Over at New York magazine, Will Leitch offers us five things that went kerflooey this year for the Yanks. Here are two of ’em:

Derek! Jeter! It hardly seems fair to dump on Mr. November, the one constant the team has, but Jeter has had his worst season in a decade. He has come on a bit in the last month or so, and he’s hardly in danger of losing his job, but not even his most passionate fans can excuse his defensive liabilities anymore, and he was never able to carry the team anyway. At 34, he has clearly entered his decline. Will we see him at first base in a couple of years?

…Mr. Ciccone. Once again, Alex Rodriguez has had a perfectly serviceable year. He leads the American League in slugging percentage, he’s in the top ten in RBIs, and actually has a chance at the AL home-run title. But if you’ve been to Yankee Stadium over the last month, you’ve heard what fans in the Bronx think about those stats. A-Rod’s re-signing with the Yankees over the off-season was a panic move on the part of both parties; it didn’t eradicate A-Rod’s trouble hitting with runners in scoring position, his aloof, tone-deaf interaction with fans, or his creepy overeagerness. As long as the Yankees keep failing to win World Series, A-Rod, unfairly, is going to be the target of ire. And needless to say, that’s not going to make matters easier for him. The situation is not destined to end well…and then there’s the next nine years. Something needs to change, and it’s hard to imagine A-Rod suddenly turning over a new leaf.

As much as I like Rodriguez I have to agree with Leitch, it is hard to see things ending well for him in New York. Of course, it’ll also be fascinating to see how Jeter ages too.

My brother and I went to our last game at Yankee Stadium together last night. It was a fitting way to go out, being there with my bro, who is simply one of the best men I know. We sat way up in the right field upper deck, just above the top of the right field foul pole. There was a big turnout, of course, but it seemed like many of the fans were there for the event of being there more than for the game itself. And who can blame them? Sometime during the middle innings I turned to my brother and said, “Jeez, when was the last time we saw a truly meaningless game here?” And not meaningless because they had already made the playoffs, meaningless because they were completely out of the running.

We saw tourists of all shapes and sizes, American, European, Asian, there for their last look. Which has been the case all season long. In a sense, every game at the Stadium has been The Final Game of Yankee Stadium for a good portion of the crowd. The crowd sat on their hands for the most part as the Yanks didn’t give us much to yell about.

Still, there were some highlights, as minor as they may seem. The cracker jack and peanut vendors in our section overthrew their targets on three occasions, good for a laugh. After the White Sox finished taking BP, the only sounds over the P.A. from 6:30 to 6:40 came from the organist who played the following medley–“Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” “All My Loving,” “Isn’t She Lovely?” and “Yankee Doodle Dandy,”–as the grounds crew removed the batting cage and the various protective screens, dragging them across the long field, and then began to rake the infield dirt.

“I love watching them rake the dirt,” my brother said and it occured to me that the image of the crew making a field beautiful is a hypnotic and soothing one that should be captured on film.

The singular event of the night came in the bottom of the first inning when Derek Jeter singled to set the all-time Yankee Stadium hit record. As the crowd cheered for several minutes, little white flashes blipped around the park, and the sun set behind the Stadium. From where we sat, you could see the almost surreal sunset, something out of a movie. The sun setting on Yankee Stadium, Jeter getting a final rousing cheer. It was too corny to be true but there it was.

My favorite part of the game came several innings later. With the bases loaded and two out, Jason Giambi faced a full count and the crowd started to roar. Our view of third base was blocked so it was difficult to see Jeter, who was on second, or Johnny Damon on third, but we had a great angle of Alex Rodriguez taking a lead off of first and then sprinting to second as Gavin Floyd delivered the ball home. What we noticed was how fast Rodriguez is, what a powerful, fluid runner. Floyd was so deliberate in his delivery, Rodriguez was just a few strides away from second by the time the pitch left Floyd’s hand. Giambi fouled off one pitch, then another, and another. I wondered if Giambi walked would Rodriguez be picked off at second for rounding the base too far? Another foul. Each time, Rodriguez and Jeter stopped their sprint and returned to their respective base. Each time, they looked slower. This went on until Giambi finally struck out on the sixth offering with a full count. With the inning over, Rodriguez stood with his hands on his hips around the shortstop area as if he had just run a marathon. All that anticipation and athletic effort, all that running, for nothing.

It summed up the entire season. Sometimes, things just don’t work out. By the seventh inning, the fans began to leave. The game slowed down in the final two frames as the Yankee pen did not work quickly. Nobody much paid attention to the game. Even though the place was half-full, it sounded quiet. But it wasn’t a depressing feeling. It was nostalgic. It brought us back to our childhood, all those years in the Eighties where we attended games like this with the Yanks out of contention, playing out the string. Of course, there were even fewer fans back then. But it didn’t matter that the game was lousy. It just mattered that we were there, at the Stadium, for one last time, enjoying each other’s company, taking pleasure in the small details, feeling fortunate to watch a game in the place we’ve watched more games than any other stadium.

By Allen Barra

My father took me to Yankee Stadium for the first time in 1961. It was a game scarcely anyone remembers – I do remember Arnold Hano mentioning it in, I think, the Willie Mays book he wrote in the Sport magazine series, or perhaps it was the special Mickey Mantle-Willie Mays issue that Sport magazine did in the spring of 1962.It was a charity game played between the Yankees and the San Francisco Giants, and it was Willie Mays’s return to New York after three seasons.

I’ll never forget my first look at Yankee Stadium: it seemed like the inside of New York City. And I’ll never forget the crescendo that built up when Mays stepped out of the dugout and into the on-deck circle. Mantle, batting left-handed, hit a home run that day. (I could follow the arc of the ball perfectly as we were seated in a box seat on the third base line.) But Mays won the game with a single that drove in two runs.

One of the most vivid memories of my life was the afternoon of Monday, September 30, 1963, when my father came home from work – we were living in Old Bridge, New jersey, and my father and al our neighbors commuted effortlessly to Manhattan – and held up two tickets for the opening game of the 1963 World Series. I never though to ask how he got them, though I think he said something years later about it being a business friend he met at Toots Shor’s saloon.

1963 was one of the few years I didn’t root for the Yankees; I was so excited about Sandy Koufax that I was ready to begin studying the Kabbalah. If you don’t remember what the World Series was like back then in the days before prime time then it’s hard to describe. It seemed to be on everywhere you went – TVs blaring out open windows, car radios at full blast, people walking the street and riding buses listening to transistor radios. I was told by my friend Jane Levy that the Koufax Series — 1963, 1965 and 1966 – were the highest rated ever. I’m not surprised.

Our view was perfect, a box seat along the first base line. In the first inning, Whitey Ford struck to the first two Dodgers and took a tapper back to the mound for the third out. I recall my father saying “Well, Koufax is going to have to go some to top that.” He did, of course, striking out the first five Yankees on route to a 5-2 victory.

I have on other strong recollection of Yankee history in the early sixties. My father knew a Westchester cop who was later indicted for taking huge amounts of money in the “Prince of the City” scandal. On New Year’s Eve eve, he asked us if we wanted to join him and his son, a Fordham student, at the 1962 NFL Championship game between the Green Bay Packers and New York Giants. All I can recall is that it was the coldest day I could have imagined, and bundled up inside a hooded parka, I had my first shot of brandy from the cop’s silver flask.

No, actually, as I write this a few other things come back to me: the way Green Bay’s fullback Jim Taylor and Giants linebacker Sam Huff kicked bit and gouged each other and had to be separated after each play, and the way some of the punts would hit a wall of wind and flutter down to the concrete-like turf. The Packers’ punter, Mac McGee, I think it was, had one blocked for the Giants only touchdown.

Oddly, I did not feel that I was in the same stadium I had been in just two months earlier watching the Yankees and Giants play in the World Series. (My only memory of that game was how hyped everyone was about Mantle and Mays playing against each other.) I do not now recollect if I actually heard this or read about it afterwards: someone yelled out when Mantle came out to bay, “Hey Mickey, we came to se who is the best, you or Willie. Now we’re wondering who’s the worst.” Mantle popped up. As he walked back to the dugout, the man yelled, “Hey, Mantle, you win.”

Bob Costas told me that he was also at the game and saw the same play from the same angle; we must have been seated right near each other.

For the life of me, I can’t now recall whether you could see the Polo Grounds from the bleachers at Yankee Stadium or Yankee Stadium from the bleachers at the Polo Grounds.

In 1996, when the Yankees beat the Braves in the World Series, Allen St. John and I were out on the field. How this came about, I do not now recall — perhaps credentialed writers were allowed out on the field after games then. Someone in the dugout popped the first bottle of champagne, and the cork landed near us; Allen scooped it up and handed it to me. It now resides in a glass trophy case in my house.

Allen Barra writes about sports and culture for the Wall Street Journal and the Village Voice. His latest book, “Yogi Berra: Eternal Yankee” will be published by W.W. Norton next spring.

By Scott Raab

I was born and bred in Cleveland, Ohio, and I’ve loathed the New York Yankees and everything they stand for — arrogance, entitlement, and money-worship — for as long as I can recall. Even past the point where I realized that I myself was a smug, spoiled, money-grubbing New York-area-dwelling media hack, I hated the hulking, brutish Yankees.

Yankee Stadium? I’d rather pass a gallstone than put a single penny in any Steinbrenner’s pocket. Sure, I’d been there a few times, those memories frosted over by decades of heavy self-medication. My highlight House-That-Blah-Blah-Built memory was watching on TV when last year’s Tribe clinched the LDS at Yankee Stadium. In that storied house. With Bayonne Joe Borowski, no less, on the hill. Sweet almost beyond words, and I cried like a baby to see the dogpile at the end, then went upstairs to wake up my nine-year old son and start spreading the news.

He hates the Yankees, too. But like me, he loves baseball, so last Sunday we went to see a ballgame, and to pay homage. Because you can love baseball and hate the Yankees, but you can’t walk into Yankee Stadium with a hard heart — not if you’re a baseball fan. We weren’t paying homage to the pinstripes or our bile; we were there to honor 85 years of history, eat some hot dogs, and unwind at a beautiful, battered ballyard.

Who knows what a kid remembers? Hell, I seem to remember admiring Mickey Mantle once upon a time. My boy loved every minute. And so did I. It was hot, brutally hot, so we had to suck it up and buy a couple of Yankees caps — $50 that will surely help sign Grady Sizemore one sorry day — and the upper-deck concession stands ran out of ice by the sixth inning, and yeah, the Yankees won. No problem. A-Rod belted a grand slam, Cano got yanked for dogging it, and Jeter tied Lou Gehrig’s record for hits at Yankee Stadium: great ballgame. Great game.

We gave away the caps on the subway home, but I’ll hold on to the day for a long time — and to old, doomed Yankee Stadium. I don’t know about redemption, and like Woody Allen, old Clevelanders don’t mellow — we ripen and rot. I had an epiphany once: In real life, there ain’t no epiphanies. I don’t want miracles, much less expect ’em. I took my son to see the Yankees play at Yankee Stadium. That’s close enough for me.

Scott Raab is a writer for Esquire magazine.

Joe Pos has a good one: Derek Jeter v Pete Rose. This is Pos at his finest.

And thanks to Pete Abe, here’s a link to a story on Joba Chamberlain’s mother.

[Editor’s Note: I love reading long interviews and during the first few years here at Bronx Banter was able to conduct a series of them myself. For a number of reasons I wasn’t able to keep doing them. So I’m happy to present the following, a Q&A with veteran baseball author Harvey Frommer, that was done by Hank Waddles, who is no stranger to indepth interviews.]

Bronx Banter Interview

By Hank Waddles

From the moment the Yankees broke ground on the new Stadium across the street from the current park, an entire industry has been growing around the public’s need to remember the House that Ruth Built. Already you can buy vials of dirt, limited edition lithographs, and pictures with facsimile autographs. I’m certain that in the months to come we’ll be offered bricks, rivets, and splinters from the bleachers, assuming we’re willing to take out a second mortgage in order to pay for it all. One of the finest products out there, though, is a visually stunning book by Harvey Frommer, Remembering Yankee Stadium: An Oral and Narrative History of "The House That Ruth Built". Filled with beautiful photographs that span the Stadium’s history, the book tells the story of the past eighty-five years one decade at a time, relying heavily on the voices of the players, writers, and fans who took the field, reported from the press box, and walked through the turnstiles each afternoon from April to October. Last week the author was kind enough to chat with me about the book. Enjoy…

Bronx Banter: There has been a flood of products over the past year relating to the closure of Yankee Stadium. Why was this project important to you personally?

Harvey Frommer: I think mine is the definitive book. I’m positioned by experience, by temperament, and by track record to do this, which I think blows away all the others. I’m not the only one to say this. The reviews I’ve gotten plus the people who’ve seen it really agree with me. Some of the other products were very quick commercial attempts to capitalize on the closure of Yankee Stadium and the creation of the new one. The bulk of them, in fact all of them, came out in the spring. Mine just came out September 1, 2008, so in a way it’s like the last shall be the first. I’m very happy with what I’ve done. I’ve written eight other Yankee-oriented books, I’ve done hundreds of article on the Yankees, and I wrote for Yankees Magazine for eighteen years. It seems like an immodest answer to your question, but I didn’t intend it to be.

BB: That’s okay, that’s what I was looking for.

HF: I don’t like to trash the opposition. They’re all good people, but I’m proud of what I do.

BB: Good. It’s certainly a beautiful book, and I’ve enjoyed it since I received it. I went to my first game at the Stadium when I was seven years old in 1977. When was your first game? Do you remember much from it?

HF: Believe it or not, people ask me what are some of my favorite Yankee Stadium memories and what was my first game there, but I would have not been a very good interview for the book. But I found some great people to interview. Mine basically blurs through the various decades. My great thought or feel about Yankee Stadium is having the honor of Bob Shepperd doing the introduction to the book. The voice of Bob Shepperd has always stayed with me when I’ve been at the Stadium and when I haven’t been at the Stadium. So if you want to single out a theme or a moment, I guess it’s not the traditional response to that question, but it would be hearing him announce different Yankee players through the generations. I guess I probably started going to the Stadium in the 50s, and he began in 1951. I don’t think I began that early, but maybe I did. But his voice ringing down through the decades — and now he’s 97 and he’s not that well – I think that typifies my experience and, I guess, millions of others in terms of Yankee Stadium. Reggie Jackson allegedly calls him "the voice of God," but I call him the Voice of the Yankees. I’m giving you odd answers to good questions…

BB: That’s okay. Whenever I talk to authors I think I most look forward to asking about their research and writing process, and that’s especially true with your book. When did you start this project?

HF: I think the project was started a decade ago. I’ve always had a certain thing for Yankee Stadium. The physical job of doing it was when I got a contract that was about two years in the working. I teach oral history and also sports journalism at Dartmouth College, and some of those skills that I try to put into my students were definitely used in this particular book. I’d like to put it on the record that the New York Yankees did not cooperate with me at all. In fact, they locked me out from any access at the ballpark, to their clips, to their photographs, and to the players they could control because they were doing the official book, and mine was the unofficial book. They did me a favor, because I had really more of a challenge on my hands. The challenge resulted in my getting all kinds of interesting personalities into the book. I got a guy who was a hundred years old named Bill Werber, who was with the Yankees for about a month in 1927. I got Bob Shepperd to write the introduction. I got people who have been long time fans who had great, great stories to tell. I got a guy like [Duke] Sims, who the other books would not have thought of interviewing, who hit the last home run at the old Yankee Stadium back in ’73 just before the refurbishment began. He didn’t even realize he had hit the last home run. So the process really was made more difficult but made more challenging, and anybody who knows me knows I like a challenge.

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Translated for audiences of all ages and backgrounds. This is good for a quick chuckle.

By Repoz

Michael Burke: “That Irish Son of a Bitch” *

Alistair Mundy’s ascot, that’s what it was…Alistair Mundy’s dandy ascot. After all these years I’ve finally been able to pinpoint former Yankee president/owner Michael Burke’s rediculi éclat de mode sense. (Then again it might have been that unfashionable Old Spice/turtlewreck sweater connection of his, so who knows!)

Now, while this discovery might not be as nootropic-poppin’ as finding out that multi-flasking Clu Gulager was in the 60’s kookifried outré folk group Miriam or that Ron Asheton of the Stooges was seriously tight with origi-Stooge, Larry Fine, and traded zany hair-pulling sound effects at the Elisha Cooked Actor’s Home in L.A. with him (Asheton, I believe, was moonlighting at the time for the prestigious National Eye-Goink Monthly)…but it’ll do.

Years before beers started pouring like spit in a schoolyard, before a gangplank of stringy flesh had been constructed between Jonah Hex’s crevisious lips, before the sweet ravages of gutter-twang swept me off my cleats…there was Michael Burke. Punk hero.

Imagine, a Yankee team president hanging with us lowcon lowlifes. His dappy loafers sticking to the same gum globs, that were probably expungiated by a lifetime of Terrence Aloysius Mahoney vs Glimpy McClusky (unknowingly the model for the spiffy George Sherrill Flat Brim Society line of baseball caps yet to come!) chaw wars, as ours. Johnny Ramone was supposedly part of our roving Stadium gang of roar. Isn’t it odd, some sorta mystical pissmit, that with the 1974 closing of Yankee Stadium and their grubby unrestrooms, Johnny’s trained whiffology led him to the aroma shocktherapy of the CBGB’s bathroom by that September? (Hey, let’s just be happy he didn’t end up spoog-a-loo trough riffing at the notorious Zipper Lips Au-Go-Go Lounge in Jersey!).

But Mr. Burke, quite possibly (I haven’t finished researching Paul Krassner’s Realist site or Taylor Meade’s unreal sight, for that matter, yet) was the only former OSS intelligence officer, CIA agent, Hollywood cutting floor movie star, head of Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey Circus, and CBS executive to speak out against the Vietnam War…which he did, when he read the names of war dead from the pulpit at NYC’s Trinity Church. For someone of Burke’s stature to take such a radical stand at the time, happened about as often as a fire in the Everglades, a moonlanding on the sun, or Charlie Chocks and Zestabs having a subhuman tug-o-war over the magical abra-cadaver pitchman services of Ray Oyler.

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The Yankees beat the Rays 8-4 yesterday at the Stadium and won the season series against Tamps, 11-7. Carl Pavano left the game early with a hip injury and Robinson Cano was yanked in the middle of the game for not hustling after a ball. The Red Sox were in the unlikely position to be rooting for the Yanks this weekend, and both teams helped each other out: the Sox trail the Rays by just one game and the Yankees edge closer to the Blue Jays, who are currently in third place.

Mariano Rivera faced one batter, struck him out, and tied Lee Smith for second-place on the all-times save list with 478.

Alex Rodriguez hit a first-inning grand slam, the 17th of his career. He also had a bloop double in the eighth, his 33rd of the season, his best mark in pinstripes. Rodriguez scored his 101st run and knocked in his 100th RBI. He’s scored 100 or more runs for 13 straight years and has driven in 100 or more runs in 11 consecutive seasons. How about this for consistency: Rodriguez has 1602 runs scored in his career, 1603 RBI.

Jason Giambi hit his 30th homer of the year. In five of his seven years as a Yankee, Giambi has hit 30 or more dingers.

As you may have heard, Derek Jeter passed Lou Gehrig’s mark for hits at Yankee Stadium. Jeter had a wondeful weekend, smacking three hits in each game. He saved the best for yesterday, adding a home run to the bleachers in right-center field. With the season fading away, it’s no surprise that the announcing crew on YES made a big deal about Jeter catching the Iron Horse. That’s understanable and I can appreciate it, even if it was much at times. However, one thing they didn’t provide us is context. I would like to know, for instance, how many games and at bats it took Gehrig to reach the mark and compare that with Jeter’s figures. Moreover, I’d like to see how many home runs and doubles figure into the mix as well. It’s no knock on Jeter if he’s not nearly the hitter Gehrig was, Jeter is a great player and a future Hall of Famer. Still, I would have liked to see more context.

Let’s face it, the Yankee announcers, some newspapermen, and a lot of fans are not rational when it comes to all things Jeter. Again, I find it annoying at times, but I get it. And I do love Jeter too. But he doesn’t need to be puffed up constantly. When Jeter hit into a sharp 5-4-3 double play in his final at bat yesterday, Paul O’Neill mentioned that Jeter never hits into double plays. Well, actually, that was the 23rd double play Jeter hit into this season, a career-high (beating his previous career high of 21, set last year).

Oh, and one last number. The Yanks “tragic” number. It’s down to 5.

It is a muggy day here in the Bronx. The sun is trying to come out and when it does the sky turns a lighter shade of grey. Not exactly autumn weather. The Yanks send Carl Pavano out there today to serve it up to the first-place Rays. Me, I’m going to the movies, gunna check out the Joel and Ethan Coen’s new comedy, another caper about a bunch of bumbling idiots. Sounds about perfect. Hitting an 11:00 a.m. show and will be back to catch most of the game.

Thread away, if you dare.

Hey, even if these are sad times, at least there is baseball today. It’ll be really sad in a couple of months when football, hockey and hoops are all we’ve got on our plate.

So as Aaron Gleeman says, Happy Baseball.

For better or worse, Leonard Schecter helped change the course of sports journalism, and this was before he helped Jim Bouton write Ball Four. Alan Schwarz has a great column on Schecter today in the Times. This is so cool because I was just talking about Schecter with a friend this week as we rated the great Sport magazine writers of the Sixties. He’s really a slept-on figure. Props to Schwarz for giving Schecter some burn.

By Ken Rosenthal

My favorite memory is the Jeffrey Maier game in the 1996 ALCS. I was a columnist for the Baltimore Sun at the time, but I grew up in New York. My father originally is from the Bronx, and when we would play one-on-one basketball or compete in something else, he would always invoke "Bronx Rules." Which is to say, no rules! So, after that game, I explained to the good people of Baltimore the concept of "Bronx Rules." And I wrote that the only way to fight them would be for the Orioles’ crowd to play by "Bronx Rules" when the ALCS returned to Baltimore. In short, I was trying to incite a riot, basically. But of course, nothing changed.

After coming home to Baltimore, I remember sitting at breakfast with my son Sammy, who was five years old at that time. I asked him if he had heard about what happened to the Orioles in New York, about the kid who interfered with the ball. He looked at me and said, "I hate that kid." And I thought, "Awright!"

Ken Rosenthal covers baseball for Fox.

Mannish Boy.

Barry Zito is the focus of Pat Jordan’s latest profile for the New York Times Magazine. Another stellar job by Jordan. I always figured Zito was a superficial guy, a pretty boy phony, but he comes off as an interesting dude:

Zito told me his pitching problems were caused by the fact that he hadn’t been himself the last few years.

"I wanted to be more ‘professional,’ " he said. "This new guy. Because of the Contract, I wanted people to know I was serious about pitching, not this flaky guy. I allowed the seriousness of things to creep into my mind. The city. The Contract. The fans. My new teammates. I wasn’t a blue-collar Oakland guy anymore."

…He was particularly stunned by the vehemence with which the media and fans greeted news of the Contract. And then he was stunned by the fans’ booing his failed pitching. "Actually, I think the San Francisco fans have been pretty good to him," Righetti said. "If he was in New York, the fans would be off the chart." But Zito wasn’t used to being booed and criticized. His flaky persona had deflected such criticism for years, as if people felt it was unfair to be too harsh on such an innocent sprite. But he’s not a sprite anymore, and his critics are no longer so forgiving. Which is why he has assumed a new persona: the abused guy who can no longer be himself with people. "But it requires so much energy to be inauthentic," Zito said. Which is the point. Zito was never truly "authentic." The free-spirited kid was always something of a construct. Now that he’s a man, it’s time for "serious things," like the apparently premature demise of a once-brilliant career. This is what Zito is struggling with. But how to rewrite the narrative of his life?

"I never thought I was invincible at everything, just baseball," Zito said. "At 30, I became aware of why things happened." He now saw his parents’ psychobabble — "Don’t expect to struggle" — as something that could lead not only to awareness but confusion. "Zen is a double-edged sword," he said. "It guarantees nothing. When I went 11-1, it worked. Next year it won’t. Zen helps you solve some problems, but it’s better at creating problems. Thinking too much is good for life, but not functional for baseball." He’s searching for that mind-set all great, intelligent pitchers have. Compartmentalize. Complexity for real life, simplicity for baseball.

Can an athlete be too smart for his own good? I think so. Being bright might make a jock a more well-rounded person, but also less of a performer. Reminds me of Billy Beane in Moneyball, realizing that he would never be a great player after rooming with Lenny Dykstra who was "dumb" in all the right ways.

The wife and I have been painting the apartment.  We’ve spent the past two weekends painting.  We.  That’s code for me.  Whenever Em says "we," I crack up thinking about The Big Lebowski, you know, the editorial "we," because I know she’s talking about me. 

Okay, I’m not the only one doing work, it hasn’t been all me, she’s been helping plenty.  Which doesn’t mean I’ve been behaving myself.  I’ve been dutiful but sullen.  In fact, I’ve been jerk about the whole thing. I’ve been doing the job, but painting is just one of those things that I can’t excited about.  I don’t even feel accomplished when I’ve finished, just relieved. 

Today, the bedroom and my little office were on the painting schedule and I was determined to be, if not cheerful, then at least pleasant.  My mom and step-father came down to help out.  When we cracked open the light green paint for the bedroom it was clear that we had made a mistake.  It was too yellow.  After throwing some up on one wall, an executive decision was made and Em headed back to the paint store.

I painted my office and listened to Mike Mussina and the Yanks stink up the jernt against the Rays.  7-1 was the final.  Em returned with a better shade of green and hours later when we called it quits for the night, the Yanks had a 1-0 lead on the Rays in the nightcap.  Then Sidney Ponson gave up a grand slam and Emily started getting the shakes because after all of our hard work, the new green wasn’t working for her either.  In fact, it was making her nauseous, sick because not only didn’t she like the color but she was guilt-ridden at the prospect of having to do it again, and wasting my time, my parents time, and our money.

"How could this happen?"  she said, tears welling up in her eyes.

I was not a jerk.  When it comes down to it, it takes so much energy to be angry and resentful, isn’t it easier and more satisfying to be a good guy?  I soothed her and told her everything was going to be fine.  Yeah, I hate painting but it’s just paint.  It’s just a weekend afternoon.  It’s not that big a deal.  

The Yanks scrapped back.  Derek Jeter had three hits in both games, a fine day that was treated like Reggie Jackson’s three-dinger World Serious game by Michael Kay on the YES broadcast (Kay called Jeter’s three single, one walk performance in the night game "a tour de force").  Wilson Betemit homered and Xavier Nady singled home the go-ahead run.  The fans were lively once the Yanks got on the board, saving their boos for Alex Rodriguez who made outs in his final two at-bats with runners on base.  

Mariano Rivera, jeez, remember him, allowed a run in the ninth but earned the save and the Yanks came away with a split.  6-5 was the final.

A nice way to end a long day.  Still, looks like I’ve got more painting to do.          

It rained all night.  I stopped by a couple of record stores downtown after work and picked up a selection of custom-made cds from some friends.  Then I met my old pal Anthony Pick in front of Katz’s on Houston street.  But I didn’t feel like chicken soup so we walked south into the heart of of the hippish lower east side.  After we crossed Delancy, a bearded man in a suit asked us, "Are either or you Jewish?"  He was looking for recruits I guess. 

Anthony set him up and said, "My father’s Jewish." 

"Mine too," I said.

The man replied, "What about your mother?" 

"Sicilian," said Anthony. 

"Sicilian?" the man said.

"My mom’s Belgian Catholic."

And with that, he lost interest, and Anthony and I laughed as we walked on.

Today gives two games, the first in the afternoon, and then the make-up for last night’s game will be tonight.

It’s supposed to rain on-and-off all weekend, but right now, it is sunny in the Bronx.

And you know what they say about the sun:

Let’s Go Yan-Kees.

By David Pinto

My fondest memories from Yankee Stadium both happened during a double header on July 2, 1978. Detroit was in town at a time when teams still scheduled twin bills on holidays. In game one, the Tigers shutout the Yankees for six innings, leading 2-0. Ron Guidry held a 12-0 record at that point, and it looked like his winning streak might end. In the bottom of the seventh, however, Gary Thomasson was on base with two out and Fred Stanley due up. We were sitting in the grandstand behind first base when suddenly a huge cheer went up from the third base stands. We wondered what happened, and then Mickey Rivers’s head popped out of the dugout. Mick the quick came off the disable list that day, having not played since June 16th. He walked gingerly (as he always did) to the plate, and ripped a line drive to right field. Mickey Stanley leaped but didn’t make the catch. While the ball was bounding away, Stanley went over to argue with the ump (I assume about fan interference). Rivers, with his blazing speed, circles the bases to tie the game! The crowd goes wild and the Yankees go on to win the game 3-2, extending Guidry’s win streak to 13.

In the night cap, Graig Nettles batted third, coming up with two men on in the third. Jim Slaton came in high and tight with a brushback throw, and Graig fell to the ground avoiding a hit by pitch.

My immediate thought was that Slaton made a huge mistake. I had seen Nettles knocked down before, and he tended to respond very constructively to brushbacks, getting a hit. Sure enough, Nettles launched a three-run homer for the first score of the game. That’s the way to deal with a knock down, and the Yankees went on to a 5-3 win and a sweep of the double header.

David Pinto blogs about baseball at BaseballMusings.com.

If Shea Stadium had featured a doghouse in 1975, surely Larry Gura would have occupied a prominent place within its walls. Such was life with the Yankees at that time, given the way that the temperamental Billy Martin liked to run his clubhouse.

Gura didn’t actually begin his career with the Yankees, but eventually found his way to Queens in 1974 and ’75 after beginning his major league days in the National League. Originally taken by the Chicago Cubs in the second round of the 1969 draft, Gura arrived in the Windy City one year later. Pitching sporadically over his first four seasons, Gura failed to impress and never gained the trust of Leo Durocher, who preferred veteran pitchers. With his major league resume spotty, the Cubs traded Gura to the Texas Rangers as the player to be named later for veteran lefty Mike Paul. (Gura has always maintained that he was part of the deal that sent Ferguson Jenkins from the Cubs to the Rangers, but that blockbuster was actually made after Gura had already been traded, so it’s a little hard to figure.) Gura never actually appeared in a game for the Rangers, who traded him in May of 1974, sending him to the Yankees for washed up catcher Duke Sims. Much like the Cubs, the Rangers lacked patience with Gura, giving up on him quickly in part because of his lack of velocity and the absence of a dominating out-pitch.

In the midst of the 1974 season, the Yankees called Gura up from the Syracuse Chiefs of the International League. The Yankees gave Gura eight starts. He rewarded them with an ERA of 2.41, a record of 5-1, four complete games, and a mere 12 walks in 56 innings. With manager Bill Virdon and pitching coach Whitey Ford in his corner, no one seemed to mind that Gura struck out only 17 batters in those appearances.

Convinced that his 1974 performance was no fluke, the Yankees penciled in Gura as their first starter in 1975, behind a quartet of Jim "Catfish" Hunter, George "Doc" Medich, Rudy May, and Pat Dobson. Gura responded by pitching reasonably well, certainly better than the standard by which most No. 5 starters are judged. All of that began to change in August, when the Yankees fired Virdon and replaced him with Martin, who had just become available after being ousted by the Rangers. Martin was already somewhat familiar with Gura, having watched him pitch in one game during spring training of 1974, when both were still with the Rangers. Based on one inning of work, Martin had determined that Gura was not ready, saying that he lacked good control, and demoted him to the minor leagues. With those first impressions solidly entrenched, apparently based on the smallest of sample sizes, Martin had little interest in watching Gura pitch meaningful regular season games. Adopting a four-man rotation, Martin removed Gura from the starting staff and dumped him in the bullpen.

So why did Martin seemingly detest Gura? First, the manager didn’t believe that Gura had enough "stuff" to succeed in the major leagues. Martin regarded him as a junkballer who lacked the smarts or experience to overcome the absence of a dominating fastball or a powerhouse slider. In some ways, Martin’s assessment sounded reasonable. After all, the Cubs had given up on Gura for virtually the same rationale. But Martin’s secondary criticism of Gura bordered on the bizarre. For some reason, Martin didn’t like Gura’s fascination with physical fitness. Gura, who observed a strict diet and workout regimen and eventually became a green belt in tae kwon do, believed strongly in his personal conditioning program. Martin just found it weird, an unorthodox fad that had nothing to do with real preparation for playing baseball. And then there’s the infamous "tennis whites" story. Martin supposedly saw Gura wearing a white tennis outfit one day and didn’t like it—not at all. (Billy sure did have some strange pet peeves, didn’t he?)

Gura actually started the 1976 season on the Yankees’ 25-man roster, but that didn’t mean that Martin had to use him. In fact, he didn’t—not even once in the five weeks that marked the start of the season. Finally, the Yankee front office ended Martin’s siege by trading Gura. On May 16, the Yankees sent Gura to the Kansas City Royals in a giveaway that brought backup catcher Fran Healy to New York. Other than Reggie Jackson, who came to trust Healy as his sole ally on the Yankee teams of the late seventies, not a single person connected to the franchise would dare call this trade a victory for the pinstripes.

After first establishing himself as an able-bodied reliever, Gura would later emerge as the top left-hander in the Royals’ rotation. Leading with his curve ball and slider, Gura learned to mix his pitches, master the strike zone, and overcome his pedestrian fastball. From 1978 to 1983, he logged at least 200 innings a season. A two-time 18-game winner, Gura posted ERAs of less than 3.00 on four occasions. Now let’s project what his performance might have meant to the Yankees. In 1980, Gura might have helped the Yankees fare better in the postseason, when they lost three straight games to, you guessed it, the Royals. One of those Yankee losses involved a complete-game effort by Gura. Take Gura away from the Royals and put him on the Yankees, and things might have turned out differently. Gura also could have helped in the 1981 World Series, which saw the Yankees lose four straight games after claiming the first two games against Los Angeles. Additionally, Gura tormented the Yankees in regular season play throughout his career, winning 11 of 17 decisions against the Bombers.

Billy Martin knew a lot of things about baseball. He knew about strategy, about the running game, about staying three steps ahead of the opposing manager. He knew how to motivate players, including guys like Rickey Henderson. But he didn’t always know about evaluating talent. And he certainly didn’t know about Larry Gura.

Bruce Markusen writes "Cooperstown Confidential" for MLB.com and can be reached via e-mail at bmarkusen@stny.rr.com.

By Dave Kaplan

My warmest memory of Yankee Stadium is of a rainy and chilly day. This was April 9, 1999, the day Yogi Berra finally came home.

It was a day so many waited for and feared might never happen. For 14 years, Yogi, a man always at peace with himself, never buckled under constant pressures to return to the place where he’d become such a beloved legend. I learned a lot about Yogi in my new job as director of the Yogi Berra Museum & Learning Center. Mostly I learned that beyond his warm and fuzzy public image, he’s deeply principled and a man of honor.

And being dishonored by George Steinbrenner two weeks into the 1985 season, when he was fired as manager without the courtesy of a face-to-face meeting or personal phone call, rubbed him badly. Yogi’s subsequent self-imposed exile – he quietly vowed never to return as long as The Boss was in charge – was admired by legions. He was the Yankee who couldn’t be bought.

Fast forward 14 years when George flew up from Tampa in the dead of winter to our Museum in New Jersey. He came seeking forgiveness, in person, for one of “the worst mistakes I ever made.” Yogi graciously accepted his apology in a private meeting, and slyly hinted he would return to Yankee Stadium.

So he did on Opening Day. Yogi and his wife Carmen were encircled by TV crews and photographers right outside the Stadium entrance. I was nervously excited for him as he was ushered into the employee entrance. What was he feeling? Did he ever believe this day would come? Wearing an overcoat and blue blazer and a baseball tie, he ambled his way down the steps into the Stadium’s underbelly, through the twisting corridors to the Yankee clubhouse. As I walked alongside him, he almost seemed a little lost, not familiar with the surroundings. Later he admitted to a case of Opening Day nerves as if he’d never been away.

Yogi made his rounds in the clubhouse, warmly greeted by players who’d never met him. Old friends like Joe Torre, Don Zimmer and Mel Stottlemyre eagerly embraced this gnome of a man whose remarkable life and history were so intertwined with Yankee Stadium.

Finally, as the Yankees gathered in the dugout for the pregame ceremonies, which included the raising of the 1998 championship banner, there Yogi sat on the bench. Players walked by patting him on the leg for good luck. Then Bob Sheppard, in his inimitable style, created a hush in the crowd when he said, “Now let’s welcome back a special guest…”

He listed Yogi’s incredible accomplishments, including his record 10 world championships, and called him “a source of inspiration to his teammates … a man of conviction…Let’s welcome back,” said Sheppard, his voice rising, “Yogi Berra, No. 8.” The Stadium erupted with a deafening roar. I was allowed to watch from the corner of the dugout as Yogi walked to the mound in a driving rain where David Cone applauded with his glove. He shook Cone’s hand and tossed the first pitch to Joe Girardi, who rushed toward him with the ball, excitedly. “Thanks Yogi, this is a real thrill,” he said. Then as Yogi walked off, he gave a half-wave to the crowd which was still standing, cheering and chanting, “Yogi…Yogi…Yogi.” For the man famous for saying it ain’t over til it’s over, it was over. Yogi Berra was back in Yankee Stadium.

Dave Kaplan is the Director of the Yogi Berra Museum & Learning Center.

According to Mike Puma, writing in the New York Post, Bernie Williams will return to Yankee Stadium for the closing ceremonies on September 21st:

“It will bring me back to my first time in 1991, when I played my first game,” Williams said. “It will be amazing. The fans are going to be great. I’m obviously very sad to the Stadium go – you have a lot of great memories – but you move on.”

…”[October] will be kind of strange,” Williams said. “But that goes to show how hard it is to make it. It’s never a given, and this year it didn’t happen for them.”

It’s never a given. How true. The weather has turned in New York over the past few days, the fall chill is in the air. For a long time now, I’ve come to associate the change in the weather with playoff baseball in the Bronx. Now that the Yankees won’t be playing in October, I’m not upset, but grateful that the Yanks had such a great run of consecutive playoff appearences. Hopefully, they’ll make it back next season. Or the year after that. The comforting part of being a Yankee fan is the belief that they will win again, and sometime soon. Who knows, it could be fifteen years or even forty years before they win another championship. But it could also be three years or next season.

Anyhow, it’ll be nice to see Bernie again. Along with Mariano Rivera, he’s one of my very favorite Yankees of them all.

Juan Gonzalez has the latest the politics of the new Yankee Stadium.