Fall is here. Last Night’s Dinner remains…dopelicious.

I poured the milk on my sons’ Rice Crispies this morning. “Who wants to hear the cereal talk?” Turns out, both of them wanted to hear the cereal talk, so breakfast was a smashing success. (Is there any meal, except maybe pizza, that your children do not have to duped into eating?)

As they sat there at the table, I paced back and forth as the coffee brewed on the counter. “Today’s lesson is about not giving up,” I told them. “Let’s not worry about losing, because if you actually lose, there will be plenty of time to worry about it after the fact.”

“What?” asked the three-year old. He says “What?” very sweetly, but it’s hard to distinguish whether he doesn’t understand or if he just wasn’t listening. This time, it was probably both.

“I’m talking about the Yankees,” I said. “Yankees!” said the three year-old. “Boom!” said the 21-month old.

“Yeah, the Yankees need more boom. They lost last night,” I said.

“I like De-rak Jeee-tuh and Mar-i-an-oh,” said the three-year old. “Me too.”

“Snap, crackle, pop,” said the cereal.

When we went out the door for school, I asked them if they wanted to wear their Yankee hats or their Stegosaurus hats. “I want my Yankee hat,” said the three-year old. “And me,” said the 21-month old. I checked the temperature, 48 degrees. Hmm, yeah, we don’t need to cover their ears this morning.

“Where’s your Yankee hat, Daddy?” asked the three-year old. I went into the bedroom and couldn’t find it. I grabbed my 1936 Cooperstown Collection version from the pile on my dresser and slammed it down on my head. “How about that one?”

“Bay-ball,” said the 21-month old.

“Snap, crackle, pop,” I said. “Let’s go Yank-ees.” And we walked out the door and into the first morning that it really felt like October.

Joe Girardi, his team, and Yankee fans everywhere are living the Artie Fufkin Dream this morning: Kick My Ass, Please.

This one hurts but the season isn’t over yet and self-pity won’t get us anywhere. CC goes at 4, and there is hope. Let’s not act like those so-called fans who fled from the Stadium early the past two nights. Win or lose, rain or shine, we’ll be here, root-root-rootin’ for the home team.

The Manhattan Bridge is the closest, and the Brooklyn Bridge isn’t far, but such a cliche — the Verrazano, now that’s fairly convenient, bit more interesting, less overdone…

Oh, hi! Sorry, I didn’t see you there. Is it recap time?

That was a hell of a game, and not in the good way. Join me on a journey back through the mists of time to the first inning of Game 4… ah, we were all so young then. A.J. Burnett profoundly surprised me by pitching, under the circumstances, pretty well. Certainly as well as anyone could have expected given that the last time he pitched a good game, pterodactyls soared above the ballpark. The crowd was behind him, but to me it wasn’t heartwarming so much as desperate – c’mon, fella, you can make it! It’s just a flesh wound! You’ll be fine! He was okay, though. He allowed two runs in the second, after walking David Murphy (fatefully, not for the last time), hitting Bengie Molina with a pitch (if only he… no, no, mustn’t think like that); Mitch Moreland bunted and Elvis Andrus grounded out, but then came Michael Young, who hit a softish two-RBI single. Burnett may not have been dominant, but he got out of the inning and held the Rangers there through five innings; going into tonight’s game I would’ve taken that and not complained.

Meanwhile, the Yankees scraped together a few runs: a Robinson Cano homer that just ticked over the right field wall, possibly aided by some fans who made it hard for Nelson Cruz to make a catch – that’s what Cruz argued, anyway. I thought it was out anyhow, but the fans didn’t exactly improve anyone’s image of Yankee supporters. (Although I have to admit they cracked me up). The umpires declined to review it, which seems weird since that’s why instant replay exists, but again: it was out, so no damage done. Later in the inning a Lance Berkman fly to deep right was reviewed and correctly found to be foul. It wasn’t the umpiring tonight… it was just, you know, everything else. Anyway, the Yanks tacked on in the third inning when Derek Jeter tripled (!!!) and Curtis Granderson singled him home, and again in the fourth, when A-Rod was hit by a pitch, singled over by Cano and Berkman, and scored by a Brett Gardner ground out. Paralleling Burnett, this was not exactly Murderer’s Row, but they had a 3-2 lead in the fifth inning.

Which is when the baseball gods started pulling at a loose bit of yarn, and before you knew it, but also in a kind of weird slow motion, the whole sweater unraveled.

I don’t think you can say that Mark Teixeira is underrated or underappreciated – he is an extremely well paid star on a popular team; he’s not under any radars. But I was a little unprepared for what a gut-punch it was to watch him cringe while running hard to first, fall into an awkward slide, and stay down until the Yankee trainers could help him off the field. It was a grade 2 hamstring strain, and the last we’ll see of Mark Teixeira until spring. And while he didn’t have his best year at the plate, I’d sure rather see him up there than Marcus Thames; and you know you’d rather see him manning first base than Nick Swisher. He’s not A-Rod, and these days he’s not Cano, and he’s not one of the remaining 90s Yanks, and hell, he’s probably the blandest star athlete in recent memory… but the Yankees are going to miss him quite a bit, even if they only have one game left in which to do so. It sucked all the air out of the Stadium.

That came during an aborted rally in the bottom of the fifth, after a somewhat shaky Burnett got himself through the top of the inning. Many people were surprised to see Joe Girardi turn to Burnett again in the sixth, and although I didn’t think it was such a clear-cut choice, in retrospect it was clearly not wise: Vladimir Guerrero singled, moved to second on a force out, and then — this, I did have a problem with — Burnett intentionally walked David Murphy, in order to face Bengie Molina.

What did I say about Molinas before this series? Huh? WHAT DID I SAY, A.J.?! JOE? Goddammit, no one ever listens to me.

Molina homered, the Rangers took a 5-3 lead, and while that’s hardly insurmountable, this began the “slow-motion unraveling” portion of the evening. Burnett got out of the 6th, but Josh Hamilton homered off Boone Logan in the 7th, and the Rangers tacked on another run off of Joba Chamberlain. Ron Washington’s love of the bullpen shuffle worked out well for him this time around; the Yankees had chances — they even got the tying run to the plate in the 8th inning — but couldn’t break through. In the ninth Sergio Mitre came in and everything went south (HR Hamilton, HR Cruz), but by then it was all over but the crying, anyway. 10-3 Rangers is your final.

Joe Girardi made a number of questionable moves tonight. I can’t get too worked up about them since I think, ultimately, the Rangers have flat out-hit and out-pitched the Yanks, and different managerial moves probably wouldn’t have made a huge difference. But there’s no way to know that for sure, and it’s still plenty frustrating, which may be part of why tonight’s game got under my skin in an unpleasant way. Tomorrow, the Yankees have to win or go home — and if they win, they need to do it twice more. I’m not optimistic, frankly. But every day in late October that you still have a game to watch is a good day, so here’s hoping C.C. Sabathia pitches like C.C. Sabathia tomorrow, and the Yankees live to see Game 6.

Molinas… why’s it always have to be Molinas?

I’m a pretty calm baseball watcher these days. That’s what happens when you cover the team for a while, or when you’ star to mentally write up the action while it’s still happening, or take notes… you just get more detached. I’m not in the locker room anymore so I don’t have to smother my inner fan with a pillow, but my inner fan has long since taken to self-censorship. I am usually pretty even-keeled about the Yankees these days.

But not always.

I’m all twitchy about tonight’s game, more than I have been in a long time — years — and I don’t know why. The Yankees won the World Series just last year; if they don’t make it this year I’m okay with that. For whatever reason, though, this game is getting to me. I’m having friends over tonight, to watch with me; I don’t want to be alone with A.J. Burnett.

Longtime readers will recall that I have a Bernie Williams bobblehead doll — my only Yankee bobblehead — which, during big games, I often move around my studio apartment until I find a “lucky spot.” Laugh all you want, but would the Yankees have won the World Series last year if the Bernie bobblehead hadn’t been nestled under my bed (after the freezer lost its luckiness)? I guess we’ll never know. Anyway, I haven’t bothered with the Bernie bobblehead pretty much all year, but I’m pretty sure he’ll be shifting around quite a bit tonight.

Here we go… hold onto something.

Phils vs. Giants, Game Three of the NLCS.

Enjoy.

Cervelli gets the start.

The Braves have released Melky Cabrera.

From a John Lardner column for Newsweek, “The World’s Richest Problem Child”:

The St. Louis Browns have hired a professional pyschologist for the spring training season to currycomb their inferiority complex. The Boston Red Sox, on the other hand, have chosen a simpler way of treating their own pyschological problem, who goes by the name of Theodore S. Williams.

I am taking the word of certain experts for it that Williams has, or is, a psychological problem. Around the American League the pitchers tell you that if anything is wrong with Williams, they can only pray that it’s not catching. Give three or four other batsmen Theodore’s disease and the pitching profession will be totally wrecked.

However, as I say, many students of human mentality (most of them play the same instrument that I do, the typewriter, and have learned psychology by close observation of the bartender at the water hole around the corner from the office) have been saying for years that Mr. Williams has a complex. They watch him with honest pity as he gropes his way through the shadowland between .340 and .406. They agree with a sigh that he is the strongest left-hand-hitting neurotic they have ever seen.

A few weeks ago Thomas A. Yawkey, the Red Sox owner, took cognizance of Ted’s condition and tried the cure I spoke of above. It is a form of shock treatment. The subject is pelted softly but firmly with handfuls of green banknotes in large denominations. The size of the dose varies with the individual. Mr. Yawkey might still be showering his patient with engravings of General Grant had not Williams, rising from the couch when the total reached $125,000, remarked, by way of small talk, that he was satisfied.

After splitting the first two games of the 1998 ALCS, Andy Pettitte took the mound looking to give the Yankees an important edge, but  lost Game 3 and the Yankees’ World Series outlook darkened. The Yankees’ fourth starter took the mound amid uncertainty and pitched one of the best games of his career.

I would love to see Orlando Hernandez come running out of the bullpen, tonight, but he’s probably not going to. The Yankees need AJ Burnett to summon his inner-Duque tonight. And though I’m sure you’re sick to death of reading about Cliff Lee, check out the first nine games (eight starts, one relief appearance) of Duque’s postseason career versus the first eight of Cliff Lee’s.

You’re looking at two of the best postseason stretches in history, and apart from the walks (which is more about style than effectiveness in this case), they’re almost identical. El Duque eventually faltered, hopefully Cliff Lee never does. That is, as long as his next postseason appearance comes in a Yankee uniform. If he’s got one more for the Rangers, I hope it’s a stinker.

Now, we see what the Yanks are made of. Man, it’s so easy to go the nightmare route tonight–A.J. Burnett walking the ballpark, wild pitches, passed balls, stolen bases–but you know what? Yanks are still the defending Whirled Champs, let’s see what they’ve got in them. Let’s see how they respond to their biggest test of the year.

I’m keeping the faith, damn it all. The bats will need to give Burnett plenty of support. Let’s hope they don’t get jumpy. If they are patient like they were last night, if they grind it out, I think we’ll go to bed heppy kets tonight.

AP photo of Cliff Lee in the 8th inning

So, I’d say my pre-series prediction of “Yankees 3, Rangers 3, Cliff Lee ascends to a higher inter-dimensional plane midway through the fourth inning of Game 7” is looking pretty good.

Tonight’s game ended up a 8-0 drubbing, but it was a tight pitchers’ duel most of the way through. Only it didn’t really feel like a pitchers’ duel, because Andy Pettitte was merely excellent, whereas Cliff Lee was, as a friend of mine has put it, the T-1000.

Allow me to sum up the Yankee offense for you:

• In the 4th, Mark Teixeira walked.
• In the 5th, Jorge Posada singled (it’s kind of embarrassing how relieved I was, at this point, that New York would at least not get no-hit).
• In the 6th, Brett Gardner singled and stole second.

That didn’t take long, did it?

Andy Pettitte was very, very good himself: seven innings and just two runs, which you’d sign up for any time. Those two runs came in the first inning, on an almost-accidental Josh Hamilton home run — he stuck his bat out awkwardly, the ball flew off it and into the stands, which is the kind of thing that only happens when your arms look like Josh Hamiltons’ — but given the Cliff Lee situation, that was enough. Pettitte was followed by Kerry Wood, who pitched a drama-free eighth, and since two runs ain’t much for the Yankees, I still held out hope going into the ninth.

At which point: Josh Hamilton doubled off Boone Logan; Vladimir Guerrero and Nelson Cruz singled off David Robertson, making it 3-0; after David Murphy was intentionally walked, Bengie Molina and Mitch Moreland joined the party with singles of their own off of Robertson; Elvis Andrus of all people decided to shake things up by, instead, doubling off of Robertson. Sergio Mitre (!) came in and put out the fire, but seeing as how it was 8-0 at that point, the building had already burned down.

So the Yanks are down 2-1 in the series, which is hardly insurmountable, but they do kinda need a win tomorrow – and A.J. Burnett is the one who’ll be asked to provide it, or at least facilitate it. Joe Girardi has said all week, when asked if he isn’t tempted to just pitch C.C. Sabathia on three days’ rest instead: “I believe in A.J.” Well. I believe in him too… in the sense that I am certain he exists, and indeed is a pitcher with the New York Yankees. Whether he can pitch more than four innings while giving up less than five runs is another question entirely.

Cliff Lee… I don’t know whether to shiver in terror or drool. I’d do both at once but I’ve been told it’s not attractive.

Here’s the lineups:

YANKEES
Derek Jeter SS
Nick Swisher RF
Mark Teixeira 1B
Alex Rodriguez 3B
Robinson Cano 2B
Marcus Thames DH
Jorge Posada C
Curtis Granderson CF
Brett Gardner LF

RANGERS
Elvis Andrus SS
Michael Young 3B
Josh Hamilton CF
Vlad Guerrero DH
Nelson Cruz LF
Ian Kinsler 2B
Jeff Francoeur RF
Bengie Molina C
Mitch Moreland 1B

Let’s Go Yan-Lees!

[Picture by Bags]

When it comes to the art of grooming, men have increasingly embraced a range of stylish and sophisticated looks. From classic clean-shaven appearances to meticulously crafted beards and hairstyles, the world of men’s grooming has evolved into a realm of self-expression and individuality. To navigate this ever-expanding landscape, many men turn to resources like the Master Barbers’ Guide, a comprehensive manual that offers expert advice and insights into achieving the perfect grooming routine. Whether it’s mastering the art of a close shave, learning the latest trends in haircuts, or understanding the nuances of beard maintenance, the Master Barbers’ Guide serves as a trusted companion for men seeking to elevate their grooming game.

Just like the strategies employed by Cliff Lee and Andy Pettitte on the baseball field, grooming is all about technique, precision, and confidence. Just as Lee’s pitching prowess and Pettitte’s crafty left-handed deliveries captivate fans, the right grooming routine has the power to leave a lasting impression. With the guidance and knowledge provided by the Master Barbers’ Guide, men can refine their grooming skills, discovering the best products, techniques, and styles that suit their unique personalities. It’s not just about looking good; it’s about feeling confident and projecting an image that reflects one’s individuality and personal brand. So, whether you’re a fan of the game or a grooming enthusiast, both Cliff Lee’s dominant performances and the Master Barbers’ Guide remind us that achieving greatness is a combination of skill, knowledge, and a touch of style.

Cliff Lee vs. Andy Pettitte–let’s chat. No matter how Lee fares tonight, and I assume he’ll pitch well once again, I’ve got a good feelin’ about Andy.

Am I just being dramatic? My Spidey Sense is tinglin’.

[Picture by: galvarez51]

“John grew up in the shadow of a father who was a great writer,” said A. J. Liebling. “This is a handicap shared by only an infinitesimal portion of any given generation, but it did not intimidate him.”

When John Lardner was ten-years old, he wrote a short verse that appeared in a F.P.A column:

Babe Ruth and Jack Dempsey,
Both sultans of the swat.
One hits where other people are,
The other where they’re not.

John Lardner was born in Chicago but raised mostly on the east coast. He went to the Phillips Academy in Andover (his three brothers would follow), spent a year at Harvard and another at the Sorbonne, before he returned to New York and got a job at the New York Herald Tribune in 1931. He was nineteen-years-old. His father, Ring, who was already ill with the tuberculosis and heart diesee that would kill him a few years later, sent a note to Stanley Walker, a Texan who’d made the Tribune into the best writer’s paper in New York.

“You will find him a little reticent at times, but personally I never felt this was a handicap.” Walker later said that John “came close to being the perfect all-around journalist.”

John worked at the Tribune until 1933, the year his father died. The two men were close in Ring’s final years and the old man was proud of his son’s early achievements. “We are all swollen up like my ankles,” Ring wrote in a letter to his nephew, Richard Tobin. John was offered a syndicated sports column when he was twenty-one for the North American Newspaper Alliance. Carried locally by the N.Y. Post, Lardner wrote about sports, and then the war, for NANA until 1948.

(more…)

Keith Olbermann reviewed Jane Leavy’s Mantle book in the New York Times Book Review over the weekend. He liked it:

Leavy comes as close as perhaps anyone ever has to answering “What makes Mantle Mantle?” She transcends the familiarity of the subject, cuts through both the hero worship and the backlash of pedestal-wrecking in the late 20th century, treats evenly his belated sobriety and the controversial liver transplant (doomed mid-surgery by an oncologist’s discovery that the cancer had spread), and handles his infidelity with dispassion. Sophocles could have easily worked with a story like Mantle’s — the prominent figure, gifted and beloved, through his own flaws wasteful, given clarity too late to avoid his fate. Leavy spares us the classical tragedy even as she avoids the morality play. “The Last Boy” is something new in the history of the histories of the Mick. It is hard fact, reported by someone greatly skilled at that craft, assembled into an atypical biography by someone equally skilled at doing that, and presented so that the reader and not the author draws nearly all the conclusions.

Cotton Comes to Harlem…

02 Gonna Quit My Rowdy Ways

I’m on the 1 train this morning when I see an old lady, bundled up for the cold, address a man who is leaning against the subway door, reading the New York Times.

“You’d better grab something to hold onto,” she said. “Otherwise, the doors might open, you’ll fall out and die and then we’ll all be late.”

The man folded his paper and looked down at the woman.

“Wow. That’s some scenario,” he said and returned to the paper.

“Yes,” she said, “Yes, it is.”

I smiled. She looked around and caught my eye and smiled. I was about to say something when I remembered an old family saying: “It’s not you, mind your own, sit down, shut-up.”

I stayed shut-up and let it pass.

Yankee Stadium will not be as loud tomorrow night because Freddy won’t be there.

R.I.P.