Matt’s top ten recommended third baseman to replace A-Rod:
Mark Teahen- Young, can pick it at third, excellent base-runner, showed signs of being a fantastic player second half of ’06… line drive inclined left handed hitter, meet short porch… move to the outfield may have set him back. The Yankees and Royals aren’t ideal trading partners, however. Austin Jackson and Jose Tabata are practically untouchable, the Yankee organization’s first impact positional prospects in a long while. Melky is very similar to DeJesus, so the Royals won’t have a ton of interest there. Long shot.
Adrian Beltre- Overpaid, but the contract length is manageable [2 Years]. Lacks plate disciple. Had best season in ’04 while playing hurt, because he couldn’t swing at everything. Flourished when forced to play within himself… but he hasn’t sure that consistent ability since. A phenomenal fielder who could blossom within Girardi’s disciplined environment. Seattle was a horrible fit for him from the start. The Mariners show no desire to work the count, and the front office doesn’t seem to care. Perhaps participating in an offense including Jeter, Abreu, Posada, and Giambi would do wonders… Hard to believe he’s still only 28. I’m a big Beltre fan. His talent would never allow him to be a total disaster, and the upside is still enormous.
Hank Blalock-####ed up the last couple of years… Could argue he’s been a disappointment relative to the hype… perfect “change of scenery guy” whose value has taken a hit… Jon Daniels can be swindled.
Scott Rolen- Shoulder injuries scare the hell out of me… but he’s Scott Rolen. One of the best fielding third baseman ever. Laid back demeanor, quiet fire would play well in New York. Cold war with LaRussa is truly fascinating. The two obviously despise each other, but his name almost never comes up in trade rumors… how long does it continue? With LaRussa back for the foreseeable future, he’s probably available. Last truly great year was way back in ’04, was having an excellent ’06 before wearing down in September due to aforementioned shoulder issues… could see the Yankees in pursuit, if for the name value only. Will surgery have him back to 100 percent? Mike Mussina for Scott Rolen sounds sensible… well, maybe not to Cardinal fans.
Miguel Tejada- His range combined with Jeter’s would probably doom Wang to a plus 4 ERA… Ball doesn’t explode off the bat like it used to, but he’s still a technically proficient hitter, with an excellent approach, especially with men on base. Unrealistic with Angelos still calling the shots in Baltimore, though Melky is perfect for them.
Garret Atkins- Low on the list because his acquisition isn’t likely… another great fielder. Ian Stewart sill lurks in the minors, but the consensus has Atkins lapping him, totally secure. Chien Ming Wang is a guy they’d love, for his ground ball tendencies in Coors Field. Wang would be a CY Yong candidate with that defense behind him, especially Tulowitzki. Rockies probably don’t want to mess with their chemistry… but a match could be there.
Pedro Feliz- Advanced defensive metrics consistently tab him as one of the best fielding third baseman in baseball… a free agent, so it only costs green to grab him, a plus… Another guy who might benefit from better coaching, he SWINGS AT EVERYTHING… people are quick to dismiss the guy, but he really wouldn’t be a terrible option while Brad Suttle develops…
Miguel Cabrera- I’d hate to trade the farm for him, but he IS a prodigy, and his familiarity with Girardi is comforting, especially with the well known character issues… he’d be a defensive liability, unless they move him to first and give third to this guy—
Wilson Betemit- A future superstar, once upon a time… the Yankees want his flabby physique in better condition… With his atrocious swing from the right side, but dangerous cut from the left, he’s a potential platoon partner with this guy—
Morgan Ensberg- I fear Kei Igawa for Morgan Ensberg makes too much sense not to happen… Kevin Towers is an Igawa fan for some bizarre reason, and an Ensberg/Betemit platoon could actually work… mashes lefties, but you figured that out by now… Pretty abysmal in every way last season. Rocket arm at third. I’d pass, but that’s just me.
Not listed:
Joe Crede: Chris Russo’s personal choice, which should be enough of a deterrent. Unfathomably awful plate discipline, his best season featured an .OBP of .323! How is that possible? On top of everything, he’s coming off back surgery. And he’ll have to be pried away in a trade. If the Yankees go after this guy, I’m cashing my check for ’08. It will severely depress me. I’d take the tag team duo of Ensberg and Betemit any day of the week. STAY AWAY!
Nothing personal, Joe…
Mike Lowell: You just know someone will step up and offer him a ridiculous four-year contract. I don’t want it to be my team.
Brandon Inge: Too streaky, strikeout prone. Great athlete, though…
Scott Brosius: They won because they had the best pitching in baseball, OK? Best rotation, best bullpen. The Bro man was a money post-season player, but he didn’t pull his weight in any regular season past ’98. Just the facts, Jack… Get over the guy. He was a championship player, deservedly loved, but let’s not go crazy and claim he’s better than A-Rod. Come on, now.
The Wildcard:
Youliesky Gourriel - Yes, he may never leave Cuba. But in the word of …Joaquin Andujar… youneverknow.
There was Carl Pavano, the supposed anchor turned albatross, battling on Opening Day of the 2007 season, searching futility for a strikeout pitch. He appears out of place in Yankee pinstripes, assuming a secondary skin, awkwardly wrenching arm overhead, seeking the pristine mechanics and precise command that bought him to the doorstep of stardom. Yes, seems too long ago, when Pavano, young, healthy, and fearless, owned the consensus as the top pitcher within 05’s hot stove menu. Matt Clement was deemed erratic, Pedro Martinez dubbed weathered. He was the one.
Here, he grinded through four ugly innings, before departing to cheers from optimistic fans. This was supposed to be the first step toward a revival, Pavano rising from the ashes, overcoming the cursed injuries that had derailed his promising prime. He was a fixture on the top step of the Yankee dugout in the days following his first start, coolly clad in a black hooded sweatshirt, talking shop with Andy Pettitte, Mike Mussina, legitimately reaching for camaraderie.
He’d pitch one more game in 2007. It was an appropriate beginning. Take nothing for granted.
Not even Pavano’s single win.
Exit scene.
…………………………………………….
I thought they were finished, late May, after two pathetic losses against Toronto, the team contently passive, absorbing beatings that began feeling inevitable. The Yankees were in full descent, the pitching staff ravaged by injuries, and damaged by Front Office ineptitude, the thoroughly overmatched Kei Igawa routinely blitzed. Indeed, Igawa, eyes shrouded behind shades during Afternoon games, had performed horribly enough to indict the whole organization, executive box to coaching staff.
The defeats became a steady drumbeat. My expectations narrowed. I considered new summer hobbies, but, invariably, always returned for more, cursing the whole way as Bobby Abreu bailed out against lefties, Robinson Cano swung at the first pitch, and Hideki Matsui tapped an endless array of harmless groundballs toward second base.
I consider myself an optimist by nature, but couldn’t have been more apathetic at this particular time. Couple weeks earlier, I’d written a bitterly cynical column after a loss at Seattle, cryptically declaring my worry. The past is never at rest, and, after a couple years coping with painful playoff disappointment, I was quick losing patience.
Toronto was the nadir. 21-29. So, it was fitting that the final game on my Saturday ticket package paired the Yanks and Jays, with such a sizable space between then and now. The baseball season is cosmic, organic, it breathes on a karmic level, flowing and connected. This day represented a gaping exhale.
……………………………….
The Jays have a bright future, an impressive collection of young pitching scattered in their bullpen and rotation. While the cataclysmic injury to B.J. Ryan, along with setbacks suffered by Lyle Overbay, Troy Glaus, Russ Johnson and Vernon Wells, may have short-circuited any possibility of a playoff run, the organization may benefit long term from the test of it’s depth. The loss of Ryan forced the elevation of Jeremy Accardo, and prompted the emergence of Casey Janssen. The Blue Jays bullpen mirrors Seattle’s relief corps, before September anyway, when the Mariners could trot out an array of young guns with scintillating strikeout to walk ratios and miniscule earned run averages. But, while the Mariner arms leaked late, the Jay hurlers preserved, featuring such a plethora of talent that Brandon League, kid flamethrower without control, has become an afterthought. If Ryan heals quickly enough, the Jays’ pen could be unstoppable in ’08. Who wants to face Brian Wolfe, Casey Jannsen, Jeremy Accardo, and Ryan as the innings dwindle, especially with Scott Downs and Brian Tallet in reserve, revitalized by their shift to fulltime relief?
……………………………..
My brother Greg and I are late arriving to the Stadium, par for the course really. We weren’t exactly in a frenzied rush however, especially with heavy rain showering the city. On the way there, I notice a gigantic billboard for Fox’s new show, K-Ville, starring the renowned Anthony Anderson and legendary Cole Hauser. In the right spot, of course, these guys effectively exploit their specific talents, Hauser’s stone cold stoicism, Anderson’s goofy comic shtick, but frankly, I couldn’t think of worse roles for either to portray than nose to the grindstone New Orleans cops. Can’t see the two having any chemistry, but you never know. After all, I once lumped “House” in with “Skin”.
I’m intrigued by this massive piece of advertising, however, hanging over the Cross Bronx. It exposes the transient nature of life. Few month’s time, and K-Ville will be gone, painted over, replaced by a new show, new car, something new until it isn’t. Meanwhile, my brother and I will continue to drive by, on our way to Yankee games. And that consistency is comforting, part of the reason why we watch sports, afford such attentiveness to statistics, keep track. The human condition includes an inert fascination with consistency, long lasting reliability. Players receive ample plaudits for it. Explains the calendar, New Year’s, all the holidays. Reality is so unpredictable. Our lives can be irreparably changed at any time, upheaval at a moment’s notice. So we hunt for the steadiness, thirst for it, anticipate Opening Day around the corner, or a Saturday matinee.
Because we never know when it’s going to rain.
……………………………………
During the delay, Greg and I make the rounds at the familiar establishments, Stan’s and the like. A new Yankee era has emerged in recent seasons, grandstands jam packed, attendance tipping the scales at four million. This has altered routines. Now, it’s a virtual impossibility to escape the Big Ballpark without encountering a bodily traffic jam flooding the corridors. Try appreciating the extra ten thousand friends on a hot Saturday in May after a disappointing Devil Ray wipeout, arm to sweaty arm in a overcrowded walkway with some slovenly guy muttering that the ’85 team got screwed because “they didn’t have the wildcard”, distinct whiff of barley and hops on his breath.
A great percentage of the chorus jeering A-Rod last season may have rode in on the same bandwagon. Now we all chant MVP, but not everyone feels like a phony for it.
The attendance splurge is in full effect at the watering holes, which are uniformly standing room only. Pinstriped morale is jacked, with good reason. Our guys had rallied from a disastrous start, overcoming both the opposition and themselves. These Yankees look their worst when they overreach, forcing instead of flowing. In that sense, this has truly become Alex Rodriguez’s team. I’ve arrived at a realization, regarding athletic endeavor, an epiphany. In the vein of every artistic pursuit, feats on the field are tapped from the subconscious, the ability to divert focus inward, for the delivery of an expression. Could range from a brush stroke to a sac bunt. Analysis has no place at game time. Proper preparation is a must, but, when the lights are bright, instinct belongs behind the wheel, a difficult task in sports, due to the competition. Old Shakes never had to endure a writing duel. The battle in athletics is to internalize, forcing pressure to become a mere figment of the imagination.
……………………………….
We escape into the stadium, fleeing from the bar deluge. The game is still delayed by the time we arrive, and the wait continued. At my prodding, we try grabbing seats a few rows up, under cover from the precipitation, but these are filled. We return to the bowels. I sit against filthy wall, eating my breakfast, a soggy Stadium hot dog. Tarp’s been on for nearly an hour, without an end in sight.
My back is locking up. I rue my decision not to get wasted. Didn’t want to booze so early. It may have made the situation tenable. Instead, I sit cold sober, resembling a bum. I ponder whether to ask a passerby for pocket change, can never have enough. I’m reminded of the homeless guy outside Gate 6 after games, proudly brandishing a sign with the inscription:
Why lie? I need a beer.
One had to appreciate the everlasting ingenuity of honesty. And this thought springs forth another: It wasn’t always good at the stadium. Drug dealers used to buy tickets to games, a secure location for sales. Same for the addicts, the empty upper deck a perfect place to shoot up, anonymous. I’ve been told these tales. They don’t seem real. Makes overpopulation seem small.
Finally, the tarp is peeled from the field. The game can begin.
……………………………….
Phil Hughes is on the mound for the Yankees, the untouchable one. His velocity sapped by a myriad of leg injuries, Hughes has been left coping with a suspect arsenal, a previously blistering fastball slowed. These difficulties could strengthen his pitching acumen. But for now, the kid struggles in finding the form that had Baseball America anointing him pitching prospect supreme this past winter. But there are flashes. When he perfectly locates a four-seam fastball under a right-hander’s thumbs for a strike. Or when his breaking ball snaps instead of floating. When his change-up dives instead of hanging.
It’s all in that aforementioned consistency.
He’ll find it.
He retires the Jays in the first frame, in order.
………………………………………
Shaun Marcum returns serve, setting the Yankees down quietly. Marcum relies on finesse, no doubt helped by the stellar defense of John McDonald at short, absent today. He mixes and matches, owning a solid grasp of pitching stratagem. He’s one of the standouts in the Jays’ strong front five, a list including the gifted Dustin McGowan, Jon Lieber clone Jesse Litsch, enigmatic A.J. Burnett, and, of course, Doc Halladay.
…………………………………….
Can always count on oddity outside the Stadium. Have to view each and every day through a fresh set of eyes, the old yard reminds me, recalibrates my filter. The place is a true inspiration, and it’s passing, in just a couple years time, is saddening. It’s the people. Will they remain? Like the dudes sporting powder blue retro Jay jerseys, old school names like Olerud and Borders stitched across their backs. Or the intoxicated guy cloaked in his country’s flag, running around calling himself “Captain Canada”. Maybe it was Michael Moore. They save their best for the Bronx.
Fresh eyes.
………………………………….
We’ve all seen police procedurals, either on television or at the movies. We recognize the formula, patting ourselves on the back for paying attention. Look, here comes the part where the obvious, number one suspect is revealed innocent. Uh oh, now the alcoholic cop is going to take the case too personally. Wait, wait, we have a new villain emerging… and bam, case closed, good triumphs over evil, roll credits.
Well, with the Yankees, especially this incarnation of the team, I’m able to correlate just the same. After all, they are a long running series, and some episodes are bound to get recycled. So here’s the part when they look beaten, the offense stagnant. The starter is rolling along, they’ve squandered some opportunities, but wait, they have a couple runners on in the sixth, Marcum’s long gone, left with an injury, that Blue Jay bullpen suddenly isn’t looking quite as deep… and bam, four runs are on the board, the place is going crazy, I high-five some guy after not saying two words to him all game, Enter Sandman, let’s have those credits.
Alas, it isn’t that simple. Not today. Because, unbeknownst to my brother and I, who have dinner plans with the family to celebrate his birthday, we are about to go for a wacky, infuriating, exhilarating ride, which not only typified the season, but mortified us. Having not eaten since the dog during the delay, I was praying for the game ending with relative ease, eager to down some fajitas at Tequila Sunrise.
But here came Jose Veras to protect the lead, top of the seventh.
…………………………………………
Joba is the man, a second round steal, fell to the Yankees, taken in the same draft as wunderkind Ian Kennedy. He contemplates a hellacious fastball with a devilish slider, sporting the confidence to throw his breaking stuff in any count or situation. He handles the media with ease, displaying a natural charisma that fans feed on, sowing the seeds for a symbiotic relationship. It’s those players who become legends, larger than life caricatures.
But he isn’t available, not today, insulated by a set of rules to protect his priceless right-arm. When the steadily shrinking market for free agent pitching is considered, the value of a stud on the farm increases seventy-fold. There will be fewer diamond-branded band-aids, Mike Mussina available for the highest bidder. Franchises far and wide are making a concerted effort to lock down their aces, well before they hit the market. Where would the Yankees be without the next ones? Bidding for the services of Kyle Lohse?
So instead of Joba, we are treated with Jose Veras. Veras’ violent mechanics echo Armando Benitez, appearing painful, unwieldy. Arm and head jerking, Jose hurls his person into every pitch, both audience and batter pardoned a cringe. His stuff, however, is electric, a final spot on the postseason roster within grip.
He begins by allowing a fluke double to Ray Olmedo. The guy sitting a seat up mutters “Aw, ####”, venturing an early diagnosis on the imminent meltdown. Greg tells me not to worry, he’d seen Jose breeze in an earlier appearance, harnessing his filthy stuff. Reed Johnson, campaign long scuttled by back miseries, follows with a walk. I rebut Greg.
“ Oh man, it’s Jose Veras. Jose Veras.”
Snap judgments in the heat of the moment. They contradict my analysis. Which is the true B.S.? Therein lies the question…
After striking out the slumping Matt Stairs, who seems a grizzled veteran since 1998 for some reason [must be the facial hair], Veras hurls a wild pitch that Jorge Posada, never known as an adroit blocker, probably should have salvaged.
Meanwhile, the wave has broken out, oozing through the entire stadium. I curse the gimmick to nobody in particular. Greg and I remain unmoved as it passes through our section, proud curmudgeons, in solidarity with the Bleacher Creatures. I’m left in awe of those captivated by the ability to raise their arms upward. Small wonders. There’s that extra one million, weren’t around way back when…
Alex Rios strikes out. The wave rolls on. A run scores on a Posada passed ball. The wave refuses to die. John Ford-Griffin, a former Yankee prospect, a casualty of the regrettable Jeff Weaver acquisition, walks, after Veras inexplicably attempted to fool him with a 3-2 curve ball. It was his first AB of the season. The wave is finally dead. If I were drunk, I’d chastise the entire section, the annoying, self-righteous guy nobody wants vindicated. Alas, I’m not, and am left speechless after Hill singles, tilting the contest back toward Toronto. Somewhere, the guy cloaked in the colors of Canada popped open a Molson and checked a disappointed Yankee fan into the boards.
Veras exits the game, to a chorus of indignation. After all, he interrupted the wave, the jerk. This is New York, baby. We’re hardcore.
In comes Edwar Ramirez, proud owner of a plus change-up. Ramirez lacks consistent command and control of his fastball, unable to mask his mistakes. He pays, forced to be perfect at the Major League level, after terrorizing the Minors with his phantom change.
Ramirez has struggled of late. Greg chimes in:
“ You’ve been high on this guy, but I just don’t see it. He’s awful.”
Point taken. I plan on returning serve after Ramirez records the final out. He uncorks a wild pitch. Hasn’t been Posada’s finest defensive exhibition, but the Yankee gas can committee isn’t helping matters. Lind singles in Hill. One ugly inning can infect all nine. I never issue a counterpoint in Ramirez’s favor. I hope he forgives me, someday. Curtis Thigpen, back-up catcher extraordinaire, who waged a battle of attrition with Phil Hughes back in the fourth, fouling off approximately one hundred pitches before lofting a double to short left, flies out to center to bring a merciful close to the proceedings.
………………………………………..
The masses are obligated to arise for the ceremonial singing of “God Bless America”. This is especially fun, after the follies of Veras and Ramirez. I’m still paranoid about the Tigers making a miracle push to pressure the Yankees for the wild card, but that’s probably just aftershock from ‘04. Never take a thing for granted. Not in this life. “God Bless America” reaches crescendo.
We can sit.
………………………………….
The Blue Jays lead 8-6. I’m aghast at the incompetence displayed by the backend of the Yanks’ bullpen, but not the least bit phased. For, Brandon League is on the mound for the visitors, in all his frenzied glory. One could sum up League by simply surveying his mannerisms, eying his body language. He grimaces, scowls, slumps shoulders, pouts, out of sync, behavior matching woeful command.
Giambi, bat lagging, flies out to left after working the count in his favor. Then, League somehow manages to walk the free wheeling Cadillac Cano on four pitches. Doug Mientkiewicz, on fire since improbably reclaiming the first base job, fists a lucky, dying quail of a double down the left field line, a twist of fate unfortunate enough to totally unhinge League, squinting even more intensely toward home-plate before allowing a two RBI single to the glacially cold Melky Cabrera. Proceeding a Derek Jeter groundout, John Gibbons, whose hilarious saunter to the mound harkens an outlaw’s gait from Spaghetti Westerns, decides to hook League on a high note, calling on Brian Wolfe, who summarily walks Bobby Abreu, bringing Alex Rodriguez to the plate, ready to absolutely wreck a tie game.
……………………………………………
I’m a believer in the power of positive vibes. Last year, Alex Rodriguez’s struggles in pressure situations became a self-fulfilling prophecy, overblown by the media until they weren’t. Alex admittedly piled on the bulk for the ’06 season, bat speed suffering in an unforeseen consequence. This in mind, couldn’t Alex’s ineffectiveness late in games, against hard throwing relief pitchers, be attributed entirely to the added weight, and wouldn’t the results of this season, a trimmed down Alex annihilating the ninth inning, essentially delete any argument persecuting him as a player unable to deliver in the clutch?
Either way, his greatness is undeniable.
Now, those who doubted expect him to deliver. Encouraging, instead of badgering. Positive vibes, in full effect, as he socks a single off Wolfe, putting his team back on top.
…………………………………..
The game had been totally nonsensical, delayed by rain, careening off course, yet I was assured. Sure, Farnsworth was jogging in from the pen, but he could toss a clean inning, deliver the game to Mo, and I could finally chow on some quality Nachos.
I was determined to maintain a level of placidity. So, when Greg murmured, “Oh ####, its Farnsworth,” I immediately sought the positive. And here it was: Kyle throws the baseball hard. The soft underbelly of the decimated Blue Jay lineup shouldn’t be able to make solid contact against mid-nineties gas. There was my logic. It would be Farnsworth’s day.
Olmedo beat an infield hit, after Farnsworth, aptly fielding his position, winged an errant throw through the legs of new first sacker Wilson Betemit. Reed Johnson bled a hard earned walk, staring at four straight pitches. Serenity now. The slumbering Stairs hit a rocket into the glove of Betemit. One out. Surely Farnsworth would benefit from this good fortune, Carpe Diem, Kyle. Rios singles. A run. Greg Zaun singles. Another run. We boo Farnsworth as he takes his leave. Loudly. Enter Chris Britton, prisoner of a wide waistline, which obscures his legitimate talent. He retires the only batter he faces, before Torre, in a bizarre maneuver, summons banished import Kei Igawa. The fans, obviously confused, can only summon a smattering of jeers. He allows another run, why not, but the inning, familiar theme, mercifully ends when Zaun, the speed merchant, is gunned out at home.
All told, the deranged game was reaching near surreal levels. 11-9 Jays, and now it really, really, had to be over.
…………………………………..
Melky Cabrera at the plate, two outs in the eighth, team trailing by two, two in scoring position. The sun is setting. The game had stretched past reasonable context, spiraling into the unknown, anything possible. It would be a brutal loss, for the fans especially, who’d seen their entire day outside the stadium slip away, with every breaking ball in the dirt, every foul ball, every garbled prod from the overworked P.A. system. The moment was Melky’s for the taking, opposing a tiring Wolfe, pitch count soaring, partially due to a protracted, Abreu styled plate appearance by the recklessly impatient Cano, drawing his second consecutive free pass. Up was down, left was right, and the exhausted Cabrera, simply burnt after two months of everyday playing time, squeezed a single under the glove of second baseman Aaron Hill, scoring both runners. Melky, naturally, was thrown out at first after taking a suicidal turn around the bag.
11-11.
……………………………..
They won. It was Melky, in the 10th, singling in the deciding run, lacing a frozen rope into right, freeing about 35,000 prisoners of loyalty. They beat Josh Towers, the instigator of a bench clearing brawl weeks earlier in Toronto, revenge for the well documented ha affair, which had, incidentally, occurred the game after rock bottom. Everything could be connected, but it’s impossible to see how all the pieces fit.
It wasn’t the win I’ll ultimately remember, or even Cabrera, returning to peak form, free from fatigue, riding precious adrenaline for a few hours. Not Alex, who continued proving himself King of New York, or Cano, his breath-taking relay peg from centerfield cutting down Toronto’s winning run at the plate in the tenth. No, I’ll never forget something tingling down my spine.
The completely ridiculous seventh and eighth innings, unending, had extended the game beyond daylight. When Mariano Rivera entered in the ninth, the sky had darkened dim enough for flashbulbs to pop from every corner of the Stadium.
Where had the sun disappeared?
This feeling captured me for a split instant, totally helpless, yet peaceful all the same. I was passing through the living embodiment of a metaphor, a parable.
The Blue Jays encounter injuries. They find talent within. High hopes for ’08.
The Yankees struggle, written off. They recover. Playoffs next week, round one.
It rains. Jose Veras tries to trick John Ford Griffin. A marathon ensues.
Every day is the same. Every day is different. Every day is the same in difference.
Assume nothing. Expect anything. Need fresh eyes to see the flashes of night.
What's the price of instant gratification? The Arizona Diamondbacks were an expansion team in 1998, propelled on a fast track by relentless manager Buck Showalter and an aggressive front office, participating in postseason play by 1999, winning an epic World Series in 2001. It was a whirlwind, a winning tradition instilled within infancy, the antithesis of Tampa Bay. But nobody stays on top forever. The team's foundation gradually cracked, and the Diamondbacks finally kissed abyss in 2004, collecting an abysmal 51 wins.
The how and why, scenery for history, paints a picture of dubious decisions, chiefly the ill-fated Curt Schilling trade to Boston, for which the Diamondbacks received an assortment of spare parts and fungible resources, annihilating any opportunity for contention in '04.
There would be no blank checks for the Diamondbacks now, no mass migration of high priced veterans into their stable. They would need to build.
The game's current exhibits quiet violence, a pleasant riptide. Mark Prior is destined for greatness, before cruel waves cascade. The Diamondbacks may have appeared entrapped in an undertow, before the horizon became visible.
There's Conor Jackson, and Mark Grace in a broadcaster's booth. There's Chris Young, and Steve Finley hanging by a thread in Colorado. There's Stephen Drew, and Tony Womack nowhere to be found.
The ocean rolls on.
Arizona welcomes it with open arms.
Who else?
Who's next?
N.L. East:
Marlins: Sean West Bats: L Throws: L Starting Pitcher
If the Marlins' brilliance in the area of talent evaluation weren't so well established, one would be tempted to believe them blessed, by a god of serendipitous fortune. Whenever the apathy entrenched within their "fan base" appears to infect performance, a Dontrelle Willis is acquired, or a Miguel Cabrera is developed, and the Fish solider on. Meanwhile, we all wait in wonderment, for the Marlins' to unveil another untouchable.
Sean West could be next in line. His measurable attributes would make any scout salivate. West is 6'8, and 210 easy. His full maturation incomplete, an already impressive fastball stands to gain an extra degree of velocity, in due time. West was a bit one-dimensional in College, boasting a single consistently effective pitch, the heater, eschewing secondary offerings. That in mind, his growth could be glacial, especially at advanced levels. However, West has displayed a willingness to learn, and is twirling breaking balls with regularity in the bushes, attempting to redefine his style. And while the deuces remain wild, West's potential remains sky high, just another prodigal Marlin.
Braves: Jarrod Saltalamacchia Bats: Switch Throws: R Catcher
Jarrod, a supremely talented switch hitting catcher, is still tabbed by many as the Braves' top hitting prospect, despite a disappointing 2006 campaign, marred by injuries. If his ascension proceeds as previously expected, master tactician John Schuerholz will gain an invaluable trading chip, considering the dearth of catching talent of Saltalamachhia's caliber around the baseball landscape, and Brian McCann's rightfully fortified presence on the Braves' roster.
Phillies: Kyle Drabek Bats: R Throws: R Starting Pitcher
Questionable character issues have dampened Drabek's stock in many baseball circles, viewed as the top right-handed pitcher available in the `06 draft. Kyle is the son of former top echelon starter Doug, the Pirates' ace in their last hour of glory. He mixes an impressive fastball and curve, but his change needs solidification.
Drabek's erratic persona leaves a stain of gray with regard to his future. He could completely flame out or follow in his father's footsteps, probability equal.
Mets: Lastings Milledge Bats: R Throws: R Outfielder
Milledge wasn't exactly a popular man toward the tail end of his truncated tenure with the Mets in 2006, closer Billy Wagner bestowing a sign above his locker advising:
" Know your place, rook!"
Crude as the sentiment may have been, it definitely possessed legitimacy. His questionable character left many dropping Milledge beneath Carlos Gomez and Fernando Martinez on the Mets' organizational prospective depth chart.
Lastings' ability, however, will grant him a multitude of second chances. He seemed in a seizing mood during Spring Training, impressing veterans with newfound maturity, and utilizing his lightening quick wrists at the dish to grant entry on the initial 25-man roster. Lastings couldn't find at-bats in April, however, with the suddenly surging Shawn Green blocking his path, and was relocated to New Orleans. Instead of sulking after the demotion, Milledge has hit .330, and appears well on his way to establishing a permanent "place" on the Mets.
Nationals: Kory Casto Bats: R Throws: R Outfielder [Left]
The baseball in Washington sure is dreary. In bleak situations such as these, team ownership wishes for a phenomenal youngster to arrive on a white horse, spiriting disenchanted fans away, to a better, yet realistic, place in the future. Unfortunately for Stan Kasten and company, the Nationals have one of those already, in Ryan Zimmerman, who won't generate a ton of buzz, purely because of an already imbedded status with the club.
Nothing about Kory Casto is particularly spectacular. He has the potential to become a solid starter, middle of the road. Casto's professional technique plate wise sets him apart from other outfielders of his ilk, without one stand out strength. His power could blossom, festered by the aforementioned intelligent approach. He doesn't have the speed for center or arm for right.
Somewhere, a poor soul in Washington yawns, through no fault of Kory Casto.
N.L. Central:
Reds: Homer Bailey Bats: R Throws: R Starting Pitcher
Pass on querying Homer Bailey regarding the finer points of his craft. He'll never offer a pitching dissertation. Not the cerebral type.
Golden right arm in tow, Bailey equates simplicity with victory. Universally slotted as the number two pitching prospect in baseball, behind only King Philip of the Yankees, Homer has flat dominated at every level, and is currently lurking at the Reds' Triple A affiliate, a step away from testing himself in the show.
His control isn't impeccable, ability to make meaningful adjustments questionable. But Bailey's credentials are undeniable, his day in Cincinnati soon dawning.
Brewers: Yovani Gallardo Bats: R Throws: R Starting Pitcher
While Homer Bailey may be the consensus number one pitching prospect in the National League, Yovani Gallardo is unanimously the most exciting. Gallardo is a strikeout machine, currently sporting a ridiculous 42-8 K/Walk ratio in Nashville. His repertoire is delightfully old school, an ebbing fastball topping out in the mid-nineties, paired with a hard breaking curve ball. There are concerns that Gallardo's occasionally shaky mechanics could irrevocably damage his arm, which would be a terrible waste.
Cardinals: Colby Rasmus Bats: L Throws: L Outfielder
The heir apparent to Jim Edmonds, Colby Rasmus is the complete package, tagged with the five tool label, and deserving of every appliance.
Rasmus is the quintessential Cardinal jewel, in the vein of J.D. Drew, though his blazing speed and flowering power also harkens Grady Sizemore. The Cardinals' outfield will be in definite flux following 2007, when Rasmus, all of 20 years old at the outset of this season, could be prepared to fill the void.
Pirates: Andrew McCutchen Bats: R Throws: R Outfielder
Jason Bay was becoming a nomad when he landed with the Pirates organization in 2003. He'd made his rounds in the under belly of the Expo, Met, and Padre organizations, traded for the likes of Lou Collier and Jason Middlebrook.
While Dave Littlefield made an excellent deal, acquiring Bay with Oliver Perez from San Diego for Brian Giles, the beleaguered Buccos could never really take credit for developing the star outfielder on their own accord.
And, upon recollection that Brian Giles was acquired from the Indians, in the mind numbingly stupid Ricardo Rincon disaster- [from the Cleveland perspective, of course. Rincon gave them one good year, Giles was an ELITE offensive player, and no, I don't want to hear about the glut in Cleveland's outfield, because the Indians gave a TON of playing time in the proceeding years to Wil Cordero and Russell Branyan, who Giles wipes the floor with. It was an awful trade, topped only by the SAME Indians trading Richie Sexson, for who, Bob freaking Wickman, are you kidding me? But... I digress. Somebody has to write a book about the mid-nineties Indians. It has to happen.]
-One realizes that the Pittsburgh Pirates haven't cultivated an elite outfielder since Barry Bonds, who, evidently, probably didn't need much help.
The remedy: Andrew McCutchen. Different players invoke alternating adjectives within the minds behind the eyes watching them at work. Jose Reyes is kinetic. Jim Thome is powerful. Derek Jeter fights.
Andrew McCutchen is smooth. He never really endured a severe adjustment period upon introduction to the professional level, someone even of Jeter's rank suffered.
He burst into Rookie League, swatting .297 and fleecing bases, playing his game unaffected. 2006 produced more eye popping output, McCutchen becoming the youngest player in Altoona Curve history. [Double A] All Andrew did was trump his Single A output, where he simply may have felt insulted.
It's a matter of when, not if, with regards to McCutchen. And when his time comes, Andrew is a practical guarantee to be ready, and willing.
Astros: Hunter Pence Bats: R Throws: R Outfielder
Hunter Pence is electric, and could jolt the Astro offense, limp far too often. The multifaceted outfielder has made it nearly impossible for management to rein him from the ballpark formerly known as Enron, delivering a sterling Spring Training performance, following an outstanding Minor League season. At age 24, Pence belongs in the Major Leagues, and holding him back in Triple A could be best classified as tepid. With the big league club off to a slow start, Houston should explore a proactive course, one including Pence as a key ingredient.
Chicago Cubs: Felix Pie Bats: L Throws: L Outfielder
Felix Pie is devilishly skilled, a hint of unintentional arrogance dripping from his game. After all, when Pie summons his dynamic elasticity, on the whim of pure instinct, it nearly stings to see the suffocating difficulty of baseball battled with such unassuming ease.
For the diehard citizen of Wrigley-Ville, such as the visitors and contributors to Gonfalon Cubs on Baseball Think Factory, Pie is a household name, a beacon of hope amid the searing misery that was Dusty Baker: The Final Chapter. Pie debuted after a hamstring injury claimed Alfonso Soriano in mid-April. The Cubs surprised in summoning Pie, anything but a stop gap solution. Felix has managed to stick, impressing with his fielding prowess. Despite being the only truly qualified center fielder on the roster, Felix finds himself within a flawed glut of Jim Hendry's twisted design, costing him at-bats, and presumably, making Andere Richtingen extremely unhappy.
N.L. West:
Los Angeles Dodgers: Andy LaRoche Bats: R Throws: R Third Baseman
There isn't much damning evidence against Andy LaRoche. He has the bloodlines, his father a former Major League pitcher, his brother, potential contemporary, a slugging first baseman. The only negatives attached to LaRoche link to his athleticism, average at best.
But at the plate, Andy's superb discipline should translate well at the professional level.
Arizona Diamondbacks: Chris Young Bats: R Throws: R Outfielder
It was always a personal opinion, before 2005 anyway, that White Sox General Manager Ken Williams received a bit of a raw deal in Michael Lewis' groundbreaking book "Money Ball". Williams was portrayed in an unsuspecting manner, essentially getting held up by master trader Billy Beane, trapped in his web. Kenny would remove any lingering blemish from his image after guiding the White Sox to a World Series crown in '05, largely on the strength of his trades for Jose Contreras and Freddy Garcia.
Sure, Kenny was on fire, in the winter thaw following his ultimate triumph. And it was here, precisely, where he may have made his biggest mistake.
Seeking to further bolster an already loaded pitching staff, Williams sacrificed a top outfield prospect named Chris Young, among others, in exchange for Javier Vazquez, who had struggled for the second consecutive season.
In 2006, as Young surged through the Diamondback system, and Vazquez searched for the consistency eluding him since 2003, it grew increasingly that Kenny Williams hadn't made a particularly good trade.
And this time, he hadn't carelessly dealt Chad Bradford.
Chris Young's haughty perch extends beyond the Diamondback organization. He routinely places in the top five of prospect lists encompassing the talent of every franchise. He is an outstanding defensive center fielder, capable of breathtaking stabs and gravity teasing leaps, a plus arm to boot.
At the dish, Young is imminently capable of compiling superlative averages. He has flashed power early in 2007, and should heat up in the summer months.
Rockies: Jason Hirsh Bats: R Throws: R Starting Pitcher
The Rockies classify themselves as a Christian organization, steeped in belief, of charity and good will. This sentiment, however, went only so far, when one of their homegrown, Jason Jennings, requested a due payment of cold hard cash. Embattled Dan O'Dowd, citing Beane 14:56 ["What it profit a G.M., to lose a starter, without getting prospects back in return?"] promptly dealt Jason for a package of players including Hirsh, the Astros' top gun on the farm.
Hirsh had a superlative '06 season in the Minor Leagues, but one particularly rough patch at the Show slaughtered his earned run average, and apparently lowered his stock with Houston's hierarchy, as they willingly included him in their bid to acquire Jennings.
Jason throws a heavy fastball, which alleviates mistakes in location. All told, he's off to very good start with the Rockies, Humidor help him, sporting a nifty 3.41 ERA in 31 innings.
San Francisco Giants: Tim Lincecum Bats: R Throws: R Starting Pitcher
A Roy Oswalt clone, Lincecum's approach to the plate is stunning in abject violence. Witness Linecum, practically unfurl himself at the hitter, legs ferociously kicking, hips recklessly twirling.
A vague first round curiosity in last year's draft, Tim has exploded onto the Minor League scene, making a quick debut with the Giants
There, he joins Barry Zito, Matt Cain, Noah Lowry, and a revived Matt Morris in Giants' rotation almost scary as his windup. - Matt Waters
Sure, the bitterly biased Yankee devotee within me reveals a practical grouch when a columnist, or innocent bystander, dares compare limitless Jose Reyes to Hall of Fame lock Derek Jeter, or even, gasp, the chosen one, Alex Rodriguez.
Honestly, it’s quite frightening. It only seems a second ago that Reyes was a rumor, the mysterious jewel of the Mets’ farm system during the bygone Steve Phillips era.
Scary thought, time.
But, after initial reaction fades, it becomes impossible not to acknowledge the improvement exhibited by Reyes, or even comprehend the infinite height of his ceiling. He takes pitches now, savvy and deadly. His arm at short a cannon, careless errors are becoming a memory, maybe even necessary youthful indiscretions.
Reyes was an unknown once, a vague curiosity amid an amazing mess. Major League baseball is blessed with an obscene level of prospective talent, another wave worthy of Reyes, and Jeter before him, on the immediate horizon.
Sometimes it’s obvious. The special ones often ooze electricity, a frenetic perfection to completely unique to them.
For all the psalms preaching professionalism, style makes this game, unfiltered self-expression.
As we appreciate Albert Pujols’ dignified resolve and Carl Crawford’s smooth athleticism, it never stops us from wondering who could possibly be next, on equal footing, or even better.
A scary thought indeed.
/
Who qualifies as next? Those on the cusp of making the wildest dreams of fans, and management, blaze into reality. Hope is an equally dispersed commodity, from the top to the dredges, Anaheim to Washington.
Here’s to the future.
American League East:
Boston Red Sox: Jacoby Ellsbury
Outfielder
Bats: L Throws: L
Compared in many circles with former New England icon Johnny Damon, Ellsbury projects as a top flight lead off man, with an excellent eye and blistering speed. Growing increasingly restless with Coco Crisp, the impatient among Red Sox nation already pine for Jacoby’s time. Ellsbury is universally hailed as an excellent fielder, and shouldn’t have much difficulty adjusting to the wild caroms created by the crevices of Fenway’s Green Monster.
Baltimore Orioles: Brandon Erbe
Starting Pitcher
Bats: R Throws: R
Erbe is from central ace casting: Standing at 6’4, possessing filthy stuff, Brandon is a shining beacon amid a pedestrian Baltimore system. While his secondary pitches aren’t polished to Major League standards yet, these fragments could eventually form an arsenal, with time and patience. Understandably, the O’s keep Erbe on a strict pitch count, protecting his priceless right arm. Check back in 2009.
Toronto Blue Jays: Adam Lind
Designated Hitter, Corner Outfielder, First Baseman
Bats: L Throws: L
Adam Lind is a hitter, pure and simple, boasting a minor league stat line loaded with .300 averages. His somewhat stalled progress, in spite of an impressive offensive skill set, is attributable to defensive struggles. Lind’s weakness with the leather is pronounced. The Jays didn’t even attempt to play him in the field upon a brief promotion. Adam’s limited dimension damages his overall value, and endangers his opportunity to become an everyday player. His chance to make a major contribution in ‘07 dwindled even further after Toronto surprisingly signed Frank Thomas.
Despite these drawbacks, his talent at the plate is impossible to disregard. Even if he doesn’t find an every day niche, Adam is capable of a career similar to Matt Stairs.
Tampa Bay Devil Rays: Delmon Young
Outfielder
Bats: R Throws: R
Delmon Young’s bat whips through the strike zone with equal fluidity and ferocity. A long reach and superior coordination has actually damaged his plate discipline. How is this kid supposed to exercise patience when he can literally hit anything?
Young’s burden lies with hype, shouldering the pressure of being blessed before debut, expected to dominate. His maturity has shown through, impressing teammates and coaches at every corner of his still developing career.
Young nearly flushed his deserved accolades, with one horrendous decision made in the heat of rage. The date was April 26th, 2006, and Delmon had been called out on strikes early in a contest between Durham and Pawtucket. After appearing to civilly disagree with what was a truly awful call by the plate umpire, Young was ejected from the game.
Following his vacating of the batter’s box, back turned, he flippantly flipped his bat, an irresponsible move exacerbated when the projectile nailed the ump, prompting a long and justified suspension.
Hopefully, Delmon learned a lesson from this isolated incident, and will keep maturity on his mind.
New York Yankees: Phil Hughes
Starting Pitcher
Bats: R Throws: R
The top pitching prospect in Baseball, Phil Hughes is a precocious talent. So dominating was the right-hander in 2006 that he never even dealt with a bases loaded situation. Featuring a high nineties fastball and a devilishly bending curve, Hughes is reintroducing the slider, his secondary pitch in High School, into an already loaded repertoire. He’s also in the process of crafting a change-up.
The pressure on Hughes, from fans and media, could suffocate many, but a calm demeanor and cool disposition should benefit. Whether Hughes can harness the eclectic energy of New York is a question yet to be answered, but the existing framework couldn’t exude more promise.
American League Central:
Minnesota Twins: Matt Garza
Starting Pitcher
Bats: R Throws: R
Do these guys slide from an assembly line? Another hulking right-handed power pitcher, Garza is far more polished than the majority of his brethren, complementing a high-octane fastball with in an impressive array of breaking pitches.
Why a retread such as Sidney Ponson has a spot in a suspect Twins rotation instead of Garza, primed to contribute on the professional level and frustrated by his puzzling demotion, is something radically beyond my comprehension.
Chicago White Sox: Ryan Sweeny
Outfielder
Bats: L Throws: L
In his first professional season, Chicago White Sox prospect Ryan Sweeny was invited to Spring Training. A rookie in this position is apt to keep a low profile, listen, learn, and leave, maybe slightly impress along the way. Not so, for Sweeny. He was the talk of White Sox camp, exhibiting maturity well surpassing his tender age. He was so good, a picture perfect left-handed stroke swatting line drives and home runs with equal ease, that the timetable set for his ascent was rapidly
