By the end of his two-inning stint in the Bronx, Scott Feldman must have felt like Marty Feldman in Young Frankenstein. The Texas Rangers’ ace received first-hand evidence of the Yankees’ ability to grind through opposition starting pitchers like no other ballclub. Feldman, a sinkerballing right-hander who usually has a knack for throwing strikes, needed 61 pitches to work through the first two innings of a matinee at Yankee Stadium. Feldman escaped the first inning unscathed, but allowed two runs in the second, as the Yankees launched a 7-3 win over the Rangers.

The Yankees did not exactly crush the ball during the rally–they mixed in two infield hits with a walk–but their ability to foul off pitches and prolong at-bats clearly frustrated Feldman. Feldman also hurt himself by failing to throw out Brett “The Jet” Gardner on a softly tapped grounder down the first base line. With two outs and the bases loaded, Nick “The Stick” Johnson waited out Feldman, drawing a walk on a 3-and-2 count to score the first run of the game. The slumping Mark Teixeira followed up by hitting a ground ball into the second base hole. Joaquin Arias made a diving stop on the outfield grass, but was unable to complete the play with a throw to first. Tex’s relatively soft infield single gave the Yankees an early 2-0 cushion.

The Yankees used another infield single to add to their lead in the third inning. After Curtis Granderson’s opposite-field double knocked Feldman from the game and pushed Jorge Posada to third, Gardner slapped a ball to the left side of the infield and easily beat Elvis Andrus’ throw to first base. (Fast as a flash bulb, Gardner would finish the game with three infield hits.) The Yankees then pulled a page out of the “Billy Ball” playbook by having Gardner attempt to steal second with the idea of drawing a throw from Rangers catcher Taylor Teagarden. Opting to throw through, Teagarden badly short-hopped Joaquin Arias, as Gardner stopped midway between the bases before continuing to second base. With the ball trickling into the outfield, Granderson scored easily from third, giving the Yankees a 4-0 lead.

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In a strange way, the defensive foibles of Jorge Posada have made me more bullish on Jesus Montero’s future as a catcher. At one time, I thought that Montero would serve strictly as a first baseman-DH, but now I believe that he may be able to catch–at least for the first three or four seasons of his major league career. Posada’s catching has degraded so badly over the last five years, but that hasn’t stopped the Yankees from winning a world championship along the way. As bad as Posada has become in blocking balls in the dirt, or even catching routine balls and strikes, could Montero be any worse?

I haven’t seen Montero catch at the minor league level, but most of the scouting reports indicate that he has improved from an initial grade of “poor” to merely “below average,” while developing better mechanics to augment a naturally strong throwing arm. That kind of assessment indicates to me that is actually a little bit better than Posada right now. Other than his knowledge of the Yankee pitching staff and American League hitters, Posada really has no defensive strengths. He doesn’t move well, doesn’t have soft hands, and doesn’t block the plate well (he has never done that well). Even his once powerful throwing arm has weakened considerably since shoulder surgery in 2008. If Montero can hit at least as well as Posada–and some assessments of him indicate that he is one of the top five hitting prospects in the game–then the Yankees could live with him as their No. 1 catcher for a few seasons. In the long term, the king-sized Montero may have to move somewhere else simply because he may outgrow the catching position, but that transition may be able to wait until he reaches his mid-twenties.

So what about the immediate future? The Yankees would like to keep Montero at Triple-A Scranton-Wilkes Barre for the entire season, and then bring him to the Bronx for a cameo in September. That schedule would put Montero on track to arrive in New York fulltime in 2011. I could see the Yankees using a three-headed catching monster next season–featuring Posada, Montero, and Francisco Cervelli–before turning over the No. 1 job to Montero in 2012. By that time, Posada’s four-year contract will have expired, making the timing ideal to start the clock on his five-year waiting period for Hall of Fame eligibility. The Yankees could then move prospect Austin Romine into Posada’s roster slot, giving the Bombers three talented and youthful catchers to take them through to the next decade…

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Admittedly, when your team finishes dead last and does so mostly with mediocre veterans and an insufficient amount of young talent, it’s difficult to find the silver lining. It’s sort of like the guy standing on the deck of Titanic shouting, “What a wonderful view we have of that shiny iceberg!” That’s the kind of blind optimism that all of us find annoying–if not downright nauseating.

If there was a bright spot to be found on the awful 1990 Yankees, it was Roberto Kelly. On a team bogged down with too many Bob Gerens and Oscar Azocars, Kelly was a legitimately talented prospect. He possessed four of the requisite five tools, lacking only in arm strength, which was merely average for a center fielder. Kelly also looked like a pure bred athlete. Long and lean, but well toned from top to bottom, Kelly played the game elegantly. Scouts looking for a recipe of future stardom did not need to look any farther than the graceful Kelly.

From day one, Kelly brandished a picturesque swing from the right side of the plate. I felt that if Kelly could improve his pitch-taking ability even slightly, he could become a consistent .310 to .320 hitter who could hit 25 home runs, steal 30 bases, and draw 50 to 60 walks a season. Well, it didn’t happen. In some ways, Kelly peaked during his 1989 season, when he batted .302 with 41 walks in his first full major league campaign. After that, his patience at the plate never improved, his batting average regressed substantially, and his strikeout totals mounted. Offensively, Kelly increased only his power, as he reached a high of 20 home runs in 1991. Even in the outfield, Kelly’s progress seemed to flatline. Although he covered a substantial amount of ground with his gliding gait, he sometimes made bad breaks on batted balls and too often looped his throws into no-man’s land. Instead of getting better, Kelly simply stagnated, and in some areas, retrenched into mediocrity. For a Yankee team desperately in search of building blocks, Roberto Kelly was becoming a frustrating liability.

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With that fully formed mustache, Tom Brookens looks like a throwback to one of those tough Irish players of the 19th century. He also looks as ready as any infielder could possibly be on his 1990 Upper Deck card. As it turned out, Brookens had to be readier than most. He didn’t have much natural talent; he lacked a smooth swing, possessed little power, and had only average speed. In the absence of superior skills, Brookens compensated with an extraordinary work ethic and a high level of intelligence. Those qualities allowed him to last 12 seasons in the big leagues, while preparing him well for a second life as a coach and manager.

Originally drafted and signed by the Tigers’ organization, Brookens made it to the major leagues shortly after the arrival of Sweet Lou Whitaker and Alan Trammell, two fellow infielders who had come up through the Bengal system. Prized as prospects, they had far more ability than Brookens, forming one of the game’s best double play combinations for about a decade and a half. So Brookens settled for a role as a combination of semi-regular third baseman and utility infielder. He would play most of his games at third, but also be available to relieve Whitaker or Trammell at either of the up-the-middle positions.

Young third basemen often challenged Brookens along the way. There was Barbaro Garbey, who was once called the “next Roberto Clemente” by manager Sparky Anderson. Other prospects, like Howard Johnson and Darnell Coles, also received shots at the hot corner. They all had more talent than the incumbent, but Brookens outlasted all of them in a Tigers uniform. Even by the late 1980s, Brookens remained the Tigers’ No. 1 third basemen on the depth chart.

As far as third basemen go, Brookens was considered a subpar player, because of his inability to hit for either high average or power. But as a utility infielder, Brookens was regarded as one of the most accomplished role players in the game. Never complaining about his irregular role, the surehanded Brookens became a reliable defender, usually hit about .250, smacked an occasional home run, stole the odd base here and there, and gave Anderson the kind of versatility that every manager craves. By the end of his career, Brookens had played at least one game at every position, with the exception of left field and pitcher. If given the chance, he probably could have filled those slots, too.

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I’m hardly an expert on the mechanics of a pitcher, but even I can tell that the finish of Lance McCullers’ delivery in this game against the Blue Jays looks rather painful. When your head is completely turned toward first base just as you’ve released the ball toward home plate, there is something desperately wrong.

As a young reliever with the Padres, McCullers had the kind of talent over which scouts salivate, a powerful right arm that could manhandle opposing hitters. Some folks called him “Baby Goose” because his style mirrored Hall of Fame teammate Rich “Goose” Gossage. I remember well when the Yankees acquired McCullers as part of a package that sent slugging Jack “The Ripper” Clark to the Padres. Reacting to the news with boyish fervor, I thought that the trade would help the Yankees on two fronts. With a 95 mile-an-hour fastball and a knee-bending slider, McCullers appeared to be the young relief ace who could effectively replace the erratic Dave Righetti. That, in turn, would have allowed the Yankees to put Righetti back in the starting rotation, thereby strengthening one of the weakest areas of the team.

Unfortunately, the Yankees didn’t receive my memo. They stubbornly resisted the temptation to change Righetti’s role, instead announcing that McCullers would become his primary setup man in the bullpen. McCullers then compounded the problem by flopping in his first season in pinstripes. After having pitched remarkably well for three seasons in middle relief, McCullers did not take well to a similar role in the Bronx. His ERA rose by more than two runs, from 2.49 to 4.57, despite a reduced workload in 1989. Often unhittable in the National League, McCullers found hitters in the junior circuit to be far less impressed with his arsenal of riding fastballs and diving sliders.

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Over at The Hardball Times, I feature a regular column detailing the history and origins of baseball nicknames. Since the Yankees have had their share of nicknames over their long history, it seems appropriate to highlight a few of the more memorable monikers in this space. So to start things off, and with apologies to the “Iron Horse,” the “Commerce Comet,” and “Mr. October,” here are five of my most favorite Yankee nicknames:

Phil Rizzuto: Whether it was as a ballplayer or as a broadcaster, who could not love a nickname like “The Scooter?” Rizzuto’s small physical stature, particularly his short legs, contributed to this label. While still in the minor leagues, veteran infielder Billy Hitchcock took note of Rizzuto’s fielding and running style and said to him, “Man, you’re not running, you’re scooting.” Hitchcock’s characterization caught on almost immediately, with teammates happily calling Rizzuto “Scooter.” For his part, Rizzuto loved the nickname. “It’s the best thing that ever happened to me,” Rizzuto once told Stephen Borelli of USA Today. “It could have been some other name they could have called me.” “Scooting” seemed to work for Rizzuto. He became one of the game’s best fielding shortstops of the 1940s and early fifties, eventually earning election to the Hall of Fame in 1994.

George Selkirk: The outfielder who had the misfortune of succeeding Babe Ruth in right field, Selkirk also had a distinctive way of running with his weight pressed onto the balls of his feet. Some of his teammates with the minor league Newark Bears of the International League noticed this tendency and dubbed him “Twinkletoes.” (And once you’ve got a nickname like that, you’re never getting rid of it.) The nickname followed him to the major leagues, where Selkirk established himself as a solid hitter for average who also drew plenty of walks. From 1936 to 1942, Twinkletoes played for six American League pennant winners and five world championship teams.

Walt Williams: Williams’ two Yankee seasons of 1974 and ‘75 coincided with the lost years at Shea Stadium, but “No Neck” made a stirring impression on those who followed the team during the lean years. The nickname perfectly described the head-and-shoulders region of Williams, a fireplug of an outfielder who also played for the White Sox and Indians. From a distance, Williams appeared to have no neck, his head seemingly sitting on his collarbone. The descriptive name was the brainchild of journeyman catcher John Bateman, one of Williams’ teammates during his first major league stop with the Houston Colt .45s. Along with a fitting nickname, No Neck Williams brought some color to his various major league stops He ate hamburgers voraciously, ala “Wimpy” in the old “Popeye” cartoons, and liked to cover his body in Vaseline both before and after games. Williams felt that it would be good for his skin, even if it did nothing to elongate his neck.

Jimmy Wynn: This underrated outfielder spent only part of one season in the Bronx, but his nickname, “The Toy Cannon,” is too good to pass up. At five feet, nine inches tall and 170 pounds, Wynn hardly struck the pose of a prototypical power hitter. Originally a prospect with the Astros, Wynn soon proved that appearances can be deceiving. Wynn hit with such remarkable power, even in a hitter’s bone yard like the old Astrodome, that a contingent of Astros fans began referring to him as “The Toy Cannon.” Whenever I hear the nickname, an image comes to mind of Wynn pulling a toy cannon by a string, as he slowly walks from the on-deck circle to the batter’s box. It’s a strange image to say the least, but it says something about the powerful connotations that come with such a visual nickname. The nickname was fully in place by the time that the Yankees signed the aging Wynn as a free agent in 1977. It’s just too bad that the Yankees hadn’t brought him to town sooner, when he was putting up big numbers and playing terrific defense for the Astros and the Dodgers.

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Back in the late 1980s when I worked in radio, my broadcast partner Danny Clinkscale was asked by a caller about the possibility of the Yankees acquiring a left-handed hitting catcher. Danny wasn’t optimistic. “Finding a left-handed hitting catcher is like finding the Rosetta Stone,” he said, using a rather creative analogy, while extinguishing the dream of the hopeful caller.

With those words firmly planted in my mind, I remember hearing the news that came in the middle of the 1990 season. The Yankees had acquired Matt Nokes, who only three years earlier had hit 32 home runs as a rookie catcher for the Tigers. In the midst of an otherwise disastrous season, I was ecstatic that the Yankees had acquired a left-handed hitting catcher of such prominence and relative youth.

Little did I know that the Matty Nokes of 1990 was not quite the same as the rookie phenom of 1987. American League pitchers began to realize that Nokes could kill low fastballs, but struggled against curveballs. On a broader level, just about everybody’s offensive numbers received a bump in 1987, not because of steroid use but because of something that appeared to be going on with the manufacturing of baseballs. Nokes would never hit 32 home runs again; in fact, he would never come close, achieving a high of 24 home runs for the Yankees in 1991. He also lacked patience at the plate, a heightened concern for a player who usually batted in the .250 to .260 range That’s not to say that Nokes was a bad offensive player. He hit with real power for the Yankees in 1990 and ‘91, putting together a series of multiple-home run games during the latter campaign. (For what it’s worth, Nokes could hit a low fastball like few hitters I’ve ever seen, sometimes falling to one knee to golf a pitch off his shoe tops.) He just wasn’t the second coming of Lance Parrish or Bill Freehan, as some Tiger fans had been led to believe during the summer of ‘87.

Even more significant problems with Nokes could be found on the other side of the ball. When it came to the defensive skills required of a catcher, Nokes came up short just about everywhere. He moved stiffly behind the plate, making him a liability on pitches in the dirt. He didn’t throw well, hampered by bad mechanics and lackluster arm strength. And just to complete the trifecta, he had little understanding of how to call a game. Yankee pitchers didn’t like to throw to Nokes any more than Tiger pitchers had during his first three major league seasons.

To their credit, the Yankees didn’t give up on Nokes. They hired former big league catcher Marc Hill as their bullpen coach, assigning him the responsibility of working with Nokes one-on-one. A onetime catcher with the Giants, Cardinals and White Sox, Hill had developed a reputation for two attributes: strong defensive fundamentals and a joy of eating. The second attribute didn’t figure to help Nokes much, but the first one fit Yankee needs to a tee.

Working with Nokes on a day-by-day basis, the oversized Hill, who was fondly nicknamed “Booter” by former teammate Willie McCovey, helped the novice catcher improve his mobility behind the plate, his throwing mechanics, and his pitch-calling acumen. Anyone who watched the Yankees faithfully that season–as I did that long, scorching summer–could see the improvement in Nokes by July and August. He had become a passable defensive catcher, which coupled with his offensive firepower, made him one of the few assets during an otherwise dismal season.

So how did the Yankees reward Hill after the season? They fired him, of course. Citing nebulous deficiencies in other areas of his coaching, the Yankees considered those issues more important than his success with his No. 1 reclamation project. Predictable results ensued. The following season, Nokes fell back into all of his bad defensive habits and resumed being a liability behind the plate. His offensive play also fell off, perhaps a by-product of his defensive woes.

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“Arthur George, you’re on the air.” I can’t tell you how many times I heard those words during the early 1980s. With that unusual greeting, Art Rust Jr., who died earlier this month from Parkinson’s disease at age 82, welcomed his callers to the WABC airwaves to take part in his iconic sports talk show. This was before the inception of all-sports radio, first introduced by WFAN in 1987 and now a common format to most major markets. Prior to WFAN, Rust’s nighttime show represented the sum of sports talk radio in the tri-state area; it became a must-listen for rabid sports fans.

With his deep, distinctive voice, acute knowledge of baseball history, and willingness to interview beat writers and columnists, Rust provided listeners like me with an opportunity to dissect the controversial issues of the day, while also learning about some of Rust’s favorite old-time ballplayers, like Marty Marion and Terry Moore. The show was especially good during the winter, with Rust tending to baseball’s hot stove like a master chef. Ironically, the show achieved a huge jump in popularity during the baseball strike of 1981; with no games to be watched or heard, thousands of sports fans tuned in to WABC to hear Rust pontificate about the latest issue of the day.

Unfortunately, the show began to lose credibility with me one winter, when Rust made a series of predictions about the Yankees’ off-season plans. He stated plainly that the Yankees would make several blockbuster moves, including a trade that would send Willie Randolph to the Cubs for Bill Buckner and another deal that would land Buddy Bell from Texas for some unknown package of talent. Rust said the trades were “done deals” that would happen, without question. Well, none of those trades ever took place. Rust never apologized for being wrong–he made a backhanded excuse about why they didn’t happen–and with that, I began to lose a little faith in his on-air proclamations.

Nonetheless, Rust supplied baseball fans with plenty of entertainment during the 1980s. With all-sports radio and the Internet unknown concepts yet to be introduced to the public, Art Rust, Jr. made many winter nights far more passable. For that, I owe Arthur George Rust, Jr. a debt of thanks…

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I find it nearly impossible to believe that 20 years have passed since the Yankees put arguably the worst team in franchise history on the playing field. Unfortunately, I remember that team all too well. The 1990 Yankees won a mere 67 games, finishing 21 games out of first place in the American League East. Not only did they end up dead last in the seven-team division, but they checked in last among all American League teams. And the Yankees deserved every bit of that futile finish. The Yankees’ offensive capacity, with a past-his-prime Jesse Barfield representing the most reliable power threat, was putrid—last in the league in runs scored. Their pitching, led by staff “ace” Tim Leary, his 4.14 ERA and 19 losses, proved almost as impoverished.

Injuries made a bad team more horrid. Free-swinging left-handed power hitters Mel Hall and Matt Nokes, who would have been complementary players on a good team, looked like baseball royalty on the 1990 Yankees, but each spent significant time on the disabled list. With Nokes hurt, the Yankees had to play Bob Geren, a career minor leaguer, the majority of the time behind the plate. Steve “Bye-Bye” Balboni, the regular DH, batted a cool .192. Two-thirds of the triumvirate of Luis Polonia, Eric Plunk, and Greg Cadaret—extracted from the A’s as part of the previous summer’s Rickey Henderson deal—failed to deliver as hoped. Polonia was traded after only 11 games, sent to the Angels for Claudell Washington, 35 years old and over the hill. Only Plunk performed capably, but even that came in the role of middle relief, often a moot point because of the Yankees’ poor starting pitching.

Amidst the wreckage of a lost summer, Yankee fans found some hope in the middle of the season. It arrived in late June with the call-up of Kevin Maas, a young left-handed slugger that few fans had known much about at the start of the season. Almost from the start, Maas showed himself to be a cut above pseudo-prospects like Jim “The King” Leyritz and Oscar Azocar, who were falsely hyped as part of the Yankees’ new wave youth movement. (Leyritz became a good bench player, but hardly a building block for a team in need of mass renovation.) Although Maas had little defensive value as a lumbering first baseman-outfielder, it was plainly evident that he could hit. Unlike Leyritz and Azocar, Maas possessed a keen and discernible eye at the plate; he rarely ventured out of the strike zone to swing at stray pitches. He also possessed a picturesque swing, which seemed to be cut out of the pages of a hitter’s manual. With a little bit of an uppercut and a tendency to pull pitches to right, Maas looked like he was sent directly from heaven to Yankee Stadium.

Maas also looked chiseled in appearance, with his lantern jaw and muscular but lean physique. Maas became all the rage at Yankee Stadium, prompting some women fans to remove their “Maas tops” and wave them after he hit another home run into the right field stands. (The ladies were eventually barred from entering the Stadium.) Statistically, Maas’ numbers supported the superficialities of his appearance and swing. In 254 at-bats with the Yankees, Maas hit 21 home runs, slugged .535, and reached base 36 per cent of the time. Only his batting average of .252 carried any kind of blemish, but that became far more tolerable in light of his wholly impressive slugging and on-base numbers.

Given his second-half rookie performance, I felt the Yankees had found a keeper in Maas. It looked like he would perennially top 30 home runs and 80 walks in a season, making him a legitimate left-handed slugger, a younger model of Ken Phelps. Perhaps he wouldn’t be good enough to bat cleanup, but his hitting talents had him pegged to bat fifth or sixth, at the least, with ample production to justify such an important place in the lineup.

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I was one of the morons who thought the Ken Phelps deal was a good idea.

That’s because I loved Ken Phelps. Having read Bill James’ annual Baseball Abstracts religiously in the late 1980s, I had become a devotee of “Digger” and his game. As a left-handed hitter with power who drew buckets of walks, Phelps looked like a perfect addition to the Yankees, vintage 1988. He could DH against right-handers, allowing the Yankees to alternate days off for aging right-handed hitters like Jack Clark (32) and Dave Winfield (36).

To make the trade even more appetizing, I had my doubts about outfield prospect Jay Buhner, the primary ingredient the Yankees sent to the Mariners for Phelps. “Bone” had several holes in his exaggerated uppercut swing, struck out at an alarming rate, and appeared ill-suited for Death Valley at Yankee Stadium, a frustrating venue for young, right-handed power hitters. So on all fronts, trading Buhner for Phelps made me a happy Yankee fan. But something less than a great evaluator of talent.

Well, the plan didn’t turn out so well. Yankee manager Lou Piniella couldn’t figure out how to get Phelps into the lineup more regularly, limiting him to 45 games and 127 plate appearances over the second half. (Maybe Billy Martin or the late Dick Howser would have been a bit more creative.) Phelps hit pretty well in those games, pounding out ten home runs to the tune of a .551 slugging percentage, better than any Yankee regular. Still, it was too little, too late for a Yankee team that finished third in the American League East.

The following year, Phelps’ performance flatlined; he suddenly became an old 34, struggling to catch up to above-average fastballs. He also struggled with the dimensions of the old Stadium. With his power gravitating toward left-center and right-center field, Phelps didn’t have the kind of pull swing to take advantage of the Stadium’s short porch. By the end of August, the Yankees traded Phelps to the A’s for a minor league prospect named Scott Holcomb, who would never play a single game in pinstripes (or any other team for that matter).

In the meantime, Buhner developed into a near-star in Seattle, becoming a productive power hitter with a cannon arm that played well in the old Kingdome. He would remain an effective right fielder through the 2000 season, before injuries finally caught up with him in 2001, forcing his retirement. If the Yankees had kept Buhner, they never would have felt the urge to trade for a past-his-prime Jesse Barfield, who came at the high cost of a young left-hander named Al Leiter

I feel bad that Yankee fans never really saw the real Ken Phelps. As a Mariner from 1984 to 1988, Phelps slugged at least .521 or better each year, with the exception of an injury-riddled 1985 season. He didn’t strike out as often as most power hitters, and for one three-year stretch, drew more walks than K’s—the sure sign of a smart hitter. As an added bonus, he was an old-schooler who wore the uniform the right way, with his socks up high, the way that ballplayers used to do in the fifties and sixties. Throw in the Popeye forearms and the lampblack under the eyes, and you had the look of an old-time ballplayer.

Although Phelps did little of prolonged consequence with the Yankees, he is far from forgotten. Every once in awhile, I’ll receive a little reminder while watching a rerun of Seinfeld, the character of Frank Costanza will yell at George Steinbrenner (voiced by Larry David), questioning how he could have made the Phelps-for-Buhner exchange. Frantically and in rapid-fire delivery, the Boss will respond, “Well, Buhner was a good prospect, no question about it. But my baseball people loved Ken Phelps’ bat. They kept saying Ken Phelps, Ken Phelps!”

I guess I was thinking along the same lines as those “baseball people.”

Topps issued this card, its final regular card for Mickey Mantle, during the spring of 1969. The listed position of “first base” doesn’t seem quite right for an all-time great outfielder, but “The Mick” looks good here, still handsome and his weight under control. Yet, he didn’t play that season. After reporting to spring training, Mantle decided that his aching knees, along with the rest of his diminishing skills, simply mandated that he call it quits. I wish that Mantle had played a little bit longer, if only to allow me to have remembered seeing him play.

Even thought I have no first-hand recollections of Mantle, that doesn’t mean that I never saw him take the field. Quite the contrary. My family occasionally delights in telling me how I used to walk up to our black-and-white television set as a small child, and then begin jumping and screaming when I saw Mantle step up to the plate. This would have been in 1967 or ’68, when I was either two or three years old. So you can see how I wouldn’t remember these episodes. But my family assures me that they actually did happen.

What can a three-year-old know about baseball? I suppose I could have recognized a home run when it was hit, but my knowledge of secondary leads, the roles of middle relievers, and the intricacies of the infield fly rule must have fallen a bit short of diehard standards. I’m not even sure how I knew Mantle was the man on those Yankees. After all, he was at the end of his career, struggling to play a new position at first base, and merely a shell of the five-tool ballplayer who had helped center field become the position of glamour in New York City during the 1950s. Perhaps my father clued me into Mantle’s importance. I can just hear him whispering to me, “One day, this guy will be in the Hall of Fame.”

In spite of my early obsession with Mr. Mantle, I somehow lost touch with his legacy. During the 1970s, I had little interest in Yankee history; I was far more concerned with Bobby Murcer (and then Bobby Bonds), along with Thurman Munson and Mel Stottlemyre, followed by the wave of winning that came to town in the form of Jim “Catfish” Hunter, Ron Guidry, and Reggie Jackson. By then, the Yankees of the 1960s had become forgotten. I had no memories of those teams; if anything, I was tired of hearing that the Yankees’ last period of glory had come to an end in 1964.

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I find it hard to believe that the Yankees are seriously shopping Nick Swisher, as indicated by a published report this week. Swisher is currently the only outfielder with any kind of power on the 40-man roster—a fact that isn’t likely to change until the free agent situations of Johnny Damon and Hideki Matsui (if we can even consider him an outfielder anymore) are resolved. With the Yankees showing little interest in either Jason Bay or Matt Holliday, the prospects of a Melky Cabrera-Brett Gardner-Austin Jackson outfield would do little to ease the minds of nerve-wracked Yankee fans.

It’s easy to dismiss Swisher because of his poor postseason, which resulted in his benching in Game Two of the World Series, but that would be a short-sighted approach. This is the same Swisher who hit 29 home runs during the regular season, compiled a near .500 slugging percentage, played a far better right field than predecessor Bobby Abreu, and brought some much needed life and verve to a staid and stagnant clubhouse. Furthermore, Swisher seems to be genuinely liked by his Yankee teammates, in contrast to his days in Chicago, where some of the veteran White Sox resented his non-stop talking.

Then there are the matters of Swisher’s relative youth and his contract status. About to turn 29, Swisher is one of just four Yankee regulars who are under 30 (along with Mark Teixeira, Robinson Cano, and Melky Cabrera). Sure, I wish Swisher would have hit more in the postseason, but a 15-game slump should not completely override a productive regular season. I, for one, hope Swisher returns to the Yankee stable in 2010…

A potential trade between the Yankees and Tigers, centered on Curtis Granderson, has me torn. On the one hand, I love Granderson’s combination of power and speed, along with the vast range that he carries in center field. My sources with the Oneonta Tigers also rave about him from his days there; he’s highly intelligent and brings a good attitude to the ballpark. On the other hand, Granderson is older than I initially thought, with his 29th birthday arriving before Opening Day 2010. His on-base percentage also fell off badly this year, dropping from .365 to .327. Even at his best, Granderson is not particularly well-suited for the leadoff role the Tigers have given him; he’d be an ideal No. 6 hitter for a team like the Yankees.

Then there’s the matter of what the Tigers would want in return for Granderson. As much as they want to shed his long-term salary, they’d be crazy to just give him away for a package of Shelley Duncan and Ramiro Pena. The Tigers are probably going to want at least one player (and possibly two) from a group that includes Austin “Ajax” Jackson, Joba Chamberlain, Phil Hughes, and Zach McAllister. That may be too much for the Yankees to swallow. And if the Tigers insist on Jesus Montero, that demand should be a dealbreaker from the New York standpoint…

His passing didn’t create many headlines, but it did strike a chord with this writer. Former Yankee reliever Ron Klimkowski died last Friday at the age of 65, succumbing to heart failure. Initially signed by the Red Sox’ organization, Klimkowski came to the Yankees as one of the players to be named later in the Elston Howard deal. He pitched very well as a middle reliever in 1969 and ‘70, but was then traded to the A’s as part of the deal that brought Felipe Alou to New York. Klimkowski remained in Oakland until May of 1972, when the A’s released him; the Yankees signed him later that day. The timing wasn’t particularly good for Klimkowski, who missed out on Oakland’s world championship and then suffered a knee injury, which essentially ended his career.

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I was reluctant to write about this subject matter during the World Series because I didn’t want to be seen as providing aid and comfort to the enemy, but now that the Yankees’ championship run is complete, the timing is right. Whenever Jayson Werth stepped to the plate for the Phillies, I not only feared that he might torch a Yankee pitcher for a home run, but I also thought regularly of former Yankee Dennis Werth.

Dennis Werth is now best known as the stepfather of Jayson Werth. He married Jayson’s birth mother in the 1980s, not too long after completing his own major league career, brief as it might have been, with the Yankees. The older Werth is hardly a household name in baseball circles, but at one time he appeared in line to have a productive career as a “superutility” man of sorts, a player capable of playing first base, catching, or playing third base.

As a 19th round draft choice by the Yankees in 1974, Werth faced a long climb in trying to convince the organization of his value as a prospect. He started out his pro career with a bang in nearby Oneonta—located just 22 miles from here in our Cooperstown headquarters—by hitting .336 in 64 games. He then methodically worked his way up the Yankee farm system, putting in time at just about every minor league affiliate: Ft. Lauderdale, West Haven, Syracuse, and Tacoma.

Werth lacked athleticism—he had only nominal power and no footspeed—but he hit the ball hard at practically every level. He posted batting averages of better than .300 in three of his six minor league seasons. He also showed patience and an understanding of the strike zone, once drawing 88 walks in a minor league season. In addition to producing good numbers throughout the Yankee farm system, Werth impressed scouts and talent evaluators with his intangibles. Limited in physical talents, Werth maximized his potential through hard work, hustle, and determination.

Though the Yankees drafted Werth out of college as a combination first baseman/third baseman/catcher, they made him a fulltime first baseman early in his pro career. He justified that decision by becoming a deft fielder, complete with good hands and range around the bag. As former Yankee outfielder “Uptown” Bobby Brown once said, Werth “picked it at first as good as anybody in the league. All he needs is a chance.”

Yet, Werth realized that he could improve that chance by reverting to the versatile ways of his high school and college career. In a striking contrast to today’s major leaguers, who generally treat position changes as if they were being asked to give blood, Werth approached the Yankees about re-learning the catching position. By once again wearing the tools of ignorance, Werth figured he would stand a stronger chance of making the big league roster as a backup catcher, first baseman and emergency third baseman.

Werth figured right. In 1979, he finally cracked Billy Martin’s roster. The promotion came five and a half years after being drafted on the 19th round. Whereas some players might have packed it in, or started making plans to play in the Japanese Leagues, Werth watched his perseverance pay off richly.

After making his move to the Bronx, Werth quickly became one of my favorite Yankees. While some of my Yankees were stars, like Thurman Munson and Bobby Murcer, I’ve always taken a liking to the platoon players and the utility men, the foot soldiers of major league teams. I liked the fact that Werth could catch, a position that had just been left vacant by the tragic death of Munson, while also filling in at first base, and even giving Graig Nettles a day off at third against a tough left-hander. The Yankees needed right-handed bats at the time, making Werth even more desirable as part of Billy Martin’s bench brigade.

How much did I like Werth? In the early 1980s, I came up with the idea to create my own baseball cards, made out of cardboard and black-and-white photographs from the New York City newspapers. One of the first cards I made was one for Werth; it was fashioned from a small portrait photo that had appeared in the New York Post. I wish I still had those make-shift cards. They weren’t worth much, but I took pride in them, especially the card of Dennis Werth.

Perhaps I lost those cards because Werth really never made it with the Yankees. Playing in parts of three seasons in the Bronx, Werth failed to become the standout bench player that I had once envisioned. Except for the 1980 season, he never hit much as a Yankee, though in fairness, his managers never gave him more than 65 at-bats in a single season. If only one of them—Martin, Dick Howser, Gene Michael, or Bob Lemon—had given Werth a larger role.

But let’s not fret over Werth’s lack of development as a Yankee. He has shown talents in other areas, becoming a successful sales representative for an orthopedic company. He also developed an intriguing knack for making decorative lamps out of baseball bats. His former owner with the Syracuse Chiefs, the colorful Tex Simone, still has one of Werth’s homemade lamps. Another one of those lamps actually made it on to the set of Seinfeld; it can be spotted in scenes that depict George Costanza’s fictional office at Yankee Stadium.

By all accounts, Werth has also become a good father to Jayson. This is not the stereotypical story of the malicious stepfather, as once portrayed so devilishly by Terry O’Quinn in the late 1980s. Quite to the contrary, the younger Werth often credits Dennis for aiding his progression as a young ballplayer. In a baseball family that includes Jayson’s grandfather, former shortstop Dick “Ducky” Schofield, Dennis has fit in quite nicely.

And that brings us to our final point. Dennis Werth might not have had much of an impact as a Yankee in the late seventies and early 1980s. Perhaps Jayson Werth can make up for that in the future; after all, he’ll be a free agent one year from now.

Bruce Markusen, still celebrating the Yankees’ 2009 world championship, lives in Cooperstown with his wife Sue and daughter Maddie.

I keep reading these missives from the mainstream media that breathlessly wonder how the Yankees are going to deal with the Angels’ attack-dog offense, their aggressive baserunning, and their deep starting pitching. Well, here’s what I want to know. How are the Angels going to deal with the Yankees, who scored more runs than any major league team in the regular season, have the best starting pitcher of the two teams in the ALCS, and feature a far deeper and more dynamic bullpen? How are the Angels going to deal with a balanced lineup filled with hitters who know how to control the strike zone, most notably Derek Jeter, Mark Teixeira, and Alex Rodriguez? And just how will an undermanned Angels bullpen handle a lineup that features four switch-hitters in Mark Teixeira, Jorge Posada, Nick Swisher and Melky Cabrera, making favorable late-inning matchups a difficult proposition?

Perhaps it’s just the usual glass-half-empty approach from an overly paranoid New York press crew, but all of the expressed concerns about the Angels have me wondering how the Yankees could possibly be favored by the oddsmakers. It seems to me that all of the fawning analysis about the Angels ignores two basic facts: 1) the Yankees, and not the Angels, led the major leagues with 103 wins and 2) the Yankees won three of the final four head-to-head matchups against their longtime nemeses. Maybe it’s just me, but an objective analysis of the teams and their accomplishments has me thinking optimistically about the Yankees’ chances. For what it’s worth, I’ll take the Yankees in six.

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The Yankees’ three-game sweep of the Division Series has me feeling so good that I’d thought I’d profile one of my favorite ex-Yankees and one of my most cherished cards in this week’s feature.

As you can see, the player featured on this 1973 Topps card has almost no neck. That’s not an example of skillful Topps airbrushing at work; he simply doesn’t have much of a neck—at all. Hence the nickname Walt “No Neck” Williams, a journeyman outfielder who would make a brief pitstop in New York. While there’s little neck, there’s plenty of sideburn, a staple of players in the early 1970s.

Then there’s the uniform worn by Williams, who was traded from the White Sox to the Indians during the winter of 1972. Williams is actually wearing the colors of the White Sox—in fact, you can see the “S” from “SOX” along his chest—but the Sox cap logo has been whitewashed and replaced with the Indians’ “C,” thereby creating the illusion that he is donning the uniform of his new team. (It helps that Chicago and Cleveland both used red as a primary color in their uniforms back then.)

Finally, you might notice that the Sox’ uniform doesn’t have any buttons on the front, nor is it one of those pullover polyester monstrosities that became all the rage in the early 1970s. Instead, the jersey features a zipper running from the base of the shirt all the way to the neck. The White Sox, in a highly questionable maneuver, brought back the zippered look that a few major league teams had tried unsuccessfully during the 1940s. The zipper failed because players sometimes found the top of the zipper embedded into the skin of their neck after a headfirst slide. Just consider the torn flesh and the blood that resulted from such accidents. Then again, maybe the Sox figured that wouldn’t be a problem for Williams because, once again, he doesn’t really have much of a neck.

Williams earned his memorable nickname during his first major league stint. Signed by the Houston Colt .45s in the early 1960s, Williams made his debut with the Colts in 1964. It didn’t take long for his teammates to take note of his unusual physique. At five-feet, six-inches, Williams had unusually short stature for an outfielder. Built like a fireplug—he made Kirby Puckett look lean and angular by comparison—Williams was extraordinarily well developed in the chest, with muscles in his upper torso seemingly obscuring the length of his neck. Colt .45s catcher John Bateman, after observing his teammate for only a short time, dubbed him “No Neck.”

After Williams appeared in only ten games for Houston, the Colts tried to sneak him through waivers. The effort failed. The Cardinals snapped him up, but immediately demoted him to the minors. Williams would never appear in a game for St. Louis. After the 1966 season, the Cards sent him packing to the White Sox as part of a deal for veteran catcher Johnny Romano. It was with the White Sox that No Neck would find his niche.

Displaying outfield skills that belied his blocky, bulky appearance, Williams overcame a weak arm and became an adept fielder, best suited for the corners but also capable of filling in occasionally in center field. Thought not a particularly strong or powerful hitter, the free-swinging Williams rarely struck out (and rarely walked) and used his contact-hitting skills to bat .304 in 1969, putting him in the top ten in the American League batting race.

Almost as importantly, Williams became a cult figure and fan favorite at Comiskey Park. Always smiling and seemingly thrilled to be playing games at the major league level, Williams drew the favor of both the White Sox’ faithful and his teammates. They loved his upbeat attitude and his willingness to hustle. Not surprisingly, more than a few Sox diehards reacted with anger on October 19, 1972, when the White Sox traded No Neck to the Indians for infielder Eddie Leon (another future Yankee). Williams’ sporadic hitting had rendered him expendable, and the Sox needed help at shortstop, but those realities did little to comfort enraged members of the Williams fan club.

Williams batted .289 in his one year with the Tribe, but the Indians couldn’t pass up the opportunity to use him as part of the bait in a three-team spring training trade that brought veteran right-hander Jim Perry to Cleveland. The trade united Perry with his brother Gaylord, while finally fitting No Neck for the pinstripes of the Yankees.

During his two-year sojourn in New York, which coincided with the Yankees’ brief tenure at Shea Stadium. Williams made some light-hearted news with his Ruthian appetite. Williams, first baseman-DH Ron Blomberg, and shortstop Gene Michael often made trips to the local branch of Burger King, downing multiple hamburgers at the 1970s price tag of 39 cents a burger. Somehow the burgers didn’t add too much fat to Williams’ stocky 185-pound frame.

No-Neck spent two mostly non-descript seasons with the Yankees, filling in as a backup outfielder and pinch-hitter, and making cameo appearances at second base, a position that he had never before played in the major leagues. He did hit fairly well in a bench role in 1975, but the Yankees released him during the spring of 1976. The release essentially ended his big league career, while denying him an opportunity at postseason play, as the Yankees went on to win the Eastern Division and the American League pennant.

So there were no playoffs or World Series for Walt Williams. He just had to settle for ten happy-go-lucky big league seasons filled with smiles, zippers, and hamburgers. And he’ll always be remembered for being No Neck. In a game where so many are forgotten so quickly, that’s not a bad legacy to have.

Bruce Markusen writes “Cooperstown Confidential” for The Hardball Times.

Will the Yankees experience another “golden moment” like the one depicted here? We all hope so, but the bar has been set extremely high. If you want to warm the soul of a Yankee fan over the age of 35, just mention the tiebreaking “play-off” game of 1978. Although it wasn’t technically a postseason game—all tiebreakers are considered extensions of the regular season—it had all the feel of an October playoff game, perhaps even a World Series game, with the highest imaginable stakes on the table. Win the game, and you earn the Amercan League East crown, along with a ticket to the League Championship Series against the Kansas City Royals. Lose the game, and you get—nothing. No division title, no consolation prize, not even a runner-up trophy. Nothing.

With the Yankees and Red Sox deadlocked at 99 wins and 63 losses through 162 games, the rules mandated a one-game tiebreaker between the two rivals. Since the Red Sox had won an earlier coin flip determining home field advantage, they enjoyed the luxury of playing the game at a place most unfriendly to the Yankees, Fenway Park. In a coincidental twist, Red Sox manager Don Zimmer selected Mike Torrez, a former Yankee, to start the game. Just 12 months earlier, Torrez had won the clinching game of the 1977 World Series for the Yankees against the Los Angeles Dodgers. Now Zimmer was asking Torrez, a 16-game winner, to reverse the situation on the Yankees and place them on the losing end of a clinching October celebration.

Yankee manager Bob Lemon had an easier decision to make in selecting his starting pitcher for the tiebreaker. Even though he would be pitching on only three days rest, the choice of starters was obvious. Lemon handed the ball to rail-thin left-hander Ron Guidry, who had been unhittable for much of the summer on the way to winning an astonishing 24 of 27 decisions and clamping American League opponents to an ERA of under 1.8 runs per nine innings.

Thanks to a lineup loaded with right-handed power hitters like Jim Rice, Carlton “Pudge” Fisk, Butch Hobson, and George “Boomer” Scott, the Red Sox posed a formidable match for the letter-high fastballs and tilting sliders thrown by the Yankees’ southpaw. Yet, it was Boston’s premier left-handed hitter, the venerable Carl Yastrzemski, who started the scoring by driving one of Guidry’s pitches down the right-field line. The ball, though not hit particularly far, was well directed, staying just to the left of the famed “Pesky Pole.” Yaz’ drive landed in the right-field stands, giving the Red Sox an early 1-0 lead.

In the meantime, the Yankees did little against Torrez, who kept New York scoreless over the first six innings. The Sox then added to their lead in the bottom of the sixth inning. Leading off the inning, Red Sox shortstop Rick Burleson pounded out a double and moved up to third on Jerry Remy’s sacrifice bunt. Rice—who would win the American League’s MVP Award over Guidry in a controversial decision—followed with a line-drive single to center field. Rice’s 139th RBI of the season gave the Sox a tidy 2-0 lead, with only three innings remaining.

In opening the top of the seventh, Torrez showed no signs of tiring. He retired Graig Nettles, putting the Red Sox within eight outs of the AL East title. Then, without warning, Torrez weakened. He allowed back-to-back singles to Chris Chambliss and Roy White. Presented with the Yankees’ first real scoring opportunity of the afternoon, Lemon made his first move. He sent up Jim Spencer, always a tough out against right-handed pitching, as a pinch hitter for Brian Doyle, a light-hitting second baseman who was playing only because of a season-ending injury to Willie Randolph. Rather than opt for a left-hander (such as Tom Burgmeier or Andy Hassler) from his bullpen, Zimmer stayed with Torrez. The veteran right-hander fulfilled his manager’s confidence, retiring Spencer on a harmless fly ball. Now, with two on and two out, No. 9 hitter Bucky Dent stepped to the plate.

A few Yankee fans must have shouted profanities at their radios and televisions, wondering aloud why Lemon didn’t send up a pinch-hitter for Dent, by far the Yankees’ weakest hitting regular player. The 1978 Yankees had a very good bench, loaded with capable veteran bats like the free-spirited Jay Johnstone, the underrated Gary Thomasson, and the intimidating Cliff Johnson.

But there were two problems. First, the rules of the day mandated the Yankees and Red Sox play the tiebreaker with 25-man rosters, not the expanded rosters allowed in September. Second, while the Yankees had depth in the outfield and at catcher, they had little in terms of the middle infield. With Randolph hurt and Doyle already removed for a pinch-hitter, Lemon would have to bring in Fred “Chicken” Stanley to play second base. If he now pinch-hit for Dent, he would have no one available to play shortstop. (Perhaps Lemon could have done something radical and played his gifted backup outfielder Paul Blair at second base, but that would have been a gamble of radical proportions.) So Dent, the starting shortstop, would have to hit for himself.

Torrez delivered his second pitch, which Dent fouled off his left foot. Dent hopped several times near home plate, stung by the force of the foul tip. He hobbled back to the on-deck circle, where Mickey Rivers offered to loan him his bat. Taking his teammate up on the offer, Dent returned to continue his at-bat against Torrez.

On the next pitch, Dent lifted a high fly ball toward left field. The ball had only moderate depth, making it nothing more than a routine fly ball in most major league ballparks. But this was Fenway Park. The ball had plenty of depth to reach the park’s famed left-field wall. There was just one question: did the ball have enough height to clear the wall, or would it hit the top of the wall and remain in the field of play?

Yankee fans watching the game on television struggled to see the ball against the October background of late afternoon sun and shadows. “Deep to left,” cried Bill White, announcing the game on WPIX-TV in New York. “Yastrzemski will not get it… it’s a home run!! A three-run home run by Bucky Dent…” White’s words provided Yankee fans with confirmation of something they could not believe they had seen—a home run by the Yankees’ weakest hitter, a man who had managed all of four home runs during the first 162 games.

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In what is likely a sign of the times, Joe Girardi has become a lightning rod for debate in these parts. Even in the midst of a 100-plus win season and a guarantee of the best regular season record in baseball, Girardi still has his share of critics. They say he bunts too much, brings too much tension to the dugout, doesn’t tell the truth about injuries, mishandles the bullpen, etc, etc, etc.

Such is life in the age of the Internet and talk radio. Every manager, no matter how successful, is severely criticized by a percentage of his team’s fan base. Every manager fails at handling the bullpen, an inevitable gripe when a manager has six or seven fulltime relievers. If you listen to the criticism long enough, you’ll soon believe that every manager is the reincarnation of the village idiot.

So what is the reality? In the case of Girardi, his biggest weakness is probably an over reliance on the sacrifice bunt. If that’s his Achilles heel as a manager, then he grades out pretty well. Girardi has done a very good job in 2009, as indicated by the team’s total of 102 wins, with the potential of three more wins this weekend. When I looked at this Yankee team in the spring, I tried to assess the club objectively. Weighing the strengths of a tough schedule and a difficult division, along with the absence of the team’s best player for six weeks, I considered the Yankees a 95-win team. So at this point, Girardi has guided the Yankees to at least seven more wins than I originally projected. In my mind, that is significant overachievement, which is worthy of praise, not derision.

Girardi has succeeded in relaxing the atmosphere in 2009, compared to the general tension he created last year. He doesn’t make major mistakes with his lineup, uses his improved bench sufficiently, and distributes the workload in the bullpen evenly. In terms of preparation and reviewing scouting reports, I don’t know of a manager who puts in more hours or works any harder. Girardi’s high level work ethic is unquestionable.

If you don’t believe me, consider some of the other precincts registering votes. After the Yankees clinched the AL East on Sunday, reporters asked Alex Rodriguez who should be considered the team’s MVP. Rodriguez listed the accomplishments of several teammates, but then ultimately answered “Girardi.” And when the results of the AL Manager of the Year award are announced, do not be surprised if Girardi receives a few votes and finishes third, behind only Ron Washington and Mike Scioscia. Joe Girardi, with his smarts, toughness, and willingness to work, is a keeper.

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Derek Jeter has made news on three different fronts in 2009. First, his defensive range and overall fielding have improved significantly, a direct result of improved conditioning and agility drills. Second, he successfully pursued and then overtook the iconic Lou Gehrig for the franchise’s all-time lead in hits. And third, Jeter’s revitalized hitting has made him an outside candidate for American League MVP honors, a resurgence that figures to place him in the top ten of league balloting for the prestigious award.

Jeter deserves to make a few headlines in a fourth respect, as well. Very quietly, he has been named the Yankees’ nominee for another prestigious award—the Roberto Clemente Award. Named for the baseball hero who did so much work for underprivileged youth and lost his life attempting to airlift relief supplies to earthquake-ravaged Nicaragua, it is one of the few awards that make an effort at judging and measuring a player’s level of character. Given Jeter’s popularity in the clubhouse, his leadership as Yankee captain, his involvement in charitable works, and his generally exemplary off-the-field behavior, it should come as no surprise that Jeter has made the final cut of 30 candidates for the Clemente Award.

With Jeter and Clemente sharing so many common character attributes—loyalty, leadership, and reliability come to mind—it seems appropriate to put the spotlight on Clemente’s final Topps card, which came out over 35 years ago. It is a card that always stirs sadness, fond reflection, and moral debate in this writer’s mind.

At the time that Clemente died so horrifically and unexpectedly in a New Year’s Eve plane crash in 1972, the Topps Company had already produced his baseball card for the 1973 season. The tragically untimely passing of one of the game’s superstars placed Topps in an especially difficult quandary: should the company continue its original plan and issue a card for a venerable player who was deceased, or should it pull the card from distribution out of respect for the loss of a revered legend?

After some internal debate and discussion, Topps opted to publish the card, which had been assigned No. 50 in the series. Topps certainly had precedence on its side, having issued a 1964 “In Memoriam” card for Ken Hubbs after the young Chicago Cubs second baseman who died while piloting his own plane. On a subjective note, I have to say that I heartily endorsed the decision. As one of the few Topps card that depicts Clemente in action, it’s an inherently aesthetic card. Clemente’s beloved status also mandated the publication of the card. As a player so revered, his fans deserved to have one last memento of Clemente. On all fronts, this seemed like the right decision by the folks at Topps.

Rookie cards usually carry the highest value on the open market, but for me, the final regular issue card carries far more sentimental appeal. That is especially the case with Clemente. Rather than fade into obscurity, the final card of Clemente has become the most attractive of all the Clemente cards that Topps had ever produced. The card displays the typically dignified grace of Clemente as he stands rather regally in the right-handed batter’s box. Ever determined, he eyes an unknown New York Mets pitcher in anticipation of swinging at the next pitch. The card also features Mets catcher Jerry Grote (wearing No. 15), who was regarded as one of the game’s finest defensive catchers in the early 1970s.

Amidst all of its classic elements, a common misconception about the card persists. Some fans assume that it shows Clemente during his historic at-bat on September 30, 1972, when he collected his 3,000th and final major league hit against the Mets’ Jon Matlack. Although the Mets did indeed provide the opposition that day, that game was played at Pittsburgh’s Three Rivers Stadium; the background on the front of the card and the home pinstriped Mets uniform worn by Grote indicate that the Mets’ spring training site likely provided the setting for the card’s photograph.

This card will always serve as a reminder to me of what Clemente looked like on the playing field. That reminder is important because I only saw Clemente for a couple of years at the end of his career, a by-product of my extreme youthfulness at the time. But now I am reminded of Clemente a little more whenever I watch Derek Jeter take the field.

Bruce Markusen has written two books centered on the life and times of Roberto Clemente.

A few days ago, the New York Times ran an article that claimed the Yankees bypassed several golden opportunities to sign a young Willie Mays in the months before he officially became a member of the New York Giants’ organization. Like the Red Sox and numerous other franchises that populated the Jim Crow landscape in 1950, the Yankees gave Mays less than lukewarm attention because they felt little motivation to fully integrate their organization. On their way to a 98-win season and a World Series sweep over the Phillies, the Yankees were content to leave Mays in the Negro Leagues—or let him sign with some other major league team, one that was needier and perhaps even a bit desperate.

So let’s speculate a bit how much Yankee history would have changed if they had taken a more aggressive approach with regard to the young Mays. Even without Mays, the Yankees did their fair share of winning throughout the 1950s and the early years of the 1960s. But could they have won more? Though never particularly outstanding in postseason play, Mays could have made a difference in the outcomes of the 1955, ’57, ’60, and ’64 World Series, when the Yankees fell short to the Brooklyn Dodgers, Milwaukee Braves, Pittsburgh Pirates, and St. Louis Cardinals, respectively. The Yankees lost all four of those Series in the maximum seven games; perhaps Mays’ presence would have been sufficient to turn World Series defeat into the alternate reality of a world championship. Who knows?

Putting aside the harsh realities of the bottom line of world championships, I am certain that Mays would have made a huge difference in terms of baseball aesthetics. With Mays on board patrolling the monuments at the original Yankee Stadium, the Bombers, at least by 1960, would have been capable of boasting the greatest outfield in the history of the game. Let’s imagine the wonders of an outfield featuring Mays in center, flanked by the phenomenal Mickey Mantle in left field and the meteoric Roger Maris in right field, with all three men in the prime of their mid-to-late twenties. I mean, what more could you have wanted from three major league outfielders? High on base percentages, check. Gold Glove defensive ability, double check. Speed, check. And upper deck power, triple check.

The addition of Mays to the Yankee stable would have provided another lasting benefit to fans of the franchise, especially those who regularly attended games at the old Stadium. For fans of baseball in the 1960s, in particular, one of the most lasting images involved the sight of Mays rounding the bases. We can make all sorts of arguments about Mays being the greatest all-around player of all-time—I’m tempted to make that call, but know it will be met with rounds of debate and skepticism—but there should be little doubt that Mays was the most memorable baserunner of the television era. (And he just might have been the greatest baserunner of any era, with apologies to Ty Cobb.)

By the time this author began following baseball in the early 1970s, Mays was no longer in his overall prime, but remained a vibrant and dangerous baserunner. When Topps decided to include a series of “action” cards in its massive 1972 set, the company wisely chose to include a card depicting Mays in the act of completing one of his memorably dynamic and frantic runs around the bases. Specifically, his 1972 Topps card shows the “Say Hey Kid” sliding into home plate, his right arm extended, piling a cloud of dust onto the helpless catcher with his unseen but nonetheless powerful legs. And then there’s the Mays trademark on the basepaths—the cap. By the early 1970s, most major league baserunners wore helmets on the bases, but not Mays. He had always run the bases while wearing only his cap on his head, and he saw no reason to change in an era when player safety became more prevalent. There was just something right about Mays wearing that cap, which often flew out from underneath him because of the sheer force and torque with which he ran the basepaths. By the time that Mays reached home, his lonely cap was often sitting between third and home, or resting between second and third, waiting to be retrieved by a diligent coach or a batboy. I can see that picture on my old black-and-white Sony as if it were the day before yesterday.

As much as baseball statistics shed light on the quality of its players, they do little to convey the aesthetic landscape of the game, including the simple beauty of a runner making his way from first base to home plate. Thankfully, with its 1972 action card, Topps captured a small sample of what it was like to watch the artistic and comforting image of Willie Mays running the bases. And for those who love the visual dynamics of the game, there was nothing quite like it.

Bruce Markusen writes “Cooperstown Confidential” for The Hardball Times.

Let’s file this in the category of “taking nothing for granted.” Even with a sizeable lead over the Red Sox, I’m happy to see that the Yankees haven’t waited for Scranton’s Triple-A playoff season to end before bringing some reinforcements to New York. Francisco Cervelli, Ramiro Pena, Mark Melancon, Edwar Ramirez, Mike Dunn, and Jon Albaladejo represent the first wave of call-ups, giving Joe Girardi additional options for the final month of the regular season. As painful as it is for fans of the minor league affiliates to hear, the priorities and needs of the major league team should always come first. Given the frequent rest needed by Jorge Posada and the semi-ludicrous pitching limitations being placed on Joba Chamberlain, the Yankees can use some bolstering in the areas of pitching and catching depth.

Once Scranton’s postseason run is complete, the Yankees should then promote their two best everyday players at Triple-A: Austin “Ajax” Jackson and Shelley “Slam” Duncan. If nothing else, both players deserve to be rewarded for fine seasons in Triple-A; minor league players need to know that they will be promoted if they produce at lower levels. Jackson still has flaws in his game (including a surprising lack of power and too many strikeouts), but did well enough to be named the International League’s Rookie of the Year. Duncan has had nothing less than a terrific season for Scranton-Wilkes Barre, leading the league in home runs, RBIs, and slugging percentage. Hopefully, the Yankees will be able to put an early clinch on the AL East and give Duncan some at-bats in which to impress opposing scouts. He could help any one of a number of teams, including the Indians, A’s, Diamondbacks, and Pirates. Heck, he’d be a good fit for the cross-town Mets, who probably won’t be re-signing Carlos Delgado and desperately need an infusion of power and enthusiasm. If someone gives Duncan a chance, they might just get some Dave Kingman-type numbers in return, with slightly better defense and significantly better attitude…

In pioneering the oversized S100 helmet made by Rawlings, David Wright has started me thinking about the history of batting helmets. Former Yankee great Phil Rizzuto is generally acknowledged as the first major leaguer to wear a full batting helmet in a game. “The Scooter” made the move from cap to hard hat in 1951, one year before the Pirates outfitted all of their players with helmets and a full 20 years before helmets became mandatory throughout the major leagues. Rizzuto wasn’t just a great shortstop and a funny broadcaster; he was a smart guy who realized the value of protecting oneself in an era when most pitchers felt comfortable pitching high and tight.

As much of a pioneer as Rizzuto was, he was not the first professional ballplayer to don a helmet in a game. That honor belongs to another Hall of Fame shortstop—longtime Negro Leagues great Willie “El Diablo” Wells. After being beaned and knocked unconscious in a 1942 game, the Newark Eagles’ legend returned to action wearing a workman’s helmet, which he found at a New Jersey construction site. Deciding that the construction helmet would work at bat, Wells donned the hard hat in his next game. El Diablo might have looked a little odd, but who could have blamed him?

Speaking of Wright, his use of the S100 helmet has conjured images of two of Hollywood’s beloved characters: The Great Gazoo from “The Flintstones” and the laughable Dark Helmet from Mel Brooks’ Spaceballs. So whom do you think Wright more closely resembles? It’s a close call, but I’ll place my vote with Gazoo, as portrayed by the brilliant Harvey Korman. In the immortal words of Gazoo, “Goodbye dum-dums.”…

Finally, has anyone else noticed how much Alfredo Aceves looks like former Yankee Jim Leyritz? Every time I see Aceves take the mound, I have to remind myself that “The King” is no longer playing. I had similar flashbacks when Bobby Abreu played for the Yankees; he always reminded me of former Yankee outfielder Matty Alou, at least in terms of their facial resemblance. Then again, maybe I’ve just been looking at too many old Topps baseball cards.

Bruce Markusen writes “Cooperstown Confidential” for The Hardball Times.