Yanks are winning tonight, dammit.
Chad Jennings has today’s notes.
Brett Gardner CF
Ichiro Suzuki RF
Robinson Cano 2B
Travis Hafner DH
Lyle Overbay 1B
Zoilo Almonte LF
Jayson Nix SS
David Adams 3B
Austin Romine C
Never mind the change in seasons:
Let’s Go Yank-ees!
[Photo Credit: Sophie Benjamin via Film is God]
The Yanks lost cause they only scored three runs, Andy wasn’t great, and Joba and Boone served up a couple of homers as the Rays beat ’em but good, 8-3.
But the story of the night in sports was Game 7 of the NBA Finals (and so long David Stern). The Spurs were valiant and the game was close but Lebron James had his best shooting game of the series, Shane Battier finally showed up, and that was the difference. Heartbreak for Tim Duncan and the Spurs.
“Missing a layup to tie the game,” Duncan recalled. “Making a bad decision down the stretch. Just unable to stop Dwyane and LeBron. Game 7 is always going to haunt me.”
Back-to-back titles for the Heat.
[Photo Credit: Yahoo]
The Yanks host the Rays for a four-game series starting tonight in the Bronx.
Mr. Pettitte goes against the slick young lefty Matt Moore.
Brett Gardner CF
Jayson Nix 3B
Robinson Cano 2B
Travis Hafner DH
Vernon Wells LF
Ichiro Suzuki RF
Lyle Overbay 1B
Chris Stewart C
Reid Brignac SS
Meanwhile, the Spurs and Heat play Game 7 of the NBA Finals in Miami. I say the Spurs win by at least 10.
Never mind “the narrative”:
Let’s Go Yank-ees! (And Spurs.)
[Photo Credit: Harlem Blog; Getty Images]
So the Yanks need help at third base but they’ve got Alex Rodriguez on the mend. Yet when this latest scandal heats up again it’s Rodriguez’s ass, right?
Alas, Poor A Rod.
Kvetch, kvetch, kvetch. Phil Hughes did not pitch well. Again. Got behind hitters and when he had to throw a strike they hit it hard; got ahead of hitters and couldn’t put them away. What we’ve come to expect from Hughes. Chris Capuano, on the other hand, throws slop but knows what he’s doing, showed good control and mastered the Yankee hitters as the Dodgers won an uneventful game, 6-0.
The one guy that is an event–Mr. Puig–stole a base, had a couple of hits including a homer, scored 3 times and made it easy to understand what all the fuss is about.
[Photo Credit: Matthew Schenning]
Phil Hughes vs. Chris Capuano tonight.
Line-ups to come. (I may be a little late posting them.)
Never mind those summer winds: Let’s Go Yank-ees!
[Featured Image by Liviu Burlea]
A Yankee-Dodger double-header. Who is going to kvetch more? Dodger fans have more reason to kvetch but this is New York, we’re home and nobody is going to out-kvetch us in the Bronx. Turns out the Dodger fans still have more reasons to moan after a critical throwing error helped the Yanks open the game up. It was a lead that even a two-run home run by Hanley Ramirez (who went 4-4) could not cure.
David Robertson wobbled in the 8th but he did not fall down and Mariano Rivera gave us that patented peaceful, easy, feeling–peacefuleasyfeelingisapatentofmarianoriverandthenewyorkyankees–in the 9th retiring the side in order. Yasiel Puig made the final out, waving at two cutters moving away from him and then staring at one last cutter, also on the outside corner. It was painted black, son, and Puig was schooled by the Master.
Nice day for Ichiro and another solid start from Hiroki as the Yanks win 6-4.
Yanks look for the improbable sweep tonight. Improbable because winning both games of a double header never seems to happen to your team (it can happen to the Red Sox or even the Mets like it did yesterday), unlikely because Phil Hughes is pitching, and unfathomable because it’s hard to imagine us being out-kvetched in our house.
[Photo Credit: Joel Zimmer]
Our man Hiroki goes in the matinee.
1. Gardner CF
2. Nix SS
3. Cano 2B
4. Wells LF
5. Neal DH
6. Suzuki RF
7. Adams 3B
8. Overbay 1B
9. Stewart C
Never mind the goldbrickers:
Let’s Go Yank-ees!
Injuries and rain and Phil Hughes.
Brett Gardner CF
Jayson Nix SS
Robinson Cano 2B
Vernon Wells LF
Thomas Neal DH
Ichiro Suzuki RF
David Adams 3B
Lyle Overbay 1B
Chris Stewart C
It’s going to be a late night.
Never mind the hospital bills:
Let’s Go Yank-ees!
[Painting by Gregory Thielker]
The Yankees and Dodgers are scheduled to play a two-game series in the Bronx starting tonight (if the weather permits). Nice job by SI.com’s Jay Jaffe today recalling the 1978 World Series and Game 2’s classic final out when Bob Welch whiffed Mr. October. Featured is the following take on “Casey at the Bat”:
“Destiny, Ah Fate, Mighty Reggie has Struck Out!”
by Jules Loh, AP Special Correspondent, 1978
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the Yankees in L.A. The score stood 4-3, two out, one inning left to play. But when Dent slid safe at second and Blair got on at first Every screaming Dodger fan had cause to fear the worst. For there before the multitude — Ah destiny! Ah fate! Reggie Jackson, mighty Reggie, was advancing to the plate.
Reggie, whose three home runs had won the year before, Reggie, whose big bat tonight fetched every Yankee score. On the mound to face him stood the rookie, young Bob Welch. A kid with a red hot fastball — Reggie’s pitch — and nothing else. Fifty-thousand voices cheered as Welch gripped ball in mitt. One hundred thousand eyes watched Reggie rub his bat and spit.
“Throw your best pitch, kid, and duck,” Reggie seemed to say. The kid just glared. He must have known this wasn’t Reggie’s day. His fist pitch was a blazer. Reggie missed it clean Fifty-thousand throats responded with a Dodger scream. They squared off, Reggie and the kid, each knew what he must do. And seven fastballs later, the count was three and two.
No shootout on a dusty street out here in the Far West Could match the scene: A famous bat, a kid put to the test. One final pitch. The kid reared back and let a fastball fly. Fifty-thousand Dodger fans gave forth one final cry… Ah, the lights still shine on Broadway, but there isn’t any doubt The Big Apple has no joy left. Mighty Reggie has struck out.
Also buried by Welch’s sensational performance in Game 2 was when Reggie got his revenge in Game 6. The Yankees were up 3 games to 2 and leading in the 7th inning by the score of 5-2 when Jackson faced Welch again.
This time he hit a long home run–they didn’t call him Buck Tater for nothing–the icing on the gravy of the Yankees World Series win.
Over at Dodger Thoughts our old pal Jon Weisman and I talk about the two-game Yankee-Dodgers series. I leave off with telling him to kiss my ass, which is a Dodger Thoughts polite way of telling him to go fuck himself. Welcome to the Bronx.
We drove up to the Angels Stadium parking lot, and we weren’t asked to pay for parking. Our tickets were scanned at the turnstile, and we were directed down instead of up. When we found the entrance for Section 113, the usher politely asked us to walk down the steps to the fifth row, and then turn left. My son and I took seats 6 and 7, and my wife and oldest daughter sat directly behind us. We were high rollers, at least for a day. As I stood blinking in the sun, only twenty feet or so from the infield grass, a line from a Talking Heads song popped into my head. “Well, how did I get here?”
I teach 7th grade English. Last Thursday was the last day of school, and it was a sad day. Not only was it my last day with the amazing group of seventh graders that I had taught since September, it was also the last day I’d see the graduating eighth graders I’d taught the year before. Included in that graduating Class of 2013 was a group of ten girls who ate lunch in my room every day this year.
We had our final lunch last Tuesday, and they surprised me with a few gifts — a framed photograph that they had all signed, a book I’ve been wanting to read for years, and a fistful of my favorite candy bars. That was already more than generous, but then they gave me one more present — four box seats to see the Yankees on Father’s Day. All of my students know of my love for the Yankees, so these girls certainly knew it would be the perfect gift: something I’ve always wanted but would never have bought for myself.
I thought of those girls as we sat on the third base side, five rows up, about midway between the mound and home plate. The best seats I’ve ever had for a game. An anthropologist could probably do a fairly in depth study comparing and contrasting the different social groups in the different corners of a major league ballpark, and it took only a few minutes to gauge the folks in Section 113. There were other tourists like us, people who took photos of everything because they’d never been there before and doubted they would ever come back. They looked around with wonder, first marveling at how close they were to their heroes, then sneaking glances to the upper reaches of the stadium where they knew they belonged.
And of course, there were the locals — the season ticket holders who sat in these seats 81 games a year and had lost sight of how special this section really was. They arrived casually, an inning or two late, and walked to their seats without direction. One family of six sauntered in with drinks in hand, sat down in the front row, and simply started chatting amiably amongst themselves as if they were picnicking in the park. Imagine Dorothy stepping into Oz and simply saying hello.
I’ve been going to watch the Yankees in Anaheim for more than thirty years now, and the biggest difference between now and then is that Angels fans actually care about their team now. They wear the red, they swing rally monkeys over their heads, and they cheer for their favorite players. They just aren’t as loud as Yankee fans.
When Brett Gardner rifled a double down the left field line to start off the game, I stood and shouted out to him as he stood at second. “There you go, Gardy!” When that rally fizzled, and two innings later another one looked to be headed in the same direction, I worried that this game — that these amazing seats — might not have a happy ending.
But then Travis Hafner did the improbable. With two outs and two strikes, he launched a home run to center field, and suddenly the Yankees were up 3-0. Before the inning was over they had scored five runs, and it felt like fifty. Two older men in their sixties, one wearing a Yankee cap and the other an Angels cap, returned to their seats in front of us after missing the third inning. The Yankee fan turned to me and asked with a smile and a wink towards his friend, “Hey, did we miss anything?” We laughed.
The next five innings were delightfully uneventful. CC Sabathia looked like an ace on the mound for the Yanks, and his dominance combined with the Southern California sun to slowly send Angels fans home. By the seventh inning at least a dozen of the actual ticket holders in our section had gone home and had been replaced by interlopers, always a father and one or two boys. A Yankee fan and his four-year-old son, both in pinstripes, slid into our row for a while, then bounced from one seat to another as they saw fit. When the entitled family in the front row got up to leave in the eighth, they weren’t out of the aisle before their seats were filled. Some things never change.
When Sabathia struck out Peter Bourjos to end the eighth inning, there was a mass exodus of Angels fans — because no one rallies from a 6-0 deficit in the ninth — but Yankee fans stayed put, clearly hoping to see Mariano Rivera record the final three outs. When Sabathia came back out to start the ninth, I was momentarily disappointed, but then I realized I was being greedy to hope for that on what had already been a near-perfect day.
It didn’t make much sense to my wife. “Isn’t it a bit odd that he’s their best pitcher, but they aren’t letting him pitch?” Indeed.
And then it happened. Mike Trout led off with a double to left, and Albert Pujols walked. There was no cause for concern, of course, but it was enough to force Girardi out to the mound. The lower level from the visitors’ dugout to the right field foul pole has traditionally been filled with Yankee fans, but at this point in the game they outnumbered fans of the home team by about ten to one. The second Girardi raised his right arm to signal the bullpen, every Yankee fan in the park stood to give CC an ovation, including that huge contingent across the field from me. It gave me goosebumps.
Also, it gave me hope.
As Robertson was having trouble throwing strikes and looked ready to load the bases after allowing the Angels’ first run, I leaned over and told my son, “I’m not sure if I’m rooting for a walk, or an out.”
As Robertson threw ball four, my eyes immediately found Girardi in the dugout. He didn’t hesitate, and the buzz began as soon as he hit the top step. Everyone knew what was coming.
The bullpens in Anaheim are staggered, with the visitors’ pen elevated and behind the Angels’, so it took longer than usual for Rivera to appear after Girardi signaled for him. When the gate opened up and Mariano broke into his familiar trot, the entire stadium — even those wearing red — rose to give him a standing ovation. I got my son’s attention and then turned to my daughter. “Watch everything he does,” I said. “If you watch baseball for another fifty years, he will still be the best pitcher you’ll ever see.”
Erick Aybar grounded out weakly to first base for the second out, but a run scored from third, cutting the lead to 6-2. My son noticed this. “Daddy, it’s six to two now!” Don’t worry, I told him. It’s Mo.
Four batters later, after three of the cheapest hits you’ll ever see and a walk that loaded the bases, everything had changed. The stadium was in a frenzy as Albert Pújols, the greatest hitter of his generation, came up to face Mariano Rivera, the greatest closer of all-time. With the score suddenly 6-5, any base hit would almost certainly win the game for the Angels. There was a woman in her sixties standing four seats to my left. We were both wearing identical Rivera t-shirts, and we looked at each other for the first time all day. You know the look.
I watched as Pújols walked slowly towards the plate, and the words “rock bottom” started swimming around my head. It would be bad enough to lose this game, a game that would be their sixth loss in a row, but to lose a six-run lead in the ninth inning with Rivera on the mound? A loss like that could potentially destroy the entire season.
But then I looked away from Pújols and focused on Mariano. In that moment I knew everything would be okay. Who else, I thought — in the history of the game — would I rather see on the mound for the Yankees right now than this man? He had yielded four consecutive base runners, something I’m guessing he’s done less than ten times in his nineteen-year career, but nothing about him had changed. He looked in to Chris Stewart to get the sign, bowed slightly as he came to a set, then placed the ball exactly where he wanted for strike one. His next pitch was fouled off for strike two, and the volume turned up a notch as Yankee fans begged for the strikeout.
Rivera’s third pitch to Pújols was meant to tantalize. It was well above the letters, but by the time Pújols realized it was up out of the strike zone, it was too late. He wasn’t able to stop his mighty swing, and the game was over.
The texts started coming in almost immediately. First, a report from New York saying I could be seen celebrating in the background of the YES replay of the final pitch, then two more from people who had seen me on the local Angels broadcast. My brother-in-law sent along a clip of the video, and there we were, all four of us. As Pújols swung and missed, I could be seen pumping my fist in the air in celebration.
We lingered in the stands a bit and eventually took a few photos down by the rail as evidence that we had actually been there. As we finally made our way up to the concourse and walked out of the stadium, I thought about the dozens of Yankee games I had seen in the past. I had seen Don Mattingly hit a pinch-hit home run to beat the Angels in that same stadium, I had travelled to New York for Don Mattingly Day, and I had been lucky enough to take my entire family to see a game in New York in the old Stadium’s final season.
None of those games, though, compared to this one. The game itself was phenomenal, and it was an added bonus to see Mariano, but there was so much more to it than that. I was with my family on Father’s Day, sitting in unbelievable seats courtesy of ten students whom I’ll never forget. I’m sure I’ll be watching baseball for the next fifty years, but I know I’ll never see another game like this one.
Reid Brignac has a sweet, long left-handed swing. Looks like he’s going to crush the ball when you see that swing. Except I haven’t seen him hit any bombs since he’s been on the Yanks, have you? Over at River Ave Blues, Mike Axisa offers some thoughts on how the Bombers can continue to tweak their roster.
And so…
Our pal Hank Waddles was at the game today. He had great seats, given to him as a year-end present from his students (Hank teaches middle school in Southern California). We texted during the game, Hank and his son sitting five rows behind the Angels dugout, me in my kitchen in the Bronx, cooking for the week.
The Yanks saw a breezy 6-0 lead fall the fuck apart in the 9th. I’ll let Hank give you the dramatic rundown but here was the scene: Yanks 6, Angels 5, bases loaded, 2 out, Mariano Rivera vs. Albert Pujols.
And Mo strikes The Great Albert out on three pitches, the final a check swing.
Here’s how it looked on the YES replay. In the background to the right you can see a Yankee fan with his hands crossed and then cheering…
Our man Hank.
And a win. Hot Damn.
It started well. The Yanks won 3 of 4 in Seattle. But they’ve lost 5 in a row since and have Jared Weaver to deal with today before they limp home.
At least C.C. is pitching but he hasn’t been a sure thing and he sure won’t be able to help his team score runs.
Brett Gardner CF
Ichiro Suzuki RF
Robinson Cano 2B
Travis Hafner DH
Vernon Wells LF
Lyle Overbay 1B
Jayson Nix 3B
Reid Brignac SS
Chris Stewart C
Never mind more pesky brooms:
Let’s Go Yank-ees!
[Photo Credit: Vector1771]
Two, the loneliest number. Cause that’s all the Yanks seem to be able to score these days. Rationed to a couple of runs per game. And most of the time that’s just not enough. Here’s how it goes for them right now–down a run, middle of the game, Ichiro gets on first with a bunt single. He steals second and then swipes third and then three different Angels pitchers strike out the next three hitters and Ichiro is stranded.
The final score: Angels 6, Yanks 2. And the bad news is that Mark Teixeira left the game and returned to New York to have his wrist checked. The underlying feeling with Tex is that this year was going to be a ruined. That isn’t the case yet but it’s hard not to have a bad feeling about what the doctor’s will find.
Here’s hitting coach Kevin Long (via Chad Jennings):
“I don’t know that it’s been right since he’s been here, honestly…A big part of his routine is doing tee work, and he hasn’t been able to do that. It definitely affects him from the left side, not the right side. The right side is fine, but the left-handed part where you kind of go like that (bending at the wrist) in the last minute, he’s not able to execute.
“At this point, he’s going to play and do what he thinks he’s capable of doing to help the team. When he feels like that part of it doesn’t get him far enough and doesn’t get him to where he’s able to help the team, he’s going to say something. He did today. … He had a couple pitches where he was like, ‘I should crush those balls, but I’m not able to take my A-swing.’ He said at that point he should probably come out of the game and reevaluate what’s happening.”
[Photo Credit: Matt Malloy]
It’s Phelps and hold yer breath.
Yanks looking to end this 4-game skid.
Never mind the futility:
Let’s Go Yank-ees!
[Photo Via: Sunbaths]
The Yanks are licking their wounds coming off a three-game sweep in Oakland. They’re in suburban L.A. to play the underachieving Angels this weekend. Glass half-full says at least they are playing an underachieving team; glass half-empty says said underachieving team beats their ass.
Which one of these?
Brett Gardner CF
Jayson Nix 3B
Mark Teixeira 1B
Robinson Cano DH
Vernon Wells LF
Thomas Neal RF
David Adams 2B
Reid Brignac SS
Austin Romine C
Youk is back on the DL–Chad Jennings has the notes.
Never mind the bad vibes:
Let’s Go Yank-ees!
[Painting by Richard Diebnkorn]
One of Mel Brooks’ 2001 Year Old Man bits had him saying that we make fun old an old guy who is bent over and spitting and pretty soon we’re bent over and spitting. I thought of this tonight when the Yanks lost in 18 innings to the A’s, 3-2, because just last weekend the Mets lost in 20 innings. I didn’t take pleasure in the Mets’ misery, necessarily, I was just relieved it wasn’t happening to the Yanks.
The only relief I got from this game was that I didn’t see a pitch of it. I followed the early innings on Game Day, and hours later, followed it some more from my phone after Em and I finished dinner at a restaurant downtown.
“They’re still playing,” I said to the Wife. We got soaked on our way to the subway, which is when I took a picture of the Mariano Rivera New York Magazine cover at a newsstand (pictured above)
And they were still playing when the 1 train got to 125th Street. I put the phone away and didn’t bring it back out until we approached Dyckman. I asked Em if she had a good feeling. She hesitated to say anything and half-smiled which was her nice way of saying she didn’t have a good feeling.
Sure enough when I checked the phone again the Yanks had lost by a run. Upon further inspection it was worse–Mariano was on the hill when they lost. I cursed and gave a short, quick punch to the empty seat next to me.
“Cool it,” said the Wife.
Then came texts came from friends: “Brutal,” “Stab Me Now, Please,” “Way to Ruin the Day.”
Here’s what made it better. As my anger rose I looked up at the young, scraggily-looking couple sitting across from us. Mid-twenties, I guess. Chick has long blond hair and is reading an old paperback copy of a Herman Hesse book. Dude has long hair too. And he’s talking about the world, about politics, about Serbs and Turkey. He’s not just talking, he’s pontificating. Loudly. Finally he puts his head back and closes his eyes and says, “I’m not saying we should all get along but why can’t we all just hang out and enjoy the fruits of our society, man?”
I look up from my phone at him. The Wife squeezes my hand and whispers, “Easy.”
The train stops, we get out and laugh. That help take the sting out of a dispiriting loss for the Yanks.
