Peace to Brad for hipping me to this on-line collection of William Gottlieb’s photography. It’s wonderful.

Man, imagine going back in time to witness 52nd street during its heyday?

Is Carl Crawford’s time in Tampa close to being over? Ben Shpigel reports in the Times:

…With every game this month and next, the clock also ticks louder toward Crawford’s free agency — and his likely departure from the only organization he has ever known. It is the perpetual challenge for small-market teams like the Rays: how to prevent a homegrown star from bolting for a big payday.

The Rays’ payroll has steadily increased over the last four years, to roughly $71 million from about $24 million in 2007, but their principal owner, Stuart Sternberg, said in spring training that it would plunge below $60 million for 2011. Even with the money they receive in revenue sharing, team revenue has not increased in lock step with the Rays’ success. Devoting what could be a quarter of their budget to one player would run counter to their operating philosophy.

“We could sign just about any player in baseball,” said Andrew Friedman, the Rays’ general manager. “The issue is whether we could field a competitive team around that player. Our job is to balance that. We certainly can’t win a bidding contest for any top player. It’s kind of Math 101 when you look at our resources relative to most every team in the game.”

I once saw the actor Kevin McCarthy, Mary’s brother, walk out of my grandparent’s apartment building. I felt happy to see him, a recognizable face from so many forgettable movies. He was tall and elegant and though I didn’t say anything to him, I felt better just being near him for a minute.

He died on Saturday, 96 years old. R.I.P.

Cliff Lee allowed just two lousy hits and pitched into the 9th inning. Guess he’s back is okay, sombitch. The Rangers scrapped four runs off Dustin Moseley–who pitched admirably in defeat–as they beat the Yanks, 4-1 to complete the weekend sweep.

The Rays lost, however, so the Yanks are still in first place, by a half-a-game.

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Dude, I couldn’t stay awake last night, missed the end of the game. When I woke up and saw the box score, I was like this:

Now, since I didn’t actually stay up late for the second night in a row to see Mariano lose that Texas Horror Show, I’m trying to remain hopeful. Yeah, even though Cliff Lee pitches today for the Rangers. This is Lee’s first game back from the DL and he hasn’t been his usual dominant self since joining Texas. I could see him shutting the Yanks out for seven innings but I could also see the Yanks touching him up some too. Maybe Derek Jeter has a great game.

It’s all up to that Mystery Man Moseley:

C’mon, son, make like Aaron Small and shut-shut ’em down.

Never mind the hankies, Let’s Go Yan-Kees!

The Yanks have been branded so far this weekend in Texas, a weekend to forget:

AJ Burnett, yet another of the  inconsistent Yankee starting pitchers making these last few weeks more ulcer-inducing than they would normally be, took the mound on a 92 degree, 42 percent humidity Saturday night in Arlington.

There was dead, damp air all around the stadium, with no wind to speak of.  The Rangers fans were given, and futily used, handheld “paddle” fans to deal with the heat.  All Burnett had was a rosin bag.  AJ used that bag so much in the first four innings, you would have sworn they registered at Tiffany’s.

As you could expect, Burnett’s command, never a strong suit of his, suffered from the sweaty environs.  He couldn’t place his breaking stuff consistently, but managed to pump his fastball by enough Ranger batters to keep himself in the game.

A leadoff walk to Elvis Andrus eventually led to a run when Vlad Guerrero laced a tailing fastball for a single to center.  The Yanks put a rally together against Tommy Hunter in the top of the second as Robinson Cano doubled down the right field line and Lance Berkman knocked a ribbie single to center. Curtis Granderson singled to put runners at 1st and 2nd.

Then the Yanks got a bit of a gift, as Ian Kinsler dropped what could have been an inning-ending DP ball, instead settling for a fielder’s choice force out.  Francisco Cervelli redeemed the gift certificate with a lined single to center, putting the Yanks up 2-1.

After Burnett recorded the first two outs in the third, he walked David Murphy, and then Guerrero pulled an 81 mph pitch to left for an RBI double to tie the game.

Both pitchers were vacillating between swinging strikeouts and walks through the first four and a half innings (Burnett 6K, 3BB; Hunter 8K, 3BB).  Then, a heavy rain appeared as Burnett started the fifth, and the tarp was called for as he had a 2-2 count on Michael Young.  When the rain delay finally ended 59 minutes later, Joe Girardi brought in Chad Gaudin.  So, Friday night’s reliever merry-go-round got an early start Saturday.

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Let’s start fresh, shall we?

Last night was a game to forget. Here’s hoping tonight will be different. Let’s Go Yan-Kees!

Nicholas Dawidoff has a long profile on Rex Ryan in this week’s New York Times Magazine. For those of you who, you know, dig the pigskin:

Late spring in Florham Park, N.J., under a cloudless sky on a bright green lawn lined for football. It’s too hot, there’s only one lonely shade tree, and Rex Ryan’s latest diet isn’t working out. The New York Jets’ head coach is up over 345 again. Across the way from Ryan is his most valued employee, the magnificent cornerback Darrelle Revis, who is so “frustrated” about his salary that he sometimes seems undone. Living in Ryan’s attic back at the house is Ryan’s best friend since his Oklahoma youth, Jeff Weeks, the Jets’ outside linebackers coach, who is going through a divorce. Down on the farm in Kentucky, Ryan’s father, the pioneering defensive coach Buddy Ryan, has been ill with diverticulitis, while out in Cleveland, Ryan’s twin brother, Rob, is coordinating the defense for Browns Coach Eric Mangini, who had Ryan’s job until he was fired for what holdover Jets delicately call “negativity.” That, at least, will never be Ryan’s problem. “How great is this!” he cries, looking around. “My life is perfect.”

Jets practices are all planned to the minute long before they take place, with the formal responsibilities delegated to the various positional coaches, as well as to the team’s offensive coordinator, Brian Schottenheimer, and its defensive coordinator, Mike Pettine. As these worthies exhort their charges, it’s easy to imagine them all astride wheeling horses on some military parade ground, hardening their regiments for the long campaigns of autumn. Ryan is left to do exactly what he pleases, which almost always amounts to meandering from group to group, being enthusiastic. Wherever he wanders, Ryan is hard to miss. An immense man whose thick foothills of neck and haunch swell into a spectacular butte at the midsection, he possesses a personal geography that, from first-and-10 distance, assumes a form that follows his function — Ryan looks like nothing more than an extra-large football.

Saturday Morning Melodies…

Clifford does like Clifford do.

Yanks-Rangers in a possible playoff preview (minus, you know, a couple of aces for the Yanks).

Should be funski.

Let’s go Yan-Kees.

Bronco Buster, By Frederic Remington

Two all-pros:

Is Godzilla Matsui’s time with the Angels about to expire?

He’s no Mo, as our man William pointed out, but Tim Marchman thinks that Trevor Hoffman still deserves our admiration:

If we’re honest, we’ll admit that Hoffman has never, with the exception of his glorious 1998, really been a great pitcher. This has less to do with closers being inherently overrated than with how good he’s been. The average, competent closer will have an ERA of somewhere between 2.50 and 3.00; Hoffman’s career ERA is 2.87. He’s had better years and a few lesser ones, but he’s mainly spent two decades being pretty good.

Being pretty good for that long is difficult, maybe more to some ways than being great. A truly great player will adapt as he ages because he does several things well and can get better at some even as he gets worse at others. A player who does one thing well — and that describes the vast majority of even good major leaguers, who can maybe field a bit or hit a home run now and then or throw a nice fastball — has almost no margin for error.

Hoffman has always been such a player. He had some significant virtues such as composure and the ability to pitch an inning every third day without hurting himself, but basically he owed his success to one thing: a change-up. In his prime it was just hideous, and then as he lost a bit to age he figured out how to keep it working well enough to do his job, solidly and well, for long enough that he’ll almost certainly make the Hall of Fame.

Is Joaquin Phoniex a put-on artist? Manohla Dargis reviews “I’m Still Here”:

For a twitchy, perversely funny stretch, he mumbled and fidgeted, softly, often monosyllabically, responding as Mr. Letterman’s formulaic jive grew testy. “What can you tell us about your days with the Unabomber?” Mr. Letterman asked at one point. Mr. Phoenix looked down while the audience roared at a joke few seemed to grasp.

More than a year later the joke continues, sputters, occasionally hits its target and finally wears out its welcome in “I’m Still Here,” a deadpan satire or a deeply sincere folly (my money is on the first option) about Mr. Phoenix’s recent roles as an acting dropout and would-be hip-hop artist. Directed by Casey Affleck (who’s married to Mr. Phoenix’s sister Summer), the movie, which is being unpersuasively sold as a documentary, is a gloss on the mutually parasitic worlds of celebritydom and the entertainment media. Those are worlds Mr. Phoenix knows well, having fed the beast since his breakout role as Nicole Kidman’s poignantly thickheaded lover in “To Die For,” Gus Van Sant’s 1995 comedy about the tragedy of fame.

“I’m Still Here” isn’t as merciless as “To Die For,” which was etched in acid by the screenwriter Buck Henry. Mr. Affleck and Mr. Phoenix have been involved in the movie business long enough to be disgusted (or maybe just irked) by it, but they don’t appear to have surrendered to cynicism. Whatever else their movie is, and whatever their actual intentions, “I’m Still Here” does take on, at times forcefully and effectively, the pathological fallout of the Entertainment Industrial Complex. Much of the movie involves Mr. Phoenix’s having, or more likely pantomiming, a meltdown, for which he puts on a really good show. (He snorts white powder, hires a hooker, abuses his assistants.) But the programmatic nature of his antics strongly suggests that he is self-consciously playing a role in a narrative, one that isn’t simply about him.

As much as we might try to think otherwise, race does figure into how we perceive ballplayers. White players tend to remind us of white players, and black players remind us of other black players. I’m not sure if that’s wrong, but I am convinced that’s the way it is.

Along those lines, I’ve finally figured out who Ivan Nova reminds me of, not only in terms of appearance but also his delivery. It took me four turns through the rotation; I should have known earlier, given how few black right-handers the Yankees have employed as starters over the years. Let’s see, there was Dock Ellis in the seventies, Charles Hudson in the eighties, Pascual Perez and Doc Gooden in the nineties, Shawn Chacon more recently…and that’s about it. But none of those guys really remind me of Nova. Instead, it’s the now forgotten Melido Perez, Pascual’s younger brother and one of the few bright spots during the lean years of the early 1990s. Both pitchers are listed at six feet, four inches, with Nova outweighing Perez by about 20 pounds, 210 to 190.

At one time, specifically 1992, Melido Perez looked like the future ace of the rotation. He threw a good fastball, but tamed hitters with a killer forkball, a delivery that tormented left-handed and right-handed batters alike. Unfortunately, he threw so many of the forkballs that he ended up losing velocity, hurt his arm, and faded into retirement one year before the arrival of the glory years in 1996.

While Nova’s appearance and motion remind me of Perez, his repertoire of pitches differs from his predecessor. He doesn’t throw a forkball, instead relying on an explosive mid-90s fastball and a terrific overhand curve. Nova has drawn some
criticism for his lack of strikeouts during his minor league climb, but I’m not concerned given the quality of his stuff. If he can have the success that Chien-Ming Wang had over the first three years of his career, but avoid breaking his foot while running the bases, the Yankees will be pleased with the results.

They must be thrilled with what they’ve seen so far; Nova has pitched well in three out of four starts, with just the one clunker against the bashing Blue Jays. He has pitched capably enough to be thrown into the mix for the back end of the postseason rotation. Let’s assume that Andy Pettitte returns and gives the Yankees what they expect from a No. 2 starter behind CC Sabathia. That leaves the third and fourth starters up for grabs, with Phil Hughes, A.J. Burnett, Javier Vazquez, and Dustin Moseley trying to box each other out for position. From my vantage point, Hughes seems like a cinch for the No. 3 spot; for all of his second-half struggles, his season ERA is still significantly better than Burnett and Vazquez, and his starts often produce the minimum requirement of a quality start (six innings, three runs).

That leaves one spot open for the playoff rotation. So who gets it? Let’s eliminate Moseley, who is lacking both in stuff and postseason experience. Similarly, I don’t want to see Vazquez anywhere near a mound at the beginning of a postseason game. His diminished fastball, along with his glaring inability to compensate for it, make him qualified for nothing more than long man out of the bullpen.

That leaves us with Burnett and Nova. If Burnett can show improvement in his last four starts, I’d be willing to give him the nod. He pitched well in half of his postseason starts last year and still has the firepower to shut down an opponent for seven innings. If Burnett doesn’t improve, then I’d lean toward Nova. Unlike Burnett, Nova has the element of surprise working for him. The Yankees’ potential first round opponents, the Twins and Rangers, don’t have much of a book against Nova. The Rangers have never seen Nova, while the Twins faced him for the grand total of one inning back in May. Working against these lineups for essentially the first time, Nova could have a decided advantage, especially for one or two turns through the batting order…

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Andy Pettitte pitched for the Trenton Thunder last night and the reports are good.

Here’s the TV theme song of the night. Remember this short-lived Dabney Coleman vehicle? Played a sports writer? Wish they had it on DVD, man.