Blog Archives

I put a lot of things off until the off-season–books, movies, tv shows, cooking. I want to watch The Wire this winter. Got a bunch of books to read. And yeah, I’ve got time to cook and nerd-out in the kitchen. Cold outside, warm and tasty inside.

So I’ve now got time to dick around and look at recipes.

Last weekend I made beef short ribs for the first time. I know lots of cooks love that piece of meat, there’s at least one short ribs recipe in just about every cookbook on my shelf, but I’d never gotten around to it. It was delicious. I used a lot of fresh thyme which has been my herb obsession of the year (previously, I went on a tarragon kick that lasted at least two years).

Here’s a good recipe for short ribs from the sabermetricians of the cooking world, Cooks Illustrated. The good people at Saveur got it going on too–dig their 15 ways to make a burger.

And here’s some other random stuff that caught my eye:

Paremesan Parsnips.

Brussels Sprouts with Chorizo.

Fennel, Sunchoke and Apple salad.

Korean-style Pickled cucumbers.

And here’s my man, Jacques:

Happy cooking…not to mention eating.

It’s gray and raining in New York and the Hot Stove League is still just starting…Funny how the world is now. We’re already on to next season, contracts, free agents, and trade rumors. What’s next? What’s next?!?! Tell me NOW.

I’m still not there yet, at least not fully. I’m content to soak up the great 2009 season for the Yanks. I don’t want it to end just yet, but with each passing day, it slips away some more. Which is not to say that I begrudge anyone for being excited about the off-season. Unless you are a football fan, or follow hoops or hockey, that’s what we’ve got to keep us going.

So here’s an open thread to chat about anything and everything baseball.

Do it up.

When I was a kid, I looked through my dad’s extensive library of books and through his record collection. Most of the books didn’t appeal to me because they didn’t have pictures. There was a history of burlesque that was titillating, a book about the history of the Academy Awards, and two of the Illustrated Beatles books; otherwise, his books didn’t interest me until much later. The record collection was mostly made-up of Original Cast Recordings from Broadway shows, and folk music joints, from Burl Ives to the Weavers. My mom had some Simon and Garfunkel and Judy Collins lps in the mix, and there was a copy of A Hard Day’s Night, but that was as rockin’ as it got.

What was left? A handful of comedy records–Why Is There Air? and I Started Out as a Child by Bill Cosby, Vaughn Meader’s First Family record, the 2000 Year Old Man, and the 2013 Year Old Man, by Mel Brooks and Carl Reiner. My twin sister, Sam, younger brother, Ben, and I listened to the Cosby and Brooks-Reiner records until they were practically worn-out. We can quote them without thinking. Every time I get off the phone with my sister we say, “Goodbye…I hope I’m an actor,” a throw-away line from Brooks in the Coffee House sketch on the first 2000 Year Old Man album.

Sometimes, before my parents got divorced, the old man would listen with us and we would wait with bated breath for the parts that made him laugh. I practically memorized what jokes got him going. He had a big, almost violent laugh that shook the room. It was exciting and scary but a relief: the old man was happy, and that was enough for us.

It’s hard for me not to think of my dad and Mel Brooks together–it is as if Mel is part of the family, just like George Carlin was. Although the old man wasn’t a great fan of Mel’s movies, he never tired of the 2000 year old man routine. Brooks has made a couple of memorable movies but his true genius is captured on these recordings, or on some of his talk show appearances. (Have you ever read the 1975 Playboy interview with Brooks? It is nothing short of hysterical.)

So I smiled this morning when I read the following interview with Brooks and Reiner in the Arts and Leisure section of the New York Times (they are promoting a new boxed-set of the 2000 recordings):

Q: How did you first come up with “The 2000 Year Old Man”?

MEL BROOKS: At the beginning it was pure made-up craziness and joy, and there was no thought of anybody else hearing it except maybe a couple of dear friends at a party.

CARL REINER: It was to pep up a room. We started on “Your Show of Shows,” and sometimes there would be a lull [in the writers’ room]. I always knew if I threw a question to Mel he could come up with something.

BROOKS: We had fun.

REINER: I remember the first question I asked him. It was because I had seen a program called “We the People Speak,” early television. [He puts on an announcer voice] “ ‘We the People Speak.’ Here’s a man who was in Stalin’s toilet, heard Stalin say, ‘I’m going to blow up the world.’ ” I came in, I said this is good for a sketch. No one else thought so, but I turned to Mel and I said, “Here’s a man who was actually seen at the crucifixion 2,000 years ago,” and his first words were “Oh, boy.” [He sighs.] We all fell over laughing. I said, “You knew Jesus?” “Yeah,” he said “Thin lad, wore sandals, long hair, walked around with 11 other guys. Always came into the store, never bought anything. Always asked for water.” Those were the first words, and then for the next hour or two I kept asking him questions, and he never stopped killing us.

BROOKS: It was all ad-libbed, and nothing was ever talked about before we did it. We didn’t write anything, we didn’t think about anything. Whatever was kinetic, whatever was chemical, we did it.

Here goes a sample…

From the first record:

One of the cool things about the NBA is that they allow You Tube to carry a lot of old games. Recently, there have been a ton of old  ’80s Celtics clips posted.

Dig this sample of artistry from the one they called Larry Legend.

 Witness the crazy nice behind-the-back pass 1:45 in.

And here’s a couple three more:

Check this one out and skip ahead to the 2:16 mark.

Go to 2:57.

And finally, dig the ill outlet pass at the 4:00 mark.

Talk about getting served. Goodness gracious me.

The New York Post reports distressing news about former Yankees closer, John Wetteland today. Joel Sherman has a column about Wetteland.

Over at Deadspin, the inimitable Charlie Pierce makes like Dikembe Mutombo, rejects Bill Simmons’ new book, then wags his finger in Simmons’ grill:

Simmons actually reveals himself to be a better than passable memoirist; the passages about his father are touching, and they hint at a family subtext that actually would have been worth exploring in a little more depth. The book ends with a warm pilgrimage to the home of Bill Walton. There is some real writing in this section. Unfortunately, it is interrupted by Bill’s wondering if Walton will read his book and Walton’s assurance to Bill that he will, and Bill’s leaving the Walton manse, apparently on a golden cloud. You are not the cosmos, son. Get the f*** over yourself. But, prior to the universe’s once again becoming Bill’s personal hand mirror, there is something very, well, sweet going on here. Somewhere in these pages is a real book, and somewhere in that book is a very real heart and a very redeemable soul, and that just may be worth the digging.

You’ve been served by the best:

This is just tremendous.

Peace to Think Factory for the link.

Charles McGrath has a piece in the Times today about the collaboration between Andre Agassi and JR Moehringer.

How about some more wonderful ledes? (Here’s part one and part two.)

Here’s Gary Cartwright, one of the great Texas sports writers, rising to the occasion after Don Meredith failed to do so for the Dallas Cowboys:

Outlined against a blue-gray November sky, the Four Horsemenn rode again: Pestilence, Death, Famine, and Meredith.

The great Jim Murray on the Indy 500:

Gentlemen, start your coffins.

Vic Ziegel, on the facts of life:

The game is never over until the last man is out, the New York Post learned late last night.

John Updike on Ted Williams’ final game:

Fenway Park, in Boston, is a lyric little bandbox of a ballpark.

How about another John Lardner classic:

When Ezzard Charles won the heavyweight championship by licking J.J. Walcott, two years ago, Ezzard’s manager, Jake (Madman) Mintz, passed out in the ring. Last July when Walcott won the title, it was Charles who fell, while Jake remained on his feet throughout That is my idea of a perfect partnership — always one man conscious, to count the house.

Dig Murray Kempton on Willie Mays:

There was this moment when Willie Mays caught the last ball hit in the National League in 1962 and turned and laughed and threw it at the right-field foul pole. It was his ball and he could do what he pleased with it.

All of a sudden, you remembered all the promises the rich have made to the poor for the last 13 years and the only one that was kept was the promise about Willie Mays. They told us then that he would be the greatest baseball player we would ever see, and he was.

Here’s how Jimmy Cannon said goodbye to Doc Kearns, who managed Jack Dempsey and broke four banks in Shelby, Montana, with a single fight:

It took him 80 years, but Doc Kearns, who died yesterday, finally proved he was right. Daytime’s for sleeping. Nights are for laughs. The working day is nine to five. Doc never played a hand in that game.

And here’s one of my absolute favorites, from WC Heinz’s classic story, The Brownsville Bum

It’s a funny thing about people. People will hate a guy all his life for what he is, but the minute he dies for it they make him out a hero and they go around saying that maybe he wasn’t such a bad guy after all because he sure was willing to go the distance for whatever he believed or whatever he was.

That’s the way it was with Bummy Davis. The night Bummy fought Fritzie Zivic in the Garden and Zivic started giving him the business and Bummy hit Zivic low maybe 30 times and kicked the referee, they wanted to hang him for it. The night those four guys came into Dudy’s bar and tried the same thing, only with rods, Bummy went nuts again. He flattened the first one and then they shot him, and when everybody read about it, and how Bummy fought guns with only his left hook and died lying in the rain in front of the place, they all said he was really something and you sure had to give him credit at that.

“So you’re Al Davis?” one of the hoods said. “Why you punch-drunk bum.”

And you can’t beat that with a stickball bat.

More memorable ledes…

This, perhaps the most famous of them, comes from Grantland Rice:

Outlined against a blue, gray October sky the Four Horsemen rode again.

Dick Young on the Brooklyn Dodgers choking:

The tree that grows in Brooklyn is an apple tree and the apples are in the throats of the Dodgers.

Joe Trimble on Don Larson’s Perfecto:

The imperfect man pitched the perfect game.

Shirley Povich, on the same game:

The million-to-one shot came in. Hell froze over. A month of Sundays hit the calendar. Don Larsen today pitched a no-hit, no-run, no-man-reach-first game in a World Series.

Roger Kahn, after the Yankees won Game Seven of the 1952 Serious:

Every year is next year for the Yankees.

Barbara Long on the second Ali-Liston fight:

I loved the minute of it.

Bob Considine on Louis-Schemling:

Listen to this, buddy, for it comes from a guy whose palms are still wet, whose throat is still dry, and whose jaw is still agape from the utter shock of watching Joe Louis knock out Max Schmeling.

Tom Keegan on the Mets collapsing during the 1998 season:

If Bobby Valentine knew his team one day would disgrace baseball as badly as it did last night at Turner Field he never would have invented the game in the first place.

Mark Kram on the Thrilla in Manilla:

It was only a moment, sliding past the eyes like the sudden shifting of light and shadow, but long years from now, it will remain a pure and moving glimpse of hard reality, and if Muhammad Ali could have turned his eyes upon himself, what first and final truth would he have seen? He had been led up the winding, red-carpeted staircase by Imelda Marcos, the First Lady of the Philippines, as the guest of honor at the Malacañang Palace. Soft music drifted in from the terrace as the beautiful Imelda guided the massive and still heavyweight champion of the world to the long buffet ornamented by huge candelabra. The two whispered, and then she stopped and filled his plate, and as he waited the candles threw an eerie light across the face of a man who only a few hours before had survived the ultimate inquisition of himself and his art.

Tomorrow…WC Heinz on Bummy Davis.

Judy Pace Flood looks to cash in on some of her late husband’s possessions. Bob Gibson and Lou Brock have auctioned off their stuff, so why not Judy Pace?

Yesterday, Mark Teixeira and Derek Jeter won Gold Glove Awards. Today, Joe Pos riffs…and it’s not about Jeter.

A lede is the opening sentence, paragraph, or several paragraphs to a newspaper or magazine story. I got to thinking about the very best ledes in sports writing history yesterday, then e-mailed a bunch of guys who know a lot about the history of sportswriting to get their take. Got some good ones.

I figure I’ll sprinkle them over a few posts. And I’m going to hit my library to find some more. But here are a few for starters:

Red Smith on the Bobby Thomson home run:

Now it is done. Now the story ends. And there is no way to tell it, The art of fiction is dead. Reality has strangled invention. Only the utterly implausible, the inexpressibly fantastic, can ever be plausible again.

Or how about Heywood Broun on Mr. Ruth:

The Ruth is mighty and shall prevail.

John Lardner on Stanley Ketchel, Down Great Purple Valleys:

Stanley Ketchel was twenty-four when he was fatally shot in the back by the common-law husband of the lady who was cooking his breakfast.

Hugh McIlvanney on the Ali-Foreman fight in Zaire:

We should have known that Muhammad Ali would not settle for any ordinary old resurrection. His had to have an additional flourish. So, having rolled away the rock, he hit George Foreman on the head with it.

William Nack on Secretariat, Pure Heart:

Just before noon the horse was led haltingly into a van next to the stallion bam, and there a concentrated barbiturate was injected into his jugular. Forty-five seconds later there was a crash as the stallion collapsed. His body was trucked immediately to Lexington, Ky., where Dr. Thomas Swerczek, a professor of veterinary science at the University of Kentucky, performed the necropsy. All of the horse’s vital organs were normal in size except for the heart.

“We were all shocked,” Swerczek said. “I’ve seen and done thousands of autopsies on horses, and nothing I’d ever seen compared to it. The heart of the average horse weighs about nine pounds. This was almost twice the average size, and a third larger than any equine heart I’d ever seen. And it wasn’t pathologically enlarged. All the chambers and the valves were normal. It was just larger. I think it told us why he was able to do what he did.”

JR Moehringer, Resurrecting the Champ:

I’m sitting in a hotel room in Columbus, Ohio, waiting for a call from a man who doesn’t trust me, hoping he’ll have answers about a man I don’t trust, which may clear the name of a man no one gives a damn about. To distract myself from this uneasy vigil–and from the phone that never rings, and from the icy rain that never stops pelting the window–I light a cigar and open a 40-year-old newspaper.  “Greatest puncher they ever seen,” the paper says in praise of Bob Satterfield, a ferocious fighter of the 1940s and 1950s. “The man of hope–and the man who crushed hope like a cookie in his fist.” Once again, I’m reminded of Satterfield’s sorry luck, which dogged him throughout his life, as I’m dogging him now.  I’ve searched high and low for Satterfield. I’ve searched the sour-smelling homeless shelters of Santa Ana. I’ve searched the ancient and venerable boxing gyms of Chicago. I’ve searched the eerily clear memory of one New York City fighter who touched Satterfield’s push-button chin in 1946 and never forgot the panic on Satterfield’s face as he fell. I’ve searched cemeteries, morgues, churches, museums, slums, jails, courts, libraries, police blotters, scrapbooks, phone books and record books. Now I’m searching this dreary, sleet-bound Midwestern city, where all the streets look like melting Edward Hopper paintings and the sky like a storm-whipped sea.  Maybe it’s fatigue, maybe it’s caffeine, maybe it’s the fog rolling in behind the rain, but I feel as though Satterfield has become my own 180-pound Moby Dick. Like Ahab’s obsession, he casts a harsh light on his pursuer. Stalking him from town to town and decade to decade, I’ve learned almost everything there is to know about him, along with valuable lessons about boxing, courage and the eternal tension between fathers and sons. But I’ve learned more than I bargained for about myself, and for that I owe him a debt. I can’t repay the debt unless the phone rings.

Mark Harris reviewed the new Robert Altman biography last weekend in the Times Book Review.

Looks like lots of fun for us Altman fans.

My favorite Altman movies are: McCabe and Mrs Miller, The Long Goodbye, M*A*S*H, Nashville, and Short Cuts.

Over at the Baseball Analysts, Rich Lederer takes a look at the new Bill James Handbook:

Whereas The Bill James Abstracts from 1977-1988, the Bill James Baseball Books from 1990-1992, and The Bill James Player Ratings Books from 1993-1995 were full of commentary from James himself, the Handbook is devoted more to the presentation of stats. However, I’m happy to say that the number of pages penned by James has grown from five six years ago to over 30 this year.

Check it out.

David Waldstein, writing for the Bats blog over at the Times, is at the GM Meetings.

Here’s Yankees GM, Brian Cashman:

“Over the last few years we’ve tried to improve the way we’ve gone about our decision making, and a part of that is sample size,” said Cashman, in Chicago for the general managers meetings. “I think you look at the broader perspective of what somebody’s abilities are. Jerry Hairston, for instance, is a free agent. If he had hit .700 in the World Series doesn’t necessarily mean that he would get an A-Rod contract. We’re thankful for the guys who did what they did, and if you had a great postseason, terrific.

“What they are when they went into October, that’s what they still are, regardless of how good or how poor they played in the postseason.”

I think it would be risky to keep both Hideki Matsui and Johnny Damon. I figure they are going to want to give Jorge Posada a bunch of at bats at DH which makes Matsui the tougher fit. Who would you keep? Would you lose both of them and go after Chone Figgins to play left instead of Damon?

Hmmmm.

Over at SI.com, Ted Keith ranks the Yankees championship teams in the Derek Jeter Era:

2. The 2009 Yankees
Regular-season record: 103-59, 1st in AL East

Postseason: ALDS: defeated Twins 3-0; ALCS: defeated Angels 4-2; World Series: defeated Phillies 4-2

Any thoughts that this team would be so highly-regarded seemed foolish when it got off to 14-16 start and was mired in third place, 5½ games out, in early May. But from that point on the Yankees went 89-43 to finish with 103 wins. Since the end of the original Yankee dynasty, only the ’98 team has won more games in a single season. The catalyst for their turnaround was the return of Alex Rodriguez from hip surgery and the emergence of Mark Teixeira that gave them the destructive lineup many had long expected. The Yankees finished the season with the majors’ best offense, leading all of baseball in home runs and runs scored. It was enough to more than compensate for a pitching staff that was surprisingly unsettled, given its depth of talent. CC Sabathia was a stud all year long, and Andy Pettitte was old reliable, but A.J. Burnett was consistently inconsistent, and the latest Rules kept Joba Chamberlain from establishing himself as a front-line starter. As always, they still had Rivera, who finished with 44 saves and a 1.76 ERA.

In the postseason the Yankees benefited from curious, and at times downright hideous, play from the opposition, but the closest they came to being in trouble was when they lost Game 1 of the World Series. Undeterred, they won the next three, making their 27th title a mere formality.

JR Moehringer wrote an appealing memoir, The Tender Bar. I loved the first half of the book, but felt the story went on for too long–the last third of the book lost me.

Turns out, Moehringer is the ghostwriter behind the new Andre Agassi book, which might make it worth checking out. Or maybe Moehringer makes Agassi’s story too artful. Haven’t read it so I can’t call it.

Here’s Janet Maslin’s review today in the Times.

And here is an excerpt from the book that was featured in SI. It includes a chilling encounter with Jim Brown.

I was out and about yesterday afternoon and heard “Empire State of Mind” playing in car radios, bleeding from cheap i-pod earphones on the subway, booming out of apartment windows, and out of the lips of teenagers walking down the street.

Now I can’t get it out of my head.

This anthem is not wearing well.

Please, help.