The Rays were seven outs away from a pennent and now they are one game away from going home.  And they have to go through Jon Lester.  Good Night and Good Luck.  Or something like that.  If Tampa finds a way to win Game 7 it will be a terrific story but they sure are facing an uphill battle.  And I certainly wouldn’t put any money on them, would you?

“Memory is what I have,” Hannibal Lecter said to Clarisse Starling during a thoughtful moment in The Silence of the Lambs. That might be a strange introduction to this story, but given the struggles of the Yankees this past summer, the memories of 30 years ago are far more appealing to this long-term fan of the franchise.  It’s been three full decades, but the impressions of the fall of 1978 remained sharp and fully defined.

It’s still the most memorable game I have ever seen. It was a tie-breaking play-off game that took place on October 2 that season, when the Yankees and Red Sox grappled in Fenway Park’s October twilight to decide the championship of the American League East. If you’re old enough to have experienced that game, you remember exactly where you were that fall afternoon.

Ridden with injuries to key players like Goose Gossage, and laden with controversies involving the triumvirate of Reggie Jackson, Billy Martin, and George Steinbrenner, the Yankees had endured a miserable first half of the 1978 season. On July 19, the Yankees reached a low-water mark when they fell 14 games back of the Red Sox. All seemed so incurably lost that Martin’s decision to resign four days later, which paved the way for the hiring of Bob Lemon, struck most observers as a move that would pay benefits the following season—and not any time sooner.

Lemon, a Hall of Fame pitcher who had received praise for his calm managing of the White Sox in the mid-seventies, didn’t see it that way. He restored order quickly by ignoring a fit of temper thrown by Jackson, and by fining Mickey Rivers and Roy White for breaking team rules. Under Lemon’s calming leadership, and aided by the continuing domination of ace left-hander Ron Guidry, the Yankees regrouped and slowly climbed back into contention in the American League East. A New York City newspaper strike didn’t hurt, either; annoying beat writers like Henry Hecht were no longer around to fan the flames of Yankee controversy.

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Happy Friday, Peoples.

And while yer at it, shake it, shake it:

By Jeff Pearlman

My family hated baseball.

That was the worst thing about growing up a sports fan at 24 Emerald Lane in Mahopac, N.Y. My mom could not care less about sports. My dad could not care less about sports. My brother could not care less about sports.

Me? I cared. Boy, did I care. My walls were lined with one poster after another—Rickey Henderson next to Wesley Walker next to George Foster next to Bernard King. My closets were stuffed—stuffed!—with baseball cards, 30 … 40 together, rubber-banded in ways that left Mario Soto and Dan Pasqua positioned in the most awkward of poses. Dozens of baseball caps lined up neatly behind my bed.

But nobody cared.

Then, one day, my dad asked if I had any interest in going to a Yankee game. It was 1985 and Rich Green, one of his employees at Herz Stewart & Co., had an extra ticket. "You guys both love baseball," Dad said. "He wants to take you."

I still remember walking into the stadium that first time. We sat along the third base line, and my posters had come to life. There was Ken Griffey, Sr., his hat tipped high atop the front of his Afro, stretching calves the size of large dogs. There was Henderson, the great base stealer, twitching his fingers into white batting gloves. There was Henry Cotto, uhm, well, yeah. Henry Cotto. The grass was as green as a 7-Up label, Bob Sheppherd’s voice even more God-like then the one I’d heard on TV all those times. My seat was made of a hard blue plastic, and as the innings passed I must have bounced up and down upon it, oh, 500 times. Like Victor Mata, I was just happy to be there.

I’ve been told a game was even played that day. I recall little of it, only that Dave Winfield made an amazing leaping catch into the rightfield stands and that Butch Wynegar started at catcher. Doesn’t matter, though. What sticks with me is the magic of the day; the feeling of walking into a building and knowing love.

True love.

Jeff Pearlman is a writer for ESPN.com.

As I was walking down 50th street last night after work I thought about a friend who recently was in town. He couldn’t stand walking in New York–or at least in midtown where he was staying.  He complained to me about the congestion.  "Why are people stopping to take pictures of a cop on a horse?" 

As a native New Yorker, I take it for granted that as I walk I’m thinking two people ahead, and that slipping in and around clueless pedestrains is second nature to me.

On the subway platform I ran into a guy I used to know in the movie business.  A music editor.  I hadn’t seen him in a long time.  We met in 1988–twenty years ago, fer cryin’ out loud–when I was a messenger and he was the music editor on The Last Temptation of Christ.  He snuck me into a crew screening which was one of the highlights of my summer.  I recall that I was sent on a delivery to 5th avenue and 58th street with twenty minutes to spare before the screening.  I ran from the Brill Building on Broadway and 49th street and back, dodging through the crowds doing my best Barry Sanders, and was a hot, sweaty mess, but I made the screening.  The movie had been scheduled to debut at the New York Film Festival but there was so much commotion over it, they rushed the post-production schedule and it was released in August.  When the screening was over, I remember Michael Powell, the acclaimed British director and husband to Scorsese’s longtime editor, Thelma Schoonmaker, a frail man, stood up and remarked on Peter Gabriel’s score.

I mentioned the incident to the music editor last night and he said, "I got in trouble for that."  Which I also remembered.  We smiled about it.  Then talked about how much the business has changed, who has died who is still around.  Then we said goodbye.  But I’ll never forget how exclusive I felt, sitting in that screening, or how this dude went out of his way to do a solid for an eager young kid when he knew he’d get balled out for it. 

The Yankee brass met yesterday and Hank Steinbrenner told the AP:  "The plan as of right now is [Joba] Chamberlain is going to be a starter," the Yankees co-chairman said. "Everybody’s pretty much in agreement with that." (King, NY Post) 

Apparently, Andy Pettitte would like to return.  Perhaps Mike Mussina will be back as well, although I’m less sure about that.  Still, it would be cool to see Chamberlain begin the year in the starting rotation.  That would be nifty.

They won’t die.  The Red Sox just don’t go away.  They are a tough out and as much as I dislike them, I admire that as defending World Champs, they are making it difficult for the young Rays, who kicked away a shot at going to the World Serious last night.  Evan Longoria with an awful play in the eighth  (after making a nice pick) and then Gabe Gross with perhaps the worst pressure throw in recent memory helped the Sox tie the game.  It was a forgone conclusion that the Sox would win it in the ninth.  When Carlos Pena came to bat with runners on first and second and just one out in the top of the inning, Chip Carey said, "Pena’s only hit into two double plays all year…" 

The kiss of death…Thanks, Skip.

Hey, the Rays now have a painful moment they’ve got to live with.  They broke their cherry.

Funny thing is, I still think the Rays will win this series, in six.  As a friend of mine pointed out last night, my belief about momentum vanished after that Albert Pujols dinger off Brad Lidge didn’t secure the series for the Cards a few years back.  I sure wouldn’t be surprised if the Sox took it in seven.  Upset, yes?  Shocked, no.

By Mark Feinsand

Since I started covering the Yankees in 2001, I have witnessed some of the most memorable moments in history at Yankee Stadium. Not just Yankees history or Yankee Stadium history, but baseball history.

The Aaron Boone home run. The Red Sox ALCS comeback. Roger Clemens’ 300th win. Tino Martinez and Scott Brosius hitting dramatic homers in the bottom of the ninth on consecutive nights in the 2001 World Series.

But when I was asked what moment stands out to me from my time as a fan (1978-2000), there was one that jumped to mind immediately.

It was Tuesday, October 17, and the Yankees were trying to close out the Mariners in Game 6 of the ALCS. The Mets had closed out the Cardinals in the ALCS the night before, and a win over Seattle would send the Yanks into the first true Subway Series between the crosstown rivals.

As a kid growing up in New York in the ’80s, I had many more friends that were Mets fans than Yankees fans, since the 1986 Mets captivated the city and seemed to turn most 10-12 year olds into Mets fans. But with a father who grew up in the Bronx, I wasn’t about to be a convert (He did help me become a San Francisco Giants fan, however, having moved to the Bay Area in 1989, but that’s another story). A World Series between the Yankees and Mets would be the most memorable baseball week in my lifetime.

I was at the game with my buddy Matt Sadofsky, his sister, Janna, and their father, Lenny. Sadofsky and I were fraternity brothers at Boston University, and as Yankees fans living in Boston, we had become good friends while fending off the Sox fans that surrounded us.

We watched the ALDS games at a sports bar in 1995 (that was the year of the Baseball Network, so the Red Sox series against the Indians was on local TV, forcing us to spend what little money we had to watch at the Sports Depot) and sped home in about 38 seconds to watch Jim Leyritz hit his homer after the manager told us they were closing up.

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Tommy Tresh died yesterday. Vic Ziegel writes that Tresh was a nice guy, always available to chat with reporters, even if he didn’t have much to offer. I hunted around my Yankee library last night, found some stuff on Tresh, and Ziegel was right, he wasn’t especially interesting. But he was a good Yankee and Ziegel shares his one good Tresh story here.

Mark Lamster has a nifty piece over at YFSF titled Fall Classic:

October is a bittersweet time for baseball fans. A long and sometimess difficult season comes to an end with the excitement (and often disappointment) of the postseason. We hate to see it go, but to be free of our rooting obligations is also a kind of liberation. There’s no greater consolation, whether your team’s been eliminated from play or just taken one on the nose in a tough game, than the splendors of autumn, especially in the northeast.

Check it out.

By Hank Waddles

I have only been to Yankee Stadium three times, but each visit holds a significant spot in my memories. My first visit changed my life. I was born in Detroit, Michigan, and geography told me to root for the Tigers until at the age of seven in the summer of 1977 I convinced my parents to spend one day of our New York City vacation at Yankee Stadium. Catfish Hunter started the game, Chris Chambliss launched a late pinch-hit home run to bring the Yanks from behind, and Sparky Lyle got the win in relief. My strongest memory from that afternoon, though, is of a play that wasn’t made. Graig Nettles lunged into the stands in pursuit of a foul pop-up, and I was confused when the crowd cheered for him even though he hadn’t been able to make the grab. “They’re cheering because he gave it his all,” my mother explained. He gave it his all. To this day, whenever I hear that phrase I think of Graig Nettles.

My third visit was bittersweet. Last month my family and I flew across the country to New York from our home in California so that my children could one day say they had been to the original Yankee Stadium, the place where Ruth and Gehrig, Mantle and DiMaggio, Yogi and Whitey, Reggie and Thurman, Jeter and Rivera had all played. A-Rod homered, Jeter picked up four hits, Mike Mussina coasted to his sixteenth win, and everyone went home happy, but a little sad that we’d never visit again.

Neither of those games, as memorable as they were, measures up to the visit I made in August of 1997. A friend’s wedding brought me to the east coast, and as fate would have it, Don Mattingly Day was scheduled while I was in the area.

Mattingly, for me, was everything, a bright light in a dark time. The previous generation of Yankee fans had Bobby Murcer to guide them through the wilderness, but Mattingly was better; in my teenage mind, he was legendary. I was fourteen years old when he outlasted Dave Winfield for the American League batting title, and I remember tracking each of his hits in a computer program I’d written. (This was long before the instant gratification of the internet, and I couldn’t wait for the stats in the Sunday sports section.) A few years later, just before he was robbed of what should’ve been his second MVP award, I announced to my mom that I would one day name my son after him. (As it happened, I didn’t, but I was wearing a Yankee jersey in the delivery room when my son Henry was born.) Even when I got to college I mirrored Mattingly’s batting stance during IM softball games, crouching low and turning my front toe towards home plate.

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Mmm, Mmm, Good.

I have watched all of the playoff games but it wasn’t until Willie Aybar’s blast last night that I made an audible noise.  I jumped up off the couch and yelled, then crossed the room to high five my wife.  She saw me coming and was scared, so she slipped her hand behind her back like a turtle retreating into its shell.  She didn’t want any part of a stinger.

I watched the game last night with a mixture of glee and dread.  I’ve effectively blocked out most of the details of the 2004 collapse but it won’t ever go away, at least not yet.  And of course, the Indians blew a 3-1 lead against the Sox last season too, so no, I don’t think Boston is out of it.  I won’t believe the Sox are done until they are done.  Dude, I was nervous when they scored their fourth run of the game last night, and when I went over the possible pitching match-ups for Games 5, 6, and 7, I convinced myself that the Rays are in trouble.

Still, that game was a Lu Lu.  And when I wasn’t being nuerotic, I enjoyed every last minute of it. 

Bobby Meacham is just destined to be a hapless figure in Yankee history.

Those of us who remember all too well his misadventures as a player in the Eighties can’t be shocked by the news that Meacham has been fired as the Yankees’ third base coach. Pete Abe has the details–and also links to an item by Mark Feinsand reporting that pitching instructor Rich Monteleone was canned too.

Think Tino Martinez will become a coach? Or maybe perhaps this will mark the return of Lucky Luis Sojo?

By Tyler Kepner

[Editor’s Note: This piece was written and submitted before the end of the regular season…]

My seat in the press box is Row 1, Seat 1. I have sat there for seven seasons as the Yankees’ beat writer for the New York Times. The Star-Ledger is to my right, and the visiting television booth is to my left.

The color analyst sits on the right side of that booth, so I am separated from him by a glass panel. You can’t really talk unless you lean out the front of the box, but you can communicate by signals. Was that pitch a slider or a curve? A changeup or a splitter? You make the universal hand motions for the pitch, and you get your answer.

Most of the analysts wear a World Series ring, it seems. Bert Blyleven of the Twins wears his 1987 ring. (I’ve never seen his ’79 model, from the Pirates.) Rod Allen of the Tigers wears his 1984 ring, Rex Hudler of the Angels wears his 2002 ring, and so on.

When Ron Fairly worked for the Mariners, he wore a 1989 Giants N.L. champs ring, from his days in the booth in San Francisco. I always wondered what happened to the three rings he won as a player with the Dodgers.

The broadcasters have their quirks. Hudler always holds onto a baseball when he calls a game. He calls it his pacifier. Jerry Remy of the Red Sox does every game with a little stuffed “Wally The Green Monster” on the desk in front of him. Nobody keeps more meticulous notes than Blyleven.

Sometimes I’ll look up the broadcasters’ career stats on my laptop, careful to tilt the screen away, in case they catch a glance. I remember learning that Candy Maldonado (he wears a ’92 Blue Jays ring) pinch-hit in the ninth inning of the game that made me happier than any sporting event ever – the final game of the 1983 N.L.C.S., when the Phillies won the pennant. (I was 8. Candy struck out.)

I’ll miss stuff like that when the Yankees move. Maybe I’ll have the seat next to the visiting broadcasters again, but I doubt it. And I doubt I’ll walk down the ramps after night games, instead of taking the elevator.

The ramps from the loge level to the street remind me of how old the place really is – they’re impossibly cramped, with low ceilings, thick black bars on the sides, and what I assume to be the original structural bolts, painted over many times. It’s better to walk the ramps when it’s empty, I suppose, late at night.

I remember covering the Angels in 1998, when a chunk of steel fell into the loge level seats down the left field line before a game at the Stadium that April. You knew then that the place was doomed, but it has stood for one more decade.

Now it has finished with a string of seasons where four million people packed in. The fans should be proud of that. The fortunes of the team rise and fall, but to the end, Yankee Stadium never lost its appeal.

Tyler Kepner is the Yankee beat writer for The New York Times.

The Dodgers had the Phillies right where they wanted them, poised to even-up the series, and then, it happened: Victorino tied the game and the Lumber Jack, Hard-hitting Matt Stairs creamed a fastball deep into the night–I don’t know if has landed yet.

In the words to Bobby D, the Dodgers Bleeeeww it.

Sure, L.A. can come back. It has been done. But it’s not likely. I sure wouldn’t put any money on ’em.  Meanwhile, the Rays beat up Jon Lester, a major hurdle. They’ve still got a loooong way to go before they defeat the Sox.  But it’s a start.

By Jonah Keri

My first trip to Yankee Stadium was supposed to be my second trip. A last-minute bailout the first time delayed the inaugural expedition for 12 years.

The day was August 12, 1995, the summer after second year of college. Brian, Elan, Eric and I set out on a four-day baseball road trip down the East Coast, with the first stop in the Bronx.

It took a while. The drive from Montreal takes six hours. There was also a stop at Crabtree & Evelyn to buy this girl we were staying with a gift for her hospitality. (Sales clerk at the store, inquiring about our gift choice: “Is she…earthy?). When we finally arrived at the ballpark (one of the scam-job parking lots around the park, to be precise), we were zonked. Stepping out of the car, we felt the blast out of a muggy New York evening, complete with all the smells you come to expect from a quality borough on a hot summer night.

We were expecting a shrine, a living monument commemorating Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio, Mantle, Meacham, all the Yankees greats. Instead, we got a zoo. Swarms of people everywhere, flitting around the periphery of this monstrous structure. We were told to pick up our tickets at Gate…something, we couldn’t remember. After 30 minutes of darting through the throng, shoving people aside and getting piss-off responses from fans and stadium workers alike, we finally found our ticket window. Made it to our seats in the bleachers just in time for first pitch.

Once again, it smelled. Awful. We were told that trash sometimes piled up under the bleachers, but we figured that was just an exaggeration. Um…no, it was not. Combined with the sweltering heat (89 degrees at game time), we were doing everything in our power to focus on the game, or beers…anything other than the sticky, stinky, squashed-in mess that was left field that night.

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Two weekends ago, the Hall of Fame held its annual fantasy camp, an event that will forever remind me of Joe Niekro. Two years ago, Niekro made his final public appearance at the Cooperstown camp. Three weeks later, he was gone, the victim of a brain aneurysm that claimed his life at the age of 61.

Whenever we hear of someone’s passing, someone that we just saw days or weeks before, it always hits us a bit harder. On that Saturday in October, Joe Niekro seemed to be in very good health. Working as a fantasy camp coach under his Hall of Fame brother Phil, Joe threw back-to-back seven-inning games at Doubleday Field in the afternoon and then took part in a discussion panel at the Hall of Fame that night. He was one of the best people on that panel—outgoing, funny, and full of pride in his son, Lance, who had managed to make his major league debut with the Giants three years earlier. (Lance, by the way, has fittingly taken Joe’s place at the last two Hall of Fame fantasy camps, working side by side with uncle Phil.) But the overriding theme of Joe Niekro’s comments involved sincere admiration for his Hall of Fame brother. Like most people in the audience that night, I learned that he and Phil were remarkably close, closer it appeared than most sets of athletic brothers. There was not even a trace of jealousy on the part of Joe toward his more famous brother; there was simply respect and love for a big brother who happened to be a Hall of Fame pitcher.

Although Joe’s career did not achieve the same heights as Phil, he was an awfully good pitcher, too. Remarkably, Joe achieved most of his pitching glory after turning 30. He struggled in his early years, bouncing from the Cubs to the Padres to the Tigers to the Braves, just trying to establish himself as something more than a journeyman right-hander. His career began to change in 1973 and ’74, when he joined Atlanta. Having toiled primarily as a fastball-slider pitcher in the late sixties and early seventies, Joe began learning about a third pitch—the knuckleball—that he would add to his pitching repertoire. It was the same pitch that had already made his brother the ace of the Braves’ pitching staff. As teammates in 1973 and ’74, Joe learned all he could about the knuckleball from Phil, ranging from the basics of throwing it to the sophistication of making it flutter within the strike zone. Borrowing a page from big brother’s notebook, Joe began using the knuckleball more and more when he joined his next team, the Astros, in 1975. He didn’t master the knuckleball right away—no one does—but he refined it over the next few seasons, until it became the primary weapon in a highly effective pitching arsenal.

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Two, Three, Break.

Claudia La Rocco had a great profile in The Sunday Times on a dance troupe called the Subway Entertainment Crew.  They can usually be found on either the 4 of 5 trains:

All are strong improvisers — you have to be when your stage is a narrow, moving, crowded metal box, likely to jolt at any moment and packed with obstacles like poles, strollers and passengers disinclined to cede their ground. Mistakes regularly morph into new moves. ”All we need is three feet of space,” the men announce before each show. They aren’t lying.

Backed by a boombox, they maintain a commentary, flirting (“Ladies, if your man can’t do that, leave him. Leave him now!”), cracking wise (“Ladies, you can smile; it won’t mess up your hair”) and egging one another on during solos — anything to keep the energy up. They winningly encourage contributions. (“The best nation is donation. The best city is generosity.”) It isn’t a hard sell; riders, initially jaded or wary of being within striking distance, grow wide eyed with delight. Pocket change, 5’s, 10’s and even 20’s fly into the performers’ baseball caps and duffel bags. “Christmastime is the paid-est time ever,” Mr. Steele said. Tourists give generously; a Japanese man once handed Dante Steele a $100 bill.

The entire piece, which is accompanied by a slide show, is well worth checking out.

You’ve got to hand it to the Worldwide Leader.  They sure know how to stockpile talent–writers like William Nack, Chris Jones, Howard Bryant, and Wright Thompson, to name just a few.  How about J.R. Moehringer, the award-winning journalist and author of the terrific memoir The Tender Bar?  Moehringer wrote a fairwell to Shea Stadium recently–I missed it completely until I was browsing around ESPN’s site over the weekend–and it is first-rate, like most everything he writes:

We loved the Mets because we felt like born losers. Though we were in just the first inning of our lives, we were already down four runs, with a weak bullpen and no bench. Sons of single mothers, living on food stamps, attending so-so schools, wearing ill-fitting clothes, we faced a future that seemed sure to include a heavy dose of failure, ignorance and want. The Mets, therefore, were more than our home team. The Mets were proof that losers could be lovable. Better yet, they were proof that losers could shock the world and win.

And Shea Stadium, 12 miles from where McGraw and I played Wiffle ball every day, was sacred ground. It was our home away from home, especially when we had no homes of our own. Our mothers struggled to make rent, and when they couldn’t make it, which was often, we’d move in with our grandparents, in a house so overcrowded with cousins and aunts and uncles that McGraw and I sometimes slept in the same bed. From such chaos, inner and outer, Shea provided needed, frequent escape.

It says something about our childhoods that Shea — surrounded by vacant lots, chop shops and strip bars — was one of the few places where we felt safe. Four feet tall, dangerously naive, we’d take the train to the stadium, alone, at night. The memory makes me shudder. We carried little more than 10 bucks and standing orders from an old-timer in our hometown, a guy who supplied all the paper products to Shea: Go into the bathrooms, pull out the towels and toilet paper, and throw it all on the floor — so the stadium will have to order more from me next week.

These were our people.

If you haven’t seen the latest editon of The Best American Sports Writing (edited by Nack), the volume is worth picking up for Moehringer’s non-profile profile of USC coach Pete Carroll alone.

The Dodgers got back into the NLCS in more ways than one last night, first by refusing to be bullied by Philly’s aggresive pitching tactics, and more importantly by coming away with a win. L.A. looks to tied the series tonight.

I caught Game Two last Friday night with Jay Jaffe.  His best call of the evening?  Blake DeWitt is a dead-ringer for our own Cliff Corcoran.  It really is a pretty good call, man.