Yanks in Baltimore. Let’s hope the weather holds up.

Let’s not mince woids: Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Picture by Bags]

Well, this is just too cool to pass up.

Diary of a Ladybird via This Isn’t Happiness.

Jack Curry has a piece about how Kevin Long is trying to help Alex Rodriguez:

Long determined the cause of Rodriguez’s struggles, detecting that the third baseman hadn’t been using the lower half of his body to ignite his swing. Rodriguez called it a “disconnect” between his lower and upper body. But what has been especially vexing for Rodriguez, who normally makes rapid adjustments, is that he has labored to make these changes. He knew what to do, but he didn’t do it.

“We’ve diagnosed the problem,” Long said. “It’s vivid. We know what it is. But Alex said there’s been some hesitation. He knows he has to use his legs and he’s telling himself to use his legs. But when it comes time to do it, he hesitates. It’s all about fixing mechanics.”

Rodriguez was so locked-in at the start of the season I have to assume he’s not been entirely healthy since his oblique injury. Man, it’s a beautiful, elegant swing. Just shows how hard baseball is even for the greats. He’s just that much off, and that much is the difference between great and average.

Rodriguez has six years left on his contract after this year. I just don’t see his body holding up that long, do you? And if he can’t swing like he’s accustomed to is he the sort of player who can change his game and still find some success?

By John Schulian

THE GAME THAT DEFINED ME

I loved playing baseball beyond reason and certainly beyond my talent level. I was never a natural athlete and I was never the best player on any team I was on, but I was a dogged son of a bitch. I got my teeth on that bone and I wouldn’t let go until I was able to do it on my terms. To be honest, if we had stayed in L.A., I’m not sure I would have been able to play as long as I did. Most likely I would have been bowled over by the competition and either been a benchwarmer or just some dreamer sitting in the stands. But Salt Lake was a different story. There were some wonderful ballplayers there, guys who played pro ball and even one from my era-–the Mets’ George Theodore-–who played in the majors, but there weren’t so many of them that I couldn’t compete.

The question was finding a position to play. All through Little League and Cops League, I’d been a third baseman and an outfielder and, just once, a shortstop who almost killed his amigo the second baseman when we were turning a double play in infield practice. (Did I tell you I had a hell of a throwing arm? If you don’t believe me, ask my amigo about the time I almost threw a ball through him.) When it was time to try out for Babe Ruth League, however, there were lots of third basemen and outfielders who were just as good as I was. Our coach was the first truly hard man I ever met, an ex-minor league catcher who could be irascible, profane, quick to throw a punch even if it cost him a job. But when he sensed how desperately I needed baseball and the identity it gavee me, his better self emerged. He asked if I wanted to try my hand at catching. I said yes, and he proceeded to give me the kind of education at the position that kids today take for granted and kids of my generation almost never got. He taught me how to shift behind the plate, how to block low pitches, how to throw properly, how to flash signs to the pitcher without having them stolen, how to catch pop-ups-–and it was a rare kid catcher in those days who could catch one. He spun me round in circles as he hit me pop-ups that first day and I dropped a bunch of the. After that, I never dropped another.

The coach’s name was Pete Radulovich. He was the first of many people who would give me a break that somehow changed my life for the better. I put him right there with Pat Ryan, who gave me my first assignment at Sports Illustrated, and Steven Bochco, who gave me a shot at Hollywood even though I’d never written a script. Pete’s eldest son, Steve, was the second baseman I almost decapitated in Cops League. We played ball together from the time we were 14 until we were 22, and we still stay in touch. I had dinner with him in Las Vegas, where he lives, a year or so ago, and he said that when his dad was in his final years and they were talking about baseball, his dad said that one of the things that made him proudest was that I’d become such a good catcher. I’ve lived a long time and I’ve had a decent share of success, but that really made me proud. Pete didn’t throw around a lot of compliments.

I did better than all right in high school and American Legion ball and got a baseball scholarship to the University of Utah. The biggest thrill I had was in the state Legion tournament in 1962. We were the Cinderella team and we were playing the juggernaut that had won the high school championship. It was a bad night to run out of pitching, but we did, and we got clobbered. But I had a couple of hits, threw out a couple of runners, and picked another off second base. Afterwards, this guy with a big cigar comes out of the stands and says, “I’m John McGurk of the Boston Red Sox. You caught a big league game tonight. I’m going to keep my eye on you.” Swear to god, this really happened. I didn’t need a ride home after that. I could have floated.

Pete Radulovich

Click here for Part I and here for Part II.

[Painting by Roger Patrick]

The good folks at Deadspin have reprinted Bruce Buschel’s 1993 profile of Lenny “Nails” Dykstra. The story originally appeared in Philadelphia Magazine and was later collected in The Best American Sports Writing 1994.

I am enjoying this bit of graf that is on display all over town. I caught this one on 28th street over the weekend.

I remember once seeing a liquor ad on the uptown platform of the 79th street IRT subway station. There was a woman in a bikini lying in a giant martini glass. Someone wrote on it, “What does this woman have to do with this ad?” I pictured an angry young feminist not being able to contain herself.

The next day,written in chicken scrawl next to this question came a reply. “Hot pussy.”

That about covered it.

And it hurts…

[Photo Credit: New York Shitty]

Can it be any good? There have been Tintin movies before but this one is from Peter Jackson and Steven Spielberg.

Here’s hoping…

Over at SI.com I’ve got a 30-minute podcast interview George Vecsey about his new Stan Musial biography.

Dig it…(There is no direct hyperlink to the interview, just go to May, 2011 and you’ll find it there.)

Alex Rodriguez fouled off a 2-0 fastball right over the plate in his second at bat against James Shields tonight, didn’t even put a good swing on it. When Rodriguez is hitting well, he crushes that pitch. Shields didn’t mince around and came at Rodriguez with nothing but fastballs, but with the count 3-2 he tried to get fancy and sneak a change up past Rodriguez. “He did him a favor,” said Al Leiter on the YES broadcast after Rodriguez hit a long home run into the left field seats. Rodriguez hit another homer, this one to straight away center, in his next at bat, a sight for sore eyes indeed. Jorge Posada added a couple of hits, Brett Gardner had three, and both Derek Jeter and Chris Dickerson had RBI singles.

Ivan Nova allowed one run. When he got into trouble David Robertson came to the rescue and when Robertson got in trouble, Joba Chamberlain rescued him. By the time the 9th rolled around the Yanks had a five-run lead and so Mariano Rivera, who had been warming up, sat down and Amauri Sanit came in. Sanit got a couple of outs but then walked a man and allowed a run-scoring double. So Mo saved him, though not the game, got Johnny Damon to ground out to first, and that, as they say, was that.

Final Score: Yanks 6, Rays 2.

And we’z heppy kets.

James Shields tonight. Soriano to the DL. Chris Dickerson called up.

Yanks in need of a “W.” Doesn’t matter how they get it, does it?

Derek Jeter SS
Curtis Granderson CF
Mark Teixeira 1B
Alex Rodriguez 3B
Robinson Cano 2B
Russell Martin C
Jorge Posada DH
Brett Gardner LF
Chris Dickerson RF

We’re discouraged but we’re still here.

Never mind the apathy:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit By Raumskaya]

Well this is just about the funniest site you’ll come across in a long time.

Believe it.

[Photo Credit: Gintare Dainelyte]

A sad day for Twins fans and the baseball community, as legendary slugger Harmon Killebrew passed away this morning at 74, from esophageal cancer.

Personally, Killebrew was on the down side of his career by the time I got into baseball, but I still vividly remember the Yankees yearbooks of the early 70s featuring pictures of the Twins masher as part of their “Visiting Stars”.

For what it was worth, Killebrew compiled a line of .239/.333/.455 with 22 homers in 121 career games at Yankee Stadium.

May he rest in peace.

(Over at SI.com, Steve Rushin has a nice obit.)

The Yankees are a mediocre team right now and are dealing with the inevitable ugliness of their aging core. Jorge Posada is the first on the firing line, and Derek Jeter, who came to his friend’s defense, is next. Yesterday, team executives met with Jeter.

Tyler Kepner has a good piece on the latest behind-the-scenes business today in the Times:

The Yankees could have publicly ignored Jeter’s all-is-well stance on Sunday. But to do so would have let his words hang there as the official record of the Yankee captain’s stance on quitting. And if the captain were to condone a player bailing on his teammates and fans … well, then what?

…They were not afraid of further angering Posada, because they knew he was wrong — and, ultimately, he knew it, too. And they were not afraid of taking on Jeter, who clearly gave up his bulletproof status when he signed his new contract last off-season.

It was all to prove a point: that a player cannot quit on his team and expect the team to pretend everything is fine. It was a teaching moment for everybody, from aspiring young players to veterans like Posada and Jeter. Someone, it turns out, actually reads those hokey signs in spring training.

Heading into the bottom of the sixth, the Yankees looked to be in firm control of tonight’s game with the division-leading Tampa Rays. Curtis Granderson had drilled a deep three-run home run off ace David Price and increased the Yankee lead to four runs, 5-1. A.J. Burnett had allowed only three hits and walk and, while not dominating, was in fine form.

In the bottom of the sixth, the Rays struck quickly like a sunburst. A double and home run by slim Sam Fuld tightened the score. Burnett has been pitching to terrible support this year, with the bullpen, defense and offense all taking turns abandoning him. Sometimes all in the same game. When Derek Jeter couldn’t circle a soft grounder to end the sixth, Burnett must have thought, “Screw it, I’ll do it myself.”

After a series of bad pitches and solid contact, the Rays were within one with B.J. Upton at the plate. Burnett’s mechanics were shot and his head was who-knows-where. He whipped a perfectly normal looking fastball three feet into the opposite batter’s box. Uh-oh. Instead of calling for a conference on the mound or a relief pitcher, the Yankees let A.J. straighten himself out. He did just that, straightening out a curve ball on the next pitch. Upton scrabbled it. B trumped A as the J’s cancelled each other out.

What’s so striking about the wild pitch in replay is that Burnett doesn’t stumble, or jerk his arm or even appear to have a major problem with his slot or release point. He just lined up his body to throw it that far outside. Like a “hit-the-bull” moment, without the purpose. At that point in the game, with a parade of red flags trotting around the bases already that inning, I don’t know how you let him throw the next pitch without someone going out there to help him clear his head.

So Burnett had a stinker of an inning; he was entitled given how badly his team has played for him lately. The Yankees trailed by one run and had three big innings left. They went down nine in a row and saw a total of 31 pitches. Even that paltry number is deceiving because rookie Eduardo Nunez worked a ten-pitch at bat to start the seventh. The next eight batters saw 21 pitches. Derek Jeter, Alex Rodriguez, Robinson Cano and Nick Swisher saw five pitches combined and not one of them even had the courtesy to take a good hack. The game effectively ended on Upton’s home run, 6-5 Rays.

A long losing streak is always a combination of deficiencies and bad timing. Viewed in a close up, it seems the bats quit on the pitcher once he blew their lead. But in the wide angle, I doubt this is the case. They all wanted to hit the home run that tied the game, hence the first pitch swinging and over-aggressiveness when the opposite was needed. The result is the same – inept offense, but at least their hearts were in the right place.

I will stop short of saying they just need a big hit or a strong pitching performance and everything will be OK. That might end the losing streak, but one-night heroics won’t turn a decent team into a great team. Right now they’re looking up at decent.

It ain’t that bad, chum. Cliff’s got the preview.

Never mind the pity party:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Oh, Ursula. What an exotic-looking beauty. And what a name: Ursual Andress.

Man, John Derek must have been one smooth sombitch, huh?

One Isn’t the Loneliest Number

By John Schulian

Somehow I survived the constant moves and my social backwardness. When I went back to East as a junior and senior, I found a comfort level that I’d never had before. I played baseball and football, got good enough grades, wrote for the school newspaper, emceed the farewell assembly my senior year, and had friends, the best of whom I’m still in touch with all these years later. By some wonderful twist of fate, I’d landed in a public high school that had all the qualities prep schools charge $20,000 and $30,000 a year for today. Great teachers cared about you and pushed you. I had a U.S. history teacher who actually got me to spend one Christmas vacation working on a paper for her class. I got an A on it, too. I’ll bet 90 or 95 percent of the class of 1963 went on to college of some kind. The best and brightest went to schools like Yale and Columbia and Berkeley. I, like most everybody else, just moved down the street to the Univesity of Utah.

Looking back, I’m amazed at what an innocent time it was. Maybe it was the last innocent time. A couple of years later, it seemed like half the kids who’d been underclassmen when I was at East were drinking and screwing and raising all kinds of hell. (No drugs yet, however. You have to remember this is Salt Lake I’m talking about.) My class, on the other hand, was tame in the extreme. There was a small group that boogied until they puked, but the vast majority seemed to get their high from sugar and make-out sessions. Me, I went to Utah basketball games and hung out in poolrooms with some buddies who were as inspired by “The Hustler” as I was. Never had a date, I’m embarrassed to say. I came close with a long-haired girl who reminded me of Audrey Hepburn–I even walked her home a couple of times–but I was still too damn shy. Graduation night, a friend from the football team and I–he was the good fullback, I was the other fullback–went to a Coast League baseball game instead of the dance. But a terrific girl (not Audrey Hepburn) came up and kissed me as I was on my way out the door. She may not remember it, but I do. It was a lovely moment.

The biggest thing about bouncing around the way I did as a kid was that I learned to never be afraid of solitude. I was pretty self-sufficient emotionally before I was self-sufficient in the sense of being able to actually take care of myself. If there was a high-school dance, I’d hang around the house until 8:30 or 9, then walk over to the neighborhood variety store and look through the magazines and paperbacks. (I had a driver’s license but no car; the car wouldn’t come until I was a sophomore in college.) That’s how I discovered “Rabbit Run” by John Updike. I read the first page and thought it was about basketball. Let’s just say I had a rude awakening when I bought it and read the second page, and the third, and so on. I made it all the way through, eventually. But it wasn’t until years later that I read “Rabbit Run” again and finally realized what it was about.

Maybe the ability to entertain yourself comes with being an only child. It just seemed natural to me. Lots of days there wasn’t anybody around to play with me, so I’d dream up something on my own. Or I’d turn on my little table radio and listen to Mutual’s Game of the Day or, when I was living in L.A., the Hollywood Stars’ baseball game. I listened to a lot of music on the radio, too. Not just Elvis, either, though he was the coolest thing going. I found myself, at the age of 10 or 11, attracted to black music. There were two disc jockeys in L.A.–Hunter Hancock on KPOP and Johnny Otis on KFOX–who played nothing but black music, and there I was, this blond, blue-eyed kid utterly mesmerized by Sam Cooke and Jackie Wilson and a guy named Sonny Knight, who had a hit with a song called “Confidential.” It was as though I considered this black music an antidote to the Pat Boone 45 my mother gave me as a birthday present. (Pat Boone singing Little Richard? For the love of God, Mom!) There was that incredible mix of Saturday night and Sunday morning in the music-–saxophones straight out of whorehouses and voices right from the choir. I can tell you for sure that I was the only kid in my neighborhood who made Ivory Joe Hunter’s “Since I Met You Baby” the first 45 he bought. Only later did I hear the influence of country music on the song, so in addition to being proof that I loved my rhythm and blues as a child, I was harboring the inner hillbilly who would emerge later.

Click here for Part One of From Ali to Xena…