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Over at the New York Times, Tyler Kepner examines what the Yankees can do about Chien-Ming Wang.

AJ Burnett and the Yankee offense look to take Carl Pavano and the Tribe on a good, old-fashioned tour of the Bronx today, Popeye-Doyle style  (though this was shot in Brooklyn).

Buckle up, Bucko.

And, Let’s Go Yan-Kees!

The subway platform at Grand Central was filled with Yankee fans as an uptown 4 train pulled into the station.  The doors opened, and people pushed to step inside.  They halted when a voice came from inside the train, playing the part of traffic cop.  “Let them out, please let them out first.”  He was calm an authoratative.  “Let them out.  Two more coming, two more.” 

I got into the car with a crowd of Yankee fans and the voice continued, “Watch the closing door.  Bing-Bong.  I’m just trying to put a smile on your face.”  The voice came from a short, thin man, whose impression of the closing-door sound was eerily accurate. 

The man moved to the middle of the car and saw a young, suburban couple standing a few feet away.   “Oh my god, look at this lucky man,” he said approaching them.  “Look at this!”  The young man, no older than his mid-twenties, wore a green Yankee cap, decorated with shamrocks, backwards.  He had the plain, doughy face of Judge Reinhold.  

“You are a lucky man to be with a beautiful white woman like this.”

The young woman was tall.  Not exactly pretty, but not at all unattractive.   Athletic, she towered over her new admirer. 

“I am lucky,” said the boyfriend.

“Yes you are,” said the short man.

She blushed and looked down.  Her boyfriend smiled weekly.  They both looked unsettled.

“I love white women,” the short man continued.  “I do.  Love white women.  I’m looking to hook up with a beautiful white woman now.  I want to make me a little Obama.  Now is the time.”

The man talked more about how much he loved white women.  Then he imitated two versions of the door-closing sound, both remarkable.  But now, nobody was laughing.  The car was filled with out-of-towners wearing Yankee jerseys and hats.  The man rattled a cup and sharply announced that his wife died four years ago this weekend.  He said that he has a daughter.  “If you have food or money, keep your money, I’ll take the food,” he said in a clipped baritone voice, almost as if he were barking.

He got off the train at the next stop, but the young girl kept looking down at the ground.  She and her boyfriend barely said a word to each other for the rest of the ride up to the Bronx.

When the train came out of the darkness, it rolled past the old Yankee Stadium.  You could still see inside the place, for a brief moment.  The stands were still intact, but there was no more grass on the field, just dirt.  The image of the deserted Stadium flashed by in an instant and I heard different voices say: “wow,” “weird,” “whoa,” “so empty.” 

It was like passing by a ghost town.  The car remained hushed and then…”Hey, there’s the new stadium.”

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I haven’t written as much about my mother as I have about my father over the years but that isn’t because I love her any less. She’s been as vital a part of my life as he ever was. When my father was lost in booze, unable to take care of his family, my mother walked the walk, and made sure we were provided for. She’s tough, man. A lady, but no pushover. She’s got her flaws like anybody else but make no doubt about it, she was very much a heroine when I was growing up.

She recently celebrated a milestone birthday and it reminded me how lucky I am to be her son.

Mom was raised in Bukavu, a small city in the eastern part of the Congo.  Her father was a mechanic and ran a garage for the local Renault dealership.  She lived there from the time she was four until she was sixteen (1948-1960).  When the Congolese Independence arrived in ’60, mom returned to Belgium where she finished high school and then went to the university, majoring in public relations.  Like many colonists, she  yearned to return to Africa, to the wide open expanses and the big sky.  Belgium was too grey, too rainy, and too small to contain her.

In the summer of 1966, a year out of college, she made that trip back.  It was a great time and her life was changed forever by time it ended seven months later in February of ’67.  My aunt Anne, a year-and-a-half younger than my mom, and their friend Michelle went too, along with three boys, Jean-Pierre, Jean-Paul, and Freddie.  The group of them were all in their early twenties.  The idea was to make it all the way to Kenya, where an old friend of my mom’s family lived.  They arranged funding for their “mass media expedition,” got sponsorship from Total, a popular gas station chain, jeans from Levis, and took off in two old army jeeps, one that was formerly used to haul cannons in the second world war.  The jeep broke down constantly and much of the trip was spent in small villages waiting for weeks for spare parts to arrive. 

Mom and her pals drove east and south, across Europe, through Turkey and Greece.  They spent a night in jail in Saudi Arabia, suspected of being Israeli spies.  After months of roughing it, they made it to Ethopia.  My father was working as a unit production manager on an ABC, National Geographic documentary.  He and his crew met my mother, Anne and Michelle in the green room of a TV station in Addis Abiba.  The old man was so taken with my mother that he courted her for months, through letters and visits and the sheer will of his personality.  

The man had good taste, that’s for sure.  He was relentless and in time, he won her over.  They were married in October of ’67. 

Here are some shots from that trip.  Check it out.

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Does it seem bigger to you? The stadium? The field? The entire place? That’s the question I kept asking people on Opening Day at the new Yankee Stadium. And most people that I asked said yes, it does seem bigger. Less seats but more space.

When you get off the subway and cross the street from the old Stadium and stand under the new gold-lettered Yankee Stadium sign, it is impressive. And it is big, the Yankee Stadium store and the Hard Rock Café just under it on the corner. It seems appropriately big.

“It’s too big,” one of the clubhouse attendants told me and he leaned over the front rail of the visitor’s dugout two hours before the game. It was a fine spring day and he was talking about the inside of Yankee Stadium not the field, which he thinks actually looks smaller.

“It used to be cozy and we complained it was too small.” He smiled. “Now, it’s too big. The quickest way from clubhouse to clubhouse is here.” He pointed across the field to the Yankees dugout. “But it’s good for me. I could use the exercise.”

There were several times during a well-attended Opening Day when I found myself in a corridor or a stairwell completely alone. The interior space is expansive. The front offices are located in left field so that an assistant will think twice before walking down to the Yankee clubhouse, lest he forget anything and have to make the long trek back.

The whole structure is not only bigger it is more open too. There are concourses with standing room areas to stop and watch the game. There are plenty of shops and food stands. You can even get a nice pear. There isn’t much room for vertigo. The nose bleed seats still feel close to the field. And there is less room between home plate and the seats, by maybe ten, fifteen feet. Behind the plate, fans are certainly closer to the action.

Jorge Posada hit the first home run in the new jernt, over the netting in center field, right on top of Monument Park. That was about the only highlight for the Yankees who got rocked by the Indians, 10-2. CC Sabathia wasn’t bad at all but he labored, walking five and throwing 122 pitches in all. Still, he only allowed one run in five and two-thirds.   

Jose Veras and Damaso Marte gave it up in the seventh. Grady Sizemore’s grand slam was the game-breaker. Victor Martinez followed with a bomb into the left field bleachers. The Yankee fans booed and they booed loudly, baptizing the place in Bronx cheer. Poor Cody Ransom left nine runners on base. Nine.

I exited the Stadium from the bleachers onto River Avenue near 164th street. The subway runs overhead. Moving north, past the stadium is a VIP parking garage–the players park in the batcave, underneath the park. Across 164th street is Mullaly Park, which features ramps and jumps for skaters and bmx-bike, x-game kids. The kids are off from school this week and a gang of neighborhood daredevils and adrenaline junkies were riding around casually and without hesitation. Several of them were drinking cans of Red Bull. I wondered if any of them were baseball fans at all.

I took a left on 164th street and walked west. Three pretty girls with Red Bull backpack coolers strapped on their backs stood outside the entrance of Mullaly Park giving out drinks. The next block over is Jerome avenue. Across the street from the stadium is a wonderful old art deco building complex. Cars are double parked outside of the building, mostly limousines. Since the stadium is now one block further away from the Major Deegan, traffic will be worse. How will life change for people who live in the buildings across the street from the stadium? Could be a long summer.

It was chilly now. The fans may have been disappointed but they were still lively as they left the stadium. The day was bigger than the score. Some stopped to take more pictures; others, with an eye on rush hour, hurried to get home.

When Mark Teixeira fielded the ground ball and hustled to first for the final out in the bottom of the ninth, manager Joe Girardi watched eagerly from the vistor’s dugout.  He was coiled.  But when the last out was made, Girardi and his coaches shook hands with enthusiasm.  Everyone was pumped up.

Yanks 4, Rays 3.   

They had every right to be pleased as the Yankees earned perhaps their most satisfying win so far this year.  Andy Pettitte staked the Rays to an early 2-0 lead but pitched a wonderful game, allowing three runs and working into the eighth inning.  Brian Bruney, who struck out the side last night on ten pitches, replaced Pettitte and whiffed the two batters he faced (Bruney got the win).  Robinson Cano hit a two-run dinger and Johnny Damon, who missed the two previous games, drove in the tying run in the top of the eighth. 

Then, in the ninth, Cody Ransom, who hasn’t hit a lick (and was benched again today in favor of Ramiro Pena), laced a one-out, pinch-hit liner into right center field.  Running hard out of the box, he hustled his way into a double (a good throw would have made it close, but it was off-line).  One out later, Derek Jeter singled to left, a ground ball that darted between the shortstop and third baseman.  Ransom charged home as Carl Crawford bobbled the ball momentarily allowing him to score easily.  The Yankees took advantage of two poor outfield throws, turning the tables on the Rays who ran without mercy on the Yankee outfielders last season.

Our great friend Mr. Rivera pitched the ninth: fly out to right, and two ground ball outs to first.  Zip, zip, zip.  The Bombers finish their nine-game road trip on a high note, and they will open the new Yankee Stadium tomorrow with a winning record of 5-4.

Hot Dog.

Yanks and Rays play the rubber game of their three-game set this afternoon in Tampa. According to Pete Abe, Xavier Nady will need season-ending surgery. No official word yet and there probably won’t be for a minute…

So much for the outfield platoon. This is a tough break for the Yankees, no other way to look at it. 

Dag.

A few years ago, Allen Barra wrote an interesting piece about language for Baseball Prospectus:

George Carlin used to do a great routine in which he recounted how the term “shell shock” in World War I evolved to “combat fatigue” in World War II, and, finally, by Vietnam, to “post-traumatic stress disorder.” What, Carlin wanted to know, was wrong with shell shock? It was a perfectly legitimate term–colorful, concise, and descriptive. It grabbed you on first hearing and told you exactly what it meant. That was the whole point. By the time we reached Vietnam the reality of shell shock had become obscured by the very term that was supposed to describe it. It had become something that the average person could no longer understand without an interpreter.

…Cal Ripken Jr. for instance. This weekend while watching the Yankees game, I saw a commercial for his baseball videos. One of them is labeled “Defense,” as in, “Learn to play defense the Cal Ripken way.” When Cal Ripken, Jr., broke into the major leagues, “defense” was called “fielding.” It meant not only catching the ball but throwing to the right base, knowing which bases to cover, backing up the play. They called it “fielding” because unlike other sports, only the defense for the team that had the ball was on the field while they were doing it. In other words, it described a situation peculiar to baseball. (And, by the way, when did players like Cal Ripken, Jr. go from playing the middle infield to playing “key defensive positions”?)

When, exactly, did fielding become defense? For that matter, when did hitting and baserunning get lumped together under the leaden term “offense”? Were “batting” and “hitting” and “baserunning” too quaint for an audience that also watched football and basketball? Did we somehow subconsciously decide that because football and basketball had offense and defense that baseball had to have them, too?

I could not agree more about “fielding,” and ever since have made it a point to use that word instead of “defense.” This ain’t football, after all. Defense? I think it’s okay to use “defense” occasionally, especially when talking about “team defense,” otherwise I just don’t see anything wrong with “fielding.”

Which is not to say that I’m against new jargon. It’s just that in this case, I don’t see why the change was necessary.

And speaking of language, yo, pet peeve #1,637…adding “esque” or “ian” to the end of any person, place or thing. As in “Jeterian,” which Michael Kay whipped-out last night. Man, I think that is just pretentious beyond belief.

One of my favorite Clash records:

And from Elvis:

The Bird will be missed…

The first year I contributed some freelance work to SI.com I had a bad habit of including the phrase “What a difference a year makes” into virtually every piece I wrote.  I didn’t do it on purpose but such is the constant temptation of cliches; they just won’t go away, especially when writing about sports.  It got to be something of a joke with my editor, so much so that I’d slip it into a piece just to see if he noticed.  

The Yankees were in Tampa last night for the Rays’ home opener and, dag, but what a difference a year makes!  Guess that’s what winning the pennant will do for you.  Hell, the Rays fans were louder than the Yankees fans.  Wait, maybe this was just like last year’s Rays.  Rough, rugged and raw.

Unfortunately for New York, Chien Ming Wang’s stuff was still up in the strike zone.  And for a sinker baller, this is not welcome news.  Wang’s sinker was flat and waist high and the Rays jumped on him early.   He threw 42 pitches in the first, allowing four runs to score.  The Rays hit him hard and they ran even harder, testing Jorge Posada’s arm.  Wang loaded the bases in the second and walked Longoria in a ten-pitch at bat.  Another run scored and Wang was done.  But his ERA got fatter when his replacement, Jonathan Albaledejo served up a grand slam to Carlos Pena.

3 outs.  9 runs=a long night for the Yankees. 

Scott Kazmir pitched well for the Rays and BJ Upton made a beautiful basket catch robbing Xavier Nady of at least a double in the second inning.  What made the catch memorable was just how smoothly Upton tracked the ball.  He was almost casual but he had it all the way.  Impressive.  In the sixth inning, Carl Crawford got turned around but snatched an extra base hit away from Nick Swisher, who had already homered.

As Swisher rounded second and saw that Crawford had caught the ball, he took off his helmet and extended his right arm as he looked in the other direction.  Hats off to you, Mr. Crawford. 

And hats off to Swisher, who pitched a scoreless inning of relief himself (Is there anything he can’t do?).

“We know we didn’t play very well today, but we had to find something to laugh about in that moment and I just happened to be the guy everyone was laughing at,” Swisher said. “If that’s what it takes to get us back together and get rockin’, then I’m all for it.”

…”Nobody was laughing,” Jorge Posada said. “Today was embarrassing; just one of those days where everything went for them and nothing went for us. We didn’t pitch or do the things we were supposed to do. Nobody was laughing.”
(Mark Feinsand, N.Y. Daily News)

Here’s a sampling of some old Coming Attractions to chew on.

My dad’s old friend Bill Tinker said this movie was “Heavy on the unbearable, light on the being.” I didn’t get the movie at all when I first saw it at 16 but later on, I got it. The two female leads are devastating and Daniel Day sports a hellacious head of hair.

I love the early New York City scenes in this movie.

My favorite Robin Williams’ perfomance.

I remember watching this one as a kid on a Sunday afternoon with my old man when he was living in Weehawken, New Jersey.

Dag, this movie still creeps the hell out of me. It has to be one of the most unsettling action movies ever made.

The wife just called from the Twin Cities.  She’s on her way home from Albeturkey, New Mexico, waiting for a connecting flight.  It is bright and sunny and cold in New York today, Easter Sunday.  I’ve got the windows open, soup is on the stove.  Time to warm up the day-old baguette, fix a salad and have some lunch. 

Joba makes his season debut this afternoon in KC as the Yanks go for the sweep.  Good day for a feast, eh?  House money.  Step on ’em, boys.  Let’s Go Yankees. 

In keeping with the long-playing jazz record theme here’s a classic from one of the true masters–Lee Morgan.

Cold Chillin

Mark Teixeira was a late scratch on Saturday night night, and is listed as day-to-day with a sore left wrist.* But the Yankees didn’t miss him as Nick Swisher played first instead and had another great game.  He walked twice, hit a triple (belly-flopping into third), and a home run.  Picked up three more RBI.  Swisher also made a nice pick on short-armed throw by Sabathia to end the seventh inning.  He’s been Mr. Everything for the Yankees this week–a likeable, loose personality on a hot streak.  I can see him being a good New York player, can’t you? Like Dykstra.  Or Lerityz.  Or Kevin Millar, who would have done well here in his prime. 

Swisher has gotten good press this spring as a fun clubhouse presence.  He gives the Yankees some physical swagger without any trace of menace.  Swisher’s a got a Cheshire Cat grin and a round, cartoonish face.  Steve Lombardi compared him to Jack Black and that’s not a bad call, but it’s not perfect either.  There’s something more there.  I’m not sure what the call is, but I do know that Swisher has got tremendous hair, almost a retro-Donnie Baseball look.  

Swisher seems perpetually cheery, hyper-active, effusive; a more Golly Gee-earnest Jason Giambi.  After the game tonight he told Kim Jones that he had three Red Bull in him and he was just looking forward to going to the clubhouse to try and relax.  He may be amped, but Swisher also shows patience at the plate.  And he’s got pop in his bat.  The homer he hit from the right side was crushed. 

The Yankees scored six runs in all, including a two-run double by Jorge Posada, more than enough for Sabathia, who delivered the goods in his second start.  He wasn’t dominant but Sabathia was able to work out of trouble, getting some big strikeouts, and a couple of inning-ending double plays.  He pitched shutout ball through seven-and-two-thirds. Struck out six and didn’t walk a batter.  6-1 was the final as the Bombers won their third straight.   

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Tonight CC stands for Clean Crib.  As in the Mrs is returning from a week at her sisters’ in New Mexico tomorrow.  And you know I’m a have this place lookin respectable by the time she comes through the door.  So I’m doing laundry, and I’m cooking Ratatouille and I can’t wait to watch CC Sabathia pitch tonight. 

I don’t know about you, but I love Saturday night games.  I know I’m showing my age.  I don’t go out on Saturday night.   We go to sleep when people are headed out.  Pretty soon I’m going to be playing Bridge.  But I like getting stuff done during the day and then getting to chill out to a game at night.  It’s a small, good treat.  

The Royals had a rough time against the lefty Andy Pettitte yesterday.  I hope that Sabathia can build on that.  KC does not not have an imposing line-up.  Let’s see if the big fella shook the nerves out of his system in Baltimore and…

Let’s Go Yan-Kees.

Stinky, funky Saturday fromage.

First up, the Wood Man:

So, who remembered that Shelley Long was once fetching? I’ll never forget how funny Henry Winkler and Michael Keaton were.

How about this showdown with the scene-stealing Forest Whitaker?

Or how about this misbegotten cheapness?

Keeping it in the Eighties, let’s all cool out to this:

There was one kid on my high school team who took baseball very seriously.  It almost hurt to see how much he cared.  Birdie was one of the two best players on the team and he desperately wanted to play professionally.  His father was a constant, critical presence, sitting in a lawn chair by himself up the first base line.  Brooding, silent.  When Birdie struck out, tears welled in his eyes.

He went to Vanderbilt and then transferred to a smaller school in Southern California so that he could play ball.  Birdie became a relief pitcher.  He was wild, a red ass.  He grew a beard, put on weight and his claim to fame was that one season he led his league in appearences and hit batsman.

Birdie is in his late Thirties now but he still pitches, still plays in the summer leagues.  He called me from Florida last night where he spent the past week vacationing with his wife and small son.  I told him that the Yankees won their first game and that AJ Burnett pitched okay. 

“You know I love that guy,” Birdie said.  “He’s just my kind of pitcher.  Great stuff, but horsesh** erratic.”

Burnett didn’t throw a gem but he pitched okay.  His fastball was in the 91-94 range, not 95+, but his breaking ball–what I’m guessing is a hard slider–was impressive and he featured it almost every time he got two strikes on a batter.  Burnett worked out of a bases loaded jam in the third, allowing just one run to score in the process, and he pumped his fist (something he did several times) when he struck out Aubrey Huff on a full count slider.

“That takes some guts,” Teixeira said of the pitch selection. “If he doesn’t get the right feel on the ball, that’s ball four and who knows what can happen. He threw a great pitch.”
(Mark Feinsand, N.Y. Daily News)

It’s funny how time works in baseball.  Mark Teixeira hit a home run on the second pitch he saw in the top of the fourth inning and quickly rounded the bases, tying the score at one (Luke Scott later hit a solo shot off Burnett to left center field in almost the same spot).  Three batters later, Nick Swisher was badly fooled on the first pitch, a change up in the dirt, and put forth a half-hearted swing.  He smiled and nodded his head and then looked at the next four pitches before swinging again and fouling off a 3-2 fastball.  In the meantime, the pitcher Alfredo Simon threw over to first to check on Robinson Cano a few times, and also met with his catcher.  The at-bat must have lasted a good five minutes.  It was almost boring as a spectator but it made me appreciate the level of focus and concentration that is required of the pitcher, batter, fielder and umpire on each at-bat during a game.   Swisher ended the showdown when he popped a fly ball just over the fence in right for a two-run homer that gave the Yanks the lead for good.

Swisher ended the day with three hits and five RBI, while Cano had three hits, a walk and scored four runs.  Cano has drawn three walks in three games.  Go figure that now. 

In the end, it was a blow-out, 11-2 win.   Burnett threw 98 pitches and was removed with one out in the sixth.  A quartet of Yankee relievers–Coke, Veras, Bruney and Rivera–kept the O’s scoreless the rest of the way and the Bombers secured their first “w” of the season.

Ramiro Pena singled in his first major league at bat in the ninth inning.  He was batting from the left side but is a switch hitter.  Before I got off the phone with Birdie he asked me if I could name any left-handed hitting shortstops.  Not switch hitters but strictly left-handed hitters.  For the life of me, I couldn’t.  

Little help?

The Orioles have made short work of both CC Sabathia and Chien Ming Wang, so it is up to AJ Burnett to have a good start this afternoon. The Yankees are looking for their first win of the season, and Burnett is looking to make a good first impression. I say he comes through and the Yanks get off the schneid.

C’mon fellas, whatta ya hear, whatta ya say?

Let’s Go Yan-Kees.