Jorge should stay; Tejada might arrive

Three bits of Yankee news:

1) Jorge Posada wants to stay, and the Yankees want to keep him (from the sound of things, keeping Posada appears to be job 1 for Cashman and the Steinbrenner boys). Anyway, judging from here, there is reason for optimism. The Yanks and Posada have seemingly come together around 13 mil per year; the sticking point is over the fourth year Posada wants. There may be an option or end-of-contract buyout involved, or the Yankees, knowing that 1) Posada seems to get better with age; 2) Posada is beloved by fans and media alike; 3) Posada is Derek Jeter's best friend on the team (a not entirely unimportant point); and 4) the market for catchers drops off considerably after Posada (with Paul LoDuca available as a stop-gap, and after him, pee-yew, open a window), may simply cave and give him a 13-million gold watch.

2) The Yankees have made an identical offer (3 years, 40 mil) to Mariano Rivera, who is not only a Hall of Famer still pitching well but is the linchpin of the Yankees plans for the pitching staff, with Phil Hughes, Joba Chamberlain and Ian Kennedy set to follow Chin-Mieng Wang in the rotation. If Mo goes, Joba will be pressed into closer duty, much as Dave Righetti (following a season, 1983, in which he pitched a no-hitter against Jim Rice, Wade Boggs and the rest of the Boston Red Sox) was dragooned into replacing the departed Goose Gossage. No word from Mo.

3) The most hopeful and sensible solution for third? Try Miguel Tejada. Apparently the Birds are the only team not asking the moon (Hughes/Joba/Ian) for a third baseman. Tejada knows the division, and he hasn't gained 70 pounds lately. The Yanks might could package Kyle Farnsworth (who, if he starts pitching in that bandbox in Bal'mer, could inspire Francis Scott Key to write another song). Details here.

The Writers' Strike continues

Took Astro-Girl to Gone Baby Gone on Saturday, saw the Horton cut-out in the lobby and thought: Hmm, did I cross a picket line? I asked my friend Cinco Paul--co-Horton writer, WGA card-holder and late-blooming rabble-rouser. Cinco's response:

No, you didn't cross a picket line. There's really
nothing for you to do, except spread the word, which
you seem already to be doing, and which I appreciate.
Public support is important. In January when scripted
TV runs out, just don't watch all the reality TV that
gets foisted on you (as if you would).

Went to a big rally on Friday. The Rev. Jesse Jackson
spoke, which I know you'd appreciate. Say what you
will about the man, he's a mesmerizing and effective
speaker. Rage Against the Machine also performed. It
was a bit of a left-fest. But for a middle of the
road guy like me, it was nice to play radical. And
march next to greats like Norman Lear and Garry
Marshall and all The Office writers and Julia
Louis-Dreyfus, etc., etc. It was fun wondering to
myself, "What do all these people write? What have
they written?" Ken and I designed our own t-shirts,
which read (as a tribute to Horton--which is at Fox,
the site of the rally): "a writer's a writer, no
matter how small."

Astro-Girl, when told of--come January or so--the loss of her beloved "Grey's Anatomy," her beloved "Private Practice," her beloved "Boston Legal," and her beloved (in all its forms) "Law & Order" (the regular, the major case, and the SUV) spoke out in favor of a quick settlement.

She quoted a famous Angeleno: "Can't we all get along?"

And she said, "We should all do what Horton says. We should give a hoot."

And, by the way, I did hear Reverend Jackson speak, in 1988, when I was TA at Binghamton University in upstate New York and the Rev was running for President. Ah, were those the days. Binghamton U is basically the five buroughs of New York City shipped 70 miles north and 100 miles west, but with all the city's appetites, resentments, and prejudices intact. I happened, 15 minutes before Jesse's speech, to stand at a the flashpoint of two flying wedges headed straight for one another: the Jewish students (still seething over "Hymietown" and whatnot) and the black students (taken as read). The lead Jewish flyer was screaming about how Jesse hated Jews; the lead person of color was going on about how the black soliders freed the Jews in World War II. Entertaining stuff.

Yes: Jesse is mesmerizing; I saw it for myself. And I'm happy he's helping out the screenwriters (and by extension, my friend Cinco) against the lying bloodsuckers of Hollywood. But what keeps him from greatness is that so much of what he says is crap; not just lies ("Why, Mr. O'Neill, here is the proof that Lt. Kerry was in Cambodia") but just so much bibble-babble: five, ten, fifteen bits of horsecrap for very minute expended, followed up by a plea for lighter sentences for crack dealers. Now, that's something we can all get behind, ya think?

But: Fight the power! Don't watch "Survivor: Hoboken," or whatever the hell it's called this month.

Eleven Days Out . . .

And with both teams having a bye next Saturday, it's not too early to talk a little junk re Arizona State and USC, and their Thanksgiving evening tangle . . .

. . . a game I realized last night, as soon as I heard Illinois had beaten Ohio State, that may very well have Rose Bowl implications.

C'mon, Robbie-Boy, how do you size them up?

Novel word count: 13,866

Thirty-three thousand and change to go!

ASU, USC both win

And, to quote Dick Enberg, Oh my.

All of a sudden those Devil-Trojan tickets I secured months ago now glisten with possibility (bless you, SunDevil Joe).

Will ASU face USC on Thanksgiving Day with the Rose Bowl on the line?

My answer, right now, is yes.

National Novel Writing Month

Up to 10,871 and counting.

Coffee, tea, or carbon offset?

As if the experience of flying has not become excruciating enough (from the near strip-searches at the gate to that flight attendant who yells at you to return your seat to the upright position, and when you explain that you'd love to but the seat is busted, she glares at you as if it's your fault--always one of Mark Steyn's pet peeves), comes the latest news: Virgin Atlantic employees will now be jobbing their paying customers, while in their seats, to pay for their portion of their carbon footprint.

Story here, including this classic passage:

A spokesman for Virgin said the airline had decided on the policy after noticing low participation in schemes offered by competing airlines through which customers were presented with the opportunity to offset the carbon emissions of their flight online.

"If the person sitting next to you chooses to offset their flight, it may prick your conscience and you may pay too," the spokesman told the Times of London.

Questions. Will the captain and crew be asked to fork over their fair share? Will the flight attendants?

Most importantly, will the passengers be asked to provide exact change?

Snagged by Lucianne, one of whose commenters sums up my sentiments exactly:

I would laugh right out loud if whatever that offset stuff is was offered to me. I'd just tell 'em bring me a beer and leave me alone.

Coincidentally enough, just as I'm typing this, a Ford commercial comes on. As a father and daughter approach their SUV, the daughter asks the dad, "Could you drop me off a block away?"

Immediately we're like: Right. Dad's a doofus, can't be seen by the cool kids. But no, Daughter has other ideas: "People in that part of town are riding bikes, driving hybrids."

Well, it's a Ford commercial, so it turns out Dad drives a hybrid, too. A Ford hybrid.

But in the meantime: if daughter is so ashamed of Dad, can't she get her ass on her own bike? Or if "that part of town" is too far, walk to the bus stop?

So she's happy accepting a ride in an SUV as long as nobody knows, and as long as she can feel morally superior to her father, who's being nice enough to take time out on a beautiful day to drive her to her entertainment?

Give that girl a "Gore '08" button and the tableau would be complete.

Yankee Stuff

*Pettitte opts out of his $16 million option--while he considers returning or not. This is the Rocket's buddy, remember.

*Posada to test market. He wants to stay a Yankee--I think--and the Yankees want him. Guess what keeps them apart.

*It is axiomatic that the market for premium free-agents is driven by the dimmest owner (see Hicks, Tom). Regarding A-Rod: the Cubs, Dodgers and Marlins have declared themselves out. The Red Sox will probably re-sign Lowell, the Mets are delighted with David Wright, and now come the rumors that A-Rod has no desire to return to short.

Which leaves?

The Angels.

Who all of a sudden--Scott Boras's witchcraft aside--may suddenly be bidding against themselves.

Funny thing, though.

You know where A-Rod would fit in perfectly? The Astros. The park is heaven for right-handed pull hitters, the 'Stros need a third baseman, and A-Rod could slide in perfectly between Lance Berkman and Carlos Lee and hit forty balls a year in, over, and above the Crawford Boxes. Furthermore, the city has one daily paper, the press and fan base are mostly gentle (not Phoenix gentle, but gentle), and Houston is a football city anyway.

Of course, no way Drayton McClane pays thirty mil for a single player--not just after clearing hometown heroes Biggio and Bagwell off the books--so that's that.

Back into Politics

One of the bests moments of the early "Saturday Night Years" featured a Weekend Update commentary by Bill Murray on the subject of women in the military. Murray said that not only should we allow women in the military, we should have only women in the military.

"I mean, let's say we go to war against Russia," he said. "If we win, great. If we lose, we can so, 'Wow, you beat up a bunch of girls. I bet you feel tough.'"

This, right now, is apparently the strategery of Clintons and their acolytes against Hillary's Democratic foes (and presumably her future GOP opponent): if she wins, great. If she loses (or appears to lose), say, in effect, "Wow, you beat up a girl."

The use of this tactic is the only possibile explanation for Clinton supporter's reaction the the first piece of bad news in maybe months, the first since the long-forgotten "liar" comment that former supporter David Geffen made months ago. At first glance, the news would seemingly be not that bad. She stumbled over a question on whether she would agree with New York Governor Eliot Spitzer's plan to issue driver's licenses to illegal aliens, and she so butchered a question regarding Iran's nuclear ambitions that there was laughter--ouright merriment--in the venue, ninety percent of whom will probably vote for her in twelve months.

It is part of the Clintons' political DNA that Dem presidential losses happen when Dems don't fight back: Dukakis and Willie Horton, Gore and the internet, Kerry and the Swift Boat vets. Hence their week-long screed toward Edwards and Obama, so over the top it only focused attention on Clinton's blunders and the questions regarding her invulnerability.

Right now, she's not going to lose--not the nomination, anyway. None of the second-tier candidates have even approached anything resembling Huckabee chic on the GOP side, and Obama's and Edwards' best hope is for one of the two to drop out right after New Hampshire and the remainder to go hard, hard left (as in Kucinich territory) on the war. If both Obama and Edwards stay in long enough to carve up the anti-Hillary vote, they will doom each other.

Hillary's problem is neither Obama nor Edwards, nor her performance. Her problem resides in those two questions, and others like them.

Consider:

The first question concerned driver's licenses for illegal aliens. Would she support the idea? The second concerned a nuclearized Iran. Would she pledge that such would never happen?

Ask Mitt Romney or Rudy Guiliani, "Should the states have the right to issue drivers' licenses to illegal aliens?"; and, "Will you pledge that you will not allow Iran to have a nuclear weapon?", and both would emphatically say "No" to the first and "Yes" to the second.

Hillary, not so much, and that could be a problem that transcends a November debate performance.

The failure of President Bush's immigration reform, followed by the presumptive failure of DREAM, only demonstrated that the Won't-Get-Fooled-Again consensus regarding immigration has coalesced, to wit: build the fence, and then we'll talk. Talk amnesty, but it had better be for the last time, and it had better be accompanied by enforcement that works.

Hillary, no dummy, knows all of the above, and she also knows that her primary consituency views such talk as flat-out racism. Hence the mangled answer. Hillary has a problem here, and it won't go away.

The dynamics are the same for Iran, but I'm going to bed.

November is Novel-Writing Month, cont.

"Murder in the George Lucas Building" (working title) is now up to 7,378 words.

The Writer's Strike and Cinco

So, a writer's strike.

Meaning, I think, my friend Cinco Paul, whose Horton Hears a Who! is due out next spring.

I remember the last strike, nearly twenty years ago. I was addicted to Letterman then (no more), and the Oscars (same) and disruption of both was the most tangible effect on my life. Carson and Letterman went with re-runs for a few weeks, then both came back, wrote their own stuff for awhile (or so we were told), and waited matters out.

Anyway, the strike does raise a point, one that is touched on by an essay by Rob Long and published a few weeks ago in the LA Times. The whole thing is here, but the important passage is here:

In 1988, when the last WGA strike reached a settlement -- and in this context, the phrase "reached a settlement" refers to the moment that the guild membership, exhausted and broke after five months, whimpered its way to an unconditional surrender -- a few days later there appeared all over town, like crocuses poking through the snow, an awful lot of spec scripts.

The town was flooded with buddy comedies, cop dramas, blended-family sitcoms, erotic thrillers and cop-partnered-with-orangutan projects. So many, in fact, that it was clear that a lot of striking guild members, when not picketing on Lankershim or brooding about their ill-treatment, had been doing a good deal more than noodling around an idea.

Although they publicly claimed to have spent the five-month strike merely thinking about writing -- and the three days after it up in Big Sur, you know, just plowing through it, totally focused -- it was hard to deny that some guild members took the strike as an opportunity to hit reset on their careers. So among the foreclosures and the cancellations and the force majeur'ed contracts, there was, apparently, a bright side. Something to look forward to, I guess.

But that was back in 1988, before Starbucks and iPods and Wi-Fi. Back then, most writers wrote at home, so it was easy to sit in the backyard, away from prying eyes, and work on your serial killer spec in between strike meetings. Things are different now. These days, writers sit in public places all over town, earbuds in, laptops out. The strike is going to change all of that.

Okay, begs the question: how far-reaching is a writer's strike, exactly? Certainly those on salary stay home: no commuting to the studio, sitting around the table with Woody and the Simon brothers, sending out for Chinese. The on-site stuff is out.

Okay: what about scripts for hire? William Goldman wrote he never signed a contract to write a script for hire; instead, he and The Suit sat down, hammered out a fair price, shook hands, and months of agony later Goldman delivered his draft, then his second, then his third. And in a near half-century of writing in Hollywood, Goldman can count only one time he was completely screwed over: in the making of Memoirs of an Invisible Man, a vehicle for Chevy Chase when Chase was still hot, a Top-5 star in the midst of his last two moneymaking franchises (Fletch and Vacation). Goldman (his account) delivered what he thought was a Chevy Chase script, only to find that Chevy Chase all of a sudden didn't want to make a Chevy Chase movie; all of a sudden Chevy Chase wanted to be Max Von Sydow and make a movie about "the loneliness of invisibility."

Please stay seated for the rest of the story. The director attached to the project was Ivan Reitman, whose Stripes had made him a name and whose Ghostbusters had slotted him second as a license to print money, right behind King Spielberg. Reitman, no dummy, sided with Goldman, said he would straighten it out, and so he went to the money people and said, "Chevy is way off the reservation, doesn't know what he's doing, ruining the picture, and Chevy can't be budged. Goldman and I are in agreement. Him or us."

Reitman had his money on us. The studio went with him. And when Memoirs of an Invisible Man came out, starring Chevy Chase, it didn't last its first weekend before winning the hundred-yard dash to the video store.

I re-tell the story only to bring up one last anecdote, and a question.

The anecdote: After all was done, after three drafts had been turned in, after Goldman had been fired, he went to the studio to collect his money. Again, by his account, the Studio Guy said, No, we're not going to pay you.

Goldman: Come again?

Studio Guy: No, we're not going to pay you. We have a lot of lawyers. How many do you have?

Eventually Goldman was paid--not nearly what he was owed, he maintains, but paid.

The question: let's say you've hired yourself out. You will produce a script on X day for Y dollars. And now a strike. Do you stop working?

Finally, the big macaroni. Lord knows it may be a rule more honored in the breach, but:

Does a strike theoretically compel a SWG signatory to stop writing altogether?

Check out the Long passages above. Of course a striking writer will spend his evening hours tapping out a spec for CSI: Miami or the next Sting, or Diner, or Annie Hall. But is writing in and of itself prohibited, even in theory?

Update: An answer from the source, Cinco himself:

So here's how it works:

During the strike, no writer is allowed to do ANY WORK for a struck company. If you've made a deal for a screenplay with a studio, you don't write another word until the strike's over. It's a legal strike, which trumps your contractual obligation.

For instance, my situation with Horton Hears a Who. In the next couple of months they are going to need writing done. I can't help them. It's frustrating, because I want the movie to be the best it can be...but I can't do it. I shouldn't do it. One of the main reasons I'm on strike is because the studios don't pay any residuals to writers on animated features. You heard right. Zip. Horton is going to make hundreds of millions of dollars worldwide. But I will get no residuals. Is writing an animated feature different from writing a live action one? No. Except that it actually is a lot more work--I've been working on Horton for four years now. No live action movie in production demands that sort of time.

Now, as far as spec scripts go--there's nothing prohibiting you from writing one. And it's nearly impossible for a writer not to write. So I personally have no problem with people who do. As long as they're doing it completely on spec. Trouble is, the spec market isn't what it used to be...so very few of them will sell.

Anyway, that's the situation. Fight the Power!

Apropos of nothing . . . .

. . . the funniest thing I've read in awhile, courtesy of NRO's Jay Nordlinger, who discovered it in an newspaper dispensed in an Indian restaurant in Cleveland (yes, a Cleveland Indian restaurant). Nordlinger writes:

At a U2 concert in Ireland, the lead singer Bono asks the audience for some quiet. Then he starts to slowly clap his hands. Holding the audience in total silence, he says into the microphone, “I want you to think about something. Every time I clap my hands, a child in Africa dies.”

A voice from the audience yells out, “Then stop clapping, you a**h***!”

To which one can only add: up the Irish.

November is Novel-Writing Month

The goal: a 50,000-word novel in one month.

I entered last year, started well, petered out at word 28,000 or so.

I ended up with a good chunk I can use one day.

Well, this year they opened the stakes again, and again I have entered.

5,040 words so far.

Which means--with the fifth coming up tomorrow--I'm technically behind!

Oregon 35, Arizona State 23

Now, I didn't know tonight's game was over at 13-0. But I did know the Devils had dodged a couple of bullets and were gaining confidence. They gave Cal a quarter-and-a-half. Not much. But the Bears needed to take it, and they didn't.

Well, Oregon took it. What was a cute affectation through eight games--the Devils' notoriously slow starts--finally came back to haunt them.

More experienced viewers of the Devils than I will have to explain why the Devils' defense seems not only overmatched but--as with Cal last week--positively flummoxed for the first three or so possessions for so many games. The only difference was that Oregon cashed in where Cal didn't, and Oregon's first three possessions all ended in touchdowns for a score of 21-3. The Devils outscored the Ducks 20-14 thereafter, to no avail.

Also: what in the world was Rudi Carpenter doing at the end of the first half? With the momentum ready to shift, with ASU ready to cut the lead to less than seven with any score at all, and thereby prepared to go on offense to start the second half with a chance to take the lead, Carpenter . . . well, he didn't do any one thing, save run a play into the line with zero time-outs and the clock under thirty seconds. In a situation like that, you either spike the ball or run a set play with a spread offense. In any case, you give yourself a minimum of two real snaps, and each time you look first for the end zone, second for the sideline, and if the D gives you nothing, you heave the ball into the tenth row. Coaches who understand clock management--the Bill Parcells, Bill Belichiks, Mike Shanahans, and Jeff Fishers of this world--usually have a play in place for just such an eventuality (first-down, field goal range, no time outs, half a minute left); QBs can either run their play or spike the ball to stop the clock. The hash that Carpenter made of things had to contribute (of this I am sure) to the missed field goal. Things were sliding.

ASU could not even take solace in the BCS fall-out. With LSU winning a game it had no business winning (thank you, Nick Saban) the Tiggers are poised to run out the table with walkovers against La Tech and Ole Miss and a mere trifle with Arkansas. Had Alabama won (and I can't think of that game, or the SEC in general, without hearing that loathsome CBS trumpet blast--DAH, dah-deh-dah, dah-deh-deh-dah! Duhduhduhduhduh, DAH!--or Verne Lundquist's unctiousness, in my head), Oregon would be poised to go to the BCS championship game, with the Rose Bowl grabbing the Pac-10 runner-up (which suddenly made the ASU-USC game three weeks hence glisten with possibility).

Now? La Tech. Ole Miss. Soo-Piggie. SEC championship game. Hold that Tiger, indeed.

Ohio State v. LSU for the National Championship? Excuse me while I go throw up.

Foot-dragging on Posada?

I can't say I haven't enjoyed Scott Boras's desperate spinning, his attempt to squelch the vitriol aimed at his favorite client.

And of course I've enjoyed every second of the Yankees' squeezing A-Rod, or A-Rod and Boras's near-simultaneous "Oh crap, they're serious" moment.

But every so often you run across a story like this. And all you can do is scratch your head.

If Mariano Rivera goes, Joba stays in the pen as closer.

This mere fact alone make Georgie the second-most indispensible Yankee, right behind Jeter.

With A-Rod gone and Clemens going, the Yankees just freed up about a hundred million dollars over the next three years, more than enough to pay Posada, Rivera and Abreu combined.

It is true that, for catchers, when it goes, it goes fast, even for Hall-of-Famers named Bench, Carter, Fisk. Posada could take the money, then come out next year and bat .240.

I just don't think he would.

So sign the guy already.

Heh

Think Scott Boras is feeling the heat?

The assumption Buster Olney has gone with all week is that Boras surely had something worked out, something in place of the $75 million had had, guaranteed, or the $225 million more the Yankees would have happily paid him?

If that were the case, would Boras be speaking in a tone that sounds suspiciously like a whine?

Boras maintained Wednesday that the Yankees should treat A-Rod the same way they deal with reliever Mariano Rivera and catcher Jorge Posada, who also are free agents.

"Why is it that Alex is the only Yankee who can't become a free agent?" Boras said Wednesday. "That question was not answered, and we think it's a question that's going to be asked for years to come."

Or not.

More A-Rod

Some thoughts:

1. Buster Olney was all over ESPN today claiming there has to be a deal in principle, somewhere, else no way A-Rod opts out on a moment's notice without even talking to the Yankees. Which would be tampering, of course--not that Boras cares or would be penalized. If a team was talking to Boras or A-Rod while A-Rod was still the property of the Yankees, that is tampering, and millions in fines. Think Boras cares?

2. In the Daily News Yankee blog, one last look is given to Boras's "Yankee team in turmoil" caper. Mike Feinsand writes:

The idea that Alex Rodriguez ever wanted to stay in New York is preposterous. If he wanted to stay, the Yankees were going to offer him a boatload of cash, and despite his concerns about guys like Mariano Rivera, Jorge Posada and Andy Pettitte, it's unlikely that all three of these guys – if any of them – were going to bolt.

The Yankees are not in a rebuilding phase, even with A-Rod gone. This team won't be dropping $100 million off its payroll. As of now, here's what we know for 2008: Derek Jeter, Robinson Cano, Hideki Matsui, Johnny Damon, Melky Cabrera, Jason Giambi, Chien-Ming Wang, Mike Mussina, Phil Hughes, Joba Chamberlain and Ian Kennedy.

This isn't the Royals.

Add in the likely return of Posada, Rivera, Pettitte and Bobby Abreu and the only questions are first and third base. They will figure it out. Are they in a lock to make the playoffs? No. Were they a lock this year? Not at 21-29. Without A-Rod, they wouldn't have gotten there, but that doesn't mean it will be the same next year.

Suddenly, the why of A-Rod's last-night-of-the-World-Series announcement makes sense.

The Yankees (who, like all the other teams, are proscribed from making major announcements during the World Series, absent the commissioner's permission; agents and players are under no such restriction) announced Joe Girardi today, on the first afternoon it was possible to do so.

It is possible to think that waiting one extra day, with Girardi in place, would have undercut the A-Rod/Boras "Yankees in turmoil" canard . . . I mean, just a little?

It is clear the Yankees want Posada, Rivera, and Abreu back, and would be happy to pay Andy Pettitte's option and slot him in as second starter, giving them a rotation (assuming Mo's presence) of Wang, Pettitte, Hughes, Joba and Kennedy, with anything Moose can contribute a bonus. Posada is coming off the best season of his career, Pettitte became stronger as the season went along, and Mo is Mo. The three remain wildly popular with the fans and have eleven rings--eleven Yankee rings--between them. Abreu, for his part, was the only Yank besides Cano to, you know, hit the ball or anything.

The only reason any one of the above would go to another team is money, and money is the one thing the Yankees will never run out of. (In addition to, by the way, $35 million per season freed up with A-Rod's and--please, merciful God--the Rocket's departure.)

So?

So Scott Boras exhibited one of the hardest of human traits: Lying when everyone knows he's lying.

And A-Rod's departure may, yes, be better for the Yanks in the long run.

Red Sox Sweep; A-rod opts out

Red Sox as new Yankees . . . developing.

Meanwhile . . .

A-Rod opts out of the final three years of contract. Story here.

In times like this, if only for comic relief, one looks for the requisite Scott Boras helping of crapola, and here it is:

Boras said during a telephone interview Rodriguez made his choice because he was uncertain whether Mariano Rivera, Jorge Posada and Andy Pettitte would return to the Yankees.

"Alex's decision was one based on not knowing what his closer, his catcher and one of his statured pitchers was going to do," Boras said. "He really didn't want to make any decisions until he knew what they were doing."

Hilarity. Hey, Boras, A-Rod just made a decision. Or aren't you his agent or something? Ten days before he had to.

Oh, well. Accusing Scott Boras of lying is about as useful as accusing a cow of taking a dump in the barnyard. They're going to do it, and be unashamed about it, so why waste your breath?

For heaven's sake, when A-Rod went to the Rangers seven years ago, for seven million more per year than anyone else was bidding, it was his contract in and of itself that prevented the Rangers from pursuing "a closer and a statured pitcher." (They could only get Chan Ho Park, and for that they had to throw fifty million to the winds.) Luckily, the Rangers already had a catcher in Pudge (who was, by the way, plying his trade for several million a year below market value, in part because he felt at home as a Spanish-speaking Central American in Texas), but the pinch of A-Rod's contract was, in part, the reason for Pudge's departure--and a major reason why the Florida Marlins and Detroit Tigers won pennants, and the Marlins the series in 2003.

"A closer and a statured pitcher." My eighteen year-old English students come up with better explanations for why their Hemingway essays are a week late.

The Yankees have said to A-Rod, again and again and again: Opt out, and you and we are finished. You want to talk extension, fine, and we'll fill your sacks with gold. But we won't get into a bidding war already $20 million in the hole (20 mil being the precise amount the Yanks would have to make up, as an opt-out would relieve the Rangers of their share of A-Rod's contract).

Well, I hope they stick to it.

For myself: I'm not bitter, I don't feel betrayed, and when A-Rod comes to a ballpark near me I won't boo at all. I only hope the Yankees stick to their guns and say something approximating the following:

A-Rod, we had joy, we had fun, we had seasons in the Sun, and we join together now in wishing you a fond farewell.

ASU 31, Cal 20

Home from a literary conference bang at 9 pm, Central Time, I sat down to Arizona State with one question to answer. Call it the Butch and Sundance question:

Who are those guys?

I knew Rudi Carpenter, sure. But as the week went along, I was faced with the very real and somewhat embarassing fact that I could not name one other player on the team.

Enter SunDevil Joe.

On that, more in a minute.

But first, in general, a few things impressed me about the Devils:

1. Both times I've seen them this season, the Devils refused to panic when things went south. Tonight, an early ASU turnover resulted in a Cal defensive touchdown. Bang, 7-0. This was followed by two long Cal drives, during which the ASU secondary seemed not only overmatched but downright confused. However, the defense dug deep with the shortened field and held Cal to two field goals. Someone reading the scoreboard, but not watching the game, might find an early 13-0 Cal lead disheartening. Anyone watching the game knew otherwise: ASU was only one touchdown away from getting back into it, whereas Cal had to be wondering why it wasn't ahead 21-0. The fulcrum was Dimitri Nance's first touchdown, which made it 13-7 and announced to everyone, We Officially Have A Game.

2. The cliche of this autumn is: The Red Sox are the new Yankees. It is too soon to tell, but the Devils may, right now, be the new Trojans. Like the Carson/Williams/Leinart/Bush Trojans, they don't panic early, they adjust well, and they hit a fresh gear at about the 10-minute mark of the third quarter. From the fifth game of the 2002 season straight through to the Washington-Stanford-Arizona poo-poo platter, the Trojans were college football's Seabiscuit, the team that might play you even through the backstretch, then turn to you, smile, say, "So long, Charlie," and score, oh, 35 unanswered points. Devil fans well remember a few of those games. Now they get to enjoy them. The longer the third quarter went on, the faster the Cal pocket collapsed, the less time DeSean Jackson had time to get open, the more panicked Tedford's offense (which is predicated on time in the pocket and turning the game into streetball) became, the worse things looked for Cal.

This, more than anything, has to be emphasized: Cal's second-half rash of injuries were not the cause of ASU's dominance, they were the result of ASU's dominance.

3. No, I have to stay on this ASU/USC comparison. The greatest game of my lifetime was the 2005 Orange Bowl: USC 55, Oklahoma 19. There were about eleventy billion things about that game I love, but the one that sticks out was when I knew the game was over. The muffed punt? Jason White's twenty-seventh interception? No, I knew the game was over when the score stood Oklahoma 7, USC 0. White was throwing off his wrong foot falling backwards, Adrian Peterson was being stood up at the line, and Lofa Tatupu and Sean Cody were missing sacks by mere inches. The Sooners converted two third-and-longs on absolute flukes, broken plays turned into cross-field passes. I thought: No way you can play like that for 60 minutes. And sure enough . . .

Now, I didn't know tonight's game was over at 13-0. But I did know the Devils had dodged a couple of bullets and were gaining confidence. They gave Cal a quarter-and-a-half. Not much. But the Bears needed to take it, and they didn't.

4. Big thanks to SunDevil Joe, who provided me with some of the names I needed to watch. A short honor roll: Dimitri Nance (three touchdowns), Keegan Haring (crucial yardage splitting time with Nance); receivers Michael Jones, Kyle Williams, Chris McGaha (how does Rudi love to distribute); and, crucially in the fourth quarter, cornerback Justin Tryon and linebacker Robert James--Tryon, for locking down Jackson as best as anyone could, and both Tryon and James, for coming up with knee-buckling fourth-quarter interceptions on consecutive Cal possessions.

Am I reading too much into two games?

Perhaps.

And Oregon--on the road--looms next week.

But this was some performance.

ASU 21, Cal 20 (3rd Quarter)

I am sitting here, and I am stunned. The first half ended at 11:10, two hours and ten minutes after the opening kickoff.

Two run-and-shoot WAC teams, circa 1991, could not accomplish this.

And yes, incomplete passes will slow things down, but helping in no small way was the work of the usually brilliant Pac-10 officiating crew.

To sight one example:

Second quarter, minute to go, ASU punts. Deep in his own territory, Cal return man cathces it, starts to run, is hit, juggles the ball. Before he hits the ground, the back judge crosses his arms above his head, signaling "down," but--and you had to be there--does not blow his whistle.

Incredible. Thirty-two years of watching football, that's the first time I've seen anything like that.

To continue: the relevant players, who are all locked on the ball, do not see the back judge's motion, so the scrum on the field continues.

Result: ASU's ball, inside the 15.

Okay: review. Was the return man down?

Long about now, the the play-by-play man says, for about the third time, "Umm, I didn't hear a whistle back there."

Official's Conference.

Head set for the ref.

More conference.

Back to the head set.

Conference.

Then finally, "There was no whistle, but the ball was signaled down."

Is there anything--anything--that can keep a Pac-10 official from looking like a 15 year-old umping his first Little League game?

Update: 24-20, Arizona State. Discussing the first half with Astro-Girl, in terms she would relate to, I said, "If this were a baseball game, you'd say Cal left too many men on base. They're letting the Sun Devils hang around at home, which is never smart."

Now, in the early part of the fourth, I wonder if . . .

Whoa. I was about to type, "I wonder if ASU isn't emulating Cal in the second half. No excuse for the offense to receive the gift of a Justin Tryon interception, repeatedly blow Cal off the line of scrimmage, move briskly down the field and wind up with no points."

Just as I started this thought, Robert James intercepts for ASU. And the Devils move briskly down the field.

Oregon 24, USC 17

Draw a line across this game, as it indicates the end, for now, of USC's hegemony in the Pac-10--and to a lesser extent, in the nation.

No stunning, historical upset (Stanford). No being caught flat-footed against a zealous rival (UCLA, 2006). No being shocked by a suddenly competent foe (Cal, 2003). No carnival of turnovers (Oregon State, 2006).

No one can say USC didn't know the stakes coming into this game. No one can claim they were stunned by the quality of competition.

No: USC had a road game against a better team, and played their hearts out, and lost. That, really there was no shame in losing that game is the biggest shame of all.

The Houston/Katrina record corrected

Nice to know I wasn't the only one to catch ABC's--and correspondent Mike Von Fremd's--imbecilic swipe at Houston, namely lumping it with New Orleans as a city of "chaos" during the Katrina evacuation.

Apparently the editorial board at the Houston Chronicle was watching, too:

It bears remembering that the scenes at New Orleans' Superdome and Houston's Astrodome and George R. Brown Convention Center were direct opposites. The Superdome was dark and without needed provisions or relief workers. In Houston, public officials and thousands of volunteers, given little or no notice, welcomed more than 200,000 Katrina evacuees. The residents of flooded New Orleans, many of whom lost everything, were met with clothing and food donated by citizens and local businesses. Doctors from the Texas Medical Center and other facilities assembled to give all the evacuees complete health care.

In short, the Houston operation, jointly led by Houston Mayor Bill White and Harris County Judge Robert Eckels, was a model of speedy and efficient disaster relief.

To his credit, Von Fremd apologized for his error. Based in Dallas, Von Fremd noted that he and his family are now Texans, that he had covered Katrina and that he was all too familiar with Houstonians' commendable efforts and the "spectacular job" they did caring for the Katrina evacuees.

Which begs the question: Why such shoddy reporting?

There was also this, which I decided not to point out, but which is often on the mind of every Houstonian:

Many Katrina evacuees made Houston their permanent home, and Houston has paid a price for its largesse. The city experienced a surge in violent crime in part attributed to Katrina evacuees who were both the perpetrators and the victims. It risks a spike in its homeless population when housing assistance for Katrina victims is exhausted.

The editorial is here.

Oh, and, there is this, from one commenter:

The atmosphere provided at the Dome rivaled anything going on now at Qualcomm I assure you. There was plenty of food, water, air-conditioning, cots, rest-rooms and medical attention. They were right however to heap criticism on local New Orleans officials for not having the Super-dome ready. Notice this week you seldom hear the acronym FEMA. Why ???? Because local and state agencies are largely handling things themselves in San Diego with FEMA providing support and filling in the gaps.

Yes: no matter how far Mike Brown put his head up his ass (and he nearly disappeared) the failure in New Orleans during Katrina starts with Ray Nagin and works outward to Governor Blanco.

But . . . an argument for another day. Those of us who were here during Katrina owe it to one another to remain forever vigilant in keeping the record straight.

Torre

Thinking about this for a few days.

And I'm late in the game, and I want to hear back, but:

There was no way this ended well.

Absent Joe Torre's Yankees winning a World Series, then carrying Torre off the field and into retirement, this was going to end badly.

As it always does in baseball.

Other sports are sometimes immune to this.

Basketball, with Red Auerbach, Bill Russell, and even Phil Jackson zooming off on his motorcycle, give us the storybook.

College basketball. John Wooden. Al McGuire.

Pro football. Vince Lombardi. End of story. (Quick story: Astro-Girl hadn't heard of Vince Lombardi until I told her. But she had heard of the Lombardi Trophy. So when I said, "Vince Lombardi," her response was, "Lombardi Trophy Vince Lombardi?" Yes, dear, the man whose name is affixed to the second-most prestigious team trophy in sports, right after Lord Stanley's Cup. That Vince Lombardi.)

Some attempted comebacks, didn't work out. Lombardi died coaching a Redskins team that George Allen would take to the Super Bowl the following year. Bill Russell: Seattle, Sacramento. Not so much. How Russell was such an executioner on the basketball court and so lazy everywhere else--bench coaching, announcing, relating to the smallest degree to a fan base that would have worshiped him, had he let them--remains a mystery for the ages.

But all of the above had their moments: I win, I'm out.

Not so much in baseball. Has anyone noticed?

Tally up the glorious exits of baseball managers--that is, managers in the oldest professional team sport in America--and how many graceful exits do you find?

Two.

Miller Huggins was the skipper of Murderer's Row (Ruth, Gehrig, Lazzeri, Meusel), a hard-hitting team whose power hid a terrific defense (Gehrig again, plus Earle Combs in center, Mark Keonig at short and Joe Dugan at third, and don't forget the Babe, who had a pitcher's rifle arm in right), a top-flight rotation (Hoyt, Pennock, Shocker, Shawkey) and probably the first legitimate closer (Wilcey Moore).

When it occurred to the Yankees to place monuments in centerfield (on the playing field, if you're scoring at home), to commemorate the greatest among them, three monuments were erected.

Miller Huggins was the name on one monument. Next to two guys named Ruth and Gehrig.

So . . . how did Huggins escape an inglorious cleaning-out-of-the-desk?

Easy.

He died on the job.

And Connie Mack?

He quit the Philadelphia Athletics when he decided to.

And why?

Ummmm . . . he owned the team.

For everyone else, things have ended badly.

Just to deal with the most famous Yankee managers:

Joe McCarthy: Four rings in a row. Fired, it was said, over a drunken tirade in a hotel.

Casey Stengel: ten pennants in twelve years, seven rings. He lost the seventh game of the 1960 World Series to Pittsburgh by a single run, and was fired.

Yogi Berra: lost the 1964 World Series, seventh game score: 7-5.

And everyone knows about Billy Martin, Lou Piniella, Buck Showalter.

The Yankees wanted to make a change.

God help them if Donnie or Girardi or Tony isn't the fit.

But it was bound to end ugly.

Because it always does.

My first Bleg (Blog plus beg)

So this is Showdown Saturday, Part I.

SunDevil Joe, Blue, Robbie-Boy: I'm starting to warm to the Sun Devils.

I know Rudi Carpenter.

So who else should I know?

I've seen one game, en toto.

What should I look for?

Houston and New Orleans

Last night, I saw the first part of "20/20," during which some airhead commented that the scene at Quaalcom was in marked contrast to the chaos in "Houston and New Orleans during Hurricane Katrina."

Ummm--what? Houston and New Orleans?

Look: We here in Houston have grown used to never being thanked for our city's finest hour, certainly not by Mayor Asshole, and not really by New Orleanians in general, with a few glorious exceptions, such as writer Richard Ford, who came here to give a reading and nearly broke down in giving thanks.

Well, fine. We did what we did--everyone I know played some role, in money, time, or supplies, some in all three--and we would do it again ten, a hundred times, gratitude or no.

But, gee whiz.

What correspondent Know-Nothing speaks of as "chaos" was confusion over who would be admitted to the Astrodome. On the Wednesday afternoon of that week--the first day the big crowds started to arrive--only those on designated buses were admitted. Before dinner the matter was resolved, with Mayor White stating emphatically that any evacuee who made it to the Dome was welcome.

That's it. In all, a few hours.

Otherwise, if by "chaos" the correspondent meant "The greatest act of charity by one city toward another," he pretty much nailed it.

And, for Pete's sake, the very Astrodome pictures ABC used to supposedly illustrate the "chaos" in Houston actually showed the truth: that the Astrodome was a sanctuary in those times.

Now it is a place of honor.

ABC ought to be ashamed of itself.

Well, lookee here

Pac-10 conference standings:

Arizona State 4-0
UCLA 4-0
Oregon 3-1
USC 3-1
Cal 2-2
Oregon State 2-2

The next few weeks should be interesting.

USC 38, Notre Dame O

Hard to gauge this team.

I'm reminded that, years ago, during the baseball season, the Yankees and Mets would play an exhibition called the Mayor's Trophy Game. This was eventually cancelled when Steinbrenner--who was obsessed with beating the Mets anyway possible--would be furious at the Yankee manager for not starting a frontline pitcher, or for benching a starter or two.

Anyway, the game I'm thinking of was in 1978, which threatened to go into extra innings, at which point Yankee third baseman Graig Nettles announced to the dugout that, if it were the case, he would start heaving any grounder hit to him into the stands, just to get the damn thing over with.

Understand: these were the late-70s Mets, a team that would challenge their '62 forbears for title of worst team ever.

Anyway, that game was won by the Yankees, due to heroics by a rookie infielder Brian Doyle (who, come October, would have his moment in the Sun in place of regular second baseman Willie Randolph).

After the game, Sparky Lyle, who was writing a book about the season ("The Bronx Zoo," consult Amazon.com) remarked, "I guess we played well. But the Mets are so bad, who can say?"

Thought about that quote today.

Joe Torre out

Well, what's done is done. Guys, feel free to opin here. I'll be back tomorrow.

All better now

Tom Brady helps.

Whither Torre?

Issue number one for the departed Yankees is, of course, Joe Torre, and Bill Madden, in the Post, basically echoes what this fan said virtually a year ago today:

Fire Torre if you want.

But you'd better come heavy with his replacement.

I love Mattingly and Girardi. Have for a long time. It is well to remember Girardi's heroics all those years ago, Game Six, 1996 World Series, when Girardi tripled off Greg Maddux, tripled over Andrus Jones's head, and gave the Yankees just enough of the margin they would need to finish off the Braves.

(And if you don't think baseball is a game of freak luck and freaskish bounces, remember the Yankees' margins of victory in Games three through six. Two runs. Then two runs. Then one run. Then one run. If Rivera doesn't strike out McGriff, if Wohlers doesn't groove one to King Leyritz, if Avery throws a strike to Boggs, if O'Neill doesn't run a country mile to haul in Polonia's fly ball over his shoulder, if Andruw Jones plays ten feet further back on Girardi, if Lemke punches the ball through the left side against an exhausted Wetteland--if any one of seven or eight things go the other way--the Yankee dynasty ends before it begins.

Likewise, imagine the Series if Joba doesn't deal with one of the Seven Deadly Plagues. Yanks go up, 2-1; Torre--no reason to panic--starts Moose in Game 4. Who wins. Or else loses. Then Wang, extra day of rest, goes in Game 5 with Pettitte in the bully.

Not to diminish the loss. But let's not go crazy. Two very-good-but-not-great teams played this past week, and one beat the other. That's all. Okay, back to the post.)

Love Girardi. Love Mattingly, who--as the one-man (occasionally supplemented by Rickey and Dave) bridge between the Reggie-Nettles-Goose-Munson-Gator Yankees of the late 70's and early 80's and the O'Neill-Tino-Jeter-Rivera Yankees of the late 90's--was often the one reason to watch the Yankees.

Love them both.

Neither will do, not for a team that (until yesterday) had four first-ballot Hall-of-Famers, one big possibility (Moose) and one (Pettitte) who'll get there, if he's got three or four 14-16 win seasons in him, enough to boost him into Ferguson Jenkins territory.

Someone has to come in, someone with stature, presence. You know the drill.

So who's left? Who would fit?

Piniella, sure. Or Leyland.

Can't get them.

Piniella was last year's possibility, went to the Cubs, bullied the Cubs to a Division title.

Leyland won a pennant in Detroit, saw the Tigers fall apart down the stretch. Comes back next year, still has all that young pitching.

So who's left?

Davey Johnson?

Err: probably not. Too much Met baggage, too much memory of a dynasty-that-shoulda-been gone up in a cloud of coke and hookers.

(And if you've never seen a cloud of hookers, believe me . . .)

In the Post, Madden nails it.

La Russa.

Has to be La Russa. No one else but La Russa. Dead in the water without La Russa.

Well, let's see.

Tribe 6, Yankees 4 (Cleveland wins Series, 3-1)

Robbie-Boy, Blue, SDJ, have at it. I'm going to bed. We will, as they say, talk in the morning.

The difference? The Tribe hit with men on and the Yankees didn't; I'm not sure, but with three more tonight, I'll bet anything they set a record for the most solo home runs in a losing series of any length, at any level. I'm counting five just sitting here.

This isn't necessarily ascribable any failing, moral or otherwise. Sometimes, the other man is just better. I would no more psycho-analyze someone I'd never met than drink a Bronx cocktail. I will note, however, that seventy-five percent of A-Rod's base hits happened either when the Yankees had already regained the lead (last night) or were four or more runs down (tonight).

Goodnight now.

(This originated in a comment I was laying down in a comments section of an Irish Trojan post re the Stanford game. Thank God for Tom Brady and the guys, or this would have been one big red-letter weekend for me.

Oh: and I am happy for Arizona State.)

Yankees 8, Tribe 4 (Cleveland leads series, 2-1)

Nice of the offense to finally show up.

Plus a look at the future: Hughes (who should have started) and Joba, bug-free.

Still a mountain to climb.

Tribe 2, Yankees 1 (Cleveland leads series, 2-0)

Oh, man, just as you think you've seen it all.

The nation saw the Joba we know, the Joba who closed out the seventh.

Relieving the magnificent Pettitte start (7 1/3 innings, zero runs), Joba came in, eighth inning, two on, one out.

Five pitches later: two more outs, end of the seventh.

Then the eighth.

And the plague, during which every mosquito off that diseased lake seemed to congregate at the pitcher's mound.

The back of Joba's neck looked like a scene from a cut-rate horror film, circa 1978: Bugs.

Joba's sweat, his youth, and the precise moment when the swarm was at its worst was his own perfect storm.

Even after a walk, a wild pitch, a run-advancing hit, and a screaming line drive straight at Menk, the game came down to Grady Sizemore being one foot faster than a second bug-induced wild pitch coming back to Posada on a perfect bounce, and Joba there to apply the tag.

So: 1-1.

The next two innings were pro forma. Mo Rivera. Bugs? Freaking bugs? The Hammer of God could snap off his cutter with a brass band playing in his ear. Looking almost half-asleep, Rivera worked around a passed ball, a bogus hit batter, and sundry other distractions, for two more shutout innings.

And then, the eleventh.

Yeah, let's face it. The whole Yankee post-season is based on no more than four innings of crucial relief per game: two from Joba, two from Mo. Everyone else should pay their way in.

Ahhhh. We go to Game Three.

Tribe 12, Yankees 3 (Cleveland leads series 1-0)

Oh, that fifth inning.

Time will show if Posada'a at-bat was the fulcrum of the Yankee season.

Trailing 4-3, one out, bases loaded, Posada at 3-0, Sabathia looking as though he'd require a stretcher to carry him off the field . . . five million Yankee fans were on the the same page:

Got 'em.

It was not hard to see the Yankee strategy with Sabathia (not hard because it's pretty much their strategy for everyone): work the count, foul off pitches, exhaust the starter, get to the pen.

The strategy was not surprising. What was surprising was how well it was working. By the time Posada reached the plate, Sabathia had allowed only four hits--but also five walks, two homers, and three runs, and he had thrown 100-plus pitches.

Furthermore, this I knew: if Posada either reached base via hit or walk or tied the score with a sac fly, Sabathia was done for the night, and some Long-Man Louie would face Matsui with the score tied at worst.

So: the count goes to 3-0.

Posada, green light, misses by that much a pitch that he usually drives, a pitch that would have tied the score or--maybe--emptied the bases.

Well, okay. It's 3-1, and Sabathia can't find the strike zone.

Then:

Bang.

Bang.

Just like that, C.C.'s two best pitches of the night, one after the other. Two absolutely filthy fastballs up in the zone, two pitches Georgie swung clean through.

Good afternoon.

And good night.

After that, Matsui's pop-up was a formality.

Then the onslaught. Botoom of the fifth: six runs? Ten? Did it matter?

Then, the bucket brigade of Tribe relievers, as Sabathia made off in the getaway car, his W secured, his pitch count now moot.

And now?

Now the Yankees have to win three out of four.

Yankees 12, D-Rays 4

And so we end our game-by-game account of the season, and downshift in preparation for the playoffs.

For me, this will be the season that almost wasn't, least as far as I was concerned. I spent the better part of the summer either too ill to so much as change my cable provider to allow me to see more games, or else too disgusted with the play of the Yankees, or too preoccupied with other matters in my life.

Then--as with two weeks ago, in Boston--watching the Yankees was an ongoing feast of dread, either watching the worst happen, or worse, waiting for it. All last winter, Cashman and Torre worked to put together a bullpen that did not resemble a carnival sideshow. Viz, Bruny and Fansworth were set to be the three crucial pieces of the bullpen--really of the team--that had gone wanting since Tom Gordon's arm was Torre-ized in late 2004. (Flash's exhaustion was the one element against the Sox in the ALCS game they absolutely had to win: not Game Four, lost by a walk, a steal, and a seeing-eye hit; but Game Five, when the Yankees entered the eighth with a two-run lead and Gordon started throwing batting practice and Rivera, exhausted by Game Four's excesses, had to stay out.) In Torre's mind, Proctor was a luxury, a sort of spot-reliever to spell the others. When that plan went kaplow, when the Yankees were 21-29 on May 29th (coincidentally my birthday), it was clear something had to happen. The Yanks limped through June (A-Rod, Wang, Jeter, A-Rod, Georgie, A-Rod and Mo kept the Yankees alive), and then caught fire.

I knew Seattle would fade. A good indication is a deficit in run aggregation; Seattle was never better than even-Steven. But beating Detroit: that was something. (Come to think, they achieved in the regular season this year what they failed to do in the playoofs last year.) With Torre/Cashman's Plan A gone, and "Clemens saves the day" not really flying as Plan B, and with the Yankees unwilling to part with Philip Hughes for Mark Texeria (all while Buster Olney, who knows the Yanks as well as anyone, was screaming that Hughes-for-Texeria was something the Yanks absolutely had to do), something else had to happen.

Enter Joba.

No, not that easy. What happened first was that disappointments A, B, and C (Cano, Matsui, and Abreu) all started hitting right out of the break--basically on the same day, and didn't stop until recently. Then Damon got healthy. Then Giambi, then Menk, to the point where Torre has 11 players for 10 spots, and has to decide whether Matsui or Menk sits.

In the midst of all of this was Joba.

I was talking to Robbie-Boy last week, and we both agreed the difference between the Tigers and Yankees in last year's playoffs came down to one player: Zumya, with the C-note heater, someone who could get the ball to Jones with such ease that announcers actually sounded sorry for the Yankee hitters. Joba may go to the rotation next year, but this year, he is our Zumya.

And, of course, having long-ago (when the Yankees seemed out of it) planned a trip to Las Vegas to stretch into next week, I'm liable to miss Game One against the Angels or Indians. Way it goes. That kind of year.

Devil Rays 8, Yankees 7 (10)

This has been one of the more exasperating summers for me. I tried to get with these Yankees early (they stunk); I tried in early June (I got married and distracted); tried to interest myself in June (pneumonial; could barely watch TV commericals without experiencing nausea); tried to get interested right around Clemens's return (about when they went south for the second time).

Then, after the Yankees caught fire after the All-Star game, the whole notion of switching to DirectTV to get the Yes Network, or--failing that--ordering MLB TV or whatever, became impossibly impossible, as I descended into neck pain so crippling it descended to my shoulders, down my arms, and numbed my fingertips.

So: bed for two more weeks, and what's this baseball you speak of?

Then: the back end of July. TWO hiring committees I'm chairing, and good-bye, 15 hours per day.

Then, August. Honeymoon.

Okay, back in town at the end of August, all set. Astro-Girl makes the requisite calls--DirecTV! YES Channel! Yes! And it counts!--and I stay home for work, awaiting a whole September of Yankee triumph . . .

Only the DirecTV guy never shows, and after three phone calls and about seventeen "For X, press Y" capers, I'm told there was no appointment, never an appointment, and the soonest appointment available is the tail end of October, long after all baseball would have moved to free cable or Fox . . .

. . . so I, with three weeks to go, sit back for the inevitable. And watch play-by-play on my computer.

Which brings me to this week. Champagne on ice, one victory remaining.

Was Igawa auditioning to replace the Rocket? No Joba, no Mo, No Pettitte-Wang-Moose tonight.

Damnit finish this.

Yankees 4, Blue Jays 2

A Joba save, against the Joba rules, on a Joba birthday.

Only a matter of time.

Yankees 7, Blue Jays 5

There were rumors of "We want Joba" chants in the eighth today.

Joba, with his 0.42 ERA. (They say he's a starter next year, him and Moose and Pettitte and Hughes and Kennedy. No thought of him as the next Mo?)

Anyway . . . magic number goes to two.

Yankees 12, Blue Jays 11 (10)

Melky!

Melky.

Was on my way to watch the Trojans, so that's all I have.

Yankees 2, Birds 1

Another night of scoreboard-watching: tonight was the final evening in Astro-Girl's and my partial season-ticket package at Minute-Maid, and so I was able to watch Pettitte's start via white numerals painted on green wooden squares and slid, one at a time, into the slots in left field.

(The Astros-Brewers game was a microcosm of the Astros' dreary-except-for-two-or-three-players season. In answer to a Prince Fielder home run early, Carlos Lee homered in the fourth, a shot that clattered up on the train tracks high above the left-field Crawford Boxes, and hence us. We saw the rookie marvel, Hunter Pence, sac-fly home a run in the seventh to make it 4-2, 'Stros. Lidge--wasn't the suspense killing you?--surrendered the lead, giving up a two-run homer to a .230 lead-off man that landed two rows deep in the right-field bleachers and, in the process, resulted in Pence (lately moved to right) banging his head off the Chase sign and crumpling on the warning track. For a minute, nobody knew how bad things were; the wagon gate near the right-field foul pole swung open, and an electric flatbed, of the kind used for transporting immobilized players to an ambulance, was driven to the entrance. However, Pence, though shaken, remained in the game, long enough to drive in the game-winning hit in the tenth. Pence is what 'Stros fans take away from this season, he and a solid season from Lee. Everyone else the acquired or counted on to support the base of Oswalt, Berkman, Lee, and eventually Pence were either shockingly craptacular (Jason Jennings, Chris Burke, Mo Ensberg, Jason Lane), flat-out disappointing (Luke Scott, Mike Lamb), wildly inconsistent (Brad Lidge, Wandy Rodriguez), or closing out their careers (Biggio and Ausmus). It should be mentioned that, when things seemed at their lowest but the season was still barely salvageable, the team acquired Ty Wigginton, thus giving themselves, however briefly, four third basemen. Anyway, back to the Yankees.)

So: 1 1/2 down, 5 1/2 up.

Six in the loss column.

Bring on the Jays.

Yankees 12, Birds 0

At which point the Yankees move to (loss column division) two down in the division, five up in the Wild Card.

Magic number for the playoffs:

Seven.

Can we all exhale?

A few thoughts:

*Christ, just put Menk at first and forget about it. I'm not even talking about tonight's home run. The way the Angels (or, if luck holds, the Indians) hit, Torre's going to need somebody who can catch the goddamn ball if it's hit, and--please--if it's thrown to him.

What I have realized, these past few years, is that sports cable talking heads, supplied with notes from interns cribbing from other talking heads, is often as terribly wrongheaded as the opinion of some drunk in the bleachers--often worse. When the Astros signed Carlos Lee, all we heard was: big bat, piss-poor defense, DH playing left field, blah blah blah.

And so? Anyone who watched the Astros for a week would see the screamingly obvious: that Lee plays a perfectly adequate, and sometimes sparkling, defense--albeit in the league's smallest left field.

The opposite applies to Giambi. Every batted ball, every non-routine throw has become an adventure. Torre would be smart to go with his hands team--Damon in left, Menk at first--then bat either Giambi or Matsui at DH and put the other one as the world's most expensive pinch-hitter.

*Moose. Are we moving toward Wang and a Crosby, Stills, and Nash reunion (Pettitte, Rocket, and Moose) as the playoff rotation? Pettitte is in, Rocket if he can go, Moose if his next start resembles this last one. The problem is the Orioles are so god-awful you never know if you're actually playing well, but Moose's curve looked good tonight.

The smart move may be the above as the starters, Hughes and Kennedy for use at the first sign of trouble, then (of course) Rivera and Joba, plus Kardiac Kyle for the entertainment value. And? Given the Gong Show of relievers we were treated to this past Saturday, a nine-man staff might be advisable. Not really, but geez.

Yankees 8. Birds 5

. . . coupled with losses by Boston and Detroit, a good night.

3 1/2 up, 3 1/2 down, if you know what I mean.

Hughes is alright; he's more next year's story than this year's.

Kardiac Kyle we take as read; he's not long for this team. It was a crime that Mo had to come in; as Robbie-Boy suggested, maybe we need some "Mo Rules" to accompany the "Joba Rules," since, even if the Yankees make the playoffs, there will be no serious quest for the ring without a rested and sharp Rivera.

Since 1996, 'tis ever been thus: Rivera and Jeter, the two indispensible Yankees, the two first-ballot Hall-of-Famers to (so far) play their entire careers with the Yankees, the first such since (drum roll) the sainted Mantle.

And? The unsung heroes of the second-half surge, to now, have been the tortured trio, Abreu-Cano-Matsui, who, in the second half of the season, proved their worthiness to belong in the same line-up at A-Rod, Jeter, and Georgie, the three batters who kept the bottom from falling out in May and June. ACM has slumped of late; they'll be needed not only in the playoffs, but to drag the rest of the squad across the finish line, ahead of Detroit and all that brilliant young pitching.

In a strange way, the return to health of Damon and Giambi has actually complicate matters; the best defensive outfield for the Yankees is Damon left, Melky center, Abreu right, with Matsui as DH. This forces Giambi to first--ugh--where it's a race to see if he drives in more runs than he allows.

Ugh, and ugh. Two weeks to go.

Yankees 4, Red Sox 3

It was odd that a Sunday-night rubber game match-up between the Red Sox and Yankees, Schilling v. Clemens, with the playoffs in the balance, ranked so low on the weekend's pecking order.

But I'll be honest:

1. To worry so much about USC in Lincoln, and then see the young backs and the all-universe defense vindicated so thoroughly, was euphoria that lasted straight through Sunday--into Monday, actually.

2. The curiousity factor vis-a-vis the Patriots (Are they really that good? Will distractions hurt the team? And what about the Chargers?) dominated my thoughts Sunday night.

3. I'm loving this Notre Dame thing. On the radio today, Rome pointed out that the Irish's next five opponents have a combined record of 13-1. 2-6? 1-7? Could happen.

4. Has anyone noticed that a) the Texans are 2-0, and b) Mario Williams has one more touchdown than Reggie Bush? Nobody hated the Williams pick more than me, but I won't turned down found money. Houston is supposed to be a football town, after all.

5. I'll confess: the Red Sox-Yankee game gave me the creeps, starting with its lead-up and continuing right to the finish, for all but a few minutes following Jeter's homer in the seventh. For one, since dominating the D-Backs in the 2001 World Series (he was set to be the winner in Game 7, and probably the MVP, and we all know what happened), Clemens has been just as likely to blow a showdown game such as this as come through. He was knocked around the 2002 playoffs versus the Angels. He was chased from Game 7 of the 2003 ALCS versus Boston (had he pitched well, Aaron Boone's heroics would not have been necessary), then chased from Game 4 of the World Series that year (you remember, retirement #1 of 15). With the Astros, he was chased from Game 7 of the 2004 NLCS with the World Series hanging in the balance, then lost his only World Series start the following year. In between there have been heroics (he could hardly claim his million-per-start salary otherwise), but they have hardly been the rule.

So, of course, Clemens pitches his ass off, hands over a 1-1 game to Joba, and Jeter provides a three-run homer . . . . at which time, of course, I grew sick with worry. No kidding: I could not watch the seventh and eighth; I had to content myself with watching Brady and the guys in the living room while trying to keep tabs on baseball by the yaw and pitch of Miller's narrative, supplemented by Fenway crowd noises.

4-1 became 4-2. Of course it did, and then over to Rivera . . . who did a fabulous imitation of one of his own set-up man, circa 2005-2006. Honestly, he's never looked less in control. When Papi came up--bases loaded, two outs, 4-3, needing only a single through the hole to take the game, the series, and basically the division, I figured a loss was a foregone conclusion, the only time I've ever felt that way about Rivera. Then, a pop-up.

The division is probably out of reach. But: 2 1/2 in the Wild Card, 3 in the loss column. Bring on the Birds.

USC 49, Nebraska 31

What we think we know:

1. Some cliches are stupid.

What we heard throughout July and August was, "If you say you have eight tailbacks, what you're admitting is that you have no tailbacks."

Well . . . yes and no.

It is important to remember that, throughout his 60-6 run dating back to 2002, Carroll has always had two wide receivers of at least All-Conference caliber: first Kareem Kelly and Mike Williams, then Williams and Kerry Colbert, then (for three seasons) Dwayne Jarrett and Steve Smith. The young receivers may yet come untracked, but it was clear on Saturday night that Booty was out of sync with the kid wide-outs, and Carroll was left to say what he said last year against Arizona State: Screw it, let's just jam it down their throats. What helped in this endeavor was 1) a veteran, bad-ass O-line, and 2) enough tailbacks (Stafon Johnson, C.J. Gable, Stanley Havli, Chauncey Washington) to keep everyone fresh. Eight-point-two yards per carry, on the road, against the Blackshirts, was the entire story of the game.

However, if there is foreboding for the Trojans, it lies in their fallback "Screw it" reaction to Booty's passing problems. The two games USC lost last year both ended with one of Booty's passes being tipped. Oregon State was a folly of turnovers, but UCLA kept blowing USC off the line the entire game, stuffing the run, daring Booty to pass. If the Trojans have to come from behind in the second half, or if they come across a team that stacks the line and forces them to pass, there could be trouble. (Oregon, anyone?)

2. The West-Coast offense was what we thought it was! If you lack a straight-ahead banger at running back (Lavar Arrington), a quarterback who can turn the game into streetball (Aaron Rogers), or--best of all--a quarterback who doubles as a veer-option running back (COUGHvinceyoungCOUGH), the West Coast offense is the perfect plan to keep you in the game against the Trojans . . . for a half, and maybe a drive or two more. But that's it.

With SC sending six or seven on every play and the defensive backs playing behind the receivers, Sam Keller was free to dump the ball off again and again. This was the best news for USC. Regardless if a team is moving the ball against the Trojans, I always relax when its gains are in clumps of five- and six-yard out patterns. I relax, because no team (well, no college team) can play like that the entire game.

Pete Carroll is not the greatest of coaches. As an in-the-moment strategist, he is probably no better than average; even during Saturday's blowout, he couldn't help but look confused at times. In the Vince Bowl two years ago, his actions in and around the Trojans' two fourth-and-shorts were blunders of historic proportions. (In the first instance, he clearly didn't get the proper play or scheme or whatever called in, hence his sprinting to the 20-yard line and screaming at Leinart as the play clock wound down. In the second, Mack Brown smelled his Lendale-behind-left-tackle coming up the 405, and was ready for it, all while Reggie Bush stood on the sideline, hands on hips, not even employed as a decoy.)

But there are four things Carroll does well. First, he recruits like a mother, with full knowledge of how to push the program's strengths (consistent championship contention plus Southern California), while downplaying its deficiencies (a front-running fan base plus an ancient playing venue located in the ghetto). Second, because he recruits like a mother, he is able to light the proper fire under his players, who often fear losing their position if they don't perform in practice.

Third, away from the panic of the sideline and the play clock, in the relative calm of the locker room at half-time, he adjusts superbly.

Fourth, and most important, he has the best sense of any coach, non-Bill Parcells division, of how a football game lasts sixty minutes, and what that means. In 1990-91, Parcells won a Super Bowl he had no business winning, with maybe the worst quarterback, Jeff Hostetler, in Lombardi Trophy annals. (And understand, I am including Trent Dilfer.) With nothing by way of downfield passing, Parcells simply sent Ottis Anderson & Co. right, left, and center, eating up clock and assuming that the offense would score sometime, soon enough. Maybe. Meanwhile, the superb defense, LT and the rest, would keep the other team in check, force turnovers, play field position. This strategy worked--barely. With a consistent time-of-possession edge of ten minutes per game, the Giants won the NFC championship on a last-second field goal, and then the Super Bowl when the opponent's last-second field goal sailed wide right.

With Carroll, the practice is different, the principle the same: maximize the clock to your advantage. I've seen it dozens of times, no more than Saturday. Carroll's strategy has always been to as much as signal to the opposition, Go ahead, throw, throw, throw your quick outs . . . score your points . . . and wait for the third quarter, when your O-line is gasping for breath and we take over. In a lot of games, there is a point--the ten-minute mark of the third quarter--when the other team's offense hits the wall and simply flakes out. This is when sacks, fumbles, and interceptions pile up, and where Carroll earns his money.

Consider: Sam Keller threw 54 passes and was sacked twice. That's 56 pass-blocking plays. The best piece of information I ever received about offensive line play was from Mike Wilbon, who offered this revelation: O-lines love to run block, and hate to pass block. Ideally, you want to let them go out and punch somebody in the mouth. Force an O-line to protect the pocket over and over, you'll have a dispirited, exhausted bunch by halftime. That condition, time after time, is what Carroll hopes for: attrition.

The opposition is at its strongest early. What the Trojans do is adjust well and finish well. An opponent's best chance is always the first 20 minutes of the game. It's not much. But they'd better take it.

3. If your starting line-up is being introduced by Reggie Bush, and the other guys are being introduced by Larry the Cable Guy, you're in good shape. Enough said.

4. The field will quickly take shape. Take a look at the Top Ten, all undefeated. In the coming weeks, LSU will play Florida, UT will play Oklahoma, USC will play Cal, and tOSU, Wisconsin and Penn State will engage in their own little Big Ten mosh pit.

I'll be watching.

Red Sox 10, Yankees 1

Sometimes the best comes early. Jeter's homer in the first--a towering shot to the blacked-out seats in center--was the high point of the afternoon.

The night before the game, I surmised to SunDevil Joe that, if nothing else, the match-up between Wang and Beckett would probably decide the Cy Young race. Now I'm sure of it. Wang was living on borrowed time even when sitting on a two-hitter; he consistently failed to find the strike zone with his sinker, and everything up was hammered.

The division would have been a nice prize.

Red Sox 10. Yanks 1

Gaaah. We wair for tomorrow.

The Wisdom of Tim McCarver

Today during the Red Sox-Yankees game:

"Catchers are the hardest hitters to pitch around, because they're the ones who call for pitches to pitch around hitters. So Posada will be looking for a curve ball, because that's what he'd call if he was catching him."

Yankees 8, Red Sox 7

We all saw it coming, didn't we?

Melky fires home to Georgie, nabs Papi by three strides. Oh, sure: the Yankees will win.

Posada doubles, Matsui triples him home. Giambi walked. 2-1 Red Sox, nobody out. Bingo: a big inning. Then, almost all at once, Cano strikes out, Melky hits into an inning-ending double play. Of course: missed opportunities. The Yanks are toast.

Bases loaded, Dice K gone. Jeter v. Timlin. Got 'em.

Jeter flails in the dirt. Game over, right?

Except, except . . .

Well, not much. In the eighth, 7-2 Red Sox, back-to-back homers from Giambi and Cano. 7-4, and why weren't these guys doing this with men. So in comes Papelbon . . .

Well, this was an interesting night. Oky torched, Papelbon torched, Gagne not even trusted. Dice K no longer the fair-haired boy.

October brims with possibilities.

Blue Jays 2, Yankees 1

Gag.

Bring on the Red Sox.

Yankees 9, Blue Jays 2

Had to "watch" this one via the hand-operated scoreboard at Minute Maid. (The 'Stros beat the Cubs tonight, in 11. I love when the 'Stros beat the Cubs.)

On the way home, I heard about Georgie's 20th (he right now is third in the MVP race, behind, in ascending order, Magglio and you-know-who).

Detroit keeps hanging on, though, splitting today. Four games back.

Two-and-a-half weeks to go.

Britney

Ahhh, can't resist.

"The higher the monkey climb, the more he expose."

I suppose I feel bad for Britney, in a way that has nothing to do with my long-standing desire to do her. (The bald period kind of took care of that.) Britney's music was tolerably competent, given the standards of the middle-of-the-FM-dial crapola that is shoveled at us on a daily basis (in my car, I flip between Rome and Rush). Even her latest song--the pathetic lip-synch from last night--doesn't entirely stink.

Viewed from afar, I think Britney went the way of so many megacelebs: straight from nobody saying no to her to everybody dictating everything to her; from nobody objecting to thirty thousand dollar coffee runs to everyone around you saying, Here, take this, wear this, appear here, do this.

The prototype, of course, is Elvis. Not that Britney is Elvis, but: overweight, sweating, mailing it in, visibly barely caring. Sound familiar?

What would have helped her, some time ago, was a character similar to John Spencer's character on "The West Wing," the one guy who could say, Come down, you're making a fool of yourself. And then protect her when she needed it.

Will somebody please tell me

. . . what is the use of three people in the "Monday Night Football" booth if one of the most crucial plays of the game escapes not only their notice, but apparently that of their director, their producer, and their spotters?

Fourth quarter, MNF part II. Cardinals 17, 49ers 13. Cards' ball. About five minutes remain. Mr. and Mrs. America and all the ships at sea are on the same page. If the Cards score a touchdown, game over. If the Cards score a field goal, overtime, worst case (for them) scenario. If the Cards run the clock out, well, they run the clock out.

Second down and long. Leinart gets Fitzgerald open on a swing pass. Fitzgerald, not the stupidest receiver in NFL history, sees open field in front of him and runs toward the first-down marker. Anticipating a tackle, he leaps toward a space of ground past the stick, and lands on the ground in first-down territory . . . only his momentum slides him out of bounds before he's touched, the last thing he wants.

Now: the crucial point. The timekeeper, unclear as to the nature of the tackle, allows the clock to run. Leinart, content to let the clock run until next pancake Sunday, leisurely calls the play and trots to the line. Suddenly, a whistle. No, since Fitzgerald was out of bounds, the clock needed to have stopped. Extra thirty seconds.

Well, all right. We reset the clock.

But here was the crucial point. As all of this was going on, None of the three announcers in the booth made a single comment as to why the clock was being re-set. Instead, Mike & Mike seemed more interested in Mike Ditka's collegiate experience at (Larry Fitzgerald's!) Pitt, how Ditka planned to be dentist, and oh, how funny is that?

Good Lord. Where has the competence gone?

Yankees 6, Royals 3

So: four games up, three weeks to go.

Detroit was always the worry.

A-Rod. Wang.

Politics, the way it used to be

My foray into paid political journalism lasted all of four days: specifically, the four days of the disastrous 1992 Republican Convention in the Houston Astrodome, the convention that (more because of how it was spun than what actually was said) basically sealed the next four (and, because the hapless Bob Dole was next in line, eight) years in the white house for Bill Clinton.

I was hired by an Illinois news service to file reports from the floor: reports dealing with the convention as a whole, and those dealing with delegates and concerns of DuPage County, the ultra-conservative suburb located to the west of Chicago, the service area of my employers.

In those (for me, anyway) pre-internet, pre-email days, when non-prestigious reporters were disallowed from parking their cars in the Astrodome parking lot (we had to drive to Rice University, park near the football field, board a bus, take the bus to the Dome, then take it back to Rice when the work was done), my work day took on an odd pace. I would stay at the Dome until the last speeches, take the bus to my car, drive home, type out my copy until I collapsed onto my keyboard. Then I would wake up at nine, drive to a Kinko's, fax my report, go home to bed for a few hours, then start the process over again.

All of this, for sixty-three dollars an article. Plus another ten for a sidebar.

It was very clear: I had been hired since, as a Houston resident, the news service would not have to pay for a hotel room. Or a per diem. (I once found myself, at the cash register in the food court, directly behind Morton Kondracke. "Like your work," I told him. "Well, thank you very much," he said, with a smile and a nod.) Then I forked over an overlarge amount for my cheeseburger and Coke.

But . . . I loved it. I loved sitting in press row, listening to political reporters laughing out loud at Pat Buchanan's rousing speech, then retreating to the press room to write, "divisive," "dangerous," "racist," and so on. I loved seeing Ronald Reagan in person, delivering the last major speech of his life. I loved discovering the hopelessness of Phil Graham's Presidential aspirations. During Graham's speech, I called the hotel room of Henry Hyde, the Congressman who represented most of the news service's readers. I had hoped, at best, to leave a message with his voice mail. When he answered his own phone in his own hotel room, I was startled . . . and apologetic. With Graham's keynote speech going on on the monitor above my head, I told the Congressman that, so as not to interrupt his viewing of the keynote speech, I could call again later.

"No, no," Congressman Hyde said. "We can talk now." And he gave me a splendid ten minutes, as Senator Graham went on. And on. When we hung up, I had my sixty-three dollars in hand. And Phil Graham was finished as a national political force.

That one taste with journalism, politics, and power left me wondering what I missed by throwing myself into the world of higher education. I used to have my regrets.

No more.

What we are approaching should be the greatest (at least, the most entertaining) politcal nominating process since 1952, or maybe 1920.

It is said that this election will be the first since 1952 in which neither a sitting President nor Vice-President is running. This would, it is assumed, take in Harry Truman, who in 1952 received some bad news in New Hampshire and withdrew (much as LBJ, sixteen years later, would similarly withdraw, over a war that had no ending).

The real blank slate is 1920, the year in which Warren Harding and Calvin Coolidge ran against James M. Cox and a former Assistant Secretary of the Navy named Franklin Delano Roosevelt. A Democrat, Woodrow Wilson, had won the war. but such was Americans' revulsion to anything international that Harding, with his promise of "a return to normalcy," swept the election.

So?

One would hope that the forthcoming election would at least be entertaining. Rudy, McCain, Romney, Hillary, Obama. Great fun.

But the truncated primary schedule?

A year's worth of build-up. Over in ten weeks.

I miss the good old days.

Yankees 11, Royals 5

Was thinking tonight of "The Bronx is Burning," especially of one great performance:

Oliver Platt as the Boss: Platt's performance was one that improved as the series went along, culminating in the wild last few days of the 1977 World Series. These, remember, were the days in which 1) the Yankees took a 3-1 Series lead over the Dodgers; 2) Reggie hit a meaningless home run in Game 5, after Don Sutton essentially telegraphed a fastball with a 10-3 Doger lead; 3) various news reports indicated that Reggie would refuse to report in '78 if Billy were the manager; 4) Steinbrenner, in response to the media reports, giving Billy a two-year extension; 5) Reggie's performance in Game 6: three swings, three home runs, four runs scored; four homers in four consecutive swings of the bat, an event unprecedented in the history of the sport.

Whenever I watch a re-creation of something on film, I'm always left asking, But what about X? What about Y? "The Bronx is Burning" came as close as any historical movie I've known to deal with X and with Y; it seemed to anticipate my next piece of knowledge and seize upon it. What was dramatized better than anything was Billy Martin's managerial genius in the closing weeks of the season and into the playoffs and finally the series: his benching of Reggie in the final game of the playoffs (leading to Reggie's crucial pinch-hit against Doug Bird in the eighth inning, the move Billy waited 2 1/2 hours to make); then his handling a pitching staff that was reduced to three pitchers (not three starters, three pitchers), Guidry, Torrez, and Lyle--who from Game 2 of the ALCS onward together won the seven games necessary to win the trophy with the little flags, Guidry winning two, Torrez two, Lyle three.

Oliver Platt, if it's possible of an actor in an eight-episode series, grew into Steinbrenner as he went along, culminating in his re-creation of Steinbrenner's interview with Howard Cosell before Game 6, his minute-long list of platitudes for Cosell before saying, "Now, as to your question . . ." On point, manifestly.

Anyway.

A-Rod, two more homers. Will Boras ask for 35 million?

Yankees 3, Royals 2

The most important game of the year? Maybe.

Detroit played Seattle. Whoever won would be two games back if the Yankees lost.

But they won.

As been said: A-Rod has long since wrapped up the MVP. But Posada is second. Again.

And this, too: Chamberlain, Melky, Cano, Hughes . . . and Kennedy.

All of a sudden, I like the team's future.

Yankees 10, Mariners 2

Today, Irish Trojan guestblogger Josh Rubin positively gloats about A-Rod's injury in last night's game.

Third Baseman for the Bronx B*stards hurts his ankle and had to leave yesterday's game (me: a 13-3 victory, mind you) against Seattle. Also leaving the game due to injury was their pitcher Wang, who now is tied with a MLB-leading 17 wins on the season.

Pardon my Boston sensibilities while I snigger at the loss (at least temporarily) of two of the B*stards' key players. ::snigger::

Snigger away, Rubin.

Oh. And tonight?

A-Rod: 2 for 3, 2 homers, 3 RBI, one walk.

Yankees 10, Mariners 2.

Thank you very much. Next case.

Yankees 13, Mariners 3

Posada, yes. But Wang. This is what staff aces are paid to do.

Anbar equals Gettysburg

For the past two years, I've been operating with the assumption that the battle for Baghdad was one of the consequential battles in history: our Ilium, our Marathon, our Hastings, our Agincourt, our Saratoga, our Waterloo, our San Jacinto, our Gettysburg, our Midway, our Normandy, our Inchon, our (and here the narrative darkens) Tet.

Growing up, and beyond, I've thrilled to the stories of my favorites: to Agincourt, in which Henry V's "band of brothers" defeated a French contingent five times its size; to Saratoga, in which the brilliance of Benedict Arnold crushed General Burgoyne's British contingent heading south from Canada--a victory that assured, at a minimum, Colonial home rule (afterwards King George III sued for peace, at any terms except outright independence); to Waterloo, which was won, the Duke of Wellington said, on the playing fields of Eton; to San Jacinto, in which Sam Houston, no dummy when it came to military history--and knowing that Santa Anna viewed himself as the Latin Napolean--played the part of Wellington, and, as Wellington had with Napolean at Waterloo, lured Santa Anna into a trap under the pretense of running for his life. In the 11th grade I gave a report on Gettysburg, the Tet of its time, the battle that destroyed the Confederacy as an offensive fighting force (all of Lee's battles for the final months of the war would be defensive), but, played out with the communication technology of a hundred years later, might have prodded the Walter Cronkite of his time to declare the war unwinnable.

Later on? Had Midway been taken by the opposition, the Japanese would have been able to run 24-hour bombing raids on Hawaii. Normandy we take as read. And I hold a special place in my heart for the story of MacArthur sweeping ashore at Inchon, helped by historically (and expected) high tides, the better to help the servicemen breach the city's high walls--and, in the process, and despite how badly things turned out in the end, assure a free South Korea.

This is how I pictured Baghdad. No matter the blunders (and there have been many), no matter the losses (and there have been many) this is the fight these men and women have to win. This is the battle upon which our whole extended fight against the forces of inhumanity hinges. And the whole world is watching.

Except . . . . except now that I read this, I have another notion.

Anbar.

Anbar is our Gettysburg, our Tet. It is the point at which the counter-offensive must be turned back, or not.

What happens here will affect the next twenty years.

Mariners 9, Yankees 1

The cliche reads, "This was the sort of game Clemens was brought in to win."

Yeah, go get your MRI. Good thing your wife dropped that call of yours. Sheesh.

Maybe he's done.

Thus leaving us, should the Rocket absent the scene, leaving us with Wang, Pettitte, Hughes, Kennedy, and . . . and . . .

Igawa, anyone?

Moose?

Pavano maybe?

Reactivate the Gator?

Dig up Herb Pennock?

Mike Nifong: guilty of contempt, sentenced to one night in jail

Details here.

I stopped spending a lot of time on the Duke Rape Hoax this spring, after it became clear the three lacrosse players would go free, in part because 1) nothing anyone did could add to the superb work of KC Johnson's Durham in Wonderland, and 2) my forthcoming wedding was consuming every second of my spare time.

The sentence seems abrurdly light, considering the wreckage Nifong wrought on three innocent lives. But a statute is a statute.

With Nifong--like rumpot Otis in "The Andy Griffith Show"--scheduled to spend Friday night in the clink (presumably he won't be allowed to lock himself in his cell), it appears the criminal aspect of the case is over.

All that is left is for the three defendants to reach a settlement with the city of Durham. And then sue Nifong. For everything he has or will ever have.

Finally, this, too, deserves repeating:

The world of information, justice, and public opinion, in the age of the internet, is a far different place than anyone could have expected. This started with Dan Rather's forged memos, and one CBS executive's memorable question: "Who cares about some guy in his pajamas sitting in his living room?" Everyone soon found out; Rather's memos probably cost John Kerry the election.

It is well to remember the great child sexual abuse hoaxes of the middle- and late-1980s, during which demonstrably innocent people were thrown into jail on the flimsiest of evidence--much of it implausible, much of it physically impossible. In the most notorius of these, The McMartin Pre-school Hoax, Ray Buckey spent five years imprisoned without bail awaiting trial before the case collapsed of its own absurdity.

It took years of work by a cadre of tenacious journalists from either end of the political spectrum (most notably Claudia Rosset of The Wall Street Journal and a small group of reporters from The Village Voice) to topple the entire apparatus of lies and improper assumptions of the whole (it deserves to be called) movement. (Does anyone remember the button reading "Kids Don't Lie"--they don't? Ever?) With the benefit of instant commmunication, and the ability of the next KC Johnson to communicate with anyone with a laptop and a link), it will be interesting to see how quickly the next McMartin-style farce will be exposed.

D-Rays 8, Yankees 2

A bomb-out by Pettitte, but no matter. Mariners, 1 tomorrow. This is the season.

USC 38, Idaho 10

So. What do we know?

1. The Trojans will go as far as their defense takes them. The offense is like one of those all-star rock bands brought together for benefit concerts: a lot of noise, some brilliance, but limited cohesion. I will take it as read that Carroll and Sarkesian held back much of the offensive gam plan for Nebraska. But Booty will have to play better, and the kids--McKnight, Hazelton--will have to grow up fast.

What else? Nothing else.

Yankees 9, D-Rays 6

Well, Joba's suspension comes to an end with no ill effects.

Leaving aide what happens tomorrow: Seattle next week. There's your season.