I walked to the subway in the remnants of a muscle-relaxed fog this morning. I eased into a seat and took out my book. But the text was swimming all over the page so I just looked around. So many people wearing green today. Why is that? O’crap. It’s St. Patrick’s Day. I forgot to wear green. Then I looked down at my shirt – by chance it was green. No pinches today. My kids might not be so lucky.

Yup, the kid pitched well last night.

Yanks and O’s on YES tonight.

[Picture by Bags]

Mr. Greene, my 8th Grade Social Studies teacher, posted a message on the blackboard on the first day of classes:

If you don’t know the answer to a question, bluff by speaking the word, “economics.” More often than not, you’ll be right.

Heady stuff to tell a bunch of 12-14-year-old kids who had little idea how the world works. I mention Mr. Greene’s message because it was written in the context of the first unit that year: The Civil War, and the major causes of it. Slavery, the major cause of the War that began 150 years ago this year, is certainly a cultural issue. At its core, however, it is — and was — an economic issue.

The slavery analogy has been made to describe the economic, racial and cultural divide in professional sports since the late 19th Century and the immediate aftermath of Jim Crow and Plessy v. Ferguson. Adrian Peterson’s use of the word, uttered in an interview to Yahoo! Sports, is news because, as Dave Zirin wrote, “he went there.” A black athlete making a slavery analogy, in a sport with white owners, is drawing heavy criticism from mostly white media media members. We’re still having this discussion? The cast is different but the colors are the same? The NFLPA, led by a dynamic black man in DeMaurice Smith, has hinted at exactly what Peterson said. He just didn’t use the word.

The three lead plaintiffs in the class-action suit against the NFL — Tom Brady, Drew Brees and Peyton Manning — may agree with the slavery analogy, but by virtue of their pigmentation, couldn’t dare use it. What level of criticism would they receive?

In my Sport Sociology studies in college, racism, along with gender equity, were the two most frequent issues discussed. The seminar my senior year was devoted to the topic, specifically in the sport of boxing.

I’m not of the mindset that someone making millions of dollars has no right to use the term “slave.” I am of the mindset that the rampant criticism for his word choice is undeserved. Peterson, like Brady, Brees and Manning is one of the most visible players in the NFL. Maybe not necessarily in that order, Peterson, Brady, Brees and Manning are the top four picks in most Fantasy drafts. Why shouldn’t he present his viewpoint?

Zirin’s full article can be found here. If you’re interested in sport history and culture, it’s a good read. His mentions of Curt Flood, whose struggles against the Reserve Clause were profiled by Alex Belth profiled in a 2006 biography, Stepping Up, are poignant and insightful.

As for the discussion of slavery, it still exists in this country; just not in the form that it once did. Context rules. Do you believe Peterson’s comment was taken out of context? Is the comment more socioeconomic or sociocultural?

One thing is certain: the debate is not going to end any time soon.

[Photo Credit: Zimbio.com]

I have a friend who is a fiend for public access TV. He lives in Manhattan so I don’t get to see the shows that float his boat (in the Bronx we are graced by the fine North End Liquor ads). But he shared this with me.

Warning: This May So Great it Hurts or So Awful it Hurts (either way, pain is involved):

Robert Altman once said that you could write a movie by listening to snippets of conversation as you walked down the street.

Overheard on my lunch today…

Short woman talking into her cell phone: “Don’t hang up on me, bitch, I’m trying to f***ing talk to you.”

Two young women:

“W’e’re late, it’s already 1:15.”

“I’ve got 1:07.”

“Oh, that’s cause I set my watch ahead so that I freak myself out so that I’m not late in the morning.”

“That’s smart.”

Business guy talking to another business guy: “And I didn’t get in until 2 but I don’t even feel hung over.”

Dude on his cell phone: “C’mon baby, you know I love you. I love you  like cooked food. What? No, for real, I love you like Red Lobsters.”

[Picture by William Gedney]

The Eagles' home field in Sendai, via japanesebaseballstadiums.com

I read on Hardball Talk this morning that Japan’s baseball league, the NPB, is trying to decide when to start their season, which was originally scheduled for March 25th. Per the Yakyu Baka blog, it sounds as if the Central League wants to start on time, while the Pacific League wants to postpone the games, and they haven’t yet been able to reach an agreement. Exhibition games have already been canceled; The Rakuten Golden Eagles’ stadium in Sendai, near the epicenter of the earthquake, is obviously not ready for games, and neither is the Chiba Lotte Marines’, which sustained liquification under its parking lot and plumbing damage. The Eagles’ future is uncertain in many ways, and night games could be tricky all over the country, since the government has asked everyone to conserve electricity whenever possible.

Obviously, this is hardly Japan’s biggest concern right now. I’ve felt a little weird writing about silly baseball stuff all week with everything that’s happening there; but that’s my job, and it’s not like anything I write can help anyway. Anyway, this news seems like an opportunity to acknowledge, again, that while we will certainly continue to write about Kyle Farnsworth, we at the Banter are still very much thinking about Japan.

The only thing from my own baseball life that I can think to compare the NPB’s situation to is September 11th, and the tragedy in Japan is on a larger scale than even that, particularly considering the ongoing nuclear emergency (which is terrifying to read about). I don’t think there is necessarily a right or wrong answer as to when to start the season. There is nothing wrong with waiting, out of either respect or just practical necessity, to say nothing of safety concerns. That said, I know I felt just a little bit better on September 17th in 2001 when baseball came back, and a little bit better yet on the 21st when it came back to New York (and yes, that Mike Piazza home run made me cry). Maybe, in Japan, this is one of those times when all the emotion people invest in the game can pay off in some larger way… then again, maybe not. Players and front office personnel in Japan are torn, and they would know better than I do.

For some cool New York City flix, check out Nelson George on Tumblr.

Over at Cardboard Gods, our pal Josh Wilker previews the 2011 Yanks by harkening back to the good ol’ days:

In the Yankees’ 1970s dynasty, the most visible figure and self-appointed leader was Reggie Jackson, and the actual team leader was Thurman Munson, but Lou Piniella was, at least to me, the definitive Yankee. Consider his game-saving play in the bottom of the ninth of the one-game playoff in 1978. After a one-out single by Rick Burleson, Jerry Remy hit a fly to right that Piniella lost in the sun. Instead of panicking, he pretended that he was preparing to make a routine, nonchalant catch, then when the ball came down in front of him, he happened to be close enough to it to stick out his glove and snare it on one bounce. Burleson, fooled along with everyone into thinking that Piniella would make easy work of Remy’s fly ball, had stayed close to first and was only able to make it to second base, unable to score on the long fly out produced by the following batter, Jim Rice. The Bucky Dent home run from earlier in the game has always gotten far more attention as the pivotal moment in the game, but Piniella’s play was vital, too, and was more representative of the Yankees for its infuriating combination of smarts, skill, guts, and good luck (Dent’s improbable gust-lifted pop-up leaning much more heavily on the last of those elements).

How, sweet it was.

It is dark, cold and wet in New York this morning. Nothing like the rain to make the morning commute an adventure. The bus was jammed packed and so was the train. At one point, the conductor on the IRT said, “Please, step all the way inside, you are blocking the closing doors.” A few seconds passed and then his voice came over the loudspeaker again, “You are still blocking the door.” He wasn’t happy. Another beat, then: “I’m looking right at you!”

That got a good chuckle out of the people near me. I was smiling too. At the next stop, the conductor said, “This is a crowded train, people, let’s work together.” He wasn’t upset anymore but encouraging. And when we arrived at 72nd street, a transfer station, he said, “Number 3 arriving across the plaform, number 3. Oh, and it’s as crowded as we are. You are better off staying put.”

I got off the train at my stop and went up to the conductor, who was peaking out of his window, and told him what a pro he was and how much I appreciated riding with him. He had big teeth and he smiled and then he was gone.

Man, it’s hard to believe but I’ve gone the past two seasons without a regular Yankee hat. Yeah, I wore one that I got a cap day last year but it doesn’t fit right so it didn’t become a regular piece of gear. I used to buy the cheap hats with the snaps on the back for five bucks on the street. I’d break ’em in with lots of love then eventually lose ’em (which is why I only bought the cheap ones). But I dig it when you see an old hat, one that someone has had for years like this one that I caught on the train today.

So, what about you guys? How old is your Yankee cap? Do you wear a fitted one? How many do you own?

Whadda ya hear, whadda ya say?

Check out this fantastic post over at WFMU on the early career of Dave Letterman.

These days, the Rays are the Yankees’ rivals every bit as much as the Red Sox are. So in the know-your-enemy spirit, and given all the renewed Rays interest sparked by friend-of-the-Banter Jonah Keri’s new book “The Extra 2%,” I figured I’d gather up some recent developments down in Tampa.

Yep.

First of all, Rays manager Joe Maddon is awesome. I’m sorry, but he is. I loved his golf pants efforts last season, and he’s still in full support of his players getting goofy with their personal appearance:

I might have preferred to get an “almost” in there before the “wherever,” but I applaud the sentiment. Although I think we’ve all seen by now that ballplayers hardly need much encouragement to grow fantastically horrible facial hair.

Last season, Maddon complained when the Trop’s bizarre house rules cost the Rays a run, after a pop-up hit one of those oddly placed catwalks and went for a single–saying the team needed “a real baseball field.” He subsequently apologized to the injured party via Twitter:

“most recent whine was my getting on Trop roof, have since apologized to said roof and r now on much better terms, maybe best ever…”   RaysJoeMaddon

Now, the Trop’s bizarre, byzantine ground rules are changing… or, rather, changing back to what they were before last fall’s Division Series. TampaBay.com explains, sort of:

You know what, Maddon was right the first time: that team does need to get themselves a real ballpark. Damn.

Finally, a Marc Topkin profile of our old frenemy and current devilish Ray Kyle Fransworth last week turned up several facts about the man of which I was not aware:

• He lives in the Disney owned and operated town of Celebration, Florida.
• He is a non-practicing Mormon.
• He has been sober for the last two years, after some hard drinking in his younger days.

The article’s overall tone is generally one of “oh look, he’s not actually that terrifying, he bakes holiday cookies!” but it undercuts that point with details like this:

Farnsworth’s 2003 technically perfect pursuit, tackle and takedown, plus subsequent pummeling, of Reds pitcher Paul Wilson — captured in photographs and still-popular video — remains his greatest hit, though a similar 2005 tussle with Royals reliever Jeremy Affeldt is close.

“He went crazy wanting to fight everyone,” said Affeldt, now with the Giants. “I’ve been in the weight room with him after that working out, and there’s no bitterness. It’s like it never happened. Kind of weird.”

And:

That competitiveness and machismo thread runs through everything he does: high-intensity workouts, martial arts training, marksmanship, paint ball and his beloved hunting, as he switched from gun to crossbow five years ago to make it more challenging as he pursues deer, turkey and hogs on his 2,500-acre plot in Georgia that is his favorite getaway.

Sober cookie-baking Disney mormon or not, the image of Kyle Farnsworth running after a hog with a frigging crossbow is quite a vivid one.

A pitfall of being a sportswriter, broadcaster, or reporter, particularly if you cover a particular team for any length of time, is that you have to swallow your fandom to perpetuate the myth of objectivity. A perk to the job is the tremendous, unprecedented level of access granted.

Those thoughts crossed my mind when I posted the following to my Facebook status last Wednesday night:

I might be the luckiest sports fan ever: I’ve had the chance to play pickup hoops at Pauley Pavilion, walk on the field and be in the clubhouse at Yankee Stadium, Fenway Park and Wrigley Field. I’ve gotten to meet my childhood broadcasting idols, Chris Berman and Marv Albert. Tonight, I got to live my ultimate childhood dream: play ice hockey at Nassau Coliseum.

I’ve now viewed games at the Coliseum as a fan in the 100, 200, and 300 sections; attended games in the Owner’s Suite; sat rinkside as the Public Address announcer, and played ice hockey on the same 200×85 surface on which my all-time favorite, Mike Bossy, scored so many of his 658 career goals (573 regular season, 85 playoffs). This wasn’t Paper Lion or Tom Verducci joining the Toronto Blue Jays for a brief turn in Spring Training four years ago. Far from it. The occasion was a partnership celebration between my company and the NHL, with whom we’ve been partnered for four seasons now.

Will, in the roller hockey pants and orange jersey, preparing for a draw.

Emotions ran high for those of us who grew up idolizing those Islander teams. We stood at the blue lines for the National Anthem, looked up at the rafters to see the many banners highlighting the Patrick Division, Wales and Campbell Conference titles, and of course, the four Stanley Cup championships (which easily could have been 6, if not for the Rangers and Oilers). Then, the retired numbers of Potvin, Bossy, Smith, Trottier, Gillies and Nystrom caught our gazes. Then the Hall of Fame banner. Every second was a “How cool is THIS” moment.

(I wonder if guys like Tyler Kepner, Bob Klapisch, Mark Feinsand et al have those same feelings when they play at Yankee Stadium and Fenway Park to do the Boston vs. New York writers games every year.)

The last time I felt that kind of rush was April 5, 2002, when I covered my first Yankee game for YES. It was the Yankees’ home opener. The feeling I got when I walked from the clubhouse to the tunnel leading to the dugout, eventually emerging and then stepping onto the field, I couldn’t comprehend how anyone, not even grown men making the millions of dollars they do, could ever take that for granted.

Looking out from behind the batting cage down the lines, the short porch didn’t seem so short. I wondered how, with a wood bat, someone could turn on a 95 mile-per-hour fastball and deliver it into those seats. I gained a greater appreciation for what professional baseball players do on a daily basis.

The same was true here. Having played hockey (street, dek, roller and at various points, ice), I knew how physically taxing the sport was. But certain items that I thought would be true turned out just the opposite. The rink didn’t seem that large. The puck was surprisingly light. The boards had more give than expected. In the heat of the game, I didn’t notice the people in the stands (yes, people were there). If they were heckling, I couldn’t hear them. My senses were too attuned to what was going on in front of me, and making sure I didn’t embarrass myself in front of my bosses, either through my skating, or by letting my competitive intensity boil over.

I had three real good scoring chances, one in each period. The best one came on my first shift of the second period. I took a nice feed off the boards just before the blue line and sped up the right wing a 3-on-1 break. My first inclination was to pass, but my two linemates were too deep to accept a cross-ice feed. The lone defenseman gave me lots of room to skate. So, I kept my feet moving and fired a wrist shot from about 20 feet out, just before the faceoff dot. It was ticketed for the top corner, glove side, but the goalie made a strong save. In retrospect, I had more room and could have gotten deeper and made a move. But who knows if I would have gotten the shot off?

The postgame handshake. Still one of the coolest things about hockey.

My team won, 5-2. I was on the ice for two goals — one for my team, one for the opponent. I won the majority of my faceoffs and drew a penalty. It was the most fun I’ve had playing anything since the first and only gig I had with a band nine years ago.

Ultimately, though, I understood how difficult it is to be a professional athlete. It’s a job that literally beats you up. The physical and mental conditioning required is staggering. There’s a reason so few people in the world do it. The simple answer: Because they can.

For a night, though, it was a rush to walk a few steps and skate a few strides in the same arena.

Seth Mnookin profiles Derek Jeter in this month’s GQ:

By all accounts, when Jeter has felt at risk of being exposed, he’s taken swift steps. About ten years ago, a freelancer working on a piece for The New York Times was in the Yankees locker room after batting practice. Jeter and some other players were joking around—”it was something totally innocuous,” the reporter says—when Jeter realized there was a tape recorder in the room. Later that night, the reporter was buttonholed by a Yankees PR staffer and one of the team’s security guards. When the reporter tried to apologize to Jeter for any misunderstanding, he says, Jeter refused to acknowledge that anything had happened in the first place.

Even those people whose job it is to dig up dirt on celebrities can only shake their heads in amazement. “Derek Jeter could be a guru,” says Richard Johnson, the Los Angeles bureau chief of The Daily and legendary former editor of the New York Post’s gossip column, Page Six. “There’s never been any kiss-and-tell stuff where a girl breaks up with Jeter and then says what a creep he is. I don’t know how he avoids it. He must have some sort of vetting process—maybe he makes them fill out a questionnaire or has a psychological profile done. He’s incredible.”

…Over the course of two days, I spent more than four hours talking to Jeter. I haven’t spent a lot of time talking to boldfaced names, but he was without question one of the nicest, most genuine celebrities I’ve interviewed. Perhaps that was because he no longer feels awkward providing answers that inevitably disappoint reporters looking for scooplets about the “real” Derek Jeter—and because I had no illusions about being the first person to succeed in getting Jeter to open up about his hopes and dreams. There were several times when I asked Jeter a question—about playing in the steroid era, or about players who preferred playing out of the spotlight of New York—and he’d slow down and grow more cautious. Eventually I realized he was worried I’d take what he was saying and make it sound like he was talking about a specific person or situation. When I called him on it, he readily acknowledged that had been exactly what he’d been thinking: “A lot of times, when you say things, people will try to turn it into [something else]. Sometimes someone asks you a question, and if you don’t comment or dispute what they say, they’ll take it as though you agree. I’ve always been very aware of what I’m saying, but I’m also aware of what you’re saying. I always want to make sure that my point is clear.”

Crystal.

[Photo Credit: Day Life]

The Yankee-Red Sox game was blacked out in most of the Metropolitan area last night, but Manny Banuelos didn’t pitch badly:

“That guy’s 20 years old?” Red Sox second baseman Dustin Pedroia asked. “He’s really good, and he seems to have an idea. Shoot, when I was 20, I was swinging with an aluminum bat [in college].”

“I think for this young man’s future they should go slow with him, very slow,” Red Sox manager Terry Francona said with a smile.
(Costello, New York Post)

Alfredo Aceves started for the Sox, who beat the Yanks, 2-1.

Manny Banuelos gets the start tonight against the Red Sox. Game will be on ESPN.

[Photo Credit: Pinstriped Bible]

There was a nice, long appreciation of the late Edward Gorey in the Times a few weeks ago:

Intriguingly, explanations for the mounting popularity of Gorey’s art rarely touch on its air of hidden, maybe even unknowable meaning. Whatever Gorey’s work appears to be about, it’s forever insinuating, in its poker-faced way, that it’s really, truly about something else. The philosopher Jacques Derrida might have said it is this very elusiveness — the sense that meaning can never be pinned down by language — that is Gorey’s overarching point.

For his part, Gorey, who rolled his eyes at anyone looking for deep meaning in his work, would doubtless have groaned (theatrically) at any attempt to make intellectual sense of his posthumous popularity.

As he liked to say, “When people are finding meaning in things — beware.”

Excellent.