The death of Clyde King earlier this week did not generate national headlines. Nor did it rank quite as newsworthy as the subsequent passing of Sparky Anderson, a legend among Hall of Fame managers. But the death of King struck a chord with this writer, who remembers how he tried to restore some sanity to the frenetic whirlwind that enveloped the Yankees during the 1980s.

Before discussing King’s value as the Yankee general manager in the 1980s, his story is worth telling in other regards. Though he was a southerner who hailed from Carolina, King became one of the Brooklyn Dodgers to openly accept an African American named Jackie Robinson as one of his teammates. With allies like King and Pee Wee Reese, life became a little bit easier for Robinson, who faced more than his share of dislike from opponents, fans, and even a few of his teammates. King didn’t care about the color of Robinson’s skin, and didn’t much care for the Jim Crow laws of the 1940s. With an open mind, King accepted Robinson as his teammate and close friend; that’s what mattered to King.

As a pitcher, King had a couple of decent seasons pitching middle relief for the Dodgers, but his career amounted to little more than mediocrity. Where he lacked physical talent, he made up with a knowledge of mechanics and pitching grips. He became a successful pitching coach, before earning managerial jobs with the Giants and Braves. In becoming the only man to manage both Willie Mays and Hank Aaron at the big league level, King kept flawed teams in San Francisco and Atlanta above .500. In spite of a lack of pitching depth, he led the 1969 Giants to a 90-win season. He did similar wonders during the second half of 1974, guiding the pitching-thin Braves to a .603 winning percentage after replacing Eddie Mathews in mid-stride.

The Yankee chapter of King’s long career in baseball began in 1976, when George Steinbrenner hired him to work in the front office. “The Boss” quickly took a liking to the affable and professorial King, who impressed the owner with his vast knowledge of pitching. Critics of King knocked him for licking the boots of The Boss, and for allegedly serving as the owner’s spy, but he showed versatility in undertaking any task assigned him: advisor, super scout, pitching coach, manager.

King did his best work for the Yankees when he was given the most authority. That came in the middle of the 1984 season, when Steinbrenner promoted him to general manager, replacing the overmatched Murray Cook. Shortly after becoming GM, King sent an aging Roy Smalley to the White Sox for a player to be named later, who turned out to be future ace Doug Drabek. The trade served as an omen of more good trades to come.

The Yankees finished with 87 wins that season, but King recognized that the offense, the catching, the bench and the bullpen all needed a boost. As he prepared for the winter meetings in Houston, King developed a detailed and systematic plan of attack to rebuild the bombers. On the first day of the winter meetings, King acquired platoon catcher Ron Hassey and backup outfielder Henry Cotto from the Cubs for spare parts Brian Dayett and Ray Fontenot. Hassey gave the Yankees a strong, left-handed hitting catcher, while Cotto’s speed and defense served him well as a fifth outfielder. On the second day, King made major headlines when he finalized a deal for the game’s best leadoff man, Rickey Henderson. The trade cost the Yankees a young ace in Jose Rijo, but it also gave them a dynamic presence at the top of a lineup that already featured Don Mattingly and Dave Winfield. That same day, King stole hard-throwing right-hander Brian Fisher from the Braves, giving up only journeyman catcher Rick Cerone in return. Fisher would give the Yankees an imposing set-up man fronting closer Dave Righetti.

Not satisfied with his Houston haul, King continued to do fine work that winter. He dumped two past-their-prime veterans, Steve Kemp and Tim Foli, on the Pirates, netting future star Jay Buhner in return. Except for the Buhner deal, every one of King’s trades benefited the Yankees directly in 1985. With their offense and bullpen greatly improved, the Yankees won 97 games, their best showing of the decade, but only good enough to finish second behind a powerhouse Blue Jays team that claimed 99 victories.

King took a less aggressive approach during the winter, while trying to promote younger players like Drabek, Dennis Rasmussen, Bob Tewksbury, and slugger Dan Pasqua from within the organization. As the 1986 season progressed, Steinbrenner grew jealous of the accolades being sent King’s way. The Boss became more meddlesome, putting pressure on King to make an unwise trade that sent Don Baylor to the Red Sox for Mike Easler. Growing tired of Steinbrenner’s jealousy and interference, King decided to step aside as general manager at the end of a 90-win season and return to the peaceful existence of being a trusted front office advisor.

Given his track record, I think it’s fair to regard King as the Yankees’ most effective general manager of the 1980s. If he had remained in power, it’s possible that the Yankees would not have traded Buhner, Drabek, Tewksbury, and other promising youngsters for fading veterans. With King in control, the Yankees might have avoided the embarrassments of the 1989 and 1990 seasons, when the franchise became a laughingstock.

As it turned out, King lost out on his chance for fame and glory, and transitioned into relative obscurity. That didn’t seem to bother King, who remained one of the game’s great storytellers. Always recognizable in his trademark horn-rimmed glasses, he loved to talk baseball, never turning down requests for interviews, and ceaselessly spinning his tales in his friendly southern drawl.

Sadly, we won’t be able to hear those stories directly from the source anymore. Yet, many of those stories can be found in a book that King co-authored, called A King’s Legacy. And even though he’s gone now, we shouldn’t forget that Clyde King was just about the best thing going for the Yankee front office during those wild times of the 1980s.

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We know the following as it pertains to the Yankees in the 72-plus hours since the World Series ended:

* Signing Derek Jeter is the top priority, and the general consensus is that the tennis match being played between Yankees management and Jeter’s agent, Casey Close, is a cover. Jeter will be a Yankee and will get a new contract, it’s just a matter of how long and for how much.

* Mariano Rivera is a free agent also. Like Jeter and Andy Pettitte, the Yankees’ exclusive window to negotiate with Rivera ends Sunday. Like Jeter, it’s hard to imagine Rivera, who it can be argued is an even more iconic figure of the recent-vintage Yankees, in a different set of laundry.

* Cliff Lee is on the market.

A few months ago, many members of the media who cover the Yankees, as well as Yankee fans — I’d include myself in this camp — would say Lee coming to New York was a given. Now, it’s not as certain.

Rob Abruzzese over at Bronx Baseball Daily referenced Joel Sherman’s recent column in the New York Post, where Sherman noted that the Yankees aren’t treating the Cliff Lee Sweepstakes with the same level of aggressiveness — others might say desperation — with which they recruited CC Sabathia two years ago. Sherman cites Lee’s age (32) as being a key differentiator in the Yankees’ thought process. Abruzzese notes that the Yankees, still just one season removed from their last title, aren’t in a position where they feel like they have to have Lee. Lee certainly doesn’t have to have the Yankees. He’s proven that.

Since this is the Hot Stove topic, let’s get to it: Should the Yankees sign Cliff Lee, given the cash they’re going to be spending on Jeter, Rivera, and possibly Andy Pettitte? Three weeks ago, I’d have said, “Yes” in a blink. Now, I’m not sure.

Some other things to consider:

* Lee has been to the World Series two straight seasons with two different teams. He’s been with four teams over the past two seasons. In addition to a monster paycheck, he’s probably looking for some stability. This is likely the last chance he has to sign a huge deal. Being three hours away from his home in Benton, Arkansas, the pull of home and the quality of life improvements are tough to compete with. Do the Yankees want to go there?

* Too many years, too much money. Even at 5 years and $125 million, as some have suggested, that contract will extend him through Age 37. Putting a pitcher on the hook for that long is a huge risk.

* Does winning in New York mean more to Lee than winning in Texas or Philadelphia or San Francisco? We say it does because we’re from New York, have an inflated opinion of ourselves, and with that, a tendency to overdramatize the successes of our sports teams. This debate raged for a year-and-a-half with LeBron James. “He’d be a legend if he won here.” Mark Messier was referenced; how he had won five Stanley Cups in Edmonton but cemented his legacy with the Rangers. Conversely, A-Rod did what many others before him did; came to the Yankees to get his title. I get the sense that Lee doesn’t care, and that he’d be happier beating the Yankees than being a Yankee and winning here.

* On Mike and Mike earlier this week, Buster Olney had an interesting comment about the prospect of the Yankees signing Lee, and more specifically, why it wouldn’t be a good fit. To paraphrase, Olney said Lee did not enjoy answering too many questions from the media, even in a postseason setting, leading to questions about his facility and willingness to deal with the scrutiny of the New York media corps that will light him up if he loses a couple of games to the Rays or Red Sox. We might not be looking at Randy Johnson or Jeff Weaver-caliber surliness, Clemens-level denial or Burnett-ish confusion, more like a miffed, frustrated, impatient “I wanna go home” tone.

* Tuesday, per ESPNDallas.com, Lee said, “There’s a lot to build on,” referring to his stint with the Rangers. “We did a lot of firsts for this organization. We were the second-best team in the big leagues. We should be proud of that. We’re going to use this for motivation and come in next year and try to do better.” Tim McMahon, the article’s author, made a point to mention that Lee’s use of the word “we” shouldn’t be mistaken as a commitment to return to the Rangers, but can give a hint to where he’s leaning. Add that Rangers GM Jon Daniels plans on increasing payroll in a clear effort to go after Lee, and the Rangers may make this decision easy for him.

* Check out Lee’s Baseball Reference profile. The most similar pitcher to him through Age 31 is Mark Mulder. Quick tangent: when Billy Beane broke up the Big Three in Oakland, I thought Mulder was the best of that group and thought he’d be dynamite on the Yankees. Injuries derailed Mulder’s career, and not signing him was a wise move for the Yankees. Mulder is now out of baseball, a near scratch golfer and won two majors on the Golf Channel Amateur Tour this year. Lee has proven more durable than “Agent” Mulder, however.

* The Yankees do not have a pitching coach. Externally, that suggests volatility at the core of the coaching staff. (Never mind the fact that the Yankees’ club policy is to sign all their coaches to one-year deals.) If I was Lee, I’d be observing the current landscape and weighing that into my decision.

Is Cliff Lee a must for the Yankees to win next year? The local media, like the Yankees’ front office, have zeroed in on Lee as the focal point outside the organization to their 2011 success. Given the variables listed above, what do you think? Why do you believe the Yankees shouldn’t sign him? (I ask that question because the other one is obvious.)

Put on your thinking caps and hit me up in comments.

Ah, the New York Post: where Hal Steinbrenner’s statement that the Yankees will actually, you know, negotiate with Derek Jeter over his new contract gets the headline “Yankees Warn of ‘Messy’ Talks With Jeter.” (And by the way, why hasn’t the nickname Prince Hal ever stuck? Doesn’t anyone read Henry IV Part I, Henry IV Part II, or Henry V anymore? Hank’s nickname could be Falstaff. Let’s make it happen, people.) The actual quotes from Hal:

Ben at RAB has a good reasonable view of why this is pretty much all smoke and no fire, written after SI’s Jon Heyman floated the rumor (“industry sources suggest that he could“) that Jeter might want as many as six years in a deal, but before Jeter’s agent responded to Hal’s interview (or “fired back,” as the ESPN NY article would have it) over at AOL FanHouse with the shocking suggestion that his client was worth lots and lots of money:

“While it is not our intent to negotiate the terms of Derek’s free-agent contract in a public forum,” Casey Close told FanHouse, “we do agree with Hal’s and Brian (Cashman, the GM)’s recent comments that this contract is about business and winning championships.”

“Clearly, baseball is a business, and Derek’s impact on the sport’s most valuable franchise cannot be overstated. Moreover, no athlete embodies the spirit of a champion more than Derek Jeter.”

So it goes. This has been described as “battling it out publicly,” but agents are always spewing stuff like that; it’s part of Close’s job to be a dick, with the Yankees and with the media, so that Jeter doesn’t have to be. The Yankees can’t say they’ll give Jeter whatever he wants, and Jeter’s agent can’t say that Jeter doesn’t want a massive contract. The team isn’t going to sign Jeter to some crazy six-year deal, but they’re obviously going to overpay for him, and I would imagine they’ve made their peace with that; exactly how much they’ll overpay, and for exactly how long, are the details that will be worked out over the next few weeks.

I’ll never understand how, say, $15 million a year could seem like not enough to someone, but then, the Yankees are worth billions to Jeter’s millions, so I have no horse in that race. Anyway, Jeter is generally pretty smart about these things: his last contract was absolutely massive in its own right, but since it was a bit less than Alex Rodriguez’s and was signed shortly after that firestorm, he got very, very little criticism or resentment for it. It’s quite a trick to sign a deal that nets you an average of $18.9 million a year and makes you seem moderate and reasonable, but The Captain pulled it off, and I doubt he’s gotten any less savvy in the years since.

Of course it’s possible that negotiations will indeed get messy… but they certainly haven’t yet. Sit back, relax, pass the popcorn, and may the best negotiator win.

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Discussion Question: If Derek Jeter “embodies the spirit of a champion,” what do the rest of the Yankees embody? And what about you, what do you embody? Right now, I’m pretty sure I “embody the spirit of a nap”.

When thinking of former Yankee managers, Clyde King is hardly the first name that comes to mind. But when it comes to former Yankee skippers who devoted their lives to the game, while doing so with intelligence, enthusiasm, and style, King’s name should be placed near the top of the list. One of the few men who served George Steinbrenner as both manager and general manager, King died Tuesday from heart-related problems. King was 86.

With baseball ravaged by World War II, King made his major league debut as a right-hander with the Brooklyn Dodgers in 1944. He returned to the minor leagues after the war, but eventually returned to Brooklyn, becoming a contributor to the Dodgers’ staff in the late forties and early fifties. While with the Dodgers, King became close friends with Jackie Robinson, the first African American to play in the major leagues during the 20th century. The friendship surprised some, given the southern heritage of the Carolina-born King, but it was emblematic of his open-minded, outgoing, and accepting nature.

After his playing days came to an end with the Reds in 1953, King became a successful minor league manager with teams like the Atlanta Crackers and the Hollywood Stars. Noted for his knowledge of pitching, King turned to coaching with the Reds and Pirates, a springboard to his first big league managerial post in San Francisco, followed by a later stint with the Braves. As a manager, King forged a record five games better than .500, at 234-229.

King joined the Yankee front office in 1976, quickly becoming a trusted confidante of Steinbrenner. He remained with the Yankees for the next three decades, serving alternately as a super scout, coach, manager, general manager, and special advisor. King became one of Steinbrenner’s go-to men, a troubleshooter who would fill any capacity requested by the principal owner.

King moved into the Yankee spotlight in the middle of the 1982 season, when he became the team’s third manager that summer, succeeding Bob Lemon and Gene “Stick“ Michael. Under King’s leadership, the Yankees limped to a 29-33 finish. Several of the veteran Yankees claimed that he was actually a spy for Steinbrenner, a charge that King denied.

After the season, the Yankees bumped King back to the front office. In the mid-1980s, with the Yankee front office in a state of constant turmoil and upheaval, Steinbrenner turned to King to run the entire baseball operation. He promoted King to general manager, giving him [relatively] full authority to make trades and sign free agents. King impressed a number of Yankee watchers at the 1984 winter meetings. Coming to the meetings with a detailed and organized plan, King engineered a blockbuster trade for Hall of Fame leadoff man Rickey Henderson. King also swung lesser trades for useful role players like Ron Hassey and Henry Cotto, and stole hard-throwing reliever Brian Fisher from the Braves for a declining Rick Cerone. (After the winter meetings, King also acquired a young Jay Buhner from the Pirates in exchange for the washed up pair of Steve Kemp and Tim Foli.) Bolstered by the wintertime pickups, the Yankees improved by ten games in 1985, winning 97 games. Unfortunately, the Yankees ran second to a powerhouse Blue Jays team that won 99 games and claimed the American League East.

Some historians, including this one, regard King as the Yankees’ most effective general manager of the 1980s, but that stature did not prevent him from being fired in 1986. Now demoted, King returned to being a lesser known member of the front office. Whether working in a position of power or simply serving as a scout, King also developed a reputation as one of the game’s great storytellers. Always approachable, King loved to talk baseball, spinning his tales in his trademark southern drawl.

Along the way, King managed to accomplish something that few others can claim. He somehow worked for 30 years under the imposing thumb of George Steinbrenner, before finally retiring in 2005. If nothing else, lasting that long while working for “The Boss” should earn Clyde King at least half of a plaque here in Cooperstown.

Because what’s scarier than having your body taken over against your will by an alien being? Or, as it’s more commonly known: pregnancy.

Of course, in most cases, when a woman is pregnant it’s not because her husband has arranged for some neighborly witches to have her raped by Satan in exchange for a boost to his acting career. The premise is ludicrous, but Rosemary’s Baby unfolds slowly and, by focusing on the mundane details of Rosemary’s life as well as the subtle horror, quite believably.

Lovely yuppie couple Rosemary and Guy Woodehouse, played by Mia Farrow and John Cassavetes, move into an old New York City apartment building (played by the Dakota) with a disconcerting history of violence and witchcraft, which they of course ignore. Their next door neighbors, who they can occasionally hear through the walls in certain rooms, are the pushy and snooping though seemingly well-meaning Castavets (Sidney Blackmer and the fabulously irritating Ruth Gordon, who won an Oscar)– though to be fair, their pushiness only makes itself felt after their young female house guest kills herself, and they realize Rosemary is… fertile.

Mia Farrow gives a great performance, from glowing, beautiful, pliant young wife to a ghostly, half-mad, desperate soon-to-be mother. The character’s passivity can be frustrating – she lets herself be pushed into doing all kinds of things she doesn’t want to do by her husband, her neighbors, and the doctor they corral her into seeing – but it’s also understandable; Rosemary doesn’t want to make a fuss, doesn’t want to be rude, doesn’t want people to be upset with her, isn’t even sure she’s right. It’s in those scenes that Rosemary’s Baby becomes something of a feminist parable, not something I expected from Roman Polanski (maybe the ultimate “love the art, hate the artist” example, for me). The real horror of Rosemary’s situation comes not from being raped by the devil and impregnated with his spawn but from feeling cut off and powerless, used as a vessel for childbirth and not much else, ignored, told not to read or do or think anything for herself. By the time she gets up enough panicked courage to take action, for the sake of her unborn baby if not herself, it’s too late.

That’s another credit to the movie: it takes Rosemary nearly the entire running time to figure out what’s happening, whereas the audience is clued in from the start – to the fact that something sinister’s afoot, at least, if not precisely what. And the somewhat surprising ending is widely known, at this point (“What have you done to his eyes?!“). But while it’s frustrating to watch Rosemary become entangled in this sinister conspiracy over the course of hours, Polanski uses that frustration to invest the audience further, to deepen the viewer’s discomfort and tension. There are few movie characters I’d like to eviscerate more than the Castavets and their friends, especially that Laura-Louise. As Roger Ebert wrote in his review,

When the conclusion comes, it works not because it is a surprise but because it is horrifyingly inevitable. Rosemary makes her dreadful discovery, and we are wrenched because we knew what was going to happen –and couldn’t help her.

For all its horror, Rosemary’s baby is often wryly funny, and the movie keeps its sense of humor til the very end (when Rosemary drops her kitchen knife in horror near her baby’s bassinet, Mrs. Castevet picks it up and quickly rubs at the mark it left in her nice wood floors). Still, that end comprises the complete triumph of evil – the banality of evil, in fact.

Use protection, kids. Beware of too-good-to-be-true New York City real estate deals. And never, ever marry an actor.

We have a tie, folks! Today’s first honoree is…

Yam Yaryan.

Yam, who was christened Clarence Everett Yaryan, was born in Iowa in 1892, and played only parts of two seasons for the Chicago White Sox. In that time he hit .260/.326/.376 for a less-than-mighty OPS+ of 81, and acquired an excellent and, based on the photo, fitting nickname. Next up:

Flame Delhi.

Flame was born the same day as Yam, November 5, 1892, in Town-Name-of-the-Week Harqua Hala, Arizona. Despite the imposing nickname (his real name was Lee) he only ever got into one major league game: April 16, 1912. He pitched three innings and allowed six runs, three earned, on seven hits and three walks. And that, apparently, was that.

Feel free to offer suggestions for future Player Names of the Week, either in the comments or via email.

Here’s some flicks from around town…

taken by Bags, our man in the street.

Happy Monday.

Chilly but sunny Saturday morning in the Big Apple.

Hope everyone is having a good one.

Whirled Serious continues tonightski…

[Picture by Bags]

For too long, I used to think that Oscar Azocar epitomized the ineptitude of the Yankee teams of the early 1990s. A free swinger to the point of hapless extreme, Azocar struggled so much in trying to reach first base that I considered him synonymous with Yankee failure during that era. I felt bad about that continuing assessment this past June, when I learned that Azocar had died suddenly and unexpectedly from a heart attack at the age of 45. I only felt worse when I started to read about Azocar, learning more about a hustling ballplayer, a fun-loving teammate, and a delightful guy.

As a rookie for the Yankees in 1990, Azocar stepped up to the plate 218 times. Swinging the bat from a pronounced crouch, he offered at almost any pitch within the general proximity of the batter’s boxes. In one stretch, he came to bat seven consecutive times without taking a single pitch. Not one! By season’s end, Azocar had coaxed a grand total of two walks. For awhile, he had more sacrifice flies than walks, which resulted in his batting average being temporarily higher than his on-base percentage.

While it’s true that Azocar didn’t walk and didn’t hit with any tangible power, he did play the game with a level of passion not normally exhibited by staid and stolid major leaguers. When Azocar played left field, he made sure to involve himself, even when the ball was not hit in his direction. On a batted ball to another outfielder or infielder, Azocar would make a hellish dash toward third base, so that he would be in position to back up his third baseman on a possible overthrow. It didn’t matter if the chances of there being a play at third were infinitesimal; Azocar wanted to be there, just in case. Azocar did something similar when runners from first base attempted to steal second base. If the catcher’s throw tricked into center field, Azocar would back up third base in the event of a second overthrow.

Some of the veteran Yankees noticed Azocar’s habit of running furiously toward third base. Perhaps unwilling to face their own mediocrity as ballplayers, they poked fun at Azocar. A few Yankees asked Azocar why he did this. Looking a bit bewildered, Azocar thought for a moment and then replied in his heavy Venezuelan accent: “Because that’s what I’m supposed to do.” And, you know what, Azocar was right. He didn’t have anything else to do on the play, so he might as well put himself to use–just in case.

In addition to his perpetual hustle, Azocar exhibited other good habits on defense. He tracked fly balls well and usually hit the cutoff man with his throws. Best utilized as a left fielder, Azocar had enough speed to dabble in center field, at least on a fill-in basis. He could also handle right field, though his arm strength was something less extraordinary than that of Jesse Barfield. Or even an injured Dave Winfield.

Azocar could run the bases, too. Though hardly a blazer, Azocar knew how to read pitchers and steal bases. Over parts of three major league seasons, including a pair with the Padres, Azocar stole ten times without being caught, setting an unofficial major league record.

Still, there was much more to Azocar. He loved to smile. He smiled during games. He smiled and laughed in the dugout. He smiled before games. Azocar simply loved playing baseball, along with the experience of being around the ballpark. With his upbeat and enthusiastic approach, Azocar became a wonderful teammate. He was no Mel Hall, who spent much of his time sticking pins in Bernie Williams dolls. Azocar just seemed delighted to be hanging around a major league setting, spending time with players ranging from Don Mattingly to Bye-Bye Balboni to Bam-Bam Meulens.

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A few innings into last night’s World Series game, the camera focused on Bruce Bochy for a few moments, and I realized he reminded me intensely of… somebody. But I couldn’t figure out who. It was a specific actor, I knew I’d seen him in a movie, it was on the tip of my brain. So I asked the Twitter Hive Mind for help.

Suggestions included, but were not limited to:

• Young Tom Selleck
• James Gammon in Major League
• Jeff Bridges
• J.K. Simmons
• Billy Bob Thornton
• Old Tom Selleck
• William H. Macy
• Tommy Chong
• Tom Selleck
• A young Wilford Brimley
• Charles Bronson
• Charles Bronson (2)
• Everett McGill
• Bruce McGill
• Edward James Olmos
• James Brolin
• Billy Bob Thornton (2)
• “half Dabney Coleman, half Burt Reynolds”
• James Gammon in Major League (2)

Some of these were more accurate than others, but neither was the particular person I was trying to place. It was Derek Jacques who finally nailed it:

Jackie Brown-era Robert Forster! Yep, that was it. I feel much better now.

Who wants to cast Ron Washington? How about Brian Wilson?

As Leonard Cohen put it so eloquently:

Everybody knows that the dice are loaded, everybody rolls with their fingers crossed                   

Everybody knows that the war is over, everybody knows the good guys lost

Everybody knows the fight was fixed, the poor stay poor, the rich get rich,

And the Molina gets a World Series ring

That’s how it goes.

That’s not a prediction of a Rangers win, either: it doesn’t matter what happens in the World Series, who wins, or how they do it: Bengie Molina gets a World Series Ring no matter what.

This is (maybe) the last time I’ll mention that I did try to warn everybody.

Yes, having played for the Giants before being traded (about which he is slightly grumpy) to the Rangers, Bengie Molina is set, bling-wise.  Whether that ring will end up emblazoned with rubies in the shape of a drag queen or a diamond-studded cameo of Chuck Norris is the only thing that remains to be decided.

Bud Selig and the Player’s Association can blather on all they want about steroid testing and expanded playoffs, but when are they going to something about the terrible Molina imbalance that makes an even playing field truly impossible? What will happen when the fans of Molina-less teams eventually realize they have no real chance of success as MLB is currently structured? It’s a disgrace.

While you enjoy the World Series tonight, please take a few moments to write a strongly-worded letter to your congressperson.

(Photo by Harry How/Getty Images)

Therapists usually say that there’s some kind of reason for just about any behavior, however seemingly irrational; even if you end up hurting yourself, it probably served a psychological purpose. I’ve been thinking about this recently in light of the Yanks’ ALCS loss, and the accompanying customary wave of blame from fans that fell on various members of the team and front office. I think the  tendency of fans — and certainly not just Yankee fans, but perhaps especially Yankee fans — to instinctively blame their own team after a loss, rather than crediting the opponent, is pretty interesting. Obviously not everyone does this, but as an overall fanbase mood I think it rings true, unless maybe some undisputed whiz like Cliff Lee is directly involved. 

Setting aside for the moment whether or not it’s accurate or fair in a specific instance, what’s the psychological gain here? The outcome of any game depends on the combination of one team’s strength and another’s weakness, of course, and it’s often hard to disentangle a hitter’s success from a pitcher’s failure, or vice versa. How much of Colby Lewis’s kickass performance on Friday night was due to variables he controlled directly, and how much was due to the Yankees’ inadequate approach or execution at the plate? It’s not possible to tell precisely, although a lot of the newer baseball stats our SABR-inclined friends come up with are designed to help sort this out. And my first instinct, like many people in the bar where I was watching, was to yell “C’mon you useless #$&*s, it’s Colby Lewis” at the little pinstriped men on the TV. 

I think in the end, it’s mostly about control: the idea that your team mostly controls its fate (like the idea that you yourself mostly control your fate) is generally preferable to the alternative. No one likes feeling helpless to change their situation. Everyone wants to believe that we’re in charge of how our lives turn out, not larger forces we can’t affect. And hey, if the Yankees lost because they failed, well then, they’re still better. They just didn’t show it. There must be something they could have done differently.

I’m not entirely sure whether the blaming-your-team tendency is more prevalent in New York City, and specifically among Yankee fans, but I suspect as much. It seems clear that fans everywhere do this to a certain extent, but I think that like just about everything else, it’s louder in New York. And while Mets fans do it too — as Alex pointed out yesterday, the moaning about A-Rod and Ryan Howard ending their respective Championship Series with called third strikes brought back vivid memories of the hysteria over Carlos Beltran’s taken curveball in 2006 — I believe you can make an argument that Yankee fans do it most of all: this is part of the wide-ranging legacy of George M. Steinbrenner.

This is the flipside to all that winning, and the result of the idea, now internalized by seemingly the entire Yankee organization even in The Boss’s absence, that any year that doesn’t end in a World Series victory is a failure. Not anybody else’s succes: your team’s failure. We’ve heard this view expressed in different ways by many people for many years now — by George himself, by Brian Cashman, by Derek Jeter and Jorge Posada, even by scrubs passing through in August and September. This year, Cashman and Joe Girardi both made a point of saying that Texas had just flat out-played the Yankees, which I personally felt was good to hear; I think many fans share that point of view, too, but outside of our cozy corner of the blogosphere, it hasn’t been the dominant tone.  

Believing that they can and should win the World Series every single year is, from one angle, one of the most admirable things about the Yankees. The organization is never content with a few years of mediocrity; never holds back from a signing or trade that could help, damn the financial consequences; never coasts on a new Stadium or a star signing. And that is great for their fans. But that kind of ambition, by necessity, comes with a big heaping stench of failure. I think George Steinbrenner, in his prime, felt that having his employees live in terror of that failure was an important motivational tool; and the Boss will certainly be missed, but I hope his vision of win-it-all-or-else gets to rest with him. Other teams are gonna get that trophy sometimes, and not just because you messed up or didn’t get it done. Just because they’re better.

The 2010 season ended for the New York Yankees tonight as they lost Game Six of the American League Championship to the Texas Rangers 6-1. The Rangers pounded out the big, two-out, run-scoring hits that win pennants, and the Yankees put forth a display of offensive futility against Colby Lewis that will leave a gag-inducing aftertaste long into the winter.

Light rain fell on the first inning. Curtis Granderson walked and was eager to get into position to draw first blood. He tried to steal second as Cano popped out, and then doubled down and ran again as Alex Rodriguez was working his count. Granderson beat the throw, but his foot hiccuped on the damp dirt and delayed touching the bag for a split second. It was enough time for Ian Kinsler to snatch the ball and slap a tag, and enough of an incongruity to confuse the umpire into a blown call. As the replay clearly showed otherwise, the announcers congratulated the umpire for getting it right. That was it for the sound.

The Rangers jumped onto the scoreboard in the first inning, again. This was the fourth time in the series they scored in the first inning. The Yankees have put nothing on the board in the first inning all postseason. With two-strikes on the leadoff hitter, Phil Hughes couldn’t sneak a fastball up and in. Elvis Andrus shot it through an heavily shifted outfield and pulled into second with an easy double. Josh Hamilton singled when Hughes again tried to go up and in, but missed badly up and out over the plate. Washington, fearing the double play, put Hamilton in motion and when Vlad grounded to second and the Yankees needed two outs to prevent the run from scoring, they could only muster one.

Lewis held the Yankees hitless through four. Curtis Granderson worked two walks, but was erased on the bases both times. In the fifth inning, Alex Rodriguez doubled, his second hard-hit ball of the game. He moved to third as Lance Berkman flew out to the warning track.

That brief instant, when Berkman’s shot flew into the night was the only happy moment of the game for the Yankees. It looked like a 2-1 lead was in reach, but Josh Hamilton tracked it down. Alex scored on a ball that hit Nick Swisher and bounced away, but the umpires missed it. That’s the second time they’ve missed Nick Swisher getting hit in the leg. Both times it cost the Yankees an out, as Swisher couldn’t do anything as the at bat continued.

In the fifth inning, the game fell apart. Much like the sixth inning of Game Four, the Yankees faced a relatively benign one-on, one-out situation. An intentional walk to a left-handed batter to gain a platoon advantage raised the stakes and the Rangers held the trump. Vlad Guerrero ripped the game-changing double on the hangy-i-est of curve balls. After Robertson replaced Hughes, Nelson Cruz ripped the season-ending homer on the flattest of fastballs. (more…)

Is it 8 o’clock yet? Long and coherent doesn’t seem to be happening today, so instead, here’s some scattered thoughts from a scattered mind.

*You guys been watching the NLCS? Some excellent games, and I’ve gone from rooting for the Giants because they aren’t the Phillies to genuinely liking them. Lincecum, Kung Fu Panda, Buster Posey, even Brian Wilson who is douchey but at least in an entertaining way. The entire series makes me wish the Yankees would ditch their uptight facial hair regulations already, though. Everything is more fun with beards!

*There’s plenty of time to think about this later and it’s not a surprise anyway, but according to Jon Heyman, the Yanks plan to bring back Joe Girardi. I’m okay with this. Girardi has definitely made his share of mistakes this postseason, but so has every manager. I don’t think there’s been anything fireable. He won the World Series last year and made the ALCS this year (…as of this writing), and although the ghost of George Streinbrenner would disagree, to me, you don’t fire a guy coming off that kind of success unless he does something really crazy/egregious/criminal. Despite what I might end up yelling at the TV during the 8th inning tonight, I think Joe’s been solid.

I wish he’d eat something though. Dude looks gaunt.

*Via LoHud, Robbie Cano hopes Melky Cabrera can rejoin the Yanks next year. I… don’t hope that, but I still have warm feelings for the Melkman and I hope he lands on his feet. He was fun to watch for a while, had some big plays and big hits for the Yanks over the years (remember that catch on a would-be Manny Ramirez homer  just over the left field wall? I do, and I bet Manny does), and I think he could still help some team, at least from the bench.

*It’s easy to overlook in the heat of a white-knuckle eighth-inning playoff relief appearance, but Kerry Wood’s got a pretty great story. Tragic, redemptive, all that stuff.

*It is genuinely kinda depressing how many fans left Yankee Stadium early in Games 3 and 4. I mean, in the ninth of a blowout, I get it. But while it’s still close? In the ALCS? I don’t generally go the fan-police route: I stay til the better end because I’m an obsessive and hate the idea of missing anything — but it’s supposed to be fun, and if you need to leave for work or school or sleep or whatever, you do what you have to do. But the streams of people fleeing before the end warlier this week were pretty embarassing. It’s easy enough for most of the country to hate Yankee fans, no need to load the gun for them.

*Nick Swisher, according to ESPN NY: “If one more guy asks me about Cliff Lee, I’m gonna punch him right in the (bleeping) mouth.” Heh.

Here’s hoping the baseball goes well enough tonight to get us baseball tomorrow night, and cause for Swisher to spaz out some more.

I find myself torn on the issue of Joe Girardi returning to manage the Yankees in 2011. If the Yankees can complete a comeback over the next two days and make it back to the World Series, then I suppose that the Yankees will make every effort to re-sign him. Two Series appearances in two years, along with a general approval rating from his players, should be enough for Girardi to begin his fourth season as Yankee manager. Then again, for all of his intelligence and attention to preparation, Girardi continues to show an alarming lack of feel for in-game managing, a trait that could cost the Yankees dearly during the string of short series that make up the postseason.

Girardi’s dubious strategies took center stage in Game Four of the ALCS, when the Yankees coughed up a 3-2 lead on their way to a disastrous 10-3 loss. Mark Teixeira’s strained hamstring forced Girardi into making an unwanted move–replacing his star first baseman with a pinch-runner during a budding rally. Girardi had several choices. He could have summoned his fastest runner, Greg Golson, who could have taken over in right field, with Nick Swisher moving to first base. Or he could have tapped Austin Kearns, a decent runner and capable right fielder. Instead, Girardi called on Marcus Thames, a relatively slow runner (who hasn’t stolen a base since 2007) and a brutal defender in the outfield.

So what was Girardi thinking? He probably wanted to maintain a good hitter in Teixeira’s spot in the batting order, hence the decision to summon Thames. Unfortunately, that left Thames, the team’s worst fielding outfielder, having to play right field in the sixth inning of a one-run game. Lo and behold, Vlad Guerrero led off the sixth with a single to right on a ball that conceivably could have been caught by the swifter Golson or the more agile Kearns.

The better move would have been to play Golson or Kearns in right field through the next turn in the batting order. At that point, Girardi could have used Thames, or even Jorge Posada, as a pinch-hitter. Or he could have used Thames to pinch-hit for Lance Berkman when the Rangers brought in lefty Derek Holland. Bottom line, Girardi needed to think quickly in pinch-running for the injured Teixeira, and he chose the worst available option. It was as if Girardi was worried about running out of players, even with three backup outfielders at his disposal.

(more…)

… That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune–without the words,
And never stops at all, no matter how gaddamn sick you get of that stupid tune, and wish it would just go perch somewhere else already.

I hate Emily Dickenson.

I am not much of a fan of optimism. I prefer to expect the worst, thereby avoiding disappointment and allowing for the possibility of a pleasant surprise. As far as I’m concerned Pandora, opening that famous Box of hers a second time to release Hope, as the story goes, showed a truly staggering inability to learn from past mistakes. So when the Yankees lost Game 4, I figured, yeah, they were toast. And I have not changed my mind about that, but I was thrilled to see them win yesterday, anyway – because that means we get one more game.

It’s starting to turn chilly and gray and dark out there. The wind’s getting colder. It’s gonna be a long winter, because every winter is a long winter. But at least we get one more hunk of American League baseball before that happens, and if it turns out to be a four-hour slog that’s just fine with me, because soon there will be a months-long string of zero-hour slogs. So let Charlie Manuel and Ron Washington make a dozen pitching changes apiece; let the batters step out and call time over and over again until the announcers start whining; make these puppies last.

And as much as I strive for negativity… well, of course you never know. I actually felt pretty good about the Yanks’ chances yesterday, because of C.C. Sabathia, who even when he’s off his game can usually hold things together. I feel considerably worse about Phil Hughes’ odds, but it’s not like I haven’t seen stranger things happen. Hell, I saw stranger things happen on the subway this morning.

Damn. Shut up, you feathered nitwit.

Over at PB, Steve Goldman reflects back on the 1958 Whirled Serious. The Yanks won, coming back from a 3-1 hole:

Casey did some things that Joe Girardi can’t do. He can’t/won’t ask CC Sabathia to pitch in every game, he can’t ask Mariano Rivera to throw four innings—hell, it seems like he can’t ask Rivera to throw at all—but Joe also has some things that Casey didn’t have, like a bullpen stocked with pitchers, some of whom aren’t Sergio Mitre or Dustin Moseley. He has far more freedom to make moves with pitchers than Stengel had, and at much less of a risk to anyone’s health. In short, if there is any lesson to be taken away from the 1958 World Series, it is this: HEY, JOE: QUICK HOOK.

Back to the (immediate) future, Cliff wasn’t moved by yesterday’s Yankee win:

Perhaps its because, even if they do come back to tie this series, they’ll still have to beat Cliff Lee in Game Seven to win it. Perhaps its because, after being dominated by the Rangers for four games, a single win, even a lop-sided one such as the 7-2 Game Five, doesn’t carry enough weight to restore balance to the series. Whatever it is, Game Five felt like a repeat of Game Three of the 2007 Division Series against the Indians, a face-saving but empty victory that did little other than postpone the inevitable series loss suffered in the following game.

I poured the milk on my sons’ Rice Crispies this morning. “Who wants to hear the cereal talk?” Turns out, both of them wanted to hear the cereal talk, so breakfast was a smashing success. (Is there any meal, except maybe pizza, that your children do not have to duped into eating?)

As they sat there at the table, I paced back and forth as the coffee brewed on the counter. “Today’s lesson is about not giving up,” I told them. “Let’s not worry about losing, because if you actually lose, there will be plenty of time to worry about it after the fact.”

“What?” asked the three-year old. He says “What?” very sweetly, but it’s hard to distinguish whether he doesn’t understand or if he just wasn’t listening. This time, it was probably both.

“I’m talking about the Yankees,” I said. “Yankees!” said the three year-old. “Boom!” said the 21-month old.

“Yeah, the Yankees need more boom. They lost last night,” I said.

“I like De-rak Jeee-tuh and Mar-i-an-oh,” said the three-year old. “Me too.”

“Snap, crackle, pop,” said the cereal.

When we went out the door for school, I asked them if they wanted to wear their Yankee hats or their Stegosaurus hats. “I want my Yankee hat,” said the three-year old. “And me,” said the 21-month old. I checked the temperature, 48 degrees. Hmm, yeah, we don’t need to cover their ears this morning.

“Where’s your Yankee hat, Daddy?” asked the three-year old. I went into the bedroom and couldn’t find it. I grabbed my 1936 Cooperstown Collection version from the pile on my dresser and slammed it down on my head. “How about that one?”

“Bay-ball,” said the 21-month old.

“Snap, crackle, pop,” I said. “Let’s go Yank-ees.” And we walked out the door and into the first morning that it really felt like October.

The Manhattan Bridge is the closest, and the Brooklyn Bridge isn’t far, but such a cliche — the Verrazano, now that’s fairly convenient, bit more interesting, less overdone…

Oh, hi! Sorry, I didn’t see you there. Is it recap time?

That was a hell of a game, and not in the good way. Join me on a journey back through the mists of time to the first inning of Game 4… ah, we were all so young then. A.J. Burnett profoundly surprised me by pitching, under the circumstances, pretty well. Certainly as well as anyone could have expected given that the last time he pitched a good game, pterodactyls soared above the ballpark. The crowd was behind him, but to me it wasn’t heartwarming so much as desperate – c’mon, fella, you can make it! It’s just a flesh wound! You’ll be fine! He was okay, though. He allowed two runs in the second, after walking David Murphy (fatefully, not for the last time), hitting Bengie Molina with a pitch (if only he… no, no, mustn’t think like that); Mitch Moreland bunted and Elvis Andrus grounded out, but then came Michael Young, who hit a softish two-RBI single. Burnett may not have been dominant, but he got out of the inning and held the Rangers there through five innings; going into tonight’s game I would’ve taken that and not complained.

Meanwhile, the Yankees scraped together a few runs: a Robinson Cano homer that just ticked over the right field wall, possibly aided by some fans who made it hard for Nelson Cruz to make a catch – that’s what Cruz argued, anyway. I thought it was out anyhow, but the fans didn’t exactly improve anyone’s image of Yankee supporters. (Although I have to admit they cracked me up). The umpires declined to review it, which seems weird since that’s why instant replay exists, but again: it was out, so no damage done. Later in the inning a Lance Berkman fly to deep right was reviewed and correctly found to be foul. It wasn’t the umpiring tonight… it was just, you know, everything else. Anyway, the Yanks tacked on in the third inning when Derek Jeter tripled (!!!) and Curtis Granderson singled him home, and again in the fourth, when A-Rod was hit by a pitch, singled over by Cano and Berkman, and scored by a Brett Gardner ground out. Paralleling Burnett, this was not exactly Murderer’s Row, but they had a 3-2 lead in the fifth inning.

Which is when the baseball gods started pulling at a loose bit of yarn, and before you knew it, but also in a kind of weird slow motion, the whole sweater unraveled.

I don’t think you can say that Mark Teixeira is underrated or underappreciated – he is an extremely well paid star on a popular team; he’s not under any radars. But I was a little unprepared for what a gut-punch it was to watch him cringe while running hard to first, fall into an awkward slide, and stay down until the Yankee trainers could help him off the field. It was a grade 2 hamstring strain, and the last we’ll see of Mark Teixeira until spring. And while he didn’t have his best year at the plate, I’d sure rather see him up there than Marcus Thames; and you know you’d rather see him manning first base than Nick Swisher. He’s not A-Rod, and these days he’s not Cano, and he’s not one of the remaining 90s Yanks, and hell, he’s probably the blandest star athlete in recent memory… but the Yankees are going to miss him quite a bit, even if they only have one game left in which to do so. It sucked all the air out of the Stadium.

That came during an aborted rally in the bottom of the fifth, after a somewhat shaky Burnett got himself through the top of the inning. Many people were surprised to see Joe Girardi turn to Burnett again in the sixth, and although I didn’t think it was such a clear-cut choice, in retrospect it was clearly not wise: Vladimir Guerrero singled, moved to second on a force out, and then — this, I did have a problem with — Burnett intentionally walked David Murphy, in order to face Bengie Molina.

What did I say about Molinas before this series? Huh? WHAT DID I SAY, A.J.?! JOE? Goddammit, no one ever listens to me.

Molina homered, the Rangers took a 5-3 lead, and while that’s hardly insurmountable, this began the “slow-motion unraveling” portion of the evening. Burnett got out of the 6th, but Josh Hamilton homered off Boone Logan in the 7th, and the Rangers tacked on another run off of Joba Chamberlain. Ron Washington’s love of the bullpen shuffle worked out well for him this time around; the Yankees had chances — they even got the tying run to the plate in the 8th inning — but couldn’t break through. In the ninth Sergio Mitre came in and everything went south (HR Hamilton, HR Cruz), but by then it was all over but the crying, anyway. 10-3 Rangers is your final.

Joe Girardi made a number of questionable moves tonight. I can’t get too worked up about them since I think, ultimately, the Rangers have flat out-hit and out-pitched the Yanks, and different managerial moves probably wouldn’t have made a huge difference. But there’s no way to know that for sure, and it’s still plenty frustrating, which may be part of why tonight’s game got under my skin in an unpleasant way. Tomorrow, the Yankees have to win or go home — and if they win, they need to do it twice more. I’m not optimistic, frankly. But every day in late October that you still have a game to watch is a good day, so here’s hoping C.C. Sabathia pitches like C.C. Sabathia tomorrow, and the Yankees live to see Game 6.

Molinas… why’s it always have to be Molinas?

I’m a pretty calm baseball watcher these days. That’s what happens when you cover the team for a while, or when you’ star to mentally write up the action while it’s still happening, or take notes… you just get more detached. I’m not in the locker room anymore so I don’t have to smother my inner fan with a pillow, but my inner fan has long since taken to self-censorship. I am usually pretty even-keeled about the Yankees these days.

But not always.

I’m all twitchy about tonight’s game, more than I have been in a long time — years — and I don’t know why. The Yankees won the World Series just last year; if they don’t make it this year I’m okay with that. For whatever reason, though, this game is getting to me. I’m having friends over tonight, to watch with me; I don’t want to be alone with A.J. Burnett.

Longtime readers will recall that I have a Bernie Williams bobblehead doll — my only Yankee bobblehead — which, during big games, I often move around my studio apartment until I find a “lucky spot.” Laugh all you want, but would the Yankees have won the World Series last year if the Bernie bobblehead hadn’t been nestled under my bed (after the freezer lost its luckiness)? I guess we’ll never know. Anyway, I haven’t bothered with the Bernie bobblehead pretty much all year, but I’m pretty sure he’ll be shifting around quite a bit tonight.

Here we go… hold onto something.