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Has an actor’s off-camera clashing with a director ever produced as much on-screen delight as the battle that was waged between Dustin Hoffman and Sydney Pollock in Tootsie?  I loved the Hoffman-Pollock scenes in "Tootsie," a movie filled with highlights (Bill Murray and Terri Garr almost walked off with the movie in smaller roles).  I thought of the Russina Tea Room scene this morning when I learned that Pollock died yesterday at the age of 73.  Hollywood has lost a true pro.

What is your favorite grown-up indulgence?  On a daily basis, I’d have to say it is that I use paper towels with reckless abandon.  Maybe it was because they were practically rationed in my house as a kid.  Whatever the reason, I use them like mad when I’m in the kitchen cooking and I love it. 

On Sunday, I went out to Fort Greene, Brooklyn, where my friend Johnny Red Sox and some of his pals have a serious wiffle ball game cooking each weekend (dude, they keep score, they are serious).  After playing a game, John threw me batting practice for fifteen minutes.  Talk about indulgence!  I just got to stand there and take my hacks.  A moment to savor for sure.

Check out the mascot…

And speaking of dogs…

Darrell Rasner pitched well once again allowing just one run in six innings, but the bullpen (Hawkins, Veras) gave up five in the seventh as the Orioles cruised to a 6-1 win.  The victory ended a five-game losing streak for Baltimore and a five-game winning streak for New York.

From Tyler Kepner in the Times:

After the game, the clubhouse shook with 1980s rap music (“Mary, Mary” by Run-D.M.C.) coming from an iPod on Johnny Damon’s speaker system. It was quite unlike the Yankees, who have rarely played music in recent years, and victories in May are not often cause to let loose.

But the Yankees were enjoying their blowout, and on some level, they probably knew things could be worse. All they had to do was think about the team down the hall.

From John Hickey in the Seattle Post-Intelligencer:

“Playing with this team and seeing what is happening around here, I see something beginning to fall apart,” center fielder Ichiro Suzuki said. “If I was objectively watching this team and what’s been happening, I’d be drinking a lot of beer and booing.”

All you can say to that is, “What kind of beer?”

“I usually like Japanese beer,” Ichiro said. “But after this, I wouldn’t care if it was from Japan or from Papua New Guinea.”

Bottom’s Up.

It’s a gorgeous, sunny morning in New York. 

The Yankees were both lucky and good on Friday night as they beat the woeful Mariners (who were both unlucky and bad) about the face and neck to the tune of 13-2.  It was a beautiful night–crisp and cool–for a laugher in the Bronx.  Manager Joe Girardi sat this one out after being suspended for his theatrics last night, but I’m sure he liked what he saw on TV as Andy Pettitte featured a sharp slider and mixed his pitches effectively, striking out a season-high nine over six innings. 

The Yankee offense featured a few well struck balls (Hideki Matsui had three hits, the slumping Shelley Duncan cranked a three-run homer, while Bobby Abreu and Robinson Cano had a couple of hits each), but mostly featured a chorus line of dinkers and dunkers, 18-hoppers through the infield and off-the-end-of-the-bat flares to the outfield.  In fact, such a collection of cheap-o and fortunate hits I can’t recall seeing in some time.  And during the eight-run fifth, Derek Jeter deftly kept himself in a rundown until the two runners behind him advanced; on the next play, Alex Rodriguez got a tremendous jump on a soft liner to center and scored easily, and later Matsui slid under a tag at the plate to score another run.  In the eighth, Matsui even threw out a runner at the plate who was trying to score on a sac fly.  Go figure.  It was that kind of night.

Everything broke New York’s way as they won their third straight.  Maybe it’s Giambi’s mustache. Whatever the case, we’ll take it and we like it.    

That kid has one of the better arms in baseball,” said former Braves and Orioles pitching coach Leo Mazzone. “If you have an arm like that, he shouldn’t be a setup guy. Your setup guy doesn’t do you any good if your starting pitchers can’t get you to him.”

…”I don’t think the Yankees are risking injury by starting him,” Mazzone said of Chamberlain. “I’ve always felt that if you have a regular time to pitch and programs to get the pitcher ready in between starts, it’s easier to start than be in the bullpen.”
(Anthony McCarron, N.Y. Daily News)

Pat Jordan likes to bust my chops about the Yankees, the team he grew up rooting for. He doesn’t much like them much these days and never misses a chance to get under my skin when they are not playing well. His favorite rant this spring has been about Joba Chamberlain, about how the Yankees are wasting Chamberlain as a set-up man instead of using him as a starter. Well, that’s one gripe Pat can’t beat to death now that Chamberlain has officially begun the process of moving from the pen to the starting rotation.

In the Daily News, John Harper writes that this is a sign that, without conceeding anything yet, the Yankees are looking beyond this season to 2009. I agree. One thing that occured to me yesterday was how exciting it is going to be to watch this all unfold. To see Chamberlain pitch two, then three, four, five innings. I imagine his demeanor will change somewhat. All that fist-pumping is part of what comes with being a late-inning reliever, but I don’t expect he’ll do quite as much of as a starter–unless he gets out of a big jam in the sixth, seventh or eighth. Regardless, I’m goosed about the whole thing. Ain’t you?

My wife Emily is composed and polite and very careful not offend. Too careful. However, she also works in a hospital emergency room and it is not uncommon for her to come home at night swearing like a sailor. I love this, not just because it is amusing to hear such obscenities coming from such a nice girl but also because it allows me to curse with equal vigor without fear of being scolded. Em’s had a tough week and last night as I watched the game, she blew off steam in a way that I don’t think I’ve ever seen before. She vented about just about anything that came to mind. “…And another thing…” And she carried on some more, preaching away from her little soap box. At one point I had to put a cap on what turned into a seemingly endless tirade. “Okay honey, I get it, you are pissed off, that’s fine. I appreciate that. Now, you’ve got 15 more minutes to get it all out, do your worst, but then you’ve got to shut the f*** up.”

In the spirit of tantrums, Joe Girardi got himself run from the game with one out and a man on in the ninth inning last night. A belated third strike call was what set him off and it was clear from the moment he left the dugout that Girardi was going to leave it all out on the field and get tossed. Girardi looks smaller to me as a manager than he did as a player. Maybe it’s because he is usually wearing a Yankee jacket with the collar up or maybe it’s the thick white soles of his spikes or perhaps the TV just shrinks him. Whatever the reason, he reminds me of Chico Marx half the the time (a terrible call, but nevertheless, it is what pops to mind). He put forth a decent showing with the home plate ump and then the crew cheif said calmly, “You made your point Joe.”

Girardi fumed and carried on near home plate which prevented the pitcher Jim Johnson from staying warm. When the game resumed, Johnson walked pinch-hitter Bobby Abreu on five pitches. Then, with men on first and second, Robinson Cano lined a fastball into left field for a base hit, Hideki Matsui rounded third and beat a good, but high throw from Jay Payton to the plate for the game-winner. A good end to a good overall night from the Bombers as they won, 2-1.

After the customary celebrating, Cano was greeted by Derek Jeter in the dugout. Jeter was smiling. He looked peaceful, like a mermaid that had been on land too long and had finally been returned to the sea, and looked directly into Cano’s eyes and said a few words. It was as if he was saying, “That’s more like it, boy-o. Winning is fun, remember?”

There was a lot to be pleased about last night. Cano’s hit, Damon collecting three of his own. The game moved quicky (all three games were played under three hours each, which must be some kind of a record for the Yanks and O’s) and the pitching was crisp. Ian Kennedy had his best outing of the season. After retiring the side in order in the first two innings (thanks in part to a double play that ended the second), Kennedy gave up a one-out single and then triple in the third. Then, he walked Brian Roberts and Payton to load the bases. But he rallied to strike out Nick Markakis, who has been striking out a lot these days, and got Aubrey Huff to fly out to left. It was the biggest moment of the season for Kennedy, who went on to pitch six innings. Jose Veras pitched the seventh, Kyle Farnsworth the eighth, and Mariano tossed a perfect ninth to put the Yankees in position to win it.

For the second time this season, Orioles’ starter Brian Burres pitched well against the Yanks, the lefty throwing on the corners, lots of breaking stuff. He was impressive. But this was just the kind of game the Yankees needed to win and they did just that. A weak Seattle team is in town this weekend but they’ve got Bedard and Hernandez tonight and tomorrow which is no walk in the park. Still, let’s hope they can win another series and keep it rolling in the right direction.

Yanks seek to keep looking good tonight with a (gasp) second straight win tonight against the Boids.  Ian Kennedy smirks and smiles a lot for a kid whose been pitching like a bum so far.  Like to see him smile for the right reasons tonight.  We’ll see if he’s got anything.    

Go git em smiling Jack.    

Let’s Go Yan-kees.

Slate has the latest from Pat Jordan, Josh Beckett Won’t Return My Phone Calls:

In January, I got an assignment from the New York Times Magazine to write a profile of Josh Beckett, the Red Sox pitcher. I was excited about this because I had always admired Beckett as both a pitcher and a person.

…But, alas, in a single-sentence e-mail from his agent, Beckett declined to be interviewed by me or anyone else. I could understand that. Why would he want me poking around in the closet of his life? Maybe I’d spend four days with him, and catch him saying something derogatory, in a moment of weakness or fatigue, about his manager, Terry Francona, or about Manny Ramirez. He was making, what, $10 million a year? He had just pitched superbly in the 2007 World Series after compiling a brilliant 20-7 record during the season. He didn’t need a New York Times profile or recognition for anything but his pitching.

…But, still, I thought it was a shame Josh wouldn’t let me profile him in the Times. I had a long lunch with him a few years ago, when he was with the Florida Marlins, and came away thinking he was an interesting young man. At the time, and even now, Beckett had a reputation for being a surly, hard-ass, rednecked, Texas country boy in the way of old-timey ballplayers. But the Josh I met over lunch was smart, caustic, funny, sophisticated, and a much deeper and more nuanced man than his public gave him credit for. I would have loved to have burnished his image, to have shown his fans that side of him in a profile. But it wasn’t to be. His fans then lost an opportunity to know the real Josh Beckett.

This has become the curse of modern sports journalism. Writers and fans alike no longer get to know the object of their affections in a way they did years ago. Athletes see us as their adversaries, not as allies in their achievements. They are as much celebrities as rock stars and Hollywood actors are. They live insular lives behind a wall of publicists, agents, and lawyers. They don’t interact with fans or writers. They mingle only with other celebrities at Vegas boxing matches, South Beach nightclubs, and celebrity golf events, all behind red-velvet VIP ropes. We can only gawk at them as if at an exotic, endangered species at a zoo.

The first mitt I remember owning was given to me by my father as a birthday gift. It was a letdown. There was no fingers inside, just a mushy place to put your hand, a strange feature that my father thought was clever. I didn’t agree. He bought himself a glove at the same time that was a traditional glove (a Joe Morgan autograph version). At the time, I wished I had had his glove and felt somehow as if he was telling me that I wasn’t ready for a regular mitt yet.

I don’t know how long I had that mitt, but through high school it seemed as if I lost a mitt each season. Which wasn’t the worst thing because I so thoroughly enjoyed the process of breaking a glove in–oiling it, bending it back and forth, throwing a ball into the web over and over, and then tying up the mitt with a ball in the center at night and putting it under my pillow.

During my second year of high school, my coach gave me his old Wilson A2000, which had been lovingly broken in and used for years. I lost that one too, leaving it behind on the field at an away game. I don’t recall having my own mitt after that, although there were always a couple around the house. Then, about ten years ago, I bought a new one even though my baseball activities had been reduced to the occasional catch. It is a Nokona 12″ second baseman’s glove, a swell mitt, one that was desinged and suited for baseball and really too small for softball.

I got to thinking about the glove after reading Steve Lombardi’s wonderful post featuring some of his mitts–he’s owns seven!

Anyone got any good glove stories? And, do you call it a mitt or a glove?

A few years ago I was heated about something or other concerning the Hall of Fame. I happen to be talking with a noted baseball historian and he just shrugged my complaints off. “This is the institution that elected Tom Yawkey, how can you take them seriously?” Marvin Miller, one of the most important figures in the history of the baseball business, sure doesn’t. According to an article by William Rhoden in today’s New York Times:

In a letter to the Baseball Writers’ Association of America, Miller wrote:

“Paradoxically, I’m writing to thank you and your associates for your part in nominating me for Hall of Fame consideration, and, at the same time, to ask that you not do this again.”

Miller added: “The antiunion bias of the powers who control the hall has consistently prevented recognition of the historic significance of the changes to baseball brought about by collective bargaining. As former executive director (retired since 1983) of the players’ union that negotiated these changes, I find myself unwilling to contemplate one more rigged veterans committee whose members are handpicked to reach a particular outcome while offering the pretense of a democratic vote. It is an insult to baseball fans, historians, sports writers and especially to those baseball players who sacrificed and brought the game into the 21st century. At the age of 91, I can do without farce.”

Miller said he planned to write a separate letter to the Hall of Fame board asking them to withdraw his name from consideration. “I simply want to make sure that they know how I feel,” he said. “I don’t want to be nominated again. By anybody.”

Miller doesn’t need the Hall of Fame to be remembered as the Giant that he is. And neither does Buck O’Neil.

Mike Piazza was arguably the best position player ever to play for the Mets and he certainly was one of my favorites. He retired a few days ago. Over at ESPN, Rob Neyer argues that Piazza was the best-hitting catcher of all-time:

I’m certainly open to suggestion, but I have a hard time figuring how you come with anyone but Piazza when searching for the best-hitting catcher ever. Perhaps there’s a case to be made for Josh Gibson, especially someday when we actually are allowed to look at the Negro Leagues data the Hall of Fame has embargoed. But Gibson died when he was 35, and had for years been suffering the ill effects of drug abuse and a brain tumor. Gibson may have been as talented as any catcher who ever lived, but his performance did not match his talent. In my opinion.

Piazza certainly was the best-hitting major leaguer of them all. Here are some nice tributes to Piazza, from:

Jay Jaffe
Jon Weisman
Joe Posnanski
Tim Marchman
Pete Abraham
and, who else, of course, but
Tommy Lasorda

I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a right-handed batter with the ability to blister line drives to right field like Piazza. Heck, one time I saw him line a shot to left, and the left fielder dove two steps to his left for it like he was an infielder and the ball got by him. But his home runs to right were awesome. Yo, remember that moon shot he hit off Ramiro Mendoza, the one that went over the fuggin tent at Shea?

Here is a piece I wrote for Baseball Prospectus when Piazza returned to Shea as a Padre and hit two home runs (and almost hit three) back in August of 2006. So long, Yazzie, thanks for the memories.

Mr. Rasner is on the hill for the Bombers tonight who are in desperate need of a win, of something, anything to feel good about.  The Yanks are wearing us out early once again, our legendary calm and patience being put to the test.  But that’s cool, we ain’t going nowhere.  So, nevermind the bollocks…

Let’s Go Yankees!

During and immediately after the War there was precious little work to be found in Belgium, so my mother’s father, a man’s man in the Ted Williams mold (although far more reserved), who had a considerable amount of wanderlust, moved his young family to the Congo, where my ma lived from the time she was three (1947) until she was a teenager.  I learned about my father’s family, from Russia and Poland respectively, mostly through the oral tradition, endless stories, and even some writings.  But I learned about my mother’s family chiefly through photographs and 8 mm home movies, a) because of the language barrier (they speak broken English, I speak broken French), and b) because they took an extraordinary amount of pictures.  You can imagine how exotic it was to me as a kid to see photographs of my mom in Africa.  "You grew up there and you wound up in the suburbs?" I used to kid her when I was a wise-ass teenager.  

As it turns out, my mom and dad met in Addis Ababa, of all places.  1966.  My father was there working as a production manager on a National Geographic Special on Africa.  My mother was there with a group of friends, making a short documentary for graduate school about their trip from Northern Africa down to Ethipia. 

Dig this.  Which one you think is Ma Dooke?

And here’s the old man, in full Elliott Gould mode:

So, where did your folks meet?

Earlier this spring, my wife Emily and I visited her sister in Albuturkey, New Mexico.  Even though the climate was dry and cool I have never experienced such oppresive heat from the sun, which was the hottest in the late afternoon.  The sun was omni-present.  Even when it was slightly overcast you could feel it.  One day, we were at a used bookstore and the guy who ran the place told us that when native New Mexicans leave the state they go into shock because of the lack of sun. 

In New York, you learn to savor the sun because it comes to us as fractured light, in bits and pieces.  Native New Yorkers know where the sun will be, at what time of day, during each time of year.  The sun is more precious here which makes you appreciate it all the more.  But it’s not only the sun.  Being in New York, all you need to do is look up and pay attention and you will see the most stunning sights.  For instance, a few weeks ago, I met Richard Lederer and his son Joe outside of their hotel on 42nd street and 3rd avenue.  As I waited, I happen to look up and saw, through a crack in the awning, a gorgeous view of the Chrysler Building.  Of course, I’d never seen it from that perspective before, and it is likely that I’ll never see it from there again.

I feel the same way going to games at the Stadium.  Although I have sat in the same seats more than once and I’ve been to many sections in the park over the years, I certainly haven’t been to all of them.  Not nearly.  Each seat offers you a distinct perspective that makes the game fresh and new.  Last night, I was at the game, and enjoyed the view from some very cushy seats, about twenty rows deep behind first base.  When hard ground balls skipped foul up the first base line you could hear them woosh along the grass; when Kevin Millar caught a line drive, we heard a loud WHAP, and when Derek Jeter was hit in the hand, a resounding crack. 

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When I was a kid I received a copy of You Know Me Al from my uncle Sam Plummer, who was not really my uncle, but I thought of him as one all the same. The version I got was a collection of the You Know Me Al comic strips–it wasn’t until years later that I learned it was a book before it was a comic.  I loved the gift, not so much because I was especially taken with the strip, but because it combined comics and baseball and Sam was thoughtful enough to know that (a die-hard Cubs fan, Sam later introduced me to the records of Fats Waller).  Somewhere along the line I lost the book but a few years ago I saw a copy in a used bookstore. My heart skipped a beat and I nabbed it. For those of you who have never seen it, here’s a peak at a strip:

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Over at BP Unfiltered, David Laurila has a nifty Q&A with Brewers bench coach, Ted Simmons, who was one of the most vital figures in the Players Association back in the 1970s, and a near Hall of Fame catcher to boot.

Dig this:

DL: You played in the 1970s and 1980s. How different is the game now?

TS: The players are far more educated than they were when I first played. When I came up to the Cardinals in 1970, I had spent two years at the University of Michigan. Dal Maxvill had an electrical engineering degree from Washington University. We were really the only two, at least that I can recall, who had spent any time in a four-year institution. Today, almost all of these kids have formal educations — minimally at the junior college level. Almost all come from major educational backgrounds. That is the biggest change that exists in major league baseball with the players themselves. They’re far more educated and far more sophisticated; they’re a far different band of people.

DL: How does the game differ on the field?

TS: I think it has changed dramatically with the statistical analysis that’s come about and applied itself at the major league level and at the minor league level. You have a whole group of people who have identified, and recognized, statistical trends that are directly applicable to the field. Whether it’s offensively, pitching, or defensively, there are applications that exist now because of the ability to convey information quickly — things you can take on a daily basis and apply in a game. There’s no question that’s been the biggest change.

DL: Have you adapted well to the statistical revolution, or do you view yourself as more of an old-school baseball guy?

TS: I think that dinosaurs die hard, and they die fast. If one doesn’t take the best of the objective perspective, and the best of the subjective perspective, and incorporate the two into one place — however one has to do it — if you’re not prepared to do that, you’ll soon be out.

Simmons’ bit about dinosaurs brings to mind something that the Yankees have had me thinking about recently, the classic line from Annie Hall where Woody says, “A relationship, I think, is like a shark. You know? It has to constantly move forward or it dies. And I think what we got on our hands is a dead shark.”

Hank continues to talk.

I won’t deny that the heavy majority of sportswriters, myself included, have been and still are guilty of puffing up the people they write about. I remember one time when Stanley Woodward, my beloved leader, was on the point of sending me a wire during spring training, saying, “Will you stop Godding up those ball players?” I didn’t realize what I had been doing. I thought I had been writing pleasant little spring training columns about ball players.

If we’ve made heroes out of them, and we have, then we must also lay a whole set of false values at the doorsteps of historians and biographers. Not only has the athlete been blown up larger than life, but so have the politicians and celebrities in all fields, including rock singers and movie stars.

When you go through Westminster Abbey you’ll find that excepting for that little Poets’ Corner almost all of the statues and memorials are to killers. To generals and admirals who won battles, whose specialty was human slaughter. I don’t think they’re such glorious heroes.

I’ve tried not to exaggerate the glory of athletes. I’d rather, if I could, preserve a sense of proportion, to write about them as excellent ball players, first-rate players. But I’m sure I have contributed to false values—as Stanley Woodward said, “Godding up those ball players.”

Red Smith

That said, the back cover of today’s New York Post screams: “HERE COMES A-GOD! Alex returns tonight to save inept Yanks.”

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For those of you who live in the tri-state area, consider these upcoming dates at the Yogi Berra Museum and Learning Center:

Bobby Murcer: Thursday, May 29th. 7:00-9:00 pm.

Graig Nettles, Ron Guidry and Don Mattingly: Sunday, June 8th. 3:00-5:00 pm.

Yogi himself: Thursday, June 12th. 6:00-8:00 pm.