Last Friday night, Emma and I talked to Pete Hamill before a showing of Fat City at the Film Forum. I asked him about Pete Dexter (Hamill wrote the introduction to Paper Trails, a collection of Dexter’s columns and magazine articles). He said he’d gotten a copy of Spooner, Dexter’s eighth novel, but had not read it yet. Hamill told us that he’s got a couple of months left on a novel of his own and that it is his policy not to read anything by someone as good as Dexter while he’s writing.

And Pete Dexter is scary good.

Hamill’s story made me feel better about myself because a month ago, when I was working a story for SI.com, I picked up Dexter’s novel, Train, and read the first three pages. I put it down not knowing whether to be inspired or depressed. Of course it is crazy for a young writer like me to compare myself with a master like Dexter, but Hamill’s point is well taken–he only reads translations while he’s writing and will save the likes of Dexter for when he’s finished.

When I handed my SI piece in,  I landed a copy of Spooner. And I didn’t feel intimidated. I felt elated.

I rarely read fiction. I did read novels in high school and college–I remember my dad hipping me to John O’Hara. I read Brideshead Revisited to impress a teacher who refused to be impressed with me. I went through a Faulkner phase, a Graham Greene period, and I became familiar with writers and their place in history. But I haven’t been drawn to short stories or novels for the past fifteen years.

Lately, though, as I talk to writers about writing, novelists keep coming up, so I’ve made some attempts to get back into fiction. I started but did not finish five novels this summer. I forced my way through Fat City, which was not pleasurable even if I was happy that I did it. Recently, I spoke to a friend who has the same aversion to fiction and he said he’s just learning how to luxuriate in a novel.

Then I read Spooner, and I was entranced. I read it on the subway to work, walking down the street, waiting in line for lunch, and standing in the shower. In some ways, it felt like the first novel I’d ever read because I couldn’t help but look at it for the plumbing–the technique–as much as I did for the story.

I made many small discoveries for myself–how to transition from one time period to another, like Dexter does in Chapter 21, how to use evocative and clear images, like when Dexter describes the corpse of an obese congressman:

The congressman looked vaguely uncomfortable, his hair unmussed and perfect, decked out in a pinstriped Brooks Brothers suit which, truth be told, did him no favors, figure-wise, an effect enhanced perhaps by the fact that he was barefoot, his feet a color of blue similar to the hanging meat, and swollen well beyond the recognizable shape of human feet, as if they had been squeezed out of the pants’ legs like toothpaste.

Dexter’s voice is clear, true, and very funny. Reading the book reminded me of watching Mariano Rivera pitch. Dexter’s prose is seemingly effortless, it washes over you so smoothly, that it is easy to forget how much skill and craft are involved.

Spooner is an autobiographical novel. In the acknowledgments, Dexter writes, “The book by the way is a novel, not in any sense a memoir, but is nevertheless based loosely on the events and characters from my own life.”  Spooner gets into trouble often as a kid–he pisses in a neighbor’s shoes, sits on an ant hill, almost kills the star play on his high school baseball team during practice.

He grows up to become a reporter and then a columnist, like Dexter. He works in Philadelphia were he is involved in a brutal bar fight that leaves him half-dead. The heavyweight boxer, Randall “Tex” Cobb was Dexter’s good friend. He too was involved in that fight, and Cobb is fictionalized in Spooner.

A few years ago, Steve Volk wrote a good profile on Dexter for Philadelphia Weekly:

The way Dexter explains it, the beat down he suffered is an anecdote he feels personally if not publicly free from. “If I was going over the top 100 most important experiences in my life, that night would probably be somewhere in there. But it wouldn’t make the top 25.”

His brother Tom also thinks the event’s influence has been overstated. “When you look at everything in its totality,” he says, “what happened, what he’s done and everything since then–being married for almost 30 years, raising a child, all those things in life and all the achievements, I think that night was maybe a little turn in the road, but I don’t think it was formative or transformative. Everything since then is just stuff he worked for.”

The beating and its aftermath does play a critical part in Spooner. It is the incident that effectively sobers Spooner up. In the second half of the book, he is constantly holding himself back, trying to do the mature thing (he doesn’t respond to a provocative letter from his mother, resists the temptation to assault a thoughtless neighbor). Spooner doesn’t want his true nature to destroy his family, doesn’t want to push his wife to the edge like he did when he was beaten in that bar in Philly. When he realizes how much he loves his wife and their daughter, Spooner gets scared for the first time in his life–the thought of losing them terrifies him.

This turn of events really go to me. I feel that way all the time about my wife.

The narrative is sprawling, some characters that you think might play a more important part (like Spooner’s siblings), don’t. It doesn’t feel like a perfect book, and that’s part of what I like about it.  It is touching and hilarious and absurd, but it is never cheap. During some tense moments, I found myself skimming ahead just to make sure nothing horrific happened to any of the lead characters. When I was assured that there were no two-bit John Irving twists of fate, relieved, I went back and continued reading slowly again. How did my friend put it? I learned how to luxuriate in a novel.

In the end, the book is about how difficult it is for men to express their feelings of gratitude and love for each other. One time, Dexter wrote a column about sitting on an airplane next to a distraught ten-year-old boy. The kid’s mother had put him on the plane, and he was on his way to visit his grandparents. But he had forgotten to tell his mother that he loved her, and now he couldn’t stop crying. “And I knew what was pulling at him,” Dexter wrote. “The same thing pulls at me too. The worry that things have been left unclear.”

Spooner loves his step-father Calmer to no end, but is unable to tell him as much. And Calmer doesn’t give him an in. If Dexter was never able to express this to his step-father, I have no way of knowing of course, but the relationship he creates between Spooner and Calmer is a love story. The book is a love poem, a tribute to Calmer. Spooner is forever trying to find a way to draw closer to the man who showed him infinite patience and understanding.

He can’t bridge the gap. Dexter does–with empathy and grace.

He brings it all home.

Chyll Will makes Hank Waddles a star.

Is God Needed a DJ.

That was the subject line of an e-mail I received yesterday from my friend Jared Boxx, co-owner of  Big City Records, sharing the sad news that DJ Roc Raida has died. Jared writes:

Letting friends know about this tragic loss, for us, for hip hop and especially for his family. Visiting Raida at his home in May, one thing was clear, he was really excited about his new love for this certain style of martial arts. You could see his years of dedication to the art of turntablism had matured into the daily mastering of this martial arts. It made perfect sense, the practice, the competitiveness and achieving the degrees of difficulty was all elements he was familiar with in his years of DJ-ing. I quickly saw how important & loved he was by his wife & children, & how life in Maryland was keeping them all happy. Raida was involved in a freak accident during a competition a few weeks back & suffered a spinal cord injury. He was cared for immediately, & received multiple surgeries in the days that followed. Though word traveled that things we’re looking better, I was told today he has succumbed to his injuries & has said goodbye to us.

He brought the art form to another level, his own way, in his own style, a true original, that will be greatly missed.

I remember seeing Raida the first time I visited Fat Beats, back when it was on ninth street below street level. This was in the fall of 1995. The store was cramped and not knowing my way around, I felt intimidated. Sinister, who was part of the X-Men DJ crew with Raida, was there, and he was friendly. I recalled being relieved that everyone wasn’t going to give me a hard time with their too-cool-for-school record shop front.

Raida was there too. He stood quietly in a corner sipping from a bottle of Heineken. He was the kind of guy who looked as if he was always holding back a smile, the corners of his mouth curled ever so slightly as if he was in on a joke that nobody else knew from. I spoke with him years later on a few occasions at The Sound Library and found him to be a good dude. I greatly admired his ability and creativity as a DJ.

I was sorry to hear this news.

It’s hard to write about Joba Chamberlain these days without sounding like a disappointed parent – “oh honey, you have so much potential, if you could just apply yourself…!” Today’s start was not pretty, not progress, and not encouraging – 3 innings, 6 hits, 7 earned runs, 3 walks, yipes –  and when the dust settled the Yankees lost 7-1. Chamberlain wasn’t really any better than that line would suggest, and yet, per Peter Abraham and his post-game audio, he remains remarkably tone-deaf when talking to the media. “My delivery was great,” he says. Oh was it now?

Sergio Mitre relieved Joba and threw five innings of scoreless one-hit ball, with five Ks and just one walk, so I guess his delivery must have been super-ultra-great. Meanwhile, the Yankee hitters couldn’t get anything going against an impressive Ian Snell or a potpourri of Seattle relievers, save for a brief flash of life in the sixth which was quickly snuffed out.

I was going to write something along the lines of, “I can’t believe the Yankees have a five-game division lead on September 20th, with a virtual lock on a playoff spot, and some fans are panicking!” But, come on – of course I can believe it. That said, for those of you so inclined, now would probably be a good time to start making voodoo sacrifices to ensure Andy Pettitte’s quick and full recovery.

Big football day in New York as the Yanks try to leave Seattle with a win. Time to come out slammin’, hackin, and mashin.

Bring it on, boys.

By Hank Waddles

If you missed last night’s game at Safeco Field, the only thing you really need to know is that the season almost came crashing down like so much Seattle rain when Franklin Gutiérrez smashed a line drive off CC Sabathia’s chest with two out in the bottom of the fifth inning. The ball ricocheted over to third base, but Alex Rodríguez didn’t even seem to look at Gutiérrez, instead racing to the mound along with Jeter to check on the big fella. My first thought was that the ball had surely snapped his collar bone, and I struggled to push from my mind the image of A.J. Burnett taking the ball to open the playoffs. Thankfully, Sabathia had been hit square in the chest, and immediately signaled that he was fine. Even so, with the Yanks having just stretched their lead to a comfortable 6-0 by scoring four in the top half of the inning (more on that later), I fully expected that CC’s night was over. Better safe than sorry, right?

But Sabathia shooed Girardi away without even bothering with a warm-up pitch, then cruised through the rest of the fifth as well as the sixth and seventh on his way to a league-leading 18th win. With Beckett’s well-documented struggles and Verlander’s Metrodome disaster, only Sabathia, King Felix, and Zack Greinke remain in the race for the Cy Young. Sure, Greinke will get a lot of deserving support, as will Hernández, but when was the last time either of those guys pitched in a game that really mattered?

But back to the game. As good as CC was, it didn’t matter too much what the hitters did, but they did a lot, putting to rest all of last night’s silliness about how the team might respond after Rivera’s blown save. Johnny Damon rapped out another three hits, Robinson Canó added four of his own, and even Francisco Cervelli added two. Wouldn’t he look good on the post season roster, Joe?

But the big story was Mark Teixeira, who either almost hit for the cycle or almost hit three homeruns, depending on how you want to look at it. He launched a drive to the depths of centerfield in the first inning, and just as it was about to scrape over the wall, Gutiérrez reached over and flipped it back into play, missing the catch but allowing Big Tex to lumber all the way to third for his third triple this week. He then hit a three-run homer to right in the fifth and followed that up with a broken-bat single in the seventh, leaving him just a double shy of the cycle when he led off the ninth inning. Batting from the right side for the first time on the night, Teixeira rocked a Luke French changeup towards the gap in left center. Certainly a double, maybe more.

In Girardi’s presser he’d later reveal that Jeter was yelling for the ball to get down and hit the wall, but Tex had simply gotten too much of it, and it soared deep into the night and over the fence. As Teixeira smirked his way around the bases, everything seemed back to normal. Another win. Even though the Red Sox keep rolling, and the Angels are looming next week, things still look good. The magic numbers are dwindling (9 for the division, 2 for the wild card), and it’s almost time to start resting some regulars and juggling the starters to line them up for the post season.

Also, now’s the time of year when we can start looking at a few milestones. Robby Canó’s four hits upped his season total to 193. Jeter’s at 196, meaning the Yankees will likely have two players topping the 200-hit mark for the first time since 2002 when Bernie Williams and Alfonso Soriano turned the trick. Also, Hideki Matsui hit his 26th home run of the season, and I mention this for two reasons. One, he set the record for most home runs by a Yankee designated hitter, which is quite a mouthful. (I was a bit disappointed that the YES crew didn’t interview his parents or the scout who signed him in Japan, but maybe that’s coming during Sunday’s game.) More importantly, though, I’ll never get tired of the shtick that Jeter pulls whenever Matsui homers. You know how it goes. Jeter stands on the top step, staring at Matsui as he trots towards the dugout, maintaining a stony expression until the last minute when he breaks into a grin. Sure, the pie-in-the-face is nice, the helmet-bouquet-toss is clever, but this little thing, the Captain giving some shit to another veteran, just might be my favorite. I love this team, and I really, really can’t wait for October.

Mr Sabathia is on the hill tonight in Seattle as the Yanks look to bounce back from last night’s loss. That one smarted but a small, superstitious part of me was relieved, figuring that Mo was going to have to blow one sooner or later and better now than in October. The Red Sox are charging, so while we know the Yanks will be in the playoffs, the division is not locked-up yet.

How ’bout a win tonight?

Go git ’em boys!

“Sometimes you only get to win one championship.” –Leonard Gardner

Did you ever rent a movie and then return it without watching it?

I’ve rented John Huston’s Fat City at least twice in my life but never watched it. I can’t explain why. Chalk it up to my mood at the time. After all, Huston is one of my favorite directors and Jeff Bridges one of my favorite actors.

Fat City is based on Leonard Gardner’s novel of the same name. The book is less than 200 pages long, and the story is almost unbearably grim. It is about boxing and drinking in Stockton, California. It is about losers losing. And although the prose is lean and clear, it is also dense–you can almost feel how much effort went into making it so direct and spare.

It was a tough book for me to get through, even though it wasn’t long. I read it because I thought it would be good for me not because I enjoyed it. I admired the artistry–the writing was superb, but I found the story bleak and depressing. When I finished it, I thought, Now, there is a world I don’t need to visit again. No wonder I never watched the movie.

I felt compelled to read the book because Huston’s movie started a two-week run at the Film Forum last night. George Kimball and Pete Hamill introduced the movie and then stuck around to answer questions when it was over. Hamill said that Gardner’s novel is one of the three best boxing novels ever written, along with The Professional by W.C. Heinz, and The Harder they Fall by Budd Schulberg. Kimball who is a walking encyclopedia of boxing knowledge talked about how Huston cast boxers and non-actors in the movie, how he insisted that it be shot in Stockton to preserve the book’s authenticity, how the producer Ray Stark wanted to fire the DP, the great Conrad Hall, because the scenes inside the bars were so dark.

Kimball also tried to explain the biggest question about Gardner (one that Gardner is probably asked daily)–why was Fat City the only book he ever wrote? Gardner continued to write short stories and journalism–I remember reading a piece he did for Inside Sports on the first Leonard-Duran fight–and eventually went to Hollywood to write for television. David Milch taught Fat City when he was at Yale and got Gardner work on NYPD Blue, which proves that Milch isn’t all bad (although he famously ripped-off Pete Dexter’s novel Deadwood for his TV series).

Kimball didn’t know the exact reason why Gardner has never written another book. He said Gardner’s never offered a reason and he’s never  pressed him for one. Kimball’s guess is that Gardner wrote such a perfectly realized book in Fat City that he figured could never reach that height again. So why bother trying?  Kimball said that Fat City was 400 pages long and Gardner kept honing it, pairing it down, like a master chef making a reduction.

Whatever the reason, it is easy to see why Huston was attracted to the story.  Hamill said that Huston spent his life making one movie for the studio and then one for himself. And this was one of his personal movies. He has great affection for the characters and the place and while he captures the unhappiness of Gardner’s book, I think the movie is has far more humor. There was some funny banter in the book but it didn’t come across as amusing to me. But the moment we see Nicholas Colasanto (better known to my generation as Coach from Cheers), the sound of his voice is warming, and cuts into the despair. So does the soundtrack.

Huston’s directorial style is also an ideal fit for Gardner’s prose. I remember once reading an article about Huston in American Film when he was making his final film, The Dead (another personal project). His son Tony was surprised at how skilled his father’s camera technique was.  And the old man said, “It’s what I do best, yet no critic has ever remarked on it. That’s exactly as it should be. If they noticed it, it wouldn’t be any good.”

In Huston’s movies–The Maltese Falcon, The Treasure of the Sierra Madre, Prizzi’s Honor–you don’t notice the style, you follow the story. Gardner, who wrote the screenplay with Huston, was blessed to have this man in his corner. The boxing scenes are strong. You feel close to the action, but nothing is forced or stylistic–it’s not like the Rocky movies or Raging Bull. In fact, you can see the ropes in the frame often, putting us just outside of the ring. The boxers sometimes look clunky but since they aren’t supposed to be great fighters, it works. And in Keach’s big fight scene you can feel the fighter’s exhaustion, their bodies getting heavy, by the second round.

Stacey Keach and Jeff Bridges are terrific (so when is Bridges not terrific?). There is a dignity to the characters, no matter how laid-out they are.  There is a tremendous shot, a long take, when Keach and his trainers and their wives leave the arena after a fight, followed by a broken-down Mexican fighter that illustrates this beautifully.

Keach wears a silver braclet in the movie that was exactly like the kind my father wore during that period, when I was a young kid. But my old man was a middle-class drunk, so the comparisons end there. However, the bar scenes, the life of drunks, rang true and reminded me of my father’s alcoholism.  There is a lot of drinking during the day, and Kimball remarked on the blinding light that greets you once you stumble out into the daylight. Like when you come out of a movie theater in the middle of the day–but more woozy and disorienting.

It is that kind of touch that makes Huston’s movie effective. Nothing much happens in the story. But it feels authentic, taking the essence of Gardner’s book and making it into a story for the screen.

Okay, so this isn’t really funk but still, you don’t have to be on Soul Train to dance to it.

Pete Abraham is leaving town. He’s accepted a job with the Boston Globe and will be returning home to cover the Red Sox. The future of his Yankee blog, which has become a staple in this small corner of the blogosphere, without warning, is uncertain. Someone will take his place of course, but the Pete Abe era of Yankee coverage is over. And that comes as an unpleasant shock.

Congratulations are in order. Because Pete has served us well. Spoiled us, really–which is only fitting, being Yankee fans and all. He was the first beat writer in New York to embrace the concept of blogging. He got it as a way of communicating with the world–how to be engaging, candid, informational, compulsive. It didn’t take any stroke of genuis on his part to post uncut audio from the locker rooms just common sense, a feel for what the audience wants. Nobody else took advantage and Pete ran with it. He’s made a name for himself.

It hard for Yankee fans on the web not to go to his site numrous times each day.

Pete’s gain is our loss, sure, but this is still great news. He deserves it. After all, how could he pass up a chance like this? Even as the newspaper business crumbles and morphs into something different, the Boston Globe is Big Time and you don’t pass up a chance at Pay Dirt when it comes your way. Not an easy cherce–he’s leaving behind some great pals in Tyler Kepner and Mark Feinsand and Sweeny Murti–just the right one.

In a few weeks, Pete will be blogging about the Red Sox, which sure is a funky turn of events–I feel like a dog with its head tilted to the side in wonderment. How will Sox fans will take to him at first? Will his Lo-Hud readership feel betrayed? Blogging for the Enemy. I’m curious to see how it plays out.

In the meantime, a gaping hole now exists in Yankee coverage on-line. River Avenue Blues does a stellar job with information and insight, and there are any number of other engaging Yankee sites, but who is going to replace Pete?

It can’t just be anybody. It has to be someone who loves to interact with his audience the way Pete does, who is willing to feed our insatiable appetitte for information, for the news, for what’s shakin’–Now. I’m not saying it can’t be done. In fact, there is an opportunity for a new voice inside the press box to step in and fill the void. But the bar is set and it is set high. Pete has left his stamp on how the Yankees are covered and how we follow them.

So, a toast. You earned it, big fella. Glad to see you bringing all home.

Leo Durocher, a fabulously uncouth so-and-so, is one of the most memorable characters in baseball history. His autobiography, Nice Guys Finish Last, written by Ed Linn is one of my favorite sports books. I remember Bill James pointing it out in one of his old books, and if I recall correctly, he praised Linn’s abilities as a ghost-writer (Linn also penned Veeck as in Wreck, a book with Ted Williams and one with the bank-robber Willie Sutton). Linn had a terrific ability to capture each distinct voice.

Anyhow, it goes without saying that Nice Guys Finish Last is a classic that belongs on any self-respecting sport fan’s bookshelf. Fortunately, you don’t have to go hunting too far for a copy these days, as it has just been re-issued by the University of Chicago Press.

Diggum.

Henry Gibson, one of the great character actors of all-time has passed away.

Raise a glass, spill some on the floor, whatever you like. But a moment please, for a fine actor.

It was too comfortable, the feeling the Yankees gave us a few weeks back, as they crushed, killed and destroyed everything in their path. They have sputtered back down to earth somewhat, baseball having a way of evening out and all, and so we are left feeling, well, less comfortable.

The offense was dormant for much of the evening tonight–shhh, baby’s sleeping–and the Yanks trailed 4-2 in the eighth inning. Nothing infuriating, nothing inspiring, just another sluggish game.

In the eighth, Alex Rodriguez singled with one out and then Godzilla Matsui yanked a breaking ball into the not-so-cheap cheap-shot seats and the game was tied.

Mariano Rivera worked around a lead-off base hit in the ninth to keep the score tied. Then Brett Gardner led off the bottom of the inning, worked the count full and fouled off what looked to be ball four. Swing at anything close, right? Well, he ripped the next pitch into center for a single, to hell with the base on balls. Derek Jeter fell behind 0-2, not looking to bunt, and then Gardner stole second on a slider that went for a ball. Jeter grounded out pushing Gardner to third.

With the infield drawn in, Franciso Cervelli singled hard through the left side, ran to first, rounded the bag and raced into the outfield as Melky Cabrera and Robinson Cano and the rest of the team chased him like a flock of geese headed south for the winter. On the double.

Final score: Yanks 5, Blue Jays 4.

AJ Burnett slammed Cervelli in the grill with a cream pie and if he could pitch half as well as he could celebrate, boy, the Yanks will be okay.

Yanks need a win not a brawl.

This is what I imagine Derek Jeter will look like if he lets himself go in his old age. Question is, who is Pesci? Francisco Cervelli?

Fritz Peterson once won twenty games for the Yankees but he’s best remembered for being a wife-swapper. He is more than both, of course. Peterson has just written a book and will be at the Yogi Museum in Jersey tomorrow night to talk about it.

According to a press release from the museum:

Former Yankee pitcher Fritz Peterson will be at the Yogi Berra Museum & Learning Center on Thursday, Sept. 17 from 7 p.m.-8:30 p.m. for a discussion and signing of his new book, “Mickey Mantle Is Going To Heaven.”

The book covers Peterson’s rather interesting life on and off the field including what Sports Illustrated called “The Trade of the Century” when he and teammate Mike Kekich swapped wives after the 1972 season. He also discusses the quirks and foibles of his time, and interactions with the likes of Mickey Mantle, Whitey Ford, Bobby Murcer, Thurman Munson and Jim Bouton.

Peterson, who joined the Yankees in 1966, one of the team’s worst seasons, would become an All-Star and 20-game winner. He also started for the Yankees in the last game ever played at the original Yankee Stadium, which was renovated after the final game of the 1973 season. And Peterson had the all-time lowest ERA (2.52) at Yankee Stadium with the legendary Whitey Ford second at 2.55.

The storm of publicity from Peterson’s wife-swapping, which he is most remembered for, ultimately damaged his career. Yet today he is active in charity work and is a prostate cancer survivor, and continues to seek salvation through his faith.

To orders personalized copies of Peterson’s book or for more info, call (973) 655-2378.

I know from swingers, Mr. Peterson, and you are no Gay Talese.

If you are Jersey, be sure to check this out. Should be fun.

The Yankees threw Sergio Mitre against Roy Halladay last night and the lost 10-4. No real shock there. The Yanks did well to take an early 2-0 lead on Halladay, touch him up for 11 hits, and bounce him after 112 pitches in six innings, his earliest exit in five starts against the Yankees this year, but it was of little use. Mitre gave up two home runs in both the third and fourth innings, including a pair of monster shots to rookie slugger Travis Snider, giving the Jays a 5-2 lead they wouldn’t relinquish.

The real news came came in the eighth inning. With two outs, the bases empty, and the Jays up 8-2, Mark Melacon hit Aaron Hill in the lower back with the first pitch he threw to him. Hill was 0-for-4 prior to that plate appearance and was 0-for-2 against Melcanon entering the game. It seems unlikely that Melancon, who has been wild in the majors, walking 5.4 per 9 innings and hitting three other batters in his first 15 innings, intended to hit Hill. Still, Hill is an important hitter in the Jays lineup, so when Jorge Posada came to bat in the bottom of the inning, Jesse Carlson threw behind him.

Carlson’s pitch went what seemed like ten feet behind Posada, but Jorge was unwilling to shrug it off. Instead he backed out of the batter’s box, took a few steps toward the mound and told Carlson, “Don’t do that again.” The benches cleared to calm Posada down, and Posada ultimately worked a walk and came around to score on a Brett Gardner double (Gardner, by the way, went 2-for-4 with a pair of RBI hits).

Carlson was drifting toward home plate to back it up as Posada crossed the dish and Jorge gave Jesse a solid brush with is left shoulder as he went by. Carlson spun around and fired some invective at Posada, who then returned to home plate and touched off a real benches-clearing brawl.

Posada, Carlson, Jays’ catcher Rod Barajas, home plate umpire Jim Joyce, and in-the-hole hitter Johnny Damon were in the initial scrum and soon joined by Joe Girardi, who failed to pull his 38-year-old catcher out of the fray and instead got sucked into the middle of the pack and emerged with a bit of a shiner on his left eye. As one might have expected, Shelley Duncan tore into the heart of the fracas like Michael Phelps going after olympic gold and ultimately had to be pulled off Barajas like Jeff Van Gundy on Alonzo Mourning’s leg as the melee petered out.

Carlson emerged with a nasty welt on his forehead, but he and Posada were the only ejections, and Carlson remained in the dugout, hiding behind his teammates and apparently continuing to plead his innocence. Meanwhile, third base umpire Derryl Cousins was hit in the knee by a full bottle of soda thrown by a fan in the stands determined to make the players look like dignified and civilized adults. Cousins wound up being the only “participant” to suffer an injury (as far as we know).

For proving unable to let his walk and run do the talking (or shoving) for him, Posada will surely incur a suspension. Otherwise it seems the Yankees got away lucky. To his immense credit, Joe Girardi held a closed-door meeting with his team afterwords, admonishing them for doing such a foolish and risky thing this close to a postseason berth.

The Yankees had hundreds of millions of dollars of players in the middle of that fight (Mark Teixeira tried to break things up but was quickly pulled out of the ruckus, on-deck-hitter Derek Jeter was right in the middle of things, and CC Sabathia was the man who finally pulled Posada out of the pack) just three weeks shy of the playoffs. The entire season could have gone the way of Bill Lee’s shoulder Tuesday night. The Yankees are damn lucky it didn’t.

Joe Posnanski’s new book, The Machine,  is about the 1975 Reds. It is compulsively readable and learns even smart dudes like Rob Neyer new things about that team. Neyer chats with Pos over at ESPN today.

Oh, and the book hits the shelves today as well.

Diggum.