Ivan Nova, take two. After winning the first couple of games in Cleveland it’d be a drag if the Yanks left with a split, so here’s hoping they win tonight or tomorrow.
Brett Gardner CF
Robinson Cano 2B
Kevin Youkilis 3B
Travis Hafner DH
Vernon Wells LF
Brennan Boesch RF
Eduardo Nunez SS
Lyle Overbay 1B
Chris Stewart C
Never mind getting a swell-head:
Let’s Go Yank-ees!
[Photo Via: This Isn’t Happiness]
There is a good story by John Le Carre in this week’s New Yorker (subscription required). It’s about the making of his novel The Spy Who Came in From the Cold. The piece centers on the tense relationship between the film’s director, Martin Ritt, a left-wing Jew who’d been blacklisted, and its star, Richard Burton, the larger-than-life Welshman.
Here’s my favorite part:
In one of the few conversations of substance that I had with Burton during our short spree together, he almost boasted of how much he despised the showman in himself; how he wished he had “done a Paul Scofield,” by which he meant eschew the big-screen heroics and the big-screen money and acept only acting parts of real artistic substance. And Ritt would have agree with him wholeheartedly.
But that didn’t let Burton off the hook. To the eye of the puritanical, committed, connubial leftist and activist, Burton came too close to everything Ritt instinctively condemned. In a 1986 interview, he has a line that says it all: “I don’t have a lot of respect for talent. Talent is genetic. It’s a gift. It’s what you do with the gift that counts.” It was bad enough to put profit before art, or sex before family, or flaunt your wealth and your woman, or ostentatiously soak yourself in liquor, or strut that world like a god while the masses cry out for justice. But to waste your talent was a sin against gods and men. And the greater the talent–and Burton’s talents were legion and extraordinary–the greater, in Ritt’s view, the sin.
Love Ritt’s take on talent. But Le Carre doesn’t think Burton was a wasted talent. He concludes the article:
Richard Burton was a literate, serious artist, a self-educated polymath with appetites and flaws that in one way or another we all share. If he was the prisoner of his own weaknesses, the dah of rectifying Welsh puritanism in him was not a hundred miles from Ritt’s. He was irreverent, mischievous, generous-hearted but necessarily manipulative. For the very celebrated, being manipulative goes with the territory. I never knew him in his quieter hours, but I wish I had. He was a superb Alex Leamas, and in a different year his performance might have earned him an Oscar, the prize that eluded him all his life. The film was grim and black-and-white. That wasn’t what we we wearing in 1965.
If either the director of his actor had been less, perhaps the film also would have been less. I suppose that, at the time, I felt more protective of the podgy, stalwart, and embittered Ritt than of the flamboyant and unpredictable Burton. A director carries the whole burden of the film on his back, and that includes the idiosyncrasies of his star. Sometimes I had the feeling that Burton was going out of his way to belittle Ritt, but in the end I guess they were pretty evenly matched. And Ritt surely had the last word. He was a brilliant and impassioned director whose righteous anger could never be stilled.
Here’s a disturbing 2010 Vanity Fair story by Mark Bowden–“The Case of the Vanishing Blonde”:
From the start, it was a bad case.
A battered 21-year-old woman with long blond curls was discovered facedown in the weeds, naked, at the western edge of Miami, where the neat grid of outer suburbia butts up against the high grass and black mud of the Everglades. It was early on a winter morning in 2005. A local power-company worker was driving by the empty lots of an unbuilt cul-de-sac when he saw her.
And much to his surprise, she was alive. She was still unconscious when the police airlifted her to Jackson Memorial Hospital. When she woke up in its trauma center, she could remember little about what had happened to her, but her body told an ugly tale. She had been raped, badly beaten, and left for dead. There was severe head trauma; she had suffered brain-rattling blows. Semen was recovered from inside her. The bones around her right eye were shattered. She was terrified and confused. She bent English to her native Ukrainian grammar and syntax, dropping pronouns and inverting standard sentence structure, which made her hard to understand. And one of the first things she asked for on waking was her lawyer. That was unusual.
[Photo Credit: Amanda Friedman]
Check out this long piece on the D.O.C. by Alex Pappademas in Playboy.
Who the hell is the D.O.C.? It’s been nearly 25 years since the rapper released his astoundingly great debut album, No One Can Do It Better. It was produced by Dr. Dre when Dre was churning out hot product at an ironic-in-retrospect pace: In a single year Dre made the D.O.C.’s album, as well as N.W.A’s Straight Outta Compton and N.W.A co-founder Eazy-E’s solo debut, Eazy-Duz-It. The D.O.C. was a cocky, charismatic young rapper with a knotty, complex flow—his delivery had more bob-and-weave than your average West Coast rapper’s, and he reminded people of East Coast guys like Rakim. The kid with the golden voice, he called himself. Within three months he’d sold half a million records—until injuries to his vocal cords sustained in a car accident rendered him barely able to speak and totally unable to rap.
After that, the D.O.C. was a living ghost. He made two would-be comeback albums, but his real career existed behind the scenes. It became an open secret that he’d ghostwritten rhymes for Dre on The Chronic and 1999’s 2001 and polished lines for Snoop Dogg’s Doggystyle. The D.O.C. was a fixer, a problem solver, a hip-hop Winston Wolf. Once a breakout star, he now existed in hip-hop as a legend in the background of other people’s rhymes. Dre shouted him out (“Like my nigga D.O.C., no one can do it better”) at the end of “Nuthin’ but a G Thang,” the first single from The Chronic. More than 10 years later, so did Brooklyn-born Jay-Z on “Public Service Announcement”—“HOV, not D.O.C./But similar to the letters, no one can do it better.”
On the way to lunch this afternoon I spotted a shiny new Frito Lay delivery truck, adorned with navy blue pinstripes and a giant interlocking NY on the back door. I tried to maneuver to get a picture for tonight, but a baked potato cart was blocking the good stuff. Ah well, I thought, the Yanks probably won’t hit enough to warrant a score truck picture anyway.
If you didn’t see the game and are reading this for the first time on Wednesday morning, the good news is you had two hits last night and one of them was a homer that went about 420 feet. The Yankees reached .500 with a 14-1 victory over the Indians with an offensive explosion that overshadowed a second fine performance from Andy Pettitte.
The hit parade featured every Yankee starter but Hafner. They pounded out five homers (Cano, Ichiro, Youkilis, Boesch and Overbay) and six doubles. Around those bases the Yankees shall roam.
Speaking of parades, this weekend was the opening ceremony for the Inwood Little League. It’s over-the-top in all the right ways and the kids felt 100 feet tall walking up Broadway.
Google maps tells me the parade route was 1.25 miles. If I asked my kids to walk a quarter mile to get an ice cream soda and meet Spiderman, they’d fall down on their knees in tears accusing me of child abuse. They did this walk without complaint with pants drooping down around their ankles, hats falling over their eyes and carrying a banner designed specifically to make them trip over like the Keystone Cops.
If there are further notable items from our family’s first foray into organized baseball, I’ll let you know.
It’s Old Man Andy tonight in Cleveland.
Brett Gardner CF
Robinson Cano 2B
Kevin Youkilis 3B
Travis Hafner DH
Vernon Wells LF
Ichiro Suzuki RF
Eduardo Nunez SS
Lyle Overbay 1B
Francisco Cervelli C
Never mind the winning streak:
Let’s Go Yank-ees!
In 1972, Ron Rapoport interviewed Jackie Robinson:
“I couldn’t care less if someone is out there wearing 42,” he said. “It is an honor, but I get more of a thrill knowing there are people in baseball who believe in advancement based on ability. I’m more concerned about what I think about myself than what other people think. I think if you look back at why people think of me the way they do it’s because white America doesn’t like a black guy who stands up for what he believes. I don’t feel baseball owes me a thing and I don’t owe baseball a thing. I am glad I haven’t had to go to baseball on my knees.”
Here’s and op-ed by Susan Silk and Barry Goldman from the L.A. Times on How Not to Say the Wrong Thing to someone who is sick:
When Susan had breast cancer, we heard a lot of lame remarks, but our favorite came from one of Susan’s colleagues. She wanted, she needed, to visit Susan after the surgery, but Susan didn’t feel like having visitors, and she said so. Her colleague’s response? “This isn’t just about you.”
“It’s not?” Susan wondered. “My breast cancer is not about me? It’s about you?”
The same theme came up again when our friend Katie had a brain aneurysm. She was in intensive care for a long time and finally got out and into a step-down unit. She was no longer covered with tubes and lines and monitors, but she was still in rough shape. A friend came and saw her and then stepped into the hall with Katie’s husband, Pat. “I wasn’t prepared for this,” she told him. “I don’t know if I can handle it.”
This woman loves Katie, and she said what she did because the sight of Katie in this condition moved her so deeply. But it was the wrong thing to say. And it was wrong in the same way Susan’s colleague’s remark was wrong.
[Picture by Susan Derges]
Yesterday evening, Bryant Park was hopping. Today, plenty of skirts.
Ah, spring in New York. It’s a beautiful thing.
The Yanks beat up the Indians today to the tune of 11-6, upsetting Cleveland’s home opener. There was lots of fun to be had for the visitors–Travis Hafner’s 4-RBI, Robbie Cano’s two solo homers, Vernon Wells had three more hits. Hiroki Kuroda gave up three in the first and then calmed himself.
Course I missed the whole damn thing. But was thrilled and delighted upon seeing what went downski.
[Photo Via: R2-D2]
Yanks in Cleveland to see their old pals Nick Swisher and Jason Giambi this afternoon.
Hiroki gets the start.
Brett Gardner CF
Robinson Cano 2B
Kevin Youkilis 3B
Travis Hafner DH
Vernon Wells LF
Ichiro Suzuki RF
Eduardo Nunez SS
Lyle Overbay 1B
Chris Stewart C
Never mind the nostalgia:
Let’s Go Yank-ees!
[Photo Credit: Jared Wickerham/Getty Images]
Guest Post
I wasn’t courtside for either of Bernard King’s consecutive 50-point games in 1984 (the Knicks won both), or the 60-pointer the following year (a game they lost). As a Knick freak, I feel as if I must have been, but the calendar says otherwise. I was in Miami. But I do remember that a few years later, when I interviewed him for The Miami Herald one day in an empty Garden before practice, when I tried to bring up what had happened back in Utah he told me, quite emphatically, that we weren’t going to go there.
I had to try. Maybe, as a sportswriter, I shouldn’t have. But I’ve never been good at separating the sportsman from the man when it comes to his treatment of women, whether it’s Bobby Cox (shoe-in for the MLB Hall of Fame, 2014), whose wife retracted the charges she’d filed about how he’d hit her in 1995, as long as Bobby undertook “violence counseling,” or Michael Irvin (inducted into the NFL Hall of Fame, 2007), whose parties in 1996 at that Texas motel were intense enough for a policeman to take out a hit on Irvin’s life. (True, there was no evidence that either of the “topless models” who partook of his regular parties was coerced; it was just the cop’s common-law wife whom Irvin allegedly threatened if she testified about said parties.)
In team sports, hall of fame inductions are the penultimate reward, outranked only by a ring (ask Patrick Ewing, who would gladly give up the Hummer he received on his appreciation night [the car kind, not the Gold Club kind; see court testimony, 1999], and probably his right leg, to have one). They are generally judged by statistics.
These are Bernard King’s statistics as a member of the Utah Jazz: five felony forcible sexual-assault charges; three for forcible “sodomy,” two for forcible “sexual abuse.” Convictions after the arrest? Just one, after King pled down to misdemeanor to “Attempted Forcible Sexual Assault.”
I do not pretend to know what happened in Utah. I do know that, reportedly, he was passed out from the use of alcohol after police subsequently went to his apartment after the woman’s complaint. He reportedly pled down after six different lie-detector tests said that he was telling the truth when he said he had no recollection of what happened that night.
I do know that alcohol sometimes allows inner demons to emerge. And that, never having had a multi-millioned career at stake over the actions of a drunken evening when I had acted feloniously, I can easily imagine pleading down, given that the difference between a felony and a misdemeanor could be fairly significant for my career. His sentence was suspended, and he underwent treatment for alcohol in California. He came home and went to meetings. And five years later, became the basketball player he’d once promised to be. He averaged 33 points a game in 1985 for New York. The Knicks finished that season 24-58.
He would play for seven teams (twice for the Nets). None won a ring.
Then, in 1994, now 37, one year after he’d retired, according to a report in the Associated Press, he was arrested for allegedly choking a 22-year-old woman while intoxicated. The wire-service account states that when police arrived, King was asleep; that he was charged with third-degree assault, and that the woman was treated at New York Hospital.
In 2004, now working for Bruce Ratner, King was arrested and charged with three counts of assault and one count of harassment after security at a hotel in lower Manhattan were alerted to alarming noises in a hotel room at 4:30 in the morning. The court report, according to the AP, said that King’s wife “suffered a cut with bleeding, and bruises, swelling and redness to her eye and forehead.”
The New York Daily News’ account , citing her “swollen” face, read, in part, “‘He pushed me down to the floor three times’” a bruised and trembling Shana King told cops, according to court documents. ‘This has got to stop. I want him arrested.'”
She subsequently declined to proceed with the charges. King was ordered to attend 10 marriage counseling sessions.
I am not condemning Bernard King if he’s innocent of all of these charges. I’m just using Bernard King the basketball player, whom I did see, several times, perform amazing feats of basketball-ism, as an example. Because if we continue to celebrate men who are even suspected of the cowardice that hitting a woman entails, voting them into institutions which are meant to celebrate character as well as athletic prowess, we’re devaluing sport.
That King and Cox might have had substance abuse problems is irrelevant. That’s between the man and the substance. That they hit women, if they did, is unconscionable.
If you Google “Bernard King” today, you will see photographs of him wearing a crown and a cape, like a king. If you read his Wikipedia entry, you will find no mention of his arrests.
I have visited Naismith’s hall up in Springfield several times. I’m not sure I ever will again.
“Orphans” is known as a very dark play. What do you make of audiences laughing?
Baldwin: I had gauged in my mind that a third of it was funny and two-thirds of it was odd and tragic and dramatic. We go out for the first preview, and it flips. It’s suddenly two-thirds funny and one-third dramatic. Which I was very unprepared for.
Foster: It’s still being massaged. What we all agree on is: The performances have to come from the heart. If the laughs happen, the laughs happen. But we’re not catering to that. It’s easy for me to ride the wave of laughter, hook the audience and ride the laugh, but I’m not doing that here. The spearhead will become sharper.
Baldwin: Part of the challenge is the era of the play. In “Orphans” you have me saying to a young guy: “Come on over here, son, you’re a good boy, let me encourage you. You want some encouragement? Let me give you some encouragement.” Back then this was straightforward dialogue, received by the audience without much irony. Today it’s a gay and sitcomy world, where innuendo is seen in everything. We asked ourselves, “How do we say those lines and stay with it,” because there’s no gay subtext to what Harold is doing. But at the first preview people snickered at that.
Foster: [mutters to himself] Why are they laughing at that?
Is there anything you can do to deal with the audience snickering?
Baldwin: You just play the lines straightforwardly. And you focus on your intention. My character grew up in an orphanage, and he’s determined to give these two other orphan boys a chance.
We may have to take our pleasure in small doses this year, $200 million payroll be damned, and today offered plenty of things to make us happy. Like Francisco Cervelli and Jayson Nix touching Justin Verlander early, staking the Yanks to a 3-0 to lead that was never in peril. And Kevin Youkilis irritating Verlander in the first inning when Youk hit a double. He’d just missed a home run on the first pitch of the at bat (long foul ball), and then doubled to left center field. He yelled something as he ran to first and when he reached second, Verlander stepped to him and screamed, “What did you say?” I don’t know if Youk was talking trash or just yelling at himself but the man has a talent for pissing people off.
Or how about CC Sabathia, still only throwing his fastball around 90 mph, handling the Tigers’ impressive hitters and throwing seven scoreless innings? Yeah, that was best of all. Some late insurance runs put the game out of reach. Hell, even watching the Great Mariano work out of a jam in the ninth, striking out Torii Hunter–man, that dude has never done well against Mo–to end the game was pleasing.
Final Score: Yanks 7, Tigers 0.
“I don’t care who they got missing, that’s the Yankees,” Verlander told The Associated Press. “They have a winning mentality about them, and they’re going to find a way to win this year. You don’t ever take anything for granted. As you saw, it was the bottom of the lineup that did the damage.”
(Via Lo-Hud)
We’ll take it.
Photo Credit: Carlos Osorio/AP]
Welp, the Yanks need to beat Justin Verlander today in order to avoid being swept by the Tigers.
[Insert remark: here]
The good news is that they’ve got CC Sabathia on the hill. Be nice to see a decent start from someone other than Andy Pettitte, huh?
Brett Gardner CF
Robinson Cano 2B
Kevin Youkilis 3B
Travis Hafner DH
Vernon Wells LF
Ichiro Suzuki RF
Francisco Cervelli C
Lyle Overbay 1B
Jayson Nix SS
Never mind the odds: Let’s Go Yank-ees!
It’s the one that goes, the Yanks are 1-4 to start the season just like they were in 1998.
That’s a gag, son: joke, that is.
Phil Hughes and the Yankee bullpen got knocked around again today (each pitcher gave up at least one run), the hitters ran into some bad luck–a few well-struck balls went for outs–and our boys lost again, this time by the tune of 8-4.
And tomorrow gives Verlander.
Got any good jokes about that?
[Photo Credit: Mr. Freakz]
