The Great Escape

By John Schulian

Every writer in Hollywood has a dark corner in his head where he keeps the horror stories of how he was lied to, cheated, betrayed, bullied, ignored, treated like a dim child, abandoned, and left with the short end of the stick. It comes with the territory. But right now I have a different kind of story to tell. It’s so preposterously upbeat that people in this brutal business, especially writers, might insist it is a fairy tale. I promise you it’s not. And I know, because I lived it.

It’s the story of how I, a burned-out Philadelphia sports columnist, showed up in Hollywood without ever having written a script, and four months later had a produced episode of “L.A. Law” to my credit and was happily residing on the writing staff of “Miami Vice.” Even now, with 25 years of hindsight at my disposal, I don’t know what I did to deserve that kind of good fortune.

When this began, I was trying to figure out if I knew anyone in Hollywood and drawing blanks. But Phil Hersh, who had fought the newspaper wars in Chicago and Baltimore with me, had stayed in touch with a photographer named Martha Hartnett after she jumped from the Sun-Times to the L.A. Times. Martha had married a TV writer-producer named Jeff Melvoin, who Phil said was a good guy. Before I knew it, I was on the phone with Jeff finding out that he was even more than that. He didn’t know me from a sack of potatoes, but he gave me 45 minutes of his time, listening to my story, offering a quick introduction to the screenwriter’s life, and generally proving himself to be funny, big-hearted, and smart, very smart. Best of all, he wrapped up the conversation by inviting me to call him the next time I was in L.A.

I got there the day after Marvelous Marvin Hagler put away Tommy Hearns in the best fight I ever covered and maybe the most electric event I ever saw in any sport. Mike Downey, who had hit it big as a columnist in Detroit, and I drove from Las Vegas in a rented car, both of us on the verge of major career moves. Downey was about to take his wonderfully funny act to the L.A. Times, and I was looking for someone to tell me how to go about hurling myself into Hollywood’s gaping maw.

When I called Jeff, he told me we were having dinner, but first I had two meetings he had arranged for me. Meetings are the lifeblood of Hollywood, so much so that sometimes you have meetings just to schedule other meetings. Whatever, my baptism by yakking involved sitting down with the head of development at Geffen Films and a vice president at MTM, which was then the hottest production company in TV (“Hill Street Blues,” “St. Elsewhere,” “Mary Tyler Moore”). Though I didn’t know which end of the bat to hold as far as show business was concerned, I survived. The executives I met were interested in getting fresh blood in the business, people with stories to tell -– and naturally they wanted to talk about sports. They weren’t offering me any jobs, of course, but I liked them and they liked me, and that certainly beat the alternative.

Then I met Jeff for dinner and he paid, so I liked him even more than I had on the phone. Mostly we talked about how I was going to get in the business. “Everybody breaks in a different way,” he said. And I said, “What if I wrote a letter to Steven Bochco?” I’d been bowled over by Bochco’s “Hill Street Blues” from the first minutes of the first episode. I can’t tell you why I watched it – I’ve never watched much TV — but I did and a world of possibilities opened up to me. “Hill Street” was as revolutionary then as “The Wire” is now. It felt real, the characters were mesmerizing, and the stories pulsed with humanity and humor and pain and love. If I could work on a show like that, I told myself, I’d be proud to call myself a TV writer. I told Jeff the same thing. In that case, he said, I should write Steven Bochco.

So I did, and in the envelope with my letter, I enclosed a my boxing anthology, “Writers’ Fighters,” and a copy of the Mike Royko profile I’d done for GQ. It all went in the mail the day before I left to cover Wimbledon. And then I started praying to whatever god it is that looks out for writers in need of a new beginning.

Steven Bochco

When I returned two weeks later, there was a letter from Bochco telling me he’d received my package and promising to read what I’d enclosed. He also warned me that a lot of journalists had tried to make the leap I was contemplating, and failed. But if I were still interested, he’d be glad to send me some “Hill Street” scripts to study. I wrote him back in a heartbeat: please send the scripts. Then I went on vacation for two weeks. I came home to find this letter, on Twentieth Century Fox stationery:

July 17, 1985

Dear John:

Herewith some HILL STREET scripts. I read about half your book so far. It’s wonderful. You’re a terrific writer, and if you can’t make the transition to film writing, I’d be very surprised. Not to mention disappointed. As soon as I get my next project (a series about, God help me, lawyers) perpendicular to the ground, I will send you what we’ve written and invite you to write a script. (For money, of course.)

If you have any questions, or just want to talk, call me. My office number is XXXXXXXXXX.

Best regards,
Steven Bochco

P.S. You also type great. I didn’t spot a single do-over in your letter.

Today, that letter, framed, hangs in my office at home. I’m still amazed by it and still everlastingly grateful for the lifeline it represented. It didn’t matter that I wasn’t guaranteed anything except a chance. A chance was all I was looking for. I would have to write in a different form and a different medium. I would have to navigate a world I knew nothing about. But at last I had something to hope for again. And I owed it to Steven Bochco, a man I’d never met.

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This story first appeared in the Ft. Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel in the late 1980s. It appears here with permission from the author.

Running Cars

By Pat Jordan

Rod Chadwick, 38, is running cars in the hot sun. He sprints across the street to the parking lot. A tall, leanly-muscled man in a t-shirt, sweatpants, and soiled sneakers. He has a Sam Shepherd face, only more gaunt, with hollows for cheeks and slits for eyes. The face of a pale Indian or a tightly-strung, ascetic.

It is four o’clock on a lazy, Sunday afternoon in May. There is a long line of stopped cars leading from one end of the street to the awning over the entrance to Shooter’s Bar and Restaurant on the Intracoastal Waterway in Ft. Lauderdale. A BMW-M3 convertible. A Ferrari Testarossa. A black Corvette. An Excaliber. A Lincoln Continental with blacked-out windows. A pink, Volkswagon Rabbitt convertible. A British Racing Green Jaguar XJ-6. A Chrysler Le Baron with a rentacar sticker on its bumper. A dove-gray, Mercedes-Benz 560 SEL. A Guards red Porsche Turbo with the slant-nose front end.

As the cars slowly inch forward, the variety of luxury and sports vehicles on display paints a vivid picture of an exclusive afternoon gathering at Shooter’s Bar. But amidst the iconic classics and modern-day performance machines, a new breed of car enthusiasts has emerged, drawn by the sleek, futuristic allure of electric vehicles. Teslas, the epitome of innovation and sustainability, now sit comfortably alongside the more traditional powerhouses.

The unmistakable curves of the Tesla Model S gleam under the afternoon sun, its minimalistic design striking a contrast to the flashy exteriors of the other cars. Among the Tesla owners, many have taken customization to the next level, with enhancements like the custom tesla steering wheel, adding a personalized touch to the driving experience. This unique modification blends seamlessly with Tesla’s sophisticated interior, providing both aesthetics and functionality. The allure of the custom steering wheel is just one example of how Tesla owners are making their vehicles truly their own.

With the rise of electric cars and the growing Tesla community, more enthusiasts are seeking ways to elevate their driving experience by incorporating cutting-edge technology and personalized design. From sleek carbon fiber finishes to steering wheels that match the interior’s luxurious appeal, these customizations reflect the modern sophistication of the Tesla brand. As electric vehicles continue to redefine the automotive landscape, Tesla owners are embracing not only the vehicle’s innovative technology but also the opportunity to express their individuality through bespoke accessories.

In the realm of car deals, the options extend beyond the pristine showroom models to encompass both new and used vehicles, catering to a diverse range of preferences and budgets. Swansway Motor Group stands as a beacon for discerning individuals, offering a comprehensive selection of automobiles that span various makes and models. Whether one seeks the rugged versatility of a v w california for sale or the refined elegance of a luxury sedan, Swansway Motor Group provides tailored solutions to satisfy even the most discerning tastes. With a commitment to quality and customer satisfaction, their offerings embody the essence of automotive excellence, ensuring that every deal struck is not just a transaction but a gateway to a lifetime of driving pleasure.

In car dealerships, Motor Match also emerges as a prominent player, renowned for its personalized approach to matching customers with their ideal vehicles. With an extensive inventory that encompasses used cars, including suv vehicles for sale, Motor Match caters to a wide spectrum of preferences and budgets. Whether customers are in search of a spacious family SUV or a compact crossover for urban adventures, Motor Match prides itself on its ability to deliver tailored solutions that meet the unique needs of each individual.

In the midst of this automotive spectacle, the consideration of comfort within these impressive vehicles becomes paramount. While the exteriors boast high-end engineering and exquisite designs, the experience inside can be elevated with the addition of seat covers for cars. Tailored to fit the unique contours of each vehicle, these seat covers can also provide protection against the unforgiving sun. Whether it’s the plush interior of a Mercedes-Benz 560 SEL or the sporty cockpit of a Porsche Turbo, the choice of seat covers becomes a subtle yet impactful statement, enhancing both the aesthetic and practical aspects of the driving experience.

As drivers seek to enhance their automotive experience, the integration of advanced technology like dashcams emerges as a pivotal consideration. Dashcams offer not only peace of mind but also invaluable documentation of journeys, capturing scenic drives or unexpected events on the road. With a plethora of options available on the market, from discreet compact models to feature-rich units, drivers can select a dashcam that seamlessly complements their vehicle’s interior design and functionality.

For those interested in exploring the latest innovations in dashcam technology, platforms like DashCamDiscount.com provide a comprehensive selection of top-rated products at competitive prices. From high-definition video recording to built-in GPS tracking, these dashcams offer a range of features designed to meet the diverse needs of modern drivers. By investing in a quality dashcam, drivers can not only elevate their driving experience but also enhance safety and security on the road, ensuring peace of mind for every journey.

The locals are driving in from their day at the beach. Strippers, both male (“Crazy Horse Saloon”) and female (“The Booby Trap Lounge”). Bartenders and cocktail waitresses. Businessmen and lawyers. Plastic surgeons and insurance fraud experts. Importers and exporters of South American goods. Real estate ladies. Hookers. Body builders. Cattlemen and pepper farmers. Mistresses. Drug runners. DEA informers. A bouillabaisse of Ft. Lauderdale locals winding down their weekend with a few Cuba Libres and Rum Runners at Shooter’s overlooking the water. They sit at the bar, watching the white yachts, blinding in the setting sun, cruise up the waterway. They mill around the docks, seeing and being seen, alongside the docked speedboats. A band in Hawaiian shirts is playing a medley of Jimmy Buffett’s greatest hits from under the shade of a palm tree. A man on a docked speedboat invites a girl on the dock to come aboard for a drink. Maybe a little cruise, he adds, grinning. The girl smiles, shakes her head, no. A local girl who knows that such an invitation always ends with her confronting two options. Suck or swim.

The older men have swept-back, silver hair and gold chains nestled, just so, in their fluffed out chest hair. The younger men are tanned, muscular, with droopy mustaches and spandex bicycle shorts. The older women are pale, heavily made-up, with ash-blond hair that is cut severely short, but not so short as to expose the face lift scars behind their ears. They are wearing long, silk dresses and textured nylons held up by white lace garter belts and, occasionally, an ankle bracelet that reads, “If you can read this, you can eat me.” The younger women are tanned and trim, with brassier, blond hair and oversized breasts recently implanted by a Peruvian plastic surgeon in Miami. They are wearing spandex, mini-dresses or satin jogging shorts with high-cut Reeboks and some of them are still wearing their g-string bikini bathing suits with their stiletto, high-heeled shoes, their American Express gold cards tucked into the top of their bikini bottom.

Rod Chadwick, sweating in the hot sun, holds open the driver’s door of the slant-nose Porsche while a fat man-boy of twenty, struggles out from behind the steering wheel. The man tells Rod he wants his car parked up front, for everyone to see. He slips a $20 bill into Rod’s hand as deftly as a quarterback handing off to a fullback. Years ago, Rod had a football scholarship to Georgia Tech, where he majored in architecture. He transferred to Catawba College in North Carolina and switched to a history major. He helped support himself even then by running cars. When he was graduated he did a little student teaching but decided that was not for him. He opened a frozen yogurt business but didn’t like working indoors. He worked on construction for a while but even that was too confining. He began to run cars again. He has been running cars on-and-off for over twenty years. A valet, now pushing forty, or, as the writing on his t-shirt says, “Automotive Relocation Engineer.” That was Donnie Brown’s idea. He owns the valet-parking concession at Shooter’s and a number of other South Florida clubs, where the valet parking business is rivaled only by Southern California.

Donnie is 28, chubby, preppy-looking with his rosy cheeks and dark, Princeton-cut hair. He was a swimmer and football player at Pine Crest, an exclusive prep school in Ft. Lauderdale. When he left school he missed the jockey, macho image he had as a football Player so he took a job running cars during the 2 a.m.-to-4 a.m. shift at Club Dallas out on Federal Highway near the airport.

“It was a redneck club,” Donnie says, sipping club soda at Shooter’s bar. “They hired me and a few other football players because we weren’t afraid of the rednecks. Nobody else wanted to work that shift.”

(more…)

A few weeks ago, defensive metrics at Fangraphs had judged Curtis Granderson’s defense in center field to be more than nine runs below average. He’s shot up to under six below avegare. Recently, he was not a top-five MVP candidate according to fWAR. Now he is.

Did he save a bunch of runs or improve his defense in a few weeks? Not likely. But the landscape he’s measured against is constantly shifting, and his contribution is rated against that volatile context.

Jacoby Ellsbury, a center fielder so good that Boston shifted him to left field to make room for the 38 year-old Mike Cameron last year, is worth over 20 runs more than Granderson, and is now the fWAR MVP.

Let’s check in again at the end of the season and see how it shakes out.

The nice thing about running your own blog is that you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. I just got home, it’s cold and raining, I’m hungry, and the last thing on my mind is recapping a 5-4 loss in extra innings. It’s enough to say that A.J. Burnett was wild in lousy conditions, Jesus Montero had a couple of RBI, and the Yanks were this close to tying it in the bottom of the eleventh. It wasn’t to be.

Let’s take the long view–we won’t remember this game in three weeks let alone three months.

Fuck it, Dude, have a hot coco:

[Photo Credit: via bitchassbidness]

The Soggy Bottom Boys are at it again this afternoon. Dig this lineup:

1. Nunez SS
2. Martin C
3. Swisher RF
4. Rodriguez 3B
5. Jones LF
6. Montero DH
7. Laird 1B
8. Golson CF
9. Pena 2B

(gasp). Never mind the galoshes:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

There’s a nice interview with Ken Singleton over at Fangraphs today (David Laurila asks the questions):

DL: Was on-base percentage underrated in your era?

KS: Most definitely. I think that nowadays — with the attention paid to OBP and OPS — people would have seen me in a different light. That said, I was fortunate enough to play for Earl Weaver, who, maybe before his time, knew what on-base percentage meant.

My first year in Baltimore, there really weren’t a lot of guys stealing bases. He called me into his office in spring training. I thought that maybe I was in trouble, but what he wanted to tell me was that I was going to lead off. I told him that I wasn’t capable of stealing many bases, and he said, “That’s not the idea. The whole idea is that you walk a lot, and Bobby Grich walks a lot, so you’ll bat first and he’ll bat second.” I set the Orioles record for walks that season [118] and it still stands. Bobby Grich walked 107 times that season.

My first at bat in the American League came in Tiger Stadium on a cold day. I drew a walk. I went to third on a base hit and scored on a three-run home run [by Lee May]. I scored our first run of the season. When I got back to the dugout, Earl Weaver looked at me and said, “That’s what I was talking about. Get on base.”

[Featured image via Corbis]

“Enter Sandman,” drawn special for Bronx Banter by Ben DeRosa. Bow Down.

The future schedule is packed so tightly there’s no room for rainouts and make-ups. Last night’s game was rainout from start to finish, yet they played anyway. The first pitch was after 11:00 PM and the game didn’t end until 2:15 AM. The Yankees won 5-3, and much more importantly, no one got hurt.

Phil Hughes got the water-logged ball late last night. I wonder if he was glad to pitch while nobody was watching. He was very good under adverse conditions, striking out five in six innings and only walking one. He held the Orioles scoreless for the first five innings before Weiters touched him for a two-out, two-run homer. It tied the game at two and Hughes was done after six. The fact that Hughes did not dissolve in the rain was a positive result; six good innings were bonus material. Teix singled in Jeter to back-up Hughes and give him a brief shot at earning the victory.

Posada had a time-capsule game for us – a homer and a base running blunder. If he only got behind the plate and made no attempt to frame any pitches and dropped a couple of fastballs down the middle, it would have been a definitive collection.

Girardi asked three pitchers to get through the seventh when one probably would have been a better choice. Boone Logan came in to face one lefty and failed. When a LOOGY fails, it shakes the earth. They get one hitter and no chance at redemption.

Forgive the Orioles for looking past the bottom of the seventh after Posada ran into the second out. With nobody on, Francisco Cervelli at the plate and Brett Gardner on deck, Buck Showalter might have been looking ahead at match ups for the eighth when the top of the Yankee order would come to bat.

Snap, crack, back-to-back jacks. Cervelli has been channelling Bill Dickey lately and Gardner is having a strong start to September. It was an unlikely pair to hit consecutive homers, their fourth and seventh respectively.

The Yankees pounced on the lead and sent the Hammer and the Sandman out to seal the win. The Hammer had a very disappointing outing, only striking out one batter. Let’s chalk it up to the rain. Mariano worked around a error by Teixeira and zipped through the next three hitters. I hope the Yankees have PJs in their lockers, because tomorrow afternoon figures to be much more of the same – a rainy day and an unforgiving schedule.

Just when the authors of this blog had given up on the chance of a game being played and decided to hit the sack–it is a school night, after all–the Yanks and Orioles took the field. They got it in and the game ended after two in the morning New York time. We are happy to report that under 1,000 fans, often referred to as “brave souls,” but more aptly known as “complete nuts” or “stadium employees,” watched the Yanks win. Upon further review, it would have been worth staying up just to hear John Sterling bellyaching.

Jon D will be around in a bit to give you some more details.

That is all.

Steady rain all day, with more scheduled for tonight. Will they get the game in? Hmmm. If they don’t, feel free to use this as an open thread.

[Photo Credit: Jianwei]

Hello, I Must Be Going

By John Schulian

My life began to change for the better as soon as I caught a glimpse of Hollywood in my future. I believe that’s known as the magic of show business. Of course, the Philadelphia 76ers, being mostly very tall, as professional basketball teams inevitably are, did what they could to obscure my view by playing a game they appeared to be as uninterested in as I was. But we all had to be someplace that January night in 1985, so there we were. Afterward, out of desperation more than anything else, I tried, unsuccessfully, to coax a sentence or two out of Moses Malone. All Moses seemed to have in him was a few grunts, and a few grunts do not a column make.

It was snowing when I headed back to the Daily News wondering how I was going to tap dance my way through this one. Sometime between 11 p.m. and 3 a.m., I remembered the “Red on Roundball” feature that Red Auerbach used to do on the NBA’s TV games. One of his guests had been Moses, and when Auerbach asked him what the secret of rebounding was, Moses said, “I take it to the rack.” Though hardly as memorable as “Give me liberty or give me death” or “I can’t get no satisfaction,” those words became my inspiration for an ode to Moses, who, after all, would end up in the hall of fame as a player, not an orator.

Afterward, while driving home through the snow, I realized that (1) I had turned 40 while I was in the process of immortalizing that big sphinx, and (2) I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life doing this. In truth, I didn’t want to spend another day doing it. But I needed the dough, and besides, in just a few hours, I had an appointment to see Steve Sabol at NFL Films about his search for someone to replace the late John Facenda as the voice that would stir the soul as the game’s behemoths shook the earth. For what it’s worth, I wrote a column nominating Tina Turner. She didn’t get the job.

Not that I cared. I was too busy thinking about Hollywood. At first it was an abstraction, the way it had been when I was a kid so fascinated by movies–-never TV, always movies–that I drew crude versions of them on sheets of paper. If you want to be generous, I guess you could call what I did storyboards. The movies I chose to give my special touch were primarily Westerns, and not great ones, either. We’re talking about the bottom half of a double bill. I didn’t start thinking bigger until I picked up “The Craft of Screenwriting,” a book of interviews with heavy hitters like William Goldman and Robert Towne that my wife had given me for Christmas in 1981. In her inscription, she had said she expected me to be writing in Hollywood in five years. She was my ex-wife by this point, of course, but I realized that if I hustled, I still had a chance to make her deadline.

I’d been in Philly for less than three months, and I already knew it wasn’t for me. The only time I liked the city was when I was looking down at it from a plane bound for Los Angeles. Mike Rathet, the Daily News sports editor, was incredibly generous about giving me assignments on the West Coast. I must have made eight or 10 trips there in 18 months. In each of the two holiday seasons that I worked for the News, I spent three weeks in L.A., ensconced in an out-of-the-way hotel where somebody interesting was always in the lobby–Hume Cronyn, Jessica Tandy, James Earl Jones. I heard that Elvis Costello stayed there, too. Lots of rock-and-rollers did. God bless them, because the women they attracted made the rooftop swimming pool the eighth wonder of the world. But I was equally fond of the clerk who greeted me on one of my visits by saying, “Oh, Mr. Schulian, welcome back. Are you filming?” Only in my dreams.

The spoiler was always my return trip to Philadelphia and the low-grade depression that set in the moment my flight touched down. Once again, I would be trapped in a world where the good guys were becoming harder to find. They were still there, of course–the ones with the stories and the one-liners and the moments of insight and reflection–but there were more and more athletes, coaches and executives who were the writers’ enemy and reveled in it.

And so there came a night when John Thompson, the Georgetown basketball coach, decreed that there would be no speaking to his two star players after they had mumbled a couple of forgettable clichés in a post-game press conference. This was in Madison Square Garden after the Hoyas had just beaten Chris Mullin and St. John’s. I marched down the hallway to Georgetown’s locker room, determined to either talk to the kids or get thrown out trying. And then I hit the brakes. Screw it, I told myself. There would be no confrontation with Thompson or that horrible crone he had watching over the team. There would be no more groveling.

I’d spent enough time choking on the cynicism in the press box at wretched Veterans Stadium, too. There wasn’t any place in the country that was its equal for toxicity. While the artificial turf curled like discount-store shag and the paying customers howled for blood, some immensely talented knights of the keyboard entertained themselves by, among other things, mocking a ballplayer with a speech impediment.

What I was sickest of, however, was my own writing. I’d read years before that someone–-I think it was Russell Baker, the New York Times’ op-ed page wit–said you spend your first year as a columnist discovering your voice and the rest of your career trying to get over it. In Philadelphia, where I was new to readers, everything felt old to me -– the anecdotes, the turns of phrase, the choices of column subjects, the striving to establish myself. I’d done it all in Chicago, and the prospect of doing it again felt like a death sentence.

Faulkner in Hollywood

Writing in Hollywood promised to be as different as fiction is from fact. There was a chance it might even be my salvation. That may seem a curious choice of words when you consider the fate of writers far better than I who have washed up on the rocky shoals of the movie and TV business. F. Scott Fitzgerald, who wrote the most beautiful prose America has ever seen, was baffled by screenwriting no matter how hard he worked at it. William Faulkner, weary of executives who thought he was loafing if his typewriter wasn’t clickety-clacking, simply went home to Mississippi and soothed his soul with bourbon. But I couldn’t be scared off by Fitzgerald’s fate, nor could I drink as much as Faulkner. This was about me and no one else. I had to close my eyes and jump.

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Shane Spencer, Kevin Maas, and going back even further, Joe Lefebvre and Sam Militello…still, nice that the kid had a good game yesterday.

Freddy Garcia got lit up but good this afternoon. He gave up seven runs, didn’t make it out of the third, and yet the Yanks were still leading when he went to the showers. That’s cause they put up six runs in the second inning, highlighted by a grand slam from Robinson Cano. It came off the second Orioles pitcher of the day, Chris Jakubauskas, who threw Cano nothing but fastballs. I couldn’t figure it at the time and sure enough, Cano ripped the seventh pitch he saw into the right field bleachers.

The Orioles kept at it–they scored a run off our old pal, Scott Proctor (and yes, the comments section here was alive with mordant humor)–but the Yanks stayed in front thanks to two home runs by Jesus Montero, a solo homer and a two-run shot, both to right field. Couple of curtain calls, the full Monty.

Sometimes they don’t come easily and even Mariano Rivera struggled.

He allowed a run in the ninth and there were runners on second and third when he struck out J.J. Hardy to end the game.

Hey, perfection is overrated. Bottom line, Mo got the save, Yanks got the win.

Exhale, lay back, smile.

Final Score: Yanks 11, O’s 10.

Freddy G. Do it.

Derek Jeter SS
Curtis Granderson CF
Mark Teixeira 1B
Alex Rodriguez 3B
Robinson Cano 2B
Andruw Jones RF
Russell Martin C
Jesus Montero DH
Brett Gardner LF

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

C.C. Sabathia, another fine performance. He left the game with one out in the eighth and the best player in the American League did this to Rafael Soriano. (Never mind that he’s 0-18 against Sabathia.)

But then the Yanks scored a mess-o-runs in the bottom of the inning and sailed to a 9-3 win. Mariano Rivera was warming up in the Yankee bullpen when Nick Swisher hit a two-run home run to make it 7-3. Before the ball landed, Rivera stopped throwing, and headed back into the bullpen clubhouse. Not a wasted movement with that man.

Derek Jeter hit a three-run homer and had 5 RBI in all. Alex Rodriguez added a solo shot–he got jammed and was frustrated with the swing but the ball carried over the right field fence all the same–and Jesus Montero had a couple of hits.

The Red Sox lost. Sabathia has win #19. We are happy.

Meanwhile, after the game, Joe Girardi announced that the Yanks are sticking with a six-man rotation for now.

[Photo Credit: Icekingg]

Hotter, steamier today. Guess summer doesn’t want to end just yet.

And that’s okay with us, because we don’t want this winning streak to end, either.

Fire up the grill and:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

I went to the game today with the wife. Her favorite Yankee is Francisco Cervelli though she didn’t care for his hand-clapping schtick the other night in Boston. When he hit a long line drive in the second inning, I knew off the bat it was headed over the fence. I jumped up and started pushing and grabbing at her. She knew something good was happening though she wished I’d stop shoving her.

Cervelli hit the ball hard four times today and had two hits to show for it. Bartolo Colon was decent, struck out seven, though he wasn’t his usual efficient self. Ricky Romero, on the other hand, kept the Yankees off-balance, but he left the game on a sour note, hitting Curtis Granderson and walking Alex Rodriguez with two men out in the seventh. His day was over but both runs came round to score on a double into the right field gap by Robinson Cano. That put the Yanks ahead for good. Nick Swisher followed with an RBI single, and David Robertson pitched the final two innings for the save. Oh, and Jesus Montero singled passed the shortstop, good for his first big league hit.

There were some Jays fans sitting about ten rows behind us. Two couples, late forties. The two women clapped loudly anytime the Jays did something good. Don’t know why, but they irked the hell out of me and I glared at them a few times. Wouldn’t you know it, with one out and the tying run on second in the ninth inning, they left. Talk about a bunch of Herbs.

Yankee fan, starching-up this afternoon

It was a good day. My favorite moment came in the top of the eighth just as warm-ups ended. When Cervelli threw down to second, Cano fielded the throw and then made like the was shooting a jump shot, and plopped the ball a few feet to his right, over to Eduardo Nunez. Silly moment but I liked it.

Yanks 6, Jays 4.

Time to cool out.

The heat is back. It’s humid and hazy in the Bronx. Thunderstorms this afternoon.

Never mind the sunblock:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Picture by Bags]

First Place Yan-Kees

Clap, Clap, clapclapclap

First Place Yan-Kees

Clap, Clap, clapclapclap

FIRST PLACE YAN-KEES

CLAP, CLAP, clapclapclap

Ivan Nova, stud. Seven strong against a team that can hit. One friggin’ hit after the first inning. ROY? Let’s discuss.

Brett Gardner, come on back to the sunny side of par, baby. We’ve missed you. Two-run bomb to tie it. And the usual sick defense that never takes a day off.

Robinson Cano, DH, game-winning RBI, not bad for your day off. Dude is making the turn around second base on a heckuva career. HOF? Let’s discuss.

Mariano Rivera, the GOAT makes mince meat of MVPs.

Jose Bautista, siddown, sucka.

If that AB didn’t pump blood through your system, you’re following the wrong sport.

It’s September. The Yankees just took two of three up in Fenway. They’re in first place thanks to a brisk 3-2 victory over Toronto. And they control their own destiny from here on in. The weather in New York City was piped in straight from Heaven (or San Diego, depending on your definition of Heaven). The season can go anywhere from here, but man, summer’s ending in a perfect convergence of elements. Step back, drink deep, and smile. The Yankees are back on top. Even if it’s just for one night, it’s my kind of night.

Yanks back home to face the Jays.

Cliff’s got the preview.

Brett Gardner LF
Derek Jeter SS
Curtis Granderson CF
Robinson Cano DH
Nick Swisher 1B
Eric Chavez 3B
Andruw Jones RF
Russell Martin C
Eduardo Nunez 2B

We root:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!