When is the Madison Avenue-brainwashed Yankee community going to finally start getting honest with themselves? Mariano Rivera is not, I repeat, NOT the greatest closer of all time. Oh sure, he is the greatest walk in from the bullpen in the ninth at the start of theinning having a 2 or 3 run lead against Kansas City and then geeting the bottom of theirorder out 1-2-3. Can't argue with those stats. But just think of all the big games he's blown, almost too many to mention for the time I feel like dedicating to this recycled rant of mine.
The fact is that the guy is "arguably" (Michael Kay) NOT the greatest closer of all time. He can't do it for more than 3 outs, he can't protect a lead when inheriting the previous pitcher's runners, he can't hold a tie score (last night), and he can't hold a lead when there isn't a "SAVE" in it for him.
20/20 hindsight says the Yanks needed to put Jobba in the closer slot along time ago (would have saved his arm) and just save No Mo' Rivera for Kansas City. It's time for the true, baseball-intelligent Yankee fans to get intellectually honest with themselves and stop buying into Michael Kay's melodramatic proclamations about the "Greatest" Rivera. Here's a news flash for ya M.K. - 1996 to 2000 was over 8 years ago. Here's another - Mariano blew the following big games:
1997 Game 5 ALCS vs. Cleveland; 2001 Game 7 WS vs. Arizona; 2004 Game 4&5 ALCS vs. Red Sox, Game 4, three outs away from 4 game sweep and then we don't like to talk about the rest, and then after that I lost count. Not a big game closer, never was, and certainly now, at his advanced age, never will be. Just one Mo' example of people getting caught up into the phoney-baloney New York City hype.
He hails from South Carolina and he hits fastballs into the stratosphere for the Texas Rangers. But in less than one hour, Josh Hamilton, Baseball's prodigal son, accomplished something that Home Run Derby no-show/coward Alex Rodriquez can and never will do - he won over the hearts of both New York City and TV America... unanimously.
In the great Ruthian tradition, this newly annointed Sultan of Swat put on the Show of Shows in the House that Ruth built, at 'The Stadium' where Gehrig and Dimaggio clouted their share, inside The Big Ballpark in the Bronx where Mantle's prodigious blasts thrilled millions, and now in the refurbished version where Reggie and his three mighty swings renovated a once proud dynasty. Hamilton's continuous, consecutive bombardment of batting practice baseballs into the right field upper deck and the far reaches of the right centerfield bleachers put the incredulous grin of awe (better even than a Fourth of July Fireworks Finale) on 55,000 excited, lucky to be alive, ticket paying spectators.
Was A-Rod watching?
Or was he primping himself in front of the mirror readying for his late night proclivities?
And then there was Josh Hamilton's sidekick, the 71 year old Babe Ruth League batting practice pitcher complete with the southern drawl and right out of central casting. Didn't we see this guy on the big screen at the beginning of Roy Hobbs' career? 'Together, the mentor-student tandem seemed to be fresh off the set of a remake of the Bernard Malamud classic and living proof that life immitates art or maybe it has always been the other way around.
ESPN's conglommerate of commentators regurgitated the rags to riches - to sleepingunder the bridge - to recovery/redemption story line ad nauseum. But booze and street drugs will do all that to you and more and also screw up your family too. It took Josh Hamilton 8 trips to the rehabs, the miracle of divine intervention, and the total surrender to a power greater than himself to release him, a day at a time, from the ills of egocentricity and chemical bondage. Put simply, to save his life. That's the way it works.
A-Rod? Still afflicted with PMS, addicted to the lust for Power, Money, and Sex. And throw in Image or Fake Image too which is the real reason last season's MLB Home Run King refused to participate in the longball exhibition hosted by his 27 million dollar per year providing employer. How happy is 'Big' Hank Steinbrenner now?
About as happy as A-Fraud is acting 'cool' at his posh, trendy Manhattan-ite pre-All-Star Game party, playing the casual, laid back host, offering up in his mechanical-robotical style, the obligatory-PC accolades for Hamilton, all the while doing his own regurgitating because he knows down deep that this night in the Big Apple belonged in a way he will never know, to the big kid from Texas, A-Real Deal.
p.s. In front of virtually no one, Justin Morneau accepted the winner's trophy.
Young, dumb, and full of horse dung is the A-Rod we all know and love to boo. Sure, Mr. A-ROID can hit a baseball as far and as high and as deep and as often as anyone in the Game. Sure, Mr. Choke-Rod of the Post Season has been the recipient of the now miscalculated and misjudged MVP Award 3 times in the last 5 years. Even the indicted LIAR Barry Bonds accomplished something near or even better than that. So what? And no baseball fan in his right mind would even attempt to argue that A-Rod is not one of the great individual talents of all time. But he has been, is, and will most likely continue to be one of the great egotistical A-Holes of all time.
For a moment, if that's possible, let's forget his current matrimonial troubles and his corresponding late night sexcapades with none other than the lip sync-ing Material Girl/wannabe Kabala "Esther"/Children's "morality" book author, and all-around Bi-sexual Hypocrite Tramp who sacrilegiously calls herself Madonna (shame on the Media who have joyously let her get away with this all these years!). For a moment, let's take a look into his latest stand on the All-Star game Home Run Derby and why, in the final All-Star game ever to be played in the House that colossal home run inventor Ruth Built, (A-Rod's tour de force), on his home field, wearing the famed pinstripes, in the final year of Ruth's House known these days as the Old Yankee Stadium, on center stage, hometown fans,prime time, in the Media Center of the Universe, the Big Apple itself, and why he is opting out of the long ball contest.
One would or should ask: is he kidding?
'Fraid not, home run fans.
"But why?' asks the incredulous and the ignorant. "Is he injured?"
Healthy as a hunk, just ask his 49 year old "girl." The line Stray-Rod has been regurgitating has all to do with the potential of a home run derby ruining his long looping swing which will need to be perfectly tuned if his team is to somehow begin winning and squeak into this year's post season. He cites a similar dilemma a number of years ago when he was employed as a mercenary by the Rangers.
"I think that's wonderful...I mean, what other superstar would sacrifice personal accolades for the good of his team. How humble of him."
What a guy! Maybe they should give him an award for such sacrifice, or even a medal. Call it the Most Vain Primadonna award. He could be featured on the cover of the Sunday Parade Magazine along with his new woman, old Esther, that other humble humanitarian. Entitle it: "IMMATERIAL GUY & GIRLTOGETHER AT LAST.
"I like them on the cover together but don't like your title."
You being stupid, that's understandable. Excuse me, I apologize for being crass but not for being accurate. Now, let's get back to A-Rod. I want you to use that walnut of a brain that God gave you. Think of his post season chokes, his anemic batting average in the most important games of the season, his errors in the field, and his slap-happy antics running down the first base line against the Red Sox a few years ago. Think of his post game interviews when his inability to perform in the clutch so often was instrumental in his Yankee team's loss, when he was incapable of ownership to his flaws and could only muster up the overly general and non-personal phrase, "It's unfortunate" to categorize his lackluster performance.
Fortunately, many of us are not stupid. Fortunately, we are able to peer through the facade to the playing field of life, even on an overcast, foggy day. We see A-Rod for what he really is - King Baby engorged with self-centered fear. To fail to win the Home Run Derby on his home field in his hometown on so momentous an occasion and in front of his new "girl" seated in his personal Stadium seat would be scrumptious fodder for the tabloids and incredibly distasteful to his own personna. And with the overly deep Yakee Stadium left centerfield as his target opposed to the inviting short right field porch just waiting for Chad Utley's line drive stroke (not unlike Madonna in her bed counting the minutes until A-Rod's late night arrival) as a legitimate excuse to finish in second or third place easily rationalized by all concerned, Choke-Rod still opts out. He does so because he knows that his self-centered fear will, once again, get the best of him and that he could easily go out in an early round. King Baby could not stand that.
A final word to Alex: You're in the Sports Entertainment business, stupid! It's the most important date of the year for your employer. Give back to the "Game" and the fans who have given you so much. If you don't compete in the Derby, you are nothing more than an obscenely overpaid, synthetically engorged WUSS.
We hear that's how the Material Girl likes her boys.
...Humpty Dumpty sat on the wall, Humpty Dumpty had a great fall...
President's, Superstars, and Kings confuse power, privilege, and riches with the ongoing thought that they are more intelligent than you and me. Having been "annointed" by the People, the Press, and/or their Bloodline, they wear their crown of arrogance as if it were their birthright. Irrationally distorted by their pulsating Pride and limitless Ego, they insult our intelligence when their's is, at best, borderline. Enter The Rajah, The King of K's, The Royal Rocket, Roger Clemens.
Broad shouldered, thick skinned, and red necked with pecs puffed out, eyeballs protruding, and ready to rumble, he proceeded into the Congressional Hearing Room searching for the red carpet... but it was not there. Only the paparazzi-like press made him feel at home as they clicked away at their cameras and keyboards while their camcorders whirred. The King of the Mound was all set and ready to become The King of the Hill. But not so fast.
Crew-cutted, at first he seemed to be all ears. He listened for the trumpets and then for the drum roll but they too were not there. A soft haunting voice echoed from the distance: "Pride goeth before the fall." However, the King of K's could only hear the accelerated thumping of his own over anxious heart.
Sitting alert before the mike and ready for battle, he was soon to discover a different tone that emanated from most each questioner. It was a tone and content foreign and unfamiliar; especially when compared to the common, inane, rhetorical questions of the accustomed Victor's post game press conferences. With challenges to his integrity fired inside to handcuff him, hurled high and tight under his chin, and a few times rocketed directly at his head, The King of K's got a taste of his own intimidating medicine.
When it was his turn to speak, The Rajah repeatedly licked his nervous lips in search of spit. But like The Truth, it was also not there.
Even a sadder sight than this confused and dethroned royalty were the closeups of the emboldened and frothing government emisarries who pontificated and postured judgementally and self righteously. They were the self-appointed new stars of The Roger Clemens Traveling Ego Show. Their performance was anything but "Congressional," being more aptly suited for a delirious afternoon participating in the court room of Judge Judy. Their inquiry was anything but "non-partisan," split more egregiously along party lines than the Bill Clinton Impeachment Proceedings of a decade ago, that time when the Toronto Bluejays "Dr." McNamee first instructed his future employer to drop his drawers and get ready to receive his baptismal dose of the Synthetic Fountain of Youth.
Increduously almost to a man, the Republicans lined up with the King (who also is a favorite of a fellow Texan going by the name of George H. Bush), and the Democrats ran interference for McNamee the criminal. It's what Democrats do.
The King, with more holes in his story than the Pittsburgh infield, relied on one of the sporting world's most honored and time-proven strategies: the best defense is a good offense. And when that ill-advised game plan failed to impress, he played the victim. To listen to King Rajah, you would think he invented Baseball, wove the first American Flag (sorry Betsy), and was the only person in history to be raised by their well intentioned mother.
Gag. Belch. Barf. Puke.
And for this extremely bad impression of All-American Jack Armstrong toting his 7 Cy Young Awards (4 of them phony), The King of K's should get a free pass? We think not.
There does remain the possibility that Rajah the Rocket now believes his own lie. After all, like so many Presidents, Superstars, and Kings, he already believes his own press clippings. And like throwing a four seamer "up and in" followed by a nasty splitter "down and away," he's told the World (even under oath)so many times now that he's completely innocent of these pharmaceutical sins that his verbal delivery has now become almost a muscle memory - precise, unchanging, and automatic. Just slightly convincing. But not really, not really.
But still, The King of K's declares to the World: "Of course these allegations are not true...I, the Monarch of the Mound, the Rajah of the Rubber, the Ace of The Sox, The Blue Jays, The Yankees, and the Astros, I, The All-Almighty King Clemens, I, The Grand High Exalted Mystic Ruler of All Baseball Pitching-dom, I am honest to the core, I am forthright by birthright (I was raised by the only good woman in the history of the World), and I am totally, unequivocally incapable of telling a lie! " The Great I Am. "Oh... I forgot one thing...and I love Apple Pie too!"
The Waxman gavel came crashing down. After 4 plus hours of watching a "grown" man perpetuate the insulting of our intelligence, the curtain of the Congressional freak show finally, thankfully lowered. The stage emptied and the latest installment of The Roger Clemens Traveling Ego Show was officially over. The Czar of Zillions has now become nothing more than a Big Zero.
...and all the King's horses and all the King's men couldn't put Humpty together again...
You fall in love with Perfection. She has it all - the million dollar face, the greek goddess body, intelligence, personality, a great sense of humor, and above all, grace. And as the Sunday afternoons run away one into another, week after week, month unto month from the baseball Summer heat through the football Fall and finally into the chilling bleak of the basketball/ice hockey Winter, Miss Sweet Perfection has fallen in love with you.
In this world, you are Tom Brady. In another time you might have been Christy Mathewson or Jack Armstrong, maybe even Sir Lancelot or Superman himself. You are tall and broad shouldered in the stately tall broad shouldered way, handsome in the chiseled handsome features way, and you are as quick and smart on the battlefield as they have ever come. And you are polite, decisive, and also humble. You are everything your obsessive, anti-social, unscrupulous coach is not. You are the All-American Super Hero and a Patriot to boot. You are in love with Perfection and the Perfect Lady awaits you.
You will ask her for her hand in matrimony and then you will have it all, more than Mathewson, Armstrong, even Superman. You will be hailed the greatest that there ever was and your seconds and attendants will be hailed the greatest too. Euphoria and Accolades are that way.
She accepts your proposal for no one better has ever deserved her hand.
A period of anticipation.
Finally the evening of the great orchestration, the great consummation, the great celebration arrives. There has never been such an extravaganza before. Not in The Vatican, not in Westminster Abbey, not even in the Lambeau outdoor cathedral up in the Three Dog Night north where the silver chalice named after the founder of pure and absolute sacrifice and dedication to Honest Winning once demonstrated his professional prowess to the world.
What a spectacle. The removable altar, 120 yards in glorious grass green length slid out from its storage and into full view for the 80,000 strong and 100 million electronically connected worldwide. The colossal coliseum's retractable domed roof closed and shutting out the late afternoon desert heat. Only the best, only perfect conditions for the future Mr. & Mrs. Perfection, the Tom Terrific's.
It is time. The bugles sound. The trumpets blare. The snare drums roll and the world's largest television screen is ready to provide the closeups of the tall broad shouldered man with the classic chiseled features in his grand entrance to take the Perfect Lady's hand. Enter The Patriot in Shining Armor. His supporting cast and attendants dutifully follow.
The ceremony commences. The first half unfolds much as expected although there is a bit of stirring on the bride's side of the aisle.
Then the unexpected, the symbolic and the supernatural - the lights go out, the cathedral darkens, candles 50,000 deep illuminate the mysterious arrival of the Giant Neon Arrow which steadily advances toward the Immense Neon Heart of Sir Tom and his Patriotic Pals. A wailing cry from the heavens: "Eli's a' comin..." Much confusion. And then again, but more: "Eli's a' comin'...hide your heart girl...Eli's a' comin'...hide your heart girl...Girl, Eli's a comin'...
Even though you are Sir Tom Terrific, even though you believe you have a destiny with Miss Sweet Perfection, it is not enough. The force is not with you. But you proceed and act "as if."
You stand before the altar waiting for the lady's hand. Your attendants crowd around you but anxiously look over their shoulders because they have also heard the wailing cry, "Eli'sa' comin'." Your overly-demanding Bellicose mentor fidgets nervously in the first pew. From the bride's side there is more stirring, now stronger, louder, more physical . It is rumored that Eli has arrived.
The authoritative, stern though melodious voice from above asks if anyone opposes this marriage of the mortal Patriot to the Sweet Lady of Eternal Perfection, and if so, voice that opposition now or forever hold your peace. The question resonates and echoes throughout the cavernous cathedral. It seems to be a mere formality. Who would ever deprive this perfect couple of their day in the golden indoor sun.
From the back, from the bride's side emanates a Cough. And then clearing his throat, another. Finally, nervously, then with more confidence the Coughing Man blurts out: "Yes there is, yes there is..." 80,000 heads turn toward him, 100 million more electronically connected await. He finishes: "Because Elis' a comin' ..."
Sweet Lady of Perfection is all ears and all eyes and all finished with Mr. Terrific. No one is more surprised and shocked than Tom. No one is more angrier than the unscrupulous mentor, Bill Bellicose.
The Giant doors swing open. Then straight down the aisle marches Eli Manning headed up to the altar. There is a tussel. Eli's shirt is grabbed and then again and again but incredibly he pulls away. In the confusion, he offers up a 'Hail Mary' and is miraculously granted a Giant wish, a Giant dream completed and come true. Moments later when the smoke has finally cleared, the stunned Tom looks on from the sidelines, Bellicose Bill has already headed for the street, and Eli Manning has rescued Lady Perfection and broken many Patriot hearts.
The silver chalice of honest effort is hoisted high overhead by Eli and his Giants, so deserving of the honor.
Denouement: Tom is terrific in his explanations. And Bellicose Bill is, well, let's just say he acts consistent with his reputation. So much for 'grace.'
Post script: Finally, a Super Bowl contest better than its commercials.
Super Bowl Sunday. In the Southwest, the Perfectionist Patriots vs. the Giant Undertaking. For the priviledged few and the fiscally frivolous many, thousand dollar seats and thousand dollar a night hotel rooms (not even suites) is the price to be paid. For better part of the rest of us, the armchair quarterback's position in his living room immersed in fattening food, party beverages, and instant replays will just have to do.
Super Bowl Sunday. In the Northeast, a respite of unseasonal warmth and sunshine (puts a smile across Al Gore's kisser), not Arizona and not too good for the ski slopes, but we'll take it. Two days ago, an ice storm leaving this Pennsylvania outdoor world coated in crystal which this morning began to melt. Now, the only thing dropping faster than the steady snare drum-like percussion of ice falling from trees to the frozen tundra below is the American Stock Market and U.S. Dollar, crashing like cymbals with the forewarning tumult of the tympani. That should be tonight's real half-time show: Clinton-Bush and the
401-K Heartbreakers.
Inside Home Depot yesterday (Saturday!) to purchase sand and salt to make the frozen river of my driveway accessible, the only thing fewer than their supply of the stuff were customers. Between food on the table and newer, shinier, brighter, faster, flashier, bigger, betterfurnishings for the house, filling the belly wins every time. Beyond basic sustenance, Americans love to eat, and many in excess. Sadly, it's one of the last true freedoms we still enjoy and also untaxed when procured from the market. But if the Marxist Law Firm of Hillary, Obama, Pelosi, and Reid come into complete power, next year's snack choices will be relegated to tidbits of tofu on wafers of watercress. And taxed!
Recently, in an effort to make everyone who eats at the U.S. House of Representatives' cafeteria healthy and 'perfect', the 'Control Freak & Grand High Exalted Mystic Dietician of the House,' Ms. Nancy, didn't devise espionage tactics like Tricky #### and/or Bill Belichick, but nevertheless, did rid the menu of red meat and ruffles (have ridges), replacing them with sushi and seaweed. Get the picture? She's the leader of the Pack...brrrrmmm, brrrrmmm, brrrrmmmm...
Iraq, Iran, and the destruction of Roger Clemens...$3.00 gas, Romney-McCain-Obama and/or Clinton each promising the moon to take the place of the horse's ####...global warming, nuclear warning, ballistic missiles, and Pelosi's worried about a little gristle, go figure...recession, depression, inflation, stagflation...terrorists, aliens, bombs, and bacteria...and, of course, MORE...
So what's a pure-blooded All-American fan to do?
Look to the facts my friends. Look to the impartial, globally-minded economists for the answers and not the impotent, self-serving government. Nothing from nothing is nothing. Look to logic and not to the Fed. Look in the face of reality and not far away in the distance at the multi-millionaires manipulating the public for their cherished throne. Look into the mirror (you ain't the perfect machine called Tom Brady) and then look a little closer into yourself. Dig down deeper than the Giant Undertaking will have to tonight. Make adjustments, quicker and more decisiive than the New York defense will need to tonight. Create an offense for self-preservation with the skill of Coach "Bill" but without the deceipt. Rely on no one but yourself and independence seeking like-minded souls. Only then will we become real Giants and true Patriots.
Until then, and despite Nancy Pelosi, tonight in your living rooms and your reserved seats, eat, drink, and be merry.
I haven't posted anything in quite a while. Life can do that to a blogger. Death can too - of friends and family and GI's and children and pets and all of that depressing #### can get a man down. It happened to me. Nothing seems worthwhile, not even the blog. In fact, writing about multi-millionaire union members (incredibly, that's what baseball players are) and the child's game they are paid those mega bucks to play, seems a little stupid like, say, talking to yourself in the mirror. So who's listening?
So it's the therapy of trying to put some sense to the nonsensical, some logic to the illogical, and some soul to the superficial that propels me at this very second to hunt and peck the keyboard with my two middle fingers. Do you think there's a little symbolism there?
In case anyone in the black hole of the baseball Blogosphere is interested, here's a few random items which have been on my mind lately.
(1) How does Joe Torre continue to get a pass from the once serious scrutiny of the New York baseball writers? He knows as much about preserving team chemistry as Bud Selig knows about preserving the integrity of the game. Latest example: Yanks have recently (before being rocked in Colorado) jelled as a team with Miguel Cairo playing stellar defense at first, hitting sac flies, laying down sac bunts, stealing bases, etc., etc. You know - baseball. So what does Torre and the Cash-man do? They bring up the feeble hitting (in majors...once whiffed 5 consecutive times in one game, the Platinum Sombrero) Andy Phillips and then start him over the contact-hitting Cairo. Hey Joe, if it ain't broke, don't fix it. The man has got to go, hopefully by the All-Star break. Let Donnie Baseball take the reigns for the rest of the season.
(2) Speaking of the Yankees and also the YES network, how does the recently departed Clete (short for Cletus) Boyer not get a Yankee-ography? The man played one of the greatest hot corners in MLB history. In the day, he was known, aptly, as The Magnet and was overshadowed by Brooks Robinson(The VaccuumCleaner) mainly because of the Oriole's superior bat. But lest we forget that Boyer played half his games in the unfriendly (to righties) Yankee Stadium with the real Death Valley of 402' to straight away left, 457' to leftcenter, 461' to center and 407' to right center. Like Elston Howard, Joe D., and The Mick batting from the right side (among others), Clete hit countless 420 foot outs, balls that would have easily cleared Wrigley Field's left field bleachers and crashed into the street below. Something for the Sammy Sosa and Ernie Banks fans to think about. If you doubt Boyer's superb defensive ability, go get yourself a copy of the 1961 World Series film and see for yourself the incredible diving plays he made and then throwing runners out from his knees. There was none finer at coming in on the bunt, scooping the ball up into the bare hand and throwing across his body on the run to nab the batter by a half a step. Boyer was so skilled defensively, that he was often used at shortstop when Tony Kubek was injured. The man was instrumental in the Yankees' pennants of 1960 thru 1964. Gil McDougald and Hank Bauer are others who don't get their due and deserve Yankee-ographies. Their consistent play and World Series' clutch performances are legendary among those of us old enough to remember. Certainly, the producers of YES could do a real tribute to Clete instead of the stupid show with the diehard weirdo Yankee fans participating in the ridiculous antics of the season long road trip. Certainly.
(3) Sosa on # 600. A joke, a farce, and another black mark on MLB. Bud Selig should be instantly retired to that great used car salesmen's lot in the sky. An utter mockery to the likes of Hank Aaron, Babe Ruth, Willie Mays, Frank Robinson, Ted Williams, Mickey Mantle,Jimmy Foxx, etc. But not, of course, Barry Bonds, his brother in sin. Someone ought to check Bud's head for cork.
(4) It is time for Tim McCarver to pack up his millions, his pathetic attempts at being witty, his whiny voice, and his hatred of the American League and especially the Yankees, and ,as Thurman Munson would tell complaining teammates, "RETIRE!" Maybe Joe Buck too.
(5) John Miller on this past Sunday Night's Yankees-Mets game referred to Derek Jeter's slick fielding of a slow roller to short as "Reyes-like!" Who comes in on a slow groundball better than Jeter?! Hey John, listen up: that would be like saying an A-Rod home run was David Wright-like. ####.
(6) If Yanks come back to make it to the post season, based upon YTD, Jorge Posada has to be their MVP. Don't challenge me on this. Just look to history and consider MVP's Berra,Campanella, Elston Howard, Bench, etc. and the role of this position.
(7) George Steinbrenner and the Yankee organization should publicly apologize to every baseball fan for the scheduled razing of Yankee Stadium, the Grand Cathedral of Baseball. If he was the King of England, would he raze the old and then build The New WestminsterAbbey? The Stadium is hallowed ground. Steinbrenner destroyed its beauty by his 1973 rennovation which eliminated the Big Ballpark's signature decorative facade/frieze and in succeeding years moved the fences in 3 times, at least. Yeah, yeah, I've heard all the great things about The Boss and how he restored the winning tradition to the CBS owned failing venture. And it is no great secret that he has an entreprenurial gift and developed the Yankees into the most profitable professional sports franchise. I get it. But does the guy have to destroy the one common link of generation to generation of pinstripe fan - The Stadium? This would not happen in Boston with Fenway or in Chicago with Wrigley. They understand what they are selling. George does not. Yankee fans, you have a season and a half to say goodbye to an old friend you will never see again. And just think of this: The Boston Celtics have won absolutely nothing since moving from Boston Garden. Nothing.
(8) Tomorrow afternoon's theme song is the Mighty Mouse tune: Here he comes to save theday, The Rocket-Man is on his way...prediction: Clemens gets Rocked in Colorado. With a pro rata 28 mil in the Rocket's pocket, the price of a beer and a dog at The Stadium must be hitting double figures by now.
That's it for tonight. As you can tell, I'm not very good with CHANGE unless, of course, change is logical and for the common good and not the elitist few. But I will not change my mind on one thing Yankee fans - that for the good of the team, the Godfather of the Bronx by way of Brooklyn, your Slow Joe Torre...must definitely go. (see old post of mine entitled, "Torre can't win the close ones.")
p.s. Q: Does anyone know what two different numbers Clete Boyer wore?
Q: What do Mark McGwire, Barry Bonds, and Rosie O'Donnell have in common?
A: All 3 have used artificial means to enhance their manhood.
McGwire - Should consider himself lucky to have even been on the HOF ballot. Easy prediction: As more and more info on MLB steroid and human growth hormone use leaks to the media, his once inflated popularity will completely fizzel out. And eventually he will be forgotten. People generally like to remember positive stuff. I do hope he makes peace with himself and also his son.
Bonds - Oh Barry, Barry, Barry, Barry...you really do need some help. What's next... speedballs? Tell ya what. Come clean with the whole deal, accept your punishment whatever it will be, donate half your money to charity, maybe more, get into treatment, spill your guts, rebuild your life on moral grounds, and then it will not matter (to anyone else but most importantly to you) whether you break Hank's record or whether you even get into the Hall. You'll have the greatest prize of all...a true you. And the world will have an honest Barry because The TRUTH sets you free. Easy prediction: Never happen.
Rosie - we liked you at the hot corner in A League of Their Own. It's been down hill ever since. You talk too much. 99% of the time, you sound stupider than A-Rod. That's not good. However we did like the comb over impression. What amazes us is that you actually have a large fan base. I bet they would vote for McGwire and also defend Barry. By the way, how's that gun control program of yours coming along these days? Still own that pistol, do ya?
Speaking of gunfire, did anyone else catch the line about A-Rod from the cabbie toward the end of the new flick, A Night at the Museum? Would love to know who was responsible for getting in that shot on A-Fraud. The man of mega-millions just gets no respect. It's a beautiful ding!
Now there's a word that will never be used to describe a closeup of Randy Johnson. Finally, he has departed. The Big Unit was, essentially, castrated by American League - New York City baseball. Now The Big Eunuch returns to the weaker hitting National League and the protection afforded by the pitcher batting. Easy Prediction: Johnson blows away Senior Circuit hitters again.
Sincere prayers for Bobby Murcer. A true Yankee, a class guy. We can still recall his rookie season playing shortstop.
Johnny Damon, CF – A good season past. Dispelled Samson theory – hair/beard loss had no effect on Bronx performance. Prediction: short porch in right will up his dinger total to around 30 in ’07. Also, a little too happy during Detroit catastrophe. Says all the right things.
Derek Jeter, SS – Unquestionably his greatest all-around season. What didn’t he do? And out of the number 2 hole! The Yankee Captain was dissed by many of the New York andSteinbrenner hatingbaseball writers when they awarded the MVP to Justin Morneau. (see my post, “Just In…Jeter Out”) But Baseball Digest (published in Evanston, Illinois) got it right when they named ‘Jeets’ as their Major League Player of the Year. Jeter is a clinic on how to play short (make the jump throw from deep in the hole, come in on a slow roller, go back for an over the shoulder catch on a short fly, etc.), run the bases (intelligently and gazelle-like), bunt, and hit to the right side. With bursts of power and clutch performances, enjoy watching this future Hall of Famer now because he is very special and the spectacle won’t last forever.
Bobby Abreu, RF – Nice finish with Yanks for ’06. Jury is still out regarding season long performance. A little too happy and complacent during the Tiger blowout. Maybe Phillies had it right? We shall see…
Hideki Matsui, LF/DH– Once again demonstrated that he is a true professional with both humble post-injury attitude and timely hitting in last month of competition. Should have been DH’d by Torre in post season to let the new, young, competitive Melky Cabrera continue to produce as he had in the regular season. Look for a decrease in games starting in left field in ’07.
Jorge Posada, C – like Yogi Berra, Elston Howard, and Thurman Munson before him, the true backbone of the team. Clutch. When he’s in the lineup, I would never bat him lower than 6th. Did a better job at the cleanup spot than A-Rod which is not that surprising. A great all-around catcher: handling pitchers, throwing out runners, etc. Thank you Tony Pena. Posada is a true Yankee.
Robinson Cano,2B – Almost won the batting title which he should do this year as long as he stays healthy. Jeter will hit .320 and Mauer, who knows the second time around the league? Let’s hope that Robby can shake off the stigma of Torre batting him in the 9th spot during the playoffs – now wasn’t that a brilliant idea to bolster a young player’s confidence?
Jason Giambi, 1B/DH – needs to play everyday at first base despite limited range. Can scoop balls out of the dirt with the best of them. Hits better when playing in the field. Too much emphasis on defensive liability. Is he any less capable than Moose Skowron, Harmon Killebrew, Boog Powell, Pete Rose, etc., etc., etc.? Power hitting streaks raise questions about continued steroid use.
Alex Rodriquez, 3B – Lived up to his recent fan nicknames of K-Rod, A-Clod, E-Rod, and A-Fraud and we know there are more. Add A-Roid if the 100 names are ever divulged. A-Rod is the person who hasn’t got a clue that the romance is over and keeps making the phone calls and ringing the door bell…but nobody answers. His Big Apple love affair is history. Yankee fans only got the worm. When he finally rides off into the sunset, hopefully back to Texas or Seattle, the Yanks should retire his number to the rag pile so that #13 is never seen again. The ultimate Choke Artist…and for 25 mil per annum!
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Melky Cabrera, LF, etc. – outstanding rookie performance including going deep into the pitch count, slashing the outside pitch the other way, covering Death Valley as well as anyone since Ricky Henderson, maybe better, can steal a base, and is a serious threat to throw out a runner taking the extra base. A powerful arm. Can play all 3 outfield positions. Yanks out of their mind if they use this guy as trade bait for pitching woes.
Gary Sheffield, Gone - but not (or never to be) forgotten. We will miss the savage swing and cannon shots to left, foul balls included (did he once take someone’s head off?) but the Bombers will not miss the anger and the Reggie-like attitude in the clubhouse. Reunited with Leland and Dombrowski, he might very well avenge his pinstripe exit by late season damage against lackluster Yank pitching.
HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL BASEBALL BLOGGERS, PAST & PRESENT
What?!!! What?!!! Justin Morneau?!! They must be kidding. Have the majority of the so-called ‘baseball writers’ completely lost their minds? Or should we be asking, were they of sound mind to begin with? The only explanation for this highway robbery of the MVP is that the non-Jeter voters are morons, idiots, imbeciles, maybe even lunatics. Choose one. Most likely they all apply. Oh, and one more…envious. Envious of all that he has and all that he is which, in baseball terms, is just about the most completely skilled and clutch performing shortstop of our time. Shame on you who did not vote for this man in this, his greatest year. Can you read? Do you own a TV? Do you live in a cave?
So let me get this straight. Derek Jeter misses winning the batting title by a bloop and a dribbler. This, despite batting from the right side 2 feet farther from first base than it will ever be for Mauer or Cano. This, despite having about a billion more plate appearances for the season than Mauer or Cano. And this despite batting in the #2 hole where his mission was so often only to move Johnny Damon another 90 feet to third…by a bunt or a slicing groundball to the right side Oh, and one more ‘despite.’ Jeter played half his games under the microscope and inside the pressure cooker called Yankee Stadium/New York City.
And Morneau? A simple equation will do: good hitter + artificial surface + high school outfield dimensions = very good offensive season. Give him the Central Division Co-Slugger of the Year Award with Jerome Dye. End of story. We wish.
To continue. I now ask any and all esoteric baseball statistics geeks and nerds to rally ‘round and supply the necessary computation to prove my point. I would try to do it but, I must admit, I am not up to the task.
Here it is. First, add up the obvious - Jeter’s runs scored and rbi’s. Then dissect the season’s box scores and come up with his run/game saving fielding plays, the times he kept a 2 out rally going which eventually scored a run, the times he successfully gave up his at bat to move a runner over, his go-ahead hits, his game tying hits, his game winning hits and his timely stolen bases (now, exactly how many times was he caught stealing this year?). Are you with me so far? Good. Then take into account how he almost single handedly carried the team for the first half of the year with Matsui and Sheffield the newest members of the broken wrist club, and how as Yankee Captain, he often played hurt, bruised, and injured. How he set the example for the likes of Andy Phillips, Melky Cabrera, Nick Green and Sal Fasano (not exactly 200 million dollar payroll names) who so often came through in a regular season which tied the inferior National League Mets for the best record in baseball. Now throw into the mix, the over-all sub-par Yankee pitching, playing short next to anyone of 4 or 5 different second sackers, and being subjected daily to the doom and gloom of the “Poor Me” A-Rod Traveling Choke ArtistShow.
Got all that? There might be even more. If you think of anything else such as ‘Jeets’ being the poster boy for all the Yankee-hating fans, media, and opposing 95 mph hurling chin-musicians, then throw those into the mix too.
Now, when all this is compiled and Jeter’s stellar blue collar performance is put up against Morneau’s politically correct spring, summer, and fall in the Make Believe World of Minneapolis & St. Paul, take a quick trip up to The Mistake in theLand of Lakes, that ballpark wannabe, and tear apart a piece of the right field ‘wall.’ Then take a few steps back and a deep breath in and use the trash bag liner for what it was intended – a receptacle for the secret ballots of the non-Jeter for MVP voting baseball ‘writers.’ You know, garbage.
The melancholy melodies softly croon and swoon me from the living room down the hall. I glance outside the window of my 'offfice', a room where one time long ago a child slept and a child dreamed and was alone with a child's thoughts. I see the nuthatches and titmice, and also the chickadees as they swoop down from the maples and oaks, and also from the hemlock we call "Socrates", to drink from the rainwater in the birdbath, and then to feast upon their morning sustenance of sunflower seeds. I can assure you, it is a more pleasant thing to watch than baseball players expectorating them from their perch upon the top seat of the dugout bench. And a woodpecker has arrived, with its red cap reminding me that Little David Eckstein's over-achieving, team-playing Cardinals were the perfect antidote for a baseball season beleaguered by the self absorption of Balco Barry and the soap opera world according to A-Rod. Those Cardinals were like those old Boston Celtic teams, against all odds, finding a way to win. And now the red-headed wood #### has begun to partake of a breakfast of suet, in preparation for the long winter to come.
We have been told that Red Auerbach has passed away. In fact, I think it is today that he is to be buried. The obituaries and tributes and eulogies will be many. And rightly so. Here is a remembrance.
I am 12. Finally tall enough and strong enough to shoot a basketball with enough force, accuracy, and distance to make the game fun. It is a beautiful game this thing called 'hoops'... a beautiful game to watch when it's played like Red's fast breaking Celtics of the 50's and 60's...or to play, whether it's an organized team, a pickup tilt at the park, or a one on one in the driveway at the basket that hangs off of the garage. And then, when your adversary has to go home for supper or just had something 'better' to do that day, there was, in this most beautiful game, still yourself, a hoop, and a ball. Oh, and one more thing, an imagination.
I was The Cooz dribbling behind my back making sure to avoid the pothole on the left and then tossing up the running one hander...or Sharpshooter Sharman delivering his automatic pop from the charity stripe...and The Gunner, Heinsohn line driving a hook across the middle...and Sam Jones banking a 15 to 20 foot jumper from the side off the 'glass'..."Yes!" (Thank you Marv Alpert. Living in northern New Jersey, it was very rare to be able to pick up Johnny Most from Boston.)
And I was Satch steering the softest, over-the-head, flat, set shot known to man. And Siggy bombing his high arcing version from 'pre-3 point land.' Seven foot-plus Mel Counts (the plus was the pompadour), black high tops glued to the floor, hitting one deep from the corner and Don Nelson double pumping and KC driving and in later years, 'The Garbage Man' Bailey Howell with the one handed push shot from the chest. But Hondo was my main man and the one who always came through in the clutch, making the running 'leaner" at the buzzer or the jumper at the top of the key on Red's old number 3 play. And Bill Russell...I even had the little high-kneed hook with either hand as well as the left handed foul shot complete with the exhale of momentary tension blown softly from my pursed lips. I may have even made a higher percentage of these free throws than the Bearded Wonder.
For all these pleasurable childhood moments and memories and the additional ones in my adulthood (Dave Cowens, JoJo White, The Bird Era, etc.), most all learned from those black, white and grey images from the Sunday afternoon TV narrated by Chris Schenkel and Jack Twyman, I sincerely thank you Arnold "Red" Auerbach, a man who saw basketball players as human beings and in only the winner's shade of Kelly Green.
Now, the sun is shinning through my office window. Warmer today, Indian Summer. There is an intermittent breeze. Most of the leaves are down now. Their glorious finale of colorul foliage is over in this neck of the woods. The dry, brown remains scatter along the damp earth and clutter against my newly planted junipers and the solitary yew. They will remain there for most of the winter, protecting, and keeping the young shrubs warm.
Tigers - Cards, 2006. 38 years ago we first watched them in a 7 act baseball drama as the Motown Nine came back from a 3-1 deficit and surprised the Redbirds as well as most of the sporting world. Images: Tiger centerfielder Mickey Stanley playing shortstop...31 game winner Denny McClain looking more like the lifetime loser he became...and Mickey Lolich!...Big Bad Bob Gibson dominating...golden glove Curt Flood misplaying the long drive to center...who hit that, was it the Gray Fox Jim Northrup?...Tiger Stadium...and Mickey Lolich!...and Mickey Lolich again!
And now we have Leyland vs. La Russo. Tonight the Tigers were waiting to win...beating up on the Yankees and then the A's and finishing the execution with the Ordonez walk off home run can be intoxicating, so much that it can put you right to sleep. Verlander put his faith in his press clippings instead of putting his fastball in the ear of Scott Rowland and Albert Pujols. When the fumbling Inge uncorked his wild throw toward Pudge at the plate, he looked more like the playwright and less like Aurelio Rodriquez or George Kell. As soon as he let it go he said to himself, "COME BACK LITTLE SHEBA" and when he impersonated a roadblock for Rowland running toward home, he thought, "this ain't no PICNIC." If he doesn't get his act together, he'll be standing at the BUS STOP with a one way ticket to THE DARK AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS. If you don't know who I'm speaking of , well, then I guess I'm older than I care to admit.
But being a Yankee fan and also a Met fan hater (although I did feel bad for Willie Randolph), now I can only hear the soulful voice of B.B. King wailing away in the background of my subconscious that, for this baseball season, "The Thrill Is Gone."
But not all is lost. There is some amusement. The Cards doubleplay combo looks a little like a circus act - at 5'7'', Little Eckstein is this age's Freddy Patek or Phil Rizzuto. How can you not root for him - he is Everyman. And The Bulging Belly-iard traded in his signature dread locks/braids for his new Annette Funicello look and has also easily surpassed Maglio Ordonez, Eric Byrnes, and Manny Ramirez for most ridiculous 'do of the season. With a little more volume he might take first prize in the Oscar Gamble look a like contest. But the man can play. How beautiful was that push bunt past the pitcher for the game tying, safety squeeze against the Mets in Game 7?
And what happened to our National Anthem? Bob Seeger at his one man band keyboard straining through "America the Beautiful? No wonder the Tigers never got started; they were still waiting to hear the Star Spangled Banner. Where's Aretha when you need her?
And please, Fox Sports, spare us the closeups. Instead of a full view of the field where a fan might actually see a play develop (fielders backing up, hitting the cutoff man, etc.), we are mistreated to dental exams, nose hairs, pimples, blemishes, and other assorted skin growths,chewing tobacco rolling around the palate, resting on the lips, falling out of the mouth, and dribbling down the chin, the saliva soaked shells of sunflower seeds expectorated in mass profusion, and spitting and spitting and more spitting. MLB players are, no doubt, the world's greatest spitters, bar none. There's an idea for a blog, "Greatest Spitting Techniques/Moments of Major league Baseball."
Well it's time to retire...from this and also to bed. When I say my prayers tonight, I can assure you that I will not be thanking The Almighty for an opposite field home run. I will save that for Albert Pujols as he looks and points up to the heavens as he crosses home plate. Here's a news flash for you Albert: God's got a few more important things on His agenda than the World Series and your professional athletic performance.
