, inexplicably, of wood. I had a white Op poncho that I liked to wear with nothing underneath, thinking I looked like Jim Morrison on the cover of Morrison Hotel. My moment of reckoning came when I was at the mall with my best friend, Will, another East Coast transplant, and some surfers called me a “dingleberry.” I had to ask Will what a dingleberry was, and his graphic description made such an impression on me that I went home and took off all my clothes and hid my jungle-print Vans at the back of the closet.

Soon after that, I bought my first punk record—Los Angeles, by X—and began to discover another California, one far removed from the beach bunnies and slack-eyed surfers who’d seemed to me like the epitome of West Coast cool. Minutemen, Black Flag, the Dream Syndicate: The songs coming out of my turntable were about as unsunny as could be, noisy and weird and full of anger at the well-tanned rich. And the singers, Californians themselves, weren’t afraid to be smart. I started dressing like my old self again, slipping off to Hollywood clubs whenever I could, amazed at all the pale, black-booted kids pogoing in flannel. It was a culture as distant from my dad’s beach-club ambitions as you can possibly imagine.

* * * *

It’s this real California—and not the one my father invented for us—that I still call home, one that’s closer to my heart than any place on earth. There’s something about my father’s love for the state, no matter how misdirected it was, that seems to have seeped into my blood. Or perhaps it’s the love itself that I love. Which is to say: Even if the dream isn’t real, the dreamers are. There’s something about the struggling actors and screenwriters and immigrants who live here, the pioneer spirit that despite everything still brings people to the edge of America in search of success, that makes me feel at home.

“Schemes of My Father” is one of the most absorbing and well-crafted stories I have read in a long time. I feel richer for having read it.

For more on Puchner, who is a novelist and short story writer, check out his website.

A boy climbed into the seat next to me on the subway this morning and pressed his face against the window. We were underground and he looked into the darkness, yellow and red lights whooshing by. The train went above ground for a stop and then back into the tunnel. The boy didn’t seem to notice the change from dark to light and back again.

I remember staring out of the train window as a kid, fascinated by what was out there in the darkness, beyond the graffiti and the sparks of light and the dirt. It was all so mysterious and exciting, a playground for a young boy’s imagination.

[Photo Credit: Kirstiecat]

The clocks sprung forward yesterday which means we are inching closer to Opening Day.

Cliff recaps yesterday’s game over at PB:

Freddy Garcia hit 92 with his fastball and sat around 89, which is a lot of velocity for him, but it didn’t help as he gave up four runs on six hits, a pair of walks, and a hit-by-pitch in just 2 2/3 innings. Andrew Brackman, in just his second spring appearance, was all over the place, and lacked his best velocity. He broke off a few nice curve balls, but didn’t make it through his two innings at the tail end of the game before hitting his pitch count. A dropped ball in right field didn’t help, and he only gave up one unearned run, but beyond the two walks and two hits (one a double by Justin Huber), he just didn’t look right out there. Eric Wordekemper finished the third inning for Garcia and was about to strand runners on the corners in the fourth when Derek Jeter dropped a pop-up, which allowed one run to score. Then, the next batter, Dinkelman, cracked a three-run homer. All four runs were unearned, but a homer is a homer, and Dinkelman was all over what looked like a hanging slider from Wordekemper.

Over at River Ave Blues, Ben Kabak picks up on an ESPN rumor that the Yanks are scouting Carlos Silva.

Mariano Rivera pitched in an exhibition game for the first time this spring–he threw 12 pitches and struck out the side.

The peaceful, easy feeling continues, even when the score doesn’t count. Chad Jennings has the skinny.

Ben Shpigel has an excellent piece on Derek Jeter’s revamped swing this morning in the New York Times:

Through 24 spring training at-bats, Derek Jeter is hitting .333. Results are nice, but Jeter’s average is not what excites Kevin Long, the Yankees’ hitting coach. This does: On Friday, when Jeter was 1 for 3 with an infield single against Atlanta, he swung at the first pitch every time up. That he fouled them all off was irrelevant, at least to Long.

“Early on, he told me, ‘I’ll probably take a lot of pitches during spring training until I get comfortable,’” Long said of Jeter, who is known as a first-pitch hitter. “He’s not taking those pitches anymore. That tells me he’s getting comfortable with what he’s doing and where he’s at.”

…“He’s not smothering the ball anymore,” Long said. “He’s able to get to it. He’s created a path and a lane for the barrel to get to it a lot easier. Before, a ball might be on the corner and he’d have to fight it. Now, as long as it’s on the plate, he’ll get to it.”

Yanks are on YES this afternoon at 1 p.m.

Big weekend for college hoops, so here are two related pieces for you:

Scott Price’s SI profile of the man-you-love-to-hate, Coach Cal:

Calipari’s detractors delight in noting that he has always left town one step ahead of the sheriff, even if he was cleared by the NCAA of any personal culpability in the UMass and Memphis messes. And what do the message-board cynics make of his $1 million donation last June to Streets Ministries of Memphis, or his washing of poor kids’ feet in Port-au-Prince and Detroit last year, or his organizing a January 2010 telethon that raised $1.3 million for Haiti’s earthquake victims? They cite ESPN analyst Bob Knight, who in December 2009 called Calipari the embodiment of the sport’s ills. “Integrity is really lacking [in college basketball],” Knight said in a speech in Indianapolis. “We’ve got a coach at Kentucky who put two schools on probation, and he’s still coaching. I really don’t understand that.”

Never mind that the General, no pillar of rectitude himself, had his facts wrong: Only Memphis went on probation. Knight is the bulldog eyeing the cat as it lands, again, on its feet, and he’s not the only one perplexed. Calipari once declared that rather than competition or education, “everything in this game is marketing,” and it’s a constant struggle for rivals and the hoops commentariat to decide where his sell begins and ends. “John’s out there,” says Larry Brown, one of his coaching mentors. “The way he dresses, the way he talks nonstop. A lot of people look at that shtick and say, That guy is not real.”

And Michael Sokolove’s story on Perry Jones for the Sunday Magazine:

Even while he was still at Duncanville High School in suburban Dallas, the Web sites that track such things had already projected Jones as a lottery pick — one of the first 14 players selected — in the 2011 N.B.A. draft. A couple of the more authoritative ones predicted that he could be the No. 1 pick in the entire draft — the best player available from the college ranks and from the ever-deeper pools of international basketball talent. “Devastating first step . . . ability to beat most big men off the dribble with ease,” is how the Web site DraftExpress described him in a recent evaluation. “Potential superstar,” the Hoop Doctors said, speculating that he could be “the next Tracy McGrady.” HoopsHype said that the “upside he possesses is unparalleled at the college level.” The respected ESPN.com analyst Chad Ford has had him at or near the top of his mock draft from the start of the season.

The paradoxical thing, though, about Jones’s status is that he was never a truly great high-school player, certainly not a dominant one or one who scored a lot of points. But just about everyone assumes that he will be a one-and-done player at Baylor, a pure rental who stays for a single season. That has become the norm for top college players. In fact, in some projections, as many as six of the top 10 picks in this spring’s N.B.A. draft are college freshmen. The trend has changed the college game: teams with top talent do not stay together long enough to cohere, sometimes leaving opportunities for less-talented but more-experienced teams, like Butler last season and George Mason in 2006, to advance to the Final Four. And it has changed the N.B.A., making it, at times, utterly unwatchable, because the rosters are stocked with too many players who were never fully taught the game and are learning on the job. (Players can no longer enter the N.B.A. straight out of high school, as Kobe Bryant, LeBron James and many others did.)

[Photo Credit: AJC.com]

Here’s Mark Feinsand writing about Ivan Nova today in the Daily News:

Nova’s confidence is unwavering, making it difficult to tell whether he’s just pitched a great game or a ghastly one. Some mistake his attitude as that of a cocky kid, but Joe Girardi sees something else.

“I don’t see him walk around here like, ‘I belong here, I’m the No. 1 guy here,'” Girardi said. “I don’t see him short-change his work. He works extremely hard. Those are things that tell me he knows what he needs to do to be good.”

Nova is one of the guys I am really looking forward to watching this season.

[Photo Credit: Dancing Under Grey Skies]

Over at Pitchers and Poets I have a short piece about keeping score…which I do with the terrific I love to score book.

You put your peanut butter in my popcorn…

From Serious Eats.