And I ain’t getting my haircut, neither.
No, not that Dante…The Yanks picked Dante Bichette Jr. in the amateur draft yesterday. And I’ve no idea if he’s a scrub or not, no matter how much I disliked watching his old man’s theatrics back when. Here’s the early returns from Rivera Ave and The Yankee Analysts.
Over at BP, Kevin Goldstein offers up a mock draft.
And over at The Yankee Analysts, our pal William J takes a look at recent players who have been drafted more than once.
[Photo Credit: t.t@o]
You Can Run…
By John Schulian
I went to graduate school in journalism at Northwestern, and the best thing about it was that it kept me out of the Army’s clutches for one more year. Other than that, I didn’t care much for the experience. I’d spent the summer before I went there playing ball and blacktopping roads, so I had a pretty good tan. No sooner had I started hunting for an apartment than some guy asked where I’d “summered.” “On the end of an idiot stick,” I told him. When the guy didn’t realize I was talking about a shovel, I knew I was in the wrong place. Nothing against Northwestern–it’s a great school and having a master’s from there definitely helped me get a job in Baltimore when I finished my two-year hitch in the Army. But Northwestern is also a haven for children of privilege, and I’m allergic to them. Always have been, always will be.
It was like I was watching a movie as one big car after another delivered a succession of beautiful coeds to campus, mothers and fathers bidding adieu to their little darlings. It didn’t take me long to realize that I had nothing in common with about 90 percent of my fellow grad students. Some were horse’s asses like a guy from Brown who wore a suit but no socks with his penny loafers. Some were budding drones who knew lots about government but couldn’t write a letter home. Some were lost causes like the guy who decided he’d rather join the Air Force. And then there was the professor who yelled at me for showing up early for a meeting. He was the biggest horse’s ass of all. But if he or anyone else on the faculty had taught anything I was interested in, I would have made myself pay attention. Unfortunately, the faculty in 1967-68 was fixated on covering courts and government and water and sewers, and I wanted to write about flesh-and-blood people, the more colorful the better. I got my best lesson in that when Jimmy Breslin blew into town to cover a Mafia trial for the Sun-Times. He wrote a piece about getting a tip on a racehorse from one of the defendants, Paul (The Waiter) Ricca, and the judge declared a mistrial. Now that was what I had in mind when I went to Northwestern.
Ultimately, I wound up spending almost all of spring quarter in the bleachers at Wrigley Field. I think it’s safe to say I had the best tan in grad school. I got my master’s, too. And 30 days after I returned home, the draft board reclassified me 1A. And 30 days after that, I reported to the Army induction center. My heart may have been God’s, but for the next two years, my ass belonged to Uncle Sam.
Hell, yes, I was afraid of going overseas, because overseas in those days usually meant Vietnam, and even though the women and the country were beautiful, it was no vacation for American troops. Most of them were REMFs (Rear Echelon Motherfuckers), but there were enough bombs going off in Saigon to kill you just as dead as you could get killed humping through the jungle.
I’m getting ahead of myself, though. Let’s go back to the beginning of this particular chapter of my life. I wasn’t the least bit political when I was an undergrad from 1963 to 1967. Nor do I remember seeing that many kids at Utah sporting peace signs or even long hair. I know I didn’t have long hair; I leaned toward the short look favored by Peter Gunn, the TV detective. What can I tell you, I was just a kid in Bass Weejuns, khakis or Levi’s, and a button-down collar shirt. If there had been an anti-war rally to go to in Salt Lake, I would have looked completely out of place. Not that I had my head in the sand about Vietnam. I read Jonathan Schell’s “The Village of Ben Suc,” which gave me a good idea of how screwed up things were in Vietnam. But the Salt Lake papers were running wire service stories from the war, and they leaned on body counts and bombing runs, not trenchant analysis. Time magazine, which I read regularly, was foursquare behind the war, to the point that its New York editors were replacing the truth its correspondents found in Vietnam with lies and propaganda. David Halberstam of the New York Times was one of the few brave reporters on the scene who refused to buy the military’s bullshit, but I didn’t read the Times then. And the news about anti-war demonstrations elsewhere in the country seemed so far away. Sometimes everything seems far away when you’re in Utah.
David Halberstam, far left
I don’t know many guys from Salt Lake who wound up serving in Vietnam. One who did was a wonderfully funny guy I played football with; his reserve company got called to active duty, and the next thing he knew, he was building an airstrip and praying that a sniper didn’t draw a bead on him. He made it back in one piece, by the way. There was another kid-–he was two years behind me in high school-–who I heard got shot up pretty badly over there. Among guys my age, there was a stampede to get in the reserves -–Army, Marines, anything to avoid the draft. They were even going up to Idaho if they heard of openings there. If I’d stayed in Salt Lake, I probably would have joined them. But I was off at Northwestern and didn’t really start thinking about what I was going to do until winter quarter. I remember exploring officers candidate school in the Navy, but when they told me I’d have to sign up for four or five years, I said forget about it. I’d take my chances with the draft.
George Kimball
Also reviewed in the Times yesterday was “At the Fights: American Writers on Boxing.” I’ve been touting the book all spring. It was edited by two veteran writers I’m fortunate to call friends: George Kimball and John Schulian. I was thrilled that it received nothing short of a rave from Gordon Marino:
More than any other sport, even baseball or golf, boxing calls forth the muse in writers. It’s no surprise. Where there is risk there is drama, and boxers put more at risk than other athletes. In a single evening, they roll the dice with their health, marketability and sense of identity. When you have a bad night in the ring, you can’t make it up in a double header on Sunday, or on another football field in a week’s time. And after the very last bell, there is seldom a diploma to fall back on, and there sure won’t be any pension checks coming in the mail.
It’s a very hard game — maybe even crazy — but as the affection-filled writers who have attached themselves to these warriors know, the masters of the ring possess a unique nobility. That nobility is perfectly framed in this remarkable volume from the Library of America. The essays here capture every angle of this world, both solemn and comic.
…I would bemoan only one omission, namely, the wise, lustrous pages of F. X. Toole’s introduction to his short-story collection, “Rope Burns.” Though “At the Fights” weighs in at 500-plus pages, it doesn’t contain a single flabby contribution. Over and over again, writers and readers have sought to get behind the eyes of a fighter, to fathom the fighter’s heart. This is as close as you can get without catching a hook to the head.
It’s my favorite book that’s come out this year. Perfect for Father’s Day or any other day you want to be graced by a collection of great writing.
[Cartoon by George Price]
Check out this cool behind-the-scenes photo gallery…
And then peep Scorsese on Kubrick (brought to us by Matt B):
many horror fans were put off by “The Shining,” and I don’t believe that Stephen King, the author of the novel on which it was based, was ever very happy with the movie. Kubrick and his co-writer, the novelist Diane Johnson, kept many elements from King’s novel, but they wrote their own work, turning to Freud’s The Uncanny and Bruno Bettelheim’s book about fairy tales, The Uses of Enchantment, for inspiration. In their film, the horror came from within the family — the violent father (Jack Nicholson) suffering from writer’s block and having a hard time staying on the wagon, the mousy mother (Shelley Duvall) trying to believe that everything is okay for as long as she can and the quiet son (Danny Lloyd) with an extrasensory gift called “shining” that allows him to see terrors past and future. They’re all cooped up in an enormous luxury hotel in Colorado that’s been shut down for the season and where they’ve agreed to stay for the winter as caretakers. The halls and corridors seem to extend to infinity, like the shots of interstellar travel in “2001: A Space Odyssey,” and the sense of space itself is terrifying, particularly in those justifiably famous Steadicam shots following Danny as he careens down the corridors on his Big Wheel.
In “The Shining,” Kubrick made potent use of ambiguity. You never really know what’s happening: Is the father hallucinating or is he the reincarnation of a murderer from an earlier era? Are there real ghosts in the hotel or are they imagined by the traumatized son? Is the son sensing the horrors that will be committed by his father or just projecting them onto him? Few movies create such a powerful feeling of unease.
The draft is tonight and for weeks, the good people at River Avenue Blues and The Yankee Analysts have the topic on lock.
Be sure to check ’em out today to keep up on the latest.
Ian O’Connor’s new book, “The Captain: The Journey of Derek Jeter” was given a fair but tough review by Richard Sandomir over the weekend in the Times Book Review:
O’Connor’s sweet Life of Derek raises a core question: Can a Jeter biography be anything less than an ode to a wonderful guy who has been the face of the Yankees for a decade and a half, since he was 22? Maybe O’Connor’s man-crush is the inevitable result of extended exposure to Jeter and his story. Without a tell-all, what’s left? The tale of a terrific fella who, as O’Connor reports, quizzes dates about their morals and has a “spectacular talent for doing the right thing at the right time.”
But O’Connor is a serious journalist, a former newspaperman and now a columnist for ESPN.com who has covered Jeter’s entire career. Surely he searched for the “other” Jeter, to balance the one who “dated supermodels at night and helped their grandmothers cross the street by day.” (Disappointingly, O’Connor’s notes do not cite any interviews with these grandmas.) Surely he wanted to find a troubled side to Jeter, so he could offer a complex picture like the ones that have emerged in definitive biographies of Joe DiMaggio (by Richard Ben Cramer) and Mickey Mantle (by Jane Leavy).
Sandomir notes that the darkness never arrives perhaps because it doesn’t exist. The book is dutifully researched, he writes, but “O’Connor rarely elevates his material beyond a narrative about Jeter’s greatness as a man and player. A straightforward storyteller, he gods up his subject without irony, detachment or recognition of the hyperbole that comes with so much positive testimony.”
If there is any darkness in the book it is reserved for Alex Rodriguez:
Rodriguez is absurdly easy to criticize. He is blunder-prone and shows none of Jeter’s sense of himself. But O’Connor’s open loathing of Rodriguez is as difficult to accept as his adoration of Jeter. “A-Rod was ruining the Yankee experience for Jeter,” he writes. Rodriguez is a “man of dishonor” after he admits to using steroids. And when he follows his agent’s advice to opt out of his Yankees contract in 2007 (he ultimately re-signed for another 10 years), O’Connor says, “On muscle memory, Alex Rodriguez played the fool.” Once the enemies find detente, with Jeter deciding that a humbled and “emasculated” Rodriguez is worth a second shot, O’Connor extends the saint-sinner imagery to an explicitly biblical level. Here he is, describing the jubilant scene after the Yankees clinched their division in 2009: “The photos captured a beaming Jeter lifting A-Rod’s cap off his head with his left hand and pouring a bottle of bubbly over A-Rod’s bowed scalp with his right. At last, the captain had baptized Rodriguez.”
As the announcer Dick Enberg says in moments of rapture, “Oh my.”
In other words, save your money.
[Drawing by Paul Mcrae]
Sunday afternoon’s nail biter at Angel Stadium was the ultimate swing game for the Yankees. Not only would it determine the winner of the three-game weekend set with the pesky Halos, but it would end the Yankees’ long west coast adventure at either a mediocre 5-4 or an excellent 6-3.
Showing some killer instinct, the Yankees opted for the latter mark, as they finished off the Pacific swing in style. A pair of ex-Angels played a role, most notably Mark Teixeira. It’s easy to forget that Teixeira played for the Angels toward the tailend of the 2008 season, but Angels pitching had little trouble remembering that today. They watched the Yankee first baseman pound out a pair of monstrous home runs in support of Bartolo “Chubbsy Ubbsy” Colon and the Yankee bullpen. A 5-3 victory had its share of shaky moments (when do games against the Angels not have such moments?) but the combination of power and clutch bullpen pitching proved good enough in the finale of the eventful road trip.
The Yankees set themselves up for a big inning in the second when Robinson Cano led off with a double and Nick Swisher followed with a walk. That brought up Jorge Posada, whose lack of hitting, especially with runners in scoring position, is fast becoming an albatross at the bottom of the order. Posada grounded into a weak 3-6-1 double play, essentially taking the Yankees out of a multiple-run inning possibility. (Later, Posada committed an atrocious baserunning error as he legged out a double and then foolishly tried to advance to third on what he perceived as an overthrow to second base. Posada was hung up between the bases and easily tagged out.) Thankfully, Brett Gardner salvaged the inning by grounding a two-out double down the right field line, scoring Cano with the game’s first run.
Teixeira added to the Yankees’ lead in the top of the third. After Curtis Granderson bounced into a double play, Teixeira scooped up a low sinker and slammed it into the right field bleachers. The lengthy solo home run gave the Yankees a 2-0 lead.
The two-run advantage seemed as if it would hold up, given Colon’s effectiveness over the first two innings. The other ex-Angel on the Yankee roster, Colon retired the first six batters he faced, but then ran into sudden and immediate trouble in the third inning. Rookie of the Year Candidate Mark Trumbo picked on a first-pitch fastball and pile-drived it over the center field wall for his 11th home run of the season. Hank Conger followed with a long double to the gap, moved up on Maecer Izturis’ tapped infield bleeder down the first base line, and then scored on Erick Aybar’s line drive sacrifice fly to right field. Colon managed to escape the inning with a tie score thanks to Robinson Cano’s terrific barehand play of Torii Hunter’s slow chopper that wafted between the pitcher’s mound and the second base bag.
The score remained tied until the top of the fifth inning, when Teixeira lofted a towering home run to right field, his 18th blast of the season, scoring Curtis Granderson ahead of him. Now ahead 4-2, Bartolo Colon could not stand prosperity. The Angels bounced right back in the bottom half of the inning, scoring a run courtesy of a two-out rally and narrowing the score to 4-3.
With Colon lacking some command and nowhere near as sharp as he was in his previous west coast start against the A’s, Joe Girardi turned to his bullpen with one out in the sixth inning. David Robertson worked out of an eventual bases-loaded jam, stranding all of the Angels’ runners by striking out the thorny Izturis. He then retired the leadoff man in the seventh before giving way to Joba Chamberlain, who struggled through a stretch of an inning and two-thirds, but managed to keep the Angels off the board.
In the top of the eighth inning, the Yankees added to their lead thanks to one of Nick Swisher’s best at-bats of the season. Battling back from an 0-and-2 count, Swisher took hold of a 3-and-2 fastball and lofted a home run just inside of the right field foul pole.
Handed a two-run lead in the ninth, Mariano Rivera made it a late-game thriller by allowing a bloop single to Izturis and a line drive safety to Bobby Abreu, but ended the dramatics by inducing Hunter to bounce into a 5-4-3 double play. The win maintains the Yankees’ sole possession of first place, just in time to welcome the second-place Red Sox to town on Tuesday night.
Final Score: Yanks 5, Angels 3.
Yankee Doodles: Derek Jeter banged out a single against Angels starter Joel Pineiro, good for career hit No. 2,986. That brings Jeter within 14 hits of Roberto Clemente and the 3,000-hit mark. Barring an injury, Jeter will almost certainly reach the milestone later this month… Francisco Cervelli’s presence on the major league roster continues to mystify. Cervelli went 0-for-4 with three strikeouts and is now batting .167 as the backup to Russell Martin… Former Yankee Jim Abbott threw out the game’s ceremonial pitch, as the Angels continue to celebrate the 50th anniversary of their franchise existence. Abbott was the Angels’ ace in the early 1990s before coming to the Yankees in the trade that sent first baseman J.T. Snow and pitchers Russ Springer and Jerry Nielsen. Abbott pitched a no-hitter for the Yankees in September of 1993.
The Yanks won a close one last night. They are 5-3 on this west coast swing. A win today sure would make for a pleasant flight back home, wouldn’t it?
It’s Colon vs. Joel Pineiro.
Derek Jeter SS
Curtis Granderson CF
Mark Teixeira 1B
Alex Rodriguez 3B
Robinson Cano 2B
Nick Swisher RF
Jorge Posada DH
Brett Gardner LF
Francisco Cervelli C
Happy Sunday and…
Let’s Go Yank-ees!
The original plan was for me to go to this game. Friday night was too busy, Sunday is the wife’s birthday, so Saturday’s game — conveniently scheduled for an early evening start — was the one. But it didn’t work. I ended up watching on TV with the rest of you, and here’s what happened.
In a game that clocked in at a brisk 2:35, both pitchers looked good. Even though the numbers don’t bare this out, it always seems like the Angels’ Ervin Santana pitches well against the Yanks, and Saturday night was no different. He cruised through the first three innings and gave up a run in the fourth only because Torii Hunter’s leap into the stands over the short fence in the right field corner wasn’t enough to snare Robinson Canó’s 12th homer of the season.
That 1-0 lead looked like it might be all that Yankee starter CC Sabathia would need. But the scrappy Angels bounced right back in the bottom of inning as Alberto Callaspo doubled deep to center field, then advanced to third on a grounder (which Derek Jeter booted for an error). An out later Callaspo came home on a Jeff Mathis sacrifice fly. The run was unearned, but the game was tied.
The game stayed tied until the sixth when Curtis Granderson led off and worked a walk. Two batters later Alex Rodríguez put a crush on a ball and sent it towards the rocks in left center field and the Yankees were up, 3-1. There was never a doubt that those extra two runs would be enough for Sabathia.
As predicted yesterday, Sabathia was ready, and he took no prisoners, dominating the Angels all night. It wasn’t too long ago that conversations about Sabathia were lined with at least a hint of disappointment, but when you look at his season now, it’s hard to remember why. He has been the very definition of an ace. Saturday’s victory was his seventh of the year (tied with five others for tops in the league), and he’s won his past four starts, pitching at least eight innings in each of them. In a rotation where each of the other four pitchers takes the mound with some type of looming question (Will Burnett finally self-destruct? Will Nova make it through five innings? Will Colón’s deal with the devil run out? Will García turn back into a pumpkin?), the certainty of Sabathia has been a gift.
In recent years eight innings had become the equivalent of a complete game for the Yankee staff, but Sabathia came out for the ninth in an attempt to finish what he started. After he got two ground outs to third and stood waiting for someone named Peter Bourjos to walk to the plate, it looked like the bullpen would have the night off. But after Gorgeous Bourjos singled, was allowed to take second, and came home on a Macier Izturis single, manager Joe Girardi hopped out of the dugout and called on Mariano Rivera. As it turned out, it took Rivera longer to get to the mound than get off it; he needed only one pitch to retire Erick Aybar for the final out. Yankees 3, Angels 2.
[Photo Credit: Stephen Dunn/Getty Images]
Jason Varitek and Jonathan Papelbon were kicked out of the game this afternoon in Boston. The Sox blew a 7-3 lead but eventually won in extra innings. Meanwhile, out west, Dan Haren was scratched and Ervin Santana will start in his place for the Angels. He’ll face this line-up:
Derek Jeter SS
Curtis Granderson CF
Mark Teixeira 1B
Alex Rodriguez 3B
Robinson Cano 2B
Russell Martin C
Nick Swisher RF
Jorge Posada DH
Brett Gardner LF
Good ol’ C.C. goes for the Yanks. Never mind the preamble:
Let’s Go Yank-ees!
It’s no secret that I hate the Angels. Hate ’em like the chicken pox, and it’s not just because they’ve had so much success against the Yankees over the past fifteen years. I hate everything about them — the halo, the stadium, the rally monkey, the waterfall in centerfield, even the name. Any team named the Angels should be playing Bobby Sox softball in a league with the Ponies, the Unicorns, and the Magic Rainbows.
So after all that ranting, this next part will seem kind of snarky, but I don’t mean it to be. I kind of feel sorry for the Angels. They already have to wear those ridiculous uniforms, and then when they go with the throwbacks, they just look even more ridiculous, no matter which uni they choose. Poor Angels.
The team is celebrating its 50th anniversary, so on Friday night they trotted out the 1960s uniforms, complete with the cute little hats with the with the cute little halos on top. Lucky for them they had Jered Weaver on the mound, who could probably pitch with a flower pot on his head, but the kid who looked a look for the Cy Young on April 30 (6-0, 0.99 ERA in his first six starts) came down from the clouds in May (0-4, 5.25 in his next four).
The Yankees appeared intent on making him work, and Derek Jeter started off with a fifteen-pitch at bat to lead off the game. He ended up popping out to center, and even though Curtis Granderson and Mark Teixeira also went down, the three had made Weaver work as he expended 27 pitches to get through a 1-2-3 inning.
After the long top half, the Angels came up in the bottom half and notched a couple runs off Ivan Nova. Erick Aybar singled, moved to second on a wild pitch, and was quickly cashed in on a double from our old friend Bobby Abreu. Abreu would take third minutes later on a passed ball, and then score from there on a ground out to open a 2-0 lead.
The Yanks would split that margin in half in the second with an Alex Rodríguez double and a Russell Martin single, then tie the score at two in the fourth when Jorge Posada followed a couple of walks with a ground rule double.
The Angels, of course, would answer right back in their half of the fourth to reclaim the lead at 3-2, and after that, a strange thing happened. In an unorthodox move, the Yankee equipment manager ordered that all the bats be put away. Every once in a while someone managed to sneak a stick up to the plate, but they were obviously under strict orders not to swing. The Yankees didn’t manage a single hit after the fourth inning (they only had three total on the night), and struck out eleven times, with four of those Ks being backwards. A pathetic performance. Angels 3, Yankees 2.
Ivan Nova, though, wasn’t bad. He worked himself into a few jams, but I think we’d all be happy with six innings and three runs every time out from him. But don’t worry, everybody. CC’s driving the Score Truck tomorrow night. Expect the Yanks to win big. Big, I said. And I heard a rumor the Yanks will be wearing their throwback jerseys, the ones the team wore from 1936 to 2010. You won’t want to miss that.
[Photo Credit: Mark J. Terrill/AP Photo]
The Yanks take on the Angels tonight. The rivalry isn’t the same as it was a few years back when the Angels were, you know, good. (That said, my buddy Rich Lederer will be talking big trash if the Yanks lose the series.)
Hopefully, the Bombers continue their string of good fortune against good pitching as Jered Weaver gets the start. It’ll be interesting to see what Ivan Nova’s got to offer. All eyes in the Bronx are pulling for him to have a good outing cause he has struggled of late.
Cliff has the preview. We do the rootin’:
Let’s Go Yank-ees!
[Pictures by Kevin Roche]
Roger Federer, that great champion, that old man, beat Novak Djokovic, who was previously unbeaten this year, today at the French Open to advance to the Final.
Word to God.
Federer will play his nemesis Rafa Nadal on Sunday for all the marbles. Here’s hoping he’s got one more great match in him. To beat Nadal at the French would be something.
And now we take a moment from last night’s thrilling Game 2 win by the Mavericks to address the Knicks:
That is all.
[Picture by Andrew D. Bernstein/NBAE via Getty Images]
Yanks are in Anaheim this weekend to play a three game series against their old nemesis, the Angels. But even though the Halos will be trotting out Jered Weaver and Dan Haren, they have fallen on tough tough times as evidenced by this letter by Rich Lederer.
Here is a compelling essay Pete Hamill wrote in 1996 for Esquire—“Blood on Their Hands: The Corrupt and Brutal World of Professional Boxing”:
On the night of the Tyson-Bruno fight, I went to a place called the Official All Star Cafe in Times Square. There was a huge private party to honor the twentieth anniversary of the first Rocky movie, and crowds packed the sidewalks for a glimpse of Sylvester Stallone and the celebrities he might draw. One of those celebrities was Muhammad Ali.
Ali was already there when I arrived, dressed in a dark-red long-sleeved shirt, seated at a table with his wife and young son. To his right was a movie-size screen on which the preliminary fights were being broadcast from the MGM Grand in Las Vegas. The room was crowded with citizens of the fight racket: Riddick Bowe and Lennox Lewis, Ray Leonard and Willie Pep, managers and promoters, wives and girlfriends. Everybody tried to avoid looking at Muhammad Ali.
His head was bowed and he was trying to eat. But his right hand was shaking so hard that he could not get the piece of chicken to move two inches to his mouth. His wife, Lonnie, put her hand over his to quell the shaking and gently guided the chicken to its destination. Ali chewed diligently but did not raise his head.
Across the evening, people came over to the table to lean down and speak to the ruined fifty-four-year-old man. Sometimes he smiled. Sometimes he whispered a reply. Sometimes he rose to pose for pictures. But then he would be back in the chair, the once lithe and powerful body sagging, the eyes wide and wary, a plastic strew clenched in his mouth, all of him shaking with the Parkinson’s disease, with the damage caused by the fierce trade he once honored.
The disease, caused in Ali’s case by repeated blows to the head, is insidious, degenerative, humiliating, a thief of will and memory. I know: My mother, who was hit in the head by a mugger in 1979, is now eighty-five and trapped in its silent prison. I’ve fed her, as Lonnie feeds Ali.
Only when the fight started and Mike Tyson came down the aisle in Las Vegas did Ali’s eyes focus intensely. We’ll never know what now moves through his mind. But he had made that same walk so many times, with entire arenas and stadiums roaring the chant Ah-lee, Ah-lee, Ah-lee, Ah-lee…. When young, he had been among great throngs where half the audience hated him, and had stayed long enough to convert them all. For Ah-lee, Ah-lee wasn’t about celebrity or even success; it was about excellence and heart. And it was about personal defiance: of odds, of skeptics, of racists, of the American government, and of pain. Along the way, Ali became myth; most myths, alas, are also tragedies.
Here’s an appreciation of John Sterling and Suzyn Waldman by Ralph Gardner Jr. in the Wall Street Journal:
I’m a Mets fan, yet my favorite announcers are the Yankees’ John Sterling and Suzyn Waldman.
I can already hear the groans from baseball aficionados, so let’s clear the air before we get started. Yes, Mr. Sterling’s silken delivery owes more to the golden age of radio, or perhaps Ted Baxter of “The Mary Tyler Moore Show,” than it does gladiatorial ESPN. He’s been known to call home runs—”It is high, it is far, it is gone!”—only to have to take it back when the balls turn out to be playable. And Ms. Waldman might have momentarily lost perspective when she swooned in 2007 upon spotting Roger Clemens in George Steinbrenner’s box at Yankee Stadium, signifying his lordship’s return to the Yankee roster for one year at $28 million, and said: “Oh my goodness gracious. Of all the dramatic things I’ve ever seen…”
My reaction to the armchair critics is: Lighten up. Get a life. Then again, I may not be the best judge. I started a co-ed softball team in college, with myself the only male player because I wanted nurturing and encouragement rather than vilification when I dropped a pop fly, as I occasionally did.
But for sheer radio listening pleasure for the casual fan, I don’t think anybody beats the Sterling-Waldman duo. Their style is conversational rather than testosterone-crazed; it’s almost overheard, as if you were eavesdropping on their tête-à-tête from the next table at Sardi’s. And they know their stuff—Mr. Sterling because he’s been the Yankees announcer for every single game since 1989, Ms. Waldman because she works her tail off—as I discovered when I visited them at the stadium for last Tuesday night’s game against the Toronto Blue Jays.
[Photo Credit: The Yankee Analysts]
Our pals, the Three Amigos, are doing some fine work over at PB.
Here’s Cliff on Derek Jeter
Goldie on Eduardo Nunez and Jesus Montero and
Jay on Fab Five Freddy and the incredible Curtis Granderson.
Class is in session.
