Chien-Ming Wang again…
Dude, it’s got to start somewhere for our man. Baby steps, Money, baby steps. We’re behind you.
Diane and I will be sitting in Todd Drew’s seats tonight. We’ll raise a cup in his honor.
Damn, is that man ever missed around here or what?
Nearly 30 retired major leaguers will congregate at Doubleday Field in Cooperstown on Sunday for the first Hall of Fame Classic. The list of ex-Yankees who will participate includes Mike Pagliarulo, Kevin Maas, Phil Niekro, Jim Kaat, and Lee Smith. In the latest installment of “Card Corner,” we take a closer look at the man known as “Knucksie.”
Like fellow Hall of Famers Harmon Killebrew, Brooks Robinson and Billy Williams, Phil Niekro exudes gentlemanly class. Frankly, Leo “The Lip” Durocher was wrong when he said, “Nice guys finish last.” Some guys, like Niekro, might have played for a lot of last-place teams, but 318 career wins and a permanent residence in Cooperstown hardly qualify as “finishing last.”
During my tenure as a full-time employee at the Hall of Fame, I had the privilege of engaging Phil Niekro in several casual conversations and a few formal interviews. Whether Phil was in front of a microphone or not, he always behaved the same way. He didn’t like talking about himself—I never heard him brag about anything—but preferred steering credit in other directions.
On a Saturday night in Cooperstown in 2006, I watched Niekro behave in his typically dignified fashion. Along with several other retired ballplayers, Niekro was taking part in a roundtable discussion about the game in the Hall of Fame’s Grandstand Theater. As he sat next to his beloved brother Joe, who would pass away unexpectedly only three weeks later, Phil expressed only words of fond praise for his two-time teammate with the Braves and Yankees. “To get to play with your best friend, that’s an experience,” Phil said that evening. “I wish all brothers would get a chance to have that experience.”
It’s still early, I know, but I have to share this with you…
A friend took me to a place called Five Napkin Burger last night for dinner. I prepared by eating a lowfat yogurt for breakfast and a light salad for lunch. Still, by the end of our meal, I practically rolled my ass back up to the Bronx.
The layout of Five Napkin Burger, which is located on 9th avenue and 46th street, is very much like the open dinning room space at The Odeon downtown. The service was indifferent but not rude, the vibe hip but not edgy. The place was filled with yuppies, buppies and well-dressed gay men.
Smart pop music is piped into the three neat, individual bathrooms. It’s hard not to feel like you are in a music-video as you pee. It has that kind of self-conscious, provocative feel. I thought I was in a movie, and also wished my wife was with me so I could have my way with her right then and there.
Instead I had my way with this, the original five napkin burger (photo courtesy of Time Out New York):
Dude, believe it. Hellacious. And it tastes even better than it looks. Cruel and unusual to post this picture, I know, but I could not resist. Oh, and if you like cheesecake, the light, fluffy kind, uh, well yeah, that’s slammin’ too.
Aw, Joe Girardi seemed so cheerful and carefree after tonight’s game. Playing the Washington Nationals: better than Swedish massage.*
C.C. Sabathia pitched very well over 7.2 innings; the only blip was a what-the-hell moment in the fifth when Anderson Hernandez doubled his lifetime home run total with a three-run shot. That gave the Nats a 3-2 lead, but it was short-lived once manger Manny “Dead Man Walking… Out to the Mound” Acta turned to his bullpen (hi Ron Villone!). Mark Teixeira and Robinson Cano had the big RBIs, helped out a bit there by Elijah Dukes’ fielding choices. Final score: Yanks 5, Nats 3.
Meanwhile, I can’t decide if I want the Nats to break the 1962 Mets’ loss record or not. On the one hand, I’ve often felt that if your team’s going to be bad, they might as well be epically, historically bad. That way you get that mesmerizing car-crash factor. (For example, I actually watched the Knicks more often a few years ago, because they were such an unbelievable mess that you never knew what was going to go mind-bogglingly wrong next; now that they’re merely pretty bad, they’re not that interesting).
On the other hand, though, I don’t really see D.C. embracing the Nats as a bunch of lovable losers, like New Yorkers (or at least the New York media) did with the Mets in ’62. And those Mets had an excuse – brand new team and lousy expansion draft players – that the Nationals don’t; there’s nothing particularly charming about chronic front office mismanagement. Plus I like Manny Acta.
So basically, I’m rooting for them to lose 120 if it’d be fun and zany, but not if it’s going to be all soul-crushing. What do you guys think? Want to see the Nats go for history, or should we pull for the record to stay in New York, where it belongs?
—
*Just in case they go on to take the next two games from the Yankees, I’d like to apologize in advance for the hubris.
“Where is she from?”
That’s what people, mostly friends and family, have said to me in private after meeting my friend Shannon Plumb. It’s her accent, you just can’t place it. They ask, wondering if she’s a put-on artist.
She’s not. But she’s also the only true bohemian I’ve ever known. Completely unaffected, out-of-her-bird, inspired. Turns out she’s from Schenectady–by way of Pluto.
I’ve known Shannon for almost twenty years. We met at college. She used to wear a trenchcoat and carry around a thin boom box, playing Prince. Guys were bewitched by her.
She painted and acted and when we left school, she modeled, and hipsters and cool people were betwitched by her. Now, she’s married with two kids. Over the past decade, she has made a name for herself in the art world with her short films.
Shannon is a true original and one of my favorite people of all time. Loves Harpo, loves Buster, and even once had a nice jump shot (or so she says).
Here’s a mess of her movies. Check ’em out.
I watched both the SNY/PIX and YES broadcasts of the games on Friday and Sunday, flipping around to hear how each covered the game. It was amusing. Both teams are solid (Al Leiter and David Cone joined Michael Kay on YES) but both lean towards their team. The SNY/PIX guys thought a called strike three to David Wright on Sunday was a terrible call; over on YES, David Cone said it was “borderline,” but close enough. The SNY guys chided the new Yankee Stadium, chuckling and sneering. And they killed Joba Chamberlain and Jorge Posada on Friday night. Here’s Bob Raissman, writing in the Daily News, with the skinny.
Who comes up short?
Over at River Avenue Blues, Joseph Pawlikowski considers what roster moves the Yanks will make once Brian Bruney rejoins the team.
I had the day off last Friday and had to run an errand at B&H Photo. It was an overcast, muggy morning and I was overdressed and soon sweating. With time to kill before a lunch date, I strolled up the north side of 34th street when I was done at B&H, walking east, listening to an old song talking about “Tonya, Tamika, Sharon, Karen, Tina, Stacy, Julie…Tracy” when I thought I recognized somebody. I stopped, and back-peddled, removed my earphones, and sure enough, there was Adam Reid from America’s Test Kitchen.
For those of you who don’t know, America’s Test Kitchen is the PBS show that sprung from the minds of Cook’s Illustrated. Chris Kimball and his crew are the sabermetricians of everyday cooking. Their approach is to empirically test and re-test recipes until they arrive at a practical and approachable solution for the typical American home cook. They also test equipment and products as well.
They’ve been a huge success. I can’t recall anything that I’ve ever made from them that wasn’t good.
Adam Reid handles the equipment rating and he’s the most cheerful personality of the bunch. Turns out he’s just as friendly in person. When I saw him, Reid, who also writes for The Boston Globe, was waiting for a bus back to Boston. He had been in town to do a spot on The Today Show promoting his new book, Thoroughly Modern Milkshakes.
Now, how can that book not be awesome? I chatted with Reid for a couple of minutes before his bus began to board. I left him feeling better about the day and with a sudden craving for a milkshake, a “guggle-muggle” as my grandmother like to call them.
Took the train uptown, and still with time to burn, got out at 72nd street and decided to casually walk up Broadway. I had the headphones back on as I crossed Broadway and 78th street and saw what looked like Abe Vigoda on the east side of the block. Is Abe Vigoda still alive? I thought. Only one way to find out, so I removed one earphone and yelled out, “Hey, Mr. Vigoda.” And the old man, bent, wearing a beige cardigan, raised his right arm, cane in hand, nodded at me and continued walking down the block.
Adam Reid, Abe Vigoda, and then a few minutes later, one of the Zabar brothers, I’m not sure which one.
Rub-a-dub-dub.
M’ehhh, could be. It’s definitely grey.
Johan, AJ, lots of off-the-field barkin and belly-achin.
Doesn’t look like a good match-up for the Yanks today, and yet, I’ve got hope…cause that’s the thing that spring eternal.
Ever hear of Fernando Nieve? Right, didn’t think so. The man hasn’t made a big league start since 2006 but he handled the Yankee hitters with relative ease on Saturday afternoon. Fernando Nieve, no lie. Andy Pettitte, on the other hand, was pedestrian, allowing five runs on eleven hits in five innings, as the Mets sailed to a stress-free 6-2 victory.
How best to describe the Yankees on Saturday? How about, uninspired. Yeah, that’ll do.
Now, they have to deal with the Great Johan on Sunday…with AJ Burnett going in return. Good luck.
Anyone got anything sunny to say? I’ve got nothing.
Part Two of the Ding Dong Follies on Fox this afternoon.
Vs.
Luis Castillo plays Jackie Smith.
My mother-in-law is in town for the weekend which is fun because I have one of the great all-time mother’s-in-law. She arrived last night. Em and I watched the game as we waited for her to get here. My mood got progressively darker as the game unfolded and Emily held her breath, hoping against hope, praying that another loss wouldn’t send her husband over the deep end and into a weekend long funk. But the game wouldn’t cooperate. Blown leads, Mariano getting touched, and finally, Alex Rodriguez popping up a good pitch to hit from Frankie K to end the game.
And then, jumping, arms waving, yelling, “He dropped the ball, he dropped the ball, he dropped the ball!” I scared my wife and somehow managed to scratch my arm–on what I don’t remember.
Talk about horses**t. That’s yer textbook definition right there. Still, we’ll take it, and for what it is worth, my wife is grateful, and will continue to be until late this afternoon when she holds her breath again.
If there was any fairness in the world, the Yankees would have to throw that win back. Or perhaps baseball should institute a rule whereby, when it’s called for, the umpires could just declare the game a loss for both teams. Pending such an innovation, though, tonight’s score will have to stand: Yankees 8, Mets 7, on a walk-off error.
Yep, that was one fugly baseball game. At the beginning of the night, back when we were young, Joba Chamberlain took the mound for the Yanks. He looked pretty decent the first couple of innings… and then imploded, at least as much as you can implode without giving up more than two runs. His control fled like a teenager in a slasher flick and he walked two batters, hit one, walked another, hit another, and threw more than 40 pitches just in the third. At the end of his abbreviated night he’d tossed 100 pitches in just four innings, while allowing five walks. Yeesh.
If I try to give you a detailed blow-by-blow on all the offense, I’ll be here all night, so here’s the Cliffs Notes: the Yankees went up 1-0, then the Mets took a 2-1 lead, then the Yankees came back and made it 3-2, then Brett Tomko came in — yes, that Livan Hernandez-Brett Tomko marquee matchup New Yorkers have been waiting for! — and the Mets torched him for four earned runs, including a patented Gary Sheffield blast. The Yankees clawed their way back when Jeter hit a New Stadium Special solo shot to right, and Matsui followed the next inning with a big three-run homer to make it 7-6. The Mets came right back in the seventh: 7-7, tie game.
With two outs in the eighth, Girardi brought in Mariano Rivera. Obvious question: why couldn’t he have done this last night, when I was driving my mom up the NJ Turnpike and cursing extensively at the radio while trying to explain to her about high-leverage situations? Of course, tonight Girardi followed my advice and it didn’t work at all. Ah well. Beltran walked, Wright doubled, and the Mets took a one-run lead, again, some more.
However hapless the Yanks were tonight, though, in the end, the Mets were… uh, haplesser. In the bottom of the ninth Derek Jeter singled off of K-Rod, a nice piece of hitting, and stole second; Teixeira was intentionally walked once the count went to 3-0. The Yankees were down to their final out, though, and naturally it all came down to A-Rod – and he hit a soft little routine pop-up behind second. Game over, you had to assume, as Luis Castillo settled under it… but then Castillo… dropped it. Just like that, for no visible reason. It bounced and fell out of his glove. Huh.
It was exactly what you always hope will happen on the last out of a loss but of course it never, ever does. Teixeira and Jeter were running hard from the start, and so they both scored, and voila: walk-off E-4. The Yankees didn’t win this one so much as the Mets lost it, but hey, it all comes out the same in the standings.
Be sure to catch the SNY pregame show tomorrow, when Louis Castillo will be torn apart by an angry mob… that is, if the team hasn’t already sacrificed him on an altar to appease the baseball gods. (I hear the new Stadium has an amazingly luxe visitors’ altar).
In just over a week, nearly 30 retired major leaguers will come to Cooperstown to participate in the inaugural Hall of Fame Classic. The group will feature several former Yankees, including a fairly prominent and well-traveled pitcher from the mid-1980s.
One of my favorite old ballplayers, the late Pat Dobson, liked to invent new baseball jargon and give out quirky nicknames. He labeled former Yankee Dennis Rasmussen as “Count Full Count,” a reference to the tall left-hander’s tendency to throw too many pitches to each batter. The words “three and two” often accompanied Rasmussen’s struggles with opposing hitters.
Like many of those full counts, Rasmussen took a twisted career path to the Bronx. At one time a top prospect in the California Angels’ organization, Rasmussen came to the Yankees as the player to be named later in the deal that sent Tommy John to the West Coast. The deal, which took place after a dismal 1982 season, made good sense for the Yankees. Firmly in rebuilding mode, the Yankees had unloaded an aging John in exchange for a young left-hander of considerable promise. In the 1980s, however, the Yankees often turned their back on rebuilding at a moment’s notice, reverting back to a win-now philosophy whenever possible. So less than a year later, the Yankees sent Rasmussen to the Padres as the player to be named later for veteran right-hander John “The Count” Montefusco. In other words, they acquired “The Count” for “Count Full Count.”
Wait, there’s more. In the spring of 1984, the Yankees once again reversed course on Rasmussen. Graig Nettles infuriated George Steinbrenner with revelations in his new book, Balls, which angered The Boss so much that he traded his veteran third baseman during spring training. Steinbrenner sent Nettles to the Padres for a package of two prospects: the infamous player to be named later and, you guessed it, Dennis Rasmussen.
Now firmly ensconced in New York, Rasmussen finally made his Yankee debut later that season. Rasmussen brought an amply supply of natural talent to the Bronx, including an above-average fastball, a full repertoire of four pitches, and a dandy pickoff move that foreshadowed Andy Pettitte. He showed some of that promise as a rookie, despite an elevated ERA, by striking out 110 batters in 147 innings and winning nine of 16 decisions. After an up-and-down sophomore season, Rasmussen broke through the fence completely in 1986. Emerging as the ace on a mediocre Yankee staff, Rasmussen went 18-6, logged 202 innings, and kept his ERA a respectable 3.88. At 27, he appeared to be solidifying himself as a legitimate front-of-the-rotation starter.
Rasmussen also made people take notice because of his height. At six-feet, seven inches, Rasmussen was one of the game’s tallest pitchers in the years before Randy Johnson’s arrival. He looked even taller to me, like he was about six-foot-nine, perhaps because he had a bit of awkwardness in his delivery to the plate. His height was either a blessing or a curse, depending on your perspective. Scouts love tall pitchers, especially southpaws. Yet, some scouts believe that pitchers taller than six feet, five inches can have inherent problems. With long limbs and multiple moving parts, tall pitchers sometimes have difficulty keeping their mechanics in order. Rasmussen was not immune to that concern.
Perhaps the Yankees factored his height into the equation the following season, when they decided to trade him. Rasmussen pitched poorly throughout the summer, with an ERA approaching five, causing the Yankees to wonder whether his awkward mechanics and lack of an overpowering fastball would doom him to mediocrity. Whatever the reason, the Yankees traded Rasmussen to the Reds for Bill Gullickson in late August, losing four inches of height in the transaction.
In spite of my seeming obsession with his height, that’s not necessarily the first thing to come to mind when I recall the onetime Yankee. Instead, I’ll always remember an incident from the 1980s, when Rasmussen hit Jorge Bell of the Blue Jays with a pitch. Bell was furious with Rasmussen over what he considered an intentional infraction. After the game, Bell unleashed a tirade against Rasmussen, repeatedly referring to him as “she.” Bell’s intent was clear; he was questioning Rasmussen’s manhood. Whether Rasmussen had meant to hit Bell or not, it was a stupid and chauvinistic reference to make, especially when he made it over and over. Then again, those were the kind of comments that Bell made during a career of mouthing off with the Jays and the White Sox.
With Rasmussen scheduled to come to Cooperstown in just over a week, I’m debating whether to bring up the incident with Bell and find out Rasmussen’s reaction to it. Rasmussen might look at the episode nostalgically, emphasizing the comedic nature of the often volatile Bell. Then again, Rasmussen might think I’m as big a jerk as Bell often was during his career. Perhaps I should stick to the safe side on this one.
Bruce Markusen writes “Cooperstown Confidential” for The Hardball Times and can be reached at bmarkusen@stny.rr.com.
I called in to Mets fan Kenrick Thomas’s “Real Sports Talk” on Blog Talk Radio last night to talk about the Mets, Yankees, Red Sox, and a variety of other topics, including Joba Chamberlain, CC Sabathia’s shot at 300 wins, and Manny Ramirez’s All-Star candidacy. Check it out (I enter at the 3:25 mark):
My uncle once told me a story about a great uncle who was famous for teasing and talking to children as if they were adults. My uncle was three or four and he was in the bathtub one evening and the great uncle happened to be there, I don’t remember why. The older man shook is finger at the boy and said, “You’re All Wet!” And my uncle started to cry.
The Yankees are all wet and we’re doing a lot of crying right about now. They lost again to the Red Sox and are seemingly finding new and painful ways to do it. This time it was 4-3, a real kick in the groin. The Yanks held a 3-1 lead going into the bottom of the eighth–Alex Rodriguez’s two-run double broke up a 1-1 tie moments earlier–when CC Sabathia ran out of gas (a shame, as he pitched a terrific game). The Sox scratched together three runs in a heavy rain and the Yanks were lucky it was just three. But with Jonathan Paplebon closing, the one-run lead was more than enough. Mark Teixeira lined out hard to end it.
This one was painful but not entirely surprising. It is so bad right now that it’s almost comic, especially with the Yanks playing well against the rest of the league. The Sox own them right now and that’s all there is to it. The Yanks aren’t helping themselves either. Nick Swisher made an bad fielding error last night and had a couple of inexcusable base runner mistakes tonight.
We’ll see how long this holds up. (Are the likes of Brad Penny going to come up onions is against them indefinetly?) David Ortiz can’t hit anymore but he handles the Yankees? I never felt confident about the Yankees beating the Sox over and again in the late Nineties because I thought the law of averages had to catch up eventually. Sure enough, they did. Well, this isn’t going to hold up either. It just won’t. The Sox are good but they aren’t that much better than the Bombers.
The Yanks will have their moment against the Sox once again. But they are going to have to wait for a minute before they get the chance; they don’t play again until August. Meanwhile, they’ll lick their wounds and return to the Bronx to face the Mets, who lost two painful games to the Phillies the past couple of nights.
This one smarts, but they get to start fresh tomorrow. The pain doesn’t have to last long. Thank goodness they do this everyday.
CC on the hill, the big fella, the stopper…
Yanks play tonight, Yanks win tonight.
Say word. ‘Nuff said.
Okay, here’s a tough scene but a vivid and compelling one. It involves baseball, and more specifically, the Yankees.
From The French Connection Part II (which is as grimey as they come). Our hero Popeye Doyle, the Ugly American himself, goes to Marseilles. Bad Guys catch him, tie him down and get him addicted to dope. Eventually, they leave him in the guter. With the help of a French detective he dries out.
This is Hackman at his best:
The best way to deal with the Yankees getting knocked around by the Red Sox?
Eat well.
My friend Alex was a baseball blogger for a minute–that’s how we met. He’s long since retired but we’ve remained friends. We’re food nerds. Alex pent a year in Thailand when he got out of college and knows more about Asian cuisine than anyone I’ve ever met. He’s curious and driven and is open about sharing his knowledge.
We’ve cooked together for years now–at his place or up at my crib in the Bronx. We work well together in the kitchen. Fluid. When it’s his place, I’m the sous chef and he puts me to work, and vice versa when we’re at my spot.
Last night, I stopped by Alex’s new apartment in downtown Manhattan. He belongs to a farmer’s collective and picks up fruits and vegetables once-a-week. Last night we had young broccoli rabe–still bitter but tender and almost delicate–arugula, mixed lettuces, radishes and spring garlic, to work with.
I was put in charge of the salad. I don’t much care for radishes but want to like them so I keep trying to prepare them in different ways. These were long like fingerling potatoes. I sliced three, thinly, added 1/4 of a large red onion (also sliced thin), sprinkled some salt and a little bit of sugar on them, added a teaspoon of cider vinegar, and let it pickle for twenty minutes.
I threw in a handful of the arugula, a bunch of mixed greens, and drained the radishes. Then I dressed the salad with a couple of teaspoons of olive oil, a teaspoon of red wine vinegar and a pinch of salt.
Meanwhile, Alex prepared the main course, which was served over white rice. The recipe is listed below. Here are the flicks.
Hazy grizzle.
Garlic and onions.
The beef, onions and rabe.
Cooked down.
Plate it Up.
