When this evening's game gets under way, barring any inclement weather, it will be the first 7:00 ET start the Yankees have had since June 30th - everything since then has either been a day game, a late night west coast start or an off day. It will be the Bombers' first home game since the 4th of July, which was also George Steinbrenner's birthday. The atmosphere will no doubt be enhanced this evening as there are plans to honor the Boss as well as the Voice of God during ceremonies which are scheduled to begin at about 6:45.
As was the case when they left off last Sunday, CC Sabathia will be taking the hill for the Yankees. Getting the first start after the break lines the Big Fella up for the best shot at 20 wins among him Hughes and Pettitte, who both have 11 victories. Given that Sabathia is sitting with 12 and figures to get the most chances from here on out (15 or 16, perhaps), if he pitches well, that milestone should be well within his grasp.
CC will be squaring off against James Shields and the Rays, who are two games behind the Yankees in the standings, meaning that this series could potentially transfer the lead in the division. On the other hand, it might give the Yankees a chance to establish a little breathing room from themselves.
Even though this isn't technically the start of the second half - as it is so often referred to as - it does represent somewhat of a new beginning for the Yanks. They are now officially without the one person who is responsible for making them the team they are and the most recognizable voice associated with the franchise. Let's hope the Yanks can find some inspiration in the recent losses of Sheppard and Steinbrenner and start the rest of the season off on the right foot.
I barely knew the guy, but shit it hit me fairly quick, We all forget how much life should be admired, Sometimes we all forget how our music does inspire.
As was the case with Sheppard, we knew the passing of Mr. Steinbrenner was on the horizon. He had been shielded from the public eye for quite some time and when he did make appearances, it was only for a moment, behind dark sunglasses and without any communication beyond perhaps a wave to the crowd. Even behind his shades, he looked alternatively sad, confused and lost. The man who seemed to do everything purposefully and with great vigor was now vacant and adrift.
Control over the team had officially been transferred to his sons in 2007. Howard Rubenstein would release statements on his behalf, but they lacked any of the customary bite that had been the trademark of his heyday. In a lot of ways he was already gone.
It's not uncommon for someone in their late-70's to lose their mental faculties, but for Steinbrenner, who enjoyed the spotlight and demanded attention so forcefully, his fade into oblivion was hardly inconspicuous. Because of who The Boss was in his prime it was impossible not to notice his absence in recent years.
We've all had an employer at some point in our lives that was capable of being so overbearing, so demanding, so demeaning and such a mega-alpha male that they inspired incredibly fierce emotions in you and your co-workers on a daily, if not hourly basis. You probably talked about them and their tyrannical ways endlessly with your fellow corporate captives when they weren't around. You likely rejoiced when they left the office early or took a Friday off so you could breathe easy and do your work without them stopping by to meddle and micromanage.
But every so often, perhaps during a one-on-one meeting or during some downtime on a business trip, the conversation would slip into something beyond the daily grind of business and you'd crack the surface. Usually, a person that maniacally-driven and focused at their given profession also contains something intensely likable and endearing about them, if you ever get close enough to catch a glimpse of it.
Of course, without fail, the following week, they'd make a decision or a comment or send an email that would make you want to leap over their desk or through the computer and fucking strangle them to death with the cord of their office phone. And then you'd forget all about those fleeting moments when they seemed somewhat compassionate and human and go back to thanking your lucky stars you were just their employee and not their child.
Yes, I'm shrouding my personal experiences with a previous boss in a flurry of impersonal pronouns, but I'm guessing most of you can relate on some level. I'm quite sure plenty of people who worked for the Yankees over the years can. In a lot of ways, what made Steinbrenner such an unbearable asshole also made him a good boss. As employees, we point to those that we like as people as our best bosses, but in reality, it might be those who can inspire fear in us who get their workers to perform at the highest level possible.
He was alternatively responsible for some of the Yankees' best and worst years but in the end, George was driven by his uncontrollable selfish desires, most notably a World Champion baseball team as soon as possible, always. Sometimes it backfired, but certainly not for a lack of trying.
As evidenced by his abundant charitable work and the frequent good deeds he did for his employees, there was obviously a sensitive part of him that cared deeply about the people who helped him get what he desperately wanted, but it wasn't big enough to keep him from treating them with disrespect whenever he pleased. That will be forever part of his legacy, but will always be mentioned as a side note to his numerous personal accomplishments and considerable impact not just on Major League Baseball but on American sports and popular culture. And because of the amount of success he attained, I suspect he'd probably be alright with that.
During his recap of last night's game, Hank Waddles of Bronx Banter really did justice to Colin Curtis' first Major League hit, something that we only mentioned in passing because of its limited significance to the game. Money quote:
There are a lot of reasons why I love baseball, but moments like these are high on the list. Basketball players don’t care much about their first basket, and I’m guessing that even quarterbacks forget their first touchdowns, but there seems to be something magical about a player’s first hit. Every once in a while, like Tuesday night in Arizona, we get to share in that moment.
Chad Jennings has more, including some audio from Curtis.
We also neglected to mention Joba Chamberlain's stellar inning last night but Mike from River Ave. Blues picks up that slack. We've seen these standout, stand-alone innings from Joba a few times this year and the hopeful reactions to them but remember that he was pitching with a seven run lead, in unusually warm weather against a team that's prone to striking out. A good inning is a good inning, but Joba has to rip off a bunch of them in a row before we have a legitimate reason to get excited.
One key change for Cano is that he’s finally learned to be patient and swing at more hittable pitches. Last year, he swung at 54% of all pitches and chased 35% of pitches out the zone with runners in scoring position – both of which were well above the major league averages of 46% and 24%, respectively. This year, he’s lowered his overall swing rate to 47.1% and his chase percentage has fallen to 29.1%.
Pending Pinstripes asks whether or not the Yanks should DFA Chan Ho Park. Judging by Joe Girardi's comments, it looks like the Yanks are going to stick with him for the time being. I certainly don't feel comfortable when he enters the game in a high leverage situations but his ability to throw multiple innings means he can still be useful on the roster.
I don't have anything to link to just yet, but how about that USA soccer victory?!!
A Mickey Mouse sculpture adorned with Red Sox logos prepared for the All-Star Game was vandalized out in LA. Some may assume it was a group of Yankee fans who did it, but my money is on the Crips. Those folks don't take to kindly to people who wear red and display body language which seems to pose the question "What, bitch?"
Dave Cameron of FanGraphs argues that the only way to shorten the length of the games is to enlarge the strikezone. That or trim down the commercial breaks, but we all know that's not going to happen.
Over at U.S.S. Mariner, Cameron checks on with Lou Pinella's record seven years after he was traded to Tampa Bay along with Antonio Perez for Randy Winn, and hits on what I think is a fundamental truth in baseball:
The fact of the matter is that Piniella, like pretty much every other manager on earth, wins with teams that have talent and loses with teams that don’t. He doesn’t get more out of his players than anyone else. He doesn’t inspire his men to greatness. He doesn’t make brilliant tactical decisions or teach bad players how to become good ones. Right now, in fact, he’s making a debacle of the Cubs catching situation by benching Geovany Soto (who is really good) in favor of Koyie Hill (who is really bad).
Speaking of Mr. Robinson, the fine gentlemen of Pitchers & Poets did an excellent podcast with him a while back that I've been meaning to link to. For those familiar with Craig's work, you'll be unsurprised to find that he's an illustrator by trade. The interview runs about a half hour and I assure that it will hold your attention for that whole time.
I don't mean to end on a sad note, but death seems to churn up some decidedly poignant writing. First, J.C. Bradbury wrote about what will likely be the last Father's Day he spent with his dad. And secondly, during Monday night's blowout, from over the loudspeakers in Chase Field, Marc Carig was reminded of his sister, six years after the unthinkable happened. Both of those will choke you up a bit, but are well worth reading.
Good morning Fackers. We're easing our way out of the weekend and yesterday's off day, with a World Series rematch against the Phillies looming tonight. Before we turn our focus to that, we'd be remiss if we didn't point out a few items from the weekend series where the Yankees swept up after Astro like they were Rosie the Robot:
On Friday, Andy Pettitte became just the third pitcher in Yankee history to record two hundred wins. Yes, wins aren't a very good means of measuring a pitcher's effectiveness, but for Pettitte to join elite company in the franchise's storied history is noteworthy. Pettitte has been flirting with retirement for the past four off-seasons. Even if he finishes 2010 pitching as well as he has thus far, he's still a good season plus away from catching Red Ruffing (231) and Whitey Ford (236). If he had never left for Houston he'd likely already hold the record.
As Jay mentioned yesterday, Jorge Posada hit grand slams on Saturday and Sunday. He now has 251 career home runs, pushing him past Graig Nettles (250) for seventh place on the Yankees' all-time list. Next up is Bernie Williams (287), but A-Rod is lurking just five behind Posada.
Derek Jeter's leadoff home run on Saturday broke Rickey Henderson's club record for career leadoff home runs.
Marcus Thames injured his hamstring Saturday and was placed on the DL. Chad Huffman was recalled to take his roster spot. Huffman made his Major League debut Sunday, legged out an infield single in his first at bat, and later reached on a walk and a dropped third strike.
Former Yankee Oscar Azocar passed away yesterday at age 45 in his native Venezuela. Azocar was one of several young players the Yankees brought up during their last place season in 1990. He wasn't particularly good, but much like Francisco Cervelli, he had an enthusiastic style play that endeared him to fans and to Phil Rizzuto. Azocar frequently sprinted from his post in left field to back up third base on plays where he was otherwise uninvolved. A free swinger, Azocar walked just twice in 218 plate appearances that season, but he made enough contact where he only struck out 15 times. He was traded to San Diego following his rookie season and washed out of organized baseball after two years there.
Less than forty eight hours after the passing of Ernie Harwell, baseball has lost another Hall of Famer, as former Phillies ace Robin Roberts died this morning at 83.
At just 23 years old, Roberts was already in his third Big League season when he had a breakout year for the 1950 Phillies. The Whiz Kids emerged atop a tight N.L. Pennant race, thanks in no small part to Roberts starting three times in the season's final five days (h/t BLS). Roberts started and won the clincher against the Dodgers on the season's final day, going the full 10 innings and allowing just one run.
The Phillies went on to be swept by the Yankees in the World Series, a meeting we recapped in two parts prior to last year's Fall Classic. Due to his heavy workload down the stretch, Roberts was unavailable to start the opener, but came back to start Game Two, yet another start on short rest. In a forgotten pitcher's duel, both Roberts and the Yankees' Allie Reynolds held their opponents to a single run through nine. Roberts finally buckled in the tenth, allowing a solo shot to Joe DiMaggio. Two days later, Roberts returned with an inning of scoreless relief, but it was too late, as the Yankees swept the series.
That 1950 season served as a springboard for Roberts, who remained one of the NL's top starters for the remainder of decade. He led the NL in wins every year from 1952 through '55, starts from '50 through '55, complete games from '52 through '56, innings pitched from '51 through '55, and strikeouts in '53 and '54. He was an All-Star from 1950 through '56, and in the days before the Cy Young Award, finished in the top seven in MVP voting five times.
Roberts began to decline in the late fifties, and after a dreadful 1961 season, the Phillies sold him to the Yankees. Roberts pitched well for the Yankees in Spring Training, but the team elected to go with the rookie Jim Bouton rather than the 35 year old Roberts. He never appeared in a game for the Yanks and was granted his release in May. He immediately latched on with the Orioles, and enjoyed a bit of a career renaissance, lasting five more seasons with the O's, Astros, and Cubs. He was elected to the Hall of Fame in 1976.
Good morning Fackers. Pope Paul VI died on August 6, 1978. Phil Rizzuto was calling the Yankee game that night, and delivered the news as only he could: "Well, that kind of puts a damper on even a Yankee win".
I thought of that story last night for two reasons. First, because Rizzuto's sentiments about the passing of the pope 32 years ago are an apt expression of my feelings in the wake of Ernie Harwell's passing at 92 last night. And secondly, because Rizzuto, who we lost nearly three years ago now, was as beloved by Yankee fans as Harwell was by Tiger fans. Such announcers are literally a dying breed, and so long as the Yankees continue to employ the likes of Michael Kay and John Sterling as the voices of the team, we won't ever again have the luxury of such a beloved announcer.
I touched upon Harwell briefly last September, when he announced that he had inoperable bile duct cancer and just months to live. As a Yankee-centric baseball fan, I'm having a tough time putting my finger on why it is that the passing of Harwell, who had no ties to the Yankees, is registering with me. I have virtually no connection to him. I barely recall listening to him at all during his broadcasting days. I know I read one of his books when I was younger, and I remember liking it a lot, but not enough to remember which one of his works that it was.
But as the reactions to Harwell's passing pour in from around baseball and blogosphere, I suppose I'm not alone in my sentiments. There are several others out there, who like me, have little or no connection to Harwell, but who are nonetheless saddened by his passing. Harwell was as good an ambassador as the game has ever had, a humble and dignified man throughout his career, and over the past several months, in the face of his impending death, spent his time doing more to console those who would mourn him than he did thinking about himself.
As I thought about this last night, with the Yankees post-game show on in the background, Joe Girardi held his post-game session with the media. There, Kim Jones asked Girardi for some thoughts on Harwell. It was only then that Girardi found out the news, and he became somewhat emotional as he shared his limited memories of Harwell. I suppose that's as representative a reaction as any: someone with no specific ties to Harwell, but with ties to the game of baseball, understands that the game has suffered a significant loss.
Here are far more poignant remembrances of Harwell:
'Duk at Big League Stew says it best: Stevie Wonder, Smokey Robinson, Levi Stubbs, and Marvin Gaye can step aside. Harwell had Motown's sweetest voice.
Sam Walter Foss' "House By The Side of the Road", the poem that helped a young Harwell overcome his stuttering problem. He would later pepper his broadcasts with references to the poem, and the line that closes four of the poem's five stanzas seems to have been a mantra for Ernie:
Let me live in a house by the side of the road, And be a friend to man.
We'll leave you with this video, from Harwell's night at Comerica Park last September.
Today is the fifth anniversary of one of the most memorable days of my life. It happened in the middle of the night, in the cold, remote expanses of the North Pacific, over 650 miles from the nearest piece of dry land - and even that was nothing more than a rocky outcropping on the Aleutian Archipelago.
I was a part of the Semester at Sea Spring 2005 voyage. We had departed from Vancouver, bound for Pusan, Korea about a week before and were met by rough seas almost immediately after passing around Vancouver Island and into the Pacific Ocean. Our ship was a converted cruise liner - a 590 footer ranking among the fastest passenger vessels in the world. But you can only go so fast when attempting to navigate 20 foot swells.
Despite the size of the ship, she pitched and rolled enough to make about two-thirds of the 700 passengers on-board sea sick in one capacity or another. I was one of the lucky ones who wasn't really bothered by all the side-to-side motion, but no one was immune to the effects of the ocean entirely. Eating meant having to hold onto your plate and glass almost constantly, lest it slide off the table. Showering necessitated two hands on the wall for the majority of the time. Even walking down the hall was precarious dance, as you were spilled from one side to the other despite your best efforts to lean against the swell.
There were some rough nights. Up in the bow of the ship, in a large room where most of the students congregated for a Global Studies class each morning, there was a grand piano bolted to the floor. One morning we awoke to find that it had smashed under its own weight when the ship met a particularly large wave head-on.
But through it all, the morale on the ship remained high. There were about 600 college students from all over the country (and from various parts of the world) on-board, all with an incredible trip ahead of us. We were scheduled to sail to Japan after Korea and from there to Shanghai, Hong Kong, Vietnam, India, Kenya, South Africa, Brazil and Venezuela before returning back to the U.S. via Fort Lauderdale. Suffices to say that it didn't all go as planned.
Winter in the North Pacific is not a friendly season. Storm systems have the freedom to build and roam without the inconvenience of bumping into a land mass and sacrificing most of their energy. On that fateful night, we were caught between three of these systems in one of the most remote places on the planet.
We had just crossed the International Date Line, placing us roughly equidistantly from Hawaii, Japan and the Aleutian Islands. It would be difficult to find a location among the major shipping lanes of the world that was further from a major landmass.
I woke at about 12:30 AM in whatever time zone we were in when my bed came unhooked from the wall and began sliding back and forth across our cabin. Pretty much everything in our room was in motion, including the heavy, squat nightstand between the two beds. This piece of furniture, designed not to tip over had done just that, smashing alternatively into the door to our room and the wall that contained our porthole. After a week of vicious seas we were conditioned to take this type of inconvenience in stride, but both my roommate Jeff and I knew that this was beyond the pale. We had experienced 25 foot swells in short stints but these had to be at least 30 feet or more and didn't appear to be subsiding.
After an hour or so of sloshing back and forth, we heard the voice of our Captain come over the loud speaker and inform us that the ship was going to be making a turn in order to face the storm system we were encountering head on. What we didn't know at the time was that it didn't much matter which way he turned the ship.
A more couple hours - and countless shifts port and starboard - later there was another, very similar message. We were on the third deck, but every time the ship banked towards our side, our porthole would plunge beneath the waterline, creating an eerie swallowing sound. If anything, conditions were getting worse.
Finally, at about 4 in the morning, we heard the Dean of Students, Kenn Gaither come over the loudspeaker. In what can only be described as a desperately panicked voice, he said "EVERYONE. PLEASE REMAIN. CALM."
"PLEASE PUT ON YOUR LIFE VESTS, PROCEED TO THE HALLWAY AND AWAIT FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS."
At this point, it still seemed like a trivial aggravation. What we couldn't have known was that he had been up in the bridge of the ship - where the Captain navigates from - when a rogue wave at least 50 feet high smashed two of the windows, shorting out all of their controls and disabling two of the vessel's three engines.
Blissfully unaware of what was going on and bleary-eyed from a lack of sleep, we piled into the corridors of the ship, orange life vests securely fastened. I hadn't processed the idea that we were in grave danger just yet. I think we all possess a natural human instinct that tells us everything is going to turn out fine when we are thrust into an emergency. But I looked down the hallway and saw girls crying and guys with bleak expressions on their faces.
We stayed in the hallway waiting for the Dean to tell us we could go back into our cabins, restlessly shifting and slipping from wall to wall, listening to the sounds of various items crashing about our berths. Only, that's not what happened next.
Around six in the morning, we were told to proceed to the fifth deck - the one that contained the life boat stations. As Gaither gave the instructions, he assigned separate locations for the males and females. Kind of like they did on the Titanic.
The gravity of the situation didn't really hit me until I reached the fifth deck and saw a Filipino crew member crying hysterically. This guy, even if he hadn't been on this particular ship for long, had experience on the open seas and was surrounded by others who had even more. If he thought this was bad, then apparently, it was.
The entirety of a seven-level ship's passengers aren't meant to fit into one of those levels. As such, we were packed in throughout, all sitting on the floor since anything that could pass for a seat would quickly tip over should you be foolish enough to try to sit on it. I ended up on a swath of tile adjacent to one of the boat's cafeterias. There were probably 50-75 other people in the same general area, all helplessly sliding from one wall to another each time the ship pitched. There was a steel door to a kitchen right behind me and with every roll from side-to-side, what sounded like the majority of the cookware inside came skidding across the tile floor and slammed into that door in a deafening cacophony of crashes and clangs.
What I can't sufficiently convey in this post was the relentless, terrifying and inescapable pitch of the ship. The picture on top of this post was taken on that day and isn't doctored. We all have experienced the G-force sensation of getting pushed to one side far enough where you feel like you are going to fall over, but this happened every 15 or 20 seconds for 10 or 12 hours straight. After a while I lost the nagging fear that this next wave was the one that was going to turn the M.V. Explorer upside down in 45 degree waters well beyond the reach of even the most perfectly executed rescue plan. But I never fully dismissed it as a possibility.
Out there, 12 hours away from the nearest cargo vessel, 10,000 feet from the bottom of the ocean and 650 miles from land, most of the people on that boat found a way to ignore that fact that we were staring down an inevitable demise should we capsize. For whatever reason, I thought that if the worst case scenario of the ship sinking unfolded, I'd survive somehow. I'd just swim out, break a window if I had to, kick to the surface, cling to some debris and wait to be rescued. Of course, there was no way anyone could have made it out of the ship and even if they did, they would have been stranded in frigid water in massive swells hours away from anyone who could have possibly been of assistance.
I know this sounds pretty far-fetched. But it actually happened. Look:
You don't have to watch that whole episode of Storm Stories to know how this tale ends. Instead of one of the most catastrophic losses of life in modern maritime history, we made it out relatively unscathed. An elderly woman broke her hip and a crew member fractured his arm, but no one was seriously hurt. The ship was forced to limp back to Hawaii, but for a while it looked like we might have to stop at Midway Island to refuel first.
It was "the day that never happened" partially because it still seems surreal but mostly due to the fact that we reversed course and again crossed the International Date Line, isolating that chaotic 12 hour stretch into a sort of bubble of time unto its own.
We missed out on visiting Korea and Japan but in exchange, we stayed in Hawaii for 10 days and Semester at Sea arranged for us to fly chartered jets from Honolulu to Shanghai to Hong Kong to Ho Chi Minh City before rendezvousing with the M.V. Explorer on the Me Kong River and resuming the rest of the trip as planned.
Before they leave this earth, most people will encounter a true life or death situation in which they come to terms with the fact that this might actually be it. But most of those predicaments end as quickly as then begin instead of being protracted out over half of a day. It was as if we were all involved in an extended hostage situation with Poseidon as our captor and no one with a means of advocating for our release.
It wasn't until we were docked in Hawaii (or maybe it was on a subway in Hong Kong) that I allowed myself to process how close we all came to dying that day. Although I understand it now, I still think back to my friend Dave sarcastically reading out of a Tony Robbins book to make people laugh when we were sliding across the floor. I still vividly remember the crew emerging from the kitchen amidst the sliding plates and utensils with metal bins of french toast to feed the passengers when the swells were at their largest (how they prepared a meal under those conditions I will never know). And the fact that we reconvened our shipboard poker game as soon as the worst had passed, but had to keep our chips in paper cups since they wouldn't have stayed on the table.
I don't think about the events of that day nearly as much as I used to, but every time the anniversary rolls around and I talk to other people that were on the ship, the memories are as real and as vivid as anything else I have experienced in my time on Earth. Unfortunately, the most traumatic events of our lives leave the most indelible marks.
Truthfully, it was during those 100 days of Semester at Sea that I realized that I was halfway decent at writing. I sent periodic letters to my close friends and family but soon started getting email replies from people other than the original recipients telling me how much they've been enjoying my dispatches from halfway around the world. I quickly realized that, if the topic was right, I might be able to write something people enjoyed reading.
That one specific harrowing experience and the balance of the 100 days of that trip altered my life in ways that are still taking shape. I know that I've cheated death and enjoy a disbelieving sort of laugh every time I think about it. I feel like I have a deeper understanding of the world than most people who haven't visited 9 countries in 100 days.
Our Global Studies professor, Robert Fessler gave a speech at the end of the trip that won't go down as one of the great ones of all time. However it's one of the best I've ever heard because it struck the perfect notes while explaining why traveling is enriching on a personal level. He talked about how shared experiences bond people and how being removed from your element forces you to think differently. And thinking differently is what makes life interesting. He made the same "fishbowl" analogy that David Foster Wallace did when he made the his only graduation address at Kenyon College later that year.
From a transcript of Fessler's speech:
"Shangai isn't just a word anymore, it's a place. Cape Town. It all comes back. How could you have possibly imagined back in December that you would spend the rest of your life getting chills whenever you thought of the words "put on your life jackets and get into the hall right now!", with the steady haunting moan of a fog horn in the background. Who else will ever understand that? To you, the world is never going to be the same again."
When a franchise boasts names such as Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio, Berra, Ford, and Mantle, it is riddled with second bananas. Yankee history is fraught with very good to great players whose accomplishments have been overlooked thanks to the passage of time and the presence of teammates who are amongst the game's all-time greats.
Players like Paul O'Neill, Willie Randolph, Graig Nettles, Roy White, Bobby Murcer, Roger Maris, Elston Howard, and Hank Bauer are still relatively familiar to Yankee fans, but what happens as time marches further from their careers and fewer fans actually remember their playing days? It's a theme we touched upon earlier this year as we looked some great, if somewhat forgotten, Yankees from the late 1930s and 1940s: Joe Gordon, Charlie Keller, and Tommy Henrich.
Thus, it somehow only seems fitting that Tommy Henrich passed away today of all days. After a playing career that saw Henrich perpetually overshadowed by more illustrious teammates, and a retirement that - at least in its later years - saw Henrich all but forgotten by the Yankees and most of their fans, Henrich passed away on one of the few days in the last three and a half weeks that offered legitimate baseball news. Henrich's passing was at least partially overshadowed by arbitration offers, or lack thereof.
Yet still, Henrich was remembered today: in statement from the commissioner, in posts throughout the Yankee blogosphere, and the baseball blogosphere at large. Perhaps he was better remembered than I thought.
It's been more than fifteen years since I read it, but Henrich's Five O'Clock Lightning was a personal favorite amongst the dozens and dozens of Yankee books I devoured around that time. Somewhere in my parents' house there is a video tape of a 12 year old me, as Tommy Henrich, being interviewed by my cousin as part of a seventh grade book report I did on Henrich's biography. I think I'm going to have to dig that up now.
We featured Henrich in late September in part because the death of Lonny Frey left Henrich as the oldest living Yankee. Henrich's passing leaves 92 year old Virgil Trucks, uncle of Allman Brothers Band drummer Butch Trucks and great uncle of blog favorite Derek Trucks, as the oldest living Yankees.
Last week, the media and the blogosphere dedicated a lot of time to marking the twenty year anniversary of Pete Rose agreeing to a lifetime ban from baseball in the face of overwhelming evidence that he gambled on the game and gambled on his own team. ESPN showed an Outside the Lines piece that actually managed to humanize the insufferable Joe Morgan, who was literally moved to tears over his frustration with the arrogance and stubbornness his friend and former teammate has carried himself with in these last two decades.
This post isn't intended to wade into the quagmire that is the Rose debate. Rather, it's to point out that yesterday marked the twentieth anniversary of the death of former Commissioner A. Bartlett Giamatti, the other principal character in the Greek tragedy that is the Rose banishment. The anniversary of the death of Rose's baseball career passed with much fanfare. The anniversary of the death of Giamatti passed with nary a whisper.
Baseball lends itself to stories and fables and legends and hyperbole. That's the way it's always worked, particularly with the media. As such, the legend goes that the toll of the Dowd Report and the Rose ban killed Giamatti just eight days after the suspension was announced. The truth of the matter is Giamatti was overweight, smoked heavily, and suffered from Charcot-Marie-Tooth disease. I'm sure the stress of the summer of 1989 weighed heavily upon Giamatti, but it certainly wasn't the only cause of his tragic and untimely death.
Last night, as I drove past the sign for the Giamatti Little League Center on my way to my hockey game, I thought about what might have been had Giamatti not died less than a year into his tenure as Commissioner. Several others have had similar thoughts of late. Rose and his camp insist that Giamatti would have granted Rose reinstatement over time. Fay Vincent, who served as Giamatti's Deputy Commissioner and played a major role in the Rose investigation, insists that never would have happened.
In February, following the Alex Rodriguez steroid admission, Yale Magazine ran a piece from Giamatti friend and former U.S. Attorney General Dick Thornburgh. It implied that Giamatti was planning to tackle drug testing head on after the Rose situation was settled, and suggested that perhaps the PED scandal of the last twenty years could have been avoided had Giamatti been successful. And maybe Giamatti would have made an impact. He had the backing of the owners. He had taken a hard line against a union before in his days as Yale President. He had gained a reputation as a disciplinarian in his time as National League President, handing down heavy suspensions to Rose for an ump bump and Dodgers reliever (and former Yankee) Jay Howell for applying pine tar to a ball during the NLCS. But we'll never know if Giamatti would have taken on drug testing nor how successful he would have been.
As for me, I wonder how other things would have played out had Giamatti lived to serve a full term. Would Fay Vincent still have been named his successor? If so, would he have been as overmatched in that role had he been able to spend more than just a few months working in Major League Baseball first? Would the owners still have forced him out? Could the Bud Selig era have been avoided? How about the 1994 strike? The Wild Card and divisional realignment? Would the ridiculous All-Star Game/homefield advantage policy still be in place? Would baseball have expanded twice more? Would contraction have even been discussed? Would the Nationals still be in Montreal? Would the Giants or White Sox have moved to St. Petersburg after all? Would revenue sharing have been put in place sooner? Would it not have been put in place at all?
Recent Yankee history might have been much different as well. In February 1990, Fay Vincent handed George Steinbrenner a lifetime ban for his hiring of gambler Howard Spira to dig up dirt on Dave Winfield and his foundation. The ban was lifted three years later, after Vincent had been forced out of office and Steinbrenner friend Bud Selig was the acting Commissioner. Would Giamatti have handed down the same sentence? If so would he have reinstated Steinbrenner at any point?
It's all useless conjecture, but it's also intriguing to wonder what might have been. While Rose, Vincent, and Thornburgh all knew Giamatti to some extent, none of them can truly know what he would have done had he served longer as Commissioner, and neither do I. What we do know is that Bart Giamatti died too soon, and it was baseball's loss. It's unfortunate that the baseball media didn't see fit to remember that yesterday.
After A.J. Burnett got touched up in Boston on June 9th, he tore off a run of eleven quality starts in twelve outings, a run that a hit a big road bump last Saturday, once again in a start at Fenway Park. This afternoon Burnett gets his first start since then, and I'm hoping that he'll kick up another string of outings like the one that followed his last Boston Massacre.
If Burnett's two previous starts against Texas this year are any indication, he has a good chance a starting another run today. Burnett made consecutive starts against the Rangers in late May and early June, going 2-0 with a 2.08 ERA over 13 innings of work in which he allowed 11 hits, 5 walks, and struck out 15. The June start was the one in which he earned a six game suspension, later reduced to five games, for retaliating on behalf of Mark Teixeira by doing a little head hunting against Nelson Cruz.
Six foot seven righty Dustin Nippert gets the nod for the Rangers. Nippert has never faced the Yankees and was on the DL until July this year, missing the first two series between these teams. Entering the season with a 6.42 ERA (70 ERA+) through 141.2 IP over parts of four Major League seasons, Nippert seems to have figured it out a bit better in 2009. In eleven appearances, seven starts, Nippert has a 3.95 ERA (114 ERA+) that's more than a run and a half better than any of his previous seasons. His peripherals suggest he's closer to league average than his ERA indicates, but this season could mark a turning point in his career. He'll battle a fellow West Virginian whenever Nick Swisher steps into the box today. Cue the dueling banjos.
With today being a day game after a night game, Joe Girardi hinted during yesterday's pre-game that Jorge Posada would have today off. Given that today is Burnett's first start since last Saturday's disaster, that news only served as further fuel to the media-driven fire that Posada can't call a good game and doesn't work well with the pitchers. Why this has been a recurring storyline over the course of the season, I cannot figure.
While Posada certainly won't go down in history as one of the game's greatest defensive catchers or most astute game callers, the guy isn't a liability behind the plate. Oh, that and he's carved out a borderline Hall of Fame career with his bat, and that's more than compensated for any defensive short comings, real or imagined. Just last year the Yankees caught a glimpse of life without Posada, and it wasn't a pretty experience. Has everyone forgotten about that already? The aggravation of a nagging finger inury last night will keep Posada out of the line up today. The Yankees, and their fans, had better hope that it doesn't sideline Posada for any extended periods down the stretch. They're not nearly as good without him.
Don't forget to come back at game time for our Fack Youk Live Game Chat.
With any luck, today will mark the last in string of death remembrance postings I've made this month. When the Yankees and Rangers had their first series this season, we chose Texas guitar slinger Stevie Ray Vaughan for one of the games. Today, on the nineteenth anniversary of his death, we'll go back to one of the most gifted musicians ever to put a guitar strap over his shoulder. SRV had put his personal demons to rest and had been playing with renewed purpose when he boarded a helicopter shortly after midnight on August 27, 1990. Taking off in a fog, the chopper failed to climb to a sufficient altitude during takeoff, and crashed into a nearby hillside. No one on board survived. Vaughan had written "Life Without You" as a tribute to a deceased friend, but after his own untimely death, it became like a self-penned elegy.
Oh now baby, tell me how have you been We all have missed you, and the way you grin The day is necessary, every now and then For souls to move on, giving life back again, and again Fly on, fly on. Fly on my friend Go on, live again. Love again.
"If you've got Dickinson, you don't need anyone else" - Bob Dylan to Harp Magazine, May 2003
This will have nothing to do with the Yankees and little to do with anything previously posted at Fack Youk, but given our musical leanings here, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention it. Last week I mentioned how August seems to be a terrible month for deaths, both in baseball and music. Just hours before that post published, Les Paul went to the great beyond. Now, there is another loss to mourn.
Last night, as I was finishing cooking dinner, I logged onto to my favorite music website, jambands.com. It was only then that I learned that Memphis music legend Jim Dickinson passed away Saturday, at the age of 67, following triple bypass surgery.
Even if you're a music buff like Jay or me, you may never have heard of Jim Dickinson, but chances are you've heard Jim Dickinson. The man's music career has spanned the past forty-plus years and has associated him with some of the biggest names in music history.
As a sideman, Dickinson recorded with the likes of Arethra Franklin, Sam & Dave, Ry Cooder, Delaney and Bonnie, Arlo Guthrie, Mavis Staples, and DuaneAllman. His Dixie Flyers were the house band during the heyday of Criteria Studios in Miami, where he worked with legenedary producer Tom Dowd.
Dickinson later recorded and toured with the Rolling Stones. He provides the piano on the recording of "Wild Horses". In the Stones documentary Gimme Shelter, Dickinson can be seen lounging next to Keith Richards as the band listens to the playback of the freshly cut track. More than twenty five years later, Dickinson would record with Bob Dylan on his critically acclaimed comeback album, Time Out of Mind.
In the early 1970s, Dickinson returned to the Memphis area, where he'd spent most of his youth. From then until the end of his days, he was at the forefront of the Memphis music scene, the city from which Sam Phillips and his Million Dollar Quartet brought rock and roll to the rest of the nation. He was instrumental in the rediscovery of blues acts such as Furry Lewis, Bukka White*, and Sleepy John Estes, often playing in their backing bands.
*White once played in the Negro Leagues, gifted his cousin B.B. King with the first guitar B.B. ever owned, and was an innovator of the National Steel guitar. One of his steel guitars is currently owned by blog favorite Derek Trucks.
Upon his return to the Memphis area, Dickinson also began a solo career, releasing the critically acclaimed Dixie Fried in 1972 (featuring Dr. John and Eric Clapton). After a 30 year hiatus, he jump started his solo career in 2002, releasing four more albums prior to his passing. During his recording hiatus, Dickinson continued to perform, assembling the legendary Memphis band Mudboy and the Neutrons.
For more than thirty years Dickinson has also enjoyed a wildly successful second career as a producer. He guided the recordings of artists such as Big Star, Toots Hibbert, Screamin' Jay Hawkins, The Replacements, Albert King, The Radiators, and John Hiatt.
In the mid 1970s, Dickinson moved slighly south of Memphis, to the hill country of north Mississippi. There, he established his Zebra Ranch Studios, and along with his wife Mary, raised their sons Luther and Cody. Growing up in that household, and in that region of the country, the Dickinson boys were exposed to a wealth of musical greatness, and were soon taken with the famed blues musicians of the hill country: Otha Turner, R.L. Burnside, and Junior Kimbrough. In 1996 the brothers Dickinson and childhood friend Chris Chew formed the North Mississippi Allstars, my favorite band, whose song "The Meeting" I used for our game preview just last Wednesday. The lyric I quoted at the bottom, "If you ain't right you better get right" was an old phrase Jim was fond of using. As father, mentor, and producer, Jim was a guiding force for NMA.
While Jim Dickinson is now gone, his legacy, in the recorded music he left behind as a performer and a producer and in the music that will continue to be created by his progeny, will last. Another phrase Jim was fond of was "World Boogie is coming". Indeed it is, and when it does, Jim Dickinson will be largely to thank for it. Rest in peace Jim.
Saturday saw two very scary incidents take place on the diamond. In the afternoon, a 93 MPH fastball from Matt Cain drilled David Wright in the ear, knocking him senseless. He left the park on a stretcher and was taken to the Hospital for Special Surgery for overnight observation. The Mets placed him on the DL Sunday, and Jerry Manuel conceeded it's possible that Wright could be done for the year. The Mets now have their four best offensive players on the disabled list. They may want to consider encasing Johan Santana in bubble wrap.
On Saturday night and even scarier incident took place in Phoenix. In the bottom of the sixth Rusty Ryal smashed a line drive up the middle that smacked Hiroki Kuroda square in the temple. The ball rebounded off his dome and landed on the warning track by the third base on deck circle on the fly, before one hopping into the stands for a ground rule double. Despite writhing in pain on the ground, reportedly the first think Kuroda asked was "Did anyone catch the ricochet?", which he off course prononuced "lick-o-shay". Kuroda was released from the hospital Sunday and flew home with the Dodgers (so it's clearly appropriate for me to make an insensitive joke at this point).
These two incidents happened just one day short of the 89th anniversary of the most notorious beaning in baseball history. On August 16, 1920, the Cleveland Indians faced the Yankees at the Polo Grounds. It reportedly was an overcast day. In the fifth inning, Yankee pitcher Carl Mays, a submariner, unleashed a fastball that plunked Cleveland shortstop Ray Chapman in the temple. He was knocked unconcious and taken to a hospital, where he died the next day. Mays had a reputation as a head hunter, but until his death in 1971 he claimed the beaning was not intentional. Mays purported that the ball was wet and scuffed - not uncommon in those days - causing it to sail high and tight. Given Mays' arm angle, the likely condition of the ball, and the overcast day, it's probable that Chapman never even saw it coming. It remains the only on-field fatality in Major League history.
As scary as things were for Wright and Kuroda on Saturday, they are both far luckier than poor Ray Chapman.
Yesterday, on the long drive out to Darien Lake (which is just outside of Buffalo) to see Phish, I was tooling around on my iPhone and came across the unfortunate news of Les Paul's passing on Baseball Musings. I only say "unfortunate" because when someone dies, it's always unfortunate, but Paul lived a fantastic life and died at the ripe old age of 94.
If you're a guitar player or fan of rock music, you probably recognize his name from the famous line of Gibson guitars he endorsed, played by legends such as Duane Allman, Dickey Betts, Warren Haynes, Pete Townshend, Peter Frampton, David Gilmour, Keith Richards, George Harrison, Slash, Jimmy Page, Neil Young and Frank Zappa, to only skim the cream of the crop. Chances are, if fancy yourself a guitar player, you either have a Les Paul or have wanted one badly.
If his only accomplishment was pioneering the solid body electric guitar by crafting it out of a four inch thick piece of a railroad track, he would have had an incredibly successful career in the music business. However, that was only the tip of the iceberg. He also invented multi-track recording, which allowed multiple instruments and vocal arrangements to be stacked on top of each other, which is how virtually every album is recorded in the modern day. A musician in his own right, Paul played his regular gig at the Iridium Jazz Club in New York city until within just months of his death, a performance that we urged you all to experience and one I'm ashamed to say I never did.
To learn more about his long and rich life, head over to the Gibson website for a full scale tribute.
There is also a great PBS special on him, which I'm guessing will be re-aired in the near future. Keep an eye out for that as well.
Last night at the Phish show, they stopped briefly before setbreak to acknowledge Paul's passing, explaining that if he hadn't decided that guitars weren't just for background filler in a band, rock and roll as we know it may never have come to fruition. They played a short version of "How High The Moon", which was perhaps Paul's biggest hit and led into Golgi Appartus, a song replete with lead guitar and a beautiful quiet jazzy solo, a signature of Paul's own music. It was a great moment and I thought of all the other concerts going on simultaneously with similar tributes prompting burts of cheers in outdoor amphitheaters across the country and around the world.
The video below was captured during the advent of multi-tracking at which point it was still a novelty, not the standard industry practice. Most songs don't have 26 tracks (except maybe this one) but this video depicts a man far ahead of his time, bright an vibrant, which is exactly how he should be remembered. Rest in peace, sir.
Somewhere there's music, It's where you are, Somewhere there's heaven, How near, how far.
The darkest night would shine, If you would come to me soon, Until you will, how still my heart, How high the moon.
August is a tough month. As a kid, August always represented the summer dying - vacation dwindling down, school supplies creeping into stores, the grass burning from green to brown, maybe even the first leaves falling from the trees.
As a fan of both baseball and music, August seems to be a tough month as well. We talked about the anniversaries of the deaths of Thurman Munson and Jerry Garcia earlier this month. Today came the news that guitar legend Les Paul passed away. Later this month the anniversaries of Allen Woody and Stevie Ray Vaughan's deaths will pass as well.
Today marks the 14th anniversary of Mickey Mantle's death. Maybe it was because he had high profile celebrities like Billy Crystal and Bob Costas who worshipped the ground he walked on and romanticized every bit of his legend, but Mantle's death struck me as being just as much as the end of a cultural phenomenon as it was the passing of a baseball legend.
For a generation of American males, Mickey Mantle was an icon. I suppose his death in 1995, as that generation moved into middle age, was not only the passing of their boyhood idol, but also the severing of one of the last remaining connections to their youth. I guess each generation of fans faces this at some stage, but that's not something I even want to consider right now.
Like many of that generation, my father's favorite player from his childhood years was Mantle. The Mick was winding down his career as my father began following the game, but he still had some of his former magic. A yellowed cover of The Daily News from when Mantle hit his 500th homerun still hangs in my parents' basement.
I grew up down the street from a golf course that used to host celebrity tournaments. When I was an infant, Mantle was playing in a tournament there. Mom convinced Dad to take a ride up the hill, and sure enough, there was The Mick. Awestruck, my father was rendered speechless for the entirety of the encounter. My mother was unimpressed enough to get a picture. Though seperated for a number of years, Mickey and his wife Merlyn never divorced, and she was at his side at the time of his passing. Eerily, she passed away Monday.
Today is also the second anniversary of Phil Rizzuto's passing. Phil Rizzuto Day was the first Major League game I ever attended. It didn't dawn on me until today that Rizzuto and Mantle died on the same date. Oddly, Mantle's death in some way contributed to Rizzuto finally leaving the broadcast booth. WPIX decided that Bobby Murcer, another close friend of Mantle's, would represent the network at Mantle's funeral, forcing the Scooter to stay in Boston to call the Yanks game. The decision upset Rizzuto greatly, causing him to leave the booth mid-game, and announce his retirement shortly thereafter. He was persuaded to return for one final season in 1996. After I mentioned Jerry Remy's return to the Sox booth last night, I guess it's in some way appropriate that today we also remember a beloved Yankee announcer.
We'll take a brief respite from the trade dealine madness to remember what is likely the most tragic day in Yankee history. Sunday marks the thirty year anniversary of the death of Thurman Munson.
As we counted down to Spring Training, Jay had a great look back at Munson. That was before my time at Fack Youk, and as we approach this sad anniversary I wanted to offer my own remembrance. Despite his passing more than thirteen months before I was born, Munson has long been one of my favorite Yankees. I suppose it stems from my father; with the possible exception of Mickey Mantle, Munson is his all-time favorite.
As I grew interested in baseball, it was of course my father who taught me about baseball history and about Yankee history, and of course, there was the obligatory Munson lesson. At some point in my youth I inherited the #15 Yankee t-shirt my father had outgrown. Age and wear and tear eventually rendered that shirt unwearable, but a Munson shirt I purchased in Cooperstown some years ago remains my shirt of choice when venturing to the Bronx.
One of the first games I can recall going to was shortly after the tenth anniversary of Munson's death. I can recall visiting his plaque in Monument Park that day, as well as receiving the commemorative issue of Yankees Magazine that I read until it fell apart. A few years later I came upon Munson's autobiography, co-authored by Marty Appel, and read that one over and over. I recently completed Appel's comprehensive Munson biography. I have mixed feelings about the book - and may well review it here at some point - but by default it has to be considered the definitive work on Munson and I would recommend it to anyone wanting to know more about him.
What is it about Munson that makes him so beloved thirty years after he last played? Certainly his untimely demise plays into it, as his does his role as the face of the Yankees during the most colorful period of their history. A Rookie of the Year award, MVP award, three Gold Gloves awards, three pennants, and two World Championships certainly help too, as does serving as the first Yankee Captain since Lou Gehrig.
But more than that, I think there was something inherently likeable about Munson. Despite his midwestern roots and sensibilities, his personality was also sarcastic and confident enough to endear him to New York fans. His squatty, unathletic-looking build made him appear as a scrappy over-achiever, despite his natural talents. He perpetually played hurt, and despite the madness of the Bronx Zoo years, Munson usually managed to stay above the fray. He was the face of the franchise as they emerged from the worst stretch of their post-deadball history back to being a championship club.
But those are just my impressions looking back on a player I wasn't lucky enough to see. So what do you say Fackers? For those of you who saw him play, what are your memories of The Captain?
(I know I'm breaking our black and white image policy,
This will have nothing to do with the Yankees and little to do with anything previously posted at Fack Youk, but given our musical leanings here, I'd be remiss if I didn't mention it. Last week 
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