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I’ve read the Verducci-Torre book and have an article up at SI.com discussing, who else?  Alex Rodriguez:

Rodriguez takes up only a small portion of the narrative — the 22-page chapter devoted to him (“The Problem of Alex”) comes halfway through a book that is just shy of 500 pages. And while the tone of the chapter is often sharp, Verducci and Torre don’t simply rip Rodriguez. They admire that he was the hardest worker on the team, even if he was also a high-maintenance star. “Nobody works harder than Alex,” says Torre. “He’s a workaholic.”

Still, Rodriguez is held up as a symbol of the Yankees’ recent failure to win a World Series. He’s forever the un-Jeter, especially in the eyes of many Yankee fans.

“He may be the most underappreciated great baseball player in the history of the city,” says novelist Kevin Baker, who is currently writing a book about New York baseball. “Has any athlete ever kept as clean a nose in New York and gotten more flack? He hasn’t shot himself in a nightclub or turned over numerous cars like Babe Ruth or been accused of statutory rape like David Cone. [Jason] Giambi was forgiven for being a drug user. Rodriguez devotes himself to the game and the complaints never stop.”

John Updike, one America’s most celebrated authors of the post War period, died today.  He was 76.  Here is his lasting contribution to baseball literature, Hub Fans Bid Kid Adieu:

Whenever Williams appeared at the plate—pounding the dirt from his cleats, gouging a pit in the batter’s box with his left foot, wringing resin out of the bat handle with his vehement grip, switching the stick at the pitcher with an electric ferocity—it was like having a familiar Leonardo appear in a shuffle of Saturday Evening Post covers. This man, you realized—and here, perhaps, was the difference, greater than the difference in gifts—really intended to hit the ball. In the third inning, he hoisted a high fly to deep center. In the fifth, we thought he had it; he smacked the ball hard and high into the heart of his power zone, but the deep right field in Fenway and the heavy air and a casual east wind defeated him. The ball died. Al Pilarcik leaned his back against the big “380” painted on the right-field wall and caught it. On another day, in another park, it would have been gone. (After the game, Williams said, “I didn’t think I could hit one any harder than that. The conditions weren’t good.”)

The afternoon grew so glowering that in the sixth inning the arc lights were turned on—always a wan sight in the daytime, like the burning headlights of a funeral procession. Aided by the gloom, Fisher was slicing through the Sox rookies, and Williams did not come to bat in the seventh. He was second up in the eighth. This was almost certainly his last time to come to the plate in Fenway Park, and instead of merely cheering, as we had at his three previous appearances, we stood, all of us—stood and applauded. Have you ever heard applause in a ballpark? Just applause—no calling, no whistling, just an ocean of handclaps, minute after minute, burst after burst, crowding and running together in continuous succession like the pushes of surf at the edge of the sand. It was a sombre and considered tumult. There was not a boo in it. It seemed to renew itself out of a shifting set of memories as the kid, the Marine, the veteran of feuds and failures and injuries, the friend of children, and the enduring old pro evolved down the bright tunnel of twenty-one summers toward this moment. At last, the umpire signalled for Fisher to pitch; with the other players, he had been frozen in position. Only Williams had moved during the ovation, switching his bat impatiently, ignoring everything except his cherished task.

Andy’s coming back.  And it ain’t for $10 million, though it could reach up to $12 million.  Pete Abe has the details.

A new book by Joe Torre and Tom Verducci about Torre’s long stint with the Yankees is due out this spring.  The New York Post has an item about it today and it seems as if the book will have some behind-the-scenes juice.   Who says the Yankees won’t have any controversy this spring?

Did someone call Moishe’s?

Yes, you can.

Even she can too.

Converse were the joints back when, huh?

There’s two old-timey parks left (Yankee Stadium, even the original model, was never a ballpark now, was it?).

Fenway:

And Wrigley:

I’ve only been to Fenway once, back in 1999.  Saw them play and beat, the Tigers on a Saturday afternoon.  I found the park strange and fascinating.  I liked the intimacy, the vibe outside on the street.   I’ve never been to Wrigley.  Man, that’s a trip I’ve got to take one of these days.

Earlier this winter I walked through a snowy Central Park. When I got to the Great Lawn, I stopped to look at the baseball diamonds. There is something tranquil and comforting about seeing a field covered in white. They need the rest and look protected underneath all the snow. The absence of activity–knowing that the fields will be lush green, dirt kicking up, voices yelling, come the summer–is reassuring. I hung out for a few minutes and gazed out over the fields. I wondered what it must be like living down South or out West where baseball is played year-round.

At Todd’s memorial service this past Sunday we learned that Todd, who grew up in Syracuse, loved the snow almost as much as he loved baseball. It snowed on Sunday and then again on Monday.

I stared out of my apartment window at the thick flakes and thought about him. I can’t get him out of my mind.  And I can’t muster up any enthusiasm for baseball at the moment.  It will be here soon (though not soon enough for some).  But right now, I don’t miss baseball. I miss Todd.

Late Nineties veteran hitter/clubhouse guy.

Rock:

or Chili?

I really liked Davis on the Yanks, but Rock was hilarious.  Anyone who could get away with busting O’Neill’s chops is aces in my book.

Ah, Black Sheep’s break-out classic.  I liked the whole album.  Dres gets props for bringing Knishes into the discussion.

How about if we take the concept to the Yanks. Like say for instance, Yankee Screw-Jobs.

This?

Or That?

In a lively guest post over at Pete’s jernt, Emma Span explains how things have never been kosher when sports and politics mix.

Jose Torres, the former light heavyweight champion of the world, a man of many gifts, died today.

Here is what Leonard Shecter wrote about Torres for Sport magazine back in 1965:

Tell the life of Jose Torres to music, rippling, sensual Spanish music. Don’t tell it, sing it. Guitairs, clacking claves, men’s voices together in song. The singing is important because Torres is surrounded by noise, the noise of people. Hubbub. Children laughing, running. The trill of spoken Spanish, almost without consonants, flowing like the music.

…The life of Torres is like no other. A fighter who sings, a fighter who did not fight, a soilder who did not train, a man who never finished high school but is a friend to American literati. Norman Mailer. James Baldwin. He lived with Pete Hamill, a young writer who is coming fast. Hamil gave him money. Cus D’Amato, a fierce, bristling man with eyes hard and black and shiny as obsidian, the man who mesmerized Floyd Patterson to the heavweight champship. Cus D’Amato gave him money. His father gave him money. Cain Young, real-estate operator, a tough man with a buck. Cain Young gave him money.

Jose Torres, a fighter who writes for a newspaper. A fighter who sits at the feet of Norman Mailer and tries to learn about writing novels. “Tell me, Norman, when you start a novel, do you know how it will end?”

…What do people like Mailer see in Torres? His English is poor and slurred. He is difficult to understand. He does not close his lips when he talks. He sounds punchy, which he is not. Oh, boy, is he ever not punchy. He laughs. “I don’t speak Spanish good either.” A man in a hurry; quick body, quick mind. No time to speak distinctly. He knows all the words, though. In his basement, music. And a light bag. But books, too. A wall of books. He hasn’t had the time to read them all. He will, he says, only not while he’s champion. “I don’t take my wife everyplace. She is too jealous. She’s got a perceptive mind. She can tell when I like a girl. Or if a girl likes me.” They yell at each other a lot in Spanish. With the hi-fi going. Beautiful.

“He’s alive,” Hamill says. “He’s a champion,” Mailer says in the quick tough monotone he uses. “And bright. He’s bright enough to be an executive of a corporation. And he’s a fighter.”

For a small sampling of Torres’ work, check out his archive at the Sweet Science.com.

(more…)

The service today for Todd was beautiful and well-attended. There were a series of photographs of Todd, a big fella, who looked like a combination of Matt Damon and Don Rickles. Rickles without the nastiness. As one of his friends said, Todd was tough but never mean-spirited.

I knew how deeply Todd and his writing touched us here in the baseball community, and that of course extended to his co-workers at the ACLU as well as his family. I knew that Todd was a caring soul, hard-working and determined. But today, we learned that he loved to go to the ballet with his wife Marsha. He raced motor bikes as a kid in Syracuse and played hockey and later covered race car driving and even worked for Dale Earnhardt for a year. He was a dog lover, and he enjoyed a good cigar.

Todd’s sister reminded us that he was no saint, a commanding but tender big brother who wasn’t above playing a prank on his syblings, like when he sprayed Pledge on the kitchen floor during a game of hide-and-seek. His wife said that his calm demeanor changed when he was at Yankee Stadium watching a game, especially if the Sox were in town.

At the end of the ceremony, Todd’s father-in-law said the final words and put a Yankee cap on–so did many of the guests in the audience. It’s so easy to be cynical about big time sports these days–I don’t know if I’ve ever seen the New York Yankees and the ACLU celebrated jointly before–but it was a moment that reminded me why our teams, these games, matter so much to us, how they keep us together. Then we all sang “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

I came away knowing more about Todd, feeling closer to him than before. I am honored to call him a friend. I am also more aware of just how much he will be missed.

It snowed last night in New York and more is on the way today.  I’m headed off to the New York Public Library this morning to sniff around the archives and then I’m going to Todd’s memorial service this afternoon.  I have been asked to read Todd’s lasting Stadium memory which is some honor. I will make sure to say that I am representing all of Bronx Banter, from the contributors to the commentors to the regular readers, because I know many of you won’t be able to attend:

Memories Are Forever

By Todd Drew

The memories will not stop. Sometimes they come in the middle of the night and you have to walk. So you head down five flights to Walton Avenue. You pass the spot on East 157th Street where a bat boy once found Satchel Paige asleep in his car after driving all night from Pittsburgh.

Memories say it was 15 minutes before the first pitch when the boy shook him awake. It also says that Satchel asked for five more minutes and then threw a two-hit shutout.

Memories say things like that.

You cut over to Gerard Avenue where a Mickey Mantle home run would have landed if the Stadium’s roof hadn’t gotten in the way. That’s how the memories tell it anyway.

You walk up River Avenue behind the bleachers of the old Yankee Stadium. There will be no more games here, but you keep coming back because this is where your memories are.

You move past the millions that have huddled in the cold and the heat and the rain and sometimes the snow for tickets. The line wraps around the block and down East 161st Street near where a Josh Gibson home run once landed.

Your friend Earl from Harlem carries his father’s memory and says that blast may have hit the new Yankee Stadium if it had been across the street back then. Earl says that the new Stadium couldn’t have held Gibson any better than the old Stadium. That memory always brings a smile.

You wander down Ruppert Place and away from the new Stadium because it doesn’t hold your memories, yet.

The players’ gate draws you this way. Everyone has walked in and out of those doors and your friend Henry has seen them all. He is at the Stadium every day just like a lot of other people from the neighborhood.

There was a rainy afternoon last year when everyone else left and the cops even took down the barriers, but Henry wouldn’t leave because Hideki Matsui was still inside. You both got wet and shook Matsui’s hand.

You remember standing there all night when the Yankees won the pennant in 2003 and David Wells came out with a bottle of champagne. He offered up drinks and everyone cupped their hands. The sticky-sweet smell of victory still clings to the scorecard back in your apartment.

You look over at Gate 4A and remember how long this place has been your home. You think about all the wins and the losses, too. Every day at the ballpark is a good one, but the pennants and the World Series titles make them even better.

You dig around your memory and try to find the best. There are lots to choose from, but you settle on one from a few years ago.

A boy and his grandfather were waiting in line at Yankee Stadium. The boy was 18 and unable to buy beer so the grandfather had picked up three bottles at a bodega and slipped them under his coat.

“They won’t frisk an old man,” he said.

The boy rolled his eyes, but the grandfather got through with the beer.

“Two bottles for me and one for the boy,” the grandfather said. “He is young and shouldn’t drink too much.”

“What are we gonna eat?” the boy asked.

The grandfather pulled a big bag of peanuts from his pocket.

“An old man can get away with anything,” the grandfather said.

They found their seats and cheered for all the Yankees, but saved their loudest for Jorge Posada and Bernie Williams.

“We are all from the same island,” the grandfather explained. “The Puerto Ricans will always get my best.”

Posada and Williams both hit home runs in the game and the grandfather was feeling good.

He started eyeing a lady in low cut jeans and a skimpy top that was sitting in front of him and when the Yankees stretched their lead in the eighth inning the grandfather blurted out:

“Nice tattoo.”

The ladies’ boyfriend wheeled around and took a swing at the boy. There was a scuffle and the boy defended himself well. The boyfriend and lady were so offended that they left.

“An old man can get away with anything,” the grandfather said again.

“Yeah,” the boy said.

“It was a good fight,” the grandfather said. “And it’s been a damn good game.”

The boy stared straight ahead, but managed a smile.

The grandfather put an arm around him.

“You’re a good boy,” he said. “But you gotta protect against the right hook.”

They both laughed.

You still see the boy around. He’s a man now and can buy beer on his own. His grandfather is gone, but that memory will walk through this neighborhood forever.

I’m wearing my Reggie Jackson t-shirt.  Somehow, I think Todd would approve.

Here’s a quick smile for you on another cold day in New York (good lookin Matt B, Prince You Tube Selector):

There will be a memorial service for Todd this Sunday, January 18th at the The Riverside Memorial Chapel, located at 76th street and Amsterdam Ave at 3:00 pm.

I still feel numb.  Even though I knew Todd was in bad shape–he was in intensive care for more than three weeks–I still can’t believe he’s dead.  At 41.  He was a kindred spirit, a part of the Banter family as a regular commentor (as he was over at Pete Abe’s as well) long before he joined us as a writer.  He was one of the fellas at the bar. Curious and passionate, genuinely interested in people, and someone who loved conversation. He was all about the banter.

Todd also loved sports writing and once sent me a list of his twenty-five favorite writers.  I have it tacked up in my cubicle at work, right behind my computer screen.  My friend John Schulian is on that list.  Todd loved John’s boxing and baseball writing.  He planned to interview John about a baseball story Schulian once wrote, which I will reprint in this space in the near future. 

I e-mailed the bad news to John today and he replied:

That’s just not right. You know what I mean? It’s cruel and unfair, and it makes me wonder why so many two-legged vermin are allowed to walk the earth while a good man is left to die way, way before his time. But from what I’ve gathered about Todd, he wouldn’t appreciate such a sentiment. He was too kind, too big-hearted, to let himself fall prey to pettiness and resentment. Last night was his time, and there was nothing he could do about it. The poetry of his life turned cruel, and then it was over. I’m glad his wife and his friend were with him. I’m glad they were listening to music. Now the three of them have a song for eternity, the song with which Todd said goodbye.

I have highlighted many of the names on Todd’s list, guys I may of heard of but hadn’t read much of before.  After I got to them, I’d e-mail Todd and we’d go back-and-forth sharing our enthusiasm for the craft. There were so many articles that we talked about him writing–from his love for Alex Rodriuez to his interest in the concession workers at the Stadium. I am angry that we’re being cheated out of so much good work. At the same time I’m grateful for the work he gave us and for the example he provided.

Todd took blogging seriously.  Which isn’t to say that he didn’t have a sense of humor.  But he thought about his posts, those finely observed New York City vingettes written in the classic tradition of Jimmy Cannon and Jimmy Breslin, and he took his time crafting them.  He didn’t just toss off a rant.  He was a writer and a storyteller. He knew he couldn’t be inspired every day, but he showed up every day and gave it his best.

This is the final piece that he wrote for us, perhaps the last thing that he wrote at all. From December 22, 2008.:

Baseball and Me

By Todd Drew

I went to a baseball game after my father’s funeral. I also went to one after finding out about my mother’s brain cancer.

It was selfish and heartless. I felt guilty before and embarrassed after, but for nine innings I felt only the game. That’s the way it’s always been between baseball and me.

It was my friend when I didn’t have any others. And it has always been there to talk or listen or simply to watch.

Baseball helps me forget and it makes me remember. That’s why it was exactly what I needed on the worst days of my life.

But there were no games when a doctor told me that I had cancer. The neighborhood was out of baseball on that cold November day. No one was playing at Franz Sigel Park or John Mullaly Park. And there wasn’t even a game of catch in Joyce Kilmer Park. The last game at the old Yankee Stadium was long gone and Opening Day at the new Yankee Stadium was long off.

So I went home and wished for one of those summer days when I was a kid and my mother would send me to the ballpark with a paper sack stuffed with her famous tuna-fish sandwiches. That was back when you could slip through a delivery gate with the beer kegs and watch batting practice. And it was always okay to come home late with a beat-up scorecard and popcorn stuck between your teeth.

The doctor told me that tomorrow’s surgery and chemotherapy treatment might keep me in the hospital for 10 days.

“At least it’s December,” I said. “There aren’t any ballgames to miss.”

And I will be ready to slip through a delivery gate with the beer kegs when the new Yankee Stadium opens. I’ll watch batting practice with one of my mother’s famous tuna-fish sandwiches and come home late with a beat-up scorecard and popcorn stuck between my teeth.

Cancer can’t change the way it will always be between baseball and me.

Todd was one of us and a true original. He will be missed but he’ll also never leave. He’s ours for good.

It is with a heavy heart that I pass along the news that our colleague and friend Todd Drew passed away last night. According to his wife, “Todd lost the last game of the season in the bottom of the 9th inning just after midnight. His dear friend Michael and I were with him and he went very peacefully. While we were sharing the ipod listening to Regina Carter (jazz violinist), he opened his eyes for just a moment.”

I didn’t know Todd well. We spoke over the phone about a dozen times and exchanged many e-mails over the past few years. I have an e-mail he sent me last February of his favorite sports writers tacked up in front of my computer.

I met him just once, a few months ago, at a dinner with the rest of the Bronx Banter crew, minus Bruce, who lives upstate.

Todd was a gentle, compassionate man, but no pushover. He loved sports writing, loved baseball, and was an unyielding optimist.

This is a great loss for our community and he will be missed dearly.

Todd Drew: May 13, 1967 – Jan. 15, 2009