George King on the improved fielding of Jesus Montero:

[David] Robertson’s eyes widened when asked about Montero, who went 0-for-3 and is 1-for-6 in two games.

“I first saw him when I signed here and it’s amazing how much better he has gotten,” Robertson said. “He sets up good, blocks balls in the dirt and stays down. He looks good.”

…“I like Montero, I think he is going to be a big-time player,” a scout said. “I know he is big (6-foot-4, 225 pounds), but he will be fine. All he has to do is just keep on catching.”

Memory Lane

A friend of mine from high school lived across the street from me. Once a month or so we’d end up on the same subway car and kill the 40 minutes between 207th st and 59th st rehashing old high school stories and exchanging latest news on our mutual friends. He was the point guard and captain of the basketball team and I inherited those titles after he graduated even though only he bore the burden of actually being good at basketball. So we always had topics to cover.

I have tons of chances to reminisce over college experiences. My wife was in my graduating class. But high school has slipped away almost completely. When my friend moved, I realized this was probably one of my last chances to hear these stories.

One day, we were chatting and the third person in our A Train three-seater perked up and said, “I went to that high school too.” She was a few years younger than us, but she knew some of the people we knew.

And then I didn’t know what to do. Was she now in on the conversation? We had over 100 blocks to go – and, after a few niceties I just kind of settled back into the previous exchange. Now I feel guilty, like I should have included her more. But those few years of space made her just about as alien as everyone else on the train.

[Photo Credit: Infectedwithrage]

Last night I got home around 2 AM and still had some work to get done; this ad came on at about 3:30. You will note that it’s for a personal injury law firm and that it features a crudely drawn rapping, dancing squirrel.

I don’t think they should be allowed to air something like this at that hour. If it wasn’t for YouTube, which confirmed for me that this is a thing that exists, I might have checked myself into Bellvue.

1-800-VICTIM2 YOU CALL!

Yanks and Phils are on YES again this afternoon.

How about the Meters to start the day? Feel the funk, baby.

[Picture by Bags]

Down in Florida, exhibition games are starting up, and our man Cliff will be on pernt as usual.

The Yanks will be televised on YES this afternoon. Enjoy.

Heads Up

Mildly disturbed or potentially dangerous? This is a calculation every subway rider has to make a few times a week – maybe more. Somebody is going to be preaching, that’s just competition for your headphones. Sometimes it’s Showtime, and you need to make sure you’re out of the dancer’s kick-zone. Somebody is going to begging for money, but those guys never threaten. It’s tricky when someone is muttering indecipherable but unmistakably belligerent things to themselves. I see this a lot.

The clear tipping point is physical proximity. When I see a person going out of their way to occupy other people’s personal space, that’s when I take notice. One time, I was taking the train at an odd time – one or two in the afternoon – and only a handful of people were in my car. Two kids hopped on the train, 15 or 16 years old, obviously geeked up on something. They’re banging on the doors, ceiling windows, making their presence known. I was riding the train with a work buddy and, over a pause in our conversation, we heard them mocking our glasses. Trying to be heard.

There are no stops between 125th and 59th. That’s a long time to contemplate a perceived threat. We pretended we didn’t hear them. They got louder. We kept up the shield of ignorance, but we couldn’t return to our conversation. We were on full alert.

They bounced off at 59th St and, just as I thought the ordeal was over, one of the kids threw a punch at me as he was walking off the train. His hand got stuck in the plexi-glass divider that separates the three-seaters from the doors and his extended fingers ended up about 2 inches from my nose. He pulled his hand out just in time to squeeze through the doors.

I felt really stupid and helpless. These kids were obviously dangerous. I was aware of them the moment they got on the train and was prepared, I thought, for anything. And still if it wasn’t for that divider, I would have gotten punched in the face.

[Photo Credit: John Conn]

New York City picture by our man Bags.

Thanks to Subway Art Blog, dig the work of Enrico Miguel Thomas–the subway artist of New York.

Found on the subway platform this morning…

Meanwhile, down in Tampa, the young guns are getting some burn: here’s John Harper on Manny Banuelos, and Jack Curry on Jesus Montero.  And for you old fogies, check out Harvey Araton’s column on Yogi and Gator.

We see homeless people so often that they don’t even register. But sometimes, especially during the winter months, the sadness, illness, and isolation is enough to break your heart.

Picture by Bags

Fresh direct from our man Mark Lamster’s Twitter feed this afternoon, a tourist shot of the Empire State Building from the 1940s:

It feels like spring today. Dig the moment, it’ll be brick again tomorrow.

[Picture by Bags]

I am always impressed when I see a blind person on the subway or walking down the street. Sometimes, I’ll close my eyes and pretend what it is like to be blind. But I don’t last long and it is just pretend. Still, I am filled with humility at that moment.

I don’t mean to suggest that blind people are saints. When I was in college there was an angry blind guy who walked around and always had a remark if someone accidentally bumped into him. “Oh, I’m sorry, that must be my fault, I guess I’m blind,” he’d say.

Navigating the streets and subways might become second nature for blind people, because getting around when you’re blind isn’t really a choice, it is a fact of life. This may seem daunting as hell for people who can see, but some blind people have never seen, it’s just the hand they were dealt.

I am still struck with admiration for them all the same.

What games do you play while riding the subway?

Here’s a few: What if the train stopped and this became like an episode of “Survivor”? Who would take charge? Who would be the Alphas, who would be the trouble makers, who would crack first?

Who would I bone, and in what order? There’s lots of variations of this game, of course, like “Which beautiful women are lousy in bed,” and “Which regular-looking girls are tigers?”

Who is carrying a concealed weapon?

I used to play, “Who could I beat up?” but I’ve given up on that one.

Another favorite is guessing what stop people will get off.

Check out this cool post from the always cool spot, Jeremiah’s Vanishing New York.

My old man believed in calling ’em like he saw them, especially when it came to compliments. If we were on a street corner with him, waiting for the light to change, and an attractive woman happened to be standing there, he’d think nothing of telling her, “My sons and I can’t help but notice what a beautiful woman you are and thought you might like to know as much.”

The woman would smile, sometimes unnerved, not knowing if it was a come on or what. Sometimes, if she was an assured New Yorker, she’d wink at my brother and me. It wasn’t a pick-up line, the Old Man just believed in expressing himself. Take it or leave it, honey. The man had charm to burn and no lack of chutzpah.

Via Subway Art Blog, check out this wonderfulness–an artist who makes collages and gifts them around town.

I don’t live in luxury.  I don’t reside in one of those pre-war Park Avenue buildings with those heavy glass and wrought-iron doors and the subdued dark wood paneling on the walls. Nor do I live in one of those gleaming apartment “towers” that dot the skyline.

I live in a simple, non-descript seven-story brick building erected in 1965 in Queens. But, our building (a co-op in which I am renting) does have one of those items seen in the “classier” buildings . . . a doorman.

Having lived in walk-up brownstones, residing in a doorman building is a treat. You have an added sense of safety when you arrive home. They hold packages for you, rather than you having to trudge to the post office or asking a neighbor to take in an expected parcel for you. They usually know what’s going on in the building before any of your neighbors.

Our building provides doorman coverage from 10AM-11:30PM weekdays, and 2-10PM on the weekends. Our doormen aren’t dressed in matching grey suits and hats like the ones you find “on the avenue”, but they’re always wearing nice shirts, ties and jackets.

I’ve only been in the building for a little over three years, but I understand that our weekday doorman has been in that position for many years. We haven’t been quite as fortunate in terms of night doormen.

The first one I met was a then-recent immigrant in his late 30s/early 40s, who was in the midst of studying for Medical School. He’d have one eye on the front door, and one on his books. It isn’t a bad gig for someone looking to have some quiet time while making a little dough. Sure enough, when he got his notice of acceptance into Med School, he gave up the doorman job.

His replacement was a nice-enough fellow, probably late-40s, wife, two small children. I came home one night to find him polishing the brass handrails. He held the bottle of polish up and asked me somewhat hesitantly “do you think this is safe to use on these rails?” I took a look at the bottle, and assured him it was OK. Another time, I came home at 11:30PM, to find his family waiting in the lobby for him to pack up and go home. Whatever his story was, it was short . . . he was gone within one month.

Next came Silvio, a Hispanic fellow in his early-to-mid 20s with a quiet demeanor and a well-kept ponytail and goatee. Silvio didn’t have any textbooks with him at the desk. Sometimes there would be a laptop, sometimes he’d be chatting on a celphone headset. I often wondered why someone his age would be subjecting himself to sitting behind a desk and collecting the recycling in an apartment building every weeknight. Was he saving his dollars for something? Was he between “real jobs”?

One night a few weeks ago, I came home to find that Silvio had ditched the ponytail. I thought, “hmmm . . . job interview coming up?”  Maybe I was right, as Silvio was gone a week later. His replacement hasn’t been hired yet, but I’m sure he’ll have his own story.