“Cityscape” 1963, By Richard Diebenkorn. Not a fugazi.

And so the Yankees made us happy today when Robbie Cano, Nick Swisher–and later in the game, Alex Rodriguez–went Boom! Cano hit a grand slam in the third inning. Mark Teixeira followed and flew out to the warning track in right and then Swisher hit a bomb over the right field wall. Took a minute to admire it, too.

Rodriguez dumped a three-run home run into the fountain out in left field in the eighth.

Meanwhile, Phil Hughes pitched well (walked one, struck out seven)–yo, into the seventh inning, he pitched.

Final Score: Yanks 10, Royals 4.

And the Knicks won a close one at the Garden.

Yippee.

[Photo Credit: Ed Zurga/Getty Images; Frank Franklin III/AP]

Phil Hughes, encore une fois.

Derek Jeter SS
Curtis Granderson CF
Alex Rodriguez 3B
Robinson Cano 2B
Mark Teixeira 1B
Nick Swisher DH
Raul Ibanez LF
Russell Martin C
Dewayne Wise RF

Time to stick together and get ‘er done:

So never mind the bellyachin’ and: Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Via: Craig Robinson]

“And Me” The Beastie Boys

[Photo’s via: She is Glorious]

Nah, I’m not going to get into it, man–how mediocre Hiroki Kuroda was or that dumb base-running move by Curtis Granderson. The Royals had a couple of guys throwing cheddar tonight. Russell Martin had three hits including a long home run to left, okay? That’s the only good thing I have to report. You can read the play-by-play here if you’re a glutton for punishment.  Otherwise, know this: it was a miserable night for the Yanks. They lost two-of-three to the Orioles earlier this week and now two-of-the-first three against the Royals. Puts them just one game over .500.

Right now, the Yanks are playing a hair above full suck.

Final Score: Royals 5, Yanks 1.

[Photo Credit:Ed Zurga/Getty Images]

Nice time to see the Yanks go on a little run. Starts with Kuroda and the Score Truck tonight in K.C.

Derek Jeter SS
Curtis Granderson CF
Alex Rodriguez DH
Robinson Cano 2B
Mark Teixeira 1B
Raul Ibanez LF
Russell Martin C
Dewayne Wise RF
Eduardo Nunez 3B

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

From our pal Kevin Baker:

…with apologies to “The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table” by Oliver Wendell Holmes.

The Wonderful One-Pitch Mo

Have you heard of the Mar-i-ano,
Who such a wonderful pitch did throw
He ran up six hundred saves and then some,
And then of a sudden it — ah, but come,
I’ll tell you what happened without delay,
Tearing the Yankees into bits,
Frightening their fans out of their wits, –
Have you ever heard of that, I say?

Nineteen hundred and ninety-five.
Georgius Steinbrenner was still alive, –
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Seattle-town
Saved its team by beating us down,
And Black Jack McDowell was done so brown,
Left without his scalp to his crown.
It was during that terrible playoff round
That Mariano first came to town.

Now when it comes to closers, I tell you what,
There is always, always a weakest spot, –
They throw too hard or they throw too weak,
They throw too wild or they give up the gophers,
Fall asleep in the pen, those indolent loafers
Find their fault somewhere you must and will, –
In their arm or their head, or within or without, –
And that’s the reason, beyond a doubt,
That a closer breaks down, but doesn’t wear out.

But Steinbrenner swore (as Steinbrenners do,
With an “I dew vum,” or an “I tell yeou”)
He would find one closer to top the Sox
And the Orioles, too, and even the Jays;
And the Indians, and the Oakland A’s:
“Fer,” said Old George, “’t’s mighty plain
Thut the weakes’ pitch mus’ stan’ the strain;
‘n’ the way t’ fix it,’ he said with a hitch,
“Is to find a closer who throws just one pitch.”

So George he inquired down Panama way
Where he could find the toughest hombre,
That couldn’t be spooked nor rattled nor beaten,
Slim as a wraith with a boyish grin;
Who didn’t go for pills or gin;
A monkish halo upon his crown,
And one pitch that could put the toughest side down,
And make even Manny and Ortiz frown.

The pitch he had, well they called it a cutter,
It slipped out of his hand as easy as butter
And swerved and swooped around each batter,
It looked like a fastball, it bent like a curve,
And each one thrown with such vim and nerve,
That hitters were done before they got up,
Frazzled and razzled from helmet to cup.
Their bats were shattered and their confidence shaken,
They couldn’t believe they’d been so taken
And oh, how they would carry on so
To see the wonderful one-pitch Mo

“There!” said George S., “naow we’ll win!”
Win! I tell you, I rather guess
The lad was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Steinbrenner and Steinbrenneress dropped away,
Children and grandchildren — where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-pitch Rivera
As handsome and fabled as Ernesto Guevara.

Ninety-six! — they beat the Braves
Mo pitched two innings, always to raves.
Ninety-eight, and they set some marks;
Mo was the closer now, they filled all the parks.
Ninety-nine they won, and you can bet your testes,
In the year Two Thousand they hammered the Metsies.

Sure, there was a blip here or there,
Thanks to broken-bat singles and the occasional err’r.
That night in Boston, Joe went to sleep on the bench,
And the one in Phoenix when the grass was drenched.
An Alomar here who was all too Sandy,
And a juiced-up Mueller who was mighty handy.

But try as they might they still couldn’t maim him,
He believed in God and who could blame him?
With a pitch like that he sure looked blessed,
And all the hitters he undressed
They just shook their heads and even laughed,
When his cutter ran in and they looked daft.

Running in from the bullpen each night to Metallica,
Rousing the Bronx into high hysterica.
He didn’t take steroids, HGH, or any P-E-Ds
Though the men who he pitched to went through them like Wheaties.
That was all they could do to try to even the score,
As he went rolling on through Ought-Three and Ought-Four

The last 42, he’d become just sublime,
A tribute to Jackie, but all in Mo’s time.
On he went to three hundred
Saves, and then four,
Got his first RBI in the game he hit five,
Did the deed out in Queens where he always did thrive.
Another title that year though his side was killing him,
Finished off Philly in the brand-new Sta-di-um.

On to six hundred he soon did sail,
Passed Lee Smith and Hoffman, and that’s no tale.
Beat the Angels of Anaheim and of Los Angeles,
The Royals in Missoura and the Rangers in Texas.
Topped the Indians, Tigers, the Rays of some kind,
Baffled the Sox, both Pale and Carmine.
It seemed as if he’d go on forever,
His cutter slower but never cleverer
Punching them out and running up flags,
Surpassing the Goose, Sparky, and Rags.

Yet little of of all that we value here
Takes to the field in its forty-deuce year
Without both feeling and looking queer.
In fact, there’s nothing that keeps its youth,
So far as I know, but Mo and the truth.
(This is a moral that runs at large;
Take it. — You’re welcome. — No extra charge.)

Third of May dawned with barely a care,
There are traces of age in our closer’s gray hair
A general flavor of mild decay,
But nothing so bad, as one may say.
He’d outlasted Rodriguezes, Felix and Frankie,
And save for Jeter, each fellow Yankee.
Watched the Wagner who tried to steal his music,
Meet his own Gotterdammerung (boy, were the Mets sick!).
Saw Papelbon off to the seniors’ circuit,
And Gagne, that flash—well, just fergeddit!

He had one pitch, that’s all he needed,
And all our fears he scarcely heeded.
He was a man of faith and a man of God,
And even if his ears were odd,
He threw one pitch and he threw it better,
Than anyone else, lesser or gre’ter.
With a whip-like motion and a flick of the wrist
It just came to him one day as a gift,
And stayed with him through that night in KC
When he ran out there to entertain the hayseeds.
Run his laps and joke with the guys,
His same routine just shagging flies.

Third of May, Two Thousand and Twelve!
Into this fabled disaster we delve.
Nix on the Nix who stroked that ball,
Out past the grass and to the wall
And here comes the wonderful, one-pitch Mo,
He couldn’t back off, he couldn’t go slow.
Unable to shake his outfielder’s blood—
When down he went with an awful thud.

He lay on the ground, in pain but still grinning,
Just as he always did, losing or winning.
It wasn’t the pitch that had failed him at last,
He hadn’t lost faith, gone weak, or got vast.
He hadn’t been done in by ball or by bat
A ligament frayed, it snapped just like that.
Despite a heart that was ne’er less stout,
Mighty Mo hadn’t broken, he’d only worn out.

Have we come to the end of our incredible story?
Or is there waiting some last wondrous glory?
Either way we’ll sing his praises fore’er,
And go see him in Cooperstown, the unrivaled River’
He threw one pitch, and that was all—
It just happened to be the greatest of all.

And with apologies to Frank O’Hara, check out this poem by Glenn Stout.

Lots of NBA today. Yanks tonight.

[Photo Via: Life is What We Make It]

Ah yes, yes, y’all.

When Mark Teixeira hit a long home run to left field in the first inning I figured the Yanks would make it a short night for Bruce Chen. It was a two-run shot and the longest homer I recall seeing Teixeira hitting from the right side since he’s been in New York.

But, Nooooooooo.

Chen settled in, the Royals scored a couple of runs against C.C. in the bottom of the first, and it remained 2-2 until two outs in the top of the seventh when Eduardo Nunez–yes, that Eduardo Nunez–broke the tie with an RBI triple. Chris Stewart–yup, that Chris Stewart–added an RBI and then Derek Jeter–indeed, that Derek Jeter (he of the .404 batting average)–ripped a two-run homer to end Chen’s night the way it was intended.

Final Score: Yanks 6, Royals 2.

[Photo Credit: Minda Haas]

Derek Jeter SS
Curtis Granderson CF
Mark Teixeira 1B
Alex Rodriguez DH
Robinson Cano 2B
Andruw Jones RF
Jayson Nix LF
Eduardo Nunez 3B
Chris Stewart C

It’s been a long day. Be good to see them play ball tonight.

Git ’em C.C.

Never mind the Xanax: Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: Ben Moulden]

Hoops documentary directed by Adam Yauch.

Rothko.

Rest in Peace, MCA.

What’s for lunch?

[Photo Via: Survival of the Illest]

Kids memorize me.

[Photo Credit: Fernanda W]

For most of us, death will not announce itself with a blare of trumpets or a roar of cannons. It will come silently, one the soft paws of a cat. It will insinuate itself, rubbing against our ankle in the midst of an ordinary moment. An uneventful dinner. A drive home from work. A sofa pushed across a floor. A slight bend to retrieve a morning newspaper tossed into a bush. And then, a faint cry, an exhale of breath, a muffled slump.

Pat Jordan, “A Ridiculous Will”

All that remained in Mariano Rivera’s incomparable career as the finest short-inning closer in baseball history was an ending. Last night Rivera fell to the ground on the warning track in Kansas City before the game. He shagged fly balls, something he’s done his entire career–teammates and reporters have always said he’d be a smooth outfielder. He sprinted after a ball and jumped as he reached the warning track. Then he was on his back, his mouth open in pain.

But that isn’t the image that replayed in my mind this morning. What I remember most is watching Rivera being driven off the field in a cart and the smile on his face. Maybe he was embarrassed or maybe he wanted to reassure his teammates that he was okay. Or perhaps Rivera, a spiritual man who has always attributed the events in his career– from his accidental discovery on the cut fastball to losing the seventh game of the World Series–to an act of God believed this was just meant to be and who was he to question it? As if he’d been secretly waiting and now he had an answer.

Things fall apart. For everyone.

The loss for Yankee fans, and the team, isn’t just about Rivera’s production. It is emotional and aesthetic. Even looking at Rivera’s statistics, a parade of type-o’s, has an aesthetic beauty to it. When we talk about Rivera’s pitching motion, his mulish imperturbability, his athletic grace under pressure, we think of artists not ball players: Buster Keaton, Fred Astaire, Al Hirschfeld. His career was a reminded that athletic excellence is closer to art than science.

His career might be over. If so, the last out Rivera recorded was a ground ball to Derek Jeter which was turned into a 6-4-3 double play to end the game against the Orioles on Monday night. Rivera may decide to rehab his knee and pitch again. Nobody would blame him if he walked away. He has nothing left to prove. It is our loss. The beauty part of Rivera’s greatness is that he made us appreciate every performance, every pitch, in a way that kept us in the moment, aware that what we were watching was special.

And so I’ll remember the smile on his face as he was carted off the field. It was a smile of acceptance. And it made me feel better the way he always does. That peaceful, easy feeling. Knowing that he could be seriously hurt, that his season or his career could be over, only reinforced my gratitude. He’s given me more pleasure than any other athlete. For that, I can only give thanks.

The Yankees lost to the Royals in Kansas City on Thursday night, falling 4-3 to a team that hadn’t previously won a single game at home. Young lefty Danny Duffy was in control for much of the night, dominating most Yankee hitters with his 98 MPH fastball and an assortment of curves, sliders, and changeups. (It should be noted, however, that Derek Jeter picked up four more hits, raising his average to .404 overall and a ridiculous .576 against lefties.)

Jeter’s fourth hit was a single to lead off the ninth inning, and when Curtis Granderson followed with a walk to put runners at first and second with no one out and the 3-4-5 hitters due, Kansas City’s one-run lead seemed about to melt. But Mark Teixeira promptly grounded into a 4-6-3 double play, leaving the game to Alex Rodríguez. A-Rod swung through Jonathan Broxton’s first pitch for strike one, then took a pitch that was low and inside and should’ve evened the count at 1-1. Home plate umpire Vic Carapazza saw it as a strike, and suddenly A-Rod was in an oh-two hole. He reacted about as strongly as you’ll ever see a batter react after strike two, taking a step or two towards the umpire with both arms outstretched wide in disbelief. A player of lesser stature would surely have been tossed, but to Carapazza’s credit, he let Alex have his say, perhaps because he knew he had missed the call.

Rodríguez stepped back in the box and dug deep, fouling off three straight pitches before taking three balls to work the count full. He took a mighty swing at the ninth pitch of the at bat, but only managed to dribble it weakly down the third base line. Third baseman Mike Moustakas rushed in, plucked the ball from the grass with his bare hand, and fired to first to get A-Rod by half a step and end the game.

By now, though, you know that none of that matters. While shagging fly balls in the outfield during batting practice before the game, Mariano Rivera twisted his knee and fell to the ground in obvious pain. Waiting his turn in the cage almost four hundred feet away, A-Rod spoke for Yankee fans everywhere when he said, “Oh, my god! Oh, my god! He’s hurt!” Manager Joe Girardi raced to where Mariano lay on the warning track, and moments later he and bullpen coach Mike Harkey were hoisting the greatest closer of all time — and by at least one measure, the greatest pitcher of all time — onto a cart that would drive him off into the sunset, perhaps forever.

The true extent of Rivera’s injury wouldn’t be revealed until after the game, but the specter of disaster loomed over the entire evening. At one point Ken Singleton reported that it was simply a twisted knee and said something about how Girardi would have to do without him for a few days. Anyone who had seen the play (you can watch it here) knew it was much worse.

Within minutes after the final out, Rivera himself confirmed the worst. He had torn his ACL and his meniscus. The exact course of action won’t be known until Rivera flies back to New York and meets with team doctors, but one thing is for sure: he won’t pitch again in 2012, and since this season had long been rumored to be his last, there’s no guarantee that he’ll want to return for 2013, nor is it clear that he’ll even be able to pitch next year. When asked if he thought he would pitch again, an emotional Rivera gave a sobering answer: “At this point, I don’t know. At this point, I don’t know. We have to face this first.”

And now I have to face it. Throughout the game as we were all wondering what the news would be, I didn’t once consider how Rivera’s loss might affect the team. I didn’t wonder who the new closer would be, and I didn’t worry about the team’s playoff chances. All I could think about was whether or not I would ever see Rivera pitch again.

What I’m about to say wouldn’t make sense to people who aren’t sports fans, but I’m guessing that anyone who reads this will understand. Mariano Rivera, Derek Jeter, Andy Pettitte, and Jorge Posada have been fixtures in my life for so long that they’ve transcended sport and become more than just baseball players. They have been the Mt. Rushmore of these Yankees, the faces of the franchise.

With Rivera specifically, it won’t just be during the final three outs of the ninth inning that I’ll miss him. I’ll miss those moments when the camera catches him tutoring a young reliever and modeling the grip of his cutter, a magician opening his bag of tricks. I’ll miss the naps he’d sometimes take in the middle innings. I’ll miss his measured reactions to wins, his stoic confidence in defeat. Without question, I’ll miss the man more than the player.

Sometimes, it’s not about baseball.

[Photo Credit: AP Photo/YES Network]

The kid Phelps gets the start tonight in Kansas City. First of four against the Royals. Chad Jennings has the lowdown.

Derek Jeter DH
Curtis Granderson CF
Mark Teixeira 1B
Alex Rodriguez 3B
Robinson Cano 2B
Andruw Jones RF
Eduardo Nunez SS
Russell Martin C
Jayson Nix LF

Never mind the butterflies, son: Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: Marvin E. Newman]

Don Mattingly by Dave Choate.