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I couldn’t concentrate on the Yankee game tonight (they lost 5-3). Instead, I watched the Tigers lose to the White Sox and thought about what I’d do if I rooted for the Tigers.

Objects would be thrown, items would be broken. Dag, it’s enough to drive you to drink.

At least it makes for an exciting final day of the regular season, don’t it?

Uh, and this is neurotic, superstitious gahbige, but for what it is worth, the Yanks have won exactly 103 games four times in their history: 1942, lost the World Series; 1954, second place; 1980, lost in the playoffs; and 2002, lost in the playoffs. If they win tomorrow, they’ll finish the season with 103 wins.

Then again, I grew up on 103rd street so the number is cool by me. But if I was a superstitious sort…I’m just sayin!

So the Twins pull out a 5-4 win and now it is on the Tigers to win tonight. Man, it’d be great if the Tigers lose somehow, giving some real juice to the final day of the season.

Andy Pettitte goes for the Yanks tonight.

Nobody get hurt and nobody gets hurt.

Time to pad some stats. Let’s Go Yan-Kees!

(And, Let’s Go White Sox.)

Just loved this recent post by my man Steinski:

Like the pack rat I am, I’ve been carrying around the December 1975 copy of Esquire – the theme of the issue is Great American Things – because it contains a lovely profile of Duke Ellington written by photographer/director/author Gordon Parks, illustrated with his photos. In the mid-1950’s Parks traveled with Ellington and his band (probably for LIFE Magazine), and his reminiscences of that time have charming insights about Duke and the band.

In one particularly great story, Duke (also referred to as Edward and Big Red) is sleeping in the backseat of a car driven by Harry Carney, with Parks as a passenger.
Harry Carney, who had been with Edward longer than anyone else in the band, became his driving companion, or better, his private chauffeur. The three of us were approaching San Francisco early one morning after an overnight drive from Los Angeles. In the distance, the Golden Gate Bridge floated eerily in the dawn mist rising above the bay. Harry called Edward, who was asleep in the back seat. “Hey, Big Red, wake up and look over yonder. Looks like something you might want to write about.” Duke stirred awake, wiped his eyes and looked at the bridge. “Majestic. Majestic. Goddamn those white people are smart,” he mumbled and fell back to sleep.

And Duke wasn’t the only one who was good off the cuff. The story continues:

When we reached our hotel, Paul Gonsalves was stumbling out, stoned out of his mind. Edward sleepily looked him over.

“Where you headed so early, my man?”

“Fishing,” Paul answered without stopping.

“Fishing? You’re not dressed for fishing, man.”

“Shit, Duke, I ain’t trying to impress no fish. I just wanna catch some of the bastards. See you later.”

Here’s a site worth checking out: Sports Propaganda Prints.

The one and only Charles Pierce on the one and only Tony LaRussa:

I first became aware of this particular blight when he worked in Oakland a decade or two ago, back in the days before Beane turned the A’s into a mirror with which to show himself his true genius. First thing you heard was that La Russa had a law degree. This was meant to portray him as something of a baseball intellectual, which heretofore had been defined as someone who spit tobacco on his own shoes and not yours. I was fascinated by the fascination with this; I mean, the world is full of lawyers. (So, for that matter, are various low-security prisons, but that’s another story.) I wondered how many of his acolytes would hire Tony La Russa and his law degree to defend them on a capital-murder charge. Not many, I reckoned.

Then there was the ballet school T-shirt. La Russa used to wear this all the time in his post-game interviews. This was meant to portray him as something of a baseball aesthete, which heretofore had been defined as someone who put something larger than a $1 bill into the stripper’s G-string. This particular bluff worked until the night when, while wearing the ballet-school T-shirt, La Russa bum-rushed an elderly reporter from his clubhouse. This is not something Diaghilev would have done — not even to people throwing apples at his head.

But the truly remarkable thing about La Russa is his rather unspectacular record at winning anything that counts. Eugene McCarthy once said of Walter Mondale that the latter “had the soul of a vice-president.” Tony La Russa has the soul of a semifinalist.

For more LaRussa-related ugliness, check out this Deadspin post featuring Buzz Bissinger.

Thanks to Baseball Think Factory for the links.

In what already seems like an overwhelming year for public deaths, comes the news that Mr. Magic has reportedly died of a heart attack. He was 46.

Childhood slips away more and more each day.

The game ended in a tie when it hit the two-hour time limit, a standard tournament practice, but it didn’t lessen the disappointment. For the first time, KB began worrying about baseball rather than just playing it. He pitched several solid games, but as the season progressed, he started making uncharacteristic errors. In July, he began asking his father for ice after games, something he had never done before. With all the games he’d been playing for different teams, KB had racked up a lot of innings. “My arm feels funny,” KB said. The number of teenagers needing Tommy John surgery, a complex operation in which torn elbow ligaments are replaced with tendons, has increased from nearly zero a decade ago to hundreds last year. Doctors cite the additional innings kids are pitching as a primary cause. “It’s not a natural motion,” says Dr. Frank Jobe, who pioneered the surgery for major-leaguers in the seventies. “Kids’ bodies are still growing, and their mechanics are not what they should be. It’s just too much at that age.”

Despite being an orthopedic surgeon himself, Karl left much of the decision-making about throwing to his son. When he tried to yank KB from one of his grade-school games, KB shouted back, “I’ve got a no-hitter. I’m staying in.” Karl didn’t fight him.

But here’s a little leftover slice of Uptown Flavor:

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No pie tonight. I’m not jokin.

Joba Chamberlain was lousy though the Royals didn’t kick his teeth in. They did enough against the Yanks though as they pulled out a 4-3 win. Mariano pitched a scoreless ninth. Derek Jeter hit his 18th homer of the year. Nick Swisher hit a two-run bomb and lost a ball in right allowing a run to score. The Yanks had runners on second and third with two out in the ninth but Ramiro Pena popped out to end it.

Truth is, I found it hard to concentrate on the game and I had it on all evening.

But it was cool in New York tonight and I’m already getting amped for next week when the games will matter and we’ll all be hootin’ and hollerin’.

Final regular season game at the Stadium tonight and life is free and easy for the Yanks until next week.

Nobody get hurt, will ya, hah?

Tomorrow night, a Pos speaks in Brooklyn. And so does Larry Tye. Part of the Gelf magazine Varsity Letters series.  I’ll be there with Emma. Should be a good one.

Allen Barra, SI.com, an artist named Thom Ross, Willie Mays.

‘Nuff said.

I spent the evening flipping back-and-forth between the Yankees-Royals and the Tigers-Twins, listening to my wife concentrating (Is something burning?) and then cursing at her laptop as she attempted to book a flight on-line.  I watched more of the Yankees game but for the life of me I couldn’t tell you what happened.  It unfolded in a blur, with John Flaherty and Michael Kay rattling on about whatever they get paid to rattle on about.

AJ Burnett struck guys out and pitched well. The Royals starting pitcher had a French-sounding name, funny side burns, and was even better. Mark Teixiera hit a cheap dinger off a change-up that was high and outside. He hooked it to right field, it hit off the top of the wall and skipped into the seats like a flat rock thrown into a lake. Later, Phil Coke shanked a throw to second, blowing a sure double play, and then he didn’t go home when he had a play at the plate. Two runs scored. Oh, Nick Swisher hit a bomb to center field. The cameras showed Phil Hughes warming up in the bullpen. He has a pencil-thin mustache that makes him look a secret agent in an old British spy movie or a hick gas station attendant from the movie Tex.

Kyle Karnsworth, the man who disappointed us by never flexing his pinstriped muscles in a scrap while he played in New York, pitched the ninth inning. And Farnsworth being Farnsworth, things fell apart quickly and right on schedule:  He struck out the lead-off man (Brett Gardner), then gave up an infield hit (Francisco Cervelli), a pinch-hit single (Eric Hinske), and a game-tying sac fly to Robbie Cano, also pinch-hitting. Then Hinske stole second, the throw went into center field and Hinske lumbered on to third diving in safely. Johnny Damon was walked intentionally and Juan Miranda hit a line drive off of Farnsworth’s leg. The ball bounced toward the Yankee dugout, Farnsworth chased after it, and crossed Miranda, who was on his way to first. Hinske scored and the Yankees won 4-3.

Michael Kay shouted about “The Year of the Walk-Off,” his voice now horse.  This was the Yankees’ 15th “walk-off” win of the season.

Pie and smiles and the 102nd win of the year for New York.

Meanwhile, Tom Verducci has a profile on our man Mariano this week in Sports Illustrated. In fact, Rivera made the cover.

The piece is full of goodies:

“I have respect for Mariano like I have for my father,” says Boston designated hitter David Ortiz. “Why? He’s just different. If you talk to him at an All-Star Game, it’s like talking to somebody who just got called up. To him, everybody else is good. I don’t get it. To him everybody else is the best. It’s unbelievable. And he is the greatest.

“You know what? Sometimes in those times when he struggles, like when I watch him on TV, I feel bad for him. I seriously do. Good people, you want to do well.”

Told of this respect from his peers, especially from within the enemy clubhouse in Boston, Rivera is grateful, if slightly uncomfortable. “I don’t wait for people to give me respect,” Rivera says. “I always give them respect. Any player. Even a rookie, an old player, a veteran. I never try to show up anybody. I go to my business. I always take time for somebody who wants to talk to me. That’s my thing.

“It comes from back home. Family. My father was strict and always taught me no matter who it is, everybody is an uncle. To me, everybody was someone I respect like family. I grew up with that.”

…”My mental approach is simple: Get three outs. As quick as possible,” he says. “If I can throw three, four pitches, the better it is. I don’t care how I get you out. As long as I get you out. The quicker, the better. And that’s the only thing I have in mind.”

…”I love everything about pitching,” Rivera says. “Just being on the mound. Being on the mound and competing. There is nobody to come and save you. You have to get it done. There is no time to play around. It’s time to get it done and go home.

“I mean, this is what I do. This is what I was picked to do. There is no hitting. There is no running. When I’m here, on the mound … ahh, this is my world.”

Rivera knows himself, his place in the world, and seems to be perfectly suited to his job. Nice job by Verducci.

Finally, all of our best to Pete Abe who covered his last game for the Lo-Hud tonight. Good luck in Boston, Pete. And good news for us, as Chad Jennings will take over for Pete on the Yankee blog beat. Jennings has been terrific covering the minor leagues and he’s as good a cherce as we could have hoped for to replace Pete.

Yup, lots of winners in Yankeeland tonight.

Me, not the Yanks that is.

Here’s the game thread, better late than never.

Go Go Yanks. (Is it October yet?)

Jim Carroll, a classic New York figure–troubled and talented–passed away on September 11th. I missed it until I saw this fine appreciation by Alex Williams in Sunday’s New York Times.

I read The Basketball Diaries years ago and remember liking it very much, especially the parts about the Upper West Side back when it was a rough and tumble neighbhorhood.

One down, three to go:

We’re proud to present the following excerpt from Pete Dexter’s new book–his seventh novel–Spooner. This section picks up the story when Spooner is in high school. We just got through Spooner’s adventures on the football team where a sadistic coach named Tinker terrorized a fat kid, Lemonkatz. Spooner’s mother, Lily, is furious with the coach, as she is with many things in life, especially those things that are Republican. Then, young Spooner turns to baseball.

From Spooner:

By Pete Dexter.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Later that year Spooner began his career in organized baseball. The coach of the baseball team was Evelyn Tinker, who in addition to being held almost blameless in the Lemonkatz boy’s injury was now rumored to be collecting sixty bucks a week for the newspaper column, this in spite of Lily’s public campaign to have him fired, and being as Spooner was not old enough yet to have voted for Richard Nixon, this joining of Tinker’s team constituted the single most disloyal thing a child of Lily Whitlowe Ottosson’s had ever done.

How could he?

The question hung in the air at 308 Shabbona Drive, unspoken, like another dead father.

The answer—not that the answer mattered—was that Spooner had stopped at the baseball diamond on the way to the shopping center after school, and watched through the fence as Russell Hodge pitched four innings of a practice game against Crete-Monee, striking out twelve of the thirteen batters he faced. It was a tiny school, Crete-Monee, six hundred students, kindergarten through twelfth grade, and two of the players were only thirteen years old. The smallest one—who wore number thirteen, and was the only batter Russell Hodge did not strike out—was plunked between the shoulder blades as he turned away from an inside fastball, and cried.

Half a dozen times Spooner started to leave but couldn’t, waitingaround to see one more pitch, and in the end hung on the wire fence more than an hour, leaving diamond-shaped imprints on the underside of his forearms, wrists to elbows, taking the measure of Russell Hodge’s throws.

It came to him as he watched that Russell Hodge pitched in much the way he played linebacker, which is to say blind with rage. But it was more difficult in baseball, a game that had very little maiming, to sustain a murderous rage than it was in football, even for Russell Hodge, and after an inning or two Spooner thought he saw him working to conjure it up, sucking from the air every bit of resentment he could find. Giving Russell Hodge his due, even in a practice game against little Crete-Monee, he brought himself again and again to a state just short of foaming at the mouth—furious at the batter, at his own catcher, the umpire, who, behind the mask and protective vest was only Mr. Kopex the math teacher, furious even at the ball itself—and by the end appeared to have lost all his stuff.

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Looks like they will try to get the game in today.

Nevermind clinching the division at home against the Red Sox, the hope here is that should they play, nobody gets hoit.

Ya hoid?

We know from the Magic Number:

CC goes today (sweet); Game on Fox (frown).

Say Werd:

Got to have soul!