An Honor

It was an honor to sit in a cold drizzle and salute Jackie Robinson at Yankee Stadium. His memory has always been an inspiration and thoughts of him and Martin Luther King and Cesar Chavez have comforted me through many justice marches and protests.

Robinson has always held a place of honor in the Bronx despite being a Dodger. His official spot was carved out with a plaque in Monument Park:

Jackie Robinson

42

Uniform number retired throughout baseball: 1997.

In becoming the first Major League player to break the color
barrier, Jackie will forever be an inspiration with his grace, dignity and perseverance. His story and the stories of those who never had the same opportunity must never be forgotten.

The Yankees donated $1 million to The Jackie Robinson Foundation.

The video tribute before the game was especially moving. Dozens of players said, “Thank you, Jackie Robinson.” And dozens more said, “I am Jackie Robinson.”

It’s an honor to say both.

The only thing I can add is “Thank you, Rachel Robinson” for never letting this country forget how far we’ve come and how far we still have to go.

The Chase

Baseball is a wonderfully magical game. Sometimes that gets lost in today’s culture of statistics and win projections. Fans have far too much to worry about and often lose sight of what’s really important.

The only thing that matters is that Chase Wright is taking the ball for the Yankees in his Major League debut: One game, one starter, one team and nine innings. Something magical and wonderful and interesting is sure to happen.

Baseball is all about the day-to-day chase. It must be enjoyed one win at a time and endured one loss at a time. Think ahead and you’ll miss the whole season: 101 wins, 95 wins, 97 wins happened one day at a time.

Chase Wright goes tonight. Yeah.

Tribute

It’s always stunning to see Mariano Rivera surrender a lead, but yesterday’s painful loss turned out to be a fitting tribute to Jackie Robinson.

Rivera walked off the field in defeat much the same as Robinson did at the Polo Grounds in 1951. Marco Scutaro’s home run probably won’t have the lasting impression of Bobby Thomson’s “Shot Heard ‘Round the World,” but defeat shows a man’s character much more than victory.

Rivera has always displayed everything that defined Robinson: Courage, talent, determination, humility and dignity. Yesterday, he left a pitch up and over the plate that was hit for a game-winner. It was a mistake by baseball’s greatest closer.

Mistakes happen every day. Robinson – the kid from Pepper Street in Pasadena – and Rivera – the son of a Panamanian fisherman – were taught to overcome them.

Robinson overcame more than anyone could ever imagine. Rivera – like the rest of us – is far better off because of him, but there are always obstacles.

Rivera fought his way through the minor leagues and grew into an anchor on one of baseball’s finest teams. But it’s been the way he walks away from defeat that defines him as a player and a man.

People have always looked for Rivera’s weakness. First it was giving up the lead in the 1997 American League Division Series against Cleveland. Then it was losing the 2001 World Series against Arizona. Finally, it was game four of the disappointing 2004 American League Championship Series against Boston. Rivera has come back stronger each time.

It’s now clear that Rivera, like Robinson, has no weakness.

On Tuesday night at Yankee Stadium there will again be only two 42’s in baseball: Robinson and Rivera.

A very fitting tribute, indeed.

West Coast Baseball

West Coast baseball can be difficult and losses really hurt. They are especially painful when you battle into the 11th inning only to see it slip away.

You sit alone at 2:00 a.m. with the television flicking across a shadowy room. Moments before you were in the middle of a bases-loaded-one-out situation trying to push the game to the 12th inning.

Now, you slump in your chair as your team walks off the field.

Heads up. Everyone fought hard and just came up short. It happens. As Mariano Rivera says, “That’s baseball.”

You total your scorecard and listen to the post-game interviews before trying to sleep. Rest easy because tomorrow always offers more promise than today. Of course, it’s already tomorrow. No, it’s today and Rasner is ready. Pettitte goes tomorrow, I think.

That’s West Coast baseball in the Bronx.

Priorities

I was flipping the channels on the Yankees’ off day and finally settled in with the Tigers and Blue Jays on my free preview of MLB Extra Innings on InDemand.

I could have watched the Royals and Orioles or the Nationals and Braves or the Devil Rays and Twins.

What’s more important than having every baseball game available on television?

If you answered, “Having every game at people’s fingertips is one of the most important issues facing the people of the United States,” then Senator John Kerry thanks you.

Kerry held hearings and called for an FCC investigation on an agreement that would have shown “out-of-market” Major League games only on DirectTV.

The political pressure worked. Major League Baseball struck a last-minute deal to keep its Extra Innings package on cable television.

“We kept talking and pressing until we had a deal that protects the rights of most fans to follow their hometown team,” Kerry said.

Over three million Americans will be homeless this year, 12.5 million children go to bed hungry every night, nearly 50 million people have no access to quality healthcare and the most important thing on the mind of a United States Senator like John Kerry is whether a few people have televised access to a specific baseball game?

Beautiful.

Time Warner, Comcast and Cox are the big winners here. They got a publicly elected Senator to help ramrod through their private multimillion-dollar contract.

If Kerry was honestly interested in the rights and welfare of baseball fans and every other American he would call hearings on: Homelessness, poverty, healthcare, education, malnutrition, racial justice and a thousand more pressing issues.

Of course, Kerry doesn’t have time for any of that with all those baseball games to watch.

Okay

The Yankees lost the game, but won the series in Minnesota. Mike Mussina left last night in the third inning with a hamstring strain.

That’s the bad and the good and the very bad. At least the very bad doesn’t sound all that bad.

“I don’t limp and I can still touch my toes,” Mussina said. “So it’s not bad.”

Good. Well, as good as bad can get. And I believe that makes everything okay.

It’s certainly not okay that guys keep going down with hamstring injuries. First is was Chien-Ming Wang and then Hideki Matsui and now Mussina.

I’m not a doctor or a trainer or even a player anymore, but I do have two unstrained hamstrings that aren’t doing much these days since I only run when I smell pizza. I would gladly loan them out if they would help the team because first and foremost I am a Yankee. And that is very good.

Laundry

My “Got Melky?” T-shirt hit the laundry bag after an 0 for 3 and a loss. But I’ll keep looking for an edge because watching that kid play makes me smile.

An Edge

I believe in the one-fan-one-vote system. I will cheer and study and defend my team until my last breath, but I realize my dedication means nothing in the grand scheme of the game. I can’t influence a pitch or a swing or even a catch no matter how strong my support. I barely have the clout to get a bag of peanuts thrown in my direction at Yankee Stadium.

But that doesn’t stop me from trying.

I dug into my T-shirt drawer when Melky Cabrera started the season 2 for 21. I wore “Got Melky?” yesterday and he went 3 for 4 with an RBI and a run scored. He also made a great catch in the eighth inning.

I don’t honestly believe I had anything to do with his success, but I’m still not willing to remove my T-shirt. As Melky and the Yankees roll through this weekend and into the next home stand I will certainly be getting a bit ripe.

I may get some extra room on the train and will probably be able to clear a few counter seats in any coffee shop, but an edge is an edge.

The Big Comfy Dome

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: “The next best thing to home is a big comfy dome.”

At least in April.

The Yankees just needed a little heat to get things rolling. The fake-ballpark feel of the Metrodome did nothing to detract from the fact that this was the first time anyone has been warm in a week.

Carl Pavano was excellent. Alex Rodriguez hit another home run and drove in a pair. Johnny Damon, Derek Jeter, Bobby Abreu and Jorge Posada were their usual understatedly-brilliant selves. The bullpen got a break and the Bronx rested easy last night.

It was all good, but everyone is a bit wary this morning. This is baseball and your advantage can flip as quickly as a pancake. The rock-hard turf and mysterious roof can turn quickly, but the Yankees hope to be on their way to Oakland before it does.

A quiet comfort comes with Andy Pettitte. The big lefty is tough, smart, talented and confident. Tonight he will also be warm in that big comfy dome.

Painfully Cold

Cold hurts. It tightens your neck and lower back. It makes your joints creak and cracks everything it can reach: Hands, cheeks, lips and fingertips.

We endured a week of pain in the Bronx. Johnny Damon missed a few games and Hideki Matsui is on the 15-day disabled list to take care of a hamstring strain.

There was the usual wear and tear of playing baseball – Derek Jeter fouled a ball off his foot and Bobby Abreu was nailed by a Chris Ray fastball – and it all feels worse when the cold is biting.

Darrell Rasner developed a pair of blisters in Sunday’s series finale against Baltimore from trying to spin his curveball on a snowy afternoon.

My only responsibility during the season-opening home stand was getting myself to Yankee Stadium, filling out my scorecard and cheering. Even that took its toll. I’m stiff and sore and nursing cracked hands this morning.

I’ve never been much for indoor baseball. There is a painful childhood incident that still causes me to swing a bat with caution in the house. But this trip to the Metrodome is actually welcomed. We’ll have to deal with playing on turf and trying to pick balls out of the ball-colored roof, but at least it won’t be cold and snowy.

This six-game road trip will help the team get in the flow of the season and eight more days into April should warm the Bronx. I’m pretty sure it won’t be any colder next Tuesday when the guys come home to face Cleveland. Yeah, pretty sure.

Layers

All you really need are a few good T-shirts to get you through a baseball summer. April is an entirely different matter.

I piled on five layers last night: A Derek Jeter T-shirt, a Yankee sweatshirt, a Yankee pullover fleece, a Yankee lightweight jacket and a Yankee hooded parka. I wore thermal underwear, heavy socks, boots and a hat.

I was still cold.

No one was making excuses for the errors and wild pitches and passed balls, but I don’t know how they played at all. It took me almost five minutes to get out of my seat after the game and I moved so slowly down the ramps that they nearly locked me in the Stadium.

It was a tough night to do anything. Playing good baseball was nearly impossible. Luis Vizcaino had difficulty gripping the ball. I had trouble just gripping my pencil and scorecard.

Tonight will be just as cold and it might even snow again, but Mike Mussina usually finds a way to get it done regardless of the weather. So load up the layers and head to the Bronx.

Scoring At Home

I have one final note on Bud Selig’s salary for those scoring at home.

The Major League Baseball Commissioner, who can’t hit or throw a curveball, makes more than American League Cy Young Award winner Johan Santana. He also makes more than National League Cy Young Award winner Brandon Webb.

Selig makes $10 million more than the combined salaries of American League MVP Justin Morneau and National League MVP Ryan Howard.

Selig makes more than you and me and everyone else that sat in a frigid Yankee Stadium last night.

He makes a lot more than the people who couldn't even afford tickets to sit in the cold.

Robbed

There has been quite a stir in the Bronx over the recent news that Major League Baseball Commissioner Bud Selig was paid $14.5 million last year.

“He got it all from us,” my friend Javier shrugs. “Revenue sharing and luxury tax; it’s all bad for the Bronx. He’s just one more rich guy stealing from poor people.”

Javier turns his pockets inside-out.

“See? Bud’s got it all.”

The Commissioner is supposed to look out for the best interests of baseball. Selig has always looked out for the best interests of the bottom-line.

That’s why owners love him: Mets Chairman Fred Wilpon recently called him, “…the greatest commissioner of all time.” And the media fawns over him: Sports Weekly assembled a “panel of nine experts” that voted Selig the most influential person in baseball in a story titled: Optimism, hope nourish commissioner’s labor of love.

Beautiful.

The first player on that list was Barry Bonds at number 15 and Derek Jeter was the only other in the top 25. Selig has certainly succeeded in concentrating the money and power at the very top of Major League Baseball’s monopoly.

He’s done plenty to hold down players’ salaries while inflating his own. There are 10 current New York Yankees whose combined salaries are less than Selig’s. That list includes one of the greatest pitchers ever: Mariano Rivera, last year’s American League Cy Young Award runner-up: Chien-Ming Wang, along with Robinson Cano, Melky Cabrera, Sean Henn, Scott Proctor, Miguel Cairo, Wil Nieves, Darrell Rasner and Brian Bruney.

After hearing of Selig’s fat paycheck the consensus in the Bronx is that: Derek Jeter, Alex Rodriguez, Mike Mussina, Andy Pettitte, Hideki Matsui, Johnny Damon, Jorge Posada, Bobby Abreu, Doug Mientkiewicz, Josh Phelps, Kei Igawa, Mike Myers, Luis Vizcaino, Kyle Farnsworth, Jason Giambi and even Carl Pavano are woefully underpaid.

And Yankee fans are criminally overtaxed.

Thanks Bud.

Cashing In

George Steinbrenner is a starter and Brian Cashman is a finisher. We got a good look at both on Opening Day.

There were the obvious signs in free-agent addition Jason Giambi and big-trade acquisition Alex Rodriguez, but the subtle keys to victory were in Steinbrenner’s constant desire to win and Cashman’s ability to deal.

Bobby Abreu had two hits, scored two runs and had one big RBI on Opening Day. He fits so perfectly on this team that it’s hard to believe he hasn’t been here forever.

When the Yankees needed a big bat and a solid starter for last year’s stretch run, Cashman put together a deal for Abreu and the late Cory Lidle. The only drawback was that it would cost money. Steinbrenner, who has always plowed profits back into the team, quickly signed off because he wants a winner as badly as the players and fans.

Luis Vizcaino picked up the win in the opener on the strength of a perfect 7th inning. Cashman got him up – along with Ross Ohlendorf, Steven Jackson and Alberto Gonzalez – in the Randy Johnson trade.

The deals for Abreu and Vizcaino were so one sided in our favor that some in the Bronx have wondered if Cashman finished them with a ski mask and a .38.

“He robbed ‘em,” says my friend Javier. “But Cashman doesn’t need a .38. He just needs The Boss.”

The Opening Day victory proves we need them both.

Catch Up With Ketchup

Ketchup is good on french fries.

Catch up is needed after Opening Day.

It’s good that you can’t blog from Yankee Stadium. I certainly don’t need any distractions other than a pencil and my scorecard.

This is the first time I’ve been near a computer since my team arrived back in the Bronx. They worked out at Yankee Stadium on Sunday in a cold drizzle and Jason Giambi stopped to greet the huddled mass near the players’ gate.

“How are you guys doing?” Giambi grinned.

The group eagerly thrust hands. I believe he shook mine first, but others dispute that.

Giambi was peppered with the usual stammering questions and autograph requests.

“How was Spring Training?”

“Good, real good. We’re ready to go.”

“How do you like this cold weather?”

“Love it.”

“We gonna win it all?”

“We’re sure gonna try.”

Small talk that meant a lot to people who love the big man with the big smile.

“He is so cool,” one of them said.

Giambi helped Cory Lidle’s family through an emotional Opening Day ceremony and then drove in three runs on two hits. Joe Torre called him, “…one of the leaders in this clubhouse.”

He is certainly a leader with the people.

Giambi attended a swanky Midtown affair last night, but somehow we feel he would have been more comfortable hanging out with us at the Crown Diner. Ordering up a grilled cheese sandwich and french fries. Extra ketchup, please.

As Advertised

Doug Mientkiewicz came as advertised.

“He’s a tough ballplayer who will do anything to win,” Brian Cashman promised.

On Opening Day Mientkiewicz dropped a perfect sacrifice bunt that set up a big sixth inning and used an aggressive slide to get under Dioner Navarro’s tag with a huge insurance run in the eighth.

Many in the Bronx got their first look on Sunday when he left the Stadium after a work out. He had bags over each shoulder and was rolling two other huge suitcases. When fans yelled his name he turned smoothly, nodded and winked.

Slick fielding.

25 Thoughts On 25 Men

The Yankees are ready. Twenty-five men from 25 towns in six different countries will represent a city of immigrants. New York is home to everyone from everywhere and these are some thoughts on our guys.

Johnny Damon from Fort Riley, Kansas: We all love Mr. New York.

Derek Jeter from Pequannock, New Jersey: There aren’t words to describe what The Captain means to this team and this city.

Bobby Abreu from Maracay, Venezuela: He was born to hit third in this lineup.

Alex Rodriguez from New York, New York: His big right-handed bat is the key to the season.

Jason Giambi from West Covina, California: Possibly, the most dangerous hitter in this lineup. And that’s saying something.

Hideki Matsui from Kanazawa, Japan: A perfect baseball player.

Jorge Posada from Santurce, Puerto Rico: The team’s fire and its toughness.

Robinson Cano from San Pedro de Macoris, Dominican Republic: Could complete a double play with the D train barreling down on him.

Josh Phelps from Anchorage, Alaska: Has a chance to live up to all that promise.

Carl Pavano from New Britain, Connecticut: Opening Day at Yankee Stadium is the game he’s waited for his whole life.

Doug Mientkiewicz from Toledo, Ohio: Will hit plenty and can certainly pick it.

Melky Cabrera from Santo Domingo, Dominican Republic: His style and smile are infectious.

Miguel Cairo from Anaco, Venezuela: He’s always there for the team.

Wil Nieves from Caguas, Puerto Rico: Earned the right to backup one of the greats.

Mike Mussina from Williamsport, Pennsylvania: Has grown into the leader of this pitching staff.

Andy Pettitte from Baton Rouge, Louisiana: It’s good to have the big lefty back home.

Kei Igawa from Oarai, Japan: Had a good Spring Training and we’re looking forward to Friday night in the Bronx.

Darrell Rasner from Carson City, Nevada: Has a chance to stick around just like Chien-Ming Wang in 2005.

Sean Henn from Fort Worth, Texas: He’s a favorite of Yogi Berra and that should be good enough for anyone.

Mike Myers from Arlington Heights, Illinois: Gets big outs against the toughest hitters.

Brian Bruney from Astoria, Oregon: Like his attitude and love his fastball.

Luis Vizcaino from Bani, Dominican Republic: Will quickly become a fan favorite in the Bronx.

Scott Proctor from Stuart, Florida: Tough and edgy with a nasty hook.

Kyle Farnsworth from Wichita, Kansas: Coming in at 100 mph.

Mariano Rivera from Panama City, Panama: The closest thing to perfection we will ever see.

What About Jenny?

We’re not looking for a new Boss. We like the current one just fine, but since others are speculating on who will follow George Steinbrenner we thought we’d offer our $1.25, which will buy you coffee and a newspaper in the Bronx.

It was almost three years ago that Steinbrenner, speaking with a New York Times reporter, made this statement: “I admit it. I’ve always been a chauvinist.”

Far be it for us to disagree with The Boss, but we beg to differ.

Steinbrenner has always been an innovator and a groundbreaker. He single-handedly changed the salary structure in baseball, improved the economic outlook for every team, and generally upgraded the sport to what it is today.

Here are a few other things he’s done:

• As owner of the Cleveland Pipers he hired the first black professional basketball coach John McLendon;
  
• he hired Bob Watson, who became the first black General Manager in Major League Baseball to win a World Series;
  
• he hired the first female Assistant General Manager Kim Ng;
  
• he also hired the second, current Yankees’ Assistant General Manager Jean Afterman;
  
• he hired the first (and still only) female Major League Baseball broadcaster Suzyn Waldman.

We bring this up because succession talk is all the rage in the Bronx. Steinbrenner’s daughter Jenny is divorcing Steve Swindal whom The Boss anointed his heir apparent to take over the team after he’s gone. In today’s sports world, a woman running a team is no longer news. In our larger society, women continue to break barriers and this nation may very well elect a female president next year.

That old Times story said “the outgoing Jenny Swindal, a business major in college, might be the best candidate in the family” to take over running the team.

Jenny, like her father, is community minded and serves on boards in Florida and at her alma mater, the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill. More than that, she is the one whose inner fire and desire to win match her father’s and the one who’s most knowledgeable about the game. She even worked briefly in public relations for the Yankees after college.

“Even if I wanted to move up in the organization, I would’ve never been allowed,” Jenny said in that Times story. “Not in this family.”

But we believe The Boss was essentially anointing his daughter to run the team by picking her husband.

Now we want The Boss to see a simple truth: Jenny is his rightful heir, the person who should run this team after him.

She is the right owner for her father’s team and the best owner the fans could hope for.

Hard Justice

I will start with a confession: I love Alex Rodriguez.

How could a New Yorker not adore a local kid who has grown into the greatest baseball player of his generation and maybe the greatest of any generation?

I’m not playing dumb. I know he’s not loved by all. I’ve heard the boos and read the blogs.

Now there’s a Web site – Project A13: The Anti-Boos Movement – that implores New Yorkers to support Rodriguez. The fan behind it wants justice, but that’s hard to find in this city.

It’s especially hard to find in Washington Heights where Rodriguez was born and in the South Bronx where he plays. These neighborhoods are tops in poverty and police presence. Many there lack decent housing, healthcare and education. If it rains too hard the subways flood. If it snows they can’t pick up the trash for a week. If it’s too cold the water mains break. If it’s too hot the electricity goes out.

It shouldn't be a surprise that Rodriguez draws the short straw in this city. People from his neighborhood pull it every day. They work the hardest jobs to try and make a decent life. They grind away for 20, 30, maybe 40 years before they realize nothing ever changes.

I went to three demonstrations to help change the police tactics that killed Sean Bell. One of them was a march down Fifth Avenue that was called “Shopping for Justice.” We didn’t find any.

Why should we expect justice to seep into Yankee Stadium? Those who suffer can’t afford to come unless they’re playing third base and those responsible sit in the best seats.

I confess to saving my boos for people who deserve them: Rudy Giuliani, Mike Bloomberg, Ray Kelly, Dick Cheney and George W. Bush.

Signs

The guys around Juan Miguel’s coffee cart see the signs.

“They’re almost the same,” Javier says. “I mean, how much closer could you get?”

Fat bundles of the Daily News and the New York Post landed with a hollow thud on the Bronx sidewalk. Carl Pavano is on the back pages. One headline reads ‘I’m Ready’ the other ‘I Am Ready.’

“Yeah, you can’t get closer than that,” Lou agrees. “I think it means he’s ready.”

Everyone laughs. These are good days in the neighborhood. The winter grime has melted and Opening Day is coming fast.

Javier sucks in his cannonball gut and goes into a windup. Thwack. A perfect imitation of Pavano. On the follow-through he grabs his arm and then his back and finally clutches his chest. Everyone laughs, again.

“Naw,” he chuckles. “I believe in him. The kid’s ready.”

Michael stands at the edge of the group and can manage only a weak smile. He is still adjusting to the idea of life without Bernie Williams.

“You don’t think Bernie’s coming?” he asks the guys.

“No,” they snap. “How many times do we have to tell you?”

A regular around Yankee Stadium, Michael is – as always – in a suit and toting his ever-present Bible. The inside cover is signed by Williams.

“Bernie’s my friend,” he says softly. “What am I gonna do?”

“He’ll be around even if he’s not playing,” the guys, sensing he isn’t joking, try to reassure as he trudges off. “Don’t worry.”

Carl Pavano will start on Opening Day and Bernie Williams won’t.

Signs of the times.

A Simple Game

I used to know everything, but I grew up.

The only thing I’m sure of these days is that I know next to nothing.

That realization forces you back to basics.

Hitters drive the ball up the middle.

Pitchers locate the fastball.

Fans locate the game.

Winter allows too much time to think and read. There are too many books and too many numbers and too many projections and too many predictions.

Some see baseball as art and others see it as science. It has been sketched as a metaphor and as a mathematical equation. It has been pulled and poked and shaped. But it can’t be changed.

Baseball is baseball.

It’s not about rivalries or rings or marketing or money.

It’s on the grass and in the sun and under the lights.

It’s about handing the ball to the starter and saying, “Go get ‘em.” It’s about writing nine names on a card and sticking it up with a wad of gum. It’s about digging and jumping and sliding. It’s about stealing bases and robbing home runs. It’s about throwing gas and taking hacks and the hidden-ball-trick.

And it’s always about winning.

It’s about you and your team and your scorecard and nine innings when nothing else matters.

Baseball is simple when you grow up.

View From The Bronx

Everything depends on your point of view.

Your week may be starting poorly, but someone has it worse.

A man delivering groceries asked, “Can you watch my stuff?”

“Sure, but I think your cart’s safe.”

“Hey, they stole my truck,” he snapped. “Not my hand-truck. The whole damn truck!”

“Okay.”

Sure, we’re a little beat up right now.

First it was Andy Pettitte’s back and then it was Chien-Ming Wang’s hamstring and now it’s Jeff Karstens’s elbow.

Some fans get depressed and others get angry. None of them live in the Bronx. Those who are with this team day in and day out always hear the words of baseball’s great philosopher Mariano Rivera: “That’s baseball.”

That explains everything from bloops to blasts and bad hops to bad breaks. Mostly it says that you must have faith in the game.

Pettitte is fine, Wang is a quick healer and Karstens will bounce back.

If you don’t look ahead – Carl Pavano versus Scott Kazmir on Opening Day – you might get leveled by that stolen grocery truck barreling down the street.

Adjustments

New Yorkers can hit anything: Fastballs, curveballs, knuckleballs, forkballs, sinkers, cutters, splitters and changeups.

We can handle the local even when we’re looking for the express.

After waiting for a 2 train, I heard a beautiful rendition of John Coltrane’s My Favorite Things on the 1. The song was interrupted at Chambers Street because of weekend construction.

It was a nice day for a walk.

It’s never nice to hear that Chien-Ming Wang has a hamstring strain, but we’ll get through this just like everything else.

Wang is a favorite around here because he can handle anything. He can give up a leadoff home run and put up zeros the rest of the way. He makes plays on line drives, hot shots and slow dribblers. If the bullpen is worn out, he’ll go nine or grab a save between starts. Back him into a corner with runners on base and he can throw a double play better than anyone.

His always-battle-never-rattle personality will be missed the first few weeks of the season, but we’ll be watching and waiting and winning.

This team is good. It’s good because of Wang and because of his example. He filled a rotation hole in April 2005 and never left. Robinson Cano came up a few days later and has done nothing but shine. Melky Cabrera was a perfect fit last year and Jeff Karstens and Darrell Rasner added to the rotation down the stretch.

Maybe the kids will stick around after Wang’s return and help make this team great.

To The Bank

Cubans are smart. They have one of the highest literacy rates in the world. They have universal healthcare, good cigars and great baseball players. But they clearly don’t know who they’re dealing with.

Yesterday, Cuban Olympic Committee president Jose Ramon Fernandez suggested that the World Baseball Classic should be run like some sort of democracy.

“We are firmly convinced that there should be a committee of participants,” he said. “And that the committee should choose a group to discuss the organization, the dates, the rules of elimination, the participants and everything else.”

Major League Baseball and its players’ association ran the first WBC with an iron fist. The Haves and the Have Mores set the dates, made the rules, decided who was allowed to play and collected the money.

They will surely keep a tight grip on the power.

Fernandez said Cuba is “worried” about the 2009 WBC tournament. They feel it should be organized “in a spirit where all participants have a voice and a vote.”

That one-voice-one-vote commie claptrap might play in Havana, but this is the United States of Wealth. The Have and the Have Mores will decide who votes.

Cubans clearly think this baseball tournament is about baseball.

The WBC is about money and power.

The people with the money have the power and the people with the power make the money.

You can take that to the bank.

The Voice Of Reason

The voice of reason rides the 2 train before 7:00 a.m. He wears boots, jeans, a sweatshirt, a jacket, a hat, and gloves with no fingers. He sips coffee from a paper cup and reads the news. He speaks English and Spanish and Chinese and Arabic and Farsi and Korean and Urdu and Vietnamese and French.

He’s hard to find and easy to hear, but don’t be late. He surrenders the train to Wall-Street types for the morning rush.

Today, the voice of reason spoke about Alex Rodriguez.

“He didn't deserve this,” the voice said pointing to his newspapers. “It’s just another reason to put Alex on the back pages and make him look like a bad guy.”

The clause that allows Rodriguez to opt out of his contract after the season came up when Brian Cashman spoke to the media yesterday.

“It’s the same thing with Mariano Rivera, Jorge Posada and all the other guys,” Cashman said. “Alex has a significant contract he’s earned, and we hope he stays.

“We’re only worried about the ‘07 team,” Cashman continued. “He’s got a contract past ‘07, so that’s basically that. There's nothing more to read into it.”

“Exactly,” the voice of reason snapped. “We’ve got a season to play before it’s an issue. This is a very good team and Alex is a big part of it. What happens next year is the last thing I’m worried about.

“This should be the end of it,” the voice reasoned. “Alex’s next back page will be when he hits the game-winner on Opening Day.”

He took a sip of coffee and rolled his eyes back over the morning papers.

“You’ve gotta hand it to ‘em,” the voice said. “They know what will sell newspapers.”

Scoring Is…

Scoring a baseball game is a habit, a poem, a pattern, and a record. It is the collected and the scribbled and the scrawled and the smudged and the smeared and the erased. Hundreds of names, numbers, lines, letters, marks, and symbols make art or a mess.

Only weirdos see the beauty.

Our eye for clutter comes from spending too much time watching, reading, talking, and thinking about baseball. The sense has been developed by picking up five different newspapers every morning and by staying away from things like cell phones and BlackBerrys and iPods.

We can fake our way through the day, but weirdos can’t hide at the ballpark. It’s hard to go unnoticed with a pencil behind your ear and a scorecard under your arm. There’s a guy in my section who scores and does the New York Times crossword puzzle at the same time. He collects bottles and cans around Yankee Stadium after the games.

I’m not a collector. Once everything is completed and totaled and checked, I don’t mind giving away my scorecard to someone huddled around the players’ gate.

A couple of years ago, Ruben Sierra hit an extra-inning, game-winning sacrifice fly on the afternoon of the Puerto Rican Day Parade. He left the stadium with a huge smile and both hands raised to the cheers. I gave my scorecard to the man who yelled the loudest.

My Taiwanese friends love Chien-Ming Wang’s starts. They smile when I offer my scorecard.

I hope they see the beauty.

Rewrite

I’m still not sure if it was a question or a statement, but the tone was clearly angry.

“Who cares about Pete Rose…”

I decided to take it as a question.

“I care about Pete Rose.”

I didn’t always. I was disappointed with him after his ban for gambling and there was a time when I was angry, too.

But that anger has passed. How can you stay mad at a guy who played like that?

Barreling, diving, sliding, slashing and running like he was being chased by a pack of hungry wolves.

How could a player like that be expected to slip seamlessly into the shadows? Baseball exploited Rose’s compulsiveness and his competitive nature and then turned off the lights.

I’m sure he did his best. He certainly didn’t gamble for the money. He just wanted to play. To drive a ball in the gap and run the bases like he did at 21 and 31 and 41.

How could we not have compassion?

Rose belongs in baseball. You can debate his position, but not his place in the game.

Pete Rose, the perfect ballplayer, turned out to be anything but a perfect person. That makes him just like the rest of us, minus the perfect ballplayer stuff.

He deserves respect and a place in the Baseball Hall of Fame. He deserves forgiveness and all the support this game can give. And he deserves it now.

No one can rewrite history, but there is always time to correct injustice.

Tragedy Rose

“Show me a hero and I will write you a tragedy.”

F. Scott Fitzgerald never wrote a truer line.

“Peter Edward Rose.”

Baseball never produced a truer player.

He wasn’t the fastest or the strongest or the slickest, but no one gave more to the game.

His accomplishments are staggering: baseball’s career leader in hits (4,256), singles (3,215), at-bats (14,053), and games played (3,562); National League Rookie of the Year, National League MVP, World Series MVP, two-time Gold Glover, three-time World Series Champion, three-time National League Batting Champion, and 17-time All-Star.

Rose was obsessive. Before bed as a child, he would take 100 swings from the left and 100 swings from the right. He rode his compulsions to the Major Leagues as Charlie Hustle.

Team owners made billions before kicking him to the curb. They say he compromised the integrity of the game and have denied him a rightful spot in the Baseball Hall of Fame.

That is the type of integrity you get from people who wallow in money from casino ads and lottery promotions. Last week, while Rose was on the radio coming clean about betting his team to win every night, the Minnesota Twins were announcing their new “Twins Scratch Game” lottery tickets.

Baseball’s treatment of Rose is disgraceful. For all his faults, he has remained truer to the game than any of those who stand against him.

It’s time for baseball to rewrite this tragedy.

The Package

I received the package.

Barely two weeks out and my fat ticket book finally arrived. It takes a good chunk of time to check over two tickets for each of our 81 home games, but I can’t rest until it’s done. And it does kill one more night before Opening Day.

A booklet called New York Yankees: 2007 Ticket Information & Fan Guide was also in the package. I started flipping through it after the tickets were checked and stashed.

There’s not much useful information. Some descriptions and photographs of a bunch of fancy clubs and suites and a list of amenities that I don’t need.

There’s a feature on the new Yankee Stadium, which is pretty innocent until you turn to pages 34 and 35. On one page is a letter from the White House signed by George W. Bush. On the facing page is a photo from the groundbreaking ceremony that includes former New York State Governor George Pataki and current New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg.

Representation of three men who have launched a billion injustices against the Bronx.

The only hope is sandwiched in the middle of the photo, Baseball’s Great Populist George Steinbrenner. As long as he’s in charge, there’s a chance that this great remake of the neighborhood can turn out well for everyone.

More parks, better transportation, affordable housing, quality schools, bustling local businesses and a new Stadium.

That package – minus Bush, Pataki and Bloomberg – is scheduled to arrive in April 2009.

Baseball’s Great Populist

In the Bronx, a borough with so much blight, there has always been one great light: the New York Yankees. As long as George Steinbrenner has his way, it will remain.

Steinbrenner understands it’s the power of the people – 4,248,067 fans came to Yankee Stadium in 2006 – that allows the Yankees to compete under Major League Baseball’s current collective bargaining agreement. This unjust system taxes the poor people of New York for the benefit of some of the world’s wealthiest men.

This Billionaire Boys’ Club makes sure our money flows into the pockets of people like Kansas City Royals owner David Glass, a former CEO of Wal-Mart.

Baseball is a capitalist venture in the rest of the country, but in the Bronx it is a gift to the people. There are millions of reasons to be a Yankee fan, but the most practical is that many of us couldn’t afford to be a fan anywhere else.

The price of my season tickets has not gone up in years. I’m in the Tier, but right behind home plate. People in my section call it the best poor-person’s seat in baseball. The only reason we can afford 81 games is because Steinbrenner refuses to pass on the cost of baseball’s Support-A-Billionaire program.

When we get our post-season tickets, which are controlled and priced by Major League Baseball, we get an honest look at Steinbrenner’s dedication to common Yankee fans.

George Steinbrenner and the New York Yankees are everything that’s right about baseball. David Glass and the Kansas City Royals are everything that’s wrong.

How some people have been convinced of the opposite is one of society’s great magic tricks. The Billionaire Boys’ Club can really shovel it. Actually, they even make poor people do their shoveling.

But Baseball’s Great Populist protects us in the Bronx.

Pavano v. Morrissey

This argument is in the interest of justice.

I have volunteered to represent Carl Pavano.

Michael Morrissey’s case is stated in his new book: The Pride And The Pressure: A Season Inside The New York Yankee Fishbowl.

I realize the evidence is stacked against my client. There are the injuries and the poor decisions and even some unflattering testimony from teammates.

Carl is certainly guilty of mistakes and of being human. But he is not guilty of all the accusations in this book.

Morrissey begins Chapter Fourteen: Pavano, with a clubhouse story from mid-February 2006. It revolves around a joke Pavano made about Dick Cheney’s infamous hunting accident where he blasted his friend with a shotgun after apparently mistaking him for a quail.

While reading a newspaper, Pavano said, “What’s this country coming to when there’s such a furor over congressmen shooting citizens?”

“You idiot,” former teammate Tanyon Sturtze laughed. “He’s the vice president.”

“I knew that,” Pavano said.

Morrissey tells this story to try and embarrass Pavano and offers, “Pavano revealed himself as a fool.”

What does this little anecdote really tell us? Nothing.

Maybe it proves that Pavano didn’t know Cheney is the vice president or maybe it proves Sturtze and Morrissey didn’t know he was a congressman.

Morrissey also writes, “Nobody around the Yankees pegged Pavano as an intellectual. He’d never attended college and spent his off-field life dating gorgeous women and/or driving fast cars (a combination that would end his 2006 season), so he wasn’t exactly someone with high-minded pursuits.”

This statement says more about Morrissey than it does Pavano.

A person’s intelligence isn’t tied to a college degree. Education – like all things in the country – is roped tightly to economics: rich people can afford to go to college and poor people can’t. The Bronx is the poorest borough in New York City and the people who live there have the lowest level of education. Simple.

In his book, Morrissey took a few quotes, stories and unsubstantiated innuendo and dropped a blanket indictment on Carl Pavano’s character.

There could be some truth, but there is certainly no justice.

A Moving Target

It’s hard to pick out a moving target.

Carl Pavano. Alex Rodriguez. Bernie Williams. Mariano Rivera. Derek Jeter. Mike Mussina. Carl Pavano. Alex Rodriguez. Carl Pavano…

I fell asleep reading Chapter Fourteen and woke up feeling violated and confused.

Violated because they got me twice. I drop three bucks on newspapers every morning, but last night I couldn’t resist Michael Morrissey’s new book – $25.96 with tax – The Pride And The Pressure: A Season Inside The New York Yankee Fishbowl.

Confused because after skipping ahead to Chapter Fourteen: Pavano, I woke up to find Alex Rodriguez on the back pages of my newspapers.

I should have read Chapter Sixteen: Jeter/A-Rod.

The world of 24-hour baseball broadcasts and blogs moves pretty fast for an old newspaper guy.

I can’t imagine what it’s like for Alex. Sure, he’s an easy target. He is the best player in the game, maybe the best player ever, and he’s paid like it. Maybe he even brings some of this on himself. He makes mistakes. He doesn't always get his points across clearly. He is flawed.

I am flawed. I’ve made, at least, 103 mistakes today and often babble endlessly without ever making a point. There isn’t enough paper on this planet to detail all my mental and emotional troubles and quirks. Maybe that’s why I love Alex Rodriguez.

New York City is flawed, too. The sidewalks are cracked and the buildings are crowded and the trains are smelly and there are millions of people who made the mistake of being born poor, just like Alex was 31 years ago in Washington Heights. Maybe that’s why most of the poor people who walk those cracked sidewalks and live in those crowded buildings and ride those smelly trains love Alex Rodriguez.

Maybe we’re not as polished as the callers and the bloggers and the people who park themselves in front of their wide-screen televisions.

Or maybe we just understand what it’s like to be a moving target.

Chances Are

The Bronx is built on second chances. And third chances and fourth chances and fifth chances. You get as many as you have fingers and toes. As many as you can stomach. As many as you need.

You don’t run out of chances until you run out of breath and Carl Pavano was breathing fine in his second start of the spring. That makes the Bronx smile no matter what they are saying or writing or blogging in the rest of the world.

They don’t joke about chances around here. Pavano is certainly more Southern Connecticut than South Bronx, but the neighborhood is open to everyone.

Pavano is often discussed over coffee and donuts at the Crown Diner.

“I was excited when we got the kid,” Javier explains. “So he’s been banged up and had some troubles, who hasn’t? I hope he comes back and shuts ‘em up.”

Pavano has a chance to put the injuries and jokes behind him.

“We need him to be big for us,” Javier says. “There ain’t any hard feelings because people like us got no time for hard feelings. We need him to be good and if he ain’t, we need him to come back the next time and be good. He’s just gotta keep at it.”

Baseball in New York has nothing to do with Midtown or the media or the money. It’s about the chance to do something in front of people who know how tough it can be.

“Nothing’s easy,” Javier says. “If big-league pitchin’ was as simple as some people think, I’d be in the rotation instead driving a cab.”

Pavano’s chances are better.

Once In A Lifetime

It had been almost four days, but the smell still hung on Woodycrest Avenue. The sickening sooty air stuck in your nose long after you turned the corner and put the burned building behind you.

A fire that killed 10 New Yorkers, nine of them children, punched a hole in the middle of the block that has reached across the neighborhood and the city and the state.

It brought the Mayor and the Governor to the Bronx, but nothing could ease the suffering. The people around Yankee Stadium were doing their best just to get through.

“The game is a nice break,” said the crowd watching at Ball Park Lanes on Sunday, “but it doesn’t change anything.”

Even the easy flow of Spring Training couldn’t cut it.

“Maybe time will make us feel better,” they said. “By Opening Day we might be back to normal, but that block of Woodycrest will never be the same.”

Hope crept into the room when Jose Tabata – the youngest Yankee – hit a ninth-inning home run to pull within one. “He is really something,” they all agreed. “What a swing. What power. What potential. Kids like that come along once in a lifetime.”

Every kid is once in a lifetime.

Grief

Grief never ends.

We were slapped with that when six-year-old Hassing Soumare died.

The Woodycrest Avenue fire has now claimed 10.

The Yankees are preparing for Opening Day and have reached out to help the families.

It is all appreciated, but 10 of our neighbors are dead.

The Bronx is grieving.

Neighbors

George Steinbrenner is baseball’s greatest owner.

To say otherwise, isn’t even making good conversation. To say otherwise in the Bronx, will probably get you punched.

For all the griping and grumbling that has passed between the Bronx and The Boss, we know him as baseball’s greatest neighbor.

“The horrible tragedy in the Bronx which has resulted in the loss of life of nine of our neighbors has touched our hearts and those of all New Yorkers,” Steinbrenner said. “The New York Yankees have tremendous sympathy for the families and friends of those who have lost their lives or have been injured. We hope that by paying for the funerals our assistance will be able to ease some of their burden.”

We don’t say it enough, but we are thankful for neighbors like George Steinbrenner.

Silent Streets

The Bronx was alive on Wednesday night. Even from Tampa, the Yankees can brighten this neighborhood. Andy Pettitte pitched well and Mariano Rivera was perfect, again. There was a ninth-inning rally and some tenth-inning drama. Even a Spring Training tie can make you smile in March.

Then everything went wrong. A fire started just a few blocks from Yankee Stadium. Nine people died at 1022 Woodycrest Avenue, eight of them children. They were the face of the neighborhood. New Americans who were everything we should all be: strong, happy, caring, courageous.

They were:

Forty-two-year-old mother:
Fatoumata Soumare

Seven-month-old twins:
Harouma Soumare
Sisi Soumare

Three-year-old:
Djibril Soumare

One-year-old:
Bilaly Magassa

Three-year-old:
Djama Magassa

Five-year-old:
Abudubary Magassa

Eight-year-old:
Mahamadou Magassa

Eleven-year-old:
Bandiougou Magassa

Newspapers have invested thousands of words.

This neighborhood has none.

There is only grief.

And the streets are silent.

Scorecard

“For when the one great scorer comes to write against your name, he marks not that you won or lost, but how you played the game.”
–Grantland Rice, New York Herald-Tribune

My scorecard is a mess.

Who is catching for the Reds?

Number 67, Ryan Jorgensen. Got it.

I am watching television and have a radio to my ear, but it’s still hard to keep up.

I’m out of shape. Winter has made me soft.

Last night’s 10-inning tie was a good start for me and for Andy Pettitte. But long-distance baseball is such a tease. The game is played on a field. Not a screen. But you take what you can get in March.

I use the Bob Carpenter fan-model scorebook at home: 100 games.

It works well, but I’ve always wanted to design my own. I’ve taken more than a few stabs since my grandmother taught me to score.

I’ve sketched my designs in notebooks and done test models in PageMaker and QuarkXPress, but I’ve never gotten it just right. Books don’t work at the Stadium because they get old fast. Sweat, beer, mustard and whatever makes your feet stick to the floor are not things you want to carry around all summer.

Scorecards should be disposable like newspapers and free like, well, nothing in this country. But my scorecard will be free.

When finished, it will be called Steal This Scorecard in honor of Abbie Hoffman.

Score one for the people.

No Worries

Chien-Ming Wang is a hard man.

Hard to predict.

Hard to evaluate.

Hard to beat.

Hardest to hit.

“Sometimes it’s impossible to get the ball in the air,” Vernon Wells once said. “You have a man on first with a chance to do something and you go to the plate saying, ‘Don’t hit into a double play.’ Then bam: 6-4-3.”

Wang is a hard-throwing example of every pitching cliché: Keep the ball down, throw strikes, trust your stuff, don’t try to control the past, and always focus on your next pitch.

His narrow focus is the key.

I remember the night Wang made me a believer.

Grady Sizemore led off a rainy night at Yankee Stadium with a home run. By the time it landed in the seats, Wang was already asking for a new ball.

He gave up two more runs, worked into the seventh inning and got his sixth Major League victory.

When reporters later asked if it was discouraging to surrender an early lead he deadpanned, “No. I need to face the next hitter.”

That was the last time I worried about Wang. Some pitchers rattle easier than others. Wang doesn’t rattle. Ever. He controls the game by controlling himself.

When Sizemore launched a lead-off home run yesterday in Winter Haven, I thought back to the rainy night at Yankee Stadium.

“I need to face the next hitter.”

No worries.

The Magnitude Of Mariano

How important can the third inning of a Spring Training game be?

Try a simple experiment.

Recall how you felt on June 2, 2006. If you need a little help, that was the day after Mariano Rivera had back spasms while tying his shoes.

My memory is eerily clear. I sat in coffee shop staring at a heaping plate of eggs, rice and beans. I remember the newspaper stories that detailed how Rivera walked gingerly out of the clubhouse and how Mike Myers had to carry his bag.

I felt sick.

So how important can the third inning of a Spring Training game be?

It is most important when Rivera is making his first spring appearance.

Thousands of New Yorkers broke away from work and gathered around televisions.

“He looks good,” everyone said.

Rivera threw 13 pitches and struck out two in a perfect inning. The last out came on a bouncer back to the mound that he easily grabbed and tossed to first.

“Yes, very good,” they smiled.

It’s not that people didn’t care about the pitchers that followed – Steven Jackson, Chris Britton, Tyler Clippard, Scott Proctor and Ron Villone – or about Bronson Sardinha hitting a two-run homer to win the game. It’s just that everyone cares a lot for Rivera and understands his importance.

“We ain’t goin’ anywhere without him,” a man said.

And we know we're lucky to have him.

Roger Clemens once challenged a group of reporters. “Any of you can pick your two favorite superheroes and I’ll put Rivera up against both of them.”

Batman and Superman against Rivera? No contest.

That’s how important the third inning of a Spring Training game can be.

Purgatory

Mike Myers exists in a strange purgatory, neither damned by his limitations nor delivered by his abilities. He is condemned to baseball’s netherworld, where most of the attention he gets is a bit unflattering.

“Facing one batter a game is good work if you can get it.”

“The Yankees are carrying 11-and-a-half pitchers.”

And, of course, they tag him with the cutesy title: LOOGY. For the record, that’s (L)eft-handed (O)ne (O)ut (G)u(Y).

But Myers is taking an unusually heavy beating this spring. It seems that every time you open a newspaper, turn on a radio or read a blog he is being blamed for something.

Since he often pitches to just one left-handed batter, there are those who think the Yankees would be better off with:
A: Bernie Williams.
B: Brian Bruney.
C: Kevin Thompson.
D: Anyone, but Mike Myers.

Many are leaning toward D since the Phillies knocked Myers around yesterday. But there are a few things to consider:
A: Myers has proven over 11 Major League seasons that he can handle tough lefties.
B: This is Spring Training and he is facing mostly right-handed hitters.
C: All the great numbers that Yankee right-handed relievers have against left-handed hitters were not compiled against David Ortiz.
D: Carl Crawford, J.D. Drew, Lyle Overbay, Nick Markakis, Aubrey Huff, Jay Gibbons, Travis Hafner, Grady Sizemore, David Dellucci, Sean Casey, Curtis Granderson, Mark Teahen, Garret Anderson, Joe Mauer, Justin Morneau, Eric Chavez, Mark Kotsay, Ichiro Suzuki, Raul Ibanez, Hank Blalock, Frank Catalanotto, Jim Thome…

There are 28 days to toss around numbers and theories because with Opening Day on the line, Myers will throw a 2-2 slider that will twist Carl Crawford in a knot.

Just another day in purgatory.

Blogging Philosophy

Like almost everyone else in the world, I have a blog.

If you don’t have one yet, picture a child – mine is just over two months old – smiling one minute and crying the next, but always demanding attention.

It started innocently with what they call push-button publishing. I filled out an online form, picked a name and was thrust into heavy responsibility.

I try to raise my blog differently. I fill it with what I know and love: mostly baseball and social justice; but I may mix in: law, chess, poetry, jazz, ballet, art, books, music, history, yoga, and anything else I find interesting.

People interest me most and you will find a lot of them here. The mood of the Yankee Stadium neighborhood rises and falls with the team and you will always get a sense of their feelings.

I’ve been working on my blogging philosophy and have decided that it will be an unending process.

I will start with these very incomplete thoughts on leftfield blogging:

Be true to your name. Yankees For Justice is a salute to the most honest voice in American politics. He has signed several books for me: “Ralph Nader, For Justice.” Incidentally, his baseball hero is Lou Gehrig.

Remember that baseball is a very difficult game.

Always support your team.

Remember that games are won and lost in the hearts and minds of those who play.

Always blog with intelligence and creativity.

Remember that while statistics can be useful, they aren’t very interesting. (Note: I have made a friend promise to shoot me if I ever post charts or graphs.)

Write and live the truth.

Remember that the American Civil Liberties Union is on the right side of every fight.

Always act in kindness.

Remember that every game is decided on one moment. And it could come on the first pitch or the last.

Most of all, remember that blogging is what you make it.

Inside And Out

Yankee Stadium is always the same inside and out.

Day in and day out.

It is full of laborers and scalpers and ballplayers and hookers and dealers.

They are mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and sons and daughters.

They are dreamers and schemers.

The forgotten and forgiven.

The ordinary and extraordinary.

They make their way as waitresses and dishwashers and sluggers and masons and carpenters and base stealers and factory workers and gardeners and pitchers and electricians and utility players and doormen and cooks and cops and crooks.

They hustle along cracked sidewalks and sit on hard benches and ride crowded trains.

They are surrounded by broken glass and chipped concrete and peeling paint and wrinkled tin and trash heaps and empty lots.

They smell of old cigars and stale beer and urine and sweat and roasted meat and perfect French fries.

On summer days and nights when the trains and streets rumble and groan and scream and rattle they are one. It is a single human flow that oozes through the narrow halls and up to the light.

Where Yankee Stadium is always the same inside and out.

New Bronx City

The Bronx is building.

The Bronx is beatifying.

The Bronx is blooming.

The Bronx is Bloomberging.

The Mayor of New York has launched a campaign to lure 50 million tourists a year. He hired a Madison Avenue marketing agency to convince the world that the city is not too costly or too dirty or too dangerous.

News like this never used to reach the Bronx. No matter how they spun Madison Avenue, the poorest borough in the city was always too dirty and too dangerous.

But things are changing. Over four million people came to Yankee Stadium and they don’t want them scared off by our grime and crime.

It starts with a new awning at the Yankee Deli-Grocery, then a reconstructed underpass on East 161st Street, and eventually a whole new Stadium.

Tourists, it seems, want a ball yard that is equal parts shopping mall and theme park.

They call it Heaven in the suburbs.

We call it Hell in the Bronx.

We love our intimidating old Stadium. We like our rats big, our passages narrow, our stairs treacherous, and our seats steep enough to make first-timers queasy.

But we are losing that edge. Suburban hipsters will soon stroll leisurely along friendly concourses lined with cute little shops before walking up wide aisles to spill stuff on our scorecards.

The Bronx is really burning.

Change

The Yankee Deli-Grocery has a new awning.

It’s a minor detail in a neighborhood where change is everywhere. But this fancy new awning hangs over the same small piece of Walton Avenue and – ironically or maybe not – says exactly the same thing: Yankee Deli-Grocery, Cold Beers, Cold Sodas, Sandwiches, Ice.

So why get a new one?

The counterman shrugs, “Are you buyin’ somethin’?”

Like most things in the Bronx, the Yankee Deli-Grocery has some of everything and not enough of anything. You could survive if it was your only means of supply, but survive is a broad term.

Within its single room you can find canned soups, beans, fruits, vegetables, and nuts. There is bread, rice, cereal, water, peanut butter, snacks, sauces, tobacco, newspapers, wine, and, of course, beer, soda, ice, and fresh sandwiches. There is even a rack near the door with underwear – men’s and women’s – and pantyhose in case of a run or a bank job.

No one would rob the Grocery because that would leave nowhere to spend the bank money. And they also just invested in that new awning.

“Neighborhood’s changin’,” the counterman explains. “New Stadium. New parks. New streets. Just tryin’ to keep up.”

But everything else is the same. You have to turn sideways and suck in your gut to move around and I had to wait for a five-year-old to pick out his bag of chips before I could get my orange juice.”

“It ain’t changin’ that much,” he smiles.

“Your change.”

Keep it.

The Dean

The Dean of Yankee beat bloggers is having a birthday. I may be the only one who calls Peter Abraham that, but everyone is celebrating the birthday.

He started pounding out a blog for The Journal News last February. Over the past year he has completely changed the way many follow the team. You can no longer rely on just newspaper, radio and television coverage. The LoHud Yankees Blog is essential reading for anyone who wants the freshest angle.

Readers always come first with breaking stories, injury updates and lineup changes. He mixes knowledgeable inside-the-clubhouse-type commentary with sharp wit to produce a product that stands out in a sea of baseball blogs.

I used to feel guilty about getting my coverage from a suburban beat writer, but you can’t hide talent, even in Westchester. Besides, I think The Dean is a city guy at heart. You don’t find his kind of edgy-humor in a shopping mall.

Maybe his greatest accomplishment is the community of Yankee fans he’s pulled together. They range from diehard supporters to frightened pessimists to stat geeks to hair-trigger reactionaries. They are an interesting and entertaining bunch, but I’m not sure how they would get along at the Yankee Tavern after a disappointing loss.

The Dean is always working to improve coverage and now features audio so you can hear entire interviews. Then you can pick up the paper and see how he crafts them into stories.

It’s harder than it looks.

But The Dean always makes it look easy.

Even on his birthday.

Imagination Is The Ticket

Legends are the product of imagination.

Point a camera and they can start to fade. First come the black-and-whites and then the color back pages. Television moves quickly these days and can drain some life from the game.

But baseball legends will survive as long as there is imagination.

They will exist for those who dream of wearing flowered shirts and watching batting practice on lazy Florida mornings. And for those who understand that baseball is more about art and dance and music and magic than it is about numbers.

That kind of imagination is cultivated on late-night radio broadcasts and in shadowy old ballparks. Listen if you want to find the game’s rhythm and watch if you want to climb inside its dusty soul.

You will no longer need proof that Babe Ruth called his shot or that Josh Gibson hit a ball out of Yankee Stadium or that Satchel Paige was the greatest.

You will be able to hear Humberto Sanchez’s fastball and see Phil Hughes’ curve and feel Jose Tabata’s power.

It’s there for those who imagine.

Legends

Legends start in the wind.

They float over high-school baseball fields and dimly lit towns. They move quickly through places like Charleston and Tampa and Trenton.

They pass along busy counters and across tables and around subway cars. They build on park benches and at newsstands and bars and cigar shops and crowded groceries.

And then one day a whole city is talking about someone they’ve never seen. A pitcher who is equal parts Walter Johnson and Roger Clemens. The Big Train and The Rocket rolled into one big strike-throwing machine.

Legends like that can’t be written and they certainly can’t be broadcast. And that’s why they can only be forged here, in New York, where baseball isn’t just the most important game, but often the most important thing. Period.

Phil Hughes is all anyone is talking about this morning. His legend is seeping from the sidewalks and the sewers and rising over the city in a cloud that will surely burst into the sunniest day of a beautiful baseball summer.

Newspaper reports will continue and we will probably get a television look in Spring Training, but we won’t truly see him until he squeezes through the clubhouse door at Yankee Stadium.

The legend will grow as we anticipate the moment he climbs the mound and throws his first pitch.

Close your eyes for a look: blazing fastballs, knee-buckling curves, exploding sliders, and disappearing changes.

The stuff of legends.

Confession

Order has been restored to Spring Training. Mariano is smiling, Moose is working on crossword puzzles, Carl is fitting in, and Derek and Alex are playing catch.

The hottest piece of news to come out of Tampa yesterday was that George Steinbrenner had fried catfish, potatoes, corn, chocolate cake and coffee for lunch and then used the old park-in-front-of-the-lunchroom-then-slip-out-the-side-door gag to ditch a group of quote-hungry reporters. Peter Abraham of The Journal News had the best angle on the story and even snapped a picture of the decoy vehicle, which was a golf cart.

Today promises only baseball and more cat-and-mouse with The Boss so I thought it would be a good time to confess:

I love baseball, burritos, the B train, and Barry Bonds.

I also love my wife, my dog, my team, my city, my neighborhood, and my seat at Yankee Stadium.

I attend every home game and watch every road game on television.

I know that’s not normal.

I realize I’m crazy, which means I’m not crazy. I think.

It’s really insane to score every game, but I do it anyway.

I’ve had good ideas: Starting a blog.

And bad ideas: Becoming an art student through the mail.

I bleed Yankee blue and will defend my team and everyone on it until my last breath.

I believe Derek Jeter is the most important man in this city.

I also believe Alex Rodriguez will lead this team through October.

And that Mariano Rivera will get the final out of a glorious baseball season.

I believe Carl Pavano will have a comeback season.

I always vote for Ralph Nader.

I know that Mike Mussina means more to this staff than any of us realize.

And that Jorge Posada is the toughest man in the world.

I can’t wrap my mind around how great Robinson Cano can be.

It’s impossible not to love Johnny Damon and Jason Giambi.

Young hitters should watch Hideki Matsui.

Young pitchers should watch Chien-Ming Wang.

It’s good to have Andy Pettitte back.

The Bronx will buzz when Humberto Sanchez makes his first start at Yankee Stadium.

Phil Hughes’ first start will be declared a holiday.

The King Of New York

Derek Jeter is unflappable, unbeatable and completely unstoppable. That unquestionably makes him the King of New York.

Alex Rodriguez is focused, determined and immensely talented. That positively makes him the King of New York.

The King of New York leads this team.

The King of New York is the big right-handed bat in this lineup.

The King of New York is the heart and soul.

The King of New York wears his heart on his sleeve.

The King of New York has always been a Yankee.

The King of New York was born in Washington Heights.

The King of New York hits everything.

The King of New York hits cleanup.

The King of New York is a workaholic.

The King of New York works too hard.

The King of New York knows every situation.

The King of New York knows every pitcher.

The King of New York is the best player in the game.

The King of New York is the best to ever play the game.

The King of New York hates to lose.

The King of New York loves to win.

The season depends on the King of New York.

Driven

I bumped into a pragmatist on the D train.

He dropped his newspaper and asked why people are obsessed with Derek Jeter and Alex Rodriguez. “Can’t they just let them play ball?”

In New York City it’s not obsession. It’s called Driven. And we can’t just let them play ball because they aren’t playing, yet.

Pitchers are throwing in the bullpen and position players are taking batting practice.

New Yorkers need more.

First it was Mariano.

Then it was Joe and George.

Then it was Carl and Moose.

And it’s been Bernie all along.

Now it’s Derek and Alex.

Nothing makes the streets rumble, groan, scream and rattle like baseball. Newspapers aren’t responsible for that. They just report it. That’s life in this city.

No one handles it better than Jeter.

Peter Abraham of The Journal News reported that after Jeter finished interviews this morning he said, “How come nobody asked me about the new hats?”

“Okay, so what about the hats?”

“They’re terrible!”

Tomorrow’s headlines.

Derek Jeter and Alex Rodriguez will be taking the field at Yankee Stadium in exactly 41 days.

That’s 984 hours. Or 59,040 minutes. Or 3,542,400 seconds.

Yeah, Driven.

Back Where He Started

Everyone ends up back where they started.

Bernie Williams found that out when he was offered a non-roster invitation to Spring Training.

That bucket of icy reality showed him that there are no guarantees in 2,336 hits, 287 home runs and four World Championships. If he wants to keep playing at 38, he will need to be the 22-year-old who first turned heads in 1991.

Jorge Posada was recently asked what he would do in Williams’ situation.

“I would have come,” he said. “I would have been here and shown that I have a lot left and see what happens. You give it another chance. That’s the way I see it. Let me try to make the club, say, ‘I’m better than this guy.’”

That challenge is what baseball’s all about, but it’s easy to forget sometimes. There seems to be so much more when you’re on top. You can get comfortable with the money and fame, but the game will always bring you back where you started.

It’s about the grass, the dirt, the ball, the bat, beating the nine other guys, and, most of all, it’s about your teammates.

Starting over at 38 can give you a fresh look and a new focus. Maybe Bernie will rediscover what made him love the game in the first place.

Pitchers, Catchers And Pistols

Pitchers come early to Spring Training because they are different.

Catchers come early because they know how to talk to pitchers.

Managers come early because they need to understand both.

I’ve found some stories to help explain.

The first comes from and old Ira Berkow column in The New York Times.

In 1987, Yankees manager Lou Piniella – losing 16-3 in the bottom of the eighth in Texas – decided to save his bullpen and called on catcher Rick Cerone with the bases loaded and nobody out.

Cerone balked in one of the two runs he allowed and nearly gave up a grand slam, but he did get out of the inning.

“How did it feel on the mound?” Berkow asked.

“Scary,” said Cerone. “It’s lonely out there.”

I’m sure making the pitching change was lonely for Piniella. That’s how it always is for managers.

Not even Joe Torre is immune to criticism about how he handles the Yankees pitching staff. Some think he overuses his best relievers. But everyone has his own style.

During a 1951 Cuban League game, Dolf Luque was trying to persuade Terry McDuffie to work on two days’ rest. McDuffie refused and finally said he was packing his bags.

“Less than a minute later, Luque came back carrying a pistol with a barrel that looked approximately a quarter-mile long,” Tommy Lasorda wrote in his autobiography, The Artful Dodger.

Luque put the gun to McDuffie’s head. “You’re pitching tonight.”

“Gimme the ball,” McDuffie said. “I’m ready to go.”

Before he was a manager, Luque was a pitcher.

They really are different.

And managers will forever try to understand.

Sometimes a catcher can pitch out of a jam and sometimes you have to use a pistol.

Easy.

Wearing The Crown

The Crown Diner smells like years of bleach and perfect bacon.

It’s the best place to start in the Bronx. Belly to the counter – coffee, eggs over easy, home fries, and toast – getting ready to earn your way through another day.

A few miles north, Bernie Williams – a Crown favorite – is facing the same thing.

There is plenty of news coming from Tampa, but the biggest thing around here is whether Williams will try to earn a job with the Yankees.

It’s been a long time since he faced this uncertainty, but the guys at the counter have faith.

“Bernie’s tough,” Javier says. “He’s a happy guy and always smiling, but on the field you can see the player come out.”

“He did it when he was a kid,” Jerry adds. “I think he wants it badly enough so I’m sure he can do it again.”

Carman believes, too.

“Bernie will be across the street in 45 days, just like the rest of us.”

There is honor in earning your way through each day. It’s a satisfyingly-sore feeling that Williams can find in Tampa and bring to the Bronx.

If he wants to start with breakfast at the Crown, the guys at the counter will buy.

"No Ball Playing Allowed"

There used to be a baseball field in my old neighborhood.

It was wedged awkwardly amongst the buildings because it didn’t start out as a ball field. It was a school that burned down long before I was born. It evolved from a pile of rubble to a vacant lot to a beautiful little field with a basketball court in deepest right-center.

It feels like I played a million games there. Winner always held the field and when there were only enough kids for two teams we played one long game. The only rule was that that you had to complete the final inning, which was usually played when it was already too dark to pick up fly balls.

Those fly balls started to clear the fences as we got older and a few even found windows. Then some people started to complain about the noise from our games and the dribbling of basketballs.

The solution was to remove the backstop, plant grass on the infield, rip up the basketball court and put up a sign that said “No Ball Playing Allowed.”

There aren’t many ball players in the neighborhood anymore, but it’s always quiet and no windows get broken.

Field Of Schemes

A baseball field was stolen in East Harlem.

Don’t bother calling the police because they work for Mayor Michael Bloomberg’s City Hall, who helped pull off the heist.

You can find the details on page 3 of today’s Daily News. Juan Gonzalez – one of the few bright spots in a city that misses Jimmy Breslin – tells how East Harlem Little League lost their home on East 112th Street. City Hall said the field was needed for a new development project.

There is no development project worth a baseball field. A just society should be built on those words. But it’s been a long time since any justice seeped out of City Hall.

This is the City Hall that cut a deal to give Manhattan’s richest private schools prime-time use of the new baseball fields on Randall’s Island. The City Hall that allowed the Yankees to start construction on a new stadium without first replacing the parkland they are building on. The City Hall that can’t wait to give tax refunds to landlords while thousands of New Yorkers sleep in the streets. The City Hall that allowed a huge chunk of Queens to sit in the dark last summer.

And now another baseball field goes dark.

Maybe the East Harlem kids can get together with the kids in the South Bronx who play in Parking Lot 15 at the corner River Avenue and East 165th Street.

Pretty soon that will be the only baseball field left in the city.

The Toughest Man In The World

Jorge Posada is the toughest man in the world.

That title keeps him in the background, but he’s never out of the picture. Near game time at Yankee Stadium his left foot is always planted on the top step of the dugout. He points when it’s time and Derek Jeter leads the team onto the field.

Jeter is the team’s heart and soul. Posada is its stubbornness and toughness.

Broken noses, sprained fingers and torn tendons can’t stop him. If a piano fell from the upper deck he would flick it off his uniform like an errant sunflower seed.

Recently, people have been digging up numbers and making fancy charts and graphs to show that Major League catchers decline at his age. They conclude that the Yankees are going to need a younger catcher soon.

The problem with those conclusions is that they have never collided at the plate with the toughest man in world or tried to sneak a fastball by him late in a game.

He always finds a way to win because he hates to lose. The data can’t show you that.

Pedro Martinez was tough on him early in his career, but during the 2003 American League Championship Series the toughest man in the world called him out in game 3 and delivered the double that knocked Martinez out of game 7.

Those who believe the data can have the numbers, charts, graphs, and even Pedro Martinez.

I’ll stick with the toughest man in the world.

Spring Training In The Bronx

The Crown Diner – like most things in the Bronx – goes by more than one name. Ask for the Crown Restaurant, Crown Donuts or just the Crown and you’ll end up at the same place.

But – like all things in the Bronx – this place is never the same. It can go from bleary-eyed drunk to bright and thoughtful while you are still on your first cup of coffee.

It was business as usual on the last Sunday before pitchers and catchers report.

Everyone turns as Javier comes set in the middle of the restaurant.

“Pettitte is even better now,” he says. “More movement on his cutter. He can really dominate righties.”

The cannonball-gutted cab driver stares in before a near perfect imitation of Pettitte’s delivery sends a crumpled paper cup across the room. It hits the leg of a mother eating breakfast with her two children.

“Sorry.”

She kicks it back and Javier grins.

“I like that Andy’s back.”

There is a lot to like about the New York Yankees this year. They have plenty of young arms to backup the veteran starters. The bullpen is deep and ends with Mariano Rivera. The offense is loaded, the defense is sound and there is always Derek Jeter.

“I wish the season was starting today,” Javier says. “This is our year.”

That’s all anyone needs to know on this day.

Catch Me If You Can

As a kid he could fly. Really fly. Like the wind.

Bernie Williams could outrun the world back then. He was so fast that you believed nothing could catch him.

I’m sure he still sees the ball off the bat and remembers what it was like to be the only man who could run it down.

He has driven balls deep into the New York night and sent the world home happy. He has stretched doubles into triples with such long strides that you expected him to go all the way home.

And now home may be all he has left.

He’s put it off and still won’t completely close the door, but in his heart he knows the end is near. The Yankees simply don’t have a spot for one of the greatest players of his generation.

This is what he’s been running from since he first came to the Bronx in 1991 and even when he was piling up World Championships, gold gloves, All-Star appearances and a batting title.

Ballplayers don’t stop running until they walk away. Only then do they realize that the end was coming all along.

Who would believe anything could catch that kid?

El Duque

I believe in Orlando Hernandez.

I believe in his smile, his style, his kick, his skip, and his passion.

I believe in him regardless of his uniform.

I believe he should have worn only those of the Industriales and Team Cuba.

I believe he has the sharpest tactical-pitching mind in the world.

I believe he throws 119 different pitches.

I believe he is 26 years old.

I believe he has magic in his right hand.

I believe only Cubans truly understand him.

I believe he is still Fidel Castro’s favorite pitcher.

George Steinbrenner’s, too.

I believe he should end up in the Baseball Hall of Fame.

I believe that, someday, I will meet the great El Duque in Havana’s Parque Central for coffee, cigars and a game of dominos before walking to Estadio Lationamericano to watch him take the mound for the Industriales.

I believe that is the way it should be.

Beautiful

It took five throws to get the third out in the top of the sixth inning. Venezuela had just scored the first run in a game that Puerto Rico needed to stay alive in the Caribbean World Series.

It may seem meaningless now, knowing that Venezuela won the game 3 to 1 and the Dominican Republic wrapped up their 16th World Series title, but I can’t get that game-five play out of my head.

9-2-6-5-2-5.

It was beautiful.

Even a frozen world away squinting at a 12-inch television screen, the play grabbed me.

The Scene:
Ronny Cedeno leads off the top of the sixth for Venezuela with a single. Alex Delgado pops up a bunt and first baseman Javier Valentin makes a spectacular diving catch P-3. Gregor Blanco grounds into a force out 5-4. Luis Rodriguez singles and Blanco moves to second.

The Play:
Ramon Hernandez singles to right field. Armando Rios charges the ball and comes up throwing, but Blanco scores. Yadier Molina makes a great pickup in front of home plate and delivers a quick throw to shortstop Luis Figueroa who has Hernandez hung up off first. While running Hernandez back, Figueroa keeps an eye on Rodriguez who has rounded third. When Rodriguez gets too far off the bag Figueroa twists and makes a perfect throw to Alex Cora. Cora runs Rodriguez toward home before making a throw to Molina who moves the runner back toward third before the return throw to Cora for the out.

Close your eyes and watch.

9-2-6-5-2-5.

Beautiful.

Victory

It wasn’t a perfect ending, but it was close enough.

Heber Gomez led off the bottom of the ninth inning with a triple and Jose Sandoval singled him home to give Mexico a 4 to 3 win over Venezuela on the final day of the Caribbean World Series.

With the Dominican Republic having already wrapped up the championship, this game was played for pride and the Mexicans showed plenty.

Vinicio Castilla did not homer to finish a brilliant career, but he led his team to one last victory with a double, a walk and a run.

The final record of 1-5 is not a true measure of the Mexicans. They lost hard-fought battles to Puerto Rico and the Dominican before edging past a tough Venezuelan team today.

They kept coming no matter how many leads slipped from their grasp. When Sandoval’s hit landed in right field, his teammates rushed from the dugout and Mexicans everywhere threw their hands in the air.

One baseball game can mean a lot. This one meant that we never quit because we are all Mexican.

I Am Mexican

I am Mexican on this sunny baseball afternoon when there is nothing at stake but pride.

I am Mexican because we need a win in the Caribbean World Series. After capturing the championship in 2005, we went 0-6 in last year’s tournament and are currently 0-5 after two hard-fought defeats against Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic this year.

I am Mexican for Vinicio Castilla who will play his last game today. He played for 16 Major League seasons as Vinny and hit 320 home runs. He helped Hermosillo win the Mexican Winter League title and would like to walk away with one last victory.

I am Mexican for Fernando Valenzuela, who first defined his country for me. Every vision I have of Dodger Stadium is with Fernando on the mound. If I ever make it to Chavez Ravine I expect to see him rocking, twisting and delivering.

I am Mexican for the great Hector Espino.

I am Mexican for all the hardworking people in Mexico City and Guadalajara and Monterrey and Puebla and Toluca and Tijuana and, of course, Hermosillo.

I am Mexican for all the hardworking people in New York and New Jersey and Connecticut and Pennsylvania and every other state in this country.

I am Mexican because I want this last great winter baseball day to end with a ball sailing over the wall at Roberto Clemente Walker Stadium in Carolina, Puerto Rico. I want to see Vinicio Castilla round first base with his hands raised. I want his teammates to lift him on their shoulders. I want this for him, for them, for me and for us because today we are all Mexican.

Refried

It’s hard for six people to gather around a 12-inch screen, but watching baseball on television is easy street compared to stepping out in the bitter cold.

“You don’t make much money when business is slow,” Alfredo says, “but you don’t freeze either.”

Alfredo delivers food in the Bronx. The pay varies, but the benefits are good.

“I love the refried ones,” he says jabbing his stubby fingers into a cardboard container.

When the kitchen finishes a rush of orders there are usually leftover French fries. They get redropped in the fryer and served to the deliverymen.

“Double-dunked with lots of salt and ketchup,” Alfredo explains. “Nice and greasy.”

He grabs his chest playfully in a mock heart attack. Everyone laughs. These are high times on easy street. No deliveries, lots of fries and Mexico is clinging to a 2-2 tie with Puerto Rico.

It doesn’t sound like much, but Mexico hasn’t won a game in the Caribbean World Series in almost two years. Alfredo is Mexican so others try to cover any deliveries while he watches.

Armando Rios ends the party with a two-run single in the 10th inning giving Puerto Rico the win.

Alfredo tips the cardboard container and shakes loose the last of the fries. “I could eat 10 pounds of these things,” he says.

A Bronx Tale

Alberto came to the Bronx from San Juan.

“I saved to buy a pizza parlor,” he says. “It’s a good business because that’s what everyone in New York eats, right?”

The neon still says Hot Pizza & Italian Specialties, but now they also serve, “burritos, tacos, gyros, quesadillas, flautas, Chinese vegetables, Cuban sandwiches, tostones and pretty much anything you can dunk in a fryer.”

Some beliefs die harder. “This Super Bowl Sunday has been fooling me more and more,” Alberto explains. “I figure busy, but it doesn’t happen. All the (delivery) guys eat more than the customers.”

Six workers huddle around a small television on the counter. Venezuela has a big lead on Mexico in the opener of a Caribbean World Series doubleheader.

“Tonight is the big game,” Alberto says. “Jonathan Albaladejo is starting against the Dominican. Puerto Rico is going to win the championship.”

Albaladejo didn’t make it through the second inning and the Dominican Republic trounced Puerto Rico 12-0.

“We’re only halfway through this Series,” Alberto shrugs. “We’ll get another shot at the Dominicans, but what am I going to do with all this food?”

A Cuban Affair

I fell in love last year.

Pieces of the torrid affair turned up when I was cleaning out old magazines.

Newspaper clippings, rosters, stats and notes stuffed in a scorecard from the World Baseball Classic are all that’s left. There are some clips about Derek Jeter and Alex Rodriguez. Some more about how special it was for Johnny Damon to play for his country. But my real affair didn’t start until the United States was eliminated.

The Cubans caught my eye with heart and daring, and they pulled me along on an amazing ride. They beat Venezuela and held on against Puerto Rico before advancing past the Dominicans in a game started by Yadel Marti and finished by Pedro Luis Lazo.

I will never forget Lazo’s gloved-hand punching a hole in the sky as his teammates piled on. The great Pedro Luis Lazo carrying his team to another championship game. They had ridden him from the 1996 Olympics, to the 2005 World Cup and to all the wins for the Pinar del Rio Cigar Makers. He had long been Cuba’s best and now he was just the best. Period.

Because of rules to protect Major League pitchers, Lazo was not able to play in the championship game. The Cubans made a valiant comeback but lost to Japan. My scorecard says 10 to 6. No Lazo, but a bunch of great players I came to love:

Eduardo Paret, shortstop.
Michel Enriquez, third baseman.
Yulieski Gourriel, second baseman.
Ariel Borrero, first baseman.
Frederich Cepeda, leftfielder.
Osmani Urrutia, rightfielder.
Yoandy Garlobo, designated hitter.
Ariel Pestano, catcher.
Alexei Ramirez, centerfielder.

And starting pitcher, Ormari Romero.

It was a beautiful affair.

Back In The Red

My Red Smith books took a beating at Yankee Stadium on Wednesday. A coffee ring on the cover of one and chocolate-glazed fingerprints on another. There is also the ripped jacket and warped cover from a crash landing in a slushy puddle.

These books are now, as Smith once said, “As beautiful as a well-read newspaper left in a heap on the D train.”

His baseball stories were to be consumed on crowded trains, and they were enjoyed daily for more than 50 years.

“I punch the clock every day,” Smith said. “Over the years people asked, ‘Isn’t it dull covering baseball every day?’ My answer: ‘It becomes dull only to dull minds.’ If you have the perception and the interest to see it, and the wit to express it, your story is always different from yesterday’s story.”

It’s hard to find fresh insight on the train these days. Sometimes an armload of books is best.

“The question of what to do with old newspaper columns isn’t quite the same as how to dispose of used razor blades, but the difference is negligible,” Smith said. “This is especially so in baseball where today’s defeat makes yesterday’s victory meaningless. Why preserve dead columns for public display? The answer, if there is one, is: Because everything written is part of the record of its time. Everyone who writes reflects the age in which they live, and this is no less true of the baseball writer than of the dramatist, essayist or historian.”

Red Smith would have been a great blogger.

On Your Toes

You learn a lot by listening.

Actually, you learn everything by listening.

I learned that from an old newspaper editor.

“Nobody gives a damn what you think,” he’d bellow. “Listen to people and tell me what they think. The story is always about the people.”

There were plenty of people in line for tickets at Yankee Stadium, yesterday.

“I didn’t get all my games,” Raymond says. “I think people on the Internet beat me.”

He came out before dawn.

“Like rich people with computers don’t have enough over us.” Raymond shrugs. “We should get a head start. They’re all snug and warm and I won’t be able to feel my toes until Opening Day.”

Standing on frozen concrete for five hours is the equivalent to getting bowled over at home plate by Mark Teixeira.

“I’ll be sore tomorrow,” Raymond says. “But I’ve got some tickets so I guess it ain’t so bad.”

Opening Day?

“Yeah,” Raymond smiles. “Chien-Ming Wang versus Scott Kazmir. I don’t know how many days, but when I start to feel my toes I’ll know it’s getting close.”