Good long piece by Hillel Italie in the Huffington Post on Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, and cooperative biogrpahies:

“Before I got to Aaron, the best advice I got was from David Halberstam, who wrote a book on Michael Jordan without getting Jordan and a book about Bill Clinton without getting Clinton,” [Howard] Bryant said of the late Pulitzer Prize-winning author and journalist.

“He said to me, `The strategy was very simple – for every day they didn’t talk to me, make three phone calls to other people.’ You have to work around obstacles. It was the best piece of advice anyone’s given me.”

After Bonds overtook Aaron, in 2007, Aaron opened up to Bryant.

“When Henry and I finally spoke, he was tremendous, he was unbelievably gracious,” Bryant said. “He was even somewhat embarrassed someone was taking an interest. He didn’t ask for any money. He didn’t ask for any review copy of the book. He could have made the one phone call that every author dreads – which is to call all of his people and say, `Hey, this guy is writing a book about me. Don’t talk to him.'”

Earlier this week, Allen Barra gave his take on Bryant’s book:

Just when it seemed as if all the great baseball subjects had been done, Howard Bryant checks in with this biography of Henry Aaron, which, amazingly, Mr. Aaron had to wait 34 years to get.

Mr. Bryant, author of “Shutout,” the definitive study of race in baseball, and “Juicing the Game: Drugs, Power and the Fight for the Soul of Major League Baseball,” is a great writer for a great subject. Mr. Aaron’s story is the epic baseball tale of the second half of the 20th century, in many ways the equal to Jackie Robinson’s.

And in the Village Voice, Barra praises Bryant’s frank handling of the relationship between Aaron and Mays:

Bryant argues that “so much of the relationship between Mays and Aaron was perceived, often rightly, as tense if not acrimonious, stemmed from their personalities — the self-centered Mays and the diplomatic Aaron.”

There’s no doubt, says Bryant, that “Mays exemplified the rare combination of physical, athletic genius, and a showman’s gift for timing. What went less reported and, as the years passed, became an uncomfortable, common lament was just how cruel and self-absorbed Mays could be.”

…Bryant cites a first-hand account from 1957, a United Press/Movietone News reporter named Reese Schoenfeld, that Mays ragged on Aaron from the sidelines while Henry was being interviewed in front of a TV camera: “How much they paying you, Hank? They ain’t payin’ you at all, Hank? Don’t you know we all get paid for this? You ruin it for the rest of us, Hank! You just fall off the turnip truck?”

While Aaron became more and more agitated, Mays laid it on thick: “You showin’ ’em how you swing? We get paid three to four hundred dollars for this. You one dumb nigger!”

According to Bryant, “Henry’s reaction for the next fifty years — to diffuse, while not forgetting, the original offense — would be consistent with the shrewd but stern way Henry Aaron dealt with uncomfortable issues. The world did not need to know Henry’s feelings towards Mays, but Henry was not fooled by his adversary. Mays committed one of the great offenses against a person as proud as Henry: he insulted him, embarrassed him in front of other people, and did not treat him with respect.”

Say Hey: fight, fight!

One last thing about the Aaron book that’s interesting to me is that it was written by a black man. So many sports biographies of black and Latin players, from David Maraniss and Larry Tye, to James Hirsch and Brad Snyder, are written by white guys. That’s not a knock just a fact. And it’s not to say that race is enough to judge the merit of the final product. Reporting and writing is what makes a great book no matter if the author is white or black, man or woman. Bryant wasn’t magically granted access to Aaron’s inner circle because he’s black, he did so because he’s an ace reporter who has paid his dues.

Still, I can’t help but wonder what kind of sensitivity and empathy he brings to the subject that a white writer might not. For instance, when I was writing about Curt Flood, I had to imagine what it was like to be a black kid playing ball in the deep south in the mid-1950s. I was earnest, no doubt, but it was largely an intellectual excercise, one where, through reporting and research, I attempted to intuite something beyond my experience. That’s a distance Bryant doesn’t have to cover. It doesn’t necessarily mean his writing will be better, but it’s sure to be palpably different.

Moreover, I think great biographies often tell the story of the subject and in some way, even if it is largely subconscious, the story of the author as well. My Flood book was no great biography, it was a first book, but when I look back on it, I see that I was drawn to it for several personal reasons too. The first was to learn more about Flood (and to learn how to write a book) and share his story with a YA audience.  But I think my attraction to him had everything to do with my relationship with my father. Flood was talented and troubled, alcoholic. My need to find out more about him, to appreciate his accomplishments, and forgive his failings, was directly related to how I felt about my Old Man.

[The Tortoise and the Hare picture by Esoule]

Ernie Harwell, the longtime voice of the Detroit Tigers, died Tuesday night at around the time the Yankees and Orioles were completing the second inning. Harwell was 92. At that age, time usually is the bringer of death. “Natural causes,” they call it — whoever “they” are. In Harwell’s case, it was cancer.

Harwell’s Wikipedia page was updated faster than news of his death could be disseminated over traditional channels.

For anyone who loves baseball and appreciates the nostalgic element of the game when radio ruled, or for generations of people who either entered sportscasting or just aspired to do so, Harwell was a familiar, relatable, friendly voice. Vin Scully, the man who replaced him in Brooklyn in 1950, described Harwell to the Associated Press in the wire service’s obituary: “Probably the best word, he was gentle. And it came across. He just cared for people and he loved baseball. I mean, he loved it beyond just doing games,” Scully said. “You can understand how the people in Detroit just loved him. I followed him into Brooklyn, and then I followed him into the Hall. He was such a lovely man. However that word is defined, that was Ernie.”

I can attest to Scully’s assessment. I was lucky enough to meet Harwell and spend five minutes with him in the Press Dining Room at the previous Yankee Stadium. It was 2002 and my first year at YES, my first year covering pro baseball. For all intents and purposes, I was a punk. Harwell had been in the business longer than two of my lifetimes to that point. He didn’t have to be nice to me and ask me to sit down at a table with him and Bob Sheppard. He didn’t have to wish me luck when he left the table to prepare for his pregame show in the visitors’ broadcast booth.

But he did, and I’ll never forget that.

In those five minutes I got a sense of exactly who Ernie Harwell was as a person. I’ve worked with a great number of high-profile actors, broadcasters and athletes, and have met others in those fields who were either dismissive or worse, condescending, for no reason. I didn’t know if they were jerks before they achieved their level of perceived greatness, or if fame blew their egos out of proportion. That was not Ernie Harwell. His demeanor, tone, delivery, folksiness; there was nothing phony. He was the same person at the dinner table as he was in the broadcast booth.

Harwell said in his farewell last year at Comerica Park that whatever happened, he’d be “ready to face it.” Now that it happened, are we?

It’s a sad day for baseball. It’s a sad day for the broadcasting industry. But in the grand scheme, that doesn’t really matter, does it? Ernie Harwell will  be remembered beyond his achievements and signature calls as simply being a good person. So many people in and out of the sport recognize that — because in some way, Harwell touched all of them. Now, that’s special.

[photo credit: N*ked on the Roof]

A few years ago I realized that one of the qualities I appreciate most in people, and value most in friends, is enthusiasm. I’m not talking about perkiness or a simple excess of energy–unrelenting positivity can be grating, and someone who is revved up all the time can be exhausting–but the capacity to nerd out over something specific, to get almost inappropriately jazzed about some little thing in life that brings you joy, seems to me to be a key to happiness, and when I see someone I know showing that kind of oddball affection for something, it fosters affection in me for that person.

That has a lot to do with why I absolutely love watching Francisco Cervelli. It’s not that I think he’s a coming star in the major leagues (he’ll stick around due to his defense, but he has no power at the plate and seems headed for a career as a Plan B starter or well-regarded backup). I have no real desire for him to get more playing time as long as Jorge Posada is still active and hitting and Jesus Montero is still catching. Whenever Cervelli does get into a game, however, I can’t keep my eyes off him.

It’s not just his superficial resemblance to a young Chris Penn. Cervelli has enthusiasm for miles, and he’s not your typical sour-faced, hard-nosed baseball red-ass (Cervelli hits without batting gloves and wears his socks high, but he didn’t balk at wearing a silly-looking, newfangled batting helmet per his doctor’s orders), nor is he a Nick Swisher-style flake. Cervelli just loves to play the game. When he’s on the field, every move he makes broadcasts how much fun he’s having, whether he’s celebrating a big play, making a dramatic windup to throw strike three around the horn, cracking up his pitchers during his quick, energetic mound visits, or recounting the previous half inning in rapid-fire speech between explosive smiles in the dugout. Cervelli did all that and more Tuesday night as he went 3-for-3, made an entertaining circus catch on a foul ball, and scored two of the Yankees’ four runs in their 4-1 win over the Orioles.

A.J. Burnett cruised through the first two innings of Tuesday night’s game, using his fastball almost exclusively until Garrett Atkins led off the third with a single off Alex Rodriguez’s glove. Burnett’s command briefly evaporated while pitching from the stretch, leading to a five-pitch walk of Rhyne Hughes. Ninth-place hitter Cesar Izturis followed with a bunt to the third-base side of the mound, but Burnett’s throw sailed into the basepath and tipped off Robinson Cano’s glove at first just before Izturis crossed the bag, forcing Cano to pull his glove back to avoid injury.

That error put Burnett in a serious jam with one run in, men on second and third, and no outs, but with the lineup turning over, A.J. turned to his curveball and struck out Adam Jones, Nick Markakis, and Matt Wieters in order, getting all three swinging over curveballs and going to the curve for three consecutive pitches at the end of both the Markakis and Wieters at-bats.

The man who called those pitches, our pal Cervelli, hit the first pitch Baltimore starter Brian Matusz threw in the bottom of that inning into the right-center-field gap. Center fielder Adam Jones dove for Cervelli’s sinking liner but came up several inches short, and Cervelli legged out a stand-up triple, his first three-base hit since he was with High-A Tampa in 2007 and just the third of his professional career. Four pitches later, Ramiro Peña drove him home with a groundout and the game was tied.

In the top of the fourth, with two out and Miguel Tejada on second via a leadoff ground-rule double into the right-field corner, Atkins hit a foul pop toward the Yankee dugout. Cervelli raced back toward the camera pit, adjusted slightly, then made a lunging catch over the protective screen in front of the dugout. His momentum then tipped his center of gravity a bit too far, and he began to slide, on his belly, down the railing along the stairs only to be caught by his manager and hitting coach.

In the bottom of the fifth, with the game still tied 1-1, Brett Gardner led off by battling back from 0-2 to work a seven-pitch walk. Cervelli followed by also falling behind 0-2 on a pair of called strikes, then singled into right field to put runners at first and second. Peña followed with a sacrifice bunt to the third-base side of the mound only to have an exact replay of Burnett’s error on Izturis’s bunt unfold with Matusz’s throw tailing into the basepath and beyond second baseman Ty Wigginton’s reach allowing Gardner to come around with the go-ahead run. After a pair of outs, Matusz walked Mark Teixeira and Alex Rodriguez (the latter after a nine-pitch battle) to force in Cervelli and give the Yankees a 3-1 lead.

An inning later, Cervelli came up with Marcus Thames on first via a single and one out and, after taking strike one, dropped down a perfect surprise bunt up the third-base line and beat it out for a hit. The Yankees failed to score in that inning, but when they did add an insurance run in the eighth, there was Cervelli again, bunting Gardner, who had beaten out a slow-roller up the third base line and stolen second, to third to set up a sacrifice fly from Peña.

Burnett, meanwhile, was excellent again, allowing just the one unearned run on his own throwing error while striking out eight in 7 1/3 innings against just two walks and five hits. Damaso Marte, who struck out switch-hitter Matt Wieters, and Alfredo Aceves, who needed every inch of the ballpark to retire Miguel Tejada on a fly that backed defensive replacement Greg Golson up against the Yankee bullpen, finished the eighth. Joba Chamberlain pitched around a harmless single in the ninth, striking out two (one of them on a curve) to earn his second save in as many days.

As for how the other half lives, Brian Matusz can’t catch a break. The rookie’s last two appearances were both quality starts against the defending champions, but he got a total of one unearned run of support in the two games and took the loss both times. The Yankees, meanwhile, have a backup catcher who is 12-for-31 on the season and leads the league in enthusiasm.

The Yankees got through April relatively unscathed, but hurtin’ time arrived this past week with Nick Johnson (stiff back), Jorge Posada (knee contusion/calf strain), Alex Rodriguez (sore knee/fatigue), and Mariano Rivera (side tightness) all missing games due to aches and pains of varying degrees. Amid all of that, Curtis Granderson suffered a major injury, a Grade 2 groin strain that will have him out until June, but thus far the injuries have only revealed the Yankees’ depth.

Joba Chamberlain saved Monday night’s game in Rivera’s stead. Brett Gardner and Randy Winn delivered unexpected home runs in Granderson’s absence, and Marcus Thames, who has been raking all season, actually made a nifty sliding play in left field with Gardner relocated to center. Francisco Cervelli has played well in Posada’s place, hitting .346 in his limited opportunities and even making his first regular season appearance at third base, adding to the team’s infield depth. Nick Swisher has flipped the switch in his home park, leading the Yankee charge of late by picking up eight hits, including two homers, in his last 12 at-bats, and Phil Hughes has been everything the Yankees had hoped Javy Vazquez would be and more, starting the season 3-0 with a 1.44 ERA.

That’s not to say that these aches and pains won’t start hurting the team as a whole if they keep piling up. Winn and Gardner aren’t likely to go deep again any time soon (after homering on Sunday, Gardner said “That’s my one for the year.”). Thames remains a butcher in left. Cervelli’s bat is cooling. Hughes is due for a big correction given his .158 opponents’ average on balls in play (though I think he’ll survive it). Not every starter is going to hand the ball directly to Joba the way CC Sabathia did last night. The good news is that Johnson and Rodriguez are back in the lineup, Rivera could be back as soon as tonight but more likely tomorrow, and Posada is merely day-to-day.

An encouraging sign regarding Posada, who is expected to return to the lineup for the opener of the Boston series on Friday and can pinch-hit in the meantime, is that outfielder Greg Golson, not a third catcher, is the minor leaguer being called up tonight to restore the “balance” on the roster to four men on the bench and seven in the bullpen. Sadly, Mark Melancon will once again board the Scranton shuttle to make room having made just one appearance in his time with the big club.

Golson is here because he’s on the 40-man roster, is a legitimate center fielder, and has good fifth-outfielder tools (speed and defense). Still, I’m a bit frustrated to see him because the 24-year-old wasn’t exactly setting the world on fire for Scranton (.253/.289/.430 with four steals in four tries), and it was my assumption that the Yankees claimed Golson off waivers as a high-upside fixer-upper. To be fair, his strikeout rate is way down (from one every 3.6 plate appearances in Double-A in 2008 to one every seven PA in the early going this year), which is a good sign, but I wouldn’t consider him ready for the big reveal just yet and there are other Scranton outfielders who are off to better starts and could have been added to the 40-man at the expense of perpetually injured righty Christian Garcia, who just underwent a second Tommy John surgery. David Winfree (.301/.344/.470) and Colin Curtis (.339/.435/.441) aren’t center fielders, but I’d be fine with Randy Winn as an emergency backup to Brett Gardner with Golson a game away should Gardner get hurt.

The other good news is that the Orioles are still in town for two more days. Tonight, O’s rookie Brian Matusz takes on A.J. Burnett. Twenty-three-year-old lefty Matusz, a first-round draft pick in 2008, is off to a solid start in his first full big-league campaign. His last three starts, including a game at Fenway and a loss to the Yankees in Baltimore, were quality starts, and he has struck out 29 men in 30 2/3 innings on the season while allowing just two home runs (one to Robinson Cano).

A.J. Burnett has been superficially better, but on closer examination has only been more dominant in his three quality starts, while posting inferior overall peripherals. Burnett flat-out dominated the O’s in his last start, holding them scoreless on three singles and a walk over eight innings, but he has struck out just seven men in his last 14 1/3 innings and struck out just one in seven frames in his second start of the season. Burnett hasn’t been walking as many men as he usually does either, and hasn’t had a real disaster start yet either, but his perfect 3-0 record and 2.43 ERA imply a consistent dominance that hasn’t really been there.

Of course, I’m always down on Burnett, always expecting his next start to be a disaster. Still, I think if the Orioles are going to pull out a win in this series, tonight’s their best chance, with Matusz on the hill, Posada on the shelf, Rivera’s availability in question, and Burnett (who, according to the two alter kockers in my section last night, “has a lot of jailhouse tats”) taking the ball for the home nine.

Joe Girardi’s lineup against the lefty Matusz has Marcus Thames in left, Derek Jeter at DH, Ramiro Peña at shortstop, and Francisco Cervelli catching, with Nick Swisher batting second and a bottom four behind Robinson Cano of Thames, Brett Gardner, Cervelli, and Peña.

Ron Fimrite, one of the signature voices at Sports Illustrated (he was at the magazine for more than thirty years) passed away late last week of pancreatic cancer. He was 79. Fimrite worked the baseball beat for SI as well as anyone ever has, and from what I understand he was an old smoothie to boot, a real stand-up guy.

Here’s a short selection of some of his memorable work at SI:

On Ralph Branca and Bobby Thomson.

On Pete Rose.

On Hank Aaron’s 715th home run.

On Jackie Jensen.

And finally, peep this bonus piece on Harry Caray:

In the face of…adulation, Harry exhibits a generosity of spirit common only to those who know they deserve the best. He stops to chat and sign autographs. His manner is engaging, familiar: “Hiya, sweetheart…. Whaddya say, pal?” Earlier in the evening, Harry had hit a couple of spots, and in each he was accorded the sort of welcome John Travolta might receive should he appear in the girls’ locker room of a small-town junior high school. “Hey, Harry!” “You’re the greatest, Harry.” “Hey, Harry, say hello to the people of the world.” This had been a day like any other in his life, which is to say, utterly chaotic, a continuing test of his pluck and durability.

Harry had arisen brightly that morning after a revivifying four hours of sleep. He placed a call to Jon Matlack, the Texas Ranger pitcher, identifying himself as Brad Corbett to the hotel operator when informed that Mr. Matlack was not in his room. It is Harry’s conviction that even baseball players will return telephone calls if the caller is someone of recognizable financial clout, and Corbett is the principal owner of the Texas baseball team. Harry wanted to discuss with Matlack some intemperate remarks the pitcher had made to the press, to the effect that Harry should be “killed” or, at minimum, have “his lights punched out” for saying on the air that the tumultuous booing Matlack’s teammate, Richie Zisk, had received from Chicago fans was richly merited.

Zisk, a White Sox player last year, had himself been critical of Chicago fans, a sin in Harry’s eyes comparable to denouncing the game itself. Matlack returned the call and Harry said he would see him in the visitors’ clubhouse at Comiskey Park that evening. There Harry found Matlack to be more contrite than murderous. Zisk was less conciliatory, but he concluded a protracted harangue ambiguously by insisting, “You say anything you want, Harry. O.K.?” Harry, ever unflappable, agreed he would do just that. When the crowd booed Zisk even more ferociously that night, Harry apologized, in a way. “There must be something wrong with your television sets,” he advised his listeners.

One morning last week I got on the 1 train at 238th street and the car was empty. I sat down, half-asleep. The doors closed. I looked left and then right and then waited. Nobody. Sun flooded the car. As we left the station I realized I had a few minutes to do or say anything I wanted as loudly as I wanted.

That was when Carol Burnett doing the Tarzan yell popped into my head.

So I did one, my voice croaking. I liked the way it felt so much and I did again, louder this time. The train approached the 231st street station and so I let out a few more, full-tilt, cause when was the next time I’d get the chance, right? Three people got on the car and 231 and my one-man show was over but I was content with my little performance for one.

[photo credit: Fan Interference]

Javy Vazquez will not pitch against the Red Sox this weekend in Boston.

Yesterday, Jay Jaffe, took a detailed look at Vazquez over at BP:

Taking a more dramatic route, if not necessarily a smarter one, the Yanks could also start Sergio Mitre in Vazquez’s stead, though it’s tough to imagine Mitre’s lone supporter (Girardi) subjecting a pitcher with a career ERA of 5.48 to such brutality even given Boston’s recent struggles. More elaborate solutions are unlikely, at least at this juncture, given that the Yankees have few places to stash an $11.5-million pitcher in a funk. In years past, struggling pitchers like Jeff Weaver or Jose Contreras have been sent to the team’s spring training facility to work with pitching guru Billy Connors, taking the so-called “Tampa Cure.” But that would require a DL stint, and thus far, nobody has suggested Vazquez is injured. Short of a serious injury which could shelve the struggling starter for awhile, the one thing the Yankees almost certainly won’t do is haul Chamberlain back to the rotation, particularly given the concerns they have about their set-up corps, with Chan Ho Park lost to a hamstring injury and David Robertson and Damaso Marte just lost, period.

So the Yankees and their fans will have to endure Vazquez for the foreseeable future. Which shouldn’t be so hard, given that they sit at 16-8, with the second-best record in the AL, and that despite the weight of his personal history in the Bronx and in the league, Vazquez’s current rough patch still amounts to only five starts. In recent years, upstanding hurlers such as Sabathia, Jon Lester, Josh Beckett, and Justin Verlander have overcome similarly ugly season-opening patches to wind up ranking among the majors’ top pitchers, and a change in Vazquez’s fortunes may only be a mechanical tweak or two away.

Even with his patchy situational stats, it’s simply too early to resort to panic over a pitcher not expected to carry the team, one whose overall track record is as long and as solid as Vazquez’s is. Expect Cashman, Girardi, and company to resist the temptation to resort to more drastic measures—firing squad, stoning, trepanning, or Clockwork Orange-style loops of the 2004 ALCS—while riding out the storm for a while longer.

[photo credit: YOM]

The off-season acquisition of Randy Winn evoked much consternation amongst Banterites and associated Yankee fans. It wasn’t like Winn was a lifetime fourth outfielder. Through 2008, he had compiled a .288/.347/.425 line (102 OPS), with 104 homers and 193 stolen bases.

But here was a player who couldn’t add much punch to an impotent Giants lineup in 2009, posting a .262/.318/.353 line in 597 PAs, with a mere two homers and twice as many strikeouts as walks.

His range in the outfield, as he turned 35, was diminishing a bit from above average towards slightly above league-average. And now the Yanks wanted to add him as a 4th/5th outfielder . . . asking him to come off the bench for the first time in his career.

This season, he had started three games, and appeared in nine others, with one single and five strikeouts in 13 ABs. This was Winn’s first start since Curtis Granderson’s groin strain and DL stint Saturday.

Starter CC Sabathia endured very little trouble with the Orioles line-up, save for an opposite field line drive homer to Matt Wieters to lead off the 2nd. He struck out only two through his first four innings, but kept the ball on the ground, to the tune of nine groundball outs.

Orioles’ starter Jeremy Guthrie, who had faced Sabathia only last Wednesday, was also locked in early in the game, allowing only two walks and a single in the first three innings.

Alex Rodriguez led off the bottom of the 4th with a single to left. Robinson Cano flied out to left and Posada grounded out to second (A-Rod moving to second on the out). Nick Swisher, who owns Guthrie (now 13-24 lifetime) laced a long single off the right field wall, scoring Rodriguez to tie the game.  Brett Gardner was fooled on a change-up, but managed to punch a single up the middle.

Winn then stepped to the plate. With an 0-1 count on him, he plastered a 91 mph fastball deep into the Yankee bullpen . . . his first homer in 491 at-bats.  That would be all Sabathia needed in a 4-1 win in a tidy 2:29.

CC sailed through eight innings (106 pitches), assisted by two double plays.  There were only two flyball outs against him all night. He didn’t have his best stuff, striking out only two despite throwing 69 strikes out of those 106 pitches.

The only drama after the fourth inning took the form of Yankee injuries.  Jorge Posada took himself out of the game after the fifth inning, citing tightness in his right calf. This was the same leg he got plunked in last week, so the possibility of a cascade injury may be there.  [Late news from Mark Feinsand: MRI reveals mild calf strain.]

With a three-run lead heading to the ninth, the (heretofore unknown) other injury came into play, as it turned out NOT to be Mariano Rivera time. Joba Chamberlain came on to finish it out. Joe Girardi later revealed that Mo had awoken Saturday to stiffness in his left side (after pitching Friday night). Rivera threw a bit during pre-game, and said he felt better, but not 100%. Girardi stated he would like to hold him out at least one more day.

Otherwise, the big news from the game was the red-hot Robinson Cano Nick Swisher. Prior to this game, Swisher had gone 16-45 (.356) with three homers and 11 RBI in his last 11 games, raising his average from .200 to .282. Michael Kay mentioned during the broadcast that Swisher had been working with hitting coach Kevin Long on “quieting” his stance, allowing the bat to rest on his shoulder with less wiggling prior to the pitch. It seems to be paying off, and facing Guthrie didn’t hurt either, as Nick added two singles and a double.

With the win, the Yanks moved to within one game of the idle Rays, with AJ Burnett set to face Brian Matusz Tuesday night.

When the Yankees arrived in Baltimore a week ago, the Orioles were 3-16 and I wrote that they weren’t that bad. This week, the O’s arrive in the Bronx coming off a three-game sweep of the Red Sox and have won five of their last seven games (four against Boston and one against the Yankees last Tuesday), and I’m here to say, the Orioles aren’t that good (I also believe the Red Sox aren’t that bad, but I’ll save that for Friday’s series preview).

Nothing has changed about the Orioles other than their luck.While the Yankees were in Baltimore last week, Alfredo Simon was called up and installed as the closer, with Kam Mickolio returning to the minors. Since then, the O’s have made just one roster move, sending former closer Jim Johnson to the minors in order to return Brad Bergesen to the fifth spot in the rotation. The Yankees won’t face Bergesen in this series and they’ve already seen Simon. Nothing has changed about the Orioles. (Incidentally, I noticed I forgot to fill in the “Who’s Replaced Whom” section in my O’s post last week, so I’ve included the full 2009-to-2010 comparison below).

The O’s swept the Red Sox by outlasting them. Two of the games were decided by one run in ten innings, and the other had a final score of 12-9. I like the Yankees chances of winning a slug-fest with the O’s, but with CC Sabathia, A.J. Burnett, and Andy Pettitte lineup as the Yankees starters in this series, I don’t see one developing. The O’s counter with Jeremy Guthrie, Brian Matusz, and David Hernandez. Hernandez, the only one of the three the Yankees didn’t see (and beat) last week has been a five-inning, keep-you-in-the-game sort of pitcher in the early going, but has walked nearly as many men as he’s struck out and gives up a ton of fly balls, which is a recipe for disaster when facing the Yankees in the Bronx. Matusz vs. Burnett Tuesday night looks like the O’s best chance of a win on paper as Matusz has been solid (three straight quality starts including his loss to the Yankees last week) and I always feel like Burnett is due for a stinker, no matter how well he pitches (and he flat-out dominated the O’s in Baltimore last week, allowing just three singles and a walk in eight shutout innings). Tonight, CC Sabathia faces Jeremy Guthrie for the fifth time since joining the Yankees. Sabathia is 3-1 those matchups thus far, including last Wednesday’s 8-3 Yankee win in Baltimore.

(more…)

Fumee d’Ambre Gris (Smoke of Ambergris), By John Singer Sargent (1880)

One Time…(this record is smokin’ hot)

Two Times (tighter than the jaws of a gator)…

Jimmy Cannon: Sportswriter.

Riding the Harper’s Magazine bandwagon today. They’ve earned it. Just published a terrific collection called Rules of the Game: The Best Sports Writing from Harper’s Magazine. Lots of good stuff in there including Pete Axthelm’s memorable essay The City Game (which became an excellent book), Pat Jordan on the shady baseball prospect Toe Nash, another good baseball essay by Rich Cohen, and a spot-on piece on sports writing by the critic Wilfrid Sheed, a guy who is real hit or miss for me.. Also work from Mark Twain, John R. Tunis, Shirley Jackson, Tom Wolfe, and George Plimpton. It’s the goods.

Harper’s has also made Gary Cartwright’s memorable recollection of his days at the Fort-Worth Press (included in the book), Confessions of a Washed-Up Sportswriter, available for us all on the Internet. Whoopee!

Here we have a first-hand account of Shrake and Jenkins, Blackie Sherrod and the Forth-Worth Press in the Fifties:

I did not know it at the time, but The Press sports staff was ten years ahead of the game. In 1955 The Press was perfecting what most, but not yet all, sports staffs believe they have just created: a competitive art form. Significant television competition was years away, but already The Press was rebelling against the stiff, bleak who/what/when/where architecture of its predecessors, exposing myths, demanding to know why, and treating why as the only question. It was funny about 1961 when Newsweek devoted its press section to the wry progressive sports editor of Newsday, Jack Mann. Newsday hired good, creative writers. They worked as a unit, pruning cliches from wire copy, pepping up hard news by tracing angles all over the country, barreling over dogma where they confronted it. Was Yogi Berra a lovable gnome, like it said in Sporting News? Did he sit around reading comic books and eating bananas? Or was he a noncommunicative boor whose funniest line was, “How the hell would I know?” Newsday, the magazine pointed out, demanded an answer.

There was no way for Newsweek to know it, but sports editor Blackie Sherrod had been preaching a better anarchy at The Press in 1950. Sherrod surrounded himself with such men as Dan Jenkins and Bud Shrake, now well-known and excellent writers at Sports Illustrated, not to mention the irresponsible Crew Slammer. He let them write from the gut.

Cartwright recalls the early days with great fondness but he doesn’t romanticize the sports writing profession:

…Let me make one thing plain: most sportswriters have no business in journalism. They are misfits looking for a soft life. The worst sportswriters are frustrated athletes, or compulsive sports fans, or both. The best are frustrated writers trapped by circumstances. Westbrook Pegler called sportswriters “historians of trivia,” but Pegler learned his craft by writing sport. Scotty Reston, Heywood Broun, Damon Runyon, Ring Lardner, and Paul Gallico wrote about sport. Winston Churchill covered cricket during the Boer War. TheNew York Times‘ John Kieran was a sportswriter, but he was much more. When students at Yale protested that a sportswriter had been invited to address them, Kieran delivered his speech in Latin.

Sportswriting should be a young man’s profession, No one improves after eight or ten years, but the assignments get juicier and the way out less attractive. After eight or ten years there is nothing else to say. Every word in every style has been set in print, every variation from discovery to death explored. The ritual goes on, and the mind bends under it. Ask a baseball writer what’s new and he’ll quote you the record book. Baseball writers are old men, regardless of age.

…There is no spectacle in sport more delightful than witnessing members of the Baseball Writers Association, who invented the box score, trampling each other at the buffet table. The first time I actually saw Dick Young, the New York Daily News‘ very good baseball writer, he was smearing deviled egg on the sleeve of Arthur Daley’s sport coat and discussing Casey Stengel’s grammar. Ben Hogan was rude and gruff but he impressed me when I learned that the caviar at his annual press party cost $45 a jar. Tony Lema had a genius for public relations at least as great as his genius for golf. Champagne Tony! I covered his funeral. It was an assignment that I did not want, but I was there, thinking that it may be years before I taste champagne again. They served some on the flight home. Bear Bryant used to insist that the way to handle a sportswriter was with a fifth of Scotch. Sportswriters deplored this attitude, but no one ever thought to sue Bear Bryant.

This was the title piece of Cartwright’s collection of his best work, Confessions of a Washed-Up Sportswriter (including Various Digressions about Sex, Crime, and Other Hobbies). If you can ever find a copy of that on the cheap, get it, it also features a wonderful piece on Candy Barr, the famous Texas stripper, and a vicious story about dog fighting that would make the dudes at Deadspin moist. Cartwright regarded it as the best piece he ever wrote even though it was rejected by Playboy, Sports Illustrated and Esquire. It was his favorite, anyway. Probably worth signing up for Texas Monthly (it’s free) for the Cartwright archive alone.

Kudos to Harper’s here. They are doing a real mitzvah and other publications like Rolling Stone, Esquire, GQ, and The New Yorker could take notice and make some of the gems from their vaults available to us on occasion. Share the wealth, just a little taste, good Internet karma and all that. A little love goes a long way.

[Life picture of Jimmy Cannon via A Continuous Lean]

Diane hipped me to this piece in the Chicago Sun-Times on the current state of food photography. It’s a good ‘un.

[Photo Credit: Last Night’s Dinner]

Got a treat for you from the good people at Harper’s Magazine. They’ve taken Edwin “Bud” Shrake’s classic piece “In the Land of the Permanent Wave” out from behind the pay wall and made it available for all. If you’ve never read it before, do yourself a favor and check it out:

For about five hours I had been drinking Scotch whiskey and arguing with a rather nice, sometimes funny old fellow named Arch, who was so offended by my moderately long hair that he had demanded to know if I weren’t actually, secretly, a Communist. “Come on now, you can tell me, hell, I won’t hate you for it. Wouldn’t you really like to see the Communists take over this country?” Arch had said, placing his bare elbows on the table and leaning forward to look trustingly at me, as though he was certain that if I had one virtue it would prove to be that I would not lie to him about such an important matter. Arch was wearing a jump suit; swatches of gray chest hair, the color of his crew cut, stuck out where the zipper had got caught in it when last Arch had excused himself from the table. We were in the guest lodge of a lumber company in a small town in East Texas. Arch is an old friend of the president of the company. Sitting around the table or nearby were my wife, a State Senator in town to crown a beauty queen at a “celebration” the next evening, a U. S. Congressman who had come down from Washington to make a speech between the parade and the barbecue the following noon, a lumber lobbyist who is mayor of still another town owned by this same lumber company, and I think one or two more people but my memory of that evening has a few holes in it.

Willie Morris ran Harper’s during the magazine’s heyday in the Sixties. He said that Shrake’s story, along with Seymour Hersh’s devastating account of the My Lai Massacre, were his two favorites.

In his memoir, New York Days, Morris recalled Shrake as:

…a large, tall Texan with a blunt exterior that disguised a lyric but misdoing heart. This piece was infiintely less ambitious than “My Lai,” but struck a chord in me that I have never quite forgotten, having to do with how clean, funny, and lambent prose caught the mood of that moment in the country and mirrored with great felicity what we were trying to do at Harper’s. To me few finer magazine essays have ever been written.

The genesis of “The Land of the Permanent Wave” was itself a germane story of the magazine business of that era. Sports Illustrated sent Shrake down at his insistence to do a piece on the beautiful and haunting Big Thicket area of East Texas. This was about the time a Texas lumbering company was becoming a major stockholder in Time Inc. Shrake’s story on timber choppers and developers ruining the Thicket was not happily greeted at SI. Andre Laguerre, the managing editor later to be dismissed by the money men, broke the news to the writer at their daily late afternoon gathering in the bar around the corner from the Time-Life Building where many of their editorial decisions took place. It was the only SI story Shrake ever wrote that the magazine would not print and Laguerre embarrassed. Shrake got his permission to rewrite it and give it to Harper’s. He sat down and changed the main angle of the story from the mercenary destruction of the Thicket to his and his young wife Doatsy’s travels through Lufkin and down to the Thicket, about permanent waves and long hair in the Sixties and cowboy hats and rednecks and cops and the fumes from the paper mills.

This story speaks to that time and place as well as a movie like Easy Rider, but it is not at all dated (the same can’t be said for Easy Rider).

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All he wanted was for his wife to live long enough to see their daughter’s sixteenth birthday. The girl’s birthday was early last month and the wife, whose body had been ravaged by ALS, was alive to see it. They are our downstairs neighbors; the girl sits for our cats when we are away. You’d be hard-pressed to find a sweeter family.

My wife Emily spent hours with them helping navigate insurance claims. On occasion, I made them food. The girl and her mother watched The Oscars with us a few months ago. By that point the mother wasn’t really able to communicate–she made noises but even using a keypad had become too much.

About three weeks ago I saw the husband and he said the end was near. I didn’t tell that to Emily. In fact, I avoided bringing them up entirely. But last week, I mentioned what he’d said and Emily said that he had said as much other times before. “We would have heard something from them…” she said.

* * *

Last night I was in bed reading a 1985 GQ profile on the great columnist Mike Royko written by my pal John Schulian. It was an entertaining look at the world of the big-city columnist that no longer exists. Royko was a son-of-a-bitch of the first order. (“I don’t know who the best is—maybe some guy in Peoria,” Royko said. “But day in, day out, you gotta chase me; I ain’t gonna chase anyone.”) But the end of the piece reveals a tenderness in the man, whose wife died in 1979 at the age of 44:

“I couldnt live with my grief,” Royko says. “I thought I might drink myself to death.”

When he lost his taste for that, he tried to end it all with work. Once again his days stretched to twelve and fourteen hours, lonely seances in the out-of-the-way place where the Sun-Times editorial writers dwelled, a place where reporters he never trusted couldn’t watch him suffer.

Five years have passed since then. To the outside world, it seems the tragedy has been put to rest, for there are still Royko columns condemning San Diego as a nest of John Birchers, and there are still stories coming out of Billy Goat’s about the female bottoms he has patted. But Royko knows the truth, and it has nothing to do with appearances.

“You lose a wife, you never really come out of it,” he says. “What happens is, you become different.”

He lights a cigarette and takes a puff.

“I don’t think my life has had a hell of a lot of meaning since Carol’s death. Since she died, I’ve never been sure what the hell I’m about. I could accept dying tomorrow because I don’t think I fill any great importance to anybody. My life has lost its structure.”

The cigarette is forgotten now, left to burn untended.

“I still know who I am. I’ve been who I am for so frigging long. I’m Royko the columnist. When Carol was alive, I was so much more.”

Maybe that’s smoke getting in his eyes.

I placed the article on my night table and reached over  to turn my BlackBerry off for the night when I saw that I had an e-mail. It was from the husband downstairs. His wife died earlier in the day. She was 51.  

Emily was in the bathroom washing up. I debated whether or not to tell her but in the end I told her. Like me, Emily was broken up.I gave her tissues to dry her tears. We remembered the wife over the past few years and finally we turned out the lights. But we could not close our eyes. The sound of rain pattered off the air conditioner and we lied there in the dark, eyes wide open for what seemed like a long time.

[Photo Credit: Emily Shapiro]

My five-year-old nephew made it through half the game on Sunday, ate a hot dog, ice cream and cotton candy before he over-heated and crashed. When he got home he got to drawing. My brother sent me these two pictures last night with the following note:

“These were rendered after a great deal of crying. I told him that comics are always drawn in pencil first, so they can erase their mistakes. That seems to have made an impression.”

From my nephew: “The first is just Ny yankees. A fan cheering.” 

Here is a picture of Derek Jeter: “I tride to dro yankees. I could not dro it but then aftr a litul while. I could draw it if you ceep pprac tising you will get beter.”

I have to admit, in June of 2004, I was not paying attention to the Amateur Draft. Nor was I terribly familiar with the Yankee farm system beyond whatever floated to the surface to fill in for the big club when necessary. But when the Yankees stopped appearing in the World Series, when the Red Sox completed their 86 year design to capture a title, and then improved that design by 83 years to win a second, I began to look to the Minor Leagues for hope. And hope quickly became personified in Phil Hughes.

As the Yanks kept slipping further and further away from another championship, the future of Phil Hughes became more and more important to the future of the Yankees. Thus, it was doubly frustrating when his prospects started to fade the closer he approached the Major Leagues. Injuries and mixed results, promotions and demotions, trade rumors and the emergence of other young Yanks all combined to lessen expectations significantly.

But I think a good many Yankee fans (and a high percentage of the Banteratti) never gave up on Phil. The connection I established with him in the Minors, when he provided a glimpse of a possible successful future for the Yankees at a time when the varsity team kept concocting disappointments, was strong enough to withstand the false starts and setbacks. So now that he has twirled his fourth solid game and second absolute gem of the 2010 season, his early performance is my favorite story line of the young season.

Hughes dominated the White Sox today and the Yankee offense had its best game of the year and they cruised to an easy 12-3 victory. On a day that was hot-as-heck, the Yanks wisely won this one without breaking a sweat.

Phil followed a very similar pattern to his near-no-no in which he established an excellent 94 mph fastball early in the game, and then worked his 89 mph cutter in liberally before turning to the slow curve ball (which looked to me like his best curve ball of the season) later in the game. In stark contrast to the nibbling, insecure and drawn out style he had exhibited in starts in 2008 and 2009, Hughes has been a pleasure to watch this year.

On offense, Brett Gardner crushed one. Really leveled it and sent it several rows back in right center field. From the vantage point we’re afforded on TV, it was a no-doubter. Mark Teixeira had four hits. That’s six hits in two May games, 11 hits in 22 April games. How many strong Aprils would Teix have to submit before he could alter the narrative he’s now established as a slow-starter? The fact that he began hitting the day the calendar changed set this thing is stone for New Yorkers, I think.

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Man, I was supposed to go to the game today an everything. In Todd Drew’s seats too. But my head weighs 250 lbs and I’m down for the count with a head cold so I’ll have to catch the festivities from the couch. But I was able to give the two tickets to my brother who is taking his son. It’s the first time either of them have been to the new Yankee Stadium. It’s only my nephews second trip to a big league game ever–he went to Citifield last year. I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to give them the seats.

They came by my place in the mini-van to pick up the tickets and my nephew, five years old, is wearing a Yankee cap and a Yankee t-shirt. The Mariano Rivera t-shirt that I bought for him when he was born. I wanted it to be the first shirt or jersey that he ever had but had no idea what size to buy  so I got him one that only fits him now. And he looks good in it too. The Great Mariano. We joked around and I told him to yell loud enough so I can hear him on TV and then we started calling each other names. Reminded my bro, rockin’ the well-worn, well-fitting Yankee cap, to point out the roll call schtick.

First game for the kid today. Todd’s seats. Legacy. Good show, boys, good show.

It’s soupy in the Bronx with thundershowers on the way this afternoon. No reason to think why they won’t get the game in but it could be a long afternoon. Dag, I feel for Javy Vazquez, ditto for Curtis Granderson but for different reasons. Poor rich kids…

Welp, time for Mr. Teixeira Alex Rodriguez (who has the day off) to get hot. Lil’ something from ol’ Nick Johnson wouldn’t hoit either.

Stay cool and let’s Go Yan-Kees.

There are hot summer days when a ballgame is a familiar companion, an occasion for a cool drink, a light snack, and an excuse to get off your feet and out of the heat for a while and do a whole lot of nothing. There are other days when the game slowly turns into a blackhole, adding to the oppressiveness of the temperature, ticking by minutes like hours, and leaving you exhausted and bitter about having failed to pull yourself away and done something constructive or even enjoyable with your day.

Saturday’s afternoon tilt between the White Sox and Yankees was the latter. On one of the first genuinely hot days of the year, the Yanks and Sox milled about on the field for nearly four hours, working the opposition for a total of 374 pitches, drawing 11 walks, stranding 15 runners on base, and ultimately leaving the home crowd deeply unsatisfied by the entire experience.

Javy Vazquez was again ineffective. The damage was slight early on. In the second, the Sox loaded the bases with no outs on an infield single and a pair of walks, but Vazquez escaped with just one run scoring thanks in part to being able to face Juan Pierre (who popped out on the first pitch) and Omar Vizquel (who plated the one run via a sac fly) and in part to A.J. Pierzynski getting caught off second when Mark Teixeira cut Curtis Granderson’s throw home on Vizquel’s sac fly. The White Sox also scored a lone run in the first and third innings, both times on a solo homer by Andruw Jones, who owns Vazquez (.392/.446/.824 with five homers in 56 plate appearances entering the game). The Yanks scratched out a run against Jon Danks in the third following a leadoff single by Brett Gardner to close the gap to 3-1, but Vazquez failed to get an out in the fourth.

After an infield single by A.J. Pierzynski, Vazquez gave up a long home run to Mark Kotsay, of all people, then walked the scuffling and typically impatient Pierre on four pitches before giving up a single on an 0-2 count to Vizquel. That single, with none out in the fourth, came on Vazquez’s 83rd pitch. Just 55 percent of those pitches were strikes, the walk to Pierre was the fourth he had issued, and the homer by Kotsay was the third he had allowed. YES didn’t put up it’s radar gun readings until the third inning, and then recorded Vazquez striking out Gordon Beckham on a 91 mile-per-hour fastball, but most of Vazquez’s fastballs were in the high 80s, and there was no bite on his breaking stuff. In other words, he was no better and probably a bit worse than he had been in his first four starts.

If Vazquez’s struggles weren’t mental to begin with, they likely are now. Despite his poor performance, the entire infield came to the mound to reassure him when Joe Girardi came to take him out of the game with two runs in, two men on, and none out in the fourth. Girardi seemed like he was trying to say something positive to Vazquez as well when he got to the mound, but Javy just handed him the ball and pushed past him (though he didn’t display any obvious anger and did stay in the dugout to watch Sergio Mitre strand both inherited runners).

Attempting to make lemonade out of the lemons Vazquez handed them, the Yankees scratched out another run against Danks in the fifth, albeit barely as Alex Rodriguez beat out a would-be double play with one out and bases loaded by mere inches, thanks in part to a hard, clean slide by Mark Teixeira at second. Though they didn’t cash in a big inning there, the Yankees did work Danks over thoroughly, sending him to the showers after that inning having thrown 118 pitches. They then jumped all over righty reliever Scott Linebrink in the sixth with one-out singles by Marcus Thames, Granderson, and Gardner, and RBI groundout by Derek Jeter, and a two-run home run by Nick Swisher, who seemed elated to get a big hit in his home park.

Swisher’s hit gave the Yankees a 6-5 lead, erasing Vazquez’s poor start, but even amid that rally there were more lemons, as Curtis Granderson pulled up lame rounding second on Gardner’s single and left the game with a Grade 2 strain of his left groin that has since landed him on the 15-day disabled list. Damaso Marte then came in and knocked over the glass of lemonade, relieving David Robertson to face the lefty Pierzynski with two out and men on first and second. Pierzynski launched Marte’s 1-0 offering deep into the left field gap, scoring both runners and giving the Sox a 7-6 lead that Linebrink, lefty Randy Williams, J.J. Putz, and Bobby Jenks cashed in for the win.

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Javier Vazquez has made just one start in the Bronx since being reacquired by the Yankees, and it ended with a bunch of blockheads booing what was actually a fairly solid start that just happened to come opposite a fantastic performance by the Angels’ Joel Piñeiro. What they were booing wasn’t really Vazquez’s performance that day, but his disaster start in Tampa Bay the turn before and the back-breaking grand slam he allowed to Johnny Damon in Game Seven of the 2004 ALCS, Vazquez’s last appearance in Yankee pinstripes. Never mind the absurdity of blaming Vazquez for the Yankees’ collapse in 2004 (or even for the four runs allowed on the Damon slam given that Vazquez was exactly the worst pitcher for Joe Torre to have brought in after Kevin Brown had loaded the bases). We all know there’s a thriving contingent of mouth-breathing jackasses in every ballpark, particularly those in the northeast. What worries me is that this afternoon’s game looks primed to dump more blood into the water as Vazquez is going up against one of the game’s hottest pitchers in White Sox lefty Jon Danks.

Vazquez, as we all know all too well by this point, has been struggling with his mechanics in the early going this year, rushing his delivery and thus causing his arm to drag, his slider to flatten out, and robbing his fastball of both location and velocity. Though he did pick up a win against the punchless A’s in Oakland, he has yet to turn in a quality start, and in three of his four outings he has missed both the innings and runs qualifications for that statistic. I still have faith that Vazquez will get on track, but more abuse from the home fans will only make the allegations of Eddie Whitson syndrome a self-fulfilling prophecy.

As for Danks, he’s the real deal. All of his four starts this season have been quality, and he’s averaging nearly 7 1/3 innings and barely more than one earned run per game. He leads the American League in WHIP (0.86), and boasts a 1.55 ERA and 4.33 K/BB. Like CC Sabathia, Danks has been hit-lucky in the early going (.224 opponent’s average on balls in play), but also like CC, he has the stuff to survive a correction. I’m willing to believe the 25-year-old is making the leap this year.

Danks faced the Yankees just once last year, allowing four runs in six innings but picking up a win. The Yankee who has faced him most is former Tiger Curtis Granderson, who has gone 1-for-19 with no walks against the lefty. Granderson is hitting .172/.200/.242 against lefties this year, but Nick Johnson is the man taking a seat to make room for Marcus Thames in the lineup. I understand not wanting Thames in the outfield behind a flyballer like Vazquez, but if Randy Winn doesn’t start this game, he shouldn’t be on this team.

Nick Swisher hits second. Jorge Posada is back behind the plate.