Ted Berg not only has good hair but now he’s got his very own blog, which is bound to be part of my daily rounds.
Yesterday, he posted this picture of Cole Hamels.
Allow me to counter with this less than flattering classic from Sports Illustrated (and thanks to Jay Jaffe for passing it along):
We kid ’cause we love.
The Yankees’ three-game sweep of the Division Series has me feeling so good that I’d thought I’d profile one of my favorite ex-Yankees and one of my most cherished cards in this week’s feature.
As you can see, the player featured on this 1973 Topps card has almost no neck. That’s not an example of skillful Topps airbrushing at work; he simply doesn’t have much of a neck—at all. Hence the nickname Walt “No Neck” Williams, a journeyman outfielder who would make a brief pitstop in New York. While there’s little neck, there’s plenty of sideburn, a staple of players in the early 1970s.
Then there’s the uniform worn by Williams, who was traded from the White Sox to the Indians during the winter of 1972. Williams is actually wearing the colors of the White Sox—in fact, you can see the “S” from “SOX” along his chest—but the Sox cap logo has been whitewashed and replaced with the Indians’ “C,” thereby creating the illusion that he is donning the uniform of his new team. (It helps that Chicago and Cleveland both used red as a primary color in their uniforms back then.)
Finally, you might notice that the Sox’ uniform doesn’t have any buttons on the front, nor is it one of those pullover polyester monstrosities that became all the rage in the early 1970s. Instead, the jersey features a zipper running from the base of the shirt all the way to the neck. The White Sox, in a highly questionable maneuver, brought back the zippered look that a few major league teams had tried unsuccessfully during the 1940s. The zipper failed because players sometimes found the top of the zipper embedded into the skin of their neck after a headfirst slide. Just consider the torn flesh and the blood that resulted from such accidents. Then again, maybe the Sox figured that wouldn’t be a problem for Williams because, once again, he doesn’t really have much of a neck.
Williams earned his memorable nickname during his first major league stint. Signed by the Houston Colt .45s in the early 1960s, Williams made his debut with the Colts in 1964. It didn’t take long for his teammates to take note of his unusual physique. At five-feet, six-inches, Williams had unusually short stature for an outfielder. Built like a fireplug—he made Kirby Puckett look lean and angular by comparison—Williams was extraordinarily well developed in the chest, with muscles in his upper torso seemingly obscuring the length of his neck. Colt .45s catcher John Bateman, after observing his teammate for only a short time, dubbed him “No Neck.”
After Williams appeared in only ten games for Houston, the Colts tried to sneak him through waivers. The effort failed. The Cardinals snapped him up, but immediately demoted him to the minors. Williams would never appear in a game for St. Louis. After the 1966 season, the Cards sent him packing to the White Sox as part of a deal for veteran catcher Johnny Romano. It was with the White Sox that No Neck would find his niche.
Displaying outfield skills that belied his blocky, bulky appearance, Williams overcame a weak arm and became an adept fielder, best suited for the corners but also capable of filling in occasionally in center field. Thought not a particularly strong or powerful hitter, the free-swinging Williams rarely struck out (and rarely walked) and used his contact-hitting skills to bat .304 in 1969, putting him in the top ten in the American League batting race.
Almost as importantly, Williams became a cult figure and fan favorite at Comiskey Park. Always smiling and seemingly thrilled to be playing games at the major league level, Williams drew the favor of both the White Sox’ faithful and his teammates. They loved his upbeat attitude and his willingness to hustle. Not surprisingly, more than a few Sox diehards reacted with anger on October 19, 1972, when the White Sox traded No Neck to the Indians for infielder Eddie Leon (another future Yankee). Williams’ sporadic hitting had rendered him expendable, and the Sox needed help at shortstop, but those realities did little to comfort enraged members of the Williams fan club.
Williams batted .289 in his one year with the Tribe, but the Indians couldn’t pass up the opportunity to use him as part of the bait in a three-team spring training trade that brought veteran right-hander Jim Perry to Cleveland. The trade united Perry with his brother Gaylord, while finally fitting No Neck for the pinstripes of the Yankees.
During his two-year sojourn in New York, which coincided with the Yankees’ brief tenure at Shea Stadium. Williams made some light-hearted news with his Ruthian appetite. Williams, first baseman-DH Ron Blomberg, and shortstop Gene Michael often made trips to the local branch of Burger King, downing multiple hamburgers at the 1970s price tag of 39 cents a burger. Somehow the burgers didn’t add too much fat to Williams’ stocky 185-pound frame.
No-Neck spent two mostly non-descript seasons with the Yankees, filling in as a backup outfielder and pinch-hitter, and making cameo appearances at second base, a position that he had never before played in the major leagues. He did hit fairly well in a bench role in 1975, but the Yankees released him during the spring of 1976. The release essentially ended his big league career, while denying him an opportunity at postseason play, as the Yankees went on to win the Eastern Division and the American League pennant.
So there were no playoffs or World Series for Walt Williams. He just had to settle for ten happy-go-lucky big league seasons filled with smiles, zippers, and hamburgers. And he’ll always be remembered for being No Neck. In a game where so many are forgotten so quickly, that’s not a bad legacy to have.
Bruce Markusen writes “Cooperstown Confidential” for The Hardball Times.
My wife came home tonight and after getting settled, she lay down on the couch next to me and stretched her right foot onto my lap and asked, “Do you mind rubbing it?”
She looked at me with those big, hazel eyes, smelling good even after a long day at work (how does that happen?). I smiled at her. Exactly how am I supposed to say “no” to that?
It’s not easy. So I said “yes,” and massaged her right foot. And I busted on her, which is how things equal out. I do what she says but get to make fun of her in return. When I was done with her right foot she stuck the other one out and flexed her toes, which she does when she wants something or when she is inexplicably happy.
“You don’t want me to walk lopsided, do you?” Big eyes, big smile:
Man, I know how this chump must have felt. Blind-sided and completely overwhelmed. We don’t stand a chance.
And because you can never have too much bacon in your life, dig these yummy baconish recipes from the good peoples at Saveur.
Over at Fox Sports, our pal Dayn Perry has a preview of the ALCS and states the obvious:
“This one has the makings of a white-knuckled classic.”
Should be a blood bath, no? I just don’t see it lasting four or give games–this one seems destined to go six or seven, and is bound to take years off our lives.
I’m on a Pete Dexter jag. After reading his new book, Spooner, I tore through Paris Trout (his masterpiece), The Paperboy, and Brotherly Love. It might not be wise to load-up on such a concentrated dose of anyone as powerful, and disturbing as Dexter, but it’s my nature–I can’t help but diving in head first.
It’s like watching Mad Men or The Sopranos on DVD. There is something unnatural about ripping through shows back-t0-back without the suspense of having to wait a week for the next episode. You lose something without the anticipation, the time to mull things over. But if the show grabs you, how do you stop?
If you are a glutton, you don’t. And so I’m going to read the rest of Dexter’s novels–Deadwood, God’s Pocket, and Train, whether it is healthy or not. I’m enjoying myself too much to stop now, though I’m taking a week off before I start God’s Pocket.
Back in 2003, Sports Illustrated ran a long excerpt from Train, a story about a black kid caddying at a country club in Post War Los Angeles.
Worth checking out cause Dexter is a sheer pleasure to read:
The fat man couldn’t turn it loose. Got the sun in the sky, birds in the trees, shine on his shoes—everything a gentleman need but two wives and a death wish, as the old saying went—but he still just stood there froze over the ball, the seconds ticking away, like somebody couldn’t pee for the nurse.
And yellow pants, speaking of urination.
The boy was a few steps behind the fat man and to the side, carrying his bag. He’d been standing by watching half the morning, and there was something about the fat man he still couldn’t place. Something familiar that reminded him of something else. The boy waited for the connection to come, not trying to hurry it along.
Connections came to him all the time—people to things and things to people, things to each other, surprises and amusedments out of the thin air—it wasn’t anything he did to cause it, and sometimes, like now, he knew one was there before he knew what it was.
And sometimes, of course, it turned out to be a surprise but not no amusedment at all.
Well, why wouldn’t he be smiling?
Over at the Post, Mike Vaccaro has a piece about one Mike Sciocsia:
He has been a menace to us for damn near 30 years now, the thorn in our side, the cloud in our coffee, the bee in our bonnet, the fly in our ointment, the clouds on our sunny day. He has been our nemesis, our arch-enemy, our tormentor, our antagonist and our antagonizer. He inflicts misery for sport. He is a serial baseball sadist.
He is Mike Scioscia, from Upper Darby, Pa., by way of Hell.
And he will soon be back on our doorstep, back within our borders, back with a mission to continue his reign of terror. He is one of the nightmares that keep coming back. There is the one where you are falling, with no floor in sight. There is the one where you show up for a final exam in a class you haven’t once attended all semester. And there is the one where Mike Scioscia walks into a New York baseball October.
It’s getting cold and you know what that means…it means I’m thinking about what and where to eat this winter.
I’ve heard good things about Resto, a Belgianish restaurant in Murray Hill.
Haven’t been yet but the burger is supposed to be slammin’.
Guy I know told me that the Hangover Pasta “will make you see Jesus.”
Now, how can you not at least be curious about something like that?
That’s my go-to Jeopardy answer. Works maybe once a year.
Anyhow, here goes an open thread in honor of Emma’s prime time debut.
Oh, and kibbitz away on the Phils-Rocks if you are inclined as well.
Over at the Voice, Allen Barra asks: Who is the Real Mr. October?
Once again, love the drawing by Larry Roibal.
Rodriguez still has miles to go, so to speak. If he tanks against the Angels, it’ll be back to square one for him. But for the moment, let’s not sperl the mood with that kind of talk.
Our very own Emma Span will be on Jeopardy tonight. Yup, that’s right. She’s on Jeopardy. Don’t miss it.
Jeter, from day one, became the Yankees’ “Everyman”–everybody’s son, everybody’s brother, everybody’s dream boyfriend. Without even trying, he tapped into every chord of the Yankee mythos like no player since Mantle. He would add a few unmistakable new notes of his own, heralding in a new age for the franchise. Jeter had it all, and from his first day he became the best shortstop in club history. The Yankees couldn’t have invented him had they tried.
Glenn Stout, Yankee Century
When we talk about Derek Jeter we talk about class and dignity and tradition. Those buzz words that sound cliche. We talk about how he is overrated, but maybe underrated too. About how cool and calm he is, how calculatedly dull but dutiful he is with the press. But what I’ll always remember about Jeter is how much fun he has playing baseball. It is his defining quality for me and one that is virtually ignored in the sea of commentary about Jeter.
Have you ever seen him in a big game not smiling and generally enjoying the s*** out of himself? It is as if he’s impervious to the nerves of the moment.
Baseball has a name for the player who, in the eyes of his peers, is well attuned to the demands of his discipline; he is called “a gamer.” The gamer does not drool, or pant, before the cry of “Play ball.” Quite the opposite. He is the player, like George Brett or Pete Rose, who is neither too intense, nor too lax, neither lulled into carelessness in a dull August doubleheader nor wired too tight in an October playoff game. The gamer may scream and curse when his mates show the first hints of laziness, but he makes jokes and laughs naturally in the seventh game of the Series.
Tom Boswell, How Life Imitates the World Series
Jeter is a man defined and consumed by his work, an ideal we’d all love to have ourselves but only few share. It’s part of what draws us to him. But Jeter reminds us that work can be play too. Who wouldn’t like to think of themselves handling themselves like Jeter in tough situations?
Pete Rose may have enjoyed himself as much as Jeter but not more. And it wasn’t easy to share those feelings with Rose. Perhaps the best thing you can say about Jeter is that he’s competitive and has class and dates gorgeous women and he’s not Pete Rose. Jeter does not let us get too close–we don’t know him away from the field–but the beauty part is that he lets us see all we need to know of him on the field.
The play is the thing, after all.
In an e-mail, Stout added:
I’ve always thought that with Jeter it’s actually really, really simple. You know when he was a little, little boy, he decided he wanted to play shortstop for the Yankees – that’s all he ever wanted, and for as long as he can remember that’s all he has ever imagined doing. He’s about the only person on the planet who has never had to scale down his dream, and since he has imagined himself doing what he is doing his entire life, it feels completely normal, the most natural thing in the world – on the field he is completely at home with himself, completely relaxed and happy. Why not smile?
And that’s why he was there to make the tag on Gomez, and the flip to Posada to get Giambi out way back when, and the home runs he hits right after the other team scores and all those other plays he makes – he’s been living these moments in his head his whole life, from the days he laid on his bed and tossed the ball up toward the ceiling. It’s not natural, but it is natural to him – he’s been playing shortstop for more than thirty years.
And what about the Nick Punto play last night? Stout continues:
I loved the Jeter just calmly explained that he saw Punto out of the corner of his eye then waited for him to commit and made sure he threw a ball to Jorge that he could handle, ho hum, on the fly, instant decision that all took place in about 1/2 a second. He’s like the guy that has learned to solve the Rubik’s cube.
It’s the smirk, the enjoying the moment, that I’ll always remember about Jeter. Not every great player allows you to see them having fun–heck even Mariano doesn’t exude that same vibe. But with Jeter you know he’s loving it. And he loves it when his teammates do well. Did you catch the little kid enthusiasm from Jeter after Alex Rodriguez hit that dinger off of Joe Nathan on Friday night?
After the game last night, Mariano Rivera talked about Rodriguez to reporters. “He’s feeling great and he trusts himself,” said Rivera. “He’s having fun, having fun, having fun and that’s the most important thing. Before, he was trying so hard and you can’t have fun like that. Now, he’s just enjoying it.”
Just like Jeter.
I knew it. I knew Carl Pavano was going to pitch like that!
In the end it didn’t matter, though – “it’s okay,” a friend told me afterwards, “that man can’t hurt you any more” – because although Pavano was great tonight, Andy Pettitte was just a bit better; and while the usually great Joe Nathan faltered, the Yankees’ bullpen held the line. So it was a 4-1 win for New York tonight, and the Yanks are headed to the ALCS for the first time since 2004. Of course that’s nothing in the scheme of things, not compared to how long other teams have been waiting, but I’m still thrilled to have really engaging baseball going for at least a little while longer, as it gets colder and darker outside.
Pavano had absolutely everything working tonight, throwing strikes with movement, and provoking some terrible-looking at-bats from the Yankees – there were awkward swings and misses left and right. In the third inning Melky Cabrera removed the specter of a no-hitter with a dinky little infield hit that, had they been playing on real grass, probably would’ve been an out; it was not deeply encouraging. Hideki Matsui’s fifth-inning single and Derek Jeter’s sixth-inning double were more like it, but went nowhere.
Meanwhile, Andy Pettitte was putting on a retro-chic performance. Pettitte has pitched the equivalent of a full healthy season in postseason games, a phantom 16th season; he’s had some bad starts along the way, mixed in with the good, but it’s still deeply reassuring to see him out there – brim pulled low, shadowed eyes staring in over the glove, almost indistinguishable in that pose from the 1996 version. He was perfect through four innings, and very good thereafter.
Still, the Twins scored first, as they did in the first two games of the series, and of course it was Joe Mauer who drove in their lone run, singling home Denard Span in the sixth inning with two outs. But Pettitte recovered to strike out Michael Cuddyer, and the Yankees wasted no time in getting him a lead.
I’m not sure whether Pavano started to tire in the seventh, or whether the Yankees just started seeing his pitches better the third time through the lineup. Either way, first Alex Rodriguez – by now the clear MVP of the series – hit a solid home run to right field to tie the score; one batter later, Jorge Posada added another solo shot. In the space of a couple minutes the Yankees had gone ahead by a run, and despite his excellent performance, that was enough stick Pavano with the L.
Joba Chamberlain took over for Pettitte with one out in the seventh, and got the job done. Phil Hughes then came on for the eighth and did the same, though he had a slightly stickier time. He was greeted by a Nick Punto double, and the Denard Span single that followed could have been the start of a bigger jam – but luckily for the Yankees Punto was not paying attention to his third base coach. He ran well past the bag thinking Span’s hit had reached the outfield, realized his mistake, screeched to a halt and lunged back towards the base; but by then Jeter had corralled the ball (a play I’m not sure he makes last year), spotted Punto, and thrown home to Jorge Posada, who threw to A-Rod, who tagged Punto out at third. An odd play, and a credit to the Yankee infielders, but one made possible by more sloppy baserunning from Minnesota.
I felt bad for Punto; he does hustle like crazy, every time I’ve seen him play, and it’s not his fault that people are always overpraising him as gritty and scrappy. This was out of character, and he spent the rest of the game looking stricken. But so it goes. Hughes got Orlando Cabrera to fly out, but with Joe Mauer coming up as the go-ahead run, Joe Girardi did the only sane thing: went out to the mound and signaled for Mariano Rivera. (Had this same situation arisen in the seventh inning, I don’t like to think about what might have happened).
Mariano Rivera vs Joe Mauer: best hitter in the league against the best pitcher, and if you can’t get excited about that then I don’t know what to tell you. Mauer’s had an excellent Division Series, providing the lion’s share of the Twins’ offense, and when he wins his MVP it will be thoroughly well deserved. But the result of his last plate appearance tonight was almost anticlimactic, the quintessential Rivera outcome: Mauer’s bat snapped in half just above the handle, and he grounded out to first.
The Yankees tacked on a pair of runs in the top of the ninth, loading the bases as Twins pitchers walked Teixeira, A-Rod, and Matsui in succession, and Joe Nathan then allowed singles to Posada and Cano. Rivera took care of the bottom of the ninth with fairly minimal drama, because that’s what he does, and my god will New York fans miss him when he’s gone, but let’s not think about that right now.
I like the Twins – I like Bert Blyleven, Gardenhire, Mauer, Morneau, Span (natch), Carlos Gomez, Joe Nathan, Pat Neshek, even Little Nicky Punto as the great Batgirl used to call him. And I like their fans, who mostly seem to manage being passionate without being dicks. This series was closer than the 3-0 sweep would suggest, and had they beaten the Yankees I would’ve pulled for them the rest of the way.
I do not feel this way about the Yankees’ next opponent.
Commence worrying about the Angels in 5… 4… 3… 2…
Carl Pavano was a bust of the first order in New York, one of the worst free agent signings in club history. This season, he pitched twice against the Yanks when he was with the Cleveland Indians, both no-decisions. But he pitched reasonably well. On April 19th, he held the Yanks to one run on four hits and walk over six innings, and on May 31, he gave up three runs on seven hits over seven innings.
Tonight, Pavano is on the hill for the Twins. Hey, Vincente Padilla was a load yesterday for the Dodgers so anything can happen. But it sure would taste good to see the Yanks bang Pavano around some. Hope the bats are feeling hungry like:
Andy Pettitte goes for the Bombers. Nothing else to say. Let’s hope we get the Good Andy.
Lots of excitement. Angels sweep the Sox, Paplebon blows the save. Time for New York to end it right here. No need to see Scott Baker tomorrow.
Let’s Go Yan-Kees!
Bacon and Red Bull, that’s what Terry Francona and company eat for breakfast. Sox are up against it this afternoon, down 2-0. But they are at home and the Angels still have something to prove.
Chit-Chit Chatter away.
Happy Bacon and Happy Baseball.
There’s only one game tonight–Dodgers v. Cardinals, back in St. Louis. The late game in Colorado was called on the count of winter and rescheduled for tomorrow night when it will presumably be less wintery. How, maybe you can figure that out and get back to me.
In the meantime, here’s an open thread for the Cards game, as the Dodgers look to sweep.
And here’s one of the most vibey, sultry-sounding records Duke Ellington ever made:
My father is close by whenever I see Reggie Jackson. Mr. October was my first sports hero and one of the few athletes that my father could stomach. In fact, the old man admired Reggie more than somewhat. Last night, I smiled when I saw Reggie throw out the first pitch. Not because he couldn’t reach plate–the ball reached the catcher on a hop–but because Reggie looked like a bad ass in his black hat. It was the kind of hat my father fancied in his later years. Reggie has to cover up the bald spot, but still, the hat looked good.
From Reggie to Alex. I have enjoyed rooting for Alex Rodriguez because he reminds me of the feeling I had watching Reggie when I was a kid, the tension, the drama, the sense that something special is going to happen, the disappointment when it doesn’t. It’s pure sensation, expectation and hope, pre-adolescent hero worship. It has almost nothing to do with Rodriguez the man–although I love what most people dislike about him, his neediness his neurosis–it is about my childhood fantasy to have the best player come through when it matters. Like Reggie did.
Rodriguez’s RBI single in the sixth inning, which tied the game at one, was satisfying, but his two-run home run in the ninth, tying the game again, was the hit we’ve been waiting from him since 2004. It is the dinger that stops the A Rod is a choker storyline dead in its tracks.
What I loved about the at bat against Minnesota’s closer Joe Nathan was how Rodriguez laid off the first three pitches, all breaking balls. The 2-0 slider was just off the outside corner and was a pitch that Rodriguez would have offered at in the 2005 or ’06 playoffs. He didn’t swing at any of that slop this time, took a fastball low and inside for a strike and then squared up the next pitch, another fastball, right over the plate. It was a classic Rodriguez homer–to right center field.
My body was still humming hours later.
The Twins needed to steal a game in New York, but thanks to Rodriguez–and a little help from his friends–the Yankees were ones who stole this game from the Twins. The Bombers also had some luck with a Jeffery Maier style blown call from the umps. Still, Minnesota put runners on base in every inning and left seventeen men on. They had a ton of chances and…take it away Mr. D:
AJ Burnett showed up, Mark Teixeira showed up. And how. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a game-winning home run take such an odd bounce. When his line drive hit off the top of the left field wall and shot into the air, I had no idea if it was coming back in play or over the wall.
Now, Pavano for Sunday gravy.
Today, life is good.
Some good games yesterday, huh? My favorite line came in an e-mail from Mark Lamster: “If you happen to be Matt Holliday’s psychiatrist, go out and get that new Volvo–it’s gonna be a big year.”
Supposed to rain this evening. They’ll wait this sucker out as long as they can, you know that.
Here’s one for you guys, a breakdown of Joba Chamberlain’s pitching mechanics over at Baseball-Intellect.
I asked the author if Joba’s move to the bullpen changes anything.
Alex replied:
Fundamentally, it doesn’t really change. But when a pitcher moves to the bullpen, it allows them to air it out more. As a starter, he’s pacing himself and he’s not throwing with the same intent he does out of the bullpen. He’ll dial it up when he needs to, but he has to pick his spots.
Out of the bullpen, he can let it fly on almost every pitch and the intent to throw hard is an extremely important part of generating velocity. I do have an article on intent and it’s importance for anybody interested:
Brad Penny and the Intent to Throw HARD.
I’ll add that I did see a few pitches of his bullpen apppearance in Tampa and I didn’t see anything that would lead me to believe the old Joba is back. He had the typical velocity uptick we normally see from Joba out of the bullpen, but if he was back to his old self, we would see his velocity around 96 or 97. That doesn’t mean he can’t be effective, however.
