Blog Archives

When I was in third or fourth grade, I saw my first porno magazine, I think it was Hustler. My friend Kevin O’Connor kept it under the front porch of his house. It was water-logged and you could barely turn the pages without ripping them. Not long after, an older kid who lived up the street sold me two Penthouse magazines. I hid them in a bookshelf but not well enough and soon enough my mother found them.

Now my mother had a liberal view of nudity having grown up in the Belgian Congo but that didn’t mean she approved of pornography. In fact, she was horrified. And pissed.

Still, I protested.

“Ma, I’m just using the pictures so I can learn how to draw the female body.”

She took the magazines away. Then she told the old man. He didn’t say a word about it but the next day, he left me three pictures clipped together–clean pictures–with a note, “You can draw these.”

Somehow, that felt worse than just having them taken away or even being punished.

Couldn’t help but remember this scene this morning when I read that Bob Guccione died.

Over at PB, Steve Goldman reflects back on the 1958 Whirled Serious. The Yanks won, coming back from a 3-1 hole:

Casey did some things that Joe Girardi can’t do. He can’t/won’t ask CC Sabathia to pitch in every game, he can’t ask Mariano Rivera to throw four innings—hell, it seems like he can’t ask Rivera to throw at all—but Joe also has some things that Casey didn’t have, like a bullpen stocked with pitchers, some of whom aren’t Sergio Mitre or Dustin Moseley. He has far more freedom to make moves with pitchers than Stengel had, and at much less of a risk to anyone’s health. In short, if there is any lesson to be taken away from the 1958 World Series, it is this: HEY, JOE: QUICK HOOK.

Back to the (immediate) future, Cliff wasn’t moved by yesterday’s Yankee win:

Perhaps its because, even if they do come back to tie this series, they’ll still have to beat Cliff Lee in Game Seven to win it. Perhaps its because, after being dominated by the Rangers for four games, a single win, even a lop-sided one such as the 7-2 Game Five, doesn’t carry enough weight to restore balance to the series. Whatever it is, Game Five felt like a repeat of Game Three of the 2007 Division Series against the Indians, a face-saving but empty victory that did little other than postpone the inevitable series loss suffered in the following game.

The games are on too late, then they are on too early. Today, the Yankees played a rare afternoon playoff game and I caught the first couple of innings at work. Then I was on the subway and the streets for the middle innings, listening to the radio call, looking down at my cell phone at Game Day, cursing and cajoling loudly, talking to guys on the subway about the score. Got home for the end of it and then re-watched what I’d missed, thanks to Tivo.

Technology is a funny thing, huh?

Now, Jorge Posada is legend around these parts as one of the worst base runners we’ve ever encountered. It’s not just that he doesn’t have good instincts, Posada runs as if he thinks he’s much faster than he is, so he makes aggressively poor mistakes.

Welp, it was a sign of good things when Posada singled home Alex Rodriguez in the second inning, and then came home when the Rangers threw the ball around the infield like little leaguers. Posada looked like a dead duck running to third on a base hit by Curtis Granderson, and then he looked cooked when he bolted home. But Posada was safe, the Yanks had an early lead, and the fates were with the home team today as the Yanks live to see another day.

Final Score: Yanks 7, Rangers 2.

Robbie Cano hit another dinger–yes, the man is on the fuegs–and Nick Swisher and Curtis Granderson added solo shots. Alex Rodriguez and Lance Berkman also had some good at-bats and the offense finally looked like its old self. Berkman gave us a scare when his legs slipped out from under him tracking a foul ball, and he wiped out on the warning track near. He stayed in the game but will be feelin’ it in the a.m.

CC Sabathia gave up eleven hits, didn’t have his A-stuff, but he delivered the kind of “gritty, gutty” performance that is worthy of an Ace. Kerry Wood was dynamite in relief. He threw two scoreless innings–including a pick-off of Elvis Andrus at second base (what was the kid thinking?)–and then Mariano Rivera gave us that peaceful, easy feeling one more time as he closed the door in the 9th.

There will be another game. Friday Night Lights, deep in the heart of Texas.

[Photo Credit: Photo by Al Bello/Getty Images]

CC and Yanks, do or die, ’nuff said:

Go git ’em boys. We’ve got your back.

Let’s Go Yan-Kees!

Here’s the line up:

1. Jeter SS
2. Swisher RF
3. Cano 2B
4. Rodriguez 3B
5. Thames DH
6. Berkman 1B
7. Posada C
8. Granderson CF
9. Gardner LF

Fall is here. Last Night’s Dinner remains…dopelicious.

Joe Girardi, his team, and Yankee fans everywhere are living the Artie Fufkin Dream this morning: Kick My Ass, Please.

This one hurts but the season isn’t over yet and self-pity won’t get us anywhere. CC goes at 4, and there is hope. Let’s not act like those so-called fans who fled from the Stadium early the past two nights. Win or lose, rain or shine, we’ll be here, root-root-rootin’ for the home team.

Phils vs. Giants, Game Three of the NLCS.

Enjoy.

Cervelli gets the start.

The Braves have released Melky Cabrera.

From a John Lardner column for Newsweek, “The World’s Richest Problem Child”:

The St. Louis Browns have hired a professional pyschologist for the spring training season to currycomb their inferiority complex. The Boston Red Sox, on the other hand, have chosen a simpler way of treating their own pyschological problem, who goes by the name of Theodore S. Williams.

I am taking the word of certain experts for it that Williams has, or is, a psychological problem. Around the American League the pitchers tell you that if anything is wrong with Williams, they can only pray that it’s not catching. Give three or four other batsmen Theodore’s disease and the pitching profession will be totally wrecked.

However, as I say, many students of human mentality (most of them play the same instrument that I do, the typewriter, and have learned psychology by close observation of the bartender at the water hole around the corner from the office) have been saying for years that Mr. Williams has a complex. They watch him with honest pity as he gropes his way through the shadowland between .340 and .406. They agree with a sigh that he is the strongest left-hand-hitting neurotic they have ever seen.

A few weeks ago Thomas A. Yawkey, the Red Sox owner, took cognizance of Ted’s condition and tried the cure I spoke of above. It is a form of shock treatment. The subject is pelted softly but firmly with handfuls of green banknotes in large denominations. The size of the dose varies with the individual. Mr. Yawkey might still be showering his patient with engravings of General Grant had not Williams, rising from the couch when the total reached $125,000, remarked, by way of small talk, that he was satisfied.

Now, we see what the Yanks are made of. Man, it’s so easy to go the nightmare route tonight–A.J. Burnett walking the ballpark, wild pitches, passed balls, stolen bases–but you know what? Yanks are still the defending Whirled Champs, let’s see what they’ve got in them. Let’s see how they respond to their biggest test of the year.

I’m keeping the faith, damn it all. The bats will need to give Burnett plenty of support. Let’s hope they don’t get jumpy. If they are patient like they were last night, if they grind it out, I think we’ll go to bed heppy kets tonight.

Here’s the lineups:

YANKEES
Derek Jeter SS
Nick Swisher RF
Mark Teixeira 1B
Alex Rodriguez 3B
Robinson Cano 2B
Marcus Thames DH
Jorge Posada C
Curtis Granderson CF
Brett Gardner LF

RANGERS
Elvis Andrus SS
Michael Young 3B
Josh Hamilton CF
Vlad Guerrero DH
Nelson Cruz LF
Ian Kinsler 2B
Jeff Francoeur RF
Bengie Molina C
Mitch Moreland 1B

Let’s Go Yan-Lees!

[Picture by Bags]

When it comes to the art of grooming, men have increasingly embraced a range of stylish and sophisticated looks. From classic clean-shaven appearances to meticulously crafted beards and hairstyles, the world of men’s grooming has evolved into a realm of self-expression and individuality. To navigate this ever-expanding landscape, many men turn to resources like the Master Barbers’ Guide, a comprehensive manual that offers expert advice and insights into achieving the perfect grooming routine. Whether it’s mastering the art of a close shave, learning the latest trends in haircuts, or understanding the nuances of beard maintenance, the Master Barbers’ Guide serves as a trusted companion for men seeking to elevate their grooming game.

Just like the strategies employed by Cliff Lee and Andy Pettitte on the baseball field, grooming is all about technique, precision, and confidence. Just as Lee’s pitching prowess and Pettitte’s crafty left-handed deliveries captivate fans, the right grooming routine has the power to leave a lasting impression. With the guidance and knowledge provided by the Master Barbers’ Guide, men can refine their grooming skills, discovering the best products, techniques, and styles that suit their unique personalities. It’s not just about looking good; it’s about feeling confident and projecting an image that reflects one’s individuality and personal brand. So, whether you’re a fan of the game or a grooming enthusiast, both Cliff Lee’s dominant performances and the Master Barbers’ Guide remind us that achieving greatness is a combination of skill, knowledge, and a touch of style.

Cliff Lee vs. Andy Pettitte–let’s chat. No matter how Lee fares tonight, and I assume he’ll pitch well once again, I’ve got a good feelin’ about Andy.

Am I just being dramatic? My Spidey Sense is tinglin’.

[Picture by: galvarez51]

“John grew up in the shadow of a father who was a great writer,” said A. J. Liebling. “This is a handicap shared by only an infinitesimal portion of any given generation, but it did not intimidate him.”

When John Lardner was ten-years old, he wrote a short verse that appeared in a F.P.A column:

Babe Ruth and Jack Dempsey,
Both sultans of the swat.
One hits where other people are,
The other where they’re not.

John Lardner was born in Chicago but raised mostly on the east coast. He went to the Phillips Academy in Andover (his three brothers would follow), spent a year at Harvard and another at the Sorbonne, before he returned to New York and got a job at the New York Herald Tribune in 1931. He was nineteen-years-old. His father, Ring, who was already ill with the tuberculosis and heart diesee that would kill him a few years later, sent a note to Stanley Walker, a Texan who’d made the Tribune into the best writer’s paper in New York.

“You will find him a little reticent at times, but personally I never felt this was a handicap.” Walker later said that John “came close to being the perfect all-around journalist.”

John worked at the Tribune until 1933, the year his father died. The two men were close in Ring’s final years and the old man was proud of his son’s early achievements. “We are all swollen up like my ankles,” Ring wrote in a letter to his nephew, Richard Tobin. John was offered a syndicated sports column when he was twenty-one for the North American Newspaper Alliance. Carried locally by the N.Y. Post, Lardner wrote about sports, and then the war, for NANA until 1948.

(more…)

Keith Olbermann reviewed Jane Leavy’s Mantle book in the New York Times Book Review over the weekend. He liked it:

Leavy comes as close as perhaps anyone ever has to answering “What makes Mantle Mantle?” She transcends the familiarity of the subject, cuts through both the hero worship and the backlash of pedestal-wrecking in the late 20th century, treats evenly his belated sobriety and the controversial liver transplant (doomed mid-surgery by an oncologist’s discovery that the cancer had spread), and handles his infidelity with dispassion. Sophocles could have easily worked with a story like Mantle’s — the prominent figure, gifted and beloved, through his own flaws wasteful, given clarity too late to avoid his fate. Leavy spares us the classical tragedy even as she avoids the morality play. “The Last Boy” is something new in the history of the histories of the Mick. It is hard fact, reported by someone greatly skilled at that craft, assembled into an atypical biography by someone equally skilled at doing that, and presented so that the reader and not the author draws nearly all the conclusions.

Cotton Comes to Harlem…

02 Gonna Quit My Rowdy Ways

I’m on the 1 train this morning when I see an old lady, bundled up for the cold, address a man who is leaning against the subway door, reading the New York Times.

“You’d better grab something to hold onto,” she said. “Otherwise, the doors might open, you’ll fall out and die and then we’ll all be late.”

The man folded his paper and looked down at the woman.

“Wow. That’s some scenario,” he said and returned to the paper.

“Yes,” she said, “Yes, it is.”

I smiled. She looked around and caught my eye and smiled. I was about to say something when I remembered an old family saying: “It’s not you, mind your own, sit down, shut-up.”

I stayed shut-up and let it pass.

Yankee Stadium will not be as loud tomorrow night because Freddy won’t be there.

R.I.P.