I don’t go out to eat much these days. My wife is more of a homebody that I am and she’s no foodie. I think about food constantly and love cooking. I enjoy restaurants but I don’t go often. When I do, to a nice place, it is a real treat. Which is why the most delicious present ever is the gift that keeps giving.

Last night I went to The Spotted Pig for the Sheep’s Milk Ricotta Gnudi (which are a bigger version of gnocci). 

They were terrific, as was every other thing we had, including a special appetizer with fried pig’s ear. By the time we left, around 8:30, the joint was packed with pretty people. I saw four guys, in their mid-twenties I’d guess, standing around, talking loudly, looking nervous, checking their cell phones again and again, waiting for something to happen, or just soaking up being in a hip spot. I remembered being that age, spending time in cool places around cool people, where the lights are low and everyone has a drink, and recalled how unhappy it made me.

After we ate, my friend and I took a slow walk around the west village. If there is anything I miss about Manhattan it is walking after a meal, enjoying the company of a great pal.  Digesting, taking our time.  Is there anything as civilized?

Here’s some video from SNY:

Our new kitten, Moe Green in a rare quiet moment.  Dude is a complete madman.  He’s just three months old–we’ve had him for three weeks now–but he’s already King of our Castle.  We’re just lucky he lets us pay rent and feed him.

Do the Yankees need Andy Pettitte?

Dipping back into the SI.Vault, here is Jimmy Breslin on the early Mets, aka, the Worst Baseball Team Ever:

It was long after midnight. The bartender was falling asleep, and the only sound in the hotel was the whine of a vacuum cleaner in the lobby. Casey Stengel banged his last empty glass of the evening on the red-tiled bar top and then walked out of this place that the Chase Hotel in St. Louis calls the Lido Room.

In the lobby, the guy working the vacuum cleaner was on his big job—the rug leading into a ballroom—when Mr. Stengel stopped to light a cigarette and reflect on life. For Stengel this summer, life consists of managing a team called the New York Mets, which is not very good at playing baseball.

“I’m shell-shocked,” Casey addressed the cleaner. “I’m not used to gettin’ any of these shocks at all, and now they come every three innings. How do you like that?” The cleaner had no answer. “This is a disaster,” Stengel continued. “Do you know who my player of the year is? My player of the year is Choo Choo Coleman, and I have him for only two days.

If you’ve never read Breslin’s book on the Mets, it’s certainly worth picking up.

I’ve gotten some memorable gifts over the years–the Roberto Clemente jersey that a bunch of high school friends got me when I turned 25, the soul mix cd that my friend Alan made me for my 30th birthday, comprised of songs that were released in 1971, the year I was born.  The jersey and the mix were wonderful, but mostly what made the gifts so special was that they came as a surprise. 

Well, a few weeks ago I got another surprise, this time from my cousin Ben who works in the food business here in New York.  First off, he gave me a 20-year old bottle of aged balsamic vinegar and an even fancier bottle of olive oil from Sicily.  Alone, they made a lavish gift, but that was just the start. 

Ben handed me six small manilla envelopes, each filled with cash.  On each envelope was the name of a specific dish and the restaurant where to said dish. 

Here’s the list:

Classic Vietnamese Sandwich at Nicky’s (150 East 2nd street, between Avenue A and B):

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Day two of the NFL playoffs this afternoon.  I enjoyed both games yesterday.  Tough guys, football players, huh?

Well, here’s a real tough guy for you, one of the hardest men ever to grace the silver screen. From a Johnny Carson interview on The Tonight Show:

Carson: Lee, I’ll bet a lot of people are unaware that you were a Marine in the initial landing at Iwo Jima and that during the course of that action, you earned the Navy Cross and were severely wounded.

Marvin: Yeah, yeah … I got shot square in the ass and they gave me the Cross for securing a hot spot about halfway up Mount Suribachi. The bad thing about getting shot up on a mountain is guys getting shot hauling you down. But Johnny, at Iwo, I served under the bravest man I ever knew. We both got the Cross the same day, but what he did for his Cross made mine look cheap in comparison. The dumb bastard actually stood up on Red Beach and directed his troops to move forward and get the hell off the beach. That Sergeant and I have been life long friends.When they brought me off Suribachi we passed him and he lit a smoke and passed it to me lying on my belly on the litter. “Where’d they get you Lee?” he asked. “Well Bob, they shot me in the ass and if you make it home before me, tell Mom to sell the outhouse. Johnny, I’m not lying, Sergeant Keeshan was the bravest man I ever knew!” You now know him as Bob Keeshan. You and the world know him as “Captain Kangaroo”.”

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Here’s Joe Posnanski from his latest column about the Hall of Fame:

One knock you hear all the time about certain Hall of Fame candidates is that they were just good players who assembled impressive career numbers simply by sticking around for a long time. I have always thought that undersells longevity, the ability to stay healthy, the ability to grow old gracefully, which is probably the most underrated talent in the business.

…Baseball is an unforgiving game — you can’t live off your name for very long. You have to perform or you will be discarded, and those players who perform long enough to put up the huge numbers, well, while most people think they are overrated, I tend to believe the opposite is probably true — they are probably underrated, under-appreciated for being successful after their youth has faded, and their bodies ache, and their stuff has gone, and their bats have slowed.

If there is one thing that I think we as fans generally overlook is how difficult it is to play the game, and play it well, once you get older.  Jamie Moyer, are you kidding me?  This guy is a marvel.  More than ever, we seem geared to asking, What have you done for me lately? And each slump is greeting with impatient proclamations of, That’s it, he’s Done.

Pos mentions a few great players who were ineffective by their early-to-mid Thirties: Foxx, Koufax, Mantle, Drysdale, Sandburg. Makes you wonder what Jeter’s career will look like from here on out, Alex Rodriguez too for that matter.  It ain’t easy growing old, no matter how great you once were.  Will any team sign Frank Thomas next year? What about Ken Griffey, Jr? Mike Piazza went quietly into the night and he was one of the great hitters of our time.

Once again, reading this story reinforces my appreciation for Mariano Rivera’s brilliant career. Man, are we ever lucky. It won’t last. And as is the case with most great players, it probably won’t end gracefully.

There used to be a spot in the Times Square subway station where dance crews used to set up and perform for the tourists.  It’s right as you get off the Shuttle train to Grand Central.  Now, an electronics store is there instead, but they still draw a crowd because a famous fight is always playing on the flat screen TV in their display window.  The first couple of times I noticed a crowd huddled around, the Ali-Forman fight* was playing. 

Nothing brings men together like a fight.

Last weekend, I saw them playing the great Hagler-Hearns bout.  One guy watching served as the commentator.

I remember seeing the fight when I was a kid, and being electrified by the fury of violence.  Here it is, brief, savage, and bloody:

Round One:

Round Two:

Round Three:

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The New Year is a time to initiate a fresh start, to make plans to change our bad habits and develop better ones. Yet, I also find myself thinking about the past, specifically about those who left us over the recently concluded year. Baseball lost a number of important personalities and contributors, and while the game remains great, their departures leave us a little bit emptier. In tribute to them, here’s a glance at just a few of those good souls we lost during the past year:

Dock Ellis… An underrated pitcher and two-time World Champion, he gave the game many breaths of color and life before dedicating his efforts to fighting drug abuse. On a list of the game’s most unusual characters, Ellis ranks among the top ten all-time…

Dave Smith… Though forgotten in retirement, he was one of the game’s most consistent closers of the 1980s. With a killer change-up and the Astrodome at his disposal, Smith could be quietly unhittable at his best…

Sal Yvars… Though mostly a backup catcher, he played a major role in the New York Giants’ intricate sign-stealing system of 1941. He became a star of Josh Prager’s The Echoing Green, which revealed the details of the Giants’ “thievery.”…

Red Murff… He was the scout that discovered Nolan Ryan for the Mets, who benefited briefly from Murff’s wisdom before giving “The Express” away to the Angels…

Herb Score… With two All-Star Game appearances and a 20-win season early in his career, Score appeared destined for Hall of Fame glory.  Then came an errant line drive off the bat of Gil McDougald in 1957, which effectively ended Score’s career as a dominant left-hander. If not for the injury, he might have gained as much notoriety for his pitching as he eventually did as a popular Indians broadcaster…

Preacher Roe… He didn’t overpower hitters with strikeouts or fastballs, but instead used trickery (including the spitball) to earn five All-Star Game berths. He did his best work for the old Brooklyn Dodgers, doing so with equal effectiveness as a starter and reliever…

Tom Tresh… For one year, he was the 1960s equivalent of Derek Jeter, but found most of his playing time in a Yankee outfield that was searching for successors to a departed Maris and a fading Mantle…

Bruce Dal Canton… He was the “other” knuckleballer on those Braves staffs of the mid-1970s, before forging a legacy as one of the game’s great minor league instructors. It’s no wonder that he was called “The Professor.”…

George Kissell… He worked for the Cardinals’ organization for an amazing 68 years, doing everything from minor league instruction to scouting to coaching on the big league staff. He was the epitome of a baseball lifer, and forever loyal to the Cardinals…

Eddie Brinkman… With his giraffe-like neck and lanky build, he set a distinctive pose as one of the slickest shortstops of his era. Along with Tiger teammates Norm Cash, Dick McAuliffe, and Aurelio Rodriguez, he helped form one of the best defensive infields of the early 1970s…

Mickey Vernon… The consummate gentleman, he proved that nice guys could also succeed as great players. He was the Keith Hernandez of his day, a master batsman and a skilled defender whose numbers were damaged by a bad ballpark in Washington and military service in World War II…

Don Gutteridge… The oldest living former manager at the time of his death, he had the misfortune of managing the White Sox in 1969 and ‘70, one of the low points in franchise history…

Skip Caray… He brought humor and sarcasm to the broadcast booth, making the Braves bearable (and even entertaining) during the Biff Pocoroba years and later during the Rafael Ramirez era…

Jerome Holtzman… “The Dean” did much more than invent the save rule, bringing a sense of history and style to baseball writing in the Windy City. He also served the game as one of the leading historians on the scandal of the Black Sox and one of the most outspoken members of the Hall of Fame’s Veterans Committee…

Red Foley… Simply put, this New York sportswriter set the standard by which all official scorers should be measured. For years, his “Ask Red” column because a must-read for fans who wanted to learn more about the rules of the game…

Bobby Murcer… A personal favorite, he brought joy to two different generations of Yankee fans, first as an All-Star player, second as an affable broadcaster, and always as a gentleman. Along with the passing of Dock Ellis and John Marzano, Murcer’s death hit this writer the hardest in 2008…

Steve Mingori… The owner of the one of the funkiest sidearm deliveries in existence, he was so brilliant at playing the role of lefty bullpen specialist that one wonders how he might have fared if given the closer’s role in Kansas City…

Jules Tygiel… He proved that academics could also be great baseball writers, all the while educating thousands about the historic roles of Jackie Robinson and Branch Rickey…

Buzzie Bavasi… The architect of eight pennant winners and four World Champions, Bavasi oversaw the development of a flurry of young Dodgers during the fifties and sixties. Along with fellow Dodger patriarchs Branch Rickey and Walter O’Malley, Bavasi belongs in the Hall of Fame…

John Marzano…A former backup catcher who once famously sparred with Paul O’Neill, he became an energetic talks show host and beloved member of the MLB.com staff. …

Tommy Holmes… In 1945, he hit 28 home runs while striking out nine times, one of the most singularly phenomenal accomplishment in the game’s history…

Walt Masterson… A close friend of Ted Williams, he made two All-Star teams and scores of friends during a long life in baseball. The consummate gentleman, he also played a vital role in establishing the Major League Baseball Players Alumni Association…

Bob Howsam… Like Bavasi, he belongs in Cooperstown, which would be a fitting tribute to his legacy as the underrated architect of the “Big Red Machine.” He pulled off one of the great heists in major league history when he secured Joe Morgan, Cesar Geronimo, and Denis Menke from the Astros for Lee May, Tommy Helms, and the other Jimmy Stewart…

Johnny Podres… Brooklyn Dodgers fans will always revere him for his two-hit shutout in Game Seven of the 1955 World Series, an achievement that cemented his reputation as a big game pitcher. Pitchers of recent generations will thank him for his wisdom as a pitching coach, specifically his ability to teach the change-up.

Bruce Markusen writes “Cooperstown Confidential” for MLB.com and welcomes e-mail at bmarkusen@stny.rr.com.

The good people at Sports Illustrated did us a major service last year when they launched the SI.Vault on-line.  The entire SI archive–what a treasure chest of goodies, man.  About the only trouble is that the site is still difficult to navigate–there is no author index for example.     

But I’ve been poking around anyway, thoroughly enjoying getting to know some of the great SI contributors from the past–Curry Kirkpatrick, Roy Bount Jr, Dan Jenkins, Rick Reilly, and of course, Frank Deford.  So I figure I’d share some the gems I’ve found with you.

First up is the late Myron Cope’s 1967 profile of Howard Cosell, Would You Let This Man Interview You?

“Oh, this horizontal ladder of mediocrity,” sighs Howard Cosell, ruminating on the people who make up the radio-television industry, which pays him roughly $175,000 a year. “There’s one thing about this business: There is no place in it for talent. That’s why I don’t belong. I lack sufficient mediocrity.”

Cosell fondles a martini at a table in the Warwick bar, across the street from the American Broadcasting Company headquarters. Anguish clouds his homely face. His long nose and pointed cars loom over his gin in the fashion of a dive bomber swooping in with lighter escort. “This is a terrible business,” he says. It being the cocktail hour, the darkened room is packed with theatrical and Madison Avenue types. A big blonde, made up like Harlow the day after a bender, dominates a nearby table, encircled by spindly, effete little men. Gentlemen in blue suits, with vests, jam the bar. A stocky young network man pauses at Cosell’s table and cheerfully asks if he might drop by Cosell’s office someday soon. Cosell says certainly, whereupon the network man joins a jovial crowd at the bar. “He just got fired,” Cosell whispers. “He doesn’t know that I already know.” The man, he is positive, wants his help, but what is Cosell to do when there are men getting fired every week?

“This is the roughest, toughest, crudest jungle in the world,” Cosell grieves. A waiter brings him a phone, and he orders a limousine and chauffeur from a rental agency. He cannot wait to retreat to his rustic fireside in Pound Ridge up in Westchester County. It is Monday evening, barely the beginning of another long week in which he, Howard W. Cosell, middle-aged and tiring, must stand against the tidal wave of mediocrity, armed only with his brilliance and integrity.

Never be another like Cosell.

Come to think of it, there will never be another like Myron Cope either.

I don’t remember the first time I saw Al Hirshfeld’s wonderous charactures in the New York Times. They were always there as far as I’m concerned. Those drawings were the closest the Times had to actual comics other than the Sunday political cartoons.  As a kid, I looked forward to picking out all the “Nina’s”–his daughter’s name–that he embedded in each piece. Hirshfeld was a master of lyrical line drawing.

So is David Levine, though his line is dramatically different.

I didn’t see The New York Review of Books much growing up, but I was familiar with Levine’s work.  A good friend of my family, a lawyer who also happens to be is a fine draftsman not to mention a dry wit, was very influenced by Levine.  His annual holiday postcards reinforced this familiarity, so I knew about Levine before I really knew his stuff.  

It wasn’t until high school probably that I actually saw Levine’s drawings.  I was hooked instantly.  I drooled over them during my college years, studied and copied them.  Levine has remained one of my favorite artists ever since.  I can look at his drawings time and time again; they still give me an enormous amount of pleasure. 

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So here’s my personal list of baseball-related goals for 2009:

1. Stop reading stories about A-Rod and Madonna

It’s either that or stop drinking – I simply can’t afford to keep losing this many brain cells. And every time I click through to Page Six and read about how, say, there may be some tension in the relationship because Alex has been skipping Kabbalah classes (no, really), I lose another chunk of my ever-dwindling self-respect.

This resolution also applies to whoever A-Rod dates after Madonna, and all of Derek Jeter’s myriad starlet flings. Though if Joba starts dating Britney Spears I cannot make any promises.

2. Decide whether or not I believe Pete Rose should be in the Hall

I’ve been waffling on this one for years and years; I intend to get off the fence with a well-supported argument by Spring Training at the latest.

3. Find something interesting about Mark Teixeira

I mean aside from his prodigious on-field skills, of course. There must be something… but I sure haven’t discovered it yet. Dude’s Wikipedia page appears to have been written by Scott Boras.

Also, I only just now realized I’ve been misspelling “Teixeira” for years.

3a. Stop misspelling “Teixeira”

After Mientkiewicz this will be a piece of cake.

4. Sell or pawn whatever is necessary to buy tickets to at least one game at the new Stadium this year

and, related,

4a. Continue complaining incessently about the cost of everything at the new Stadium

Seriously, nobody should have to chose between a Loge seat to a game against the Orioles plus a beer and a hot dog, or their child’s college education. I’m not getting past this.

5. Watch (even) more Mets

Just because their broadcasting trio of Gary, Keith & Ron is so awesome, and a significant step up from the YES Network’s revolving door of Michael Kay plus the Vaguely Ill-At-Ease Ex-Player of the Day. It’s nothing against Kay, and Ken Singleton is silky smooth, and of course I will always love Paul O’Neill just as deeply as I did when I was 13 (which is to say very, very deeply) — but the Yankees’ booth just doesn’t have  the rapport of the Mets’, in part I suspect because it changes so often.

(And yes, Hernandez did make those rather unfortunate remarks a few years back about how women have no place anywhere near a baseball field in a professional capacity — the exact words being, as I recall, “I won’t say that women belong in the kitchen, but they don’t belong in the dugout” — but you know what they say: you are what you love, not what loves you back).

6. Refuse to watch any speech or announcement by Bud Selig lasting more than 90 seconds.

Life is too short. It’s not even what he says, though I have my share of issues with that; it’s the sucking void where his charisma should be. I’ve felt more engaged watching mold grow on broccoli.

Finally, the resolution I’ve been making for years now without discernable success:

7. Learn how to throw a knuckleball.

I practice sometimes when I’m throwing the ball for my dog, but unfortunately my knuckleball still looks remarkably like my changeup.  (Even more unfortunately, my curve, slider, and fastball also all look remarkably like my changeup).

Anyone else have any?

Billy Cowan was once described as the “epitome of a fringe ballplayer.” That characterization was dead solid perfect in assessing the journeyman outfielder and onetime Yankee, who bounced from the Cubs to the Mets to the Milwaukee Braves to the Phillies to the Yankees to the Angels during an eight-year career that spanned from 1963 to 1972.

Cowan was never close to being the best player on any of his teams, never an All-Star, and will certainly never make the Hall of Fame. Yet, he receives more autograph requests through the mail than most journeyman outfielders of similar vintage—if only because of his comical 1972 Topps card. Opting to have some fun with Cowan, the Topps photographer lined his head up perfectly within the confines of the old halo at Anaheim Stadium, now known as Angel Stadium of Anaheim. At the time, the ballpark still featured a large halo at the top of a tower within the perimeter of the ballpark. (I may be wrong, but I believe that the halo is now featured in the stadium’s parking lot.). One thing I’ve always wondered about the Cowan card is whether the outfielder was actually aware of what the photographer was doing. It certainly looks like the photographer intentionally set up the photo so that Cowan’s head was right in the middle of the halo, but I’m not sure that Cowan realized that. Either way, Cowan has maintained his sense of humor about it—along with his willingness to sign the card when it’s sent to him in the mail.

The 1972 card, by the way, was the last one issued for Cowan, who played in only three games—all as a pinch-hitter—before drawing his release. While the Angels contended that Cowan was no longer a useful player—after all, he was 0-for-3 as a pinch-hitter and had struck out 41 times against only seven walks in 1971—Cowan felt differently. Once labeled by The Sporting News as the “Clarence Darrow of the clubhouse,” Cowan filed a grievance against the Angels through the Players Association, claiming that the release occurred for reasons other than baseball ability.

As the Angels’ top pinch-hitter in 1971, Cowan contended that California had cut him loose because of his active role as the Angels’ player representative, which was like being branded with a scarlet letter at the time of major collective bargaining friction between the players and owners. Like Cowan, three other player representatives for the Angels had also been relocated, with infielders Jim Fregosi and Bobby Knoop sent packing in trades and catcher Bob “Buck” Rodgers demoted to the minor leagues. The Angels, like the 23 other teams in existence at the time, dared to strike at the tail-end of spring training, delaying the start of the 1972 regular season—and perhaps influencing the eventual end of Cowan’s major league career.

Thankfully, the end of that career didn’t come before the manufacture of one of the quirkiest cards in Topps’ history. If for no other reason, Billy Cowan, fringe ballplayer, will be remembered for that.

Bruce Markusen writes “Cooperstown Confidential” for MLB.com and can be reached at bmarkusen@stny.rr.com.

Goodbye to ’08, Welcome to ’09…c’mon in, the water’s fine.

Clint Eastwood is a throwback in the best possible sense. He is a product of the old Hollywood and he works–a pro’s pro.  Like John Huston, he’s one of the rare directors who continue to make good movies late into their career. 

In his latest film, the winning and often subtle melodrama, Gran Torino, Eastwood pulls off a neat trick. He plays a variation of his Dirty Harry persona without lapsing into camp. He knows the audience is aware that they are looking at Eastwood the Icon, but like an old fashioned movies star (Spency Tracy or Bogart come to mind), he doesn’t let that trip him up. He’s able to play off his previous tough guy roles with a great deal of humor but without sacrificing the credibility of this character or the movie. He’s completely believable and authentic.

And I don’t think I’ve ever seen Eastwood ever look more physically relaxed as an actor. He moves with sure, unhurried confidence. I used to find his acting empty and hollow.  I never got the joke, or if I did, never really appreciated it. But now there is a complexity and warmth to his acting.  The grunts and mumbles are used to great effect.

Gran Torino isn’t as heavy or somber as Mystic River though it is often a sad, melancholy film.  But I think it is more satisfying.  Eastwood’s direction is fresh–I wouldn’t say playful exactly, but it is loose.   There is nothing stodgy about it.  In fact, there is a quiet joy about the filmmaking here. Almost everything is underplayed. There are a few missteps–some of the actors seem to be amateurs and they come up short in a few scattered scenes (though on the whole they are endearing), and Eastwood himself sings over the final credits, and sounds vaguely like Fozzie Bear–but they are minor.

I expected to enjoy Gran Torino but I wound up liking it even more than that. It’s not a big movie, but it is an fine entertainment, made with a sly sense of humor and an open heart.  This is Eastwood at the top of his game.

Billy and George:

 
Billy gets in another cheap gag:

By Mark Lamster

In the summer after my junior year at college I got a job working in the records department of HIP, the health insurance agency. In a basement office with no windows, I’d review double-entry ledgers for typographical errors, a tedious process I considered beneath my dignity. It was depressing work, my colleagues were unfriendly, and the most humiliating part of it was that I was just short of incompetent. I didn’t care, and it showed. Then I came home to a message from the New York Yankees. I was going to The Show.

As a budding sports journalist, I’d written to Yankees Magazine, offering my services as an intern. A spot had opened, and the next week I reported for duty at the Stadium, over-eager in khakis and a blazer. The office was in the dingy stadium basement: frayed carpet, no windows. My primary task was to proofread box scores and stat tables for the team’s minor league affiliates—these went in the back of the magazine. Not much of an improvement from HIP, and the climate was no better. The secretary spent her days endlessly defending the integrity of Milli Vanilli, recently revealed to be a fraud, while playing their hit record on a boombox.

This was 1990, and things were bleak for the Yanks. Bucky Dent had been cashiered in favor of Stump Merrill, but the team was still heading for 67 losses and a seventh-place finish. The magazine’s basement office, out of sight and out of mind, was actually a blessing. No one wanted to be upstairs, on the executive level. The Boss’s comings were unpredictable, and the staff lived in a perpetual state of fear for his arrival. It was said that he’d fire employees on a whim, and for no reason other than appearing in his siteline. The place was terrorized—joyless, somber, tense. I’d never experienced anything like it. In my entire time working there, I met one player, Luis Polonia, which tells you everything you need to know about those Yankees. The highlight of my tenure was an elevator ride with Bobby Murcer. He wore white pants and a green plaid jacket—a joyfully loud ensemble—and it a priority to greet every employee with his Oklahoma drawl. He was the anti-Boss.

There was actually one perk to the job. It came with a Yankee ID, and with that I had free entry to as many games as I could stand. I could sit just about anywhere as well; the good seats were rarely occupied, and with a flash of the badge I was clear to do as I pleased. I rarely sat in those good seats. I preferred the bleachers out in right field, where I’d been a regular for years, along with my closest high school friends.

The play on the field was grim, but the bleachers were always a party, and the reason was Melle Mel, the founding genius behind Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five. These were the days before “Roll Call,” before the “Bleacher Creatures” became a self-professed institution. Mel was the unquestioned leader of the gang, and was usually accompanied by Busy Bee, a lesser light of the hip-hop stage. The two knew how to get a crowd working; the bleachers were just another club. They usually arrived in about the third inning, rarely sober, often stoned. (I don’t think I’m telling tales out of school here.) I remember them flying especially high one evening, and then returning home after the game to catch the last few minutes of Johnny Carson. On comes a PSA featuring Mel, “Don’t Do It.”

Mel’s signature was a dead-on impersonation of Stevie Wonder doing “I Just Called to Say I Love You,” which he’d sing waving his head to-and-fro while standing in the ass-contoured blue plastic seats that were removed about a decade ago, in favor of benches. (More fannies, more dollars.) Mel wore a ring with his name on it that stretched across his entire hand; it was a real danger during high fives. Whenever games got close in the late innings—this was known as “Toenail Time” for some inexplicable reason—he’d demand the entire bleachers stop drinking and pay full attention.

Mel gave the bleachers a bit of celebrity cache, but what really made his presence special was the sense he gave us that we were all—ghetto rappers, lunchpail types, old timers, Hispanics, even us privileged kids from Manhattan—a part of something uniquely New York, united in our devotion to the Yankees. He was a “star,” and had a magnetic charisma, but he was inclusive. One night Busy came in with copies of his new album, passed them out to the crowd, and invited everyone to his set that night at the Paladium. I wish we had gone, though I suspect we would never have made it past the velvet rope.

I spent years of my life out in those bleachers. My friends and I developed our own traditions. After the game we’d take the 4 train back to Eighty-sixth Street and, after a win, go for “victory donuts” at the shop on the corner of Lex. It wasn’t always so fun. In 1988, after Steinbrenner had picked a fight with Don Mattingly over his haircut, I found myself on the back page of Newsday, sitting below a group of regulars holding up letters that spelled “TRADE GEORGE.” We despised him, and though I’m no longer the despising kind, I can’t say I’ve forgotten or forgiven his many trespasses and disgraces. Eventually, of course, Steinbrenner did himself in, and for conspiring against Dave Winfield, always Mel’s favorite. And that was a new dawn for the Stadium, and the team.

By the mid nineties, my friends and I stopped visiting the bleachers with regularity. Schedules intruded, girlfriends, lives. When we did go to the ballpark, and we still went often, we opted for better seats. The bleachers changed. The “Creatures” had begun to consider themselves an attraction, justifiably. With that new fame came unpleasant questions about authenticity, who was a true regular. Mel stopped showing up.

We were still fans, still true, and we got our ultimate reward in 1996. My greatest memory of Yankee Stadium comes from that year, and it wasn’t even at the stadium. I watched the last game of the World Series that year with my future wife in her tiny studio apartment on Eighty-seventh Street and First Avenue. The joy of that game’s final moment, Charlie Hays clutching that last pop—the ultimate exaltation.

I had planned with my friends that, in the case of a win, we’d all meet up for one last victory donut. But somehow we found out that the Yanks would be holding their victory party that night at Cronies, a sports bar on Eighty-Seventh and Third, just a couple of avenues away. By the time we all met there the entire block was shut down and barricaded, fans were cheering and passing around champagne, and the players were arriving by limo—Derek, Tino, Jim Leyritz in a ten-gallon hat. For years, we had been trekking out to the Bronx to cheer on our team. Now, after the win we had all longed for, they came home to us.

Mark Lamster is author of Spalding’s World Tour and cofounder of YFSF.

This is an artistic re-creation of life as a Jets fan. 

Lucy is the Jets, Charlie Brown is a Jets fan.

Thud.  Is Lucy really worth hating (I vote, yes)?  Or is Charlie Brown just a schmuck?

It always cracks me up when I read columns about how buying championships, as the Yankees appear to do doing again this winter, is a losing cause. Sure, it doesn’t always work, we know that (and thank goodness, because it keeps things interesting). But facts are facts: since the start of free agency in 1977, no team has spent more money on players than the Yankees have; no team has won more pennants or more championships. So while no team can ever fool themselves that they can pre-arrange success (as George Steinbrenner was accused of believing in the Eighties), the Yankees aggresiveness in the free agency market hasn’t always back fired either.

Do you think they should bring Pettitte back? The word this past week is that it’s now unlikely that he’ll return. Would you rather go Hughes-Chamberlain or still have a veteran like Pettitte in there?