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I never went to a game with Todd Drew. But I can imagine what it would have been like–focused, alert, serious. Todd’s wife Marsha has filled me in on what the experience was like. They’ve been season ticket holders since 2003. In that time, Todd never missed a pitch. He went to the bathroom once before the game and once when it was over. And he kept score. Of course.

Last night I sat in Todd’s seat, a seat he will never see (for those who don’t know, Todd Drew was a contribuor at Bronx Banter who tragically died earlier this year; you can find a collection of his writing on the sidebar). It is located high above home plate, an ideal bird’s-eye view of the field. Fitting, I thought, for Todd to be presiding over the season like this. I could imagine Todd’s kind face, big in the sky like a Bill Gallo drawing.

Diane joined me and there was a good crowd around us. In the fourth inning, one of my dear friends, Johnny Red Sox, came up to me. He just happened to be sitting in the row ahead of us–what are the odds? In Todd’s seats, not so great.

Chien-Ming Wang and John Lannan were a contrast in styles. Wang was deliberate, soporific, while Lannan worked so quickly that he reminded me of the old Billy Crystal routine, where he mimicked ballplayers from the 1920s having a catch. Wang was up against it; if he could not handle the worst team in baseball surely he would not get another start. He wasn’t great but was certainly improved. Adam Dunn launched a solo home run against him in the third, and then Wang was done in by some misfortune in the fourth.

Ramiro Pena, playing for Derek Jeter, dropped a throw from Jorge Posada on a steal. Then, the first base umpire blew a call at first base. We could tell that he missed it from where we were sitting. The jumbotron did not show a replay, but moments later we heard waves of outrage from the areas in the park that did have access to a TV replay. As this was happening, a drunk kid caused a ruckus in the row behind us. Security was called and the dude left without an incident–just some disoriented, angry words. Before it was over, Nick Johnson hit a sinking line drive to left. Melky Cabrera raced in, dove, missed the ball and two runs scored.

Lannan threw strikes and got outs and the game zipped along. Robinson Cano hit a Yankee Stadium homer to break up Lannan’s no-hitter in the fifth, and in the ninth, Johnny Damon added a chippy of his own. With out one, Mark Teixeira singled to left. Brett Gardner replaced him as a pinch-runner and Alex Rodriguez, 0-3 to that point, came to the plate.

I hadn’t thought about Todd for most of the game but now he was present. Todd loved rooting for Rodriguez even more than I do, and I clapped more forcefully, hoping that Rodriguez would deliver. Mike MacDougal came in for Lannan and threw to first three times before Gardner stole second and then third. Rodriguez walked when he checked his swing on a full-count pitch.

First and third, Yanks down by a run, one out in the ninth. They were going to win. Robinson Cano fouled off the first two pitches he saw, took two balls, and then fouled off five or six more. He put good swings on the ball. The crowd was loud, only pausing to hold their breath as each pitch was delivered. I looked around our section at the friends we had made–clapping, rocking in their seats, clutching their hats, gasping at each foul ball–and realized that the meaning of Todd, and of the game, isn’t the outcome.

It is being there.

I felt humbled. Todd will never sit in his seats but he is there with us. The Yankees may not know it, but this is Todd’s season. (And there were plenty of moments to appreciate–two strong innings of relief from Phil Hughes and fine fielding plays by Rodriguez and Cano, and the customary brilliance of Teixeira.) I soaked in the last ten minutes of the game–that’s about how long the Rodriguez and Cano at bats took. My hands hurt from clapping and my heart raced. The excitement rattle through me and wished that I could bottle the sensation. I think it was Carlton Fisk who reflected that the 1978 playoff game between the Yankees and Red Sox should have been suspended when Yaz came to bat. It was a perfect moment, both teams were winners–baseball nirvana.

Last night was a June game pitting one of the best teams in baseball against the worst.  Of course I was disappointed when Cano hit into a 6-4-3 double play to end it, but I felt, for those precious moments in the ninth, in touch with why we watch every night, why were are moved, and crazed and driven, and why in the end, baseball matters.

Final Score: ‘Nats 3, Yanks 2.

Chien-Ming Wang again…

Dude, it’s got to start somewhere for our man. Baby steps, Money, baby steps. We’re behind you.

Diane and I will be sitting in Todd Drew’s seats tonight. We’ll raise a cup in his honor.

Damn, is that man ever missed around here or what?

It’s still early, I know, but I have to share this with you…

A friend took me to a place called Five Napkin Burger last night for dinner. I prepared by eating a lowfat yogurt for breakfast and a light salad for lunch. Still, by the end of our meal, I practically rolled my ass back up to the Bronx.

The layout of Five Napkin Burger, which is located on 9th avenue and 46th street,  is very much like the open dinning room space at The Odeon downtown. The service was indifferent but not rude, the vibe hip but not edgy. The place was filled with yuppies, buppies and well-dressed gay men.

Smart pop music is piped into the three neat, individual bathrooms. It’s hard not to feel like you are in a music-video as you pee. It has that kind of self-conscious, provocative feel. I thought I was in a movie, and also wished my wife was with me so I could have my way with her right then and there.

Instead I had my way with this, the original five napkin burger (photo courtesy of Time Out New York): 

Dude, believe it. Hellacious. And it tastes even better than it looks. Cruel and unusual to post this picture, I know, but I could not resist. Oh, and if you like cheesecake, the light, fluffy kind, uh, well yeah, that’s slammin’ too.

“Where is she from?”

That’s what people, mostly friends and family, have said to me in private after meeting my friend Shannon Plumb. It’s her accent, you just can’t place it.  They ask, wondering if she’s a put-on artist.

She’s not. But she’s also the only true bohemian I’ve ever known. Completely unaffected, out-of-her-bird, inspired. Turns out she’s from Schenectady–by way of Pluto.

I’ve known Shannon for almost twenty years. We met at college. She used to wear a trenchcoat and carry around a thin boom box, playing Prince. Guys were bewitched by her.

She painted and acted and when we left school, she modeled, and hipsters and cool people were betwitched by her. Now, she’s married with two kids. Over the past decade, she has made a name for herself in the art world with her short films.

Shannon is a true original and one of my favorite people of all time. Loves Harpo, loves Buster, and even once had a nice jump shot (or so she says).

Here’s a mess of her movies.  Check ’em out.

I watched both the SNY/PIX and YES broadcasts of the games on Friday and Sunday, flipping around to hear how each covered the game. It was amusing. Both teams are solid (Al Leiter and David Cone joined Michael Kay on YES) but both lean towards their team. The SNY/PIX guys thought a called strike three to David Wright on Sunday was a terrible call; over on YES, David Cone said it was “borderline,” but close enough.  The SNY guys chided the new Yankee Stadium, chuckling and sneering. And they killed Joba Chamberlain and Jorge Posada on Friday night. Here’s Bob Raissman, writing in the Daily News, with the skinny.

Who comes up short?

Over at River Avenue Blues, Joseph Pawlikowski considers what roster moves the Yanks will make once Brian Bruney rejoins the team.

I had the day off last Friday and had to run an errand at B&H Photo. It was an overcast, muggy morning and I was overdressed and soon sweating. With time to kill before a lunch date, I strolled up the north side of 34th street when I was done at B&H, walking east, listening to an old song talking about “Tonya, Tamika, Sharon, Karen, Tina, Stacy, Julie…Tracy” when I thought I recognized somebody. I stopped, and back-peddled, removed my earphones, and sure enough, there was Adam Reid from America’s Test Kitchen.

For those of you who don’t know, America’s Test Kitchen is the PBS show that sprung from the minds of Cook’s Illustrated. Chris Kimball and his crew are the sabermetricians of everyday cooking. Their approach is to empirically test and re-test recipes until they arrive at a practical and approachable solution for the typical American home cook. They also test equipment and products as well.

They’ve been a huge success. I can’t recall anything that I’ve ever made from them that wasn’t good.

Adam Reid handles the equipment rating and he’s the most cheerful personality of the bunch. Turns out he’s just as friendly in person. When I saw him, Reid, who also writes for The Boston Globe, was waiting for a bus back to Boston. He had been in town to do a spot on The Today Show promoting his new book, Thoroughly Modern Milkshakes. 

Now, how can that book not be awesome? I chatted with Reid for a couple of minutes before his bus began to board. I left him feeling better about the day and with a sudden craving for a milkshake, a “guggle-muggle” as my grandmother like to call them.

Took the train uptown, and still with time to burn, got out at 72nd street and decided to casually walk up Broadway. I had the headphones back on as I crossed Broadway and 78th street and saw what looked like Abe Vigoda on the east side of the block. Is Abe Vigoda still alive? I thought. Only one way to find out, so I removed one earphone and yelled out, “Hey, Mr. Vigoda.” And the old man, bent, wearing a beige cardigan, raised his right arm, cane in hand, nodded at me and continued walking down the block.

Adam Reid, Abe Vigoda, and then a few minutes later, one of the Zabar brothers, I’m not sure which one.

Rub-a-dub-dub.

M’ehhh, could be. It’s definitely grey.

Johan, AJ, lots of off-the-field barkin and belly-achin.

Doesn’t look like a good match-up for the Yanks today, and yet, I’ve got hope…cause that’s the thing that spring eternal.

Ever hear of Fernando Nieve? Right, didn’t think so. The man hasn’t made a big league start since 2006 but he handled the Yankee hitters with relative ease on Saturday afternoon. Fernando Nieve, no lie. Andy Pettitte, on the other hand, was pedestrian, allowing five runs on eleven hits in five innings, as the Mets sailed to a stress-free 6-2 victory.

How best to describe the Yankees on Saturday? How about, uninspired.  Yeah, that’ll do.

Now, they have to deal with the Great Johan on Sunday…with AJ Burnett going in return. Good luck.

Anyone got anything sunny to say? I’ve got nothing.

Part Two of the Ding Dong Follies on Fox this afternoon.

Vs.

Luis Castillo plays Jackie Smith.

My mother-in-law is in town for the weekend which is fun because I have one of the great all-time mother’s-in-law. She arrived last night. Em and I watched the game as we waited for her to get here. My mood got progressively darker as the game unfolded and Emily held her breath, hoping against hope, praying that another loss wouldn’t send her husband over the deep end and into a weekend long funk. But the game wouldn’t cooperate. Blown leads, Mariano getting touched, and finally, Alex Rodriguez popping up a good pitch to hit from Frankie K to end the game.

And then, jumping, arms waving, yelling, “He dropped the ball, he dropped the ball, he dropped the ball!” I scared my wife and somehow managed to scratch my arm–on what I don’t remember.

Talk about horses**t. That’s yer textbook definition right there. Still, we’ll take it, and for what it is worth, my wife is grateful, and will continue to be until late this afternoon when she holds her breath again.

My uncle once told me a story about a great uncle who was famous for teasing and talking to children as if they were adults. My uncle was three or four and he was in the bathtub one evening and the great uncle happened to be there, I don’t remember why. The older man shook is finger at the boy and said, “You’re All Wet!” And my uncle started to cry.

The Yankees are all wet and we’re doing a lot of crying right about now. They lost again to the Red Sox and are seemingly finding new and painful ways to do it. This time it was 4-3, a real kick in the groin. The Yanks held a 3-1 lead going into the bottom of the eighth–Alex Rodriguez’s two-run double broke up a 1-1 tie moments earlier–when CC Sabathia ran out of gas (a shame, as he pitched a terrific game). The Sox scratched together three runs in a heavy rain and the Yanks were lucky it was just three. But with Jonathan Paplebon closing, the one-run lead was more than enough. Mark Teixeira lined out hard to end it.

This one was painful but not entirely surprising. It is so bad right now that it’s almost comic, especially  with the Yanks playing well against the rest of the league. The Sox own them right now and that’s all there is to it. The Yanks aren’t helping themselves either. Nick Swisher made an bad fielding error last night and had a couple of inexcusable base runner mistakes tonight.

We’ll see how long this holds up. (Are the likes of Brad Penny going to come up onions  is against them indefinetly?) David Ortiz can’t hit anymore but he handles the Yankees? I never felt confident about the Yankees beating the Sox over and again in the late Nineties because I thought the law of averages had to catch up eventually. Sure enough, they did. Well, this isn’t going to hold up either. It just won’t. The Sox are good but they aren’t that much better than the Bombers.

The Yanks will have their moment against the Sox once again. But they are going to have to wait for a minute before they get the chance; they don’t play again until August. Meanwhile, they’ll lick their wounds and return to the Bronx to face the Mets, who lost two painful games to the Phillies the past couple of nights.

This one smarts, but they get to start fresh tomorrow. The pain doesn’t have to last long. Thank goodness they do this everyday.

CC on the hill, the big fella, the stopper…

Yanks play tonight, Yanks win tonight.

Say word. ‘Nuff said.

Okay, here’s a tough scene but a vivid and compelling one. It involves baseball, and more specifically, the Yankees.

From The French Connection Part II (which is as grimey as they come). Our hero Popeye Doyle, the Ugly American himself, goes to Marseilles. Bad Guys catch him, tie him down and get him addicted to dope. Eventually, they leave him in the guter. With the help of a French detective he dries out.

This is Hackman at his best:

The best way to deal with the Yankees getting knocked around by the Red Sox?

Eat well.

My friend Alex was a baseball blogger for a minute–that’s how we met. He’s long since retired but we’ve remained friends. We’re food nerds.  Alex pent a year in Thailand when he got out of college and knows more about Asian cuisine than anyone I’ve ever met. He’s curious and driven and is open about sharing his knowledge.

We’ve cooked together for years now–at his place or up at my crib in the Bronx. We work well together in the kitchen. Fluid. When it’s his place, I’m the sous chef and he puts me to work, and vice versa when we’re at my spot.

Last night, I stopped by Alex’s new apartment in downtown Manhattan. He belongs to a farmer’s collective and picks up fruits and vegetables once-a-week. Last night we had young broccoli rabe–still bitter but tender and almost delicate–arugula, mixed lettuces, radishes and spring garlic, to work with.

I was put in charge of the salad. I don’t much care for radishes but want to like them so I keep trying to prepare them in different ways. These were long like fingerling potatoes. I sliced three, thinly, added 1/4 of a large red onion (also sliced thin), sprinkled some salt and a little bit of sugar on them, added a teaspoon of cider vinegar, and let it pickle for twenty minutes.

I threw in a handful of the arugula, a bunch of mixed greens, and drained the radishes. Then I dressed the salad with a couple of teaspoons of olive oil, a teaspoon of red wine vinegar and a pinch of salt. 

Meanwhile, Alex prepared the main course, which was served over white rice. The recipe is listed below. Here are the flicks.

Hazy grizzle.

Garlic and onions.

The beef, onions and rabe.

Cooked down.

 Plate it Up.

(more…)

I’ve been fishing twice in my life–once on a lake, another time in the Long Island sound. A long time ago. I don’t recall much other than being bored. Fishing was something kids were supposed to enjoy–like flying a kite or building model airplaines–but I never took to it. Too much patience for a blabbermouth like me. Still, I appreciate why certain men love to fish. Y’all have any good fishing stories?

Also, has anyone read A River Runs Through It by Norman Maclean? I have not, but from what I hear it is a wonderfully written book. Here is an excerpt:

After my brother and I became good fishermen, we realized that our father was not a great fly caster, but he was accurate and stylish and wore a glove on his casting hand. As he buttoned his glove in preparation to giving us a lesson, he would say, “It is an art that is performed on a four-count rhythm between ten and two o’clock.”

As a Scot and a Presbyterian, my father believed that man by nature was a mess and had fallen from an original state of grace. Somehow, I early developed the notion that he had done this by falling from a tree. As for my father, I never knew whether he believed God was a mathematician but he certainly believed God could count and that only by picking up God’s rhythms were we able to regain power and beauty. Unlike many Presbyterians, he often used the word “beautiful.”

After he buttoned his glove, he would hold his rod straight out in front of him, where it trembled with the beating of his heart. Although it was eight and a half feet long, it weighed only four and a half ounces. It was made of split bamboo cane from the far-off Bay of Tonkin. It was wrapped with red and blue silk thread, and the wrappings were carefully spaced to make the delicate rod powerful but not so stiff it could not tremble.

Killer job by the BA crew live-blogging the draft yesterday. Here is what Rich Lederer and Marc Hulet have to say about Slade Heathcott:

Rich: Heathcott wouldn’t have been available had he not been injured or had personal issues. He might ask for more than slot but the Yankees can afford to give it to him. Don’t see New York losing its first-round pick two years in a row.

Marc: Nice, nice pick by the Yankees. Definitely fell because of makeup issues and he has the talent to be a monster.

Rich: I saw Heathcott hit and pitch at the Area Code Games last August. I also watched how he carried himself after the game. The kid seemed a little cocky to me and has enough hot dog in him that he did a cartwheel and back flip before the Aflac Classic in honor of Ozzie Smith, who was the honorary chairman. But there is no doubting his talent. Hit 91 on the gun and struck out the side (although not in order). He hit a groundball single up the middle in one of the two ABs I witnessed. Grounded out to shortstop in the other. In the Aflac game, he went with a pitch on the outside corner and singled in a run against Zack Wheeler in the first inning that gave the West an early 1-0 lead. He also pitched the ninth inning and was saddled with the loss after giving up four runs. I wrote down “most athletic player” next to his name on my scoresheet even though I didn’t care for his attitude.

AJ Burnett has pitched small in his two starts at Fenway Park this year. S-m-all. Like a bum. Burnett threw more than sixty pitches by the end of the second inning. Gave up a two-run home run to David Ortiz–yes, that David Ortiz–and, after an error by Alex Rodriguez, a two-run double to JD Drew. Burnett didn’t make it out of the third. Five runs. Bum.

That was really all Josh Beckett needed as the Sox cruised back into a tie for first place with the Yankees. 7-0 was the final. The Yanks did collect two hits…oy.

New York is now 0-6 against Boston this year. The sooner we can forget about this one, the better.  Yup, nothing but a bowl of  crybaby chowder for the New Yorkers.

Today is the annual baseball draft. The good folks over at The Baseball Analysts are live-blogging the event. 

Check, check it out.