Mo won’t be alone wearing the number 42 on Jackie Robinson Day.

1. Jeter, SS
2. Granderson, CF
3. A-Rod, 3B
4. Cano, 2B
5. Teixeira, 1B
6. Swisher, RF
7. Ibanez, DH
8. Martin, C
9. Gardner, LF

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Knicks vs. Heat at the Garden this afternoon.

Like old times, sort of. The Heat have not played well lately. This’d be a huge game for the Knicks to win…

[Photo Via: Gruesome Twosome]

Jam it on the One…

This movie is just a whole lot of fun. One of the very best–if not the best–Elmore adaptation.

Phil Hughes didn’t look to be horseshit today, his fastball was hitting 93-94 mph and he broke off a few biting curve balls, but everything was up and a couple of home runs by the Angels was enough to put the Yankees in a hole from which they could not climb out. C.J. Wilson looked relaxed and has an easy, appealing manner. When his center fielder made a nice catch, the replay showed Wilson break out in a wide, guileless smile. Oh, and he pitched well, too, mixing the soft stuff with a tight cutter in to the righties (after hitting the ball hard yesterday, Alex Rodriguez hit three weak ground balls against Wilson this afternoon). The Yankees left nine men on base.

This was one to forget even though it was a lovely day in the Bronx. The only thing worth noting was how well David Phelps pitched in relief. He gave up a run on one hit–a solo home run by Vernon Wells–worked quickly and threw the ball with confidence. His performance over 5.1 innings was worth savoring and it was nice to see him receive applause when he walked off the mound with two outs in the 9th.

Final score: Angels 7, Yanks 1.

Instead of dwelling on this one, check out these pictures I took this morning at the Union Square Farmer’s Market. The wife and I headed down early and the greens were amazing. So, this weekend gives salads, tuscan kale, and enough ramps to pickle.

And ramps! First week of ramps.

They’ll only be around a few more weeks. Time to get ’em while they are around.

Yanks look to hold Albert and the Angels down again. Here’s hoping Hughesie pitches well.

Don’t forget the sunscreen and…

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: Live Your Life and Bags]

I paused in front of my closet this morning thinking over my shirt selection. The pinstripes, number two on the back, was the obvious choice for the home opener. But my hand reached for the away grays sporting the double-barrelled fours. I was off work this week because the boys have spring break and being with them made me feel like I was a kid playing hooky. Maybe that’s why I wanted to wear Reggie’s jersey.

Yesterday I threw the first extended batting practice my four-year old ever requested. Previously, he’d been more interested in every other thing in the park over the bat and the ball. I’d carry the equipment to the field, he’d swing once or twice and I’d pack it up again while he dug up worms.

He took a hundred or so swings on Thursday morning. He’s chopping down on the ball too much and his feet are confused. He’s either moving them too much or not at all. But it’s unmistakably a baseball swing, and when he hits it he runs the bases – mostly in the correct order, though he’s not averse to skipping one if there’s a tag waiting for him there.

This morning, the sun was even brighter and warmer than yesterday and we had another great day at the park. Between 10 AM and noon, we had the entire park to ourselves and I think the lack of distractions and performance anxiety are key to sustaining his effort. We broke for lunch and picked up some rolls from the corner store on our way home. We are all Yankee hats and baseball bats walking up Broadway and one of the construction workers thought we were headed to the game. “Just going home to catch it on TV,” I said.

We got home and I fired up three hot dogs: ketchup for the four-year old, plain for the three-year old and mustard for me. We clinked them together and wished each other “Happy Home Opener” as Jorge Posada threw out the first pitch. I know they’re making progress with the Yankees because they only ask me if every other guy is Mariano Rivera instead of every single guy.

We crowded together on the couch and watched Hiroki Kuroda throw his warm up pitches. I told the kids that the Yankees were the team in pinstripes and the Angels were in red. My four-year old said something that sounded like “duh,” but I refused to hear it at the time (though in retrospect, that’s definitely what it was).

Kuroda doesn’t have overpowering stuff, but he runs his sinking fastball with a little tail right to the catcher’s glove. His splitter is dangerous because he is willing to throw it at any time. The first batter singled and stole second but Kuroda defused the inning when he got Albert Pujols to fly sky-high to left.

The Yankees looked to be going quietly as well in their half of the inning when Alex Rodriguez smoked a two-out single to left center and stole second. Ervin Santana scoffed at Alex’s one-man jam and walked the bases loaded for Nick Swisher to teach him the true value of teamwork. Swisher’s last at bat was the game winner in Baltimore on Wednesday night. This one was the game winner on Friday afternoon. He rocketed a bases-clearing double over the head of speedster Peter Bourjos in center field. He out-paced the pace car.

I was pouring milk for the three-year old at the time of the double but I was watching the game around the corner of the kitchen wall, unbeknownst to the kids. I saw the ball skip up off the wall in center and I asked innocently what happened. My four-year old came running, saying, “The Yankees got three!”

We watched the replay, slowing down the point of contact. It was a real blast. My four-year old turned, grinned and said, “Let’s go play baseball.” Click, pack, pee, velcro. Good luck Yanks, I’ll catch the highlights.

My phone told me Arod and Grandy hit homers and the replays confirmed they were laser beam liners to center and right respectively. Alex especially put a charge in his and added a single hit so hard and straight it seemed to curve on its way up the gut. I doubt this is backed up by hard evidence, but when he hits like this, I feel like the Yanks can’t lose. I wonder if others feel the same way and if that’s not a big reason why those fans get so down on him when he’s bogged in a slump.

I don’t get text messages every time a Yankee pitcher has a smooth inning or retires Albert Pujols, or ends the game on a knee-buckling curve ball, but that’s why they invented the DVR. Kuroda was excellent and left a tiny spill for Robertson’s industrial-strength Hoover to suck up in the ninth. The Angels are not the scariest offense, but just holding Albert Pujols to a single in four tries is an impressive outing for the Yanks.

I was happy to the see the final score but I remembered today how I used to think about baseball from about 1982 to 1995. Those were the years when my own games and practices were all that mattered and the Yankees were a sideshow. I know it’s convenient that the Yanks didn’t win anything during those years, but I remember that intense tunnel vision and no amount of confetti could have penetrated.

I don’t know if it will happen again in the same way – my boys might not even want to play Little League. I know I haven’t minded the gradual dialing down of my obsession in the last five years. But the Yanks will be there, probably winning more than they’re losing, regardless of what’s going on with us and they’re a heckuva back stop.

Now let me add one dark cloud to this sunny day; I’ve avoided mentioning this all post long. Somehow, for reasons some therapist thirty years from now might uncover, my older son decided to become a hard-core Pittsburgh Pirates fan. I shit you not. Our batting practice sessions have been built around the 1960 World Series and I’ve been Mazerowskied dozens and dozens of times over the last two days. He pretends that the Yankees trade Mariano to the Pirates so he can use him in their lineup (yeah, he’s not quite clear on that yet either).

Don’t worry, the three-year old ain’t getting away.

Yanks 5, Angels 0. Happy Home Game.

Photo Via Daily News

The real start of the season…

Hey, how many homers with Albert hit this weekend. I say at least 2 but no more than 5 (fearless prediction, I know).

Derek Jeter, SS
Curtis Granderson, CF
Alex Rodriguez, 3B
Robinson Cano, 2B
Mark Teixeira, 1B
Nick Swisher, RF
Raul Ibanez, DH
Russell Martin, C
Brett Gardner, LF

Never mind the nerves, Hiroki: Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: Peter Adams]

The Great One by Summer Anne.

Thanks to some sloppy defense by his Rockies’ teammates, Jamie Moyer was thwarted in his recent attempt to surpass Jack Quinn as the oldest pitcher to win a major league game. However, the 49-year old Moyer and his 22-year old opponent Madison Bumgarner did manage to make an imprint on history. The 26 years and 256 days between the birthdays of the grizzled veteran and fresh faced youngster represented the largest age differential for opposing starters in almost 47 years.

Greatest Age Differential Between Opposing Starters, Since 1918

Source: Baseball-reference.com

When the 59-year old Satchel Paige faced 29-year old Bill Monbouquette at the end of 1965 season, it was the culmination of a publicity stunt by Kansas Athletics’ owner Charles O. Finley. Of course, that didn’t stop Paige from throwing three shutout innings. Twelve years earlier, Paige was also involved in the second largest age differential for starters when he faced 18-year old Bob Miller in 1953. Had he not inexplicably been excluded from the majors during the interim, Paige’s name would likely be all over the list above. Instead, it’s Phil Niekro who dominates, but maybe not for long. If Moyer has a rematch with Bumgarner, or faces pitchers like Randall Delgado, Blake Beaven, Rick Porcello, Stephen Strasburg, Neftali Feliz, Clayton Kershaw, Trevor Cahill, Mike Minor, or Mat Latos, he’ll gradually take Niekro’s place.

Greatest Combined Age of Opposing Starters, Since 1918

Source: Baseball-reference.com

Moyer has also contributed to three of the seven games since 1918 that have featured a combined starters’ age of at least 87 years. Although the Rockies’ lefty should have a few chances to add to the list, his prospects for topping the record of 90 years and 135 days, which is held by Don Sutton and Phil Niekro, seem slim. The Mets’ Miguel Batista (41 years and 53 days on April 12, 2012) is the only active opponent who could combine with Moyer to surpass the high water mark, but he is currently relegated to bullpen. So, unless he happens to get a spot start against Moyer, or another veteran makes a comeback at just the right time, the ageless lefty will probably have to wait until next year to break Sutton and Niekro’s record.

Percentage of Pitchers 40 or Older and 20 and Younger, Since 1918

Source: Baseball-reference.com

With the exception of a spike in older starters during the middle of the last decade, the percentages of pitchers 40 and older or 20 and younger have been trending down.  So, if Moyer isn’t able to find someone to help him break the records set by Paige/Monbouquette and Niekro/Sutton, they just might last forever. Unless, of course, Moyer lasts forever himself, which might not be out of the question.

Nice job by Barry Petchesky over at Deadspin on 10 Years of Newspapers Declaring that Mariano Rivera is Too Old.

Today is a good day.

Charles McGrath has a feature on the great Robert Caro for the New York Times Magazine:

Robert Caro probably knows more about power, political power especially, than anyone who has never had some. He has never run for any sort of office himself and would probably have lost if he had. He’s a shy, soft-spoken man with old–fashioned manners and an old-fashioned New York accent (he says “toime” instead of “time” and “foine” instead of fine), so self-conscious that talking about himself makes him squint a little. The idea of power, or of powerful people, seems to repel him as much as it fascinates. And yet Caro has spent virtually his whole adult life studying power and what can be done with it, first in the case of Robert Moses, the great developer and urban planner, and then in the case of Lyndon Johnson, whose biography he has been writing for close to 40 years. Caro can tell you exactly how Moses heedlessly rammed the Cross Bronx Expressway through a middle-class neighborhood, displacing thousands of families, and exactly how Johnson stole the Texas Senate election of 1948, winning by 87 spurious votes. These stories still fill him with outrage but also with something like wonder, the two emotions that sustain him in what amounts to a solitary, Dickensian occupation with long hours and few holidays.

…Caro is the last of the 19th-century biographers, the kind who believe that the life of a great or powerful man deserves not just a slim volume, or even a fat one, but a whole shelf full. He dresses every day in a jacket and tie and reports to a 22nd-floor office in a nondescript building near Columbus Circle, where his neighbors are lawyers or investment firms. His office looks as if it belongs to the kind of C.P.A. who still uses ledgers and a hand-cranked adding machine. There are an old wooden desk, wooden file cabinets and a maroon leather couch that never gets sat on. Here Caro writes the old-fashioned way: in longhand, on large legal pads.

While Chris Jones has a long profile on Caro in the latest issue of Esquire:

On the twenty-second floor of the Fisk Building in New York — an elegant brick giant built in 1921, stretching an entire block of West Fifty-seventh Street between Broadway and Eighth Avenue — the hallways are lined with doors bearing gold plaques. The plaques reveal the professions of the people at work behind them: lawyers, accountants, financial advisors. But one plaque displays only a name, with no mention of the man’s business: ROBERT A. CARO.

Behind that door on this February morning, as on most mornings for the twenty-two years he has occupied this office, Caro is hunched over his desk. His tie is still carefully knotted; his hair is slicked back. But his fingers are black with pencil. In front of him is a pile of white paper: the galleys for The Passage of Power, the fourth book in his enormous biography, The Years of Lyndon Johnson. The seventy-six-year-old Caro has worked on this project nearly every day since 1974; he has been working on this particular volume for ten years. In most cases, once a book reaches galleys — once it has been designed and typeset and a few preliminary copies printed, unbound — it is finished, or close to it. All that remains is one last pass. This is not true for Caro. For him, the galleys are simply another stage of construction. Less than three months before three hundred thousand copies of his book are due to be in stores on May 1, Caro has torn down and rebuilt the fifth paragraph on the 452nd page — and torn it down again. (It is, in fact, the fifth paragraph on the 2,672nd page of his work, factoring in the first three volumes of the series: The Path to Power, Means of Ascent, and Master of the Senate.) Now nearly every word of it sits dismantled in front of him like the pieces of a watch. He starts fresh. “The defeat had repercussions beyond the Court,” he writes.

This was meant to be the last of the Johnson books, but it is not. The Passage of Power spans barely four years in 605 pages. It picks up Johnson’s story with the 1960 Democratic nomination, won by a young senator from Massachusetts named John F. Kennedy, and it ends with President Lyndon Johnson passing the Civil Rights Act in 1964. There is an assassination in between. On two large rectangular bulletin boards, Caro has carefully pinned up his outline for his next volume, the fifth book, the rest of the story: Vietnam, resignation, defeat. The pages of that outline overlap the lighter rectangles where the outline for the fourth book had been pinned for so many years. “I don’t feel my age,” Caro says, “so it’s hard for me to believe so much time has passed.” He knows the last sentence of the fifth book, he says — the very last sentence. He knows what stands between him and those final few words, most immediately the fifth paragraph on page 2,672. He digs his pencil back into the paper.

This room is almost a temple to timelessness. Caro has worked with the same set of tools since 1966, when he began his first book, The Power Broker, his definitive 1,162-page biography of Robert Moses, the controversial New York planner and builder. For so many writers, for most of them, The Power Broker, which won a Pulitzer Prize in 1975, would represent their crowning achievement; for Caro, it was just the beginning. Back then, he and his wife, Ina, lived in a pretty little house in Roslyn, Long Island — he was a reporter at Newsday — and one of the great crumbling neighboring estates had a fire sale. Caro went. He bought a chess set, and he bought a lamp. The lamp was bronze and heavy and sculpted, a chariot rider pulled along by two rearing horses. “It cost seventy-five dollars,” Caro remembers. The chess set is hidden away under a couch in their apartment on Central Park West. The lamp is here on his desk, spilling light onto his galleys. Except for a brief period when he couldn’t afford an office, when Caro worked instead in the Allen Room at the New York Public Library, he has written every word of every one of his books in the same warm lamplight, millions of words under the watch of that chariot rider and his two horses.

“Nobody believes this, but I write very fast,” he says.

Check out this wonderful photo gallery of Caro at work.

[Photo Credit: Ethan Hill for Esquire]

More goodness from Summer Anne.

Bronx Banter Book Excerpt

From Harvey Araton’s entertaining new book,”Driving Mr. Yogi” (which can be purchased at Amazon) here’s an excerpt to make you smile:

 By Harvey Araton

The first harbinger of spring — or spring training — at the home of Ron and Bonnie Guidry was a telephone call from Yogi Berra.

“You get the frog legs yet?” Berra would ask.

“Yog,” Ron Guidry would say, “it’s freaking January.”

Too late, Berra was already in serious countdown mode for the next Guidry frog fry extravaganza. It seemed like only yesterday that Berra had looked askance at Guidry’s beloved delicacy, like it was tofu wrapped in seaweed. It had actually been years since Mel Stottlemyre had bragged one spring training day about hunting frogs in the Northwest and cooking them himself. Guidry, with all due respect, was obliged to inform him that he hadn’t really experienced frog legs until he’d had them Cajun-style, or straight from the Guidry family cookbook.

Guidry returned to his apartment that evening, fried up a fresh batch, and the next day passed them around the coaches’ room. He offered one to Berra, who immediately made a face.

“Come on,” Guidry said. “You’ll like ’em.”

Stottlemyre, munching nearby, couldn’t disagree. But still Berra demurred.

“Yogi, I’ll tell you what, if you don’t try one, we’re not going to supper tonight,” Guidry said.

Was he serious? Probably not, but if Berra knew one thing about Guidry, it was that he was proud of his Cajun culture and cuisine.

Yogi wondered if he was in some way hurting his friend’s feelings. So he finally gave in, picked one off the plate, and gave it a nibble. Lo and behold, it was delicious. He wanted another, and as the years rolled by, he would continue to fi nd a place in his diet for something no conscientious doctor would have ordered for a man in his eighties.

Following treatment in the seventies for an arrhythmia, Berra assiduously watched what he ate. He avoided cholesterol-heavy breakfasts, pushed away most desserts with a dismissive “too fattening,” and made sure that the Progresso soup prepared for him at his museum almost daily and specifically at noon by the museum’s faithful business manager Bettylou O’Dell was low in sodium.

He had even long ago disassociated himself from the Yoo-hoo soft drink that he had made famous in the fifties and sixties (by chiming in a commercial, “Me-he for Yoo-hoo!”) because he objected to the preservatives that had changed the drink’s texture and flavor. If he relaxed his calorie counting, it was usually at dinner, especially at big family dinners, where everyone down to the youngest of the Berras was taught that the heels of the long Italian bread were reserved for Grandpa. Berra’s favorite dish was tripe — the stomach tissue of cows and a peasant staple in the old country — but he enjoyed a fairly wide range of gastronomic fare that occasionally didn’t agree with him.

For instance, he liked to munch on hot peppers right out of the jar. It was another habit that Carmen wanted him to break — except it turned out that Guidry, who used peppers to spice up his Cajun cooking, was Berra’s main supplier.

“I’d have them with me in spring training, and then when he’d go back to New Jersey, he’d tell me to send him a batch when I got back to Louisiana,” Guidry said. When Guidry would comply, he would get a call from Carmen asking that he stop sending the peppers. When he didn’t send them the next time Yogi asked, he’d get a call wanting to know where the peppers were. “Either way, I had one of them fussin’ about the damn peppers,” he said with mock resignation.

After so many years of sitting across the table from him at one Tampa establishment or another, Guidry could probably expound on Berra’s culinary preferences better than anyone but Carmen. At the very least, he could discuss them like a comedian working his monologue.

“When we go to the Rusty Pelican, that’s a seafood place and they have swordfish, which he loves, so he gets that all the time there,” Guidry said. “When we go to the Bahama Breeze, he likes the black bean soup, and with that he’ll have the seafood paella or the barbecued ribs. Four times out of five, he’ll have the seafood, but let’s say we have been to the Pelican the night before, well, that means he’s already had seafood, so he’ll get the ribs.

“Now Fleming’s is the steakhouse, so that’s what he gets there, and then at the Bonefish he has to have the sea bass. Then after he moved into the Residence Inn, he went one night to eat with Carmen at Lee Roy Selmon’s, which is right next door. So he tells me the next day, ‘Hey, it’s not bad.’ The guy recognized him, sat him at a nice table, everything was fine. OK, so now we got to go to Selmon’s, and there he gets the meatloaf. But since he’s been at the Residence Inn, where they put out a spread in the evening, he also keeps a list on the door of his refrigerator that tells him what they’ll be serving. If he likes something he’s had before, he’ll say, ‘On Tuesday, I’m going to eat in the hotel.’ ‘OK, that’s good, Yog.’ ”

No Tampa meal, however, was as anticipated and as fussed over as Guidry and Berra’s “Frog Legs Night,” which by the end of Berra’s first decade back with the Yankees had taken on the ritualistic weight of Old-Timers’ Day.

Before leaving for Tampa every spring, and after being badgered by Berra, Guidry would pack about two hundred legs into the truck, having purchased them inexpensively (about $200 for a hundred pounds) in Lafayette, where they are plentiful and sold year-round.

From the same vendor, he would buy a mixture of fl our and cornmeal seasoning in a gallon jar.

“They’re so simple to fix,” Guidry said. “You got the egg batter, the fry mix, dip ’em in the batter, throw ’em in the frying pan.” From the frying pan, the frog legs would be transferred to paper towels, to soak up some of the grease. It took about ten minutes to cook up a batch of forty legs.

Guidry would ration his supply so that it would last throughout spring training. He would prepare some for the more adventurous players looking for a break from the standard clubhouse fare. Jorge Posada was a longtime fan. CC Sabathia joined the club when he came on board in 2009. Guidry would also invite two or three buddies over on one of his first nights in town and playfully have Goose Gossage dial New Jersey to let Berra know what was on the menu that night.

“Yogi, we’re over here at Gator’s, and we’re eating all the frog legs,” Gossage would say.

That was enough to set Berra off. “There’d better be some goddamn legs left when I get down there,” he’d growl.

Excerpted from DRIVING MR. YOGI: Yogi Berra, Ron Guidry, and Baseball’s Greatest Gift. Copyright © 2012 by Harvey Araton. Reprinted by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. All rights reserved.

[Photo Credit: Edward Linsmier for The New York Times, Saed Hindash/N.J.com]

Nothing like April baseball in the northeast. Cold. Stadium half-empty, and tonight Camden Yards was mostly quiet. Which was a change from the first two nights when the locals made considerable noise rooting for the home team. It was a welcome sound, actually, seeing as how Camden Yards is usually full of Yankee fans during the summer. The game was delayed for close to a half-an-hour so maybe the faithful decided it was best to stay home.

It feels as if the Yanks have been playing an extended version of the same game for six days now. Nothing has come easily, a string of hits or a bunch of runs. They did make some nice plays in the field tonight–Brett Gardner snagged a line drive, Curtis Granderson made a nice running catch, Robinson Cano robbed Matt Wieters of a base hit in eighth inning. And Boone Logan pitched 1.2 innings of scoreless relief.

Granderson hit a two-run home run in the first inning but C.C. Sabathia quickly gave up two and he struggled through six innings. He didn’t have much of a rhythm and while he wasn’t terrible he threw a lot of pitches (especially in the second and third) and gave up four runs. Meanwhile, Jake Arrieta was impressive for the Orioles–hard fastball, nice breaking ball, good control. He had Alex Rodriguez’s head spinning and feet shuffling back to the dugout just as soon as he dug in at the plate.

Granderson tied the game with a base hit in the seventh. The Yanks left runners at second and third in the eighth. Eduardo Nunez later got picked off first. Almost everyone not named Jeter has endured frustrating at-bats in Baltimore.

When the O’s put runners of first and second with two out on in the ninth against Rafael Soriano, the fans chanted “Let’s Go O’s, Let’s Go O’s, Let’s Go O’s.” They booed when Soriano intentionally walked Nick Markakis to face Adam Jones (hitless in six career at-bats against Sori). The first pitch was on the outside corner but was called a ball and Joe Girardi leaned back, closed his eyes. Didn’t look like he was breathing. Soriano poured three more fastballs, right down the pike, and Jones swung through each one of them.

For the second night in a row, extra innings. Mark Teixeira hit a bloop double to left with two outs and then Nick Swisher worked the count full, got a meatball over the plate and deposited that weak sauce over the wall in right field.

Smiles.

Comfort.

Sweep.

Yanks 6, O’s 2.

Derek Jeter SS
Curtis Granderson CF
Robinson Cano 2B
Alex Rodriguez 3B
Mark Teixeira 1B
Nick Swisher RF
Raul Ibanez DH
Russell Martin C
Brett Gardner LF

And of course, Mr. C.C. on the hill.

Never mind the chill: Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: Yanks O’s watchin’ via Vitamin Steve]

The Mets are playing this afternoon. So are the Sox.

Have at it if you’d like.

[Photos Via: Observando and One Fast Move or I’m Gone]

Today’s gem from Summer Anne.

A fundamental tenet of communication theory is that because the purpose of communication is to transmit information, it is irreversible. There are no “take-backs.” Apologies for verbal or written foul-ups are hollow. Once it’s out there, it’s out there. We live in an era right now where companies and universities are doing background checks on prospective employees and students by scouring Facebook profiles, Twitter feeds and other social media activity. A regular person has nowhere to hide. Public figures are under much greater scrutiny.

Miami Marlins manager Ozzie Guillen learned that the hard way.

Not that he has ever hidden. He is no stranger to opening his mouth, inserting his foot, and still managing to demonstrate the capability to land in trouble. His latest misstep earned him a team-levied five-game suspension. The blogosphere and conservative baseball media population exploded. The first four words of Sean Gregory’s profile in Time Magazine are Guillen’s damning quote: “I love Fidel Castro.” He would go on to say he respected Castro’s survival skills, and that‘s what he loved about Castro. Communication is irreversible. No way to talk around that.

Guillen manned up. He didn’t put out a statement. He was contrite, apologizing to the Marlins and to the Cuban-American community that has helped make Miami the multicultural center it has become.

The aftermath and the analysis has been a series of contradictions. A combination of liberal versus conservative and wanting to have it both ways. The same people that in the past who have called Guillen “refreshing” for speaking unfiltered and disregarding the art of saying nothing, are now condemning him. Steven Goldman expresses his libertarian view at Bleacher Report:

…Those who are standing on the sidelines sniping and calling for suspensions and termination need to consider their own motives. Moral outrage is cheap when the target has been so spectacularly, in Guillen’s words, “dumb.” This is shooting Marlins in a barrel. It’s much harder to stake a stand on an issue that is in the grey zone, when others might snipe back at you.

He continued…

Let us be clear: There is a difference between suggesting the Marlins needed to suspend Guillen to appease the Cuban-American community and another to argue that the quality of his remarks themselves deserved suspension. The former is what political bloggers call “concern trolling,” posing as a helpful pal of some third party that really doesn’t need your advice, thanks. The latter is, first, un-American, not in terms of the Bill of Rights—this is not a First Amendment matter given that your employer can censor you in the workplace all they want—but that any call that encourages punishment for speaking one’s mind, no matter how offensive, should be antithetical to our very being.

Ken Rosenthal may have been one of those Goldman observed “standing on the sidelines sniping.” Monday, in his FOX Sports column, Rosenthal called for the Marlins to suspend Guillen. He wrote:

Good people make mistakes, and Guillen just made the biggest of his career. Chances are the matter will blow over; everything seems to blow over in this society of limited attention spans. But the Marlins shouldn’t allow it to blow over. No, the Marlins should take a stand.

Suspend Guillen.

Not because a protest group wants him out.

Because it’s the right thing to do.

There is outrage in Miami. There is outrage among the Latino community, not just the Cuban-American population in Miami. The juxtaposition of Guillen’s comments with the opening of the Marlins’ new stadium in Little Havana has much to do with that. Dave Zirin notes this in his latest piece at Edge of Sports.

Loria desperately needed a hot start for his team and some sugary sweet media coverage for his new ballpark. Then his new manager Ozzie Guillen decided to share his views about Cuba and Fidel Castro. … This issue is…now about whether the ire produced by Guillen’s words will be directed against Loria, his grab of public funds, and the entire Miami baseball operation. If that happens, this issue won’t die, but the Marlins might.

Keith Olbermann, speaking as a guest on Dan Patrick’s radio show, said that sports provide a forum for us, the public, to address sensitive social issues. That “sports are well ahead of the rest of society on these issues.”

The blog Platoon Advantage would beg to differ.

…It’s certainly understandable why the Marlins felt like they needed to react.

Though they didn’t feel the need to respond when team president David Samson called the people of Miami stupid. …There are dozens and dozens of equally or more foolish and offensive things done by Major League players, managers, coaches, front office types, and officials every year. And these offenses don’t get investigated by the Commissioner. These offenses don’t earn team-levied suspensions. These offenses don’t get noticed at all, despite the real damage they do to the communities where they happen. If we’re going to have such a low standard so as to punish Guillen for making a bad joke (make no mistake, there’s no way to honestly construe what Guillen said as a statement of support for Castro, his tactics, or his regime), where are the suspensions for everyone else who makes baseball look bad?

What can we learn from all the coverage? We know Guillen’s comments were wrongheaded on many levels. We know those comments will be available forever. We know that there is heavy criticism, much of it founded, much of it personal. We know that all of it is irreversible. And yet again, we learn that no matter how hard the general sports fan wishes politics and sports to be separated, they are inextricably linked.

[Photo Credit: Al Diaz and C.M. Guerrero/ Miami Herald]

I watched the end of the game last night by myself. The wife had gone to bed long before Mariano Rivera appeared. I lay on the living room floor, stretching, and appreciated the moment–another chance to watch Rivera pitch. Endy Chavez, a slap-hitting left-hander, led off and Rivera pounded him with cutters inside. Chavez was tough, fouling off pitch-after-pitch, until he was caught looking by a pitch on the outside corner. A generous call by the umpire it seemed to me, a Rivera call.

J.J. Hardy, a righty, was next, and when Rivera got ahead of him he kept the ball outside and Hardy popped up to Robinson Cano for the second out. Which left it up to Nick Markakis, who was 6-17 in his career against Rivera. He looked at a fastball on the outside part of the plate for a strike and then broke his bat on a cutter inside–the ball went foul. Rivera threw another cutter, high and inside, that Markakis didn’t offer at and he also looked at the next pitch, the outside fastball. The pitch went straight to the catcher’s mitt but it was just outside for a ball.

I was lying on my back now. My cat had curled up next to my left shoulder and I wondered what Rivera’s next move would be–back inside with the cutter or double-up on the outside pitch? He went back outside, painted the corner beautifully. The pitch was better than the one before. Markakis didn’t swing and was called out on strikes and alone in my dark living room I laughed so hard that had to cover my mouth so I wouldn’t wake the wife.

[Photo Credit: Rob Carr/Getty Images; Drawing by Moebius]