Sad Dogs and Englishmen

I'm too tired even to take a cute picture of my dog, so here's a random photo of a sad dog from the internet reacting to last night's game:


Meanwhile my post on last night's roller coaster is up at the Banter; I found kinda the perfect quote for that game:

It was the best of games, it was the worst of games, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way…

As I wrote in my Banter post, now that they've rescheduled Saturday's Game 6 for the evening, I may have to miss at least a chunk of it - I'm going to a dinner party that night. Aaargh! But it's at the apartment of a good friend who has known me a long time... so I'm assuming she'll forgive me for checking the score during the meal.

Banter, Bugs, and Further Animal Exploitation

So I wrote up last night's Yankee win at the Banter, and posted a little something about the umpiring shenanigans at Bugs & Cranks.

Meanwhile, following yesterday's successful debut of Pearl as the official Eephus Pitch mascot, I give you my dog's reaction to the blown fifth-inning call at third:

Yes, Pearl wants instant replay in the playoffs. Instant replay, and maybe a peanut butter treat.

Now on Sale at the Stadium Store, Pitchforks and Torches

You know how some sports blogs try to attract traffic with photos of hot chicks in bikinis? Well, I'm going to try a slightly different, but related, approach: the cute animal photo. Herewith, the expression on my dog's face when Joe Girardi took Dave Robertson out of the game in the 11th inning, with two outs and nobody on, and brought in Alfredo Aceves:

Pearl, official Eephus Pitch mascot

I hope to make this a regular feature.

Anyway, this is one of those days I'm just glad I'm not a manager, especially not a New York manager. I like Joe Girardi, and I think he's done a very good this year on the whole, but... yeah... it may be time for him to take it down a notch.

I'll be writing up tonight's game over at the Banter. Make Pearl happy, CC.

Onwards to the Stony Rubbish

I've got a new post up on Bugs & Cranks about last night's epic Angels-Yankees error-off, and the upcoming three-game jaunt into the Wastelands of Anaheim. (I have never been to Anaheim, but I do generally imagine it as A heap of broken images, where the sun beats/ And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief/ And the dry stone no sound of water.)

Meanwhile the Yankees doing something fan-friendly for once and opening up the Stadium for anyone who wants to watch Game 3 in Anaheim. That sounds pretty neat, and though I'm sure they'll still make a tidy profit on concessions, in a refreshing departure from their usual squeeze-out-every-penny approach they will not be charging admission. If I have time maybe I'll head up there.

Baseball Player Name of the Week

In honor of the Yankees' recent hard-earned series win in Anaheim, I scoured the roster of the Angels' AAA team, the Salt Lake Bees, to bring you this week's Name:


Catcher Flint Wipke.

I know you'll all join me in my earnest hopes that this young man eventually makes it to the majors. On a side note, has there ever been a less appealing Minor League team name than the "Salt Lake Bees"? I mean, two things in this world that I really don't care for: dry laws and stinging insects.

Anyway, my Yanks-Angels recap is up at the Banter for those who are interested; I'm still working on a Mets post but it feels increasingly futile. What is there to say?

Ask Jobu to Come, Take Fear from Bats; Offer Him Cigar, Rum

Gut-punch of a loss for the Mets tonight. To have the game end on an interference call just as the team dramatically tied it up... good lord. I'm not entirely sure, but I think the ump was technically right to call out Marlon Anderson; going in hard and late is one thing, but actually shoving the fielder to the ground while you do it is another. Still, you hate to see any game end that way -- and it was especially painful since the Phillies probably wouldn't have turned the DP regardless. The Mets may have actually discovered a worse way to lose than having your pitcher balk in the winning run, which I wouldn't have believed was possible.

Between this and the game-tying dribbler that never rolled foul from Tuesday night, to say nothing of countless other incidents of terrible luck this series and the entire team's sudden inability to buy a run-scoring hit, it's beginning to look as if the Mets have done something to seriously piss off the baseball gods. Hopefully someone can find a white steer to burn as an offering of atonement before tomorrow's game. Or maybe they won't need much luck, because El Duque's starting... what I wouldn't give to see him toss an eephus to Pat Burrell.

Anyway, maybe it's an illusion, but it sure seems like all year the Mets have largely been good when the Yankees have been bad, and vice versa; I'm going to have to crunch the numbers at the end of the season. Regardless, last night the Yanks played a solid game behind Roger Clemens (with the notable and totally unsurprisingly exception of Kyle Farnsworth), and moved into a virtual tie with Seattle, who just got clobbered by the Angels. I listened to a bit of that game online today and kept forgetting that I was supposed to be rooting for LA, accidentally cheering for the Mariners instead... it's just horribly unnatural. Glad that's over.

And by the way, I can't tell you how thrilled I am that somebody recently found this blog by searching for "badass jesus blogspot." Fuckin' a.

Coming Soon to Stores Near You: Official MLB Shivs

-Okay, is this story for real? I have a hard time believing that even Major League Baseball could be that tone-deaf and stupid. But it seems that, yes, MLB is licensing New Era NY hats with overt, deliberate gang colors and symbols. Wow. Somebody's getting fired.

On the plus side, at least I know what my dad's getting for Christmas this year.



-The Mets' trade for Luis Castillo, quintessential overachieving-Twins-infielder, is looking better and better. He's a smart hitter (though I wish he'd bunt less often, especially since he's hitting in front of Wright and Beltran), and he and Reyes are turning into a great double play combo, complete with ridiculously enthused high fives afterwards. If you hooked those two up to a generator you could power half of Queens.


-Meanwhile, across town (or, technically, in Detroit), every time Joe Torre sneezes now he moves up a spot on some decades-old all-time managerial stat list. Seems like he's hugging Jeter, Posada and Rivera, recieving a game ball, tearing up, and talking about how special milestone X is roughly every other Wednesday. This is generally a warning sign that a long and storied career is drawing to a close, a la Bernie Williams last year.


-Trevor Hoffman, Mariano Rivera, and Billy Wagner have all faltered repeatedly over the last week or two... late August is not a good time for relievers.


-The Psycho Fan has a great note from the Angels' broadcast a few days ago. Apparently announcer Steve Physioc observed that Jeter is the best defensive shortstop in Yankees history -- manifestly untrue; he's certainly their best-ever offensive shortstop, but fielding-wise, I'm not sure if he's even in the top 10 -- including Phil Rizzuto. As evidence he offered the fact that Jeter is the only Yankee shortstop ever to win a Gold Glove. Now, this would not be a convincing argument even if Gold Gloves had been given out before 1957... which, as The Psycho Fan points out, they were not. Brilliant.

Back in the New York Groove (Again)

View from Taipei 101, the tallest building in the world... for at least a few more months.

So, I'm back -- still a little fuzzy from jetlag, because that is seriously one hell of a plane ride, but back. Taipei's a really interesting place... and also: typhoons!

The two questions I was asked most often in Taiwan, neither of which I could satisfactorily answer:

1. Why did America re-elect George Bush?
2. Why is Kyle Farnsworth still on the Yankees?

Seeing as how I was sort of by default representing my country, I started to feel personally responsible.

Anyway, I'm now off to upstate NY for a day to retrieve my dog, but three quick notes to get my feet wet again:

-Joba!

-Random line from the Mets broadcast last night which I found inexplicably funny: "You can be patient with Chico." Anyway, nice bounce-back win for the Mets, after one of the most excruciating losses of the season Thursday night. Sweet defense, too, especially from Reyes and Castillo.

-It's Angels-vs.-Red Sox time again.

Hwahsi Night Market


Sinon Bulls vs. Brother Elephants at Tienmu Stadium

...And Randy Choate Is Why I Can Never Remember Where I Put My Keys

Phew -- it's been a while, so I won't try to get to everything that's happened in the last few days. In short, the Mets are still winning just enough to keep themselves in first place, while the Yankees are at a stage of their season where every win feels enormously hopeful and every loss is a dagger to the heart. They're 7 1/2 back from the Sox now, but to me, it won't really feel like a race til they cut that to 5. A few salient points from recent games:

-A month or so ago, I was watching a Mets/Yanks game at a bar on the Upper East Side (don't ask), when a pair of young guys next to me asked the bartender to switch a TV over to the Marlins/Tampa Bay game, and proceeded to cheer heartily for the Devil Rays. I was stunned; I had literally never in my life ever encountered a Tampa Bay fan before. It was like having a Yeti sidle up and order a Long Island Iced Tea. Naturally, I made inquiries, and there was actually a logical explanation: they were old high school friends of Devil Rays starting pitcher J.P. Howell. I mention this because Howell started yesterday's 17-5 Yankees win, and I thought of his friends and felt for him... though, to be fair, he only allowed 7 of those runs.

-Wil Nieves is always described as an extremely nice guy, and it's true -- he really is, at least as far as I could tell during spring training. Awfully friendly and genuine, considerate, always smiling. Nevertheless, everyone who ever mentions him brings this up so reliably when discussing his hitting that it's become a sort of "she's got a great personality." The Yankees finally made a trade, and Nieves will be designated for assignment as soon as the new guy shows up; I genuinely wish him good luck and success wherever he lands.

His replacement is one of the dreaded Molina Brothers, Jose, acquired from the much-loathed Angels for a AA pitcher. As I by now instinctively loathe all catching Molinas (Bengie absolutely destroyed the Yankees in the '05 ALDS, while &*%@ing Yadier is the reason I didn't get to cover a World Series this past fall), this will take some getting used to. But I'll try my best... hell, you can't choose your family, right?

-Speaking of which, I'm liking new Yank Shelley Duncan so far, even though he is immediately related to two Cardinals (son of pitching coach Dave and brother of awkward-fielding Chris). He's comically enthusiastic, with some serious power, and while I'm not sure how he'd fare as an every day player, he's got to be better than the hollow shell of Johnny Damon has been so far this year. Poor Damon; such a fun guy to watch when he's going well, and still good-natured even now. He's picked it up the last few days, but then again a tea kettle could have gotten a hit off this Devil Rays pitching staff.

Anyway, at one point the YES cameras showed Alex Rodriguez casually, almost absently explaining something to Duncan, who sat and listened with absolutely hilarious unblinking laser-like intensity. I've rarely seen a human being with their eyes open wider. Rookies are fun.

-Meanwhile, in the "old ineffective ex-Yankee relievers never die..." department: the latest sighting is one Jay Witasick, currently dragging a 9.53 ERA out of the Tampa bullpen. He only pitched half a season for the Yanks, and that was six years ago, so I'm sort of embarrassed that I remember him so clearly. I imagine it's this kind of thing clogging my brain that explains why I never remember to pay the cable bill on time.

I'll catch up with los Mets tomorrow...

I Know Why The Caged Splitter Misses the Outside Corner

I was at the Stadium on Saturday for Old-Timers' Day and a painful, beautifully pitched, horribly defended thirteen inning loss to the Angels. God, I hate the goddamn Angels. Friday night was a wild, ugly win and Sunday's game was a satisfying rout, but because it's the Halos, that middle game lingers. The Yanks couldn't score -- looking back, I'm amazed they managed even the one run -- and made five errors, which makes it all the more remarkable that they kept the Angels to a tie for so long. But the Yankee pitching was just that good, especially Roger Clemens, who went 8 innings for the second start in a row.

It may very well happen one day, but I can't imagine Clemens ever pitching in the Old Timers' Game. The Game's pleasant enough on one level, but as an exercise in pure unadulterated nostalgia -- it's not for charity, there's no genuine competition or high level of play -- it's also melancholy. This is something I plan to write more about later, probably in the book (never too soon to start the hard sell!). But in any case I can't see Clemens, the pure competitor, the guy who backed his own son off the plate with a pitch towards the chin, suiting up in fifteen years, the uniform highlighting his potbelly, priding himself on still throwing 78. A refresher:

And that competitive fire never left — as discovered by Koby, who had the audacity to hit a home run off Dad in batting practice two weeks ago in Florida. He got the vintage Clemens brushback pitch the next time up.

"I figured I'd get strike one on the kid with a fastball, 92, 93 mph, and he runs into it," Clemens says. "So, of course, I was a little pissed. I said, 'OK, if that's the way it's going to be.' So next time up, I went in on him."

Says umpiring supervisor Steve Palermo: "When I umped, we used to always joke that Roger was so competitive that he'd knock down his own mom. Well, we now know that he'll at least knock down a family member."

Then again, Paul O'Neill was there Saturday -- another guy you don't want to picture taking a feeble cut at age 65. Fortunately it hasn't come to that, as O'Neill's just 44 and, to the naked eye, almost completely unchanged; in fact he's probably moving better than Damon these days. I was immensely relieved, when he stroked a single in his first at-bat, that he hadn't embarrassed himself.

There's nothing wrong with the Old Timers' Game, exactly -- the players want to be there, the fans pay to see it, it's all in good fun. And occasionally, as with Bobby Murcer's dignified, emotional presence, it provides some powerful moments. It's always great to hear the applause for Reggie (still hotdogging) and Mattingly, and the more respectful reception given to Yogi Berra and Whitey Ford, who still looks sharp as hell -- my all-time favorite Yankee-I-never-got-to-see-play. This year, of course, Scott Brosius and O'Neill got a lot of love, and it warmed my cold, blackened little heart. But there's still something painful just under the surface. He tossed it off casually in a pre-game interview, but I thought O'Neill had the most revealing quote of the day: "Let's face it, when you get out on this field it brings back a lot of memories," he said. "And that's what you've got left."

***

On a lighter note, I came across this tidbit while looking at that Koby Clemens link:

"I was just trying to pick a good time to do it. Weekend or weekday?" says Clemens, who keeps a journal that he plans to turn into an autobiography.

Oh man, what's Clemens' journal like? "7/7: Guerrero got three hits today - great, now have to pitch next year too, and K him. Or Plan B: kill with shattered bat fragment. After game, rented Rambo II with Andy, even better on 14th viewing. What you choose to call Hell... Mr. Splitty calls home."

More tomorrow on the Mets' schizo series against Houston, and Carlos Beltran's catch of the year. And hey, it's the All-Star break! A time for contemplation, reflection, wondering how it all went so terribly wrong... much like Yom Kippur really, only instead of being forgiven for your sins, you have to listen to Chris Berman call the Home Run Derby.

The Pride, The Power, The Pinstripes: Still Better Than The Devil Rays! A Little Bit!

Well, I'm not surprised that the Yankees were swept by the Angels. Did I ever mention how I feel about that team? In another season I might have said the Halos are kryptonite to the Yankees' Superman, but at the moment, I'm afraid they're more like Hep C to the Yankees' crack addict.

It's still May, but by now it's pretty safe to say this is just not the Yanks' year. When Mussina pitches badly, the bullpen is lights-out; when he pitches well, they blow the lead. All but two players have endured significant slumps at the plate at some point, and when rookie pitchers exceed expectations, they are injured, in weird and random ways. (Who doesn't think that when Phil Hughes finally gets back -- having now hurt an ankle on top of the hamstring -- something terrible will happen to him? Like a pigeon will fly into his face and partially blind him, or Kyle Farnsworth will slap him encouragingly on the back and break three of his ribs?)

The Yankees are still much better than their current record, and I'll be shocked if they don't end up well over .500. That, however, seems unlikely to earn them a playoff spot this year: at the moment they're twelve and a half games back from the Red Sox (!), and eight behind for the Wild Card. A comeback is still possible, sure. It's also possible that Clive Owen will knock on my door tomorrow night carrying an Al Green CD, a kitten, and a bottle of Glenlivet, but frankly, I'm not loving the odds.

There are plenty of elements of this team that can and should be criticized, and neither Cashman nor Torre are precisely covering themselves in glory here. But every team has an off year eventually, and the Yankees are way past due. They've always made their share of mistakes, but this time they made a few too many; at the same time, their massive stockpile of luck finally ran out. A number of Yankee fans, I've got to say, do not seem to be taking this particularly well. I suppose it was bound to come as a nasty shock, given that the last time the team had a record this bad in late May, I was... good lord, eight years old. That was 1990, for those of you keeping score at home. But as my mother always used to say: butch up, little missy. If the Yanks miss the playoffs this fall, it will be the first time in twelve years. Complaining loudly about this in public is understandable, but a bit unseemly.

More tomorrow on the Mets, who just swept the Marlins and have considerably more to be optimistic about. Even though they're one about one injury away from starting Oliver Perez in the outfield.