One of my favorite teachers, ever, was my seventh-grade Social Studies teacher, Mrs. Cornett. In our school district, seventh grade meant American History, and Mrs. Cornett not only had an encyclopedic knowledge of her subject (she was the type to spend one summer in Colonial Virginia, the next touring Lexington and Concord and other Massachusetts haunts, the next touring Civil War battlefields), but also had a flair for making Ulysses S. Grant and William Howard Taft sound as if they lived just up to road, in Deer Valley. Much of the second half of the school year was given over to student oral reports; before we went off to the library, she would hand us a mimeographed list of instructions, chief among which was, "Don't bore us with facts, tell us INTERESTING STORIES!" For that was her credo: American history was one fascinating event after another. Chiefly because of her, I very nearly chose history as a major in college (probably as a precursor to law school) before settling on English.
One of her most memorable stories started way before Columbus, the tale of the Vikings' brief exploration of North America, made possible by the emigation of whole tribes from Norway to Iceland to Greenland at around AD 900. Here, we were told, was the great historical tidbit: Leif Ericson, the most famous of the North American explorers, had a father named Eric the Red, who was not only a pillager in his own right, but also one of the first example of an unscrupulous real estate agent. (Think Glengarry Glen Ross meets Thor from The Avengers.) It was Eric, we were told, who named a solid sheet of ice (the biggst island in the world) Greenland, ironically coaxing his fellow Vikings, heretofore living on Iceland (which was, is, mostly green) to purchase a plot of land owned by him. It was only (the tale went) when Eric's dupes reached Greenland that they discovered an ice shelf, and so they pushed south, south to a place we now call America . . .
Well, almost.
As this article makes clearGreenland wasn't always a solid block of ice. In fact, as historical reasearch has demonstrated, a thousand years ago the southern portion of Greenland was quite arable farmland. Seven hundred years ago, during an unseasonably warm period in the earth's history, Greenland's farms did a brisk business, and such was the trading between islands and continent that the wine brewed in England threatened to put French vineyards out of business.
Now? Well, until very recently, Greenland was a sheet of ice. And wine stomped in England's climate was sold in bargain barrels in Picadilly Circus.
And it's warmer now. We can blame human behavior. But before? What caused Greenland to be so warm in 1300? The SUVs?
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Yanks win series from Tigers, 2-1
Dang.
Just as things get as good as they are, I have to go and get a second job.
In the last leisurely weekend of my summer, I received a phone call from an old graduate school acquaintance, who is now the Lower Division Coordinator at my old graduate school, the University of Houston. Apparently the English Department was in the market for lecturers, and a mutual friend recommended me. I took it, knowing, first, I could only take classes at the beginning of the day, leaving the rest of the hours for my primary job. So my schedule is as follows:
Monday-Wednesday
7 am: Awake, shower, breakfast
8 am: Drive to Houston Community College
8:30-2: Perform Department Chair duties
2:00: Drive home
2:30-3:30: Lapse into coma
3:30-4:30: Work out
4:30-5:30: Drive back to campus
6:00-8:00: Teach HCC night school
Tuesday-Thursday:
5:30 am: Awake, etc.
6:30: Drive to U of H
7-9:45: Teach two U of H classes
9:45: Race to HCC
10:00-3:30: Perform chair duties
3:30: Drive home
This is all well and good, and in keeping with what I must do, except that I never seem to get home before 8 pm in any case. And so the Yanks' great run has been only a rumor.
Still, good show. Magic number is 22.
Just as things get as good as they are, I have to go and get a second job.
In the last leisurely weekend of my summer, I received a phone call from an old graduate school acquaintance, who is now the Lower Division Coordinator at my old graduate school, the University of Houston. Apparently the English Department was in the market for lecturers, and a mutual friend recommended me. I took it, knowing, first, I could only take classes at the beginning of the day, leaving the rest of the hours for my primary job. So my schedule is as follows:
Monday-Wednesday
7 am: Awake, shower, breakfast
8 am: Drive to Houston Community College
8:30-2: Perform Department Chair duties
2:00: Drive home
2:30-3:30: Lapse into coma
3:30-4:30: Work out
4:30-5:30: Drive back to campus
6:00-8:00: Teach HCC night school
Tuesday-Thursday:
5:30 am: Awake, etc.
6:30: Drive to U of H
7-9:45: Teach two U of H classes
9:45: Race to HCC
10:00-3:30: Perform chair duties
3:30: Drive home
This is all well and good, and in keeping with what I must do, except that I never seem to get home before 8 pm in any case. And so the Yanks' great run has been only a rumor.
Still, good show. Magic number is 22.
Sunday, August 27, 2006
Jeremy Piven wins Emmy for 'Entourage'
I was late in coming to Jeremy Piven, who seemed to exist on the fringe of so much of what I liked on television and movies. He was a studio factotum in The Player, in a role that culd have been played by a thousand others. He was the George Constanza character in the "Jerry" show within "Seinfeld," a brilliant take, only he had maybe six lines. He was the star of the movie PCU, something that didn't work because 1) pushing thirty, with his hair already receding, he came off as less a college student than any of the late-twentysomething guys in "Animal House," and 2) the script sucked. He was great for a season on "The Larry Sanders Show," and then was jettisoned, whether by his choice or someone else's, I don't know.
Funny thing is, I used to really wonder about him. Not classically handsome, going bald in his twenties, bouncing to and from projects that were either unworthy of him or that he never stayed at very long, I would wonder: who is this guy? And will we ever see him in something that demands our prolonged attention?
It is a wonderful thing when a performer meets his moment. I keep thinking of Paul Lynde, a credible comic actor, Uncle Arthur on "Bewitched" and the father on Bye. Bye, Birdie, who nevertheless found immortality as the middle square on "Hollywood Squares." Lynde's comic timing was so masterful that record albums were released featuring his byplay with Peter Marshall; I've never been much for game shows (outside of watching that collection of alcoholics slur their way through an episode of "Match Game 75," or whatever the year happened to be), but Lynde was something else.
So it has been these past few years with Piven, who has finally found his voice as Ari. Ari is something of an ongoing car crash, in that you can't look away; he's also someone whose forces of resolve you have to admire. He is, let's face it, the reason we lan our Sunday nights around a certain half-hour. When he won the Emmy tonight, I was stunned; I simply assumed this to be his second or third, not his first. The man and the role have met.
Much the same takes place with Keifer Sutherland and "24." But let that go for now.
It was enough for me that Geena Davis didn't win for "Commander in Chief." Small miracles.
Funny thing is, I used to really wonder about him. Not classically handsome, going bald in his twenties, bouncing to and from projects that were either unworthy of him or that he never stayed at very long, I would wonder: who is this guy? And will we ever see him in something that demands our prolonged attention?
It is a wonderful thing when a performer meets his moment. I keep thinking of Paul Lynde, a credible comic actor, Uncle Arthur on "Bewitched" and the father on Bye. Bye, Birdie, who nevertheless found immortality as the middle square on "Hollywood Squares." Lynde's comic timing was so masterful that record albums were released featuring his byplay with Peter Marshall; I've never been much for game shows (outside of watching that collection of alcoholics slur their way through an episode of "Match Game 75," or whatever the year happened to be), but Lynde was something else.
So it has been these past few years with Piven, who has finally found his voice as Ari. Ari is something of an ongoing car crash, in that you can't look away; he's also someone whose forces of resolve you have to admire. He is, let's face it, the reason we lan our Sunday nights around a certain half-hour. When he won the Emmy tonight, I was stunned; I simply assumed this to be his second or third, not his first. The man and the role have met.
Much the same takes place with Keifer Sutherland and "24." But let that go for now.
It was enough for me that Geena Davis didn't win for "Commander in Chief." Small miracles.
The Texans' saga continues
In Denver, the Texans lose to the Broncos in their third exhibition game.
No shame, really, except for the latest exploits of Mario Williams, THE MAN THE TEXANS DRAFTED INSTEAD OF REGGIE BUSH.
Two tackles.
Zero sacks.
Three tackles in three games.
Wonderful.
No shame, really, except for the latest exploits of Mario Williams, THE MAN THE TEXANS DRAFTED INSTEAD OF REGGIE BUSH.
Two tackles.
Zero sacks.
Three tackles in three games.
Wonderful.
Yankees 11, Angels 8
And so the Bombers end the most lackluster week since the first of April precisely where they started it: 6 1/2 games in front of the Red Sox. Seven in the all-important loss column.
The Direct TV curtain was drawn across this game, so I'll simply glean what I can from the box score.
I first heard the name "Bernie Williams" in 1989, at the time of his promotion from the depths of the minors to AA Albany-Colonie, in connection with how hard the Atlanta Braves were trying to pry him loose from New York. The story was that the Braves had offered the Yankees their choice of any two players in their organization except for Tom Glavine, John Smoltz or Dale Murphy. The Yankees said No, not even for Dale Murphy.
(I read all this in the New York Post one March weekday during Spring Break in graduate school, on a ninety-minute subway ride that took my girlfriend and I from the Bronx down to Manhattan. The plan, hatched by the woman and me, was to take our lunch to Central Park; she had grown up in Ecuador, I had grown up in Arizona and gone to college in California, and both of us were innocent of the most fundamental piece of truth known by every New Yorker, that March is the most miserable month of the year to be outdoors. The icy winds sent us right off the park and into FAO Schwartz for nothing more that heat; I swear, as we walked among the plus toys and working train set, I saw steam come off our bodies, as if we were extras in Dr. Zhivago. Anyway, back to the post.)
The offer, and the refusal, became a significant moment in baseball history, and indicative of the next decade-plus. In 1989, the Braves and Yankees were the laughingstocks of baseball, but this would soon change. In Atlanta, John Schuerholz was quietly putting together a team that, starting in 1991, would terrorize the National League right up until this summer. Meanwhile, Steinbrenner was just being weaned off the disastrous trades of the previous decade, the trading away of Fred McGriff, Willie McGee, Doug Drabek and (the previous summer) Jay Buhner. No doubt the system of sucking it up and being patient with the kids was helped by Steinbrenner's two-year suspension, which began the following summer, but the holding-on to Bernie Williams would be a sort of bellwhether, as the development of home-grown players such as Derek Jeter, Andy Pettitte, Mariano Rivera, and Jorge Posada would pave the way for four World Series championships in five years, the greatest dynasty since Joe DiMaggio's and Mickey Mantle's careers overlapped. For many, the Yankees' return to glory was signaled by the arrival of Jeter; to me, it was the sight of Bernie Williams gliding across centerfield on the way to turning a double into a run-saving out.
Throughout the twentieth century, two positions in sports have transcended their office-holders and teams and even their sports, to become metaphors for prestige. The first is quarterback of Notre Dame. The second is centerfielder for the Yankees: Combs, DiMaggio, Mantle, Rivers. And then Bernie, and now Damon. No, Bernie won't follow so many of his predecessors into the Hall of Fame, not quite. But in looking at his line today--4 for 5, two home runs--it was nice to remember how much he has meant to the team, and how he can still turn it on at times.
The Direct TV curtain was drawn across this game, so I'll simply glean what I can from the box score.
I first heard the name "Bernie Williams" in 1989, at the time of his promotion from the depths of the minors to AA Albany-Colonie, in connection with how hard the Atlanta Braves were trying to pry him loose from New York. The story was that the Braves had offered the Yankees their choice of any two players in their organization except for Tom Glavine, John Smoltz or Dale Murphy. The Yankees said No, not even for Dale Murphy.
(I read all this in the New York Post one March weekday during Spring Break in graduate school, on a ninety-minute subway ride that took my girlfriend and I from the Bronx down to Manhattan. The plan, hatched by the woman and me, was to take our lunch to Central Park; she had grown up in Ecuador, I had grown up in Arizona and gone to college in California, and both of us were innocent of the most fundamental piece of truth known by every New Yorker, that March is the most miserable month of the year to be outdoors. The icy winds sent us right off the park and into FAO Schwartz for nothing more that heat; I swear, as we walked among the plus toys and working train set, I saw steam come off our bodies, as if we were extras in Dr. Zhivago. Anyway, back to the post.)
The offer, and the refusal, became a significant moment in baseball history, and indicative of the next decade-plus. In 1989, the Braves and Yankees were the laughingstocks of baseball, but this would soon change. In Atlanta, John Schuerholz was quietly putting together a team that, starting in 1991, would terrorize the National League right up until this summer. Meanwhile, Steinbrenner was just being weaned off the disastrous trades of the previous decade, the trading away of Fred McGriff, Willie McGee, Doug Drabek and (the previous summer) Jay Buhner. No doubt the system of sucking it up and being patient with the kids was helped by Steinbrenner's two-year suspension, which began the following summer, but the holding-on to Bernie Williams would be a sort of bellwhether, as the development of home-grown players such as Derek Jeter, Andy Pettitte, Mariano Rivera, and Jorge Posada would pave the way for four World Series championships in five years, the greatest dynasty since Joe DiMaggio's and Mickey Mantle's careers overlapped. For many, the Yankees' return to glory was signaled by the arrival of Jeter; to me, it was the sight of Bernie Williams gliding across centerfield on the way to turning a double into a run-saving out.
Throughout the twentieth century, two positions in sports have transcended their office-holders and teams and even their sports, to become metaphors for prestige. The first is quarterback of Notre Dame. The second is centerfielder for the Yankees: Combs, DiMaggio, Mantle, Rivers. And then Bernie, and now Damon. No, Bernie won't follow so many of his predecessors into the Hall of Fame, not quite. But in looking at his line today--4 for 5, two home runs--it was nice to remember how much he has meant to the team, and how he can still turn it on at times.
Saturday, August 26, 2006
Birds 4, Yanks 2; Angels 5, Yanks 4
And the post-Sox hangover continues. Counting the three games leading up to the Red Sox and the four leading away, the Yankees are 2-5.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Two "Asian" lads who "wanted a bit of fun."
The UK Daily Mail is up in arms about two "Asian" (ie Muslim) youths thrown off an international flight plane when several passengers refused to fly with them. The Independent makes clear the lads' oceans of graciousness; the boys beg people not to be paranoid about Muslims, and one adds,
Curiously, the story makes no mention--none--about what the gentlemen's idea of "a bit of fun" might be. Nor is their any mention in any of the 47 comments on the Mirror story, one of which sniffs that he wouldn't fly that particular airline anymore, "Because they might not like Scottish people."
Count on Charles Johnson at Little Green Footballs to unearth the root of the panic. Money quote:
Ha ha ha ha ha! What fun.
The Daily Mirrorwrites, "We might be Asian, but we're two ordinary lads who wanted a bit of fun."
Curiously, the story makes no mention--none--about what the gentlemen's idea of "a bit of fun" might be. Nor is their any mention in any of the 47 comments on the Mirror story, one of which sniffs that he wouldn't fly that particular airline anymore, "Because they might not like Scottish people."
Count on Charles Johnson at Little Green Footballs to unearth the root of the panic. Money quote:
It was then, (one passenger) said, that his wife Susanne began talking to another passenger who said she had sat next to the two men.
“She said she had heard them saying it was the last 30 minutes of their lives,” said Mr Wearden.
Ha ha ha ha ha! What fun.
Mariners 6, Yankees 5
In a game where Giambi, Cano, Rivera, Kyle and Proctor get the night off.
Still: should have won.
Still: should have won.
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Wait, how does this game work?
Surely it was our invasion of Iraq that made us more vulnrable to terrorists. That explains terrorist plots against us. And England. And Spain. And Germany.
Oh, wait, about that last one . . .
Then, this:
Two points:
1. Yeah, go figure.
2. Not once does anyone quoted in the article express a sentiment within ten miles of the one the article makes a point of citing.
One must conclude that the author simply made the second passage up.
Oh, wait, about that last one . . .
BERLIN - A Lebanese student suspected of planting a train bomb that failed to explode had contacts in Hamburg, authorities said Tuesday, the latest link to the northern port city where three of the Sept. 11 suicide pilots prepared for their attacks.
Then, this:
The planned attack here stunned Germans who thought the country's vehement opposition to the Iraq war would insulate it from becoming a terror target almost five years after the attacks on Washington and New York.
Two points:
1. Yeah, go figure.
2. Not once does anyone quoted in the article express a sentiment within ten miles of the one the article makes a point of citing.
One must conclude that the author simply made the second passage up.
The magnitude of it all
Funny when you fall behind. Today was my first day at my new assignment (English lecturer at the University of Houston) while demands continue in job number one, Department Chair of Arts & Humanities at Houston Community College. With all that, and quite without his knowledge, I have brought in SunDevil Joe to make sense of the last four warped, twisted, fabulous days (I'd say, the best since the Yanks beat the Sox 19-8 to go up three games to one . . . ah, never mind). SDJ's assessment:
Couldn't agree more.
It is difficult to properly digest/take in/comprehend what happened in those four infamous days. After all, it hadn't happened in some 50 years. However, the following (courtesy of DAN GRAZIANO AND BRENDAN PRUNTY Star-Ledger Staff )
heped me recap the salient moments of the massacre.
Five Key Moments in the Yankees-Red Sox series
1. Johnny Damon leads off Game 1 with a triple against Boston starter Jason Johnson. Damon would score moments later on a Derek Jeter single. The Red Sox never recovered, and neither did Johnson, who was designated for assignment between games of Friday's doubleheader.
2. Derek Jeter hits a two-out, three-run double against Boston reliever Mike Timlin in the top of the seventh inning of Friday's night game. The hit turned a 10-8 Boston lead into an 11-10 Yankees lead and an eventual win.
3. Jorge Posada drives in three runs with a two-out triple in the top of the sixth inning Saturday to blow the game open.
4. With the bases loaded and one out in the bottom of the seventh on Sunday night, and Boston leading 5-3, Scott Proctor strikes out Wily Mo Pena and gets Doug Mirabelli to fly out to right. The Yankees go on to tie and then score three in the 10th inning.
5. Bobby Abreu's one-out double in the top of the sixth inning against David Wells in the series finale breaks a scoreless tie. The Yankees go on to win 2-1 and sweep a five-game series at Fenway Park for the first time since September of 1943.
Couldn't agree more.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Yankees 2, Boston 1
My treat to myself is that I'm gong to sit down tomorrow and contemplate the wonderfulness of the last four days.
Sunday, August 20, 2006
Yankees 8, Red Sox 5 (10)
Tonight's question and answer session:
Q: How worse could matters have gone for Boston this evening?
A: Consider what poor shape they would have been in had they won: Four out in the loss column, third place in the Wild Card. Due back in a matter of hours behind injured David Wells. Jonathan Papelbon, after a 40-plus pitch meatgrinder, unavailable for duty. Up against Corey Lidle, an innings-eater willing to go seven innings if it means pitching underhand.
Now? Now the Red Sox are six out in the loss column, and still third in the Wild Card, with everything else the same. Due back, etc. Jonathan Papelbon, etc.
(Understand, the Yankees came into the series with the advantage of a front-runner; Torre was willing sacrifice a game--i.e., start Sydney Ponson in Friday's nightcap--if it meant preserving the rotation and resting the bullpen. Well, behind Abreu, Damon and Melky, the Yankees went ahead and won that game and the two subsequent, leaving Torre, theoretically, with the rest-the-bullpen game still in his pocket. Do Myers-Proctor-Rivera come out tomorrow in a 4-2 New York lead? Probably. A 4-2 deficit? Maybe not.)
Q: Had Theo Epstein hired a beer vendor to manage tonight's game, would the Red Sox had won?
A: Yes. Not bringing Jonathan Papelbon out to start the eighth inning was, I think, the worst managerial decision by a Red Sox manager since Grady Little left Pedro in to face Jorge Posada in the eighth inning, Game 7 of the 2003 ALCS (which in turn was the worst managerial decision ever made since the one made ten minutes earlier, sending Pedro out to start the eighth. Okay, good times. Back to tonight.)
Consider. Papelbon was coming off four days' rest, which meant at least three more days than any other relief pitcher plying his trade in the Greater Boston area. Did anyone doubt he'd be summoned before the ninth, which probably meant he'd be pulled into a jam, at a time when a four-day rest would mean command, and not fatigue, would be the main consideration, against the most patient team in baseball?
Never mind. Mike Timlin, a Yankee-killer of years gone past, surrenders an infield hit to Damon. Then he hits Jeter. Left-handed specialist Javier Lopez comes in, surrenders a fifty-pitch walk to Abreu to load the bases. Whereupon he is yanked for Papelbon . . . with lefty Giambi due up.
Look, I live in Houston, so I see enough from Phil Garner to go, "Huh?", from time to time. Okay, six times a week. But here we have a real head-scratcher. Lord knows I'm rooting for the guy to screw up, I want his team to lose, but really: What the crap was Francona thinking? I mean, what? In a situation like that, you either bring in Lopez to face both Abreu and Giambi, and damn the consequences, or you bring in Papelbon to replace Timlin.
But really, you don't bring Timlin in in the first place.
Which brings me to the beer vendor.
Tom Boswell once had a piece of advice for Tony LaRussa as one of his teams choked away another World Series: STOP THINKING. It would be wise counsel to his descendants, who were brought up on the fact that 18 years ago, Rick Honeycutt worked the eighth inning for the A's, and Dennis Eckersley the ninth, and 'twas ever thus.
I happen to agree with that system, by and large.
But if your best relief pitcher is your most-rested pitcher is the one pitcher in your bullpen who hasn't pitched in five days?
You bring him in. To start the eighth. That's the beer vendor's move. As it turned out, Papelbon needed to go two full innings anyway . . . only after the bases were loaded with none out. He did work his way out of trouble in the eighth, surrendering only a run on Giambi's sac fly, but with the tying run on third, he labored much more than he needed to to get the second and third outs. By the time Derek Jeter came to the mound in the ninth, he was spent.
Q: With the tying run on third, two outs; with Jeter apt to try to punch the ball to right against a hard-throwing right-hander such as Papelbon, what possible reason did right fielder Willy Mo Pena have for playing back nearly at the warning track, well out of reach of a Jeter bloop that otherwise would have been a game-ending pop-up had he been playing his regular position?
A: None.
Q: Once Jeter drove Melky in to tie the game, did we know it was over, and that the Yankees would win?
A: No. We knew it was over and that the Yankees would win once Doug Mirabelli's comebacker settled in Rivera's glove, ending the ninth. You never can tell with the Red Sox--except when they send reliever Hansen to the mound to start the tenth in a tie game. (Allow me to write Jim Rome's monologue for tomorrow: "What, was Bob Stanley not available? Al Nipper otherwise occupied? Certainly Jim Burton could have come in? Perhaps the immortal Bobby Sprowl could have given them some innings?") Home run, double, home run. A bit of excitement in the bottom of the ninth, but basically, that was it.
I'm going to bed.
Q: How worse could matters have gone for Boston this evening?
A: Consider what poor shape they would have been in had they won: Four out in the loss column, third place in the Wild Card. Due back in a matter of hours behind injured David Wells. Jonathan Papelbon, after a 40-plus pitch meatgrinder, unavailable for duty. Up against Corey Lidle, an innings-eater willing to go seven innings if it means pitching underhand.
Now? Now the Red Sox are six out in the loss column, and still third in the Wild Card, with everything else the same. Due back, etc. Jonathan Papelbon, etc.
(Understand, the Yankees came into the series with the advantage of a front-runner; Torre was willing sacrifice a game--i.e., start Sydney Ponson in Friday's nightcap--if it meant preserving the rotation and resting the bullpen. Well, behind Abreu, Damon and Melky, the Yankees went ahead and won that game and the two subsequent, leaving Torre, theoretically, with the rest-the-bullpen game still in his pocket. Do Myers-Proctor-Rivera come out tomorrow in a 4-2 New York lead? Probably. A 4-2 deficit? Maybe not.)
Q: Had Theo Epstein hired a beer vendor to manage tonight's game, would the Red Sox had won?
A: Yes. Not bringing Jonathan Papelbon out to start the eighth inning was, I think, the worst managerial decision by a Red Sox manager since Grady Little left Pedro in to face Jorge Posada in the eighth inning, Game 7 of the 2003 ALCS (which in turn was the worst managerial decision ever made since the one made ten minutes earlier, sending Pedro out to start the eighth. Okay, good times. Back to tonight.)
Consider. Papelbon was coming off four days' rest, which meant at least three more days than any other relief pitcher plying his trade in the Greater Boston area. Did anyone doubt he'd be summoned before the ninth, which probably meant he'd be pulled into a jam, at a time when a four-day rest would mean command, and not fatigue, would be the main consideration, against the most patient team in baseball?
Never mind. Mike Timlin, a Yankee-killer of years gone past, surrenders an infield hit to Damon. Then he hits Jeter. Left-handed specialist Javier Lopez comes in, surrenders a fifty-pitch walk to Abreu to load the bases. Whereupon he is yanked for Papelbon . . . with lefty Giambi due up.
Look, I live in Houston, so I see enough from Phil Garner to go, "Huh?", from time to time. Okay, six times a week. But here we have a real head-scratcher. Lord knows I'm rooting for the guy to screw up, I want his team to lose, but really: What the crap was Francona thinking? I mean, what? In a situation like that, you either bring in Lopez to face both Abreu and Giambi, and damn the consequences, or you bring in Papelbon to replace Timlin.
But really, you don't bring Timlin in in the first place.
Which brings me to the beer vendor.
Tom Boswell once had a piece of advice for Tony LaRussa as one of his teams choked away another World Series: STOP THINKING. It would be wise counsel to his descendants, who were brought up on the fact that 18 years ago, Rick Honeycutt worked the eighth inning for the A's, and Dennis Eckersley the ninth, and 'twas ever thus.
I happen to agree with that system, by and large.
But if your best relief pitcher is your most-rested pitcher is the one pitcher in your bullpen who hasn't pitched in five days?
You bring him in. To start the eighth. That's the beer vendor's move. As it turned out, Papelbon needed to go two full innings anyway . . . only after the bases were loaded with none out. He did work his way out of trouble in the eighth, surrendering only a run on Giambi's sac fly, but with the tying run on third, he labored much more than he needed to to get the second and third outs. By the time Derek Jeter came to the mound in the ninth, he was spent.
Q: With the tying run on third, two outs; with Jeter apt to try to punch the ball to right against a hard-throwing right-hander such as Papelbon, what possible reason did right fielder Willy Mo Pena have for playing back nearly at the warning track, well out of reach of a Jeter bloop that otherwise would have been a game-ending pop-up had he been playing his regular position?
A: None.
Q: Once Jeter drove Melky in to tie the game, did we know it was over, and that the Yankees would win?
A: No. We knew it was over and that the Yankees would win once Doug Mirabelli's comebacker settled in Rivera's glove, ending the ninth. You never can tell with the Red Sox--except when they send reliever Hansen to the mound to start the tenth in a tie game. (Allow me to write Jim Rome's monologue for tomorrow: "What, was Bob Stanley not available? Al Nipper otherwise occupied? Certainly Jim Burton could have come in? Perhaps the immortal Bobby Sprowl could have given them some innings?") Home run, double, home run. A bit of excitement in the bottom of the ninth, but basically, that was it.
I'm going to bed.
Matt Leinart: Arizona Cardinal
Last night, toward the end of the first half of the Cardinals-Patriots preseason game, USC alum Matt Leinart took the field at Gillette Stadium to begin his pro football career.
Leinart's appearance in a Cardinal uniform felt, finally, like the closing of a book, in a way neither this past Rose Bowl nor NFL Draft Day could. The Rose Bowl was a torment that extended beyond mere the mere losing of a game, or even a championship. Matt Leinart came into the 2006 Rose Bowl with his place in college football already secure: a Heisman Trophy, two National Championships, two Bowl MVPs. However, had the Trojan defense managed one stop of two in the last seven minutes, had Leinart converted one of two fourth-and-shorts, had Reggie Bush not attempted that ill-fated lateral--had any of these things happened, Matt Leinart's place in history would have transcended college football. He would have elevated himself to that rareified air in which his accomplishments would be judged within the context of all major college sports, a place now--still--occupied only by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar (Lew Alcindor as was), with his three Final Fours, three National Championships, three MVPs.
Well, as we know, Leinart's final ascent didn't happen. And so we will have to content ourselves by placing Leinart on the first string of college football's all-time squad, and leaving it at that. (When making out the starting twenty-two, historians will say, "Okay, start with Leinart at QB and Charles Woodsen at cornerback; they're the two nobody argues about." Then we can debate Herschel Walker vs. Archie Griffin and all the rest.)
Draft day, to me at least, was all about the Houston Texans' historically awful decision to pick defensive end Mario Williams over all-everything running back Reggie Bush, the sheer stupidity of which is already becoming manifest.
Last night, though, after all the bad press, after the holdout, after report after report of how he was drowning in playbooks, Matt Leinart, in a Cardinals uniform, took the field against the preeminent NFL team of the decade.
The verdict? Not bad.
Leinart's first drive, a two-minute drill resulting in a field goal (and, ahem, the Cardinals' only points of the night) was revealing in a number of ways. First, however he may be behind the learning curve re the Cardinal offense, Leinart, as he demonstrated for three years at USC, is a master at moving the chains. He is a quarterback wholly unlike Troy Aikman and Peyton Manning, those masters of precision, of hitting the six open inches at precisely the right split-second. Last night, in rushing for 29 yards on two broken plays, Leinart reminded me of John Elway. While not having Elway's cannon of an arm (who does, who ever has?), like Elway, there is something almost animalistic in Leinart--a hunger in watching the field unfold before him, looking for the advantage, and bang, exploiting the weakness. You saw it in the fourth-and-nine audible to Dwayne Jarrett versus Notre Dame, and you saw it here.
Reporters covering the game seemed surprised by Leinart's mobility. When asked why he so rarely cut loose that way at USC, his answer was revealing, both of the Trojans and the Cardinals: "I didn't have to."
Leinart's passing line on the night--4 of 11, 45 yards, no TDs, no INTS--was more impressive when one considers that two on-the-money passes were simply dropped. Considering that he went into the game with three days of preparation, considering his most (only, really) successful drive was against the Patriots first-string defense, and considering that his opposition was the New England Patriots, by and large, a thumbs up.
Leinart's appearance in a Cardinal uniform felt, finally, like the closing of a book, in a way neither this past Rose Bowl nor NFL Draft Day could. The Rose Bowl was a torment that extended beyond mere the mere losing of a game, or even a championship. Matt Leinart came into the 2006 Rose Bowl with his place in college football already secure: a Heisman Trophy, two National Championships, two Bowl MVPs. However, had the Trojan defense managed one stop of two in the last seven minutes, had Leinart converted one of two fourth-and-shorts, had Reggie Bush not attempted that ill-fated lateral--had any of these things happened, Matt Leinart's place in history would have transcended college football. He would have elevated himself to that rareified air in which his accomplishments would be judged within the context of all major college sports, a place now--still--occupied only by Kareem Abdul-Jabbar (Lew Alcindor as was), with his three Final Fours, three National Championships, three MVPs.
Well, as we know, Leinart's final ascent didn't happen. And so we will have to content ourselves by placing Leinart on the first string of college football's all-time squad, and leaving it at that. (When making out the starting twenty-two, historians will say, "Okay, start with Leinart at QB and Charles Woodsen at cornerback; they're the two nobody argues about." Then we can debate Herschel Walker vs. Archie Griffin and all the rest.)
Draft day, to me at least, was all about the Houston Texans' historically awful decision to pick defensive end Mario Williams over all-everything running back Reggie Bush, the sheer stupidity of which is already becoming manifest.
Last night, though, after all the bad press, after the holdout, after report after report of how he was drowning in playbooks, Matt Leinart, in a Cardinals uniform, took the field against the preeminent NFL team of the decade.
The verdict? Not bad.
Leinart's first drive, a two-minute drill resulting in a field goal (and, ahem, the Cardinals' only points of the night) was revealing in a number of ways. First, however he may be behind the learning curve re the Cardinal offense, Leinart, as he demonstrated for three years at USC, is a master at moving the chains. He is a quarterback wholly unlike Troy Aikman and Peyton Manning, those masters of precision, of hitting the six open inches at precisely the right split-second. Last night, in rushing for 29 yards on two broken plays, Leinart reminded me of John Elway. While not having Elway's cannon of an arm (who does, who ever has?), like Elway, there is something almost animalistic in Leinart--a hunger in watching the field unfold before him, looking for the advantage, and bang, exploiting the weakness. You saw it in the fourth-and-nine audible to Dwayne Jarrett versus Notre Dame, and you saw it here.
Reporters covering the game seemed surprised by Leinart's mobility. When asked why he so rarely cut loose that way at USC, his answer was revealing, both of the Trojans and the Cardinals: "I didn't have to."
Leinart's passing line on the night--4 of 11, 45 yards, no TDs, no INTS--was more impressive when one considers that two on-the-money passes were simply dropped. Considering that he went into the game with three days of preparation, considering his most (only, really) successful drive was against the Patriots first-string defense, and considering that his opposition was the New England Patriots, by and large, a thumbs up.
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Yankees 13, Red Sox 5
It is now clear that, at this minute, the only two healthy Boston pitchers who scare the Yankees are Schilling and Papelbon. This is an amazing comedown for Boston, as the number of pitchers whose entrance or scheduled start made me groan used to be as long as the Orange Line: Wakefield, Timlin, Embree, Foulk--even, by and large, Pedro, whose record wouldn't reflect it. Any of those guys would start or come in and I'd throw up my hands; by and large, the Yankees were helpless, and this was before the Red Sox acquired Josh Beckett, who ran over them in the 2003 World Series, while playing for Florida.
And now? Well, Pedro and Embree are gone, Wakefield is hurt, Foulk is ineffective, and Timlin--who, as The Sports Guy points out (scroll down to Boston), was unconsciounably allowed to participate in the WBC at the age of forty--is, in the words of TSG, "a walking corpse." Beckett, it now appears, may have made his name and life's fortune based upon a pain-free few weeks in October three years ago, is a good, not great, pitcher subject to the vagaries of his health and curveball.
If people know nothing else about baseball, they should know this: a pitcher injured while young will usually stay injured, off and on, for his entire career. Kerry Wood, Mark Prior, Carl Pavano, Brandon Backe--the list goes on, and these are just the recent names. A general manager who frames his rotation around suspect wings will soon be sleeping in the street.
And so now we have Curt Schilling, who some thought was finished as a pitcher 22 months ago, being asked to go out tomorrow and stop the, uh, bleeding. And if he gets in trouble early . . . well, who will fill the breach? We join The Sports Guy in mid-rant:
(
He forgot Van Buren, who gave up a bases-clearing triple to Jorge Posada which was--what?--the second triple of Georgie's career? The third?
For those keeping score at home, choke artist A-Rod is now 5 of 13 with five RBIs in the series.
Correction: correspondent SunDevil Joe reports that, "By the way, it was Manny Delcarmen, not Van Buren, who gave up the triple to Jorge. What does it matter as I'm sure he's back in Pawtucket today."
Yes.
And now? Well, Pedro and Embree are gone, Wakefield is hurt, Foulk is ineffective, and Timlin--who, as The Sports Guy points out (scroll down to Boston), was unconsciounably allowed to participate in the WBC at the age of forty--is, in the words of TSG, "a walking corpse." Beckett, it now appears, may have made his name and life's fortune based upon a pain-free few weeks in October three years ago, is a good, not great, pitcher subject to the vagaries of his health and curveball.
If people know nothing else about baseball, they should know this: a pitcher injured while young will usually stay injured, off and on, for his entire career. Kerry Wood, Mark Prior, Carl Pavano, Brandon Backe--the list goes on, and these are just the recent names. A general manager who frames his rotation around suspect wings will soon be sleeping in the street.
And so now we have Curt Schilling, who some thought was finished as a pitcher 22 months ago, being asked to go out tomorrow and stop the, uh, bleeding. And if he gets in trouble early . . . well, who will fill the breach? We join The Sports Guy in mid-rant:
(
Note: Not to keep bringing up my keeper league, because I wouldn't want you to think that I'm obsessed with it, even though I probably am … but Hench and I had Timlin, Delcarmen AND Hansen on our keeper team this season, and we traded all of them in separate moves last month. Why? BECAUSE WE WATCH BASEBALL! BECAUSE ALL OF THEM SUCK! THAT'S WHY! Really, we're going to war with a one-man bullpen for the next 10 weeks? That's the plan? Good God, I can't wait to have Belichick and Brady back in my life. I want everything to make sense again.)
He forgot Van Buren, who gave up a bases-clearing triple to Jorge Posada which was--what?--the second triple of Georgie's career? The third?
For those keeping score at home, choke artist A-Rod is now 5 of 13 with five RBIs in the series.
Correction: correspondent SunDevil Joe reports that, "By the way, it was Manny Delcarmen, not Van Buren, who gave up the triple to Jorge. What does it matter as I'm sure he's back in Pawtucket today."
Yes.
Yanks 12, Bosox 4; Yanks 14, Bosox 11
Missed both of these--was out. Gleaning what I could from the reports, here is what I came up with:
1. Wang is the real thing.
2. Perhaps so is Melky.
3. Whatever fears one has of the non-Rivera Yankee bullpen, they pale in comparison to the non-Papelbon Red Sox bullpen.
4. Starting Sidney Ponson last night was as big a declaration that Torre was dumping the game to save his staff as I have ever seen.
5. The only thing worse than being a relief pitcher Torre hates is being one he loves (see Gordon, Tom). Right now, a few 7-1 losses may be what Torre needs to rest the arms of Rivera, Kyle, Proctor, Villone, and Myers--a pretty good bullpen with all the necessary parts (closer, set-up man, seventh inning man, long man, and lefthanded specialist).
6. Wondering about Farnsworth.
1. Wang is the real thing.
2. Perhaps so is Melky.
3. Whatever fears one has of the non-Rivera Yankee bullpen, they pale in comparison to the non-Papelbon Red Sox bullpen.
4. Starting Sidney Ponson last night was as big a declaration that Torre was dumping the game to save his staff as I have ever seen.
5. The only thing worse than being a relief pitcher Torre hates is being one he loves (see Gordon, Tom). Right now, a few 7-1 losses may be what Torre needs to rest the arms of Rivera, Kyle, Proctor, Villone, and Myers--a pretty good bullpen with all the necessary parts (closer, set-up man, seventh inning man, long man, and lefthanded specialist).
6. Wondering about Farnsworth.
Friday, August 18, 2006
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
Tuesday, August 15, 2006
I wanna go to bed
Okay, it's midnight, and the Astros, who took a one-run lead into the top of the ninth before Lidge have up a tying home run (this is not a recording), are now . . . in the fifteenth inning, having put men on base every inning thereafter . . . but not score . . .
. . . and we move to the sixteenth. It has been 6-6 for two hours.
Both teams: out of pitchers soon.
Astro manager Phil Garner is about to go into the stands to re-activate Nolan Ryan.
Who'd probably strike out the side.
I'm a hostage of extra-innings baseball.
It's past midnight on a Tuesday--no, Wednesday now.
Hey, remember in Gremlins when that kid was told not to feed Fuzzball after midnight. Okay, right now it was just midnight, Wednesday morning.
Midnight is the beginning of the day.
Which means that . . . it's always after midnight!
So the only thing to do with a Gemlin is never feed him.
Where was I? Oh, yeah.
End this thing.
I wanna go to bed.
The traffic dude just said, "Minute Maid patrons, on their way home, should watch out for paperboys."
I was a paperboy once. December in Phoenix is freezing before dawn.
Bottom of the 16th.
Chris Burke, who came in the ninth as a defensive replacement, just reached first base for the fourth time . . .
. . . whereupon Mo Ensberg erased him on a fielder's choice.
Followed by Berkman's strikeout.
And now the last remaining pitcher, Burkowskl, must bat.
Ground out. We go the 17th.
I saw Gremlins with a friend's niece (nothing like that, she was my age). We seemed to have fun. The next thing I heard of her was five years later, when she was married to a guy who lectured everyone on how they needed to have a gun.
Oh, Astros and Cubs play again in less than twelve hours. Does that make this a night-day double header?
And why did Lidge have to give up that stupid home run?
. . . and we move to the sixteenth. It has been 6-6 for two hours.
Both teams: out of pitchers soon.
Astro manager Phil Garner is about to go into the stands to re-activate Nolan Ryan.
Who'd probably strike out the side.
I'm a hostage of extra-innings baseball.
It's past midnight on a Tuesday--no, Wednesday now.
Hey, remember in Gremlins when that kid was told not to feed Fuzzball after midnight. Okay, right now it was just midnight, Wednesday morning.
Midnight is the beginning of the day.
Which means that . . . it's always after midnight!
So the only thing to do with a Gemlin is never feed him.
Where was I? Oh, yeah.
End this thing.
I wanna go to bed.
The traffic dude just said, "Minute Maid patrons, on their way home, should watch out for paperboys."
I was a paperboy once. December in Phoenix is freezing before dawn.
Bottom of the 16th.
Chris Burke, who came in the ninth as a defensive replacement, just reached first base for the fourth time . . .
. . . whereupon Mo Ensberg erased him on a fielder's choice.
Followed by Berkman's strikeout.
And now the last remaining pitcher, Burkowskl, must bat.
Ground out. We go the 17th.
I saw Gremlins with a friend's niece (nothing like that, she was my age). We seemed to have fun. The next thing I heard of her was five years later, when she was married to a guy who lectured everyone on how they needed to have a gun.
Oh, Astros and Cubs play again in less than twelve hours. Does that make this a night-day double header?
And why did Lidge have to give up that stupid home run?
Bruno Kirby dies at 57
From complications resulting from leukemia. Details here.
I first encountered Kirby, though I didn't know his name at the time, as a guest-star on "Room 222," a student whose purpose in life was to push three of his classmates into breaking the record for the most bananas eaten in an hour. He was intriguing enough, with the goofy grin and the slight whistle in his speech--something I recognized soon later, when he played a student at a military college in "Columbo." (This was when "Columbo" played on "The NBC Saturday Mystery Movie," alternately with "McCloud" and "Banacek" and a few others. Everyone over the age of 40 should remember the show, with the opening credits that featured a flashlight on some darkened moors and a long, slow whistle during the opening credits. The "Columbo" episode in question was one of the 127 Columbo episodes that featured Patrick McGoohan as the villian. Anyway, back to Bruno.)
In between his early TV appearances and his re-occurring role as Billy Crystal's best friend in a pair of enormously popular late-80s/early-90s comdies (When Harry Met Sally and City Slickers), Kirby was one of the great "That Guys" of Hollywood (defined by The Sports Guy as "Didn't I see That Guy in . . ."), right up there with Seymour Cassel, Donald Pleasance, and Joe Spinell (who was, boys and girls, both the button man Cici in Godfather I and II and the loanshark Gazzo in Rocky I and II). My favorite Kirby performance was of the puffy-becoming-obese young Clemenza in Godfather II, the wild street hood brought to riches (and discipline) by the cunning and ambition of the alpha-dog Godfather, Vito Corleone, played so superbly by Robert DeNiro. Kirby's death is a loss to his profession, to be sure. RIP.
I first encountered Kirby, though I didn't know his name at the time, as a guest-star on "Room 222," a student whose purpose in life was to push three of his classmates into breaking the record for the most bananas eaten in an hour. He was intriguing enough, with the goofy grin and the slight whistle in his speech--something I recognized soon later, when he played a student at a military college in "Columbo." (This was when "Columbo" played on "The NBC Saturday Mystery Movie," alternately with "McCloud" and "Banacek" and a few others. Everyone over the age of 40 should remember the show, with the opening credits that featured a flashlight on some darkened moors and a long, slow whistle during the opening credits. The "Columbo" episode in question was one of the 127 Columbo episodes that featured Patrick McGoohan as the villian. Anyway, back to Bruno.)
In between his early TV appearances and his re-occurring role as Billy Crystal's best friend in a pair of enormously popular late-80s/early-90s comdies (When Harry Met Sally and City Slickers), Kirby was one of the great "That Guys" of Hollywood (defined by The Sports Guy as "Didn't I see That Guy in . . ."), right up there with Seymour Cassel, Donald Pleasance, and Joe Spinell (who was, boys and girls, both the button man Cici in Godfather I and II and the loanshark Gazzo in Rocky I and II). My favorite Kirby performance was of the puffy-becoming-obese young Clemenza in Godfather II, the wild street hood brought to riches (and discipline) by the cunning and ambition of the alpha-dog Godfather, Vito Corleone, played so superbly by Robert DeNiro. Kirby's death is a loss to his profession, to be sure. RIP.
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