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Alex Witchel wrote a terrific piece on the Irish novelist Colm Toibin last weekend in the New York Times Magazine. I have not read anything by Toibin but this caught my attention:

It is Toibin’s triumph as a writer that his sympathy for his devils — especially the mothers — is great enough to spread the blame to everyone around them. For him, contradictions are paramount. The unexpected rush of warm feeling he can unleash for a character toward whom you have hardened your heart is one of those luxurious moments of catharsis you rarely experience in real life.

…“Do you know it has no single words for yes and no [in Gaelic]?” he said to Sam, animatedly. The fact of it delighted him. For someone who has such little use for “good” and “bad,” the very notions of “yes” and “no” are equally prosaic. Why bother with such useless extremes when all the really good stuff is in the middle?

I find myself looking for nice, pat answers too often, looking at the world in black-and-white terms, as a moralist. I don’t like feeling uncomfortable so I look for easy answers to complicated issues. I know this is foolish.  Or I know it speaks to my own insecurities and that all of the really good, complicated, messy stuff is in the middle.

Here is an except from Toibin’s latest novel, Brooklyn.

When Hideki Matsui stepped into the batter’s box to lead off the bottom of the seventh inning, his team trailing by two runs, YES broadcaster Michael Kay said, “For the last couple of games it’s like the Yankees have been trying to climb a greased pole.”  Then Matsui grounded out to second. Groundhog’s Day all over again. Or something like that.  It’s as if the Yankees have been playing one long, awful game for a week now. 

Andy Pettitte gave up four home runs and the Yanks were in an early 4-0 hole.  Robinson Cano is slumping and Mark Teixeira went 0-5 and was booed loudly.  But Johnny Damon was on-point, driving home two runs in the sixth and crushing a two-run dinger in the eighth.  The home run tied the game.  The crowd was pumped. 

Mariano Rivera–remember him?–pitched the ninth.  He struck out Jason Bartlett, and then had a tough duel with Carl Crawford, who fouled off good pitches and work the count full.  Then he turned on a 3-2 cutter and slapped it over the fence in right field, his first regular season homer since last June.  Evan Longoria followed and launched a flat-cutter over the wall in left.  It was the first time Rivera has ever allowed back-to-back homers in his career.  That’s four this year.  He allowed four all of last season. 

Carlos Pena popped out and then Rivera was pulled, an uncomfortable sight if there ever was one.

That sucked the life out of the building, took the juice out of the team, and put a fitting end to a miserable four-game homestand.  The Yanks went down like lambs in the ninth and lost their fifth-straight.

Final score: Rays 8, Yanks 6.

Ga-bige.

I’m serving on the Bronx Grand Jury for the month of May.  Four days a week.  We had our second day of cases today.  There are stretches of boredom, wasted time, and then a flurry of action. The final three cases were so brutally sobering and so emotionally unsettling that big news about Manny Ramirez instantly seemed trivial by comparison.  I got the news on my blackberrry earlier in the day, in an e-mail from D Firstman and had the pleasure of breaking it to court room officers, jury members, and security guards.  That was much fun. 

“Let’s see if people stop picking on A Rod now,” said a man into his phone during his lunch break on the street outside of the courthouse.

It is a big deal of course.  This is All the King’s Men Must Fall, that’s what this is.  Selig and Fehr are the Kings.  Bonds, Clemens and now A Rod and Manny.  They’re just the creme de la creme of a grim role call that will be ongoing…It took fifty years for it to come out that the Giants were stealing signals at the Polo Grounds in 1950.   We’ll be seeing guys being outed for the rest of our lives.     

Meanwhile, I need to unwind.  It’s been a long one.

But I’ve got my two great cats, the sun is out, and my wife is on her way home. Life is good. 

A Yankee win tonight would be much appreciated.

Until then, chew on this cheese:

Let’s Go Yan-Kees!

A few days ago I received an upsetting e-mail from reader Daniel Laikind:

My good friend Dan Traum, who I met in the 1st grade and have been friends with ever since was a huge Yankees fan. He and I had been to dozens of games over the years sitting in the bleachers during the really bad years of Dent, Green, Merrill et al.

Dan was thrilled about the upcoming season and for the first time in his life bought season tickets, as he wanted to be there to see the Yankees open a new stadium. He finally bought those tix about 10 days before the season started. A few days later, Dan tragically passed away in his sleep of a heart condition at the age of 34. The next day the tickets arrived in the mail. He never got to see the new stadium.

Dan’s family has started a foundation in his name to raise money for a scholarship fund for the high school that we attended together and they are using the tickets to try and raise money for the foundation. They have set up an auction on ebay to sell the tix and we are trying to spread the word to as many people as possible in order to help sell the tickets.

I certainly know how tough times are these days so raising money is tough, and there (unfortunately) are plenty of seats available but if people buy these tickets it will help raise enough money to really make a difference in starting the Daniel Traum Scholarship Fund.

We extend our best wishes to Daniel’s family.

Rest in Peace.

Hard not to smile when you think of Dom DeLuise.

The man could take a slap and keep laughing.  He had a great laugh.

On Tuesday morning I walked up 161st street, away from the two Yankee Stadiums, on my way to jury duty. Once you reach the Grand Concourse, up the hill and four blocks east of River Avenue, you can still look into the upper deck of the old stadium, the blue seats flaking away in the distance.

It was raining, a gray spring morning. I heard a woman curse. Sharply. (I always tense up when I see a parent getting on their kids in public.) She was not far in front of me and she was yelling at her son walking next to her. He could not have been older than five. Wearing a napsack, carrying her purse and holding an umbrella, he struggled to keep up with her. Just as he caught up, she’d pull ahead, he’d fall behind and again and he’d trot ahead.

“Don’t drop my f***ing purse.”

A smaller boy hung from around her neck. The mother adjusted her hands in a tight clasp behind her back to hold him up. I stood next to them as we waited for the light to change on the Concourse. I held my umbrella over her head. She looked up at me and smiled. She was young with a round face and dark, exotic, Spanish good looks, the kind that makes guys do dumb things. Mascara ran down her cheek. She smiled at me and asked if I would put her young son’s jacket hood over his head.

The small boy hanging around her neck smiled at me, his face splattered with rain drops. So did his brother who was holding the umbrella. It never ceases to amaze me how resilient kids are, I thought. Both boys were beautiful, their smiles without open and innocent. I told the older kid that he was a good man. The mother explained that the little one had lost his shoe as they were getting off the subway.

“Fell between the car and the platform, right on the tracks.”

I looked down at his wet sock then back up at his face. He was having a fine time. As we crossed the street she said she was headed for the dollar store to get him a pair of flip flops. The little one’s name is Cassius. The older one is Evander.

“Big boxing fan, huh?” I said.

“Well, when he was going to be born we couldn’t figure a name. I was in the hospital reading an Entertainment Weekly magazine and I see the name Evander and I ask my friends, and they liked it so he’s Evander. Then with the baby I figured to keep it like a theme so he’s Cassius.”

We went our separate ways without saying goodbye as we passed the Concourse Plaza, a block-long building on the east side of the Grand Concourse. It used to be a fancy hotel. Babe Ruth stayed there. Now it is an assisted-living facility. From the top floors, I’m sure there is still a clear view of the upper deck of the vacant Stadium. The thought of old people looking out at empty, paint-chipped seats, waiting for the wrecking ball, brought to mind the the loneliness of an Edward Hopper painting.

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Here’s one of the classic routines of them all:

A real sentence spoken by a scout discussing a former colleague: “His written report was all bullsh*t, and that’s when I knew he was a horsesh*t guy.”

From Dollar Sign on the Muscle by Kevin Kerrane

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Phil Hughes makes his second start of the year this afternoon as the Yanks go for the series win on a damp day in the Bronx.  The talented southpaw Joe Saunders goes for the Angels.

I’m a miss the start of the game on the count of I’m a be eating.  A bona fide feast as Spicoli would say. 

My mom and step-father are coming into town and along with my siblings we’re headed down to our cousin Julie’s restaurant Little Giant for brunch.  Julie is married to our cousin Ben, who also works in the food business, and her restaurant is beyond yummy.  It’s comfort food made fancy.  Or as Julie once said a “blue-jeans approach to high-end dining.”

Like for instance, at brunch you can get a duck confit BLT on Sullivan Street stecca bread.  Or Emily’s favorite, the baked French Toast, which comes with carmelized bananas, banana gelato, toffee sauce, and maple syrup. Did I leave anything out? Oh yeah, the powdered sugar. And a chin strap. 

Sides include Grafton Chedder grits, or duck fat roasted herb potatoes.  And the “world famous” buttermilk-chive biscuts? 

Dag, I say, DAG son.

Two, Three, Four:

Mmm, Mmm Good!

The great blinking slot machine that is the new Yankee Stadium is no friend to weak pitching. Even good pitching is at risk in what has proved thus far to be a carnival for offense. A side show. In fact, it’s a safe bet that we’ll see our fair share of comeback wins and heart-breaking loses at the bandbox in the Bronx this season, the park where no lead is safe.

On a rainy and humid Friday night, the Angels bullpen was worse than the Yankee bullpen for a second-straight game, and the Bombers overcome a five-run hole to win it, 9-8. Jorge Posada’s two-run single with the bases loaded in the bottom of the ninth sealed the deal.

Andy Pettitte was fine early on even though the Angels reached base steadily. Once it started to rain, however, Pettitte lost his stride, the Angels began to score, and Pettitte didn’t make it through what turned out to be an unsightly sixth inning. The Yanks kicked the ball around and by the time the third out was made, a 4-0 New York lead became a 6-4 deficit. The Angels, hitting line drives and scooting around the bases are is their wont, held a 9-4 lead going into the eighth.

But the Yanks scrapped back, just as they did last Saturday in Boston. Melky Cabrera had an RBI single, Kid Pena drove in two, and Derek Jeter had an RBI ground out to bring the Yanks to within one in the eighth. Then in the ninth, Mark Teixeira walked against the Angels’ closer Brian Fuentes to start the inning. Hideki Matsui slapped a single to left and Robinson Cano belted one up the middle to load ’em up. Posada’s single to left won it.

Let’s all applaud again, let’s all applaud again.

Nice comeback win for the Bombers.

It’s rainin’ in New York.

Will they get this one in?  And if they do, can A. Pettitte and Junior Weaver keep the ball in the park? 

Perish the thought.

And Let’s Go Yan-Kees!

Terminator!

Our man in the field Chyll Will brings it:

Wocka, wocka, wocka.

I can hear Will’s uncle Woodrow now, right out of a Cosby routine: “What’s wrong with that boy?”

We interrupt the baseball talk for a New York minute to appreciate the fantastic first round playoff series between the defending champion Boston Celtics and the Chicago Bulls. The series is tied at three games apiece. Four of those six games have gone to overtime. One game went to double overtime and last night, they played a triple OT.

We can only hope Game 7 tomorrow night is not a letdown.  No matter who prevails this has been riveting stuff.

While we’re on the subject, imagine the stones it took to perform a stunt like this:

Buster. Now, there was a tough guy.

It was inevitable. The day has finally arrived. The first day of the rest of Moe Green’s life. Just about everyone in my house–wife, the older cat, Tashi–is relieved because Moseph has been a terror of late. Me? I’m sympathizing with the poor kid.

It was fun while it lasted, papi. This one is for you.

Last week, Steven Goldman was set to board a plane to St. Louis.  At the last minute, he could not bring himself to get on the flight.

I have boarded many planes, though it has never been something I enjoy doing. I used to be afraid of crashing, but except for a brief moment or two of involuntary alarm during takeoff, I no longer worry about that, and once the plane is in the air I always feel fine. My problem is that I have an anxiety disorder centered around claustrophobia. I get into any small space, like a small airplane, and my limbic system goes haywire. My heart rate shoots up. My chest tightens. The ironically named flight response is incredible.

The plane to St. Louis was quite small, not quite a puddle-jumper, but the next step up. The low ceiling scraped my head. My overly large frame barely fit in the seat. The way the aisle was blocked by incoming passengers made me feel as if there was no exit. I imagined what I would feel like when they closed the door. The thought was terrible. I did not panic… but realized I probably would if I stayed, and that even if I was able to tough out the three-hour ride to St. Louis, I might never be able to convince myself to board the plane back home. I had taken two Xanax, an anti-anxiety medication, an hour before boarding, because I have been dealing with this stupid, frustrating, annoying thing for eight years now, and I knew it was possible that I might feel this way. The pills did not help. I felt helpless.

…The frustrating thing is that I still feel like myself. I don’t feel afraid inside. Even when I was in the grips of the worst of the attacks, the rational me was still in here, trying to manage the situation. On the plane to St. Louis I was, at least mentally, completely calm. The physiological reaction was like an overlay, a computer virus that was attacking the mainframe. I wasn’t thinking, “Aaagh! Let me out of here!” I was thinking, “Okay, how do I deal with this? How do I overcome this feeling?” It was a measured weighing of pros and cons that led me, in this instance, to get off of the plane. It was the right decision, but I still felt immensely disappointed that I had not been able to push it away, to rise above.

Goldman sat at the gate and watched the plane roll away, “excoriating myself, filled with self-disgust.”

The self-disgust is what jumped off the screen at me as I read this honest and uncompromising account of what is like to have a clinical anxiety disorder.  (On a slightly related note, Joe Pos has the SI cover story this week on Zack Greinke, who has managed to come to grips with his social anxiety disorder.)  Frustration, anger, which Goldman felt too, that’s understandable, but self-disgust? That’s crazy talk. That’s being in love with your own masochism.

I should know.  I do it all of the time.  And curse myself for doing it!  Most of us, even those who do not suffer from a crippling chemical imbalance, not knowing what to do with frustration, turn our anger inward.  Of course these things are easier to see in others than in ourselves necessarily.  It’s easier for me to say, Steve, why are you beating yourself up?, instead of changing my own behavior.

But self-disgust seems entirely inappropriate here. Goldman was actually taking care of himself, he protected himself and so, no matter how upset or disappointed he may have been (and legitimately so), he deserved to give himself some credit for his actions. Even if he still yearns to overcome his illness, which is admirable.

And if he isn’t willing to give himself that credit, I will.

We say it numerous times every year–“I’ve never seen that before.”  It is one of the constant pleasures of following the game.  Well, last night offered one of those moments when, with one out in the bottom of the eighth inning, fans at Comerica Park stood up and calmly started leaving the park.  The equally calm Yankee announcer, Ken Singleton, explained what was happening.  None of the players left the field and soon we learned that a fire alarm had been pulled.  The fans returned to their seats and almost had something to show for it as the Tigers scored five runs in the ninth inning, including Curtis Granderson’s three-run home run against Mariano Rivera.

But it wasn’t enough and the Yankees won, 8-6.

Joba Chamberlain pitched his best game of the young season, working out of trouble in the third inning when he walked three batters, gave up a single and a sac fly while allowing just a single run.  Miguel Cabrera, the best hitter in the league, came up with the bases loaded and two out and he took some good swings.  The count went full and Chamberlain struck Cabrera out on a sharp-breaking curve ball, the first curve of the sequence.

Nick Swisher hit home runs from both sides of the plate, Hideki Matsui smacked a three-run double, Johnny Damon had a couple of hits, and Robinson Cano extended his hitting streak to 16. 

Until the ninth inning, when Jonathan Albaladejo struggled so badly that Rivera was called in, it was a breezy game.  Singleton and David Cone, teamed together for the entire series in the YES broadcast booth, were a pleasure–informative, jocular, funny and intelligent.  Cone’s improvement this year has been noticable, don’t you agree?

The Yankees got a manly effort from Phil Hughes last night.  Let’s see what young Mr. Chamberlain has got this evening.

The future is now.

Lookin’ for a thorough review of the food at Yankee Stadium?  Then dig this cool Boogie Down blog, How Fresh Eats.  Dude has the skinny–soup to nuts.

Part One and Part Two.

What about the beer at the two new parks?  Eric Asimov takes a look in today’s New York Times.

And just cause we’re talking about food, why not take a look at a Shake Shack burger?