This has been a miserable week for baseball. Here at Bronx Banter we lost a talented young wordsmith in Todd Drew, who passed away after a short but intense battle with cancer at the age of 42. From the ranks of major league baseball, former manager Preston Gomez never recovered from injuries suffered in a terrible car accident last spring and died at age 85. And former big league reliever Frank Williams, who had fallen into an existence as a homeless alcoholic, died from a heart attack at the age of 50.

What’s worth bearing in mind when navigating any kind of serious legal situation is how crucial it is to have representation from people who genuinely know the local court system inside and out. The team at Law Offices of Jonathan F. Marshall — experienced Hudson County attorneys handling cases across the region has over 200 years of combined experience and includes former county prosecutors, which gives them a rare insight into how the opposing side builds its case. That kind of depth makes a real difference when the stakes are high, whether you’re facing a first-time charge or something more serious.

After a workplace injury, employees should know to report the incident immediately, seek medical attention, document what happened, and understand their rights regarding workers’ compensation benefits and recovery support. Here’s what employees should know after a workplace injury.

For three years in the late 1980s, Williams was virtually unhittable as a side-arming reliever with the Giants and Reds. But then came arm problems, along with a host of personal problems after his playing career ended. Williams’ death reminds me too much of the story of another former major leaguer who had lapsed into a life of homelessness. Five years ago, this noted ex-outfielder spent his final days in the streets of Los Angeles. As with Frank Williams, few in the mainstream media seemed to take notice.

Ever colorful, Leon Wagner (seen here in his final Topps card from 1969) was an enormously popular player with both the Los Angeles Angels and the Cleveland Indians. Nicknamed “Daddy Wags,” a self-imposed nickname that tied into the clothing store he owned, he began his big league career with the Giants and Cardinals before finding a niche in Southern California. In 1962, Wagner hit 37 home runs with 107 RBIs for the Angels, earning him a fourth-place finish in the American League MVP sweepstakes. After hitting 26 home runs in 1963, the Angels traded him to the Indians for slugging first baseman Joe Adcock and pitcher Barry Latman. Wagner played four seasons for the Tribe before wrapping up his career with the Giants and White Sox in 1968. In 12 major league seasons, Wagner hit 211 home runs, batted .272, and compiled 669 RBIs. Off the field, the well-dressed Wagner concentrated his efforts on operating a clothing store that bore the colorful slogan, “Get Your Rags at Daddy Wags.”

After his playing days, Wagner found day-to-day life to be a struggle, partly because he had made little money in baseball’s pre-free agent era and partly because he lacked a college degree. With movie producers intrigued by his high cheekbones and general good looks, Wagner dabbled in acting, appearing in an episode of The Man From U.N.C.L.E, and in two feature films, including the controversial Negro Leagues picture, The Bingo Long Traveling All-Stars and Motor Kings. Yet, he did not enjoy long-term success in Hollywood. Wagner later became severely addicted to drugs, which cost him most of his money and left him in debt to others. Stricken with poverty and left without a home, Wagner ended up living in an old car and then a small electrical shed—located next to a dumpster—where his lifeless body was found in January of 2004. Alone at the end, he was 69 years old.

I didn’t realize how good a player Wagner was until I looked at his career statistics in the days after his death. Having always heard stories about Wagner’s fielding faux pas in the outfield and his flaky personality, I had regarded him as sort of a clownish journeyman—and nothing more. Boy, was I wrong. In 1961 and ’62, he slugged .500 or better, making him one of the few bright spots on the expansion Angels. From 1961 to 1963, Wagner averaged 31 home runs and 99 RBIs, at a time when those figures still meant something. Four times in his career, he received votes for the MVP Award. Simply put, he was one of the American League’s best left-handed power hitters during the early sixties, strong enough to hit home runs in any of the league’s spacious ballparks. If only he had received a chance to play regularly before his 26th birthday, Wagner might have put up some numbers that would have made him a borderline candidate for the Hall of Fame.

Off the field, Daddy Wags was much more than a clown; loved by teammates and fans alike, he sincerely enjoyed talking to people, even if he did brag a little bit too often about his batting prowess. He loved to hit, he found joy in playing the game, and he always seemed willing to give something back to his fans. It was no wonder that he was given the nickname, “The Good Humor Man,” during his tenure with the Angels.

As with Frank Williams, I only wish that good fortune had accompanied “Daddy Wags” more often during his days after baseball.

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

The service today for Todd was beautiful and well-attended. There were a series of photographs of Todd, a big fella, who looked like a combination of Matt Damon and Don Rickles. Rickles without the nastiness. As one of his friends said, Todd was tough but never mean-spirited.

I knew how deeply Todd and his writing touched us here in the baseball community, and that of course extended to his co-workers at the ACLU as well as his family. I knew that Todd was a caring soul, hard-working and determined. But today, we learned that he loved to go to the ballet with his wife Marsha. He raced motor bikes as a kid in Syracuse and played hockey and later covered race car driving and even worked for Dale Earnhardt for a year. He was a dog lover, and he enjoyed a good cigar.

Todd’s sister reminded us that he was no saint, a commanding but tender big brother who wasn’t above playing a prank on his syblings, like when he sprayed Pledge on the kitchen floor during a game of hide-and-seek. His wife said that his calm demeanor changed when he was at Yankee Stadium watching a game, especially if the Sox were in town.

At the end of the ceremony, Todd’s father-in-law said the final words and put a Yankee cap on–so did many of the guests in the audience. It’s so easy to be cynical about big time sports these days–I don’t know if I’ve ever seen the New York Yankees and the ACLU celebrated jointly before–but it was a moment that reminded me why our teams, these games, matter so much to us, how they keep us together. Then we all sang “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”

I came away knowing more about Todd, feeling closer to him than before. I am honored to call him a friend. I am also more aware of just how much he will be missed.

It snowed last night in New York and more is on the way today.  I’m headed off to the New York Public Library this morning to sniff around the archives and then I’m going to Todd’s memorial service this afternoon.  I have been asked to read Todd’s lasting Stadium memory which is some honor. I will make sure to say that I am representing all of Bronx Banter, from the contributors to the commentors to the regular readers, because I know many of you won’t be able to attend:

Memories Are Forever

By Todd Drew

The memories will not stop. Sometimes they come in the middle of the night and you have to walk. So you head down five flights to Walton Avenue. You pass the spot on East 157th Street where a bat boy once found Satchel Paige asleep in his car after driving all night from Pittsburgh.

Memories say it was 15 minutes before the first pitch when the boy shook him awake. It also says that Satchel asked for five more minutes and then threw a two-hit shutout.

Memories say things like that.

You cut over to Gerard Avenue where a Mickey Mantle home run would have landed if the Stadium’s roof hadn’t gotten in the way. That’s how the memories tell it anyway.

You walk up River Avenue behind the bleachers of the old Yankee Stadium. There will be no more games here, but you keep coming back because this is where your memories are.

You move past the millions that have huddled in the cold and the heat and the rain and sometimes the snow for tickets. The line wraps around the block and down East 161st Street near where a Josh Gibson home run once landed.

Your friend Earl from Harlem carries his father’s memory and says that blast may have hit the new Yankee Stadium if it had been across the street back then. Earl says that the new Stadium couldn’t have held Gibson any better than the old Stadium. That memory always brings a smile.

You wander down Ruppert Place and away from the new Stadium because it doesn’t hold your memories, yet.

The players’ gate draws you this way. Everyone has walked in and out of those doors and your friend Henry has seen them all. He is at the Stadium every day just like a lot of other people from the neighborhood.

There was a rainy afternoon last year when everyone else left and the cops even took down the barriers, but Henry wouldn’t leave because Hideki Matsui was still inside. You both got wet and shook Matsui’s hand.

You remember standing there all night when the Yankees won the pennant in 2003 and David Wells came out with a bottle of champagne. He offered up drinks and everyone cupped their hands. The sticky-sweet smell of victory still clings to the scorecard back in your apartment.

You look over at Gate 4A and remember how long this place has been your home. You think about all the wins and the losses, too. Every day at the ballpark is a good one, but the pennants and the World Series titles make them even better.

You dig around your memory and try to find the best. There are lots to choose from, but you settle on one from a few years ago.

A boy and his grandfather were waiting in line at Yankee Stadium. The boy was 18 and unable to buy beer so the grandfather had picked up three bottles at a bodega and slipped them under his coat.

“They won’t frisk an old man,” he said.

The boy rolled his eyes, but the grandfather got through with the beer.

“Two bottles for me and one for the boy,” the grandfather said. “He is young and shouldn’t drink too much.”

“What are we gonna eat?” the boy asked.

The grandfather pulled a big bag of peanuts from his pocket.

“An old man can get away with anything,” the grandfather said.

They found their seats and cheered for all the Yankees, but saved their loudest for Jorge Posada and Bernie Williams.

“We are all from the same island,” the grandfather explained. “The Puerto Ricans will always get my best.”

Posada and Williams both hit home runs in the game and the grandfather was feeling good.

He started eyeing a lady in low cut jeans and a skimpy top that was sitting in front of him and when the Yankees stretched their lead in the eighth inning the grandfather blurted out:

“Nice tattoo.”

The ladies’ boyfriend wheeled around and took a swing at the boy. There was a scuffle and the boy defended himself well. The boyfriend and lady were so offended that they left.

“An old man can get away with anything,” the grandfather said again.

“Yeah,” the boy said.

“It was a good fight,” the grandfather said. “And it’s been a damn good game.”

The boy stared straight ahead, but managed a smile.

The grandfather put an arm around him.

“You’re a good boy,” he said. “But you gotta protect against the right hook.”

They both laughed.

You still see the boy around. He’s a man now and can buy beer on his own. His grandfather is gone, but that memory will walk through this neighborhood forever.

I’m wearing my Reggie Jackson t-shirt.  Somehow, I think Todd would approve.

Here’s a quick smile for you on another cold day in New York (good lookin Matt B, Prince You Tube Selector):

There will be a memorial service for Todd this Sunday, January 18th at the The Riverside Memorial Chapel, located at 76th street and Amsterdam Ave at 3:00 pm.

I still feel numb.  Even though I knew Todd was in bad shape–he was in intensive care for more than three weeks–I still can’t believe he’s dead.  At 41.  He was a kindred spirit, a part of the Banter family as a regular commentor (as he was over at Pete Abe’s as well) long before he joined us as a writer.  He was one of the fellas at the bar. Curious and passionate, genuinely interested in people, and someone who loved conversation. He was all about the banter.

Todd also loved sports writing and once sent me a list of his twenty-five favorite writers.  I have it tacked up in my cubicle at work, right behind my computer screen.  My friend John Schulian is on that list.  Todd loved John’s boxing and baseball writing.  He planned to interview John about a baseball story Schulian once wrote, which I will reprint in this space in the near future. 

I e-mailed the bad news to John today and he replied:

That’s just not right. You know what I mean? It’s cruel and unfair, and it makes me wonder why so many two-legged vermin are allowed to walk the earth while a good man is left to die way, way before his time. But from what I’ve gathered about Todd, he wouldn’t appreciate such a sentiment. He was too kind, too big-hearted, to let himself fall prey to pettiness and resentment. Last night was his time, and there was nothing he could do about it. The poetry of his life turned cruel, and then it was over. I’m glad his wife and his friend were with him. I’m glad they were listening to music. Now the three of them have a song for eternity, the song with which Todd said goodbye.

I have highlighted many of the names on Todd’s list, guys I may of heard of but hadn’t read much of before.  After I got to them, I’d e-mail Todd and we’d go back-and-forth sharing our enthusiasm for the craft. There were so many articles that we talked about him writing–from his love for Alex Rodriuez to his interest in the concession workers at the Stadium. I am angry that we’re being cheated out of so much good work. At the same time I’m grateful for the work he gave us and for the example he provided.

Todd took blogging seriously.  Which isn’t to say that he didn’t have a sense of humor.  But he thought about his posts, those finely observed New York City vingettes written in the classic tradition of Jimmy Cannon and Jimmy Breslin, and he took his time crafting them.  He didn’t just toss off a rant.  He was a writer and a storyteller. He knew he couldn’t be inspired every day, but he showed up every day and gave it his best.

This is the final piece that he wrote for us, perhaps the last thing that he wrote at all. From December 22, 2008.:

Baseball and Me

By Todd Drew

I went to a baseball game after my father’s funeral. I also went to one after finding out about my mother’s brain cancer.

It was selfish and heartless. I felt guilty before and embarrassed after, but for nine innings I felt only the game. That’s the way it’s always been between baseball and me.

It was my friend when I didn’t have any others. And it has always been there to talk or listen or simply to watch.

Baseball helps me forget and it makes me remember. That’s why it was exactly what I needed on the worst days of my life.

But there were no games when a doctor told me that I had cancer. The neighborhood was out of baseball on that cold November day. No one was playing at Franz Sigel Park or John Mullaly Park. And there wasn’t even a game of catch in Joyce Kilmer Park. The last game at the old Yankee Stadium was long gone and Opening Day at the new Yankee Stadium was long off.

So I went home and wished for one of those summer days when I was a kid and my mother would send me to the ballpark with a paper sack stuffed with her famous tuna-fish sandwiches. That was back when you could slip through a delivery gate with the beer kegs and watch batting practice. And it was always okay to come home late with a beat-up scorecard and popcorn stuck between your teeth.

The doctor told me that tomorrow’s surgery and chemotherapy treatment might keep me in the hospital for 10 days.

“At least it’s December,” I said. “There aren’t any ballgames to miss.”

And I will be ready to slip through a delivery gate with the beer kegs when the new Yankee Stadium opens. I’ll watch batting practice with one of my mother’s famous tuna-fish sandwiches and come home late with a beat-up scorecard and popcorn stuck between my teeth.

Cancer can’t change the way it will always be between baseball and me.

Todd was one of us and a true original. He will be missed but he’ll also never leave. He’s ours for good.

Perhaps no other sport can elicit the level of debate among fans and pundits alike as baseball can. I believe this has everything to do with the numbers that drive the sport. Like golf, in the end, the numbers are your most tangible results. And few players in the history of the game posted numbers as gaudy as Rickey Henderson.

Henderson, the second straight ex-Yankee to be inducted, may arguably be the most obvious first-ballot choice of this era. (Congratulations also to Joe Gordon, the Yankees¢ second baseman on the 1930s dynasty and one of the best offensive players at that position of all-time. His induction, even by the Veterans Committee, was long overdue.)  The mainstream local media have treated him well, particularly with the retrospectives from former teammates Willie Randolph and Don Mattingly. And they will laud him again — maybe with similar profiles and features — at the end of July. His speech may be the most fun and accidentally eloquent we’ve ever seen. I put the over/under on 50 third-person references.

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It is with a heavy heart that I pass along the news that our colleague and friend Todd Drew passed away last night. According to his wife, “Todd lost the last game of the season in the bottom of the 9th inning just after midnight. His dear friend Michael and I were with him and he went very peacefully. While we were sharing the ipod listening to Regina Carter (jazz violinist), he opened his eyes for just a moment.”

I didn’t know Todd well. We spoke over the phone about a dozen times and exchanged many e-mails over the past few years. I have an e-mail he sent me last February of his favorite sports writers tacked up in front of my computer.

I met him just once, a few months ago, at a dinner with the rest of the Bronx Banter crew, minus Bruce, who lives upstate.

Todd was a gentle, compassionate man, but no pushover. He loved sports writing, loved baseball, and was an unyielding optimist.

This is a great loss for our community and he will be missed dearly.

Todd Drew: May 13, 1967 – Jan. 15, 2009

There will be a clear-cut Yankee-Red Sox flair to the Hall of Fame induction ceremonies taking place on July 26 here in Cooperstown. Veterans Committee selection Joe Gordon played a large chunk of his career with the Yankees, Jim Rice spent all of his major league days with the Red Sox, and Rickey Henderson played for both the Sox and the Bombers. I have to confess that I’d forgotten about Rickey’s tenure with Boston, but he did play there for 72 games in 2002. Like Goose Gossage, Rickey put in cameos for just about everyone.

Unlike Rice, there’s really no argument over Henderson’s worthiness as a Hall of Famer, not when you’re the all-time leader in runs scored and stolen bases, and second on the all-time walks list. The 28 writers who left Henderson’s name off the ballot really should step up and explain themselves. (Up till now, only one has, a man named Corky Simpson, who said Henderson wasn’t his kind of player.) If they left him off as a protest against Rickey’s occasional tendency to lollygag, I can somewhat understand their point; Henderson did his reputation no favors when he tanked his performance with both the Yankees (in 1989) and Mets (in 2000). If they left him off because they don’t vote for first-year eligibles, or because they don’t want to see a unanimous selection, they really need to lose those antiquated ideas. Those simply aren’t legitimate reasons to keep someone’s name off the ballot. It would be nice for the Baseball Writers to come up with a system that demands accountability. Perhaps the voting for the Hall should no longer be done with secret ballots; let’s make each writer publicly list his or her choices. Maybe that will eliminate some of the silliness.

What about Rickey as a Yankee? I’ll always have mixed feelings about Henderson’s days in the Bronx. At his worst, he pulled a Manny Ramirez-like stunt in 1989, jogging after balls hit to left field, running the bases at three-quarter speed, all because of his unhappiness over his contract and his displeasure with management. But at his best, Henderson was THE Best. From 1985 to 1988, he performed at a level never matched by any other Yankee leadoff man in history. He also had his best power seasons while playing for the Yankees, 24 home runs in 1985 and 28 in 1986. For his career, he nearly reached the 300 milestone, an amazing accomplishment given the lack of power he had displayed throughout the minor leagues. Except for one minor league season, Henderson hit with no power at all. Over his first 942 major league at-bats with Oakland, basically the equivalent of two seasons, he hit a grand total of ten home runs. But then he turned his muscular build into legitimate power, making him the ultimate three dimensional leadoff threat. His 1990 performance highlighted his power at its peak, when he slugged an amazing .577 for the A’s. If Henderson had wanted to, if he had changed his plan from slash-and-dash to a muscle approach, he could have hit 500 home runs, though it likely would have hurt his all-round game. The “Man of Steal” had that kind of talent. He was Ty Cobb with a power stroke.

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For most of us, death will not announce itself with a blare of trumpets or a roar of cannons.  It will come silently, on the soft paws of a cat.  It will insinuate itself, rubbing against our ankle in the midst of an ordinary moment.  An uneventful dinner.  A drive home from work.  A sofa pushed across a floor.  A slight bend to retrieve a morning newspaper tossed into a bush.  And then, a faint cry, an exhale of breath, a muffled slump.

Pat Jordan, “A Ridiculous Will”

My father died on this day two years ago.  He was at home with his wife.  They were getting ready to watch their favorite TV show.  He had just eaten his favorite pasta dish.  He slumped over in his chair and that was it.  He officially lasted until the next day but really that was when he left us.

I always imagined that he would have a dramatic death.  He was a big-hearted and volatile man.  He was unafraid to get into it with, well, virtually anyone.  I saw him kick the hub cap off a moving vehicle that had cut us off on West End Avenue and 79ths street, and was with him when he pulled a vandal out of a parked car.  I thought he’d die in a pool of blood.  I worried about it constantly.  But he left quietly.

I think about him less now.  Of course, I still think about him but I am not consumed with it as I was for the first year after he died, when his absence was acute.  Almost every block in the city, certainly on the Upper West Side where he lived, holds a memory, some happy, others not so much, of the old man.  I miss his stories, I miss asking him questions about the theater and the Dodgers and Damon Runyon.

But I don’t miss how tough he was on me, or the fact that even as an adult, I felt anxious around him.  I don’t miss how competitive he was with me, and I don’t miss worrying about his financial state.  When he was alive, I don’t think there was a time when I wasn’t afraid of him, even if it was on a subtle or subconscious level. 

I feel relief now that he’s not around. I loved him very much and the feeling was mutual.   He was proud of me, he was proud all of his kids, as well as his neices and nephews.   He and I buried the hachet long before he died and I tried my best to accept and love him for who he was not what I wanted or needed him to be when I was a kid.  Like most parents, he did the best that he could.

But I don’t compare myself to him these days.  I am my own man. I remember his warmth and compassion, his laugh and his righteous indignation, and that for all his flaws he was a good man.  I’m proud to be his son.

The Rickster…No, not that one…This one.

And more Rickey from the vaults…Here is David Grann’s 2005 New Yorker profile, and old ESPN piece by the late Ralph Wiley.

Last Friday night, I had the pleasure of listening to George Kimball read from his new book at Gelf Magazine’s Varsity Letters reading series.  (Here are two video links: One and Two.) The book,Four Kings: Leonard, Hagler, Hearns, Duran and the Last Great Era of Boxing is a must for anyone interested in the fight game.  

Kimball was there for it all and conveys the excitement these four champions brought to the game in this expertly reported book that is written in pleasing, straight-forward prose.

For a sampling of Kimball’s work, check out his archive at The Sweet Science.  For example, here is his story on the Hagler-Hearns brawl: 

Nearly a quarter century later it remains a high point of boxing in the latter half of the twentieth century. Some knowledgeable experts have described it as the greatest fight in boxing history – which it probably wasn’t, if only due to its brevity. But its ferocious first round, which to this day remains the standard against which all others are measured, was undoubtedly the most exciting in middleweight annals, and one of the two or three best opening stanzas of all time.

What did Bob Arum know that the rest of us did not? Already in the midst of an age in which it had already become obligatory to sell every big fight – and many smaller ones – with a catchy slogan, the promoter who had already staged (with Don King) the Thrilla in Manila, as well as served as the impresario for Evel Knievel’s ill-fated attempt to jump the Snake River Canyon, christened the 1985 matchup between Marvelous Marvin Hagler and Thomas Hearns simply “The Fight.”

This Friday, Kimball will be interviewed by none other than Pete Hamill (who wrote the foreword for the book) at the  Barnes and Noble in Tribeca (97 Warren street).  7 pm, ya heard? 

Again, anyone with a remote interest in boxing should brave the cold and check out what promises to be a riveting chat.

Influences play a major role in baseball. It’s no secret that veteran teammates often provide counsel to young players about the subtleties of the game. Perhaps lesser known is the influence that some older teammates have had in shaping unusual characters of the next generation. Few players know that better than Jay Johnstone, who carried the lessons from others into the late sixties, the seventies, and the eighties.

As a high school athlete, Johnstone found himself facing impending trouble from the NCAA. He had signed letters of intent to play football for nine different colleges. That was more than slightly against NCAA rules. Thankfully, the California Angels bailed Johnstone out by signing him to a baseball contract on the day of his high school graduation.

When Johnstone joined the Angels as a rookie in 1966, manager Bill Rigney gave him an intriguing place in the clubhouse. Rigney stationed Johnstone at the locker that stood in between those of veteran flakes Bo Belinsky and Dean Chance. Rigney then gave Johnstone his roommate assignment: the incomparable and sometimes indescribable Jimmy Piersall.

Johnstone had been a quiet, unassuming high school student. That all changed with the Angels. With Piersall becoming his guru, and Belinsky and Chance providing their own unique influence, Johnstone quickly developed into a combination of prankster, quipster, and clown. Within a short span of time, he became known as “Moon Man” to his Angels teammates.

Johnstone fit in well in the California clubhouse, but his lack of concentration and frequent defensive mishaps in the outfield frustrated Angels management. The Angels traded Johnstone to the White Sox, where he continued to show flashes of brilliance but also provided too many fits of frustration. A .188 batting average in 1972 didn’t help either. The White Sox released Johnstone, leaving him temporarily unemployed.

Fortunately, Johnstone had received an earlier promise from another major league owner, indicating that if he were ever to be released, he would have a standing offer of a job. That is how Johnstone came to be matched with an owner fitting of his comedic personality, Oakland A’s patriarch Charlie Finley. Living up to his promise, Finley signed Johnstone to a minor league contract.

In the midst of the 1973 season, the A’s recalled Johnstone from their Triple-A affiliate at Tucson, where he was attempting to begin his climb back toward the major leagues. The free-spirited Johnstone seemed like a perfect fit for the wild, swingin’ A’s, but he struggled to hit for the team that wore green and gold, and eventually became a victim of Oakland’s crowded outfield.

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It’s a big day for Rickey Henderson who will be elected into the Hall of Fame later today.

Who else goes in?

Will it be this man?

Or this dude?

Or this guy?

So, what would your ballot look like? Pick up to ten–75% is the threshold, just as with the actual Hall.

[poll id=”3″]

Shortly after the Mark Teixeira signing I was chatting with Was Watching’s Steve Lombardi about the nifty first base tradition that has developed since Don Mattingly retired.  Then, a few days ago I was over at No Maas and saw this dope image they created on that note.  

Cool stuff from the No Maas crew. It’ll be interesting to see where Teix ranks with Mattingly, Tino and Giambi.

By the way, apropos of nothing, my wife calls Teixeira “the white Barry Bonds,” because she thinks they look an awful lot alike, puffy face and all.

The sun is poking out from behind a mass of dark greyish-blue clouds in the Bronx this morning.  The sounds of snow shovels dragging along the pavement echoe around the neighbhorhood as New Yorkers prepare themselves for a big-time football game this afternoon at 1 pm. 

Giants vs. Eagles. A nice little rivalry, right?

I’ve never been a Giants fan, though I don’t have anything against them.  But thinking about them this morning brought to mind L.T.–the original L.T., Lawrence Taylor–who was certainly the greatest defensive football player of his era:

Here’s hoping for a couple of good games today.  Something good to eat, some smashmouth football.  Sounds about right, huh?

The wife and I were down in the village this afternoon when it started to snow.  I told her about an e-mail I got this morning from my friend Rich out in Long Beach, California.  He pointed out that it would be 80 degrees there today, 30 in New York.  Then he quoted Randy Newman’s “I Love L.A.”  I replied, taking the bait as I always do, and questioned his manhood.  But as the wife and I walked west into the wind,  I cursed him again, thinking 80 degrees didn’t sound so bad after all.

We stopped by the Chelsea Market.  I hadn’t been there in years.  I got a baguette from Amy’s Bread and went to Buon Italia, one of the most comprehensive Italian markets in the city.  It can be pricey, but it is worth it. 

We puttered around, looked at the expensive cheese and chocolate.  Got a can of La Valle tomatoes, my favorite brand.

I browsed the jams and the wife said, “What is a Quince, Alex?”  Rosie Perez, her best movie impression.  So I picked out a jar of Quince jam.  Then we got some nice buccatini pasta, the hollow spaghetti that the wife loves.   

Then we stood in front of a case of cured pork products.  The wife looked at the rolls of pancetta and sides of ham and frowned.  “That is so gross.”

“It is heaven,” I said. 

“Funny how two people can look at the same thing and have such opposite reactions,” she said.  I repeated the line back to her twenty minutes later when we passed a parked car with a pug sitting in the passenger’s seat. 

When we got back to the Bronx, the snow was covering the cars and three garbage trucks were rolling up Riverdale avenue plowing the street.

Then we were upstairs, warm and dry.  NFL playoffs, a cup of tea, and some butter and quince jam on a baguette.  Kittens.  Wife.  A perfect way to beat the cold.

In the wake of the Mark Teixeira signing (and press conference), the Yankees have made both Xavier Nady and Nick Swisher available in trade talks. They may end up dealing one of the two, depending on which one can bring the better package in return. I’m still not convinced that’s the right thing to do, unless the return equates to a competent center fielder or a high-grade backup catcher. But there’s no harm in at least exploring the market, which includes teams like the Mariners, Reds, and Giants, and possibly the Dodgers if they don’t re-sign Manny Ramirez. The Reds appear to be one of the most interested parties, but they may not have the right parts to offer. They have no spare center fielders of any real value, and only a moderately tempting backup catcher in Ryan Hanigan. Perhaps the Yankees would have interest in Homer Bailey, who was once rumored to be heading to the White Sox for Jermaine Dye. At one time hailed as the game’s best pitching prospect, Bailey has fallen on hard times in the major leagues and may not have the stuff to succeed as a high-end starter. All in all, he’s a risky proposition who looks too much like the next Charles Hudson to me.

The Giants might be a better match. They can offer either Aaron Rowand or Randy Winn in a deal for Swisher or Nady. At one time, Rowand was a Gold Glove caliber center fielder, but followers of the Giants say his defensive play fell off considerably in 2008. And Winn isn’t really an everyday center fielder, but rather a corner outfielder who can play the middle for short stretches. Unless the Giants can pad their offer to include a pitcher or a catcher, I might have to take a pass on a potential trade with Frisco.

Then there are the Mariners, who need offense in the worst way. They’d prefer Hideki Matsui to either Swisher or Nady, largely because of the Japanese marketing possibilities. But who would the Mariners offer in return for “Godzilla?” They have an unwanted catcher in Kenji Johjima, who was simply dreadful in 2008. They have a shopworn pitcher in Erik Bedard, but his health, attitude, and general contempt of the media would be a bad fit in New York. Once again, the potential return in a trade looks so questionable that Brian Cashman should be very careful before he commits himself to dealing one of his extra outfielder/DH types…

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“Rickey Henderson’s strike zone is smaller than Hitler’s heart.”  Jim Murray

“If you could split him in two, you’d have two Hall of Famers.”   Bill James

I know the Baseball Hall of Fame is sometimes hard to take seriously.  Forget some of the less-than-deserving players in there, that’s bound to happen in any museum, but Tom Yawkey has a plaque.  When I was last there, it was placed directly above Bob Gibson’s plaque, an unintentional joke that reminded me of In the Heat of the Night.  At the same time, talking about the Baseball Hall of Fame is a lot of fun, even something to take seriously. 

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On Jan. 1, the much-ballyhooed launch of the MLB Network took place, with Don Larsen’s perfect game in Game 5 of the 1956 World Series as its flagship program. The game, which had never before been seen anywhere, was a kinescope film of the telecast, with Hall of Famers Mel Allen and Vin Scully on the mike, and more Gillette commercials than anyone has seen, anywhere. This was, for me, a chance to watch history — as the game took place long before I was born — as well as an opportunity to do a three-hour cultural study (male fans in attendance wearing suits and hats, for example), and review how far we’ve come in terms of broadcasting baseball on television.

The program interweaved Bob Costas’s hosting of a Q&A with Yogi Berra and Don Larsen in front of a live audience in MLB Network’s Studio 42 and the game itself. When Costas wasn’t ignoring spoiler alerts and telling us what to watch for in the program (as if we couldn’t figure it out for ourselves), he was playing to his greatest strength — allowing his interview subject to tell the story. The highlight, in my opinion, was the discussion session that followed the final out. Larsen admitted that he knew he pitched a no-hitter but didn’t know it was a perfect game; he didn’t even know what a perfect game was. (I was instantly reminded how when the Astros no-hit the Yankees with six pitchers in 2003, that Jeff Kent didn’t know why his team was celebrating so vigorously until he looked at the scoreboard.) Perhaps Larsen’s most prescient comment, though, came in that same segment. Costas mentioned that 15 Hall of Famers played in that game, and that for Babe Pinelli, the home plate umpire, Game 5 was the last game for which he called balls and strikes. Following that, Larsen said he thinks about the perfect game every day, the Hall of Famers, and that so many of them — especially on the Brooklyn side — are not around now for him to thank them for being part of it also.

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