Here’s a story on the making of the 2009 World Serious video.

Here’s another trip down memory lane for us who grew up in the Seventies:

Terry Southern is one of those writers that keeps popping up, has for a long time. Nu? Why haven’t I read anything by him? I really should, shoudn’t I? Why don’t I see his books more in used bookstores?  Man, I’ve been meaning to read him for years now.

Southern is one of those characters that you hear about, time and again, yet his legend has outlasted his work. His two best know novels are The Magic Christian and Candy (co-writen with Mason Hoffenberg ), but he is more famous for the work he did as a screenwriter–Dr. Strangelove, The Cincinnati Kid, Easy Rider. (Peter Sellers, the story goes, bought 100 copies of The Magic Christian, gave one to Stanley Kubrick, and that’s how Southern got the job on Strangelove.)

Southern was briefly a writer on SNL during the Eddie Murphy years but apparently, not much of his material made the show. He was a guy who drank a lot and dig a ton of drugs, and his writing suffered as a result.

I’ve read a couple of pieces on Southern lately. Maybe I’m not missing much. There is this, from a New Yorker article about Easy Rider, “Whose Movie is This?” by Mark Singer (June 22, 1998).

Peter Matthiessen, who says that a Southern story from the fifties, “The Accident,” helped to inspire the founding of The Paris Review, told me recently that he though Southern had lost the energy and discipline to persevere as a serious writer. “I don’t believe there was much more work he wished to do,” Matthiessen said. “He was an observer anda commentator on modern life, and he had this quirky take on things. He was one of the founders of that school of irony–that cool style–and when he had a big splash with ‘Dr. Strangelove’ that irreverent, obstreperous take on things was all very startling and new. But, after that, everybody was into outrage. Terry’s style became diffused throughout the culture, and I think he’d already said what he had to say.”

And this, from an essay by Luc Sante, “I Can’t Carry You Anymore.”

Southern staked everything on effect. Thus he required a social context; he needed both an audience of cronies who would get it and an audience of squares who not only wouldn’t, but would turn purple and thrash ineffectually in offended protest. His was the strategem of someone with a lot to prove, and perhaps a lot to conceal. Other writers of his time similarly polarized the readership, but never quite in the same way. His old friend William Burroughs, for example, put all his contradictions on the line. He might have enjoyed provoking the enemy, but he hardly appeared dependent on the finger-popping approval of his frat brothers. Anway, his provocation had a point–there was a world of repression that had caused him misery and that he wanted to destroy. Southern never made it clear that he was in it for more than high fives and free drinks.

…Many of his riffs have failed to survive their context, and there wasn’t a whole lot in his work that transcended the category of riff. What we have here is a caution to the young, which might be summed up by one of Southern’s most famous lines: “You’re too hip, baby. I can’t carry you anymore.”

Here is a nice interview with Southern by his biographer, Lee Hill.

(more…)

Award winner.

Cliff and I talk shop about the Banter with Larry Koestler over at the Yankeeist.

I’ve never taken to Bruce Springsteen’s music but I’ve always like him as a personality. I admire what a great show he puts on, time and time again, and appreciate that he’s enjoyed inspired periods of musicianship and songwriting.

Here’s an old (1975) Baltimore Sun piece on The Boss from my pal John Schulian, “from the days when I was still learning how to write.” The article came out just before Born to Run dropped.

Dig this from Bruce:

“I don’t consider myself a writer, like a novel writer or a poetry writer. Writing songs is just something I do. It’s a real, natural, basic urge. The only thing I can compare it to is when you get hungry. You feel it and you do something about it.”

…”I play for the thrill, man, just like I have since I picked up the guitar,” he said. “Like tonight, I could have played forever if they didn’t have to close the place down at midnight.”

Historian Glenn Stout finds the smoking gun concerning Tom Yawkey’s take on African Americans. From a 1965 Sports Illustrated article on the Red Sox by Jack Mann:

“They blame me,” Yawkey says, ‘and I’m not even a Southerner. I’m from Detroit.” Yawkey remains on his South Carolina fief until May because Boston weather before then is too much for his sensitive sinuses. “I have no feeling against colored people,” he says. “I employ a lot of them in the South. But they are clannish, and when that story got around that we didn’t want Negroes they all decided to sign with some other club. Actually, we scouted them right along, but we didn’t want one because he was a Negro. We wanted a ballplayer.”

Stout continues:

But then comes the first of two smoking guns: “But they are clannish,” Mann quotes Yawkey as saying of African Americans, “and when that story got around that we didn’t want Negroes they all decided to sign with some other club.”

No single sentence could be more revealing – or more pathetic. First Yawkey offers that all African Americans share the same characteristics – in this case, being “clannish.” That kind of stereotyping is damning enough, but when he states that “when that story got around that we didn’t want Negroes they all decided to sign with some other club,” he fantasy land. Yawkey is making the claim that the reason the Red Sox remained white is the fault of the black ballplayers themselves. He is saying nothing less than “African Americans erroneously thought we were racist so therefore they refused to sign with us.”

Memory Lane.

New Yorkers of a certain vintage will remember this budget beauty:

Ah, too much time on my hands, man. Must be the heat…wait, a minute, it ain’t even hot no mo.

So many choices…

Over at Bats, Tyler Kepner examines the Yankees off-season:

After Sabathia, Burnett and Pettitte (assuming he re-signs), the Yankees have a slew of options still under contractual control: Joba Chamberlain, Phil Hughes, Ian Kennedy, Chad Gaudin, Sergio Mitre, Alfredo Aceves and (gulp) Kei Igawa. But what about a high-risk, high-reward gamble from the free-agent market?

Ben Sheets, Rich Harden and Erik Bedard have all been top-of-the-rotation starters in the recent past. All are free agents coming off seasons marred by injury. Really, the Yankees would have nothing to lose by signing one of them. The price would probably be low enough that the Yankees could afford to outbid other teams, and if they sign someone and he gets hurt again, they are protected with the starters they already gave.

Yeah, this is really cool, isn’t it?

World Series Time-Lapse by Robert Caplin from Robert Caplin on Vimeo.

“My idea of a tough guy is a guy who can wear a wool suit with no underwear.”–Lenny Bruce

I know it is a classic and all, but I don’t love all of the classics. John Huston’s directorial debut, however, is as perfectly realized a movie as has ever been made, don’t ya think?

Your American League Cy Young Award Winner.

Good story, better pitcher. Congrats to Zach Greinke.

(Photographs via Sports Illustrated.)

Over at Fox, Dayn Perry writes about ten off-season moves that need to happen:

5. The Yankees should worry about Johnny Damon and not Hideki Matsui.

The reigning champs have some decisions to make. They need to coax Andy Pettitte into pitching one more year, and they need to re-sign Johnny Damon. Damon — when not throwing the ball — gives the Yanks plus defense in left, and he has maintained his offensive skills quite nicely. Damon needs a platoon partner, but he’s still a valuable regular against right-handers. So long as he’s willing to settle for a two-year deal or two plus a team option, the Yankees should make the necessary overtures. Matsui, meanwhile, is replaceable. Plenty of DH types on the market — Jim Thome, Jermaine Dye, Russ Branyan, Vladimir Guerrero — can come close to Matsui’s numbers at perhaps a lesser cost.

What about Jermaine Dye as a replacement for Matsui? Does that make any sense? Or is that crazy talk?

Billy Martin proved what a powerful strategic tool paranoia is. He believed that everyone was against him. And so he spent every waking moment figuring out how imaginary enemies could be defeated in their nefarious plots. And sometimes he not only created strategies to defend against things that would never be done against him. but he realized that those attacks were in themselves novel and he would then try those attacks that he had already dreamed up a defense for. That’s why he was so wonderful at suicide bunts and double steals and any way that you could humiliate or psychologically defeat the other team, he was sure that’s how the world reacted to him. He was sure the world hated him. And so he turned that really raw, frightened paranoia into wonderful strategic intelligence.

Tom Boswell

Chris Jaffe, a regular at The Hardball Times, has just written a book about baseball managers. Here is an excerpt on one of our own–Billy the Kid.

Billy Martin was the most fearless manager in baseball history. In 20 years of managing, he never backed down from a challenge. As has been well documented by others, Martin consistently caused dramatic improvements to his squads immediately upon arrival by pushing them hard. The A’s went from losing 108 games to fighting for .500. The Rangers, who had posted back-to-back seasons in which they had played .350 ball, suddenly won half their games when Martin arrived. The Twins and Tigers improved by 18 and 12 games for him respectively. The Yankees won their first pennant in a dozen years under him. The Birnbaum Database gives him high scores for every stop along the way: +64 runs in Minnesota, +199 runs in Detroit, +91 runs in Texas, +142 runs with Oakland, and +219 runs in his various New York stops.

Martin’s approach had its downside. He pushed his teams so hard they could not keep up with his pressure. Hiring Martin was like pushing too much voltage through a light bulb: for a brief while it burns brighter than otherwise possible, but it soon shatters unless the excess electricity is removed. Despite his impressive starts, Martin never lasted longer than three years in any managerial stint.

Though Martin is most famous for piloting the Yankees, his first managerial stint running the 1969 Twins best reveals his method and madness. The gutsy bravado and intensity to win that highlighted his career amply demonstrated themselves that year. Martin approached his rookie managerial season the same way a tough convict handles his first day in prison—determined to prove himself immediately as the cellblock’s most dangerous man.

Over at Baseball Prospectus, Christina Kahrl takes a look at the American League Rookie of the Year:

Being invited to help select this year’s American League Rookie of the Year as a new member of the Baseball Writers’ Association of America was an unexpected honor, and one I took seriously. By way of process, I started off with a day spent digging up data to inform my sense of who to rank, and where, and why. Then, I spent a day or two caucusing with a quartet of colleagues, inside Baseball Prospectus and out, and putting various arguments through the ringer, and using a variety of tacks, from devil’s advocate to fully faithful, and everywhere in between.

In the end, I wound up finding myself in a somewhat complicated position, ironically thinking back on a Rookie of the Year Award that coincided with my arrival in Chicago 24 years ago, sorting through my own predispositions against the relative value of a certain type of player, assessing a crowded field of starting pitcher candidates, and thinking even further back to a rookie who won despite not playing anything close to a full season. Finally, I was guided by a critical criterion: electors are supposed to vote on present-season success, not on anticipated greatness.

According to the New York Times:

Joe Kubert, a comic book artist since 1938, has little interest in the accumulated work of his last seven decades; his focus is on new projects, he said recently. But comic book fans who feel differently about this celebrated illustrator will have a chance to peruse and even own some of that older work this week, when 18 covers and interior pages, published from the 1940s to 1990, are put up for sale.

I am always interested by artists who don’t take time to reflect on their accomplishments because they are too busy with what is on their plate now. When I worked for the Coen brothers, they won an Oscar for best original screenplay–Ethan’s statue remained in his backpack, which he kept in the trunk of his rental car, for days. Recently, I listened to an interview with them and they said that they don’t go back and watch their old movies. They just keep making new ones.

Once it is done and out in the world, it doesn’t belong to you, the artist, anymore. At least not completely. For some, there is nothing to be gained by looking back. The only cherce is to look ahead.

From E.B. White’s Here is New York:

There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born there, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size, its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter–the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something. Of these trembling cities the greatest is the last–the city of final destination, the city that is a goal. It is this third city that accounts for New York’s high strung disposition, its poetical deportment, its dedication to the arts, and its incomparable achievements. Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness, natives give it solidity and continuity, but the settlers give it passion. And whether it is a farmer arriving from a small town in Mississippi to escape the indignity of being observed by her neighbors, or a boy arriving from the Corn Belt with a manuscript in his suitcase and a pain in his heart, it makes no difference: each embraces New York with the intense excitement of first love, each absorbs New York with the fresh yes of an adventurer, each generates heat and light to dwarf the Consolidated Edison Company. . . .

The city, for the first time in its long history, is destructible. A single flight of planes no bigger than a wedge of geese can quickly end this island fantasy, burn the towers, crumble the bridges, turn the underground passages into lethal chambers, cremate the millions. The intimation of mortality is part of New York now; in the sounds of jets overhead, in the black headlines of the latest editions.

All dwellers in cities must live with the stubborn fact of annihilation; in New York the fact is somewhat more concentrated because of the concentration of the city itself, and because, of all targets, New York has a certain clear priority. In the mind of whatever perverted dreamer might loose the lightning, New York must hold a steady, irresistible charm.

From high to low, the one and only Christopher Cross with Dudley Moore:

J Live…breaks it down LIKE THIS:

Joe Pos makes a strong case for Robbie Alomar, Hall of Famer:

Alomar, to me, has a case as the greatest second baseman since Hornsby. I am not the best person to make that case — I, of course, happen to think that Joe Morgan is the greatest second baseman since Hornsby. But I could give it a try: Alomar won 10 Gold Gloves — more than any second baseman — and I think he was probably slightly better defensively than Morgan. He hit .300 for his career, walked just about as often as he struck out, hit double-digit home runs nine times, stole 30 or more bases eight times and was a terrific postseason player (.313 postseason average, .347 in his two World Series victories). He had his best year at age 33 in Cleveland — he could have won the MVP that year. He did get traded to the Mets, where he finished off with three uninspiring years, and he retired at 36. So he did not get the number bump that so many players get in their later years.

Still, it’s hard to imagine a much better Hall of Fame case — a great fielding, great hitting, great running second baseman.

But…I sense no buzz about Alomar’s candidacy. I guess there are a couple of reasons for this. There was the spitting incident back in 1996 … he spit in the face of umpire John Hirschbeck. And then, post-career, an ex-girlfriend filed a civil suit alleging that Alomar had unprotected sex with her despite having AIDS. Alomar denied that he has AIDS. This, of course, should have nothing at all to do with his Hall of Fame candidacy, but when a player has some sort of controversy swirling around, it probably does affect the way people think about him.

And then…Alomar seems to be another player who was probably better than many people seemed to think when he was a player. Well, no, that’s not exactly right — he made 12 All-Star Games (10 as a starter) and won all those Gold Gloves and was top 6 MVP five times. So people did know of his brilliance while he was playing. It just seems like he was someone who did not stick in people’s minds.

To sum up: Alomar won more Gold Gloves than Sandberg, Mazeroski, White or any other second baseman. He also cracked 2,724 hits — more than any second baseman since World War II (Craig Biggio got more hits, but he spent quite a bit of time at other positions). He hit more than 500 doubles. He’s one of only two players in baseball history to hit .300 with 200 homers and 400 stolen bases — the other is first ballot Hall of Famer Paul Molitor who, as mentioned, spent most of his career as a DH.

Thanks to my good pal, Jay Jaffe, here are a couple of few ledes from Jim Murray, one of the sharpest and funniest sports columnists of ’em all.

Clemente: You Had to See Him to Believe Him
January 3, 1973

For once, Roberto Clemente must have been taking. And God buzzed a high hard one right across the letters.

They didn’t make a pitch Roberto Clemente couldn’t hit. All he required of a baseball was that it be in the park. He hit with the savage lunge of a guy waiting on top of a gopher hole till the animal poked its head out. Its’s a good thing he didn’t make his living hitting fastballs because he never got any.

Old Aches and Pains, we called him around the press room. Here was a guy you could drive railroad spikes with. You could scratch a match on his stomach. He wasn’t born, he was mined.

He was the healthiest specimen I ever saw in my life. He didn’t have a pimple on him. The eyes were clear. I never even heard of him having to blow his nose. Yet he was positive he was terminal. You’d get the idea reports of his birth were greatly exaggerated.

Mantle of Greatness
January 20, 1974

Mickey Charles Mantle was born with one foot in the Hall of Fame. Unfortunately, the other one was in a brace.

If Mickey Mantle had had TWO Hall of Fame legs, he probably wouldn’t have had to go through the formality of 18 big-league seasons and 12 World Series. He’s the first guy who limped his way to the Hall of
Fame.

Reggie Renames House that Ruth Built
October 19, 1977

NEW YORK-Excuse me while I wipe up the bloodstains and carry off the wounded. The Dodgers forgot to circle the wagons.

Listen! You don’t go into the woods with a bear. You don’t go into a fog with Jack the Ripper. You don’t get in a car with Al Capone. You don’t get on a ship with Morgan the Pirate. You don’t go into shark
waters with a nosebleed. You don’t wander into Little Bighorn with General Custer.

And you don’t come into Yankee Stadium needing a win to stay alive in a World Series. Not unless you have a note pinned to you telling them where to send the remains. If any.

They Won’t Call Him Dr. Zero for Nothing
September 28, 1988

Norman Rockwell would have loved Orel Hershiser. The prevailing opinion is, he wasn’t drafted, he just came walking off a Saturday Evening Post cover one day with a pitcher’s glove, a cap 2 sizes too big and a big balloon of bubble gum coming out of his mouth.

On Red Smith
July 16, 1982

His name was Walter Wellesley Smith, and if my name were Walter Wellesley Smith you can bet I would use every syllable of it. Except I might be W. Wellesley Smith, even though a sage once remarked that you can never trust a man who parts his name in the middle.

Know what the real Walter Wellesley Smith preferred to be known as? Red. He had a moniker right out of the pages of Ivanhoe and he preferred a name that sounded as if he had just climbed down from a truck.

You don’t have to be all that good if your name is Westbrook Pegler. Or Grantland Rice. Who the hell is ever going to forget that? But, if your name is Smith, and all you have to go with it is Red (or Jack), you better be good.

Red Smith was good. People knew the name. And what it stood for. Uncompromising integrity. A surgical deftness with words that made some of us wonder if Red wrote with rubber gloves.

These pieces can be found Murray’s collection, The Great Ones.