Shows what little I know about this stuff. An Opening Day has driven me back here and streamlined this to sports. Politics I'll place elsewhere soon (though I do note the that opening day in Chicago has been cancelled due to frigid weather and two inches of fluffy white global warming).
Tankees start in three hours. CC Sabathia is--who? Catfish Hunter, Tommy John, Mike Mussina, the Roger Clemens of 2000-2001? Or Ed Whitson, Carl Pavano, the Randy Johnson of 2005?
Meanwhile--Minute Maid at 6:05. Astros-Cubs. Oswalt-Zambrano. Astrogirl's and my 33% season tickets are down the left field line, twenty rows up--in other words, precisely to give us a perfect view of Manny Ramirez when the Dodgers come on April 21st. This might be the only time I'd regret a game being a regular-season instead of spring training, as it lessens dramatically the chances Manny coming to sit with us in the stands.
Showing posts with label Baseball. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Baseball. Show all posts
Monday, April 06, 2009
Monday, July 02, 2007
How to enjoy a miserable baseball season (National League division), Part II
Tonight was the concluding game of the bloc Astro-Girl and I purchased (or were given) some time ago, in the hopes of seeing Biggio's 3000th. That plan, of course, crapped out--I was off by one game, and heard about it--and so we were left to enjoy the game as best we could.
A 3-1 record in our own mini-homestand came in handy. Tonight, watching Carlos "El Caballo" Lee hit a majestic home run onto the train tracks at the top of the facade behind the Crawford Boxes, followed by a celebration of his rooting section (a collection of a half-a-dozen Hispanic men in Carlos Lee jerseys, sombreros and stick ponies, a group which perches itself on the walkway above the left field fence for every home game), was nice.
The sight of Craig Biggio to get two more hits (ten in the last five days) to pull to 3,007, and a tie with Al Kaline for twenty-sixth on the all-time hit list--this was special.
But more than anything, 2007 has been about the arrival of Hunter Pence, who tonight singled, scored, then clobbered a two-run homer off the Chik Fil-a left field foul pole, thus ensuring all ticket-holders free chicken sandwiches tomorrow.
This followed a four-for-five afternoon yesterday. Which followed hard upon a .350 start to the season, eventually rounding out to around .340.
He's young--I saw him up close a few weeks ago, when he came over to the right field railing and signed a ball of mine, and I'd say he's too young to shave. He hasn't quite figured out the contures of Minute Maid Park: tonight, with the bases loaded and one out in the ninth, went back on a long fly ball caught the ball on a backhanded dead run, but in the act of running up Tal's Hill he dropped the ball. He'll get better. And nobody knows his future, long-term. (Joe Charbannou, anyone?)
But for now, simply watching the start of what even might be something big is a reason to return to the ballpark, day after day.
Exhibit #1 of why the All-Star game sucks is that Hunter Pence--batting .340 with power, playing splendid centerfield, racing across the greenward or around the bases with a gait that reminds one of Dave Winfield, circa 1984, (in other words, a legitimate MVP candidate--is staying home.
A 3-1 record in our own mini-homestand came in handy. Tonight, watching Carlos "El Caballo" Lee hit a majestic home run onto the train tracks at the top of the facade behind the Crawford Boxes, followed by a celebration of his rooting section (a collection of a half-a-dozen Hispanic men in Carlos Lee jerseys, sombreros and stick ponies, a group which perches itself on the walkway above the left field fence for every home game), was nice.
The sight of Craig Biggio to get two more hits (ten in the last five days) to pull to 3,007, and a tie with Al Kaline for twenty-sixth on the all-time hit list--this was special.
But more than anything, 2007 has been about the arrival of Hunter Pence, who tonight singled, scored, then clobbered a two-run homer off the Chik Fil-a left field foul pole, thus ensuring all ticket-holders free chicken sandwiches tomorrow.
This followed a four-for-five afternoon yesterday. Which followed hard upon a .350 start to the season, eventually rounding out to around .340.
He's young--I saw him up close a few weeks ago, when he came over to the right field railing and signed a ball of mine, and I'd say he's too young to shave. He hasn't quite figured out the contures of Minute Maid Park: tonight, with the bases loaded and one out in the ninth, went back on a long fly ball caught the ball on a backhanded dead run, but in the act of running up Tal's Hill he dropped the ball. He'll get better. And nobody knows his future, long-term. (Joe Charbannou, anyone?)
But for now, simply watching the start of what even might be something big is a reason to return to the ballpark, day after day.
Exhibit #1 of why the All-Star game sucks is that Hunter Pence--batting .340 with power, playing splendid centerfield, racing across the greenward or around the bases with a gait that reminds one of Dave Winfield, circa 1984, (in other words, a legitimate MVP candidate--is staying home.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
How to enjoy a miserable baseball season (National League division)
Strange couple of days.
Tried to nail down a time period during which Biggio would hit number three thousand. Secured tickets for Friday, Saturday, and Monday, and was given tickets for Sunday by a friend and former student.
(Wonderful thing about being so open about my baseball fanaticism. When friends have extra tickets, they often think of me.)
I had no idea Biggio would go nuts, have the second 5-hit day of his career, get to 3K on Thursday, and put me in the doghouse with Astro-Girl. Or that Carlos Lee would end the game with an 11th-inning, two-out, walk-off Grand Slam in easily the most exciting Astro game of the year.
Partial remedy came last night.
As Tom Boswell once said, baseball is at once democratic and aristocratic: enjoyable for anyone wishing to spend an evening, but self-revelatory to anyone who pays serious attention. And so it was last night, in the bottom of the ninth of a wild Astros-Rockies game in which (up to that point) one lead or the other had either been reversed, erased or won back seven different times.
The situation: 8-7 Rockies. Closer Brian Fuentes on the mound.
Up first, the Golden Boy, your Rookie of the Half-Year, Hunter Pence (and, really, the only reason to watch the Astros besides Biggio's 3,000-hit chase), who grounded out (with hints that the first slump of his major-league career may be in the offing). Lance Berkman, trying to tie the game with one swing, struck out mightily, twice nearly spinning himself into the ground, as Reggie Jackson often did.
Two outs. Carlos Lee. Fuentes threw ball one.
"They're walking him," Astro-Girl said--correctly. One ball was in danger of beaning the batboy. Speedy Chris Burke comes in to run for Lee.
Now, Mark Loretta, the steadiest Astro thus far (the sort of thing that can be annoying to a team, when a player slotted for platoon/utility/pinch-hitting plays so well they simply have to play him every day, never mind their previous plans).
Tense shift.
So, okay, a .330 singles hitter comes up as the winning run. Burke is fast enough to score on a double, or on a single if on second.
So: a few considerations.
1. Does Rockies first baseman Helton play behind the runner and guard the line? No. Helped in part by the knowledge that Loretta is a right-handed hitter, and thus unlikely to hit the ball with power to the right side, Helton holds Burke at first.
2. Does Burke attempt a steal? No--and with good reason. Burke has first-to-third speed, or (almost pointless here) hit-and-run speed, but not enough straight-steal speed. With two outs, he is be off on contact--enough, Garner reasons, to hold him, especially early in the count.
3. The rest of the infield plays . . . Easy, this one. Third baseman Atkins, hugging the line, is deep. Short and second are just in from the outfield grass. Anything hit to hard them is an out. Anything dribbled to them is a hit, but with Burke proceeding no farther than second. Anything hit past them, no worse than a single, with Burke at third, especially because . . .
4. The outfield plays . . . Talk about a no-doubles outfield. Albert Pujols doesn't command this kind of respect. Centerfielder Willie Taveras is at the pre-Tal's Hill warning track, 403 feet deep. (Were this Yankee stadium, he'd be standing beyond the centerfield fence.) Left fielder Matt Halliday nearly has his back leaned against the left field out-of-town scoreboard, which measures a uniform 315 feet across and fronts the inviting Crawford Boxes.
Rockie manager Clint Hurdle's strategy is clear. Anything hit to an infielder is out number three. Anything hit up the left field line (and thus at Atkins), out number three. Anything hit to the outfield is a single, with Burke stopping at third.
On-deck is Mike Lamb, red-hot but a left-handed hitter, a reduced risk against the left-handed Fuentes. The rational is to pitch to Loretta. If he makes out, game over. A base hit, the Rockies would still lead.
A good strategy. Except that right-handed hitters in Minute Maid, if you pitch them inside . . .
Loretta turned on the second pitch and sent it into the Crawford Boxes.
9-8 Astros. Ballgame.
Every team (that is, all but the best, like the 1998 Yankees) will lose 58 games. Every team (all but the worst, like the 1962 Mets) will win 58 games. Success or failure lies in the other 58.
The other 58 in 2007 will not treat the Astros kindly (witness tonight, a dreary 5-0 loss). But within the 58 wins--one-third of the season--one finds a reason to watch.
Tried to nail down a time period during which Biggio would hit number three thousand. Secured tickets for Friday, Saturday, and Monday, and was given tickets for Sunday by a friend and former student.
(Wonderful thing about being so open about my baseball fanaticism. When friends have extra tickets, they often think of me.)
I had no idea Biggio would go nuts, have the second 5-hit day of his career, get to 3K on Thursday, and put me in the doghouse with Astro-Girl. Or that Carlos Lee would end the game with an 11th-inning, two-out, walk-off Grand Slam in easily the most exciting Astro game of the year.
Partial remedy came last night.
As Tom Boswell once said, baseball is at once democratic and aristocratic: enjoyable for anyone wishing to spend an evening, but self-revelatory to anyone who pays serious attention. And so it was last night, in the bottom of the ninth of a wild Astros-Rockies game in which (up to that point) one lead or the other had either been reversed, erased or won back seven different times.
The situation: 8-7 Rockies. Closer Brian Fuentes on the mound.
Up first, the Golden Boy, your Rookie of the Half-Year, Hunter Pence (and, really, the only reason to watch the Astros besides Biggio's 3,000-hit chase), who grounded out (with hints that the first slump of his major-league career may be in the offing). Lance Berkman, trying to tie the game with one swing, struck out mightily, twice nearly spinning himself into the ground, as Reggie Jackson often did.
Two outs. Carlos Lee. Fuentes threw ball one.
"They're walking him," Astro-Girl said--correctly. One ball was in danger of beaning the batboy. Speedy Chris Burke comes in to run for Lee.
Now, Mark Loretta, the steadiest Astro thus far (the sort of thing that can be annoying to a team, when a player slotted for platoon/utility/pinch-hitting plays so well they simply have to play him every day, never mind their previous plans).
Tense shift.
So, okay, a .330 singles hitter comes up as the winning run. Burke is fast enough to score on a double, or on a single if on second.
So: a few considerations.
1. Does Rockies first baseman Helton play behind the runner and guard the line? No. Helped in part by the knowledge that Loretta is a right-handed hitter, and thus unlikely to hit the ball with power to the right side, Helton holds Burke at first.
2. Does Burke attempt a steal? No--and with good reason. Burke has first-to-third speed, or (almost pointless here) hit-and-run speed, but not enough straight-steal speed. With two outs, he is be off on contact--enough, Garner reasons, to hold him, especially early in the count.
3. The rest of the infield plays . . . Easy, this one. Third baseman Atkins, hugging the line, is deep. Short and second are just in from the outfield grass. Anything hit to hard them is an out. Anything dribbled to them is a hit, but with Burke proceeding no farther than second. Anything hit past them, no worse than a single, with Burke at third, especially because . . .
4. The outfield plays . . . Talk about a no-doubles outfield. Albert Pujols doesn't command this kind of respect. Centerfielder Willie Taveras is at the pre-Tal's Hill warning track, 403 feet deep. (Were this Yankee stadium, he'd be standing beyond the centerfield fence.) Left fielder Matt Halliday nearly has his back leaned against the left field out-of-town scoreboard, which measures a uniform 315 feet across and fronts the inviting Crawford Boxes.
Rockie manager Clint Hurdle's strategy is clear. Anything hit to an infielder is out number three. Anything hit up the left field line (and thus at Atkins), out number three. Anything hit to the outfield is a single, with Burke stopping at third.
On-deck is Mike Lamb, red-hot but a left-handed hitter, a reduced risk against the left-handed Fuentes. The rational is to pitch to Loretta. If he makes out, game over. A base hit, the Rockies would still lead.
A good strategy. Except that right-handed hitters in Minute Maid, if you pitch them inside . . .
Loretta turned on the second pitch and sent it into the Crawford Boxes.
9-8 Astros. Ballgame.
Every team (that is, all but the best, like the 1998 Yankees) will lose 58 games. Every team (all but the worst, like the 1962 Mets) will win 58 games. Success or failure lies in the other 58.
The other 58 in 2007 will not treat the Astros kindly (witness tonight, a dreary 5-0 loss). But within the 58 wins--one-third of the season--one finds a reason to watch.
Tuesday, May 01, 2007
The smell of the grass, or whatever
So we return to the sheer joy of the game.
Out of, you know, desperation.
I always think of my favorite baseball summers. In descending order: 1996, 1978, 1998.
The first: Return to Glory.
The second: Greatest Comeback Ever. (This would get the winner's purse, except that sports information was rather ancient in those days. Any Phoenix sports fan over 40 remembers the Republic Sports Line, which was basically an answering machine featuring one guy (I always imagined him as having a beard plus hair to his shoulders) reading the scores in a bored monotone that suggested a coroner's emotional attachment to the deceased. Those a little older may remember the ESPN sports phone number, chanted in commercial after commercial: 900-976-1313! I called fourteen times one month, and caught it from my father over the seven bucks I had wasted, never mind I had to call because the freaking Bud Light commercial ("Bring out your best!") drowned out the freaking scores. Newspapers were worse. In those days, the Republic wouldn't even try to have the scores from the West Coast, a whole one hour behind where we were; when the Yankees played Seattle or Oakland, we got the results two days later, like we were at the freaking South Pole.)
So: greatest comeback ever. But viewed from afar.
The third: Greatest Team of All Time. Too close to '96 to be earth-shattering. But something.
You know whom I have a soft spot for?
1988 Yankees.
Not much love, to be sure. A check of the records indicates they finished . . . oh, I can't remember. Second, third, fourth. They had the hitting (Mattingly, Winfield, Henderson, Clark, Pags, Sluggo), but their starting pitching was bad (John Candelaria started well but was hurt, likewise Al Leiter, likewise Richard Dotson; Ron Guidry was at the end of the line, likewise Tommy John; Rick Rhoden went .500, does that count?) and the bullpen was worse (Rags was ready to move on, some other relievers did what they could).
So: the reason for my soft spot?
Well.
1988 was the first time I enjoyed baseball on a daily basis. Ah, I thought. This was how the game is meant to be watched, and listened to: as John Updike wrote, something about "a tissue-thing difference between a thing done well and a thing done ill." This was far preferable to restricting my baseball-watching to NBC's "Game of the Week" and ABC's "Monday Night Baseball," an activity that reduced individual games to college football.
Another thing. 1988 was the last time the Yankees had a decent radio crew. Hank Greenwald and Tommy Hutton--sharp, crisp, giving us an honest account of the game--were fired at the end of 1988. The scuttlebutt was that Greenwald and Hutton were canned for not being cheerleader enough, a fair enough assumption, as their replacement, John Sterling, endeared himself in the first month of the season for calling two Yankee home run balls that weren't, to wit:
IT IS HIGH!
IT IS LONG!
IT IS GONE!
NO IT ISN'T!
Lovely.
So I came in front of the TV tonight. Win or lose, let's enjoy some baseball.
Out of, you know, desperation.
I always think of my favorite baseball summers. In descending order: 1996, 1978, 1998.
The first: Return to Glory.
The second: Greatest Comeback Ever. (This would get the winner's purse, except that sports information was rather ancient in those days. Any Phoenix sports fan over 40 remembers the Republic Sports Line, which was basically an answering machine featuring one guy (I always imagined him as having a beard plus hair to his shoulders) reading the scores in a bored monotone that suggested a coroner's emotional attachment to the deceased. Those a little older may remember the ESPN sports phone number, chanted in commercial after commercial: 900-976-1313! I called fourteen times one month, and caught it from my father over the seven bucks I had wasted, never mind I had to call because the freaking Bud Light commercial ("Bring out your best!") drowned out the freaking scores. Newspapers were worse. In those days, the Republic wouldn't even try to have the scores from the West Coast, a whole one hour behind where we were; when the Yankees played Seattle or Oakland, we got the results two days later, like we were at the freaking South Pole.)
So: greatest comeback ever. But viewed from afar.
The third: Greatest Team of All Time. Too close to '96 to be earth-shattering. But something.
You know whom I have a soft spot for?
1988 Yankees.
Not much love, to be sure. A check of the records indicates they finished . . . oh, I can't remember. Second, third, fourth. They had the hitting (Mattingly, Winfield, Henderson, Clark, Pags, Sluggo), but their starting pitching was bad (John Candelaria started well but was hurt, likewise Al Leiter, likewise Richard Dotson; Ron Guidry was at the end of the line, likewise Tommy John; Rick Rhoden went .500, does that count?) and the bullpen was worse (Rags was ready to move on, some other relievers did what they could).
So: the reason for my soft spot?
Well.
1988 was the first time I enjoyed baseball on a daily basis. Ah, I thought. This was how the game is meant to be watched, and listened to: as John Updike wrote, something about "a tissue-thing difference between a thing done well and a thing done ill." This was far preferable to restricting my baseball-watching to NBC's "Game of the Week" and ABC's "Monday Night Baseball," an activity that reduced individual games to college football.
Another thing. 1988 was the last time the Yankees had a decent radio crew. Hank Greenwald and Tommy Hutton--sharp, crisp, giving us an honest account of the game--were fired at the end of 1988. The scuttlebutt was that Greenwald and Hutton were canned for not being cheerleader enough, a fair enough assumption, as their replacement, John Sterling, endeared himself in the first month of the season for calling two Yankee home run balls that weren't, to wit:
IT IS HIGH!
IT IS LONG!
IT IS GONE!
NO IT ISN'T!
Lovely.
So I came in front of the TV tonight. Win or lose, let's enjoy some baseball.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Red Sox 7, Angels 2
Filed under my "One time until I die" list is attending a Red Sox game on Patriots Day, then rushing from Fenway to catch the last of the Boston Marathon.
But that's not why I note today's game.
Josh Beckett is 3-0. Dice-K should be 2-0, save for the best-pitched game of the year by Felix Hernandez. If Curt Schilling figures it out . . . if the Sox have Beckett, Dice-K and Schilling in the rotatin, with Papelbon to close . . .
. . . if JD Drew stays healthy enough to bat behind Papi and Manny . . .
Oh, crap.
Look. The Hell. Out.
This with Moose and (knock me over with a feather) Pavano headed to the DL.
And Pettitte (and really, what are his chances of pitching so much as 200 innings this season?) not due to pitch until Friday.
Look, I know the Yankees are famously ginger with their pitchers, on the theory that since they'll be close in September anyway, why not sit someone who's not right?
I've not felt this since 1995, when the Yanks saved their season by acquiring David Cone for the September run. Not when they started 11-19 in 2005. Not when Jeter separated his shoulder on Opening Day, 2003. I didn't think what I think now.
This season could be trouble.
But that's not why I note today's game.
Josh Beckett is 3-0. Dice-K should be 2-0, save for the best-pitched game of the year by Felix Hernandez. If Curt Schilling figures it out . . . if the Sox have Beckett, Dice-K and Schilling in the rotatin, with Papelbon to close . . .
. . . if JD Drew stays healthy enough to bat behind Papi and Manny . . .
Oh, crap.
Look. The Hell. Out.
This with Moose and (knock me over with a feather) Pavano headed to the DL.
And Pettitte (and really, what are his chances of pitching so much as 200 innings this season?) not due to pitch until Friday.
Look, I know the Yankees are famously ginger with their pitchers, on the theory that since they'll be close in September anyway, why not sit someone who's not right?
I've not felt this since 1995, when the Yanks saved their season by acquiring David Cone for the September run. Not when they started 11-19 in 2005. Not when Jeter separated his shoulder on Opening Day, 2003. I didn't think what I think now.
This season could be trouble.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
A-Rod needs his own Don Imus
To say this:
A-Rod. Please stop it. Please stop talking. Take batting practice. Take fielding practice. Run on a treadmill. Anything.
This isn't helping, I don't care what anyone says.
A-Rod. Please stop it. Please stop talking. Take batting practice. Take fielding practice. Run on a treadmill. Anything.
This isn't helping, I don't care what anyone says.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Best four words in the English language
"Pitchers and catchers report"
Oh, and Mike Mussina, of all people, smacks around Carl "bruised buttocks" Pavano.
The season will be interesting.
Oh, and Mike Mussina, of all people, smacks around Carl "bruised buttocks" Pavano.
The season will be interesting.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Meet the New Lefty
Yanks get their guy from Japan.
Wang, Pettitte, Moose, Unit, New Guy.
This is a situation where Unit is no better than the fourth starter.
Wang, Pettitte, Moose, Unit, New Guy.
This is a situation where Unit is no better than the fourth starter.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
"One move fills many holes"
Re Pettitte:
Jay Sherman of the Post gives his approval.
Filip Bondy in The Daily News is less enthusiastic.
Jay Sherman of the Post gives his approval.
Filip Bondy in The Daily News is less enthusiastic.
Pettitte to Yankees
For the sixteen million the Yankees were offering all along.
Strange, though. This may be the first free agent signing that hurts both teams. After Wang, the Yankee rotation goes:
Moose
Pettitte
Unit
A great rotation.
For 1997.
Strange, though. This may be the first free agent signing that hurts both teams. After Wang, the Yankee rotation goes:
Moose
Pettitte
Unit
A great rotation.
For 1997.
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