…That the Red Sox and the Rays both won tonight? That Russell Martin hit into a triple play? That Rafael Soriano screwed the pooch and gave up the deciding three-run home run? How about that Boston’s third-string catcher, Ryan Lavarnway (and what a wonderful name that is), hit two home runs? Lavarnway also made a critical play to get the second out in the ninth inning too.

It all happened folks. And so there will be another night of channel-flipping, nail-biting, and general playoff mishegoss. Would you expect anything less at this pernt?

The good news is that Bartolo Colon pitched reasonably well for the Yanks in the 5-3 loss.

Otherwise, the Yankees were a footnote in this drama. Final game of the season. Dig ‘um, smack.

Bartolo Colon’s playoff spot might be determined by what he does tonight. He’s been like a balloon with a small tear in it. The air has been slowly escaping for more than a month now.

Eduardo Nunez SS
Curtis Granderson CF
Robinson Cano 2B
Alex Rodriguez 3B
Mark Teixeira 1B
Nick Swisher RF
Jorge Posada DH
Russell Martin C
Brett Gardner LF

Never mind the nonsense:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: Cortes 2]

Here’s James Agee on our man Buster:

Very early in [Keaton’s] movie career friends asked him why he never smiled on the screen. He didn’t realize he didn’t. He had got the dead-pan habit in variety; on the screen he had merely been so hard at work it had never occurred to him there was anything to smile about. Now he tried it just once and never again. He was by his whole style and nature so much the most deeply “silent” of the silent comedians that even a smile was as deafeningly out of key as a yell. In a way his pictures are like a transcendent juggling act in which it seems that the whole universe is in exquisite flying motion and the one point of repose is the juggler’s effortless, uninterested face.

Keaton’s face ranked almost with Lincoln’s as an early American archetype; it was haunting, handsome, almost beautiful, yet it was irreducibly funny; he improved matters by topping it off with a deadly horizontal hat, as flat and thin as a phonograph record. One can never forget Keaton wearing it, standing erect at the prow as his little boat is being launched. The boat goes grandly down the skids and, just as grandly, straight on to the bottom. Keaton never budges. The last you see of him, the water lifts the hat off the stoic head and it floats away.

…Much of the charm and edge of Keaton’s comedy, however, lay in the subtle leverages of expression he could work against his nominal dead pan. Trapped in the side-wheel of a ferryboat, saving himself from drowning only by walking, then desperately running, inside the accelerating wheel like a squirrel in a cage, his only real concern was, obviously, to keep his hat on. Confronted by Love, he was not as deadpan as he was cracked up to be, either; there was an odd, abrupt motion of his head which suggested a horse nipping after a sugar lump.

Keaton worked strictly for laughs, but his work came from so far inside a curious and original spirit that he achieved a great deal besides, especially in his feature-length comedies. (For plain hard laughter his nineteen short comedies — the negatives of which have been lost — were even better.) He was the only major comedian who kept sentiment almost entirely out of his work, and he brought pure physical comedy to its greatest heights. Beneath his lack of emotion he was also uninsistently sardonic; deep below that, giving a disturbing tension and grandeur to the foolishness, for those who sensed it, there was in his comedy a freezing whisper not of pathos but of melancholia. With the humor, the craftsmanship and the action there was often, besides, a fine, still and sometimes dreamlike beauty. Much of his Civil War picture The General is within hailing distance of Mathew Brady. And there is a ghostly, unforgettable moment in The Navigator when, on a deserted, softly rolling ship, all the pale doors along a deck swing open as one behind Keaton and, as one, slam shut, in a hair-raising illusion of noise.

Perhaps because “dry’ comedy is so much more rare and odd than “dry” wit, there are people who never much cared for Keaton. Those who do cannot care mildly.

Oh, yeah. And Buster loved baseball too.

From George King in the Post:

Russell Martin was ejected by plate umpire Paul Schrieber in the fifth inning after Hughes believed the ump missed a couple of pitches.

“I said to (the umpire), ‘Did you stretch before the game?’ He said ‘What?’ I asked him again. Then I said, ‘I believe you are kind of tight right now.’ And he threw me out of the game.

“He wanted to hear what I was going to say because why else would he take off his mask and walk around me. I kept my mask on my face, nobody knew what was going on. I thought this was a game it should be fun. I was just trying to loosen things up a bit because he wasn’t having a good time. I didn’t say he sucked, I didn’t say he was the worst umpire in the league, I didn’t say any of that stuff. I just made a joke and he threw me out. No warning. Nothing.

“He said my antics were tired. Me walking to the mound kind of slowly. But it’s frustrating when you are not getting calls. I got thrown out for being funny, I guess. I got thrown out for having a sense of humor. I had Joe [Girardi] laughing. I can’t wait to see the report he is going to write. I felt it was the perfect time to do it. I was just trying to lighten up the mood. It just popped up in my head. I think he took it the wrong way. I just thought of it on the way back from seeing Phil. Phil was getting frustrated. a My standup days are over, shortlived. We can’t talk anymore. I was shocked I got thrown out. I was just trying to get him to laugh.”

Tough room, huh?

[Drawing by the great Drew Friedman]

What do I know from tonight’s games? I don’t know dick, frankly, because The Wife was watching “Dancing with the Stars.” But I followed along on the computer, at least to check the scores, and saw some of the video highlights. What I learned was that Russell Martin was thrown out of the game while behind the plate for arguing balls and strikes. I know that the Yankees caught two runners stealing in one play and that Desmond Jennings made a spectacular catch in left field. Oh, and I learned that aside from Robinson Cano’s two hits, including a first inning home run, James Shield had his way with the Yanks. He lasted until two outs in the ninth, walked Eric Chavez and our old chum Kyle Farmaduke got the final out.

Final Score: Rays 5, Yanks 2.

I also know that Josh Beckett spit the bit, giving up six runs–an inside the park home run was the icing on the gravy–and now the Sox and Rays are tied for the wild card with two games left in the season.

Whoa, Daddy.

Yanks down in Tampa for three to end the season. The Rays are fighting to make the playoffs and they need some help from the Orioles. The Yanks are looking to rest some guys and keep everyone healthy for the ALDS.

Cliff with the preview.

Derek Jeter SS
Curtis Granderson CF
Robinson Cano 2B
Alex Rodriguez DH
Jorge Posada 1B
Eric Chavez 3B
Russell Martin C
Eduardo Nunez RF
Brett Gardner LF

Never mind the nap:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: Krstnn Hrmnsn]

According to Chad Jennings, Phil Hughes will be pitching out of the bullpen come playoff time.

Read of the Day comes from D Magazine. A fine story by Michael J. Mooney.

The piece made me appreciate how fragile life is, how things can get spoiled–or at least be altered–so quickly. It also made me think about forgiveness and that having compassion is something you do to save yourself.

Check it out.

[Featured image by Juanangelr]

The Money Trap

By John Schulian

Over the years, as I told other writers how I got into the business, I would hear again and again that it just didn’t happen that way. It was beyond improbable. It was impossible. And these were writers who hadn’t just fallen off a truckload of turkeys. They were good, some were even great, which is to say they were far more accomplished than I ever was at screenwriting. But I was the one who, for reasons I will never understand, caught a break the size of a tidal wave. No, make that a succession of breaks the size of a tidal wave.

Ordinarily, Michael Mann, the executive producer of “Miami Vice,” would have grilled me and probably demanded to see a lot more than my “L.A. Law” script. But “Vice” had consumed him the two previous years, when he was wresting control of it from its creator, Tony Yerkovich, and developing the look that revolutionized TV. Now, he was busy opening the first Hannibal Lechter move, “Manhunter,” which he’d directed, and launching his second TV series, the brilliant but underappreciated “Crime Story.” Dick Wolf, a master at seizing the moment, told him I’d covered the cops in my newspaper days. It wasn’t a lie, really. Almost all the reporters on the Baltimore Evening Sun’s city desk took a turn at police headquarters or covering the districts, and I’d taken mine, too. But I was hardly the street-smart, steely-eyed character Dick described to Mann, who shrugged and said, “Okay, if he’s the guy you want.” I should have known then that Dick would go far.

It turned out that I wouldn’t meet Mann–wouldn’t even lay eyes on him, in fact–until I’d been at “Vice” for six or seven months and had written all or part of six scripts, credited and uncredited. I did, however, have the same agent as Mann and Dick, which may or may not have helped when the time came to negotiate my deal with Universal. Even though I was basically getting on-the-job training as a TV writer, I ended up making twice what I had in my best year in Chicago as one of the country’s top sports columnists.

My agent’s name was Marty. He was soft-spoken, baby-faced, barely 30, if that. Butter wouldn’t have melted in his mouth until he was negotiating. Then he turned into a werewolf, or worse. A year or two after he began representing me, he phoned one morning and said, with consummate pride. “At Columbia they’re calling me the anti-Christ.” He’s long out of the business now, and yet he still crosses my mind occasionally. And when he does, I always think of a wonderful riff in John Gregory Dunne’s novel “The Red, White and Blue” about how all agents are Marty and all writers are Mel.

So I, being a perfect Mel, responded to the good news about my fat salary by telling Marty, “I love it when you talk dirty.”

“Dirty?” he said, offended. “Money’s not dirty.”

“No, no, that’s not what I meant. I’m just telling you it’s a lot of money and I appreciate it.”

“Of course it’s a lot of money. I only get to keep 10 percent of it.”

When I told my mother my salary, she said, “Oh, Johnny, why do you want to make so much money?” I wish I could tell you she was kidding. She’d grown up in humble circumstances and had a very specific and deeply held notion of what constituted an obscene amount of money. This was it. I can only imagine what she would have thought about the money I went on to make, even though it was modest compared to what TV’s biggest hitters earned. She was old-fashioned that way.

Actually, she was old-fashioned in a lot of ways. She never learned to drive, for example, just took the bus and walked, which was fine by her, though it certainly limited the size of her world. But she was indomitable. And tough. She wasn’t afraid to stand up for what she thought was right, and if that meant feuding with a neighbor, so be it. I suppose I get my temper from her, though she never came close to blowing up the way I have from time to time. I’ll tell you something else about my mother: she didn’t approve of a lot of what I wrote for TV in the seven years before she died. She didn’t like the violence on “Miami Vice,” or the double entendres on “L.A. Law,” or maybe even the cigar that Dabney Coleman smoked on “The ‘Slap’ Maxwell Story.” I always felt uncomfortable about that until I read Elmore Leonard’s confession that he took it easy with sex and profanity in his novels until his mother died. Mothers cast a long shadow over a lot of us.

Mine certainly would have been much happier if I’d come home from the Army, moved back into my old bedroom, and spent the rest of my life as a worker bee at the Salt Lake Tribune. I’ve got an old friend from Salt Lake who’s the same way about his kids. Most of them have heeded their father’s wishes and stayed relatively close to home, but one is off working in New York, which is my friend’s idea of the devil’s playground. I tell him the same thing I told my mother: There’s no going back home once you’ve seen the other side of the mountain.

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

Yeah, okay, so we wanted the Yanks to win last night and they didn’t. Big deal. They’ve still got the best record in the American League and that ain’t going to change. So here’s my question: do you root against the Yanks the next three days in the hopes that the Red Sox cough-up the wildcard?

Also, the Rangers or the Tigers? I’d much rather the Yanks face Texas in the first round. Careful what you wish for, I know, but I’d take my chances with them over Verlander, Cabrera and company.

[Photo Credit: Moiht]

It didn’t start well for John Lackey. He allowed a walk and single in the first and had runners on the corners with one out when Mark Teixeira hit a ball to the wall in right center field. It hit the top of the wall, a few inches away from being a home run. Two runs scored and the throw came in to Jason Varitek at home as Teixeira tried for third. Varitek had him easily but airmailed the ball into left field instead and Teixeira scored.

And that’s the way things have been going for the Red Sox.

Except Lackey recovered and pitched well after that. Couple of double plays helped him out and eventually, the Sox put some runs on the board. They scored one in the the fifth, another in the sixth. A wild pitch that bounced right back to Austin Romine at home plate was good enough to end the sixth when he tagged a leaping Dustin Pedrioa on the ass. It was good enough to get Ivan Nova out of trouble but Joe Girardi wouldn’t leave well enough alone, even after Nova’s pitches hung up in the strike zone, and a pair of doubles followed by an RBI single by Varitek gave the Sox a 4-3 in the seventh.

Boone Logan relieved Nova and got Jacoby Ellsbury looking and then picked off pinch-runner Joey Gathwright to end the inning.

Eric Chavez led off the bottom of the seventh with a weak ground ball that snuck into center field for a base hit and Tito Francona walked to the mound to remove his starting pitcher. Lackey moved away shaking his head. “You’ve got to be shitting me,” is what I saw his lips say as he stomped back to the dugout.

Brett Gardner, pinch-running for Chavez stole second on the first pitch Alfredo Aceves threw. The pitch also happened to go wild, so the tying run was at second with nobody out. Jesus Montero fisted a 2-2 pitch to short but it was hit softly enough for Gardner to reach third. The Sox brought their infield in but it didn’t much matter when Chris Dickerson hit a fly ball to center field for the sacrifice fly.

Tie game. Rafael Soriano got ahead of Carl Crawford 0-2 but then left a fastball over the plate and Crawford singled to center. He took off for second on Soriano’s first pitch to Pedrioa, got a good jump too, but Romine made a perfect throw, Cano made a quick tag, and Yankee fans had reason to cheer. They continued to be happy as Pedrioa and Ortiz grounded out to end the inning.

Aceves got the first two men out in the bottom of the eighth and then Josh Bard retired Robinson Cano on a grounder to second.

Mariano replaced Soriano and served-up an opposite field base hit to Adrain Gonzalez to start the ninth (fastball on the outside part of the plate but way up in the zone). Lars Anderson pinch-ran for Gonzalez and Mike Aviles sacrificed him to second. J.D. Drew, making his first start since Christ was a Cowboy, grounded out to first, pushing Anderson to third. Girardi walked to the mound and the infielders joined him. Mariano smiled because Marco Scutaro was coming to bat and the sombitch has a happy history against Rivera. That brought up Jarrod Saltalamacchia, who took a fastball right down Broadway for a strike. Then he took a fastball on the outside corner for strike two. Took anther fastball, just off the outside corner for a ball. A pitch Rivera usually gets. And then the unfair one: a cutter, low and inside, breaking late, almost at Salty’s ankles. He swung right over it for the third out.

Teixeira battled Bard to led off the bottom of the inning and after twelve pitches drew a walk. Greg Golson came in to run and Swisher came to bat as Jonathan Paplebon quickly warmed-up in the bullpen. A throw to first, a strike, then Bard stepped off the rubber before throwing a pitch in the dirt. Another throw to first, this one Anderson had to scoop to keep from going past him. A fastball just under Swisher’s armpits for ball two. A bigger lead for Golson and a throw to first. Paplebon almost ready. Golson ran and Swisher hit a ground ball to first, one out.

Gardner–0-5 lifetime against Bard–took a fastball for a strike and then tapped out weakly to first, Golson to third. And then, an intentional walk to The Jesus. The young Brandon Laird up, but what’s this? Jorge Posada. Pinch hitter. The old man. Believe it.

Fastball, way outside for a ball. Another heater, again, way out of the strike zone, ball two. Another heater missed so they walked him intentionally.

Enter Paplebon. Mr. Romine, this is your life, son.

Slider, up, hanging, fouled off. Fastball, low and inside. Fastball, right there, fouled back. Had a good swing, too. Fastball, in, 97mph, fouled back. Then a breaking pitch in the dirt, swung on and missed. He had his chances, had some good pitches, but he got beat.

Raul Valdes came in for Mo and the deflated sound you heard was the commenters on the Banter. You know how it goes. Ellsbury blooped a single over Nunez’s head but was cut down at second when Crawford tried to sacrifice him over. Crawford reached first and Cory Wade replaced Valdes. Crawford did not run and it took seven pitches for Wade to strike Pedrioa out. Then Ortiz flew out to left to end the inning.

Paplebon tossed a scoreless frame and then Wade did the same so Paps did it again. Wade got one out in the 12th and then gave way to Aaron Laffey. And now the Banter Crew was just plain annoyed. Even more so when Salty lined a single to left. But then Ellsbury hit into a 4-6-3 double play. Go figure, indeed.

Franklin Morales, a lefty, was Boston’s new pitcher in the bottom of the inning. He threw stack cheddar and The Jesus got some good hacks in, fouling pitches off, and he laid off a 2-2 curve ball before blooping a single to left. Ramiro Pena, in his first time hitting, stabbed at the first pitch and popped it foul, just out of Salty’s reach. Morales slung a pick off throw to first that Anderson grabbed, saving another potential throwing error. Then Pena bunted a ball right at Morales, who bobbled it, but still had plenty of time to nail Montero at second for the first out. Romine had a good pass at a fastball but struck out looking at a high slider and Nunez, hacking wildly, popped up to Pedrioa.

Unlucky 13.

I mean, Aaron Laffey, right? He got Crawford to line out to third and then Pedrioa had one of those Kevin Youkilis at bats, 9 pitches, hits a soft ground ball to third, Pena fired it to first, Pedrioa did his best Pete Rose and dove to the bag. The throw beat him, easily, but Tim McClelland called him safe. Unlucky 13, it was nothing short of a horrible call. Swisher yelled and Girardi got thrown out of the game. Ortiz flew out just shy of the warning track in left. Pedrioa led off first, unable to get a good break. Laffey threw over, fell behind Anderson but then regrouped and struck out the first baseman for the third out.

Pedrioa made a slick play, picking a hard-hit ball by Granderson for the first out in the bottom of the inning. Morales still in there. Cano walked and Andruw Jones stayed on the bench as Golson came to hit. And Golson worked the count full, fouled off a fastball and took a curve ball with no bite for ball four.

Swisher. 0-5 Swisher. Called out at first earlier in the game at first when he was safe. Playing first when Pedrioa was called safe. So Swisher hit a fly ball to right for the second out, Cano moved to third. And Gardner whiffed.

Unlucky 13.

How long could Laffey hang in there, tempting fate? Really, now. But he got an out and then Tony Pena took him out in favor of the human white flag, none other than our old pal Scott Proctor. Now, I’m sure Proctor is a decent guy. He once burned his glove on the field after a bad game in the old Stadium. And he’s a recovering alcoholic who sat alone in the player’s lounge a few days ago when the Yanks clinched the AL East. Sympathetic guy. But not the guy who is going to get outs before he gives up hits and runs anymore.

Darnell McDonald, pinch-hitting for Drew, singled to left. Scutaro walked. Do you want to know more? Isn’t it obvious where this is going? Okay, we’ve come this far, I won’t leave you hanging. Salty hit a ball a long way, in the park, but far enough to chase Granderson to the warning track in center field, far enough to allow McDonald to tag to third. And then Ellsbury. You know, the MVP candidate. Maybe he’ll win the award after hitting a ball over the fence in right center field for a three run homer.

Yeah, the Rays won’t be sending Scott Proctor a Christmas present. And I suppose ol’ Scott won’t make the playoff roster, not that he would have if he’d pitched well here.

You can’t blame Proctor for being himself. Jones, Rodriguez, Martin and Jeter never got off the bench and while the Yanks would have liked to win this one, it was clear that Girardi did not want to win at all costs. He’s got more pressing matters than the Red Sox. For Boston, however, a long day’s journey into night, ended with a sigh of relief. They remain a game ahead of Tampa. Ellsbury gets their biggest hit of the year and as I’ve said all week, I’d be surprised if they don’t make the playoffs.

Final Score: Sox 7, Yanks 4. 

[Photo Credit: Alex Duprey]

It’s Ivan Nova vs. John Lackey tonight.

File this one under the “Go Figure” department. A.J. Burnett pitched a nice game, and by his recent standards it was even better than that. He gave up two solo home runs to Jacboy Ellsbury but pitched into the eighth inning and well, let’s face it, he did better than anyone could have expected. Derek Jeter had three hits and is now batting and even .300; Jorge Posada had a couple too, including a two-run homer, and Alex Rodriguez added an RBI single.

“This game is kinda boring,” my wife said to me in the seventh inning.

The best kind of boring there is, my dear.

With the 6-2 win, the Yanks have secured the best record in the American League.

The Rays have also won putting the pressure on the Red Sox tonight (oh, and the Pats lost a close one to the Buffalo Bills to boot). John Lackey is starting and so Red Sox fans have probably lost all faith. But in keeping with the “Go Figure” theme, I think he’ll do well enough, and the Sox will take the second game to stay one game ahead of the Rays. Hope I’m wrong, but that’s my feeling.

I went shopping at Fairway this morning and talked tough with the Yankee fans I encountered. Smiles all around. Then an older guy comes up to me and says, “I’ve been rooting for the Red Sox for over sixty years. They are going to blow this.”

Who was I to tell him he was wrong? But I still say the Sox make the playoffs. And I’m not just trying to reverse jinx it–I’d be as happy as the next Yankee fan if the Sox find a way to blow it–I just don’t see it happening. I’ve got a bet with a friend who is a Sox fan–he buys me dinner if the Sox make it to the playoffs, I buy him dinner if they blow it. That’s a win, win for me.

It was supposed to rain all day but the sun is peaking out now. Double-header at the Stadium.

Here’s the Game 1 fun:

Brett Gardner CF
Derek Jeter SS
Alex Rodriguez 3B
Jorge Posada DH
Andruw Jones LF
Russell Martin C
Chris Dickerson RF
Brandon Laird 1B
Ramiro Pena 2B

Against…

Ellsbury CF
Crawford LF
Pedroia 2B
Ortiz DH
Gonzalez 1B
Aviles 3B
Scutaro SS
Reddick RF
Saltalamacchia C

Never mind coasting:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: Food Addict]

Indeed.

One of the joys of fatherhood is indoctrination. My daughter Alison is eleven years old, and I’ve been filling her head with baseball since her earliest days. At bedtime we’d read stories about Jackie Robinson and Lou Gehrig and Shoeless Joe Jackson, and my heart would fill with pride when she’d identify photos of Josh Gibson or Babe Ruth or tell her mother a story about Cool Papa Bell.

Alison’s interest in baseball has naturally led to a love of the Yankees, and recently she’s begun to gravitate towards certain players. Derek Jeter has always been her favorite, mainly because he’s her father’s favorite, but she’s also become attached to players of her own, like Nick Swisher.

Jorge Posada has been another of her guys, and she’s been bothered by his reduced role this season. (But I’ll never forget the bewildered look on her face last August when I told her that he had played second base.) When Jesus Montero was finally called up on September 1st, I explained to her how excited I was to watch him play since he was the top prospect in the Yankee system.

“What position does he play?”
“He’s a catcher, but he’ll probably just DH this season.”
“But what about Jorge Posada? Where will he play?”
“Well, if Montero plays well, Posada might not play very much anymore.”

Alison’s brow furrowed for just a second before she passed judgment on Montero.

“Then I don’t want him to do well.”

I tried to explain to her that this was the nature of baseball, that as our favorite players age, there will always be younger players waiting to take over for them. I promised her that it happened to all players, even the very best, and that even though it’s a little sad, we might eventually grow to love the new players as much as the ones they were replacing.

“I still don’t want him to do well.” She’s a fan.

Alison happened to be sitting next to me on the couch when Montero came to the plate with the bases loaded in a scoreless game in the bottom of the second. The usually reliable Jon Lester was on the mound, so even though the Red Sox had been wandering the desert for a few weeks, it certainly felt like this was a big at bat. If the Yankees were to squander this scoring opportunity, they might not get another.

“Jesus Montero is up. Let’s see what he can do here.”
“I don’t like him.” She scowled.

Alison isn’t ready to like Montero, but she liked the result of this at bat. After working himself into a 3-1 count, he looped a line drive to left, scoring Robinson Canó and opening up a 1-0 lead. Russell Martin followed that with a single to score two more, and chests began tightening throughout New England. But it would get worse; Derek Jeter was up next. He liked the looks of the first pitch he saw and shot it into the stands in right center field for a three-run home run. Suddenly the lead had doubled to six, and Boston fans couldn’t be blamed for thinking back thirty-three years to another lead that slipped away.

Things got worse still for the Sox in the third, and again it was Montero. He came to the plate with two outs and runners on first and second, and he smoked the first pitch he saw (and the last Lester would throw) to the wall in left center field. Both runners scored, bringing the lead to 8-0. The game wasn’t yet three innings old, and already the Red Sox were resigned to watching the scoreboard and hoping the Rays would lose. (They wouldn’t.)

Montero struck again in the sixth. Leading off against Junichi Tazawa, Montero patiently worked the count in his favor, then effortlessly flicked a 3-1 pitch into the seats in right for the fourth home run of his three-week career. In three at bats he had singled, doubled, and homered, totaling four RBIs. He’s currently hitting .346/.414/.635 with three doubles, four home runs, and twelve RBIs. Sure, it’s a small sample, but it’s enough.

Whether Alison likes it or not, the future has arrived.

For the Red Sox, the future might be arriving faster than they’d like. Saturday’s 9-1 loss coupled with a Tampa Bay win to shrink their lead to two in the loss column, and I’m sure the Yankees would enjoy nothing more than a double header sweep on Sunday.

[Photo Credit: Bill Kostroun/Associated Press]

Yanks, Sox: Fox.

Make it count, boys.

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

Mornin’!

Weather situations like this would invariably lead Mike Bonner, the Yankees’ game production guru, to roll out his interminable loop of rain-related songs that included “Raindrops Keep Falling On My Head” to “Riders on the Storm,” “Have You Ever Seen The Rain,” Who’ll Stop The Rain,” “Fool in the Rain” and any other rock/pop tune that had a hint of precipitation in the title.

As of 6 p.m., despite the radar showing “a big green blob out there coming this way,” as Joe Girardi told reporters at the start of his pregame media session, the Yankees and Red Sox had still planned on trying to play Friday night’s game. At 7:05, the game was officially postponed. Friday’s game will be played as the second game of a doubleheader on Sunday. The game will start at 6:30.

Kudos to the umpires for making the decision early and not delaying until after the West Coast games begin. The Yankees have already been through this twice this season — once with the Red Sox and once with the Orioles, where they had home games start after 10:30.

Freddy Garcia, the scheduled starter, will get the ball tomorrow afternoon in what could be his last audition for a Division Series start.

Should be a fun couple of days, if they can get the games in.

Yanks have a chance to make life miserable for the Sox this weekend.

Cliff’s got the preview.

Supposed to rain for the next three days.

Derek Jeter SS
Curtis Granderson CF
Mark Teixeira 1B
Alex Rodriguez 3B
Robinson Cano 2B
Nick Swisher RF
Andruw Jones LF
Jesus Montero DH
Russell Martin C

Never mind the galoshes:

Let’s Go Yank-ees!

[Photo Credit: Retrogasm]