For a while there tonight’s game had all the makings of another long extra-innings affair. But Mark Teixeira’s no-doubt homer broke a 2-2 tie in the ninth inning, Mariano Rivera laughed in the face of shoulder soreness, and the Yankees beat Seattle 4-2.

I was thinking tonight about how much I’m going to miss Andy Pettitte, whenever he decides to retire. He’s rarely been the best pitcher on staff at any given time, good rather than great most years, but he’s blissfully no-nonsense – and at this point in his career, he’s one of the best at fighting through on nights when he “doesn’t have his good stuff”. With Pettitte you always know that if he’s going down, he’s going down swinging (so to speak… not in the literal Robinson Cano sense).

Pettitte gave up two runs in the first inning, two singles and a double and an RBI ground out in quick succession. But he pushed through, adjusted just enough, and clawed his way through six innings without any more damage – in fact he struck out 10, a season high, though that’s probably more a reflection on Seattle’s hitters. After Pettitte left the game Brian Bruney, Phil Hughes and  a seemingly just fine Rivera pitched a scoreless inning each.

The Mariners’ Ryan Rowland-Smith, whose name evokes a discreet John Le Carré character more than a pitcher, matched Pettitte all the way. The Yankees could only eke out two runs against him, in the second inning when Jorge Posada doubled and scored on a Jerry Hairston Jr. grounder, and in the fifth when Derek Jeter singled in Melky Cabrera (a hit that appeared to be not so much seeing-eye as sonar-equipped). After that things stayed even until Teixeira connected in the ninth, and Nick Swisher knocked in Cano for a nice fluffy insurance run.

The Yanks are 30 games over .500 now and on one of those lovely little rolls where nearly everything goes right. It won’t last forever, but maybe through tomorrow? Mitre! French! Saturday at 10:10 PM Bronx time.

Yanks look to keep on rolling tonight in Seattle. Andy Pettitte, who has been hot, goes for the Yanks. Let’s hope he’s got some more for us.

Dig in. And Let’s Go Yan-Kees.

Bronson Arroyo talks turkey.

Two comments from local sports talk radio that were uttered this week absolutely need to be addressed:

First, on Monday, Michael Kay, reveling in the Yankees’ sweep of the Red Sox, commented on his afternoon show that the Red Sox — and I paraphrase here — “finally misplayed their hand at the trade deadline by not getting Roy Halladay. They made the move for Victor Martinez, who doesn’t have a position. They tried to get Felix Hernandez from the Mariners. They should have given Toronto whatever it wanted to get Roy Halladay. They’re holding on to Clay Buchholz, who’s 25 years old. Getting Halladay would have put them in position to make a run this year and next year. The Red Sox finally misplayed their hand.”

To my former colleague, I say, “Huh? Did they really?” I don’t know about you but when I saw the news that the Sox got Victor Martinez and the Yankees’ big move was Jerry Hairston, Jr., the fan in me was sulking for a few hours. Then I got to thinking, “This puts Terry Francona in a bind as far as maneuvering Martinez, Kevin Youkilis and Mike Lowell. But that’s a decent problem to have.” Plus, who’s to say that the Red Sox didn’t offer everything the Blue Jays wanted? It’s entirely possible that Jays GM J.P. Ricciardi had no intention of trading Halladay to a division rival at this stage of the season.

(My guess, and this is just a hunch with no inside information at all: Halladay goes to some team flush with money like the Red Sox, Yankees, Mets, Phillies or Dodgers, in a deal similar to the one struck between the Sox and Marlins that sent Hanley Ramirez to Florida and brought Josh Beckett and Mike Lowell to Boston. Halladay would obviously be the centerpiece, and I imagine Vernon Wells and his bloated contract would be an add-on, much like Lowell was in the aforementioned deal, in exchange for a name major leaguer and some major-league ready prospects.)

Back to Theo Epstein and the Red Sox “misplaying their hand” … Kay went on to say that having Beckett, Lester and Halladay 1-2-3, with Matsuzaka and Wakefield bringing up the back of the rotation when they come off the DL was a risk the Red Sox had to take, and they didn’t. I still believe they’re a playoff team without Halladay, provided their bullpen can hold up and Francona pushes the right lineup buttons.

Moreover, and Kay of all people knows this from being around the Yankees and Red Sox for so long, it would have been inconsistent with Epstein’s pattern to make a deal for someone like Halladay at the deadline. He’s more apt to jump on it in the offseason, like he did with Curt Schilling, arrange the trade and sign Halladay to an extension right away.

Your thoughts on this are welcome.

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It is a grey day in the Bronx. Thunderstorms are expected. Then again, they have been all week. But since this is a travel day, Murphy’s Law says there will be a rain delay.

AJ goes vs Ricky Romero. Should be a good one.

Let’s Go Yan-Kees!

My wife doesn’t like yelling or screaming. It makes her uneasy. So you can imagine the scene during a ball game. She can put up with me only so long. I’m far less volatile than I once was, honest. But the truth is, my wife just doesn’t get it.

The Yankees had a 3-0 lead in the second inning when Alex Rodriguez came to the plate with the bases loaded and two out. Johnny Damon hit his second double of the game two batters earlier–it bounced over the center field fence, keeping Derek Jeter, who singled for his second time in as many at bats, at third, a bad break for the Yankees. Mark Teixeira walked and then Rodriguez popped out.

So I yelled. My wife got annoyed and said, “What’s your problem? They’re winning.”

Like I said, she doesn’t get it. Ah, if only her name was Mae.

Joba Chamberlain had a tight breaking ball working in the first couple of innings but he labored in the third as he lost command of his fastball and sure enough coughed-up the lead. Scott Richmond, on the other hand, got his act together. He featured a hard, sharp slider and a wicked 12-6 curve ball and struck out eight. After getting Rodriguez out, Richmond pitched four scoreless innings. Each starter went six.

I watched the game with a puss on my face. I stopped yelling, opting to stew instead. At least my cat, Moe Green (pictured below), understands. I resisted the temptation to tell my wife a thing or three about baseball and how the game works. It was not easy to hold my tongue, believe me. But why be a schmuck? 

Jesse Carlson, the left-hander who struck Jorge Posada out in a twelve-pitch at bat on Monday night, came in to pitch the eighth. Godzilla Matsui hit a 2-2 pitch deep to right but foul. Next pitch, different result, as Matsui hit a bomb into the right centerfield seats, tying the game. Posada was next and he skied a back-door breaking ball deep to right. Joe Inglett, his back to the wall, jumped and missed the ball. A fat man wearing a beige Yankee cap and an off-white Mickey Mantle t-shirt stood in the first row and placed his black mitt on top of the wall. The ball fell into the pocket, another cheapie Yankee Stadium dinger, and the Yanks had the lead. The home run was reviewed but it stood–nice job by the fan.

Melky Cabrera, celebrating his 25th birthday, added an RBI single (his second RBI of the game) against Josh Roenicke and Damon drove the birthday boy home with an RBI base hit of his own–his third hit of the day (he was also robbed of a double). Jeter had three hits as well.

With one out the ninth, Mariano Rivera left a cutter over the heart of the plate and Edwin Encarnacion crushed it over the center field fence for a home run. Rivera grimaced–hey, that’s how I’ve been feeling all night!, I said (…to myself). A base hit to Rod Barajas brought the tying run to the plate. But Rivera caught Inglett looking at an outside fastball, and got Marco Scutaro to chase a cutter to end the game.

Final Score: Yanks 7, Blue Jays 5.

Fist pumps and cheers. Relief.

My wife resisted the urge to tell me a thing or three about the Yankees. She did not call me a schmuck–even if that is what she was thinking–and we went to bed happy.

Last night I was standing on a subway platform when a train whooshed into the station. I noticed that my car was almost empty before stepping inside. An empty car in the middle of the summer can mean one of two things: the AC is broken or someone smelly is inside (worse case scenerio brings both). Turns out the AC was busted. But I got in anyhow and enjoyed the space. The Russian Baths on the IRT, why not?

I’ve run into several mentally ill people on the trains lately. Last Friday night, on the Brooklyn-bound B train, a man walked through the car and said, “My man, my man, m-m-m-m-my man.” He held a cup in his hand and kept repeating these words in an insistent, almost pleading voice. I thought about the stuttering character in “Do The Right Thing.” The doors opened and closed but the dude didn’t get off the car. He just kept chanting. It was upsetting. A man sitting next to me looked up from his newspaper and muttered something derogatory about the guy. He’s a sick man, I thought.

Then on Saturday I saw a black woman standing on Broadway and 231st street. She was wearing powder blue shorts and a purple shirt. She had white facial hair under her nose and on her chin. She spoke with an English accent. “Would you kindly spare some change?”

I crossed the street and walked north. Sitting at the bottom of a flight of stairs was a wino I recognized from around the neighborhood. He looked like he could be fishing buddies with Thurman Munson and Dirt Tidrow.

“Hey, can you spare like $1,500?” he asked me.

I smiled and kept walking.

Joba on the hill tonight, weather permitting. Time to start another winning streak, don’t ya think?

As we all know, 1979 marked the final season of Thurman Munson’s career as a Yankee—the end result of one of the game’s worst tragedies. A number of other Yankee also played their final games in pinstripes that summer, though for far less heartbreaking reasons. Dick Tidrow left in May, traded to the Cubs in an ill-fated deal for Ray Burris. Mickey Rivers left in August, traded to the Rangers for Oscar Gamble and prospects. After the season, longtime Yankee mainstay Roy White moved on, opting to continue his career by playing in the Japanese Leagues.

A future Hall of Famer also left the team that winter. Jim “Catfish” Hunter decided to call it quits, his right arm having buckled under the stress of so many innings and far too many sliders.

Like most great pitchers, the 33-year-old Hunter owned great inner pride. He had no interest in hanging on as a mop-up man wallowing in long relief. The refusal to accept life as a fringe pitcher probably came as no surprise to people who had followed Hunter since his early days with the Oakland A’s. Prior to the 1971 season, A’s owner Charlie Finley had angered the pitcher when he offered him a mere $5,000 raise, which Hunter considered inadequate after winning a career-high 18 games in 1970. Finley preferred emphasizing Hunter’s 14 losses and his extreme reliance on closer Jim “Mudcat” Grant, who had rescued eight of Catfish’s wins with late-inning relief work. (Yes, it was a different baseball world back then.) Hunter didn’t appreciate the suggestion that he had depended so heavily on Grant to enjoy a successful season. “Mudcat was a good relief pitcher last year,” Catfish told The Sporting News, “one of the best I’ve ever seen. But I didn’t like it when some sportswriters suggested that he get half my salary this year. He did his job and I did mine.” Without minimizing the efforts of one of his teammates, Hunter had provided a thoughtful defense of his own contributions to the team.

Yet, Hunter didn’t take himself too seriously. He enjoyed playing practical jokes, which served to loosen up a clubhouse that was sometimes sidetracked by tension and mistrust. He never really liked being the center of attention, which was exactly where he found himself in 1964, when a horde of scouts had initiated an all-out raid on his home in Hertford, North Carolina, and its population of 2,012 residents. Scouts considered the young Jim Hunter one of the best high school pitchers in the country. Finley, at the time the owner of the Kansas City A’s, succeeded in signing Hunter to his first professional contract. The following spring, the A’s wanted to send the 19-year-old Hunter to the minor leagues, but his surprising maturity convinced management that he should remain with Kansas City.

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In his preview, Cliff mentioned that the Yanks are ripe for a letdown but he didn’t think it would happen. Then during the game, Yankee announcer Michael Kay, and his cohorts Al Leiter and Paul O’Neill, discussed at length why the Yankees would not have a letdown (sometimes I really think these guys get paid by the word).

So what happened? The Yanks went out and lost to the Jays 5-4, their winning streak halted at seven.

Sergio Mitre was not impressive, allowing five runs–though just three earned thanks to an error by Robinson Cano–in five innings. He did give up a long home run to Lyle Overbay and that was the difference. I wonder if he’ll get another chance to start a game for the Yankees.

The Yanks did not score after the fourth inning though they had several chances, collecting 11 hits in all but going 0-5 with runners in scoring position. In the top of the eighth, O’Neill said, “As good as the Yankees are playimg, something’s about to happen; the fans feel it, the opposing team feels it.” Jorge Posada fouled off fastballs and sliders from left-handed reliever Jesse Carlson. O’Neill said the pitcher didn’t have the stuff to get him out. Posada whiffed on the twelfth pitch of the at-bat (good slider, down and in). Carlson then got Cano and pinch-hitter Johnny Damon to ground out. The crowd was sitting on their hands and O’Neill was silent.

It’s not that one loss is a big deal, but I got the sense that, riding the weekend high, the announcers assumed the Yanks would come back and win simply because they are the better team and should win. Well, the Toronto bullpen was excellent. And winning is hard. O’Neill of all people knows this But he’s not a fan.

Hey, sometimes it’s easier to be frustrated with the dopey announcers than it is with the team.

Oh, and the Red Sox won and shaved a game off the Yankees’ lead. Bummer.

Carl Crawford is having a terrific season but over at SI.com, Jonah Keri suggests that it would not be a shock if the Rays trade him come this off-season.

Thanks to Pete Abe.

It didn’t rain on Sunday but it got progressively hotter as day turned into night. And a whole lot more humid.

The Red Sox, in desperate need of  a win, had their second-best pitcher on the mound–Ace 1B–in Jon Lester. The Yanks countered with Andy Pettitte, who has been throwing the ball well of late. Pettitte wasn’t dynamite early, but he escaped trouble in the first five innings, giving up five hits and a couple of walks (93 pitches), and then retired the Sox 1-2-3 (striking out Kevin Youkilis and Jason Bay) in the sixth, extending Boston’s scoreless inning streak to 30 innings. He set them down in order again in the seventh on just seven pitches.

Lester was sharper and more efficient, busting the right-handed hitters in on the hands with the fastball and mixing in his breaking stuff nicely. Through the first six, he struck out seven, five-looking, painting the outisde black with the heater. Derek Jeter reached second in the first inning, and Mark Teixeira made it to third in the fourth, but the Yanks could not bring them home. After Teixiera’s base hit, Lester retired the next nine batters.

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It is overcast and breezy in the Bronx today. Rain is the the forecast. It’s the kind of day that makes me nostalgic for the summers I spent with my mother’s family in Belgium as a kid.

Good day for a cup of tea.

Yanks and Sox don’t go until tonight, so hopefully, the rain will be done by then.

In the meantime, check out this article in today’s New York Times magazine by Ron Berler about young pitchers and arm injuries. My question is this: Do young pitchers–high school, college, minor leagues–have TJ surgery on purpose? Do they take the risk hoping that they can add 5 mph on their fastball? I wonder.

Things are looking up. Like A.J. Burnett last night, C.C. Sabathia could hardly have been better this evening – good thing too after what the bullpen just went through – and the Yankees beat the Red Sox 5-0, though most of the game was much closer. New York has taken the first three games of the series, and now have a 5.5-game lead in the AL East. Feels like old times.

Sabathia pitched 7.2 shutout innings, allowed just two walks and two hits, and struck out nine. In fact he took a perfect game into the fifth inning, and a no-hitter into the sixth, and the way he was throwing I wouldn’t have been stunned to see him pull it off. Sox starter Clay Buchholz was pretty good himself, giving up two runs in six innings, but with Sabathia rolling and the Red Sox hitters collectively slumping, that was two runs too much.

New York scored their first run in the third, when Mark Teixeira singled home Melky Cabrera. They scored one more in the sixth, when Robinson Cano scored on a Jose Molina sac fly, and another in the seventh when Nick Swisher walked with the bases loaded, though they then left the bases loaded. Finally, in the eighth, Derek Jeter hit a real New Stadium Special about 314.5 feet to right field for a two-run homer, which meant Dave Robertson could close out the game instead of Rivera (though not without enough drama to get Mo warming up). According to Joe Buck during today’s game, the Yankees are 45-1 when leading after six innings – more impressive than I would have guessed.

There was a little drama in the seventh inning when Ramon Ramirez threw one uncomfortably up and in to Mark Teixeira, then hit A-Rod in the elbow. He was immediately ejected and that was the end of it, at least for today; afterwards Joe Girardi, while careful with his words, seemed to think it was payback for Pedroia getting hit the other night. I’m sure some fans will be ticked off because the Yankees didn’t retaliate, but that seems like the right move to me – they’re cruising now, so why risk firing up the Red Sox and getting someone on either team hurt? I say a 6.5-game division lead would be the best revenge.

Tim McCarver WTF? Quote of the Game: “There’s a difference between playing with fire, and playing with fire in your eyes.”

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Side note: I was at the Stadium for last night’s ridiculous 15-inning epic. I’ve never seen such a wrung-out crowd; by the thirteenth or so everyone was punch drunk and could barely muster the energy to boo Kevin Youkilis. It was both awesome and agonizing since, for a number of reasons, I really needed to get home on the early side last night. The best laid plans.

I kept saying: Okay, if they don’t score this inning I’m leaving. Hmmm. Okay, if they don’t score this inning… but of course I couldn’t do it. How would I ever have lived with myself? I think I got A-Rod’s homer out of the park by sheer force of will, and by the time I staggered off the subway in Brooklyn it was almost 2:30 in the morning, but I have no regrets. That was my first real classic at the new Stadium (though the Yankees are now 3-0 when I’m there) and since we’re all stuck with the place, I’m glad I’m starting to build up some good memories there – because that’s what will eventually, years from now, make it feel like home.

How do you follow that up?

With a win, of course. If the Sox come back and win the next two games the weekend will be a drag for the Yanks. Mr. Sabathia has to take over today.

Nevermind the Fox broadcast,

Let’s Go Yan-Kees!

The great Yankee mystery of the month finally came to an end this week. I must confess that I’m as clueless as everyone else as to why Cody Ransom occupied space on the 25-man roster for as long as he did before finally being thrown into the baseball limbo known as being “designated-for-assignment.” Ransom has never hit curve balls, now struggles to hit waist-high fastballs, and has shaky hands on the infield. So what else is there? Even the explanation that the Yankees simply wanted a second utility infielder (to go along with the newly acquired Jerry Hairston, Jr.) fell short of justifying Ransom’s presence on the roster. If the Yankee high command believed that another utility guy was required, Ransom should have given way to rookie Ramiro Pena, currently playing a jack-of-all-trades role at Triple-A Scranton-Wilkes Barre. Pena is a better defender than Ransom, has a touch more speed, and now has the same level of versatility, considering that he’s been learning to play the outfield at Scranton. When a team is involved in a dogfight for a division title, every roster spot counts; it’s about time the Yankees either sent Ransom back to Triple-A or perhaps let him loose to try his wares with one of the weak sisters in the National League…

Speaking of Hairston, the reaction to his acquisition from Cincinnati has drawn a tepid reaction in these parts, but I’m slightly more enthusiastic. At the very least, he’s a major upgrade on Ransom, who had become the 2009 version of Mike Fischlin. Looking deeper, Hairston provides six-position versatility, can steal a base in the pinch, and has a modicum of power. He’s also highly regarded as one of the game’s most intelligent players, which is not so surprising considering his family’s baseball heritage. With grandfather Sam Hairston (a former Negro Leagues catcher and longtime coach and scout) and father Jerry, Sr. (a longtime backup outfielder and accomplished pinch-hitter with the White Sox), Hairston has received a good baseball education. And on a team that doesn’t always play the game smart (see Jorge Posada tagging a baserunner with an empty glove or failing to slide into home plate), that’s a nice attribute to have coming off the bench…

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I had a couple of guest posts over at Rob Neyer’s blog yesterday. One on baseball movies, the other on Yanks-Sox. I’m pleased to say I got ripped but good, especially on baseball movies. All you’ve got to do is pan Field of Dreams and you might as well burn the flag. So I’m a soulless so-and-so, I can live with that.

When does Neyer come back?

Actually feels oddly comforting getting trashed by a dude with the moniker, Pornstar7.

Yeah, baby.

John Hughes died yesterday. He was 59.  Hughes wrote and directed a string of wildly popular comedies in the Eighties. They were suburban (filmed outside of Chicago) and white-bred and an indelible part of my childhood.

Hughes’ movies always flattered kids by painting grown ups to be utter morons. There isn’t much point talking about if they were any good or not–we’ll all have different takes on that–but his movies made an impression. They gave us some good laughs–he had a gift for comic timing and for working with actors–and I can easily quote from most of them. They are in regular rotation on TV and I suppose we’ll be seeing The Breakfast Club and Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and Uncle Buck for the rest of our lives.  

Sixteen Candles and Weird Science are my favorites.

Update: No matter what you may think of Hughes’ movies, it looks like he was a mensch in real life.

Boxing metaphors are easy to come by when the Yanks play the Sox and I had boxing on the brain today for a couple of reasons: the writer Budd Schulberg died, and Muhammad Ali was honored before the game at Yankee Stadium.

My grandfather the head of public relations at the Anti-Defamantion League from 1946-71 (the year I was born), and helped prepare Schulberg’s statement before HUAC during the communist witch hunt after World War II–he also helped the actor John Garfield with his statement.

I remember seeing a worn copy of Schulberg’s The Disenchanted on my grandfather’s bookshelf; I think my aunt has his signed copy of Waterfront, the book that was the basis of On The Waterfront. Schulberg’s most enduring work is What Makes Sammy Run? a cynical novel about show biz.

Over at  The Sweet Science, George Kimball remembers Schulberg:

He straddled the worlds of literature and pugilism throughout his life, but unlike some of his more boastful contemporaries he was not a dilettante when it came to either. He sparred regularly with Mushy Callahan well beyond middle age. The night of the Frazier-Ali fight of the century Budd started to the arena in Muhammad Ali’s limousine, and then when the traffic got heavy, got out and walked to Madison Square Garden with Ali. A year before Jose Torres died, Budd and Betsy flew to Puerto Rico and spent several days with Jose and Ramona at their home in Ponce. Art Aragon was the best man at his wedding. And when push came to shove, he put on the gloves with both Ernest Hemingway and Norman Mailer and kicked both of their asses, though not, as some would now claim, on the same night.

And from an interview with Schulberg earlier this year in The Independent:

No writer has ever been closer to Muhammad Ali. Schulberg travelled in Ali’s car on the way to fights, sat in his dressing-room even after defeats, and was at the epicentre of some of the bizarre social situations the Louisville fighter liked to engineer. He was at the Hotel Concord in upstate New York when Ali was training for his third fight against Ken Norton. Schulberg was with his third wife, the actress Geraldine Brooks. “Ali,” Schulberg recalls, “asked Geraldine for an acting lesson. She improvised a scene in which he’d be provoked into anger.” After two unconvincing attempts, “She whispered in his ear, with utter conviction: ‘I hate to tell you this, but everybody here except you appears to know that your wife is having an affair with one of your sparring partners.’ I watched Ali’s eyes. Rage.”

Then, he recalls, Ali had another idea. “‘Let’s go to the middle of the hotel lobby. You turn on me and, in a loud voice, call me ‘nigger’.” Once in the foyer, crowded with Ali’s entourage, “Gerry dropped it on him. ‘You know what you are? You’re just a goddamn lying nigger.’ Schulberg recalls how Ali waited, restraining his advancing minders at the very last minute; a characteristic sense of timing that allowed his white guests, if only for a moment, to experience the emotions generated by the prospect of imminent lynching, yet live to tell the story.

The stars were out at the Stadium to see Ali and the Yanks: Bruce Willis, Paul Simon, Kate Hudson, and Hall of Famer, Eddie Murray. Ali was wearing a powder blue shirt and dark sunglasses; he slumped forward, a hulking man, surrounded by young, fit athletes and middle-aged executives. The moon was yellow and almost full. The stands were packed (49,005, the biggest crowd all year) as this was the most talked-about game to date in the new park.

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