Blog Archives

It is bone cold in New York. And it is raining.

How they plan to play this weekend I don’t know.

I don’t know if Bobby Abreu is a Hall of Famer–he’ll probably walk too much when all is said and done–but he sure is in the Hall of the Extremely Good. (Back in 2005, Rany Jazayerli of Baseball Prospectus called him “the most underrated player in the game.”) I enjoyed him as a Yankee and am thrilled that he’s had such a good season for the Angels. Talk about a value!

Plus, he’s got great teeth and a winning smile.

Seeing someone with great teeth and a winning smile like Bobby Abreu can inspire a desire for a confident and healthy smile of our own. Taking care of our dental health is essential, and visiting a trusted dental clinic can help us achieve that goal. With advanced dental care services and expert professionals, clinics like Dental Made Easy Brooklyn NY provide comprehensive solutions for all our oral health needs. From routine check-ups and cleanings to cosmetic treatments and orthodontics, they offer a range of services to enhance our smiles and maintain optimal dental well-being. So, just like Bobby Abreu’s captivating smile, if you’re longing to have a radiant smile of your own, consider scheduling an appointment at a reputable dental clinic near you to embark on a journey towards a confident and healthy set of teeth.

Tyler Kepner profiles Abreu today in the Times:

“When you see a player every day, you really get a feel for him,” Angels Manager Mike Scioscia said. “At times, you’re maybe a little disappointed in what a player brings and you thought it was a little different package. With Bobby, it’s been nothing but exclamation points.”

Ted Berg not only has good hair but now he’s got his very own blog, which is bound to be part of my daily rounds.

Yesterday, he posted this picture of Cole Hamels.

Allow me to counter with this less than flattering classic from Sports Illustrated (and thanks to Jay Jaffe for passing it along):

We kid ’cause we love.

My wife came home tonight and after getting settled, she lay down on the couch next to me and stretched her right foot onto my lap and asked, “Do you mind rubbing it?”

She looked at me with those big, hazel eyes, smelling good even after a long day at work (how does that happen?). I smiled at her. Exactly how am I supposed to say “no” to that?

It’s not easy. So I said “yes,” and massaged her right foot.  And I busted on her, which is how things equal out. I do what she says but get to make fun of her in return. When I was done with her right foot she stuck the other one out and flexed her toes, which she does when she wants something or when she is inexplicably happy.

“You don’t want me to walk lopsided, do you?” Big eyes, big smile:

Man, I know how this chump must have felt. Blind-sided and completely overwhelmed. We don’t stand a chance.

And because you can never have too much bacon in your life, dig these yummy baconish recipes from the good peoples at Saveur.

Over at Fox Sports, our pal Dayn Perry has a preview of the ALCS and states the obvious:

“This one has the makings of a white-knuckled classic.”

Should be a blood bath, no? I just don’t see it lasting four or give games–this one seems destined to go six or seven, and is bound to take years off our lives.

I’m on a Pete Dexter jag. After reading his new book, Spooner, I tore through Paris Trout (his masterpiece), The Paperboy, and Brotherly Love. It might not be wise to load-up on such a concentrated dose of anyone as powerful, and disturbing as Dexter, but it’s my nature–I can’t help but diving in head first.

It’s like watching Mad Men or The Sopranos on DVD. There is something unnatural about ripping through shows back-t0-back without the suspense of having to wait a week for the next episode. You lose something without the anticipation, the time to mull things over. But if the show grabs you, how do you stop?

If you are a glutton, you don’t.  And so I’m going to read the rest of Dexter’s novels–Deadwood, God’s Pocket, and Train, whether it is healthy or not.  I’m enjoying myself too much to stop now, though I’m taking a week off before I start God’s Pocket.

Back in 2003, Sports Illustrated ran a long excerpt from Train, a story about a black kid caddying at a country club in Post War Los Angeles.

Worth checking out cause Dexter is a sheer pleasure to read:

The fat man couldn’t turn it loose. Got the sun in the sky, birds in the trees, shine on his shoes—everything a gentleman need but two wives and a death wish, as the old saying went—but he still just stood there froze over the ball, the seconds ticking away, like somebody couldn’t pee for the nurse.

And yellow pants, speaking of urination.

The boy was a few steps behind the fat man and to the side, carrying his bag. He’d been standing by watching half the morning, and there was something about the fat man he still couldn’t place. Something familiar that reminded him of something else. The boy waited for the connection to come, not trying to hurry it along.

Connections came to him all the time—people to things and things to people, things to each other, surprises and amusedments out of the thin air—it wasn’t anything he did to cause it, and sometimes, like now, he knew one was there before he knew what it was.

And sometimes, of course, it turned out to be a surprise but not no amusedment at all.

Well, why wouldn’t he be smiling?

Over at the Post, Mike Vaccaro has a piece about one Mike Sciocsia:

He has been a menace to us for damn near 30 years now, the thorn in our side, the cloud in our coffee, the bee in our bonnet, the fly in our ointment, the clouds on our sunny day. He has been our nemesis, our arch-enemy, our tormentor, our antagonist and our antagonizer. He inflicts misery for sport. He is a serial baseball sadist.

He is Mike Scioscia, from Upper Darby, Pa., by way of Hell.

And he will soon be back on our doorstep, back within our borders, back with a mission to continue his reign of terror. He is one of the nightmares that keep coming back. There is the one where you are falling, with no floor in sight. There is the one where you show up for a final exam in a class you haven’t once attended all semester. And there is the one where Mike Scioscia walks into a New York baseball October.

It’s getting cold and you know what that means…it means I’m thinking about what and where to eat this winter.

I’ve heard good things about Resto, a Belgianish restaurant in Murray Hill.

Haven’t been yet but the burger is supposed to be slammin’.

Guy I know told me that the Hangover Pasta “will make you see Jesus.”

Now, how can you not at least be curious about something like that?

That’s my go-to Jeopardy answer. Works maybe once a year.

Anyhow, here goes an open thread in honor of Emma’s prime time debut.

Oh, and kibbitz away on the Phils-Rocks if you are inclined as well.

Over at the Voice, Allen Barra asks: Who is the Real Mr. October?

Once again, love the drawing by Larry Roibal.

Rodriguez still has miles to go, so to speak. If he tanks against the Angels, it’ll be back to square one for him. But for the moment, let’s not sperl the mood with that kind of talk.

Our very own Emma Span will be on Jeopardy tonight. Yup, that’s right. She’s on Jeopardy. Don’t miss it.

Jeter, from day one, became the Yankees’ “Everyman”–everybody’s son, everybody’s brother, everybody’s dream boyfriend. Without even trying, he tapped into every chord of the Yankee mythos like no player since Mantle. He would add a few unmistakable new notes of his own, heralding in a new age for the franchise. Jeter had it all, and from his first day he became the best shortstop in club history. The Yankees couldn’t have invented him had they tried.

Glenn Stout, Yankee Century

When we talk about Derek Jeter we talk about class and dignity and tradition.  Those buzz words that sound cliche. We talk about how he is overrated, but maybe underrated too. About how cool and calm he is, how calculatedly dull but dutiful he is with the press. But what I’ll always remember about Jeter is how much fun he has playing baseball. It is his defining quality for me and one that is virtually ignored in the sea of commentary about Jeter.

Have you ever seen him in a big game not smiling and generally enjoying the s*** out of himself? It is as if he’s impervious to the nerves of the moment.

Baseball has a name for the player who, in the eyes of his peers, is well attuned to the demands of his discipline; he is called “a gamer.” The gamer does not drool, or pant, before the cry of “Play ball.” Quite the opposite. He is the player, like George Brett or Pete Rose, who is neither too intense, nor too lax, neither lulled into carelessness in a dull August doubleheader nor wired too tight in an October playoff game. The gamer may scream and curse when his mates show the first hints of laziness, but he makes jokes and laughs naturally in the seventh game of the Series.

Tom Boswell, How Life Imitates the World Series

Jeter is a man defined and consumed by his work, an ideal we’d all love to have ourselves but only few share. It’s part of what draws us to him. But Jeter reminds us that work can be play too. Who wouldn’t like to think of themselves handling themselves like Jeter in tough situations?

Pete Rose may have enjoyed himself as much as Jeter but not more.  And it wasn’t easy to share those feelings with Rose. Perhaps the best thing you can say about Jeter is that he’s competitive and has class and dates gorgeous women and he’s not Pete Rose.  Jeter does not let us get too close–we don’t know him away from the field–but the beauty part is that he lets us see all we need to know of him on the field.

The play is the thing, after all.

In an e-mail, Stout added:

I’ve always thought that with Jeter it’s actually really, really simple. You know when he was a little, little boy, he decided he wanted to play shortstop for the Yankees – that’s all he ever wanted, and for as long as he can remember that’s all he has ever imagined doing. He’s about the only person on the planet who has never had to scale down his dream, and since he has imagined himself doing what he is doing his entire life, it feels completely normal, the most natural thing in the world – on the field he is completely at home with himself, completely relaxed and happy. Why not smile?

And that’s why he was there to make the tag on Gomez, and the flip to Posada to get Giambi out way back when, and the home runs he hits right after the other team scores and all those other plays he makes – he’s been living these moments in his head his whole life, from the days he laid on his bed and tossed the ball up toward the ceiling. It’s not natural, but it is natural to him – he’s been playing shortstop for more than thirty years.

And what about the Nick Punto play last night? Stout continues:

I loved the Jeter just calmly explained that he saw Punto out of the corner of his eye then waited for him to commit and made sure he threw a ball to Jorge that he could handle, ho hum, on the fly, instant decision that all took place in about 1/2 a second. He’s like the guy that has learned to solve the Rubik’s cube.

It’s the smirk, the enjoying the moment, that I’ll always remember about Jeter. Not every great player allows you to see them having fun–heck even Mariano doesn’t exude that same vibe. But with Jeter you know he’s loving it. And he loves it when his teammates do well. Did you catch the little kid enthusiasm from Jeter after Alex Rodriguez hit that dinger off of Joe Nathan on Friday night?

After the game last night, Mariano Rivera talked about Rodriguez to reporters. “He’s feeling great and he trusts himself,” said Rivera. “He’s having fun, having fun, having fun and that’s the most important thing. Before, he was trying so hard and you can’t have fun like that. Now, he’s just enjoying it.”

Just like Jeter.

Carl Pavano was a bust of the first order in New York, one of the worst free agent signings in club history. This season, he pitched twice against the Yanks when he was with the Cleveland Indians, both no-decisions. But he pitched reasonably well. On April 19th, he held the Yanks to one run on four hits and walk over six innings, and on May 31, he gave up three runs on seven hits over seven innings.

Tonight, Pavano is on the hill for the Twins. Hey, Vincente Padilla was a load yesterday for the Dodgers so anything can happen. But it sure would taste good to see the Yanks bang Pavano around some. Hope the bats are feeling hungry like:

Andy Pettitte goes for the Bombers. Nothing else to say.  Let’s hope we get the Good Andy.

Lots of excitement. Angels sweep the Sox, Paplebon blows the save. Time for New York to end it right here. No need to see Scott Baker tomorrow.

Let’s Go Yan-Kees!

Bacon and Red Bull, that’s what Terry Francona and company eat for breakfast. Sox are up against it this afternoon, down 2-0. But they are at home and the Angels still have something to prove.

Chit-Chit Chatter away.

Happy Bacon and Happy Baseball.

There’s only one game tonight–Dodgers v. Cardinals, back in St. Louis. The late game in Colorado was called on the count of winter and rescheduled for tomorrow night when it will presumably be less wintery. How, maybe you can figure that out and get back to me.

In the meantime, here’s an open thread for the Cards game, as the Dodgers look to sweep.

And here’s one of the most vibey, sultry-sounding records Duke Ellington ever made:

My father is close by whenever I see Reggie Jackson. Mr. October was my first sports hero and one of the few athletes that my father could stomach. In fact, the old man admired Reggie more than somewhat. Last night, I smiled when I saw Reggie throw out the first pitch. Not because he couldn’t reach plate–the ball reached the catcher on a hop–but because Reggie looked like a bad ass in his black hat. It was the kind of hat my father fancied in his later years. Reggie has to cover up the bald spot, but still, the hat looked good.

From Reggie to Alex. I have enjoyed rooting for Alex Rodriguez because he reminds me of the feeling I had watching Reggie when I was a kid, the tension, the drama, the sense that something special is going to happen, the disappointment when it doesn’t. It’s pure sensation, expectation and hope, pre-adolescent hero worship. It has almost nothing to do with Rodriguez the man–although I love what most people dislike about him, his neediness his neurosis–it is about my childhood fantasy to have the best player come through when it matters. Like Reggie did.

Rodriguez’s RBI single in the sixth inning, which tied the game at one, was satisfying, but his two-run home run in the ninth, tying the game again, was the hit we’ve been waiting from him since 2004. It is the dinger that stops the A Rod is a choker storyline dead in its tracks.

What I loved about the at bat against Minnesota’s closer Joe Nathan was how Rodriguez laid off the first three pitches, all breaking balls. The 2-0 slider was just off the outside corner and was a pitch that Rodriguez would have offered at in the 2005 or ’06 playoffs. He didn’t swing at any of that slop this time, took a fastball low and inside for a strike and then squared up the next pitch, another fastball, right over the plate. It was a classic Rodriguez homer–to right center field.

My body was still humming hours later.

The Twins needed to steal a game in New York, but thanks to Rodriguez–and a little help from his friends–the Yankees were ones who stole this game from the Twins. The Bombers also had some luck with a Jeffery Maier style blown call from the umps. Still, Minnesota put runners on base in every inning and left seventeen men on. They had a ton of chances and…take it away Mr. D:

AJ Burnett showed up, Mark Teixeira showed up. And how. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a game-winning home run take such an odd bounce. When his line drive hit off the top of the left field wall and shot into the air, I had no idea if it was coming back in play or over the wall.

Now, Pavano for Sunday gravy.

Today, life is good.

How cool is this?