“Son, in this life, you don’t ever walk by a red dress.”
–Buck O’Neil

I think Buck would have approved of the gal dancing to Rufus (Pretty in Pink) Thomas at Wattstax. My goodness.

Good lookin’ to our man in Tokyo for the link.

For too long now, we in the media have referred to the Yankees of 1965 to 1974 as representatives of the “Horace Clarke Era.” The team’s starting second baseman for much of that period, Clarke has come to symbolize the mediocrity of those Yankee clubs. Seen here in his final Topps card (vintage 1974), Clarke was viewed as an inadequate player, symptomatic of a team that was inadequately built to win any pennants or division titles during that ten-year span.

The criticism of Clarke has run on several different levels. Too much of a free swinger, he didn’t draw enough walks. He didn’t have great range at second base, especially toward his backhand side. He also didn’t turn the double play well.

To some extent, the criticisms are all true. He never coaxed more than 64 walks in a season and usually finished below the 50-mark. Defensively, he paled in comparison to two other Yankees, predecessor Bobby Richardson and successor Willie Randolph. On double plays, Clarke bailed out early and often. Instead of pivoting at the bag, he sometimes jumped out of the way of runners while holding onto the baseball.

Those critiques provide only a partial view. The switch-hitting Clarke stole bases, bunted adeptly, and usually hit for a respectable average (at least for that era), which would have played acceptably as the eight-hole or ninth-place hitter. The Yankees made the mistake of using Clarke as a leadoff man because he looked and ran like a tablesetter. That was their mistake, not his. In the field, Clarke had his shortcomings, but for a guy who supposedly lacked range, he did lead the American League in assists six times. Part of that might have been attributable to having a sinkerballer like Mel Stottlemyre on the staff, but it’s also an indication that Clarke had pretty good range to his left.

Was Clarke a top-notch player? Of course not. But I would say that he was better than mediocre. (The Yankees of that era, like Clarke, were also better than advertised. Just look at the records of the 1970 and 1974 teams.) I think the Yankees could have won a division with a second baseman like Clarke, if only they had been better at other positions, like third base (prior to Graig Nettles’ arrival) or right field. If you want to find the real reasons why the Yankees so often struggled during those years, you need to look no further than the revolving doors at those slots. The Yankees had substantially weaker players at third base (Cox, Kenney, Sanchez) and right field (Kosco, Swoboda, Callison). It’s just that none of the third basemen or right fielders lasted long enough to become targets of the critics.

Putting aside the issue of talent evaluation for a moment, Clarke was an intriguing player to follow, especially for a young fan like me. Clarke came attached with a cool nickname. He was called “Hoss,” raising memories of Dan Blocker’s iconic character from Bonanza. (Bill White, in particular, loved that nickname. “Hosssss Clarke,” he liked to say with flourish.) Clarke also had an intriguing background. He was one of the few players I can remember who hailed from the Virgin Islands. So that made him a little bit different from your run-of-the-mill player. Then there was Clarke’s appearance. He wore very large glasses, the kind that became so horribly fashionable in the early 1970s, really round and overly noticeable. On the field, Clarke not only wore a helmet at the plate; he sported one while patrolling second base. I haven’t been able to figure out exactly why he did that. It may have had something to do with his fear of being upended on double-play takeout slides. Several years ago, Darren “Repoz” Viola of Baseball Think Factory asked former Yankee broadcaster Bob Gamere why Clarke wore the helmet at second base; Gamere explained that it may have stemmed from a 1969 incident in which Clarke was hit in the head with a ball, but he wasn’t completely certain. Whatever the reason, the helmet made Clarke a distinctive landmark on the middle infield.

For all of those reasons, and for being a quiet guy who rarely complained, Hoss Clarke was a likeable guy. He was also a decent ballplayer. So let’s stop vilifying the man who was once booed during pre-game introductions on Opening Day at the old Yankee Stadium. Let’s stop raking the man that one New York writer repeatedly referred to as “Horrible Horace.” I’d prefer to call him “Helpful Horace.” Let’s go with that instead.

Bruce Markusen writes “Cooperstown Confidential” for MLBlogs at MLB.com.

Roy White is famous for being an underappreciated Yankee.   Why he doesn’t have his own Yankeeography is beyond me.  But I’m preaching to the choir.  Here at Bronx Banter, we have much love for the quiet Yankee.  White had a fine career and has just written a new book, Then Roy Said to Mickey…The Best Yankee Stories Ever Told. 

White will be at the Yogi Berra Museum and Learning Center in Montclair New Jersey tonight at 6:00 p.m.  If you are in the vicinity, be sure to check it out.

* photograph courtesy of Corbis.

The massive center field scoreboard area that dominates the visual attention at the new Yankee Stadium comes to life at night. While it can never be truly ignored, even during the afternoon, it is a living, breathing presence at night.

Showtime.

As Yankee fans gather at their new cathedral and take in the experience, walking along the wide concourses, cramming into the Stadium store–which has been packed each time I’ve gone through–there is some sense of carry-over from the old place. Roll call from the bleacher creatures. They are more a part of show than ever because the creatures’ roll call was originally a spontaneous act of their own imagination and collective spirit.  It was not drawn up in a board room. 

The tradition is alive and well in the new place. And the players seem to love it. When Johnny Damon was called he made an elaborate gesture, a comic, rock star pose, pointing to the bleachers. Nick Swisher, spun around and did a nifty move, designed to work the fans up, as well.

The creatures had gone through the outfielders when the A’s lead-off hitter reached first. They chanted Mark Teixeria’s name, and the first baseman, holding the runner on, interrupted his concentration to wave. All part of the show.

* * * *

Earlier, when I walked into the stadium, I saw a group of kids in their early twenties, decked in Yankee gear. “Who’s pitchin?” said one of them. “Yo, we’ve got to cheer for Giambi tonight, man,” said another, smoking a Newport. They nodded their heads.  “Yeah, let’s root for Giambi.”

Giambi was accorded a gracious, though not overly effusive hand when he came to bat in the first inning (those are reserved for players who’ve won titles).  He cracked a line drive to straight away center field. The sound of the ball hitting the bat rang out, that lovely sound that never grows old. Brett Gardner sprinted after the ball–and perhaps because it was right over him he took a funny-looking route–and after eleven steps, he jumped up and snagged it. I thought he had a bead on it, at the last moment I expected him to make the play. Still, it was an impressive catch, and soup to nuts, from Giambi to Gardner, it was one of those moments that bring you to the game, and reminds you that no matter how many bells and whistles, no matter how many distractions, the game is the real show.

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The Original:

Flipped:

I just caught up with Howard Bryant’s recent ESPN story on Jackie Robinson Day, and this grabbed my attention:

Only one major league player — New York Yankees shortstop Derek Jeter — reinforces his words of praise for Robinson with the financial support the foundation seeks.

The foundation asks for real money — to sponsor a four-year scholarship for a select number of students at $15,000 per year, or $60,000 total — to reach its goal of creating leaders for today and tomorrow instead of reflecting only on the accomplishments of yesterday.

Jeter doesn’t just sponsor a Robinson scholar. He endows a scholarship in his name, in perpetuity, at the $250,000 level. Every four years, when steroids and police rap sheets overwhelm sports, Jeter, silently, has put another kid through college.

Silent hero, eh?

The ‘Stache formely known as the Giambino, speaks.

Meanwhile, over at It’s About the Money, Stupid, Jason Rosenberg has more unpleasantness about the new stadium:

A few weeks back, we went to a friends’ house for an afternoon. While watching the Masters with my friend (a Wall Streeter), we were discussing this and he made an interesting point. He said to me: “Jason, even if I had those great seats that cost $2500 a ticket, I can’t take a client there. It’s not worth the risk.” I asked him about what risk he was talking about and his answer surprised me as I hadn’t thought of that: “If someone recognizes me sitting behind the dugout and it comes out that I used my Firm’s resources for those seats, and we’ve taken TARP money from the government, I don’t want that sort of publicity or getting calls from The Post.” He’s not a famous guy at all, but there’s a fear that someone might see him and he’ll get “outted” for using Firm money to attend a game. He also told me that he’s not alone with this fear.

Most of us have stories about how we lost a prized autographed ball or how our mother threw away our baseball card collection. When I was nine, a family friend who worked at NBC gave me an official 1980  World Series ball signed by Bryant Gumbel, who was working sports at the time. A few years later, my brother, exacting revenge for something that undoubtedly deserved it, played with the ball in the mud, and it was forever spoiled.

Rich Lederer managed to ruin a ball signed on the sweet spot by both Ted Williams and Mickey Mantle.  Here’s how he did it.

From the good people at SNY.

According to the Yankee’s site, tonight’s game has been postponed.

The Coen brothers wrote the role of Walter Sobchack in The Big Lebowski with John Goodman in mind.  In fact, they would have filmed Lebowski before Fargo, but Goodman’s schedule was already booked.  Before he arrived on the Lebowski set, I asked a veteran crew member what he was like.

“Do you remember the part he played in Barton Fink?  That’s pretty much him.”

A million laughs one moment, dark and brooding the next.  The few times I saw him work, Goodman was very hard on himself. He was not a particularly gracious man, at least not to a young guy like myself (though he was charming around women).  Which doesn’t explain anything about him, of course. That’s not so unique.  But I was disappointed in his performance, thought it was uneven, especially because it was written for him, and because he’s often so good.

Goodman was the subject of a good article in yesterday’s Times. He is currently playing the part of Pozzo in a revival of Waiting for Godot.

Mr. Goodman will forever be associated with Dan Conner, the working stiff he played so memorably on “Roseanne,” giving the part not just size and humor but also an edge of melancholy. Mr. Goodman now looks back fondly on the “Roseanne” years, but for a while, he said, he felt trapped in the show.

“I resented it at the time,” he said. “It’s one of those arrogant things that happen to you when you don’t realize the breaks you’re catching.” He added: “I don’t feel this way anymore, but for a couple of years I put myself above the material. I hate saying it, but it’s true, and I’m ashamed of it.”

A friend of mine who knows his Beckett told me last week that Goodman was the stand-out in this production. This article made me root for him.

Mr. Goodman said: “Right now I’d rather be here than anywhere. I’d rather be here, trying to find the goddamn part, and I hope I never do find it, because I don’t want to slide into complacency. What would I do then? Start cockfights in my dressing room?”

Yo, here’s another cool late-night, low-lights, vibey record.  From the Hurdy Gurdy Man himself, Donovan. 

Dig it:

Out of options?

Over at the New York Times, Tyler Kepner examines what the Yankees can do about Chien-Ming Wang.

Sometimes, in my more wistful moments, I feel kind of bad for Carl Pavano. Who knows how different the public view of him would be if the Yankees had attributed his 2006 spring training injury to, say, a strained lower back, instead of the infamous “bruised buttocks”? His old teammates openly mocked him and his ex-girlfriend is calling him a headcase in press conferences (albeit a competitive one). Pavano just grinned when he was booed during Cleveland’s introduction on Thursday, but what else could he really do?

Still – you don’t get the sense that he actually feels too much regret over taking $40 million from New York, and giving back a 9-8 record with a 5.0 ERA. Maybe that’s because he gave it his all and was just the helpless victim of cruel circumstance… or, maybe it’s because he’s a complete jackass. The mystery endures.

Anyway, Pavano pretty much dominated the Yankees for six-plus innings today, in what could have been a completely excruciating, soul-sucking loss, had things gone a bit differently. A.J. Burnett did not have his good control, walking six, hitting a batter, and letting fly a couple wild pitches, but he kept things from getting out of hand – and when the mighty Pavano left the game, the Yanks were able to rally, thanks to a key home run from Jorge Posada in the seventh. (I imagine that Jorge Posada, of all people, was not going to deal particularly well with losing to Carl Pavano).

At the end of the day it was a 7-3 win for New York.  I suppose the outcome is all that matters, but it’s still too bad the Yankees couldn’t take their revenge on Pavano – and this was probably the last chance they’ll get, since one can only assume the guy will be back on the DL by the end of May.

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AJ Burnett and the Yankee offense look to take Carl Pavano and the Tribe on a good, old-fashioned tour of the Bronx today, Popeye-Doyle style  (though this was shot in Brooklyn).

Buckle up, Bucko.

And, Let’s Go Yan-Kees!

The subway platform at Grand Central was filled with Yankee fans as an uptown 4 train pulled into the station.  The doors opened, and people pushed to step inside.  They halted when a voice came from inside the train, playing the part of traffic cop.  “Let them out, please let them out first.”  He was calm an authoratative.  “Let them out.  Two more coming, two more.” 

I got into the car with a crowd of Yankee fans and the voice continued, “Watch the closing door.  Bing-Bong.  I’m just trying to put a smile on your face.”  The voice came from a short, thin man, whose impression of the closing-door sound was eerily accurate. 

The man moved to the middle of the car and saw a young, suburban couple standing a few feet away.   “Oh my god, look at this lucky man,” he said approaching them.  “Look at this!”  The young man, no older than his mid-twenties, wore a green Yankee cap, decorated with shamrocks, backwards.  He had the plain, doughy face of Judge Reinhold.  

“You are a lucky man to be with a beautiful white woman like this.”

The young woman was tall.  Not exactly pretty, but not at all unattractive.   Athletic, she towered over her new admirer. 

“I am lucky,” said the boyfriend.

“Yes you are,” said the short man.

She blushed and looked down.  Her boyfriend smiled weekly.  They both looked unsettled.

“I love white women,” the short man continued.  “I do.  Love white women.  I’m looking to hook up with a beautiful white woman now.  I want to make me a little Obama.  Now is the time.”

The man talked more about how much he loved white women.  Then he imitated two versions of the door-closing sound, both remarkable.  But now, nobody was laughing.  The car was filled with out-of-towners wearing Yankee jerseys and hats.  The man rattled a cup and sharply announced that his wife died four years ago this weekend.  He said that he has a daughter.  “If you have food or money, keep your money, I’ll take the food,” he said in a clipped baritone voice, almost as if he were barking.

He got off the train at the next stop, but the young girl kept looking down at the ground.  She and her boyfriend barely said a word to each other for the rest of the ride up to the Bronx.

When the train came out of the darkness, it rolled past the old Yankee Stadium.  You could still see inside the place, for a brief moment.  The stands were still intact, but there was no more grass on the field, just dirt.  The image of the deserted Stadium flashed by in an instant and I heard different voices say: “wow,” “weird,” “whoa,” “so empty.” 

It was like passing by a ghost town.  The car remained hushed and then…”Hey, there’s the new stadium.”

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Like much of the nation, I first experienced the wonder of Mark “The Bird” Fidrych on a Monday night in June of 1976. Prior to that game, I had seen only snippets of Fidrych’s antics on local sportscasts and read tidbits about him in the New York newspapers. Beyond that, I didn’t know much about the rookie right-hander. There was no ESPN or MLB Network around to provide continuous highlights or in-depth analysis about what this strange-looking character was doing during his whirlwind tour of American League cities.

On June 28, ABC chose to broadcast the Tigers-Yankees matchup as its featured game on “Monday Night Baseball.” With the old Tiger Stadium providing the backdrop, Fidrych put on a show like few fans had ever seen. He “manicured” the mound by combing over the dirt with his hands, fixing cleat marks along the way. When one of his infielders made a great defensive play behind him, Fidrych applauded loudly, congratulating his teammate. After recording the third out of each inning, Fidrych didn’t walk off the mound, but ran as if he were in the midst of a 40-yard dash, usually engaging in a full sprint before coming to a sudden halt at the Tigers’ dugout. There was also an element of superstition in his running. On the way back to the dugout, he jumped over the chalk baselines so as to avoid stepping on the lines. The way this big, gangly right-hander acted, it was little wonder that they called him The Bird.

And, oh by the way, Fidrych talked to the baseball. He felt that by conversing with the ball he could better control the pitch and make it move in the way that he wanted. Fidrych felt every baseball possessed a kind of karma. Once a batter reached safely with a hit, Fidrych asked the umpire to throw out the ball and give him another. He felt the old ball still had hits in it and needed to mix with other baseballs so that it would “right itself.”

Prior to Fidrych’s arrival on the major league scene in 1976, pitchers usually showed little emotion on the mound. They restrained themselves from exhibiting much body language, instead approaching the job of pitching in a businesslike manner. Clearly, Fidrych had a different way of doing things. And the country loved every minute of it.

As a Yankee fan, I didn’t like the fact that Fidrych beat my team, 5-1, that night in Detroit. Granted, the Yankees didn’t field a vintage lineup that night. Thurman Munson and Lou Piniella sat out the game, Jim Mason played shortstop, and Reggie Jackson had not yet arrived. But as a baseball fan, I could appreciate Fidrych as a developing sensation. Fidrych had talent, too. He threw a 93-mile-per-hour fastball with great sinking action. Intentionally or not, he pitched to the strength of his defense. In 1976, the Tigers had a decent defensive infield, but their outfield defense was somewhere between adventurous and atrocious, with Alex Johnson in left, Ron LeFlore in center, and Rusty Staub in right field. In retrospect, some critics of Fidrych (like Bill James) have pointed to his inability to collect strikeouts, but I can’t remember a single person mentioning that in 1976. No one cared. All Fidrych did was collect outs—and fans—while entertaining the hell out of the entire nation.

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Joba Chamberlain’s second start of the season didn’t go quite as well as the first. He gave up a solo home run to the second batter he faced (Mark DeRosa), walked five men including two in the fourth inning leading to a second Cleveland run (on a Ben Francisco two-out RBI single), and coughed up three more runs in the fifth before being pulled with two outs in that inning. Chamberlain still managed to strike out four in his 4 2/3 innings, but he lacked control throughout, throwing fewer than half of his 93 pitches for strikes and mixing in a wild pitch in the top of the fifth.

The Yankee offense, meanwhile, drew six walks, but didn’t get a single hit with a runner on base in the entire game. Instead they took advantage of the jet stream heading out to right field in their new park and peppered the right-field stands with solo home runs. Johnny Damon and Mark Teixeira went back-to-back off Tribe starter Anthony Reyes in the third to give the Yankees their first lead at their new ballpark. After Chamberlain allowed the Indians to tie the score in the top of the fourth, Melky Cabrera answered back with a solo shot in the bottom of the inning to make it 3-2 Yanks.

Chamberlain gave that lead right back as well, but the Yankee bullpen locked it down from there with Phil Coke, Jonathan Albaladejo, and the suddenly unhittable Brian Bruney combining to face the minimum over 3 2/3 scoreless innings. In the meantime, Robinson Cano brought the Yankees to within one with a solo shot of lefty Zach Jackson leading off the sixth, and Cleveland reliever Vinnie Chulk handed the Yankees the tying run in the seventh by walking Damon to start the inning, then throwing away a comebacker from Mark Teixeira for a two-base error that let Damon come all the way around to score.

After Bruney’s dominant eighth inning (11 pitches, 8 strikes, two Ks), pinch-hitter Hideki Matsui and Brett Gardner struck out against Jensen Lewis to start the bottom of the ninth, but Derek Jeter connected for a two-out solo shot (a Captain Solo, if you will) that proved to be the game winner as Mariano Rivera  pitched around a pair of singles and struck out DeRosa to earn his first save and seal the Yankees’ first win in the new stadium. Final score: 6-5 Yankees.

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I haven’t written as much about my mother as I have about my father over the years but that isn’t because I love her any less. She’s been as vital a part of my life as he ever was. When my father was lost in booze, unable to take care of his family, my mother walked the walk, and made sure we were provided for. She’s tough, man. A lady, but no pushover. She’s got her flaws like anybody else but make no doubt about it, she was very much a heroine when I was growing up.

She recently celebrated a milestone birthday and it reminded me how lucky I am to be her son.

Mom was raised in Bukavu, a small city in the eastern part of the Congo.  Her father was a mechanic and ran a garage for the local Renault dealership.  She lived there from the time she was four until she was sixteen (1948-1960).  When the Congolese Independence arrived in ’60, mom returned to Belgium where she finished high school and then went to the university, majoring in public relations.  Like many colonists, she  yearned to return to Africa, to the wide open expanses and the big sky.  Belgium was too grey, too rainy, and too small to contain her.

In the summer of 1966, a year out of college, she made that trip back.  It was a great time and her life was changed forever by time it ended seven months later in February of ’67.  My aunt Anne, a year-and-a-half younger than my mom, and their friend Michelle went too, along with three boys, Jean-Pierre, Jean-Paul, and Freddie.  The group of them were all in their early twenties.  The idea was to make it all the way to Kenya, where an old friend of my mom’s family lived.  They arranged funding for their “mass media expedition,” got sponsorship from Total, a popular gas station chain, jeans from Levis, and took off in two old army jeeps, one that was formerly used to haul cannons in the second world war.  The jeep broke down constantly and much of the trip was spent in small villages waiting for weeks for spare parts to arrive. 

Mom and her pals drove east and south, across Europe, through Turkey and Greece.  They spent a night in jail in Saudi Arabia, suspected of being Israeli spies.  After months of roughing it, they made it to Ethopia.  My father was working as a unit production manager on an ABC, National Geographic documentary.  He and his crew met my mother, Anne and Michelle in the green room of a TV station in Addis Abiba.  The old man was so taken with my mother that he courted her for months, through letters and visits and the sheer will of his personality.  

The man had good taste, that’s for sure.  He was relentless and in time, he won her over.  They were married in October of ’67. 

Here are some shots from that trip.  Check it out.

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Does it seem bigger to you? The stadium? The field? The entire place? That’s the question I kept asking people on Opening Day at the new Yankee Stadium. And most people that I asked said yes, it does seem bigger. Less seats but more space.

When you get off the subway and cross the street from the old Stadium and stand under the new gold-lettered Yankee Stadium sign, it is impressive. And it is big, the Yankee Stadium store and the Hard Rock Café just under it on the corner. It seems appropriately big.

“It’s too big,” one of the clubhouse attendants told me and he leaned over the front rail of the visitor’s dugout two hours before the game. It was a fine spring day and he was talking about the inside of Yankee Stadium not the field, which he thinks actually looks smaller.

“It used to be cozy and we complained it was too small.” He smiled. “Now, it’s too big. The quickest way from clubhouse to clubhouse is here.” He pointed across the field to the Yankees dugout. “But it’s good for me. I could use the exercise.”

There were several times during a well-attended Opening Day when I found myself in a corridor or a stairwell completely alone. The interior space is expansive. The front offices are located in left field so that an assistant will think twice before walking down to the Yankee clubhouse, lest he forget anything and have to make the long trek back.

The whole structure is not only bigger it is more open too. There are concourses with standing room areas to stop and watch the game. There are plenty of shops and food stands. You can even get a nice pear. There isn’t much room for vertigo. The nose bleed seats still feel close to the field. And there is less room between home plate and the seats, by maybe ten, fifteen feet. Behind the plate, fans are certainly closer to the action.

Jorge Posada hit the first home run in the new jernt, over the netting in center field, right on top of Monument Park. That was about the only highlight for the Yankees who got rocked by the Indians, 10-2. CC Sabathia wasn’t bad at all but he labored, walking five and throwing 122 pitches in all. Still, he only allowed one run in five and two-thirds.   

Jose Veras and Damaso Marte gave it up in the seventh. Grady Sizemore’s grand slam was the game-breaker. Victor Martinez followed with a bomb into the left field bleachers. The Yankee fans booed and they booed loudly, baptizing the place in Bronx cheer. Poor Cody Ransom left nine runners on base. Nine.

I exited the Stadium from the bleachers onto River Avenue near 164th street. The subway runs overhead. Moving north, past the stadium is a VIP parking garage–the players park in the batcave, underneath the park. Across 164th street is Mullaly Park, which features ramps and jumps for skaters and bmx-bike, x-game kids. The kids are off from school this week and a gang of neighborhood daredevils and adrenaline junkies were riding around casually and without hesitation. Several of them were drinking cans of Red Bull. I wondered if any of them were baseball fans at all.

I took a left on 164th street and walked west. Three pretty girls with Red Bull backpack coolers strapped on their backs stood outside the entrance of Mullaly Park giving out drinks. The next block over is Jerome avenue. Across the street from the stadium is a wonderful old art deco building complex. Cars are double parked outside of the building, mostly limousines. Since the stadium is now one block further away from the Major Deegan, traffic will be worse. How will life change for people who live in the buildings across the street from the stadium? Could be a long summer.

It was chilly now. The fans may have been disappointed but they were still lively as they left the stadium. The day was bigger than the score. Some stopped to take more pictures; others, with an eye on rush hour, hurried to get home.

When Mark Teixeira fielded the ground ball and hustled to first for the final out in the bottom of the ninth, manager Joe Girardi watched eagerly from the vistor’s dugout.  He was coiled.  But when the last out was made, Girardi and his coaches shook hands with enthusiasm.  Everyone was pumped up.

Yanks 4, Rays 3.   

They had every right to be pleased as the Yankees earned perhaps their most satisfying win so far this year.  Andy Pettitte staked the Rays to an early 2-0 lead but pitched a wonderful game, allowing three runs and working into the eighth inning.  Brian Bruney, who struck out the side last night on ten pitches, replaced Pettitte and whiffed the two batters he faced (Bruney got the win).  Robinson Cano hit a two-run dinger and Johnny Damon, who missed the two previous games, drove in the tying run in the top of the eighth. 

Then, in the ninth, Cody Ransom, who hasn’t hit a lick (and was benched again today in favor of Ramiro Pena), laced a one-out, pinch-hit liner into right center field.  Running hard out of the box, he hustled his way into a double (a good throw would have made it close, but it was off-line).  One out later, Derek Jeter singled to left, a ground ball that darted between the shortstop and third baseman.  Ransom charged home as Carl Crawford bobbled the ball momentarily allowing him to score easily.  The Yankees took advantage of two poor outfield throws, turning the tables on the Rays who ran without mercy on the Yankee outfielders last season.

Our great friend Mr. Rivera pitched the ninth: fly out to right, and two ground ball outs to first.  Zip, zip, zip.  The Bombers finish their nine-game road trip on a high note, and they will open the new Yankee Stadium tomorrow with a winning record of 5-4.

Hot Dog.