I knew sooner or later I would have to write about a Mariano loss. When Mariano comes into a game, I turn on the recorder, I turn off the TV and I wait 30 minutes. Then, I check the score, and if he has blown it, I lose it. I don’t lose it out loud anymore, and I don’t act out. But my hands are shaking with anger as I pound the remote control buttons to delete the recording and stew around for hours because I’m too upset to sleep. The days following are tough, and I’d rather do anything than talk about and read about baseball, but you know you can’t avoid it in this day and age. There’s an angry buzz on the subway the next day. Plus the barely contained glee from the Yankee haters. A Mo loss is like a straightjacket for me. The only thing that brings me back is reminding myself (over and over) that he’s already moved past it in time for the next game.

Before Mariano got involved, the Yanks could not get their feet straight tonight and it cost them another very winnable game. Four times awkward footwork turned plays against them and it’s possible all four plays had an impact on runs crossing the plate. Bad AJ showed up briefly to groove four or five fastballs in the sixth and the Rangers bullpen wriggled out of some jams that the Yanks bullpen couldn’t and lost a really tough game 4-3 in ten innings.

The first foot fault, and probably least hurtful, happened when Josh Hamilton skied to center for the first out of the bottom of the fourth. Michael Young liked his chances to take second on Gardner, but I thought Gardner had it lined up perfectly to prevent the extra base. Either he didn’t know Young was tagging or he doesn’t have a lot of confidence in his arm, because he took a loping crow hop before firing the ball in. Young was safe easily. I thought an aggressive throw would have either kept Young at first or nailed him at second. He may have scored anyway on the two out double that followed, but at least the Yanks would have had a slim chance to hold him or make a play at the plate if he was starting from first.

(more…)

Over at ESPN, dig this on AJ Burnett:

He has eight starts this year where he has given the Yankees less than a 10 percent chance to win, and eight starts where he has given his team at least an 80 percent chance for victory. Amazingly, in every single one of his starts, he has given the Yankees at least a 69 percent chance of winning OR less than a 34 percent chance. Not one start in between.

Blue Note week continues.

This one is a favorite…

It wasn’t too long after Cliff started writing at the Banter that we realized our constrasting styles worked well together.

“You guys are like peanut butter and jelly,” said Steve Goldman. When I told this to Cliff he corrected the analogy, “More like peanut butter and chocolate.”

Say word.

Dig this nice letter by a Michael Ebner in the Metropolitan Diary today:

As we were threading our way through crowded streets, I realized that we had approached the site of the former Polo Grounds, longtime home of the New York Giants. I regaled the cabby with recollections of attending ball games there — with my grandfather, father, and brother — some 50 years ago.

Suddenly he veered off topic, asking me how much time I had before my flight. Learning that I had more than three hours, he shut off the meter and parked the cab (in a no-parking zone). Together we walked around the housing complex in the vicinity of center field known as Polo Grounds Towers.

He particularly wanted me to see the commemorative sign, on a patch of lawn, noting that this housing complex once was the home of the Giants. Reflecting later on this spontaneous experience, it occurred to me that this was the only time in my 68 years that I had actually stood on the field of play in a major-league ballpark.

Over at SI.com, Tim Marchman asks if the Tampa Bay Rays are unusually prone to being no-hit?

Tampa Bay’s hitters are good, but they have a flaw: They are, essentially, a take-and-rake lineup. The team rates fifth in the American League in on-base percentage, but fourth from the bottom in batting average. They lead the league in both walks and strikeouts as a percentage of plate appearances, and are fourth-worst in both groundball-to-flyball ratio and line drive percentage. Basically they draw walks, hit for extra bases and otherwise beat the ball into he ground, which is essentially what you would be looking for in a team especially liable to being dominated on a given afternoon.

Additionally, their home park is possibly the worst in baseball for the base hit. Tropicana Field has reduced base hits by about 11 percent compared to an average park this year; the Rays and their opponents have hit .256 away from Tampa Bay this year, but just .238 at the Trop. The only worse park for the base hit in the majors has been the Oakland Coliseum.

Tony Judt, the intellectual historian, passed away on Sunday of ALS. Judt wrote a series of poignant essays about living with ALS for the New York Review of Books.

From Night:

This cockroach-like existence is cumulatively intolerable even though on any given night it is perfectly manageable. “Cockroach” is of course an allusion to Kafka’s Metamorphosis, in which the protagonist wakes up one morning to discover that he has been transformed into an insect. The point of the story is as much the responses and incomprehension of his family as it is the account of his own sensations, and it is hard to resist the thought that even the best-meaning and most generously thoughtful friend or relative cannot hope to understand the sense of isolation and imprisonment that this disease imposes upon its victims. Helplessness is humiliating even in a passing crisis—imagine or recall some occasion when you have fallen down or otherwise required physical assistance from strangers. Imagine the mind’s response to the knowledge that the peculiarly humiliating helplessness of ALS is a life sentence (we speak blithely of death sentences in this connection, but actually the latter would be a relief).

Morning brings some respite, though it says something about the lonely journey through the night that the prospect of being transferred to a wheelchair for the rest of the day should raise one’s spirits! Having something to do, in my case something purely cerebral and verbal, is a salutary diversion—if only in the almost literal sense of providing an occasion to communicate with the outside world and express in words, often angry words, the bottled-up irritations and frustrations of physical inanition.

The best way to survive the night would be to treat it like the day. If I could find people who had nothing better to do than talk to me all night about something sufficiently diverting to keep us both awake, I would search them out. But one is also and always aware in this disease of the necessary normalcy of other people’s lives: their need for exercise, entertainment, and sleep. And so my nights superficially resemble those of other people. I prepare for bed; I go to bed; I get up (or, rather, am got up). But the bit between is, like the disease itself, incommunicable.

I suppose I should be at least mildly satisfied to know that I have found within myself the sort of survival mechanism that most normal people only read about in accounts of natural disasters or isolation cells. And it is true that this disease has its enabling dimension: thanks to my inability to take notes or prepare them, my memory—already quite good—has improved considerably, with the help of techniques adapted from the “memory palace” so intriguingly depicted by Jonathan Spence. But the satisfactions of compensation are notoriously fleeting. There is no saving grace in being confined to an iron suit, cold and unforgiving. The pleasures of mental agility are much overstated, inevitably—as it now appears to me—by those not exclusively dependent upon them. Much the same can be said of well-meaning encouragements to find nonphysical compensations for physical inadequacy. That way lies futility. Loss is loss, and nothing is gained by calling it by a nicer name. My nights are intriguing; but I could do without them.

May he rest in peace.

If we’re to believe Professors Hershiser, Morgan, and Miller, this was a successful weekend for the Boston Red Sox.  Or it was a successful weekend for the New York Yankees.  By only splitting the four-game season in the Bronx, the Sox leave town with the same six-game deficit they brought with them, and since the Rays have been scuffling as well, the Yankees are still two games up in the division — never a bad thing.

The disappointing thing, though, is that this game could easily have gone the other way.  Phil Hughes had a bit of trouble in the second inning, giving up two runs on a handful of stolen bases and infield singles, but then recovered nicely.  Aside from a two-out double in the fifth surrendered to Victor Martínez, Hughes was perfect the rest of the way.  He fell victim to his high pitch count and left after six innings, but Kerry Wood, Boone Logan, and Joba Chamberlain held down the Sox hitters over the final three innings, giving the Yankees three different chances to win in the later innings.

Jon Lester was almost unhittable for most of the afternoon, not faltering until the seventh inning when Jorge Posada opened the frame with a ground ball single to left field.  Marcus Thames came up next and smoked a rocket towards the bullpen in right center field.  The game hung in the balance for just as long as it took the ball to fly from Thames’s bat to the very tip of the wall.  Another inch — seriously — and it would’ve scraped over the wall, tying the game at two, but the fence held the ball in, gently dropping it onto the warning track in front of Jacoby Ellsbury.  On the radio broadcast John Sterling and Suzyn Waldman went on and on about the terrible bit of bad luck that had just kept the Yanks from evening the score, but it’s not like they were in bad shape with men on second and third and no one out.  Five pitchers later things looked even better as Lester plunked Austin Kearns to load the bases.  With Curtis Granderson, Derek Jeter, and Nick Swisher lying in wait, the game would surely be tied at the very least.

But it didn’t happen that way.  Lester muscled up to strike out Granderson and was relieved by flame thrower Daniel Bard who dismissed Jeter and Swisher on six high octane fastballs.  Threat over.

Mark Teixeira led off the eighth with big home run off of the same Mr. Bard who had been unhittable only moments earlier, and when Alex Rodríguez followed that with a single, things were suddenly interesting again.  But then Mr. Girardi entered the fray.  Now, even though I was a bit critical of his performance in Sunday night’s game, I don’t usually criticize Girardi — or any other manager, for that matter.  But there’s one habit Girardi has that drives me absolutely crazy.  He loves to pinch run, and it doesn’t matter a bit who’s coming out of the game.  So when A-Rod, singled and reached base as the potential tying run, Girardi pulled him in favor of Brett Gardner.  First of all, I love Brett Gardner.  Love him.  And I understand that he’s a walking stolen base, but I have two huge problems with Girardi’s line of thinking.  First, by running Gardner, you’re essentially playing for a tie.  This is fine, except that you’ve just removed one of your best hitters, a hitter who otherwise might’ve helped you win the game when his spot comes around again.  Second, it’s not like you’re running for Jorge Posada; A-Rod can steal a bag.  Gardner then added to my frustration by staying anchored to first for the first five pitches of Robinson Canó’s at bat.  He finally ran as Canó grounded out to second, putting him in scoring position, but if you’re going to pinch run Gardner in that spot, shouldn’t you send him to first base with explicit directions to run early in the count so that Canó, Posada, and Thames would each have an opportunity to drive in the tying run?  But what do I know?

Now back to the actual game.  After Posada walked, Lance Berkman hit for Thames and popped out to left for the second out, then Jonathan Papelbon came on to retire Austin Kearns on one pitch.  Another threat over.

True to form, the Yankees mustered one final rally in the ninth inning when Jeter walked with one out and stole second, but Papelbon wrapped it up by striking out Swisher and Teixeira.  Red Sox 2, Yankees 1.

The most impressive Jon Lester–who has struggled recently, not winning a game since before the All-Star Break–goes against Phil Hughes today at the Stadium. It’s a “must-win” for Boston.

Here’s hoping the Yanks can foil ’em.

Go git ’em, boys.

I tried this recipe for summer squarsh carpaccio a few days ago and it was really lovely.

From Rachel Ray…

[Photo Credit: Last Night’s Dinner]

No, you don’t have to be a Gay man to love Mildred Pierce. This film noir is one of my wife’s favorites–a Lifetime movie as high pop art. Based on the novel by James M. Cain, good, old-fashioned Hollywood melodrama–featuring the most ungrateful daughter in screen history–has rarely looked this sharp:

There was a cool article about a series of new Blue Note 45 reissues in the Times yesterday:

There are two kinds of obsessive record collectors: those who buy original pressings of rare old LPs because they’re rare and old, and those who buy them because they sound good.

In the jazz world one record label has attained near-mystical status among the antiquarians and the audiophiles: Blue Note, especially the albums released in its heyday, from 1955 to ’67.

So many of those Blue Note records were bumpin’. And the cover art, well, could not be beat. Starting tomorrow, we’ll host a two-for-one Afternoon Art/Beat of the Day feature. But for today, just dig this boss cover:

Peace to Chyll Will for hipping me to this most gifted dude:

Josh Beckett and AJ Burnett were all set for a Sunday Night Red Ass Bake-Off but Burnett has “tightness in his back” and has been replaced by Dustin “FBI Agent Alonzo” Mosley. Burnett is now scheduled to pitch Tuesday; Phil Hughes will go tomorrow afternoon.

Meanwhile, Lance Berkman is handling the Bronx Cheer in stride. According to Chad Jennings:

“Trust me, I’m booing myself,” [Lance Berkman] said. “I have no credibility here… I didn’t come up here to catch a break. I came up here to play well and win.”

…“As long as it’s not my wife or kids, I’m fine with it,” he said. “This is a big boy’s game and place to play, and if you can’t handle that, go home.”

I think the Big Puma is going to bust-out shortly…

Alex Rodriguez is penciled into the line-up though that is subject to change.

Yanks going for their second-straight win:

Let’s Go Yan-kees.

[Photo Credit: Food Network]

This just in: Brandon Morrow is a Stud. Had a no-hitter going in the ninth inning today against the Rays. Morrow lost the no-no but won the game, 1-0. His line–nine innings, one hit, two walks, seventeen strikeouts.  Woof.

Here’s a piece my pal Rich Lederer had on Morrow not too long ago.

Saw this linked over at the Think Factory–a documentary is in the works about Dick Allen. This could be most cool.

Actually, the sun is nowhere to be found this morning in the Bronx. But here’s Glenn Gould playing Bach–The Goldberg Variations, 1-7. A nice way to start the day:

Victor Martinez led off the second inning on Saturday afternoon at Yankee Stadium and CC Sabathia fell behind him, 3-1. On the Fox broadcast, Tim McCarver said that Martinez was probably looking for a fastball on the inside part of the plate. When Sabathia delivered just that, Martinez hit a home run over the left field fence. Adrian Beltre doubled and then Mike Lowell doubled Beltre home.

But that was the only scoring the Red Sox would do as Sabathia pitched eight innings and the Yankees beat the Red Sox, 5-2. Sabathia fell behind hitters in the early innings but found his way, throwing more off-speed stuff than gas. He had some help from the home plate umpire, Jerry Layne, who called some wide strikes, particularly to David Ortiz.

Perhaps the late afternoon shadows gave Layne as much trouble as it seemed to be giving the hitters. The Yanks tied the score in the bottom of the second when Curtis Granderson tripled home Lance Berkman and then Ramiro Pena, a last minute replacement for Alex Rodriguez who was accidentally struck by a line drive off the bat of Berkman during batting practice, grounded out but collected an RBI (Rodriguez is day-to-day).

Then, John Lackey went to work and looked impressive. The shadows were looking especially tough as Lackey cruised through the first two batters in the bottom of the fifth. But then four straight singles–Swisher, Teixiera, Cano and Posada–gave the Yanks the lead (man, does Cano ever look good swinging the bat these days). Pena’s RBI single in the sixth was the cherry on top. Mariano Rivera pitched a 1-2-3 ninth and the Yankees’ lead over Boston is back to six. Even better, the Bombers gained a game on the Rays, who were blitzed by the Jays this afternoon, 17-11.

So, for the moment, my nerves have settled. Curtis Granderson had a couple of hits, Pena had a nice game (despite making an error and looking uncomfortable at third), and even though Berkman went hitless, and got booed as a result, I think it’s just a matter of time before Fat Elvis starts hitting.

This was a game the Yanks had to have. AJ Burnett is on the hill tomorrow night and that won’t fill Yankee fans with confidence, but who knows? Maybe Burnett goes out and throws a gem. Hope is the thing with feathers, said Emily D. And that’s word to Todd Drew.

[Photo Credit: Mike Stobe/Getty Images]

Yanks, Sox: Lackey, Sabathia.

Do it.

[Picture by Bags]

Good piece by Pat Jordan on Dale Earnhardt, Jr in the New York Times Magazine this week:

Earnhardt and I were sitting on the sofa talking; his publicist sat on another sofa. We talked for two hours, while his publicist fidgeted, casting expectant glances at us. Earnhardt said nobody calls him Junior or Little E anymore, except his fans. “That’s off my back,” he said. He looked down at his hands while he talked. When I asked him why he races, he said: “I didn’t want to work for a living. What the hell am I gonna do with my life as Dale Earnhardt’s son if I don’t race? I was a mechanic in Dad’s dealership at 18, and those were some of my happiest days. But my name was Dale Earnhardt Jr., man. Working as a mechanic would’ve been a real pain. People saying: ‘What happened to you? You’re Dale Earnhardt’s son.’ ”

…What has been the hardest thing for him to deal with in his career?

He stared at his hands and said: “All my life I’ve been the smaller measure of the man. When my Dad died, I wanted to honor him. But I wanted to distance myself from him too. I wanted to get out from under being Dale Earnhardt’s son.”