As sports fans, we’re on the lookout for “greatest of all time.” It matters. It’s Jordan. It’s Tiger. It’s why we react so viscerally, one way or the other, to Barry Bonds. Albert Pujols is one of the greatest players of all time, and he walks on water and hops on clouds for us. And of course Mariano Rivera is the greatest reliever of all time, and we revel in that almost every time we hear Enter Sandman.

Last night Novak Djokovic beat Rafael Nadal for the US Open championship. The Joker is 64-2 this season, and has taken out the world’s number two player six times. He holds three majors and only lost in the French Open semis to the the number three player in the world – who happens to also have a claim as the greatest tennis player of all-time. It might be the greatest season in the history of modern professional tennis.

The only real blemish on Djokovic’s season was the semi final loss at the French. If he had survived Federer there, and somehow managed to beat Nadal in the final, this would be an open and shut case. Beating Rafa on the red clay of Roland Garros would be as difficult as wrestling a great white in open waters. He never got the chance to test himself, but lest we forget, Djokovic did beat Nadal on red clay not once but twice in run-ups to the French Open.

The Joker’s only lost 23 sets this season. In his victories, he needed five sets only once, the epic semis in the US Open versus Federer. One of his two losses came in the tournament before the US Open in which he reitred to fourth-ranked Andy Murray. He won ten of the 12 tournaments he entered. It was a lesson in dominance.

The level of dominance is only as strong as the rest of the field. Since Nadal is at the top of his game and Federer is aging very gracefully, not to mention the excellence of Andy Murray, the field is quite strong. Rafa won the French and made two other Major finals. Murray made the finals of the Australian, and the semis of the three others and Federer made one final and two semis. None of the 2011 titles came easily.

Against these titans of tennis, Djokovic went 12-2. And he had to take out two of them, back-to-back in the same tournament four times. In his seven semi-final and finals appearance in the Majors, six of the opponents were either Nadal, Federer or Murray. His only “easy” match was Jo-Wilfired Tsonga in the Wimbledon semis.

There are a few other seasons in tennis history that might be as good as this one.  John McEnroe in 1984 went 84-3. But he only held two Majors. He lost the French to Lendl after being up two sets to none. Roger Federer went 81-4 in 2005, but also only managed two Majors. Going back to Rod Laver (1960s) and Don Budge (1930s), we can find Grand Slam winners, but tennis was a different game then and I’m not one to comment on the evolution. Several other players have won three Majors in a season, but not with the periphal dominance of the Joker.

I don’t know enough about tennis to say with any certainty how the Joker has risen so far above the rest of the top players. But watching him humble Nadal with his powerful forehand made a lasting impression. Also, Djokovic recently went to a Gluten-free diet and it has changed his life for the better.

The tennis season does not end with the Majors, so Djokovic can still add to his resume, or fall off the perch, but the way he’s playing right now, I don’t think anybody can take him out. However, after 1984, John McEnroe never won another Major final and fell out of the top tier faster than Ivan Lendl could chug a Snapple.

When you checked the names on the marque, you probably quickly decided that this would be the west coast game you wouldn’t stay up to watch. With King Felix Hernández on the hill for the Seattle Mariners and Phil Hughes hanging by his fingernails for the Yankees, this game was a Yankee loss written in ink. A funny thing happened, though. The Yankees won.

Don’t beat yourself up about going off to bed early. Judging by the lineup he trotted out, even Joe Girardi seemed to have chalked this one up. Nick Swisher was playing first, Eric Chavez was at third, Chris Dickerson was in right, and rookie Austin Romine was behind the plate.

It wasn’t exactly Murderers’ Row, but it was good enough as the Yanks jumped on Hernández in the top half of the fourth. Perhaps Mark Teixeira said it best when he explained , “He left a few balls up in the zone, in the middle of the plate, and we made him pay.”

Teixeira led off the fourth with a long home run deep into the Seattle night, and his teammates followed along. Including Tex’s homer, the Bombers had a single, two doubles, two home runs, and the King seemed like a commoner.

Hernández settled down, but all that heavy lifting in the fourth inning sucked a lot of the life out of him, and he was forced out of the game after the sixth. It didn’t much matter, though, because Hughes was dealing. He gave up just five hits and a single run, and stated his case to remain in the rotation for at least another turn. I doubt if Girardi even knows what he’s going to do.

There were two other notes of interest. Romine made his first career start at catcher, and he picked up his first major league hit, a sliced line drive to right field. Later on, when the game was salted away at 9-1, Girardi (or at least I assume it was Girardi) teased us by asking top prospect Dellin Betances to throw a bit in the bullpen. It would have been great to get a sneak peek at the 6’8″ Betances, but it didn’t happen on this night. Maybe later this series.

It’s hard to complain, though. A great night all around for the Yanks. Yankees 9, Mariners 3.

[Photo Credit: Otto Greule, Jr./Getty Images]

The Yanks will have nobody to blame but themselves if they don’t win the American League East. Yeah, they are facing Felix Hernandez tonight but you gotta figure they should win this series against the Mariners.

Cliff has the preview.

Up all night, we cheer:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Mariano is three saves away from setting the all-time saves record. I liked this bit from Craig Calcaterra over at Hardball Talk:

I think that Rivera is just showing — again — how true greatness and dominance can get actually get boring after a while, causing us to lose sight of it. I mean, it would be one thing if there was a dramatic arc to Rivera’s career. But really there isn’t. It’s been greatness since he began, followed by greatness, and continuing on through greatness, basically unabated. Sure, you have a season of him as a mediocre starter for spice. A high-profile blown save a decade ago. But really that’s not enough to break the chain.

Say Word.

Oh, Tina.

Saveur offers 16 refreshing cucumber recipes.

Dig ‘um, smack.

[Photo Credit: The Kitchen Sink]

Over at Egotripland, Fab Five Freddy talks about BDP’s “My Philosophy.”

The Deep End of the Pool

By John Schulian

The door to Hollywood was open, courtesy of Steven Bochco, and all I had to do was step through it. As easy as that sounded, I was fully aware of how ill-equipped I was to write for the series that turned out to be “L.A. Law.” I’d never written a script and, uncharacteristically, I didn’t try to once I received Steven’s invitation. Though I’d always been a grind and a stickler for preparation, this time I backed off, as if I were afraid to risk screwing up the alignment of the stars that had shone on me thus far.

I pored over the “Hill Street Blues” scripts Steven had sent me until the print started to fade, soaking up their rhythms and quirks and humanity. When drafts of the pilot script for “L.A. Law” began arriving, I read them even more ravenously. If I’d been smart, I would have saved them. All I have, however, are my memories of how the script by Steven and the show’s co-creator, a former lawyer named Terry Louise Fisher, hit me between the eyes with its intelligence, irreverence, and heart. Though multiple storylines were being juggled, they never detracted from the luminous writing. Likewise, there would be no caving in to the mill-run blandness that makes the characters on too many TV series sound like the creation of an uninspired ventriloquist. In just a few lines of dialogue, Steven and Terry had me seeing a three-dimensional quality to the womanizing Arnie Becker, the up-from-nothing Victor Sifuentes, and the career-burdened lovers, Ann Kelsey and Michael Kuzak. That’s the way first-class writing works on the screen, big or small: a little begets a lot.

The other significant lesson I learned lay in the number of drafts the script went through. I’d never been one for rewriting – there’s rarely time for it on a newspaper – but that was all Steven and Terry seemed to be doing. And in every draft they made a stunning script better. The question for me was whether I could come anywhere near what they had achieved, anywhere near being within a million miles. Some days, when I was particularly full of myself, I didn’t see why not. Other days, when reality grabbed my lapel and gave me a good shake, I could feel my throat constricting. Either way, there was no ignoring the obvious: I was going to be in the deep end of the pool.

While I waited for Steven to tell me when to show up, I tried not to turn my Philadelphia Daily News column into a public disgrace. I’d promised the sports editor that I’d come back to the paper if I struck out in Hollywood, but no matter how I pushed myself, my heart was far from the work at hand. I felt no more connection to Philly than I had when I was a visiting writer. If there was an out-of-town assignment, I tried to grab it, the farther out of town the better. I made the old “Best Sports Stories” anthology twice while I was at the Daily News, and one piece was written in Chicago, the other in Anchorage, Alaska.

The dateline I was most interested in, of course, was Los Angeles. There are many things I haven’t been smart about in my life, but whenever I was in L.A., I was smart enough to capitalize on Steven’s invitation to call him. We chatted a time or two, and then he invited me to dinner with him and his wife at the time, Barbara Bosson, whom you may remember as the precinct captain’s increasingly unhinged ex-wife on “Hill Street.” We went to Michael’s, in Santa Monica, which was then the hottest restaurant in town. I don’t remember what I ate, other than it was probably more than Steven and his wife put away combined. But I do remember how Michael himself came out and schmoozed with the Bochcos and threw in a quick backrub for Steven. So this was how TV royalty was treated.

Later, I was in L.A. again, this time to cover the Lakers when the Houston Rockets upset them to get into the 1986 NBA finals. Steven invited me to swing by his office at Twentieth Century Fox and watch an early cut of the “L.A. Law” pilot. He wasn’t around when I showed up, but his assistant had everything ready for me. I watched it by myself, thrilled to see how the splendid cast he had assembled brought those characters to life. There was magic involved-–I wasn’t sure how it was conjured up, but more than ever, I wanted to be part of it.

In mid-June 1986, almost 11 months to the day after Steven wrote me the letter that became my life preserver, there I was. I made a silent vow to check my ego at the door, took a deep breath, and walked into the Old Writers Building on the Fox lot. “Nobody here but us old writers,” Steven said. I’d read the scripts he’d sent me, a venerable introductory text called “Screenplay,” by Syd Field, and the script for “Chinatown,” which remains the gold standard of screenwriting. And that was the sum total of my preparation for the turning point in my life.

"Chinatown" by Robert Towne

Steven introduced me to Terry Fisher, who looked at me like she still hadn’t heard an acceptable explanation for my presence. But Steven was the big dog in the room, so my place at the table was secure. After some polite chitchat, we started to work on breaking the story lines for what would become the eighth episode of “L.A. Law.” Ten minutes in, I realized just how far out of my league I was.

Here were two incredibly smart, savvy, sophisticated people-–one a reformed lawyer, the other a legendary TV writer who had steeped himself in the law and lawyers-–and they were doing something they had done hundreds of times before. They were kicking around ideas and notions and snippets of dialogue the way the Harlem Globetrotters whip a basketball around. I was a bumpkin, unschooled in law and barely conversant with screenwriting. I sat there paralyzed, unable to contribute a single coherent thought. This wasn’t what I’d expected at all. All my life I’d worked alone, and now that I’d been thrust into Hollywood’s collaborative process, I was afraid that if I tried to say anything, I would squeak like a mouse.

Click here for the full “From Ali to Xena” archives.

[Swimming Pool Photograph by David Lee Guss]

Groovin’.

[Photo Credit: Vacancy Signs]

Sitting in the safety of my living room, reading about bomb plots, I sometimes wonder about the security of my commute. But then the time comes to get going in the morning and my head is clear of any notion that something might happen. When I arrive at my desk, I remember I was supposed to be worried and I feel irresponsible.

I’m not trying to ignore the threat, but at the most crucial times, it’s the furthest thing from my mind. I can see how that unconscious selectivity helps me function as a human being, but I wish it was a manual shut-off valve instead of an automatic.

How do you guys deal?

“My Gems,” By William Harnett (1888)

First day of pre-school tomorrow for my older boy. It’s the de facto last weekend of summer for us and we Phineas & Ferbed it. A worm hunt, sleep-over, co-op wide bar-be-cue, birthday party, soccer practice, knight’s quest, and a long walk through Washington Heights to Inwood. And he had questions about memorials around town today that I just couldn’t answer adequately, though I tried my best. There were also baseball games. I know because my phone is set to text me every score change in every Yankee game. So I saw the Yanks scored one run on seven hits over 18 innings against the Angels. I even watched the Friday night game.

But this losing streak didn’t phase me in the least. This team can hit. Jered Weaver and Dan Haren can pitch, especially in their ballpark. The Yanks have thumped those guys before, especially in our ballpark, which is probably where we’ll see them if they work themselves into the Postseason. Ervin Santana isn’t quite as good as Weaver and Haren, but he’s no slouch. And the Yankees did just fine against him today.

They fought back several times as Freddy Garcia put them in a hole and kept digging. And when they finally evened the score, the baseball gods rewarded them with the type of break we’re unaccustomed to seeing in Anaheim. Mark Teixeira lofted a fly ball to deep center with one out and the tying run on third. It was well struck, but it never looked like anything other than an out. Right up until it clanked off the heel of Peter Bourjos’s glove. Derek Jeter scored the go-ahead run all the way from first and the bullpen made it stick. Yanks win, 6-5.

Freddy Garcia threw to Jesus Montero catching his first big-league game. Montero will remind nobody of Johnny Bench back there, but shockingly, he prevented a few of the balls from skipping to the backstop, threw out a runner stealing second, and did not spontaneously combust at any time. It was the second inning when Mike Scioscia decided to test the rookie for the first time. He sent Alberto Callaspo on a 1-2 count. Freddy Garcia obliged with a slow slider, low and outside. Montero snagged the ball as he drew himself into throwing position and delivered a seed on target to Eduardo Nunez. Not that close.

One play will not rewrite the story on Montero, but we need to remember that scouts don’t like his long-term ability to stick at catcher. That doesn’t mean he can’t play there sometimes in the short-term. The Yankees can still get excellent value by playing him there occasionally, DHing him often, and perhaps teaching him how to play right field and first base in the mean time. The Angels stole two bases on him later in the game and he couldn’t prevent a run-scoring wild pitch. Wake me when the Rays steal nine bases on him or something like that.

Speaking of rookie catchers, due to injuries to Cervelli and Martin, Austin Romine got the quick call-up and jumped behind the plate to catch the top three Yankee relievers. He didn’t get a chance to bat, but going from AA to a cup of coffee with Scranton was supposed to be the high point of his season. Catching Mo’s 599th save in his MLB debut must have blown his noggin.

Freddy Garcia wasn’t very good, but the bullpen was. If the Yankees are going to win games in the Postseason started by someone besides CC, expect the box score to look like this one. Curtis Granderson and Robinson Cano hit home runs to keep the game close. Granderson’s recent slump illustrates how crucial his production is to the lineup. He’s been a bedrock this season, month-to-month reliability. And then five for 38 to start September. The slump has quieted any MVP talk, but there’s still time to turn that around with a hot finish. Regardless of appearances, with Arod contributing little this year, the team revolves around Granderson and Cano.

Mariano Rivera is one save away from 600, two saves away from tying the all-time record, and three away from claiming the record for himself. We all know saves are a poorly conceived statistic that have probably caused more harm than good in the game, but as long as Mariano is the all-time leader in something, they can’t be all bad.

The Red Sox couldn’t break their losing streak today, so the Yankees inched forward to a 3.5 game lead, four in the loss column. The Rays are charging as the Yanks and Sox stumble, but they’re too far back to bother the Yankees. They’re too far back to catch the Red Sox, but bother them…yeah, I think they have officially bothered them.

All this transpired on the last day of our summer vacation. I didn’t see it, but I did see this:

The snail was slow and it left a trail of slime, but eventually it got where it was going.

The Yanks have lost four games in a row. Couple of dumb ones against the O’s, couple of tough ones against the Angels. Be nice if they win one today.

Scoretruck–on the low–anyone?

Never mind the angst: Let’s Go Yanks!

[Photo Credit: Someone that Understands]

Word to God.

When I think about September 11, I immediately become angry. Angry with malevolent terrorists who committed mass murder on American soil, terrorists who participated in one of the greatest atrocities in American history. I have no sympathy for the terrorists, and no interest in hearing about their reasons for murdering innocent people.

After awhile, my anger turns to sadness. I think about Adam Lewis, the one person I knew who died in the Twin Towers. Adam and I were classmates at Hamilton College, part of the class of 1987. I didn’t know Adam well enough to call him a friend, but knew him well enough to realize that he was a good guy and a strong family man. Like all of the other civilians who died that day, he deserved better.

And then my sadness turns to a smile. I think about the way that Americans responded to the tragedy. So many firefighters, medical personnel, and policemen reported to Ground Zero on a day when they were not supposed to work. They had no obligation to report, but knew it was the right thing to do. So many volunteers went there, gave hours and hours of themselves, in an effort to rescue whoever might have survived. These were Americans at their finest.

One of those Americans was a former Yankee, Frank Tepedino. A veteran member of the New York Fire Patrol, Tepedino was at home that day when he heard about the terrorist attacks. He, his son, and two other firefighters immediately drove to the towers. Even though they were coming from Long Island, it took them four hours to reach the site.

By the time they arrived, the towers had already collapsed. Tepedino and the others did what they could, searching the rubble for other potential survivors. “Moving debris, opening manhole covers, helping with food, water and excavation,” Tepedino told the Syracuse Herald American in 2001. As they helped in the recovery efforts, Tepedino and his friends worked in 24-hour shifts.

What began as a rescue mission eventually became a job of cleaning up, once they realized that no other survivors would be found. It was frustrating for Tepedino and the others, knowing that the missing would not be found, but they also knew that the cleanup had to be done.

Tepedino’s rescue efforts put him in the spotlight for the first time since 1975, when he wrapped up a journeyman career with the Braves. Originally drafted by the Orioles, Tepedino was then selected by the Yankees in the Rule Five draft. The Yankees loved his left-handed swing, envisioning him as a possible answer at first base. But there were roadblocks at the position, Mickey Mantle and Joe Pepitone early on, and then Johnny Ellis and Ron Blomberg.

The Yankees switched him to the outfield, but there was no room there either, not with people like Roy White and Bobby Murcer holding down starting jobs. As a result, Tepedino never received even close to a full opportunity to play regularly in the Bronx.

He spent a good deal of time at Triple-A Syracuse, where he became one of the Chiefs’ most popular players. Early in 1971, the Yankees finally gave Tepedino a reprieve, sending him to the Brewers for strongboy Danny Walton, who had enormous power but an alarming propensity for striking out.

The Brewers gave Tepedino a look at first base, but he couldn’t beat out veteran Johnny Briggs. So the next spring, the Brewers sold him back to the Yankees. They used him exclusively as a pinch-hitter, and then used him as part of a package to acquire Pat Dobson from the Braves. In 1973, Tepedino became part of the Braves’ celebrated bench brigade, which was known as “F-Troop.” As Tepedino explained to The Sporting News, “F stands for fearless and faithful.” Playing as a backup first baseman and pinch-hitter, Tepedino hit .304 for manager Eddie Mathews. He also had the opportunity to play with a fellow named Hank Aaron, bookending a career that had seen him start his career playing with his boyhood idol, Mickey Mantle.

Two years after leading F-Troop, Tepedino was out of baseball. At the age of 27, Tepedino had to seek out a new career, while continuing his battle with alcoholism. Not only did Tepedino beat the bottle, but he found himself doing worthy work as a fire fighter, beginning a 30-plus year stint with the New York Fire patrol.

On September 11, Tepedino, like thousands of other first responders, became a hero. It was still an awful day, a day that brings with it so many bad memories. But it was a day when people like Frank Tepedino showed us only their best and helped us feel proud.

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

[Drawing by Larry Roibal]

Even before Saturday night’s game in Anaheim, it seemed like the Yankees hadn’t won a game in a week. Now it feels like a week and a half.

For the second night in a row, the Yankees received a representative outing from their starting pitcher only to be shut down by a dominant Angels’ hurler. On Friday night it was Jered Weaver out-pitching Bartolo Colón (although in fairness to Colón, the only run he allowed was unearned), and Saturday saw Dan Haren topping CC Sabathia.

How good was Haren? He gave up a leadoff double to Derek Jeter to open the game, then a harmless single to Jesus Montero to lead off the second, and that was it for a while. He set down the next eighteen Yankee hitters, and by the time Eric Chávez singled in the eighth to snap the string, the Angels led 5-0 and the game was out of reach.

Sabathia wasn’t nearly as dominant, but he was good. He escaped a bases-loaded jam in the first inning, yielded a run in the second on consecutive two-out doubles by Jeff Mathis and Macier Izturis, and fought through what must’ve been utter disbelief when Jorge Posada replaced Russell Martin behind the plate in the third. (In related news, the world did not come to an end.)

The Big Man’s most eventful inning was the sixth. Rookie Mike Trout doubled to lead off the frame, and Erick Aybar immediately squibbed a bunt that died midway between the plate and the mound. Both pitcher and catcher reacted slowly, and by the time Posada fielded and fired it to first, Aybar was safe and the speedy Trout had raced all the way home to give the Angels a 2-0 lead.

Even as the play was developing, something didn’t seem right. Both Sabathia and Jeter pointed in at the plate before Posada had even fielded the ball, and Girardi rushed from the dugout as soon as Trout touched home. Replays showed that Aybar’s bunt had actually gone foul before ricocheting off his knee back into fair territory. The umpires convened and got it right.

What was interesting, if not surprising, was how the Yankees’ and Angels’ broadcasters had completely different reactions to the play. The YES cameras found Girardi immediately, and they were quick to cut to multiple replays confirming the foul ball. As the home plate umpire listened to Girardi’s argument, Michael Kay breathlessly declared, “If they don’t reverse this, Girardi’s going to get kicked out of the game!” Seconds later, there was an air of righteous relief in the booth as the announcers congratulated the umpires for doing the right thing.

From the other side of the press box, it was a completely different play. The Fox Sports cameras zoomed tight on Trout as he jumped up from the plate, exultant after doubling his team’s lead. They cut quickly to the overjoyed crowd, then found Trout again as he bounced triumphantly into the dugout to receive his congratulations. When the cameras finally cut to Girardi and the umpires, the Angels’ announcers seemed completely surprised and wondered openly about what was going on. Here’s where things got really interesting, though. When the replay showed what happened, they wondered why they would overturn the call if they hadn’t seen it and called it in the first place. When manager Mike Scioscia rushed out to argue, they supported him completely, even though they must’ve known that Scioscia knew the ball had been foul.

After Aybar returned to the plate, Sabathia hit him with his next pitch and eventually loaded the bases with one out before producing two groundouts to escape and strand the bases loaded for the second time in the game. Sabathia’s evening was done. He wasn’t great during those six innings — eight hits, four walks, a hit batter, and 119 pitches — but on most nights it would’ve been good enough for a win.

On this night, though, Haren was unbeatable. (If you must know, it was Hector Noesi who coughed up four runs in the seventh to put the game out of reach, but I don’t really want to talk about that.) Haren gave up two singles in the eighth, but wriggled free when short stop Aybar dropped an Eduardo Núñez line drive and turned it into a 6-4-3 double play. (More nonsense from the Angels’ announcers: Mark Gubicza gushed about Aybar’s “baseball intelligence” for having the presence of mind to throw to second for the force after misplaying the line drive. Aybar will likely miss Sunday afternoon’s game because he’ll be in Stockholm to accept the first ever Nobel Prize of Baseball.)

But back to Haren. He cruised through the ninth to finish his 5-0 shutout, and the Yankees were left to ponder a sobering reality. In seventeen innings against Weaver and Haren, they looked like Little Leaguers. The combined line: 17 IP/7 H/1 R/2 BB/18 K. The Angels are charging, and I think it’s likely that they’ll overtake the Texas Rangers and win the A.L. West. Three weeks from now the Yankees might be looking at the prospect of facing Weaver in Game 1 and Haren in Game 2.

Buckle up.

[Photo Credit: Jae Hong/AP Photo]

Sabathia, Haren. Another big game.

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: The Jack Plug]

Peace to all of the Banter readers out there. To you and your families.

Walk Tall.

[Photo Credit: Joel Zimmer]

In memory of 9.11, please check out the first chapter of what I think is probably Glenn Stout’s best book, “Nine Months at Ground Zero: The Story of the Brotherhood of Workers Who Took on a Job Like No Other.”

[Photo Credit: N.Y. Times]

Gettin’ weird with Quincy:

[Photo Credit: Porsche Linn]