Curtis Granderson in left? He’s game.

Here’s more from George King and Ben Shpigel.

If Frank Thomas isn’t a Hall of Famer, writes Joe Posnanski, who is?

The Big Hurt is the best player in White Sox history adds Tom Verducci.

Lady Writing a Letter with Her Maid, by Johannes Vermeer (1670-1671).

As requested by longtime Banterite, Ms. October, here’s a week of rap tunes and the songs they sampled.

First up, let’s segue from last week’s New Orleans tribute with the following funk:

Original:

Flipped:

Dick Francis, another one of my Old Man’s favorite writers, is dead. The name felt special to me as a kid. Dick Francis. I can’t explain why, exactly. Maybe it was the two first names. It sounded sure, terse, precisely what amystery writer’s name was supposed to sound like. I didn’t know that he was British until years later. What I recall were the book covers–the Dick Francis paperbacks in the Old Man’s library all had horses on them, or something to do with horse racing and robberies. I didn’t understand how horses figured with stealing only that they’d make a good getaway vehicle.  

Here’s the obit in the Times.

I’ve never had a cup of coffee in my life. Tried an espresso a few times and when I was waiting tables one of my fellow waiters occasionally me cappuccinos with chocolate sauce, but I’ve never had a regular cup of Joe. Never saw any reason to because for as long as I can remember, I’ve been a three-cup-a-day tea drinker (breakfast, tea time, and in the evening). Okay, three times a day for 35 years is pushing it, but that’s my routine more often than not.

I’m no tea connoisseur–I use tea bags more than loose tea and I don’t regulate the temperature of the water as some tea fanatics do–but I can’t abide horrible tea either. I like PG Tips and Barry’s but my favorite black tea is called Awake, made by Tazo. It’s my morning tea (I generally have Earl Grey in the afternoon, herbal tea in the evening) and a damned good one. I usually have it with just milk, sometimes with honey, sometimes with no milk but honey and lemon.

Anyhow, it does me good. Sometimes, people are surprised that I’ve never had a cup of coffee. So…Is there anything out there that you’ve never tried that seems so common?

The Lovers, by Pablo Picasso (1923)

Anthony McCarron has a nice, long profile on Jesus Montero in today’s Daily News:

Montero, rated as the fifth-best prospect in the game by Baseball America, might be the best hitter in the minor leagues, a player who swings his way to Yankee Stadium before his defense can catch up.

“His bat may not be too far from the big leagues,” says a rival baseball executive, who spoke on condition of anonymity because he was evaluating a player in another organization. “But they’ll have to decide his position. Jesus has a chance to be a very, very big hitter. He reminds me of Carlos Delgado at that age.

“When you have a guy who hits that well, you may want to get him out of there even if he can’t catch.”

Be interesting to see if the Yanks keep this kid around.

[Photo Credit: Noah K. Murray]

Heppy Valentine’s Daze

[Photo Credit: Juroca]

So? Are you watching any of this?

The Mrs. is at the edge of her seat. She loves the winter olympics. Me? I’m amused that she’s so worked up.

Here’s just a quickie to chew on as I travel back to the Big City today.

Neyer-Hughes and the Storyline that Keeps Giving.

Up in Vermont for a few days. There’s hardly any snow on the ground but there is plenty of sky. Big Sky. It’s intimidating at first. Then, captivating. You can see the stars at night up here.  I can’t remember the last time I looked into the sky at night as saw so many stars.

It was sunny today and cold. Starting in the early afternoon, I sat in front of a fire and looked out at Lake Champlain. Now, it’s late and the fire is still going so look at this:

My old painting buddy Kevin used to sigh in admiration and tell me, “Man, Modigliani painted the best babes.”

The One:

Ah-Two

Tres

Salute, New Orleans. Have a Happy Weekend…

Over at The Hardball Times, I feature a regular column detailing the history and origins of baseball nicknames. Since the Yankees have had their share of nicknames over their long history, it seems appropriate to highlight a few of the more memorable monikers in this space. So to start things off, and with apologies to the “Iron Horse,” the “Commerce Comet,” and “Mr. October,” here are five of my most favorite Yankee nicknames:

Phil Rizzuto: Whether it was as a ballplayer or as a broadcaster, who could not love a nickname like “The Scooter?” Rizzuto’s small physical stature, particularly his short legs, contributed to this label. While still in the minor leagues, veteran infielder Billy Hitchcock took note of Rizzuto’s fielding and running style and said to him, “Man, you’re not running, you’re scooting.” Hitchcock’s characterization caught on almost immediately, with teammates happily calling Rizzuto “Scooter.” For his part, Rizzuto loved the nickname. “It’s the best thing that ever happened to me,” Rizzuto once told Stephen Borelli of USA Today. “It could have been some other name they could have called me.” “Scooting” seemed to work for Rizzuto. He became one of the game’s best fielding shortstops of the 1940s and early fifties, eventually earning election to the Hall of Fame in 1994.

George Selkirk: The outfielder who had the misfortune of succeeding Babe Ruth in right field, Selkirk also had a distinctive way of running with his weight pressed onto the balls of his feet. Some of his teammates with the minor league Newark Bears of the International League noticed this tendency and dubbed him “Twinkletoes.” (And once you’ve got a nickname like that, you’re never getting rid of it.) The nickname followed him to the major leagues, where Selkirk established himself as a solid hitter for average who also drew plenty of walks. From 1936 to 1942, Twinkletoes played for six American League pennant winners and five world championship teams.

Walt Williams: Williams’ two Yankee seasons of 1974 and ‘75 coincided with the lost years at Shea Stadium, but “No Neck” made a stirring impression on those who followed the team during the lean years. The nickname perfectly described the head-and-shoulders region of Williams, a fireplug of an outfielder who also played for the White Sox and Indians. From a distance, Williams appeared to have no neck, his head seemingly sitting on his collarbone. The descriptive name was the brainchild of journeyman catcher John Bateman, one of Williams’ teammates during his first major league stop with the Houston Colt .45s. Along with a fitting nickname, No Neck Williams brought some color to his various major league stops He ate hamburgers voraciously, ala “Wimpy” in the old “Popeye” cartoons, and liked to cover his body in Vaseline both before and after games. Williams felt that it would be good for his skin, even if it did nothing to elongate his neck.

Jimmy Wynn: This underrated outfielder spent only part of one season in the Bronx, but his nickname, “The Toy Cannon,” is too good to pass up. At five feet, nine inches tall and 170 pounds, Wynn hardly struck the pose of a prototypical power hitter. Originally a prospect with the Astros, Wynn soon proved that appearances can be deceiving. Wynn hit with such remarkable power, even in a hitter’s bone yard like the old Astrodome, that a contingent of Astros fans began referring to him as “The Toy Cannon.” Whenever I hear the nickname, an image comes to mind of Wynn pulling a toy cannon by a string, as he slowly walks from the on-deck circle to the batter’s box. It’s a strange image to say the least, but it says something about the powerful connotations that come with such a visual nickname. The nickname was fully in place by the time that the Yankees signed the aging Wynn as a free agent in 1977. It’s just too bad that the Yankees hadn’t brought him to town sooner, when he was putting up big numbers and playing terrific defense for the Astros and the Dodgers.

(more…)

Untitled, by Mark Rothko (circa 1950s)

So you didn’t think we were going to make it through the week without hearing from these guys, did you?

Times Two:

The first time I visited London, my father’s friend made me a proper Irish Breakfast–bacon, eggs, grilled tomatoes, toast. And he served it with a bottle of Daddies sauce. It tasted like a thicker, sweeter version of A-1. I didn’t realize until later that Daddies was a knock-off of the more popular HP sauce. Being the sucker for conidments that I am, I love ’em both, though it’s much easier to find HP.

You can get Daddies at the wonderful British food shop, Myers of Keswick, a Greenwich Village institution.

From a recent BP chat, our old pal, Jay Jaffe:

Nick Stone (New York, NY): How do you see the Marcus Thames/Randy Winn/Jamie Hoffman situation shaking out? Do Thames and Winn have anything left in the tank, given last season’s fades? I would have though Thames would pinch hit and Winn would then take over to avoid exposing Thames’ glove (or lack thereof). Does this mean Hoffman will be returned to the Dodgers shortly?

JJ: First, I think this probably means Hoffman is going back to the Dodgers’ organization. I like the natural fit between Thames (a lefty-masher) and Winn (a switch hitter whose bat died vs. lefties last year) or Granderson (who’s struggled vs. southpaws lately as well), but it’s worth remembering you’re talking about fourth and fifth outfielders here, since Brett Gardner is projected to start somewhere, too.

The other good thing about Thames is that he can spot for Nick Johnson at DH against tough lefties, though the Stick has had at least some success against southpaws as well.

Reclining Nude, by David Park (1960).

(From the SF Moma collection)

More from New Orleans.

Here are a couple of funky, badass joints from Lee Dorsey:

Duece: