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Found on the walk between uptown pre-schools a few weeks ago: one of New York City’s greatest mysteries.

To me, anyway. The first time I remember seeing sneakers strung across telephone wires I was in the Bronx around Yankee Stadium. I asked why, and I’m sure I received an answer, but the answer didn’t have sufficient tack to stay with me.

Here are a bunch of theories, though not exclusive to New York. I like the idea that when you get a new pair, you throw the old ones up there. And since my wife snapped this pic on a block between my kids’ schools, let’s be tooptimistic and rule out the crack, murder and gang-related explanations.

A pair of sisters walked onto the train at 145th st this morning. I pegged them at eight and twelve. They both carried brown paper bags and the younger sister opened her bag and extracted a muffin. She raised it to her mouth with her right hand and took a bite. As she ate, her left hand lost interest in holding the bag and she dropped it to the floor.

Our eyes followed the bag to the floor and then as we reset our viewpoints, we found ourselves staring at each other. There was a fraction of an instant of panic in her eyes as she realized that I witnessed her blatant littering. She recovered quickly and replaced the panic with confidence, perhaps remembering that littering is not a crime and that I was not a cop.

I took her confidence as a challenge, though one I had no desire to take up. I don’t like littering, but I had already spent half an hour trying to get children to listen to me earlier this morning without any hint of success, and those children depend on me to delineate the borders of the DC and Marvel Universes and to unlock the cabinet containing the cereal. This little girl doesn’t need anything from me.

I did not accept her challenge, but I also didn’t want to let her off the hook completely. I searched for a facial expression that could convey disappointment and rejection at the same time. My go-to is a ponderous head shake, eyes closed, with a slight frown. Too engaging for this situation. I thought of an exaggerated frown. But it seemed like that was an admission of defeat rather than a dismissal.

I settled on a quick combo. A heavy eye roll and a weird lip scrunch. I wanted it to say “Whatever. Litterer.”

I don’t think it worked, and I’m sorry that somebody else to pick up the brat’s garbage, but I’m glad I didn’t get in an argument with a little girl.

[Brown Bag via stelladoll7]

The Yankees have won 27 World Series titles, 24 of those teams have featured good hitting catchers. The Yankees have qualified for the postseason 51 times, or would have if not for the season-ending strike of 1994, and 44 of those teams have featured good hitting catchers. (Forgive me, I used OPS+, which I know measures nothing, but is right there on the main stat line of baseball-reference.com’s team pages and tempts the weak.)

When the Yankees have not merely good, but great hitting catchers they really cash in. Yankee teams with starting catchers (again, by baseball-reference’s definition) sporting an OPS+ of 130 or higher won an average of 99.3 games (prorated for a 162 game season where necessary). When their catcher was between 110-129, they won 96.8 games. The average hitting catchers (90-109) played for teams that won 89.9 games and when the catchers could not hit at all, they won 84 games per season.

By no means is this to say that these players are solely responsible for the successes and failures. But I do think their presence on the roster makes a significant contribution. There are other ways to win for sure, but if it ain’t broke… 

Typical offensive output behind the plate is so anemic that when a catcher carries a big stick, it’s an obvious advantage. Factoring in the financial clout of a team like the Yankees, the team does not have to skimp on the rest of the lineup to accomodate a star catcher, cements the gain. The Yankees built dynasty after dynasty on the backs of good hitting catchers.

Dickey, Berra, Howard, Munson and Posada all spring easily to mind. But important platoon guys filled in the cracks. Aaron Robinson helped usher in the Yogi-era; Pat Collins backstopped the legendary late twenties teams. Before them, Wally Schang contrbuted mightily to the first World Series teams by getting on base at a .403 clip from 1921-1923. And as Bruce Markusen pointed out the other day, Mike Stanley helped slug the Yankees out of the misery of the early 90s.

Joe Girardi is the worst hitting catcher on a championship Yankee squad. Most, including me, would forgive him his 75 OPS+ as a Yankee for his triple off Greg Maddux and his graceful yielding of his position to Jorge Posada in 1998.

Now that same light hitting catcher is at the helm as the Yankees try to create their next dynasty. The trade of Jesus Montero means that there is nary a hitting catcher in sight (depending on your squinting abilities). Or if you prefer, the trade of Jesus Montero is probably an admission by the Yankees that he could not be a hitting catcher. Regardless, if the Yankees successfully build a dynasty without one, it’ll be the first time.

But as Yoda might have said, there is another Montero.

Miguel Montero is a good hitting catcher from Arizona who might become a free agent next year. And he can catch it, too. If he does become available, the Yankees could be in the market. Over at RAB, Mike Axisa takes a look at what it might take to get him.

Under normal operating conditions the Yanks would rather have Michael Pineda and Miguel Montero at catcher over Jesus Montero as a non-catcher. But these are not normal times. If the $189 million ceiling for the 2014 team is made of bricks, then signing Miguel Montero to a market-rate deal next offseason makes everything else they have to do that much harder.

Where the Yankees go from here is anybody’s guess. Their minor leagues contain promising catchers, though the hitters are far away from the show. For a team whose championship DNA is riddled with catcher code, if they aspire to another dynasty, I hope a catcher is coming soon and he’ll be bringing a big bat. 

Alex is out sick, but he still found time to give us a beat for the day.

As the subway train settled at its first stop this morning, a voice rang out. “Dyckman St! This is a downtown A Train to Lefferts Boulevard. Next stop is 190th St. Stand clear of the closing doors. Please!”

The voice did not come over the PA however. It belonged to a child. I scanned the faces of the other riders, some hadn’t flinched, no trace of amusement. But many others were smiling, a few even chuckling.

Each successive stop the little boy bellowed the information. Starting at 168th St, it gets complicated. He included all the transfers. His only slip up came when he started his 125th St call a few seconds too early. He stopped, regrouped, and delivered again in full when the train finally arrived.

At each stop he lost some support. A few of the initial smiles disappeared. New passengers were more suspicious, maybe because they weren’t present at the outset and weren’t sure how to respond.

There was one man, however, sitting with his back to the boy, and he was delighted. He was an older Black man, with a graying beard, a slim face and one of those fashionable knit driving caps that looks way cooler on him than on me. He braced himself for each stop and when the kid began shouting he broke out in a big grin. He nodded his head along with the accuracy of the information, like a proud teacher.

When there was a thinning of the crowd at one stop, I leaned over to catch a glimpse of the orator. It was one of my neighbors, six years old, named Jack. Thanks for the laugh this morning Jack. And for one guy at least, you made his day.

I can’t relate to pitchers. I had to take the ball from the second grade up through freshman year of high school and I hated it most of the time. I could hit, though, until it was too dark out to see the ball. If my dad’s arm didn’t get tired, we might still be out there.

On a basic level, hitting is reaction and pitching is initiation. I’ve always had trouble getting started. I’d rather get a feel for something first and join in progress. And the precision required to throw it exactly where you intend every time? Screw that, let me just hit the ball as hard as I can and we’ll see what happens.

Maybe this prejudice influences the way I envision a baseball roster. The lineup is the body, the pitching staff is the wardrobe. The appearance of the team changes game to game based on the pitcher, but the core is the same. The ace is your best suit, your best reliever could be your smoking jacket. (I guess A.J. Burnett is your kid’s urine-soaked PJs)

So when I heard Jesus Montero was traded for Michael Pineda, I felt like we were trading a neck for a necktie. Sure, the tie is important, but without the neck, what’s the point?

Even without the catching, I’ll take Montero’s simple, solid bat over the complex musculature of Pineda’s throwing arm. You can watch Montero hit every game, all season long. There’s no better way to interface with a team than through a star hitter, especially for a young fan, because he’s always in the lineup.

I understand that having Pineda in the rotation probably makes the 2012 Yankees a better team than they would have been with Montero as the DH. But in 2013? And 2014?

Arod and Teixeira are already fractions of what they once were and they will be declining in the lineup for years to come. The Yankees have one big hitter in his prime, Cano, who is fierce but not flawless. You don’t have to squint too hard to see a Yankee team desperate for hitting.

The more I think about the trade, the more comfortable I am with Cashman’s logic and his vision. But I am firmly on the Montero side of the debate. It boils down to this: if they both become stars, I’d want Montero to be a Yankee.

Prizzi’s Honor lives that most uncomfortable space – the black comedy. It’s uncomfortable because to set and maintain the proper tone, the entire production operates on a razor’s edge. If any part of the process falters, from John Huston’s direction all the way down to the selection of condiments at the craft services table, the delicate artifice collapses.

Most important of all is the acting. For a black comedy to succeed, the actors must maintain constant earnestness with the comedy not coming from punch lines but from something inherent in the character himself.

When a black comedy fails, it’s almost always easy to pinpoint the culprit. But when it succeeds, it’s possible to glide right past the great performances that made it so. Jack Nicholson’s Charley Partanna in Prizzi’s Honor is just such a performance.

Partanna is gruff, almost monosyllabic. But he’s not stupid, he just knows that talking too much often leaves you overextended. He’s a competent gangster on the way up and he’s centered in that world with a heavy anchor. And as the movie unfolds, and absurd situations ripple the surface, he never strays far enough from the boat to get lost. He surprises us with literacy, curiosity, passion and ingenuity along the way, but without deviating from his solid base.

Bouncing off Jack’s steady foundation are Angelica Huston and Kathleen Turner. Irene Walker (Turner) pretends to be an outsider, but she’s busy trying to run scams on gangsters. Huston took home an Oscar for turning the screws behind Partanna’s back as Maerose Prizzi. Maerose is the one character in the movie that really seems dangerous.

I remember this movie from my childhood because of William Hickey’s strange voice. His Don Prizzi stretches words like hand-pulled noodles until the innocuous is threatening. But Jack’s Partanna isn’t just holding up the tent for these fine supporting characters.

He seems a poor match for Irene on the exterior, but his devotion, shot straight, wins her over. We’re not sure where Partanna fits in the hierarchy of the Prizzi family at first, but his intelligence and resourcefulness prove his worth.

Alex loves Jack’s line, “Marxie Heller so fuckin’ smart, how come he’s so fuckin’ dead?” Not only is it a fantastic reading, an argument ender but spat out of the side of his mouth, it’s also the start of the slow leak leads to disaster for Partanna and Irene. Partanna has killed Irene’s husband, Marxie Heller, before learning of the connection. Irene swears she was going to leave him anyway, but she has enough nice things to say about the guy to get under Partanna’s skin and cause that great line.

Partanna could never trust Irene completely. Did she come with him because she loved him or because all her other plans were turning to crap and he represented her best chance at survival? He couldn’t answer the question satisfactorily so when stab came to shoot, he hurled a knife through her throat.

The movie works because Jack is great. But Jack is great without doing a lot of the things that he’s usually great at. He’s neither hip, cool nor sarcastic. He’s a lug. And he plays the lug straight up and down the edge without ever missing a step.

My son has a friend who collects Metrocards. He is four. He keeps them in plastic baseball card sheets. When he  handles a card, he imediately flips it over to check the design on the back. He can probably distinguish every Metrocard back from the last ten years. He gets disappointed when he comes across a “common” back, the same way we’d be deflated by finding Buddy Biancalana instead of Don Mattingly in a pack of 1986 Topps.

He dressed as a Metrocard for Halloween. When the soccer coach splits them up for a little scrimmage at the end of practice, he convinces his team to name themselves the Metrocards.

His collection brought back memories from my youth. With an older brother blazing the trail, we had a lot of collections. One of the earliest ones I can remember was a collection of patches. My mom would sew them on my plain hooded sweatshirt until there was no space left. And then we’d get a new sweatshirt.

I had baseball patches, Star Wars patches, museum patches (Air & Space and Natural History), NASA patches, superhero patches, really anything that a kid might like that was available in patch form. In the winter, I insisted wearing the sweatshirt over heavier jackets so the patches would always be prominent.

How about you guys, can you remember something from your youth, maybe something a little odd, that you loved with your whole heart?

[Photo via Benjamin Kabak and secondavesnuesagas.com]

Another morning, another increasingly desperate search for the metrocard. I just can’t seem to get it under control.

I feel like a little kid who can’t think ahead so he keeps running into the same problems. An adult should have created a system to keep this from happening long ago, yet here I am looking for the damn card again.

Yesterday’s pants? Nope. Yesterday’s jacket? The spot beside the stove where we put things? Nope squared. The spot on the shelf, that graveyard of insufficient fares? I hope not, that would have been an insane place to leave it. But better check. Nope. Not next to the computer. Not next to the bed. Not on the vanity in the hall. Holy crap, am I infantile, senile or just the laziest dumbass on the block?

Here’s my problem. My wallet is magnetic, so keeping the metrocard in my wallet murders it. I learned that the hard way with a plump card, maybe forty bucks down the drain. So I keep my metrocard as far away from my wallet as possible. In the summer, that means my metrocard is in my pants pocket and my wallet is zipped up inside my bag. In the winter, there’s the additional option of coat pockets.

When I get home I cannot train myself to think about the card. Either it stays in my pocket, which would make for a relatively easy search, or I absentmindedly place it on the first open surface I encounter. The latter tendency spices up the mornings.

And everytime I say to myself, this is the last time I’m doing this.

[Photo via mynewyorkworld.com]

For me, this is close to the fantasy of Reggie Jackson returning to play for the Yankees in, oh, say July of 1987. And then stepping in as a pinch hitter in his first game back, a scoreless tie in the bottom of the eighth, and blasting one into the upper deck in right field.

After changing his number from 44 to 42.

For fans, teammates and coach, the reaction was unbridled joy. But for the player himself, I can’t even imagine how it felt. This wasn’t a goal that won a trophy, but as William reminded us recently with Don Mattingly’s game winner from 1985, the best moments in sports often take place outside the narrow pursuit of a championship.

What could the 2014 Yankees get for $189,000,000.00?

C: Jesus Montero, $0.5 (24)
1B: Mark Teixeira, $23.2 (34)
2B: Robinson Cano, $23 (31)
3B: Ryan Zimmerman, $23 (29)
SS: Derek Jeter $8 (40)
LF: Yoenis Cespedes $7.5 (28)
CF: Brett Gardner $9 (30)
RF: Mason Williams $0.5 (22)
DH: Alex Rodriguez $26 (38)

$120.7

Free agents required: 3 – Cespedes, Cano, Zimmerman, $53.5 million

Leaps of faith required: 2 – Jesus Montero is a catcher, Mason Williams, or someone else currently in the system is a Major Leaguer

Other concerns: Derek Jeter at SS at 40, but if he chooses to play, I don’t know how that can be avoided

BUC: Austin Romine $0.5 (25)
MIF: Eduardo Nunez $2 (27)
OF: Slade Heathcott $0.5 (23)
UTIL: Corban Joseph $0.5 (25)

$3.5

SP: CC Sabathia $24.3 (33)
SP: Cole Hamels $23 (30)
SP: Ivan Nova $2 (27)
SP: Manny Banuelos $0.5 (23)
SP: David Phelps $0.5 (27)

$50.3

Free agents required: 1 – Cole Hamels, $23 million

Leaps of faith required: 3 – Nova is good, the Yankees currently have 2 Major League quality pitchers in their system and will identify the correct ones and will not destroy them in some weird way

CL: David Robertson $4 (29)
RP: Hector Noesi $0.5 (27)
RP: Dellin Betances $0.5 (26)
RP: Jairo Heredia $0.5 (24)
RP: Chase Whitley $0.5 (25)
RP: Jose Quintana $0.5 (25)
RP: Nik Turley $0.5 (24)

$7

Fifteen league-minimum guys on the rest of the 40-man roster: $7.5 million.

$120.7 + $3.5 + $50.3 + $7 + $7.5 = $189

This version of the 2014 Yankees has the lineup and rotation to be strong contenders, but the weak bullpen is likely to betray them when it matters.

The overall point is that the Yankees have leeway to invest in three superstars for the 2014 roster and they absolutely should do that. I have them re-signing Cano and getting Hamels and Zimmerman but’s that’s just cherry picking the best free agents from the next few classes. To make room for those three superstars though, the 25-man roster needs to have 13 league-minimum players (two in the starting lineup, two in the starting rotation, three on the bench and six in the pen).

It’s recipe for disaster, but an entertaining one like 1987 or 2008. And the other route, eschewing the superstars in favor of a several medium-sized contracts, seems like a worse idea. The 2014 team might be better if they spread the money around (and it might not) but where will they go from there if they are constrained by a bunch of middling contracts? If this has to be the way they proceed, I say grab the stars when they appear and fill in the rest later.

So the topic to Banter, which three stars should be Yankees before 2014?

(A note on methodology. I used Cot’s as the basis for the Yankees 2014 obligations. And I used the following quote from the AP for the basis of payroll calculation in general:

Payroll figures are for 40-man rosters and include salaries and prorated shares of signing bonuses, earned incentive bonuses, non-cash compensation, buyouts of unexercised options and cash transactions, such as money included in trades. In some cases, parts of salaries that are deferred are discounted to reflect present-day values.

“Hold on for a second, I’ll get you a tissue,” I said to my son after I heard him sniffling on the couch.

I scanned the desk and there were no tissues. I headed to the kitchen, snagged two from the box and turned back. He was still sitting on the couch, but he now wore a devilish grin.

“Did you eat that booger?” I asked.

“No.”

“Is that the truth?”

“Boogers are hard.”

“What are you saying?”

“I didn’t eat a booger.”

“What did you eat then?”

“Snot.”

Bruce’s Garden is a beautiful spot in my neighborhood. When my wife and I went looking for an apartment, the vibrant garden nestled onto the “pro” side of our decision-making process without us even realizing it.

On Wednesday night, Bruce’s Garden hosted our annual holiday tree-lighting ceremony. Hot chocolate, cake and carols, then a roaring countdown. Then more carols. Sometimes, there are even rosy cheeks and suggestions of snow, but not this year.

As we sipped our hot chocolate and waited for the countdown, I saw a police cruiser with lights flashing speed down the dead end of Park Terrace East toward Isham Park. The car did not come back out. Nobody else seemed to notice. There were five police officers in attendence for the festivities, but I didn’t see any of them leave the garden.

About a hundred yards away from where we stood, four thieves attacked a man walking through the park on his way to meet his family in the garden. He’s a big man and he fought back, but he couldn’t prevent the mugging. He was injured but he drove around the area with the police officers looking for the muggers. They didn’t find them.

I don’t want to speculate on the nature of the crime, the criminals, nor the victim other than to say that it was clearly brazen. The ceremony was well publicized. The police were prominent, the crowd vocal.

The things that keep us close to the city crash into the things that push us away. I can pretend that by choosing the right route home, or by carrying myself a certain way that I can avoid being jumped. That’s a fine delusion when I’m only thinking about me, but I’m not thinking about me anymore.

Someday, I’ll celebrate my last Christmas in New York City. Maybe it will be this one.

 [Photo Credit: Carla Zanoni Dn’Ainfo]

Trying to maintain low expectations about the Yu Darvish bidding, I wondered what the Yankees could do with all that money when they don’t get him. It would be nice to get both Cespedes and Soler in the system as the Yankee outfield gets very thin very fast after this year.

Perhaps because I’m in the process of finding presents for the extended family and because there’s a lot of talk around the coffee machine this morning about the Mets terrible financial situation, I thought about how the Yankees could help their fellow New Yorkers.

The Mets need money. How much? More. When? Yesterday. So here is a Christmas gift to the Mets: $22,000,000.00. The Yankees trade A.J. Burnett straight up for Johan Santana.

The Yankees rid themselves of the annual Burnett headache. By ERA, Burnett was the second worst starting pitcher in baseball since 2010. But ERA can be misleading. Don’t worry though, by FIP, he was the third worst.

Johan Santana from one point of view, was even worse than Burnett. Santana broke down in 2009 and then again in 2010 and didn’t pitch at all in 2011. And he’s coming off surgery to repair the anterior capsule of his left shoulder – one of the nastiest surgeries a pitcher can undergo. His level of performance for the rest of his contract, the same gauranteed length as Burnett, is a total mystery.

In this deal, the Yankees would give the Mets the gift of 22 million dollars (Santana’s gauranteed $55 million over the next two year and while A.J. Burnett will get $33 million over the same time span) and a reliable innings eater (reliably bad, but hey, count that money again) for the gamble that Johan Santana can bounce back into something special, or at least into a shadow of something special.

I have no idea if Santana will be any good as he tries to come back. But if he gets on the mound and he’s among the worst pitchers in baseball next year, he can only be two or three rungs below where A.J. Burnett has taken up residence.

I know there are better ways to spend $22 million than on a roll of  the dice on Johan Santana’s recovery. If you can’t believe in a little magic during the holiday season though, when can you?

UPDATE: A report has the Toronto Blue Jays with the winning bid for Darvish.

Living in New York I have developed great appreciation for long lines. Only rarely have I been disappointed after waiting (I’m looking at you, Matrix 2 & 3) and have found that if you bring a cheery attitude to the queue, that it becomes an enjoyable part of the overall experience. I ate the best breakfast of my life when, across the street from the Tokyo fish market, I chose the Sushi Shop with the longest line. I’ll wait out any Shake Shack location with a smile.

My family stood in one of those long lines at the Bronx Botanical Gardens this weekend. We queued up for the Holiday Train Show outside the main entrance under a big tent. It was cool so we were comforatable in our winter jackets. They even gave us tickets and broke us down by entrance times. Scattered around the tent were information placards describing what we were about to see. We learned that all of the building models are made entirely of plant parts. As far as lines go, I was impressed.

When our time arrived, we walked into the main entrance. But instead of entering directly into the exhibit, we came upon a large vestibule. There were a couple of spectacular models of a mansion and an air port, but they were impossible to access because of the chaotic mob of people. We only had to navigate a 50-foot curve around a fountain to get into the exhibit, but the mob had to funnel to single file while standing still. Inside the greenhouse, it’s 80 degrees.

All around us people were disintegrating. A old White woman pushing a wheelchair barked, “You people need to move!” The young Black father directly ahead of her asked her pointedly if she wanted to run over his two young kids. She yelled back that she didn’t run over his kids so he shouldn’t take offense. He kept his cool, though he was not giving her the last word on the matter. I noted to the woman that neither the father nor the kids, nor anyone else in the vestibule could move anywhere and that they would move when they could. It didn’t help. She was lost in the semantics of the argument and the father, who I thought was justified to take offense in the first place, let it drop and moved away from the wheelchair when he could.

We were already single file out in the tent! Why on earth they allow hell-on-earth to take shape inside the vestibule, I’ll never understand, but armed with the proper cheery attitude we shed our jackets and shuffled our feet occasionally until we finally tumbled to the base of the funnel.

The models of the buildings and bridges were incredible, but I expected the trains themselves to be cooler and omnipresent. The buildings require a lot of scrutiny to figure out which plant parts comprise the structures, but when two kids are bolting from train to train, scrutiny is not an option.

Cheery had wilted to ho-hum in the heat, but then, just after the midway point, I heard Jude shout out, “Yankee Stadium!”

Long live the long line.

Winning anecdotes about my two favorite Yankees in the same wonderful career retrospective?

And Happy Holidays to you, SI and Walter Iooss JR.

This has to be the Reggie shot he is talking about, right?

[Photos by Walter Iooss Jr.]

Where’s that bus? I don’t want to miss the train show.

Where’s that bus? There’s a cold rain falling.

I might fall asleep and miss my stop.

I’m thirsty and the water bottle is empty.

CC will throw the first pitch soon.

I need to make dinner for the boys.

I don’t want my wife to walk home in the dark.

He’s already held it in for so long.

I’m gonna end up in the first fucking row and my neck’s gonna be sore for a week.

Where’s that damn bus?

Technology exists underground, for most of New York, that tracks the trains along their route. Screens display the time of the next arriving train. And then the next one after that. No such service on the A Train. Nothing doing at the bus stops. You wait unknowing or you walk.

I guess the Blue Line doesn’t utilize that technology for the same reason that A and C Trains are the oldest, crappiest trains in the system. Nobody wants to spend any money on the A and the C. And I’m sure there is some preposterous reason why the MTA can’t develop an app that will track a bus as it inches through traffic as the frozen darkness descends upon your stop.

But c’mon, man. In this day and age, there’s no way we should be helplessly wondering where’s that bus.

Let’s all agree that before you write an article about trading Jesus Montero for a starting pitcher, that starting pitcher needs to be better than current free agent C.J. Wilson.

For the last two years, C.J. Wilson has been better than Gio Gonzalez in almost every way. Wilson pitched more innings, kept balls in the park at a better rate and walked fewer batters. They whiffed guys at close to the same rate, but Gonzalez jumped up in 2011 to claim a slight edge. That’s in raw numbers. When you look at the home road splits, it becomes clear we are talking about two different animals. Wilson is stellar outside the harsh environs of the Ballpark in Arlington. Gonzalez is ordinary once removed from Oakland and its acres of foul territory.

The main knock against Wilson is that he has walked 167 men in the last two years. Gonzalez has issued 183 free passes in 25 fewer innings.

Gio Gonzalez is five years younger than C.J. Wilson and still under team control for several years. His explosion in strikeouts in 2011 bodes well for his future. Those are huge points in his favor, no doubt. He’s projectible and cheap and certainly may be better than C.J. Wilson in a few years when Wilson gets older and Gonzalez is in his prime. But Jesus Montero is under team control for six more years. Which sounds better, Jesus Montero for six years and C.J. Wilson for whatever it takes to sign him? Or Gio Gonzalez for four years and whatever bat they have to sign to replace Jesus Montero?

The Yankees are not making headlines during the Hot Stove season, so the writers are left to make their own heat. Hey, I’d love to see Gio Gonzalez at the back end of the staff while he tries to get those walks down and learns to pitch to Death Valley in Yankee Stadium. But not at the cost of six years of a bat like Montero’s. Not when a better version of the same pitcher can be obtained on the free agent market.

Getting sick on a train is tough business. I’ve seen people pass out and throw up, usually in tight quarters. One time on a crowded train, a woman feinted into the unsuspecting lap beneath her. The person attached to the lap made a move to quickly give up his seat, but in his haste to make space he dropped her on the floor.

I’ve never been that kind of sick, but I’ve felt a fever creep over me in those hellish depths. It was winter, hat-and-scarf winter, and that icky warmth spread out from the center of my thick jacket. It traced the outlines of my shoulders and neck until it erupted in sweat down my back and out towards my hands.

I wrenched my scarf free. I would have left it for trash on the floor if there was enough space to let it fall. I jammed the wool hat in my bag and wedged the bag between my legs. I unbuttoned the jacket. Even the warm, dank subway car air was welcome inside the jacket.

I pivoted slightly so I could wiggle one arm free of its sleeve. And then the other. The jacket slid down into my arms and I folded it over and over until it looked more like a pillow. I tied the scarf around the jacket like a sweaty parcel. Then I reached down to reposition my bag over my shoulders.

I thought to myself, if there is snow on the ground when I get out of this subway, I am going to bury my head in it.

I stood there sweating for a few minutes, holding the jacket package and feeling eyes on me from all over the car. The train slowed down to approach 125th St. I had about a hundred blocks to go.

By 168th St, I was shivering.

 [Photo by Lesley Steele]

Anybody down with the McRib? It scares me, but there are devoted fans.

This, via the consumerist however, makes a McRib look like filet fucking mignon.

I know Taster’s Cherce is typically about food turn-ons, but it’s stuff like molded meat that can help us appreciate the good stuff all the more.

[Featured image via MSNBC]