Back in the saddle...

Pardon my silence. I was distracted by the Rangers' collapse. At least tonight's loss, while disappointing and all, means no more hockey-related frustration for me for a few more months. Well, unless the Devils...[shudder]...I won't even finish the thought. At least there wouldn't be the indignity of another Meadowlands parade. I couldn't decide whether those were more of an insult to the concept of a ticker-tape parade or to the concept of the Meadowlands Grand Prix.

Anyway, the Yanks are up to their 2008 tricks. If run differential were what the standings were based on, we'd be all set. However, I'd rather win ten one-run games than one ten-run game, wouldn't you? Yeah. At least they don't look completely lifeless, but what's the use?

Oh and actually, we probably wouldn't be all set, what with that 22-4 Cleveland debacle. But anyway. My eyes hurt. Enough.

We're playing Boston? Oh.

I know, the greatest rivalry in sports. Yawn. It's April. Neither team is even in first place. It's exciting because TV said so. It's three out of 162 and it's April and it really doesn't mean much. My contrarian nature causes me, when I'm bombarded with media messages to the effect that this series is better than the previous Oakland one or the next Detroit one because it's the Red Sox and it's the greatest rivalry in sports and Bucky Dent and Curt Schilling and Aaron Boone, to lose interest completely, particularly when, as stated, it's three games in April. Three games that, looking back in August, I might be able to say "that series made a difference." But three games that, in April, are no more meaningful than three other games.

A Red Sox series before Memorial Day is a waste. It's about as exciting as a Mets series before the World Series. It's hyped to the point of absurdity, and while if the Red Sox never treated their Masshole fans to another win, I'd be glad, it's also really hard for a reasonable person to get that worked up about three games in April. These matchups should be scheduled later, so that they have more of a palpable impact on the standings and on the course of the season. Doing it in April is just...meh. 

On the other hand, the Yankees will make their first appearance in a ballpark with any shred of character so far this season. No matter how badly the Sox try to ruin Fenway, it'll still be less of a travesty than the Interactive Yankeetainment Experience.

Melky Melks Himself Usemelkful. Eventuamelkyly.

Melky. What kind of name is that anyway? Deep in the dark recesses of the Yankee bench, there still lies a guy who can come through once in a while. He is the man they call Melky, and when he's not hacking at a pitch over his head (which he did yesterday, mind you) and not chasing a misplayed routine fly ball, Melky running uphill although the ball seems to be rolling down, until it turns into a triple, he does manage flashes of brilliance.

He hit the last home run in Yankee Stadium.

He hit the first walk-off homer to win the first game to require extra frames (Clyde Frazier I'm not but I figured I'd go for it) in the Interactive Yankeetainment Experience. And in so doing he sealed the deal on another inconsistent Yankee's strong outing (Hi, Jose Veras!)

I think I like this version of Melky...unseen most of the time, surfaces only occasionally, gets the job done when he does surface.

But I bet Joe Girardi uses last night's 14th inning flash of brilliance (luck? brilliance? desire by the Oakland pitching staff to go home?) as a basis for more frequent Melkying, and I just don't think that melks sense.

A win is a win

It would be hard to envision a less compelling game of baseball. It was ordinary from start to finish, played in a cavernous, soulless bowl, the inner part of which was composed of empty seats, calculated to dissipate the noise from what crowd there is directly upward into the atmosphere so you wouldn't know it even if the place were packed.

This was, owing to my ridiculous working hours of late, the first Yankee home game of the year that I've actually had a chance to watch. And while it was an unremarkable game, played in a setting remarkable only in its unfulfilled hype, it was a strong outing for Andy Pettitte, and, ultimately, a win for the home(less) team. And that can't be bad, can it?

Yankees Speak Out on Alleged "Empty Seats"

NEW YORK -- Responding to criticism that the Yankees have priced out many of their fans, leaving the team to play in front of thousands of empty blue seats, club president Randy Levine issued a statement claiming the empty seats are an illusion.

"It has come to my attention that some of our seats might possibly be just a little bit more expensive than people are comfortable with," Levine told reporters as he stood amongst the apparently deserted Legends seats. That's why we've been striving to provide added value for our most valued guests. All seats in the Legends Suite sections, and selected seats throughout Yankee Stadium come with a complimentary, officially licensed Yankee cloak of invisibility, and apparently some fans are so excited by this unique piece of Yankee memorabilia that they can't wait to try it on.

"It's an unfortunate misunderstanding if people think they're looking at vast swaths of empty seats, the sort of thing that might indicate a grievous overestimation on our part of how much people would be willing to spend to watch a middling baseball team. Obviously, that's not possible. We've liberated the people of the Yankee universe from the oppressive rule of old Yankee Stadium, and as such we are being treated as heroes, just as you'd expect."

Levine paused as a tumbleweed drifted by, then brought the press conference to an abrupt end. "You know something? I don't need any of you!" the former deputy mayor barked, before bursting into tears and running out of sight.

When will the lies stop?

Sometimes it's hard to tell who's telling the truth. Other times, all you need is a tape measure. This is one of those times.

Tyler Kepner reported in yesterday's Times on the right-field power surge at the Interactive Yankeetainment Experience. There are a few theories here: no more swirling winds beacuse of the un-Stadium like profile of the upper deck; a shallower fence in right-center because the fence follows a different path from the 314 sign to the 385 sign; the ghost of Babe Ruth picking up baseballs and placing them in the short porch for spite; etc.

But one thing is obvious: the fence is two feet lower. Which is funny, because as Kepner reports:

The Yankees’ president, Randy Levine, declined to be interviewed about the ballpark’s design. But the club has maintained that the field is oriented in the same direction, and that the dimensions and height of the fence are exactly the same.

That's funny...let's compare two pictures. Here is Paul O'Neill making a leap at the Stadium in the late 90s:

And here is Nick Swisher lithely hanging on the fence of the Interactive Yankeetainment Experience earlier this week:

So either (a) Nick Swisher is two feet taller than Paul O'Neill, (b) Swisher has a freakish vertical leap, or, (c) the facts prevail: The fence in the Stadium might have looked at a glance like it was the same height all the way around, but closer examination would reveal that it was in fact 10' in the right field corner, sloping down gently to 8' in center, then it was 8' the rest of the way to the left field corner. Anyone who ever went on a tour and walked the warning track could attest to that, as could anyone who ever noticed how outfielders could climb the center- and left field fences like Swisher in the picture above, but never got more elevation than O'Neill in right.

It's not a big deal, I suppose, but it would be nice if the Yankees wouldn't try to dispute an obvious fact, particularly when acknowledging it wouldn't really hurt anyone.

What do you mean off topic? It's almost May, dammit.

And now for something completely different. Get used to these outbursts through Memorial Day...

It's almost May. And May means for three weeks, Indianapolis' continued existence can be justified. Sort of. In a watered-down, sanitized-for-your-protection-from-the-dangers-of-actual-enjoyment-as-a-fan sort of way, much like everything else in the sporting world.

I speak of course of the Indianapolis 500-Mile Race, which, battered though it has been by political division and gross mismanagement over the past decade and a half, is still like nothing else in sports. For two whole weeks, it is the facility itself which takes on all comers, challenging all who would face its four tight corners, who would push the limits of their own temerity, who would laugh at its unforgiving concrete walls. Then, and only then, will the 33 drivers who have best succeeded at coaxing their machines to beat the track and beat the clock be permitted, a week later, to compete directly with one another.

Like everything else, it's not what it was, will never be, it seems, what it was. The preliminary entry list for the 93rd running of the Greatest Spectacle in Racing was released today, and while Tony George and is ministry of disinformation correctly point out that the 40 entries are two more than were posted at this stage last year, it's still a paltry showing. Those 40 entries comprise 77 cars if you include the spare "T" cars, which could, theoretically, end up making qualifying attempts of their own. But with only 28 drivers named thus far, the hope of seeing even those 40 primary cars on-track during the month is fairly dim. For comparison's sake, in 1992, there were 68 entries, comprising well over 100 total cars, and while surely many of them never turned a wheel, it certainly did make the three-week buildup to the race itself a more meaningful exercise. 

And those cars. Though by the 80s it was possible to buy a car off the shelf and be almost certain it would be reasonably competitive (first from March, then from Lola, then from Reynard), there were oddities and question marks throughout. Compelling stories emerged. Teams that wouldn't be seen again until the following May would crop up to take advantage of the bizarre loopholes and equivalencies peculiar to USAC's one-race "championship." If pressed for a reason, it would be hard to come up with a good explanation, but it was just impossible to look away, from the minute Dick Simon's cars made their presence known for the only time all month as they logged a ceremonial first lap on opening day to the minute the simply grotesque BorgWarner Trophy was presented to the first team to reach what Paul Page always called "a white line painted on a yard of bricks, five hundred miles away," everything else melted away.

Will it ever be that compelling again? I doubt it. But nevertheless...is it May yet?

When Billy Crystal captures the moment...

When Billy Crystal gets it, it must be pretty obvious. It's just as well. "This Imposing Edifice" was "Destined to become the home of champions," not the home of a team capable of losing 22-4 on Saturday.

Speaking of, does anyone know if the Jacob Ruppert plaque that would be hopelessly inappropriate in the Interactive Yankeetainment Experience made it across the street? Quite frankly, I hope it didn't. The whole migration experience continues to be completely bizarre. I can't get over the way it smacks of some sort of Victorian novel, where the wealthy recluse murders his wife, marries someone else, then calls her by the dead first wife's name for the duration. If you're wondering why I continue to stick with "Interactive Yankeetainment Experience," there's your answer.

How tired am I?

I was offered a Legends seat for tomorrow's game at the Interactive Yankeetainment Experienece, and I wasn't even going to have to pony up a month's salary to pay for it, because it would have been free. I said no. I've been running at 200% of capacity for two weeks and tomorrow was (and is still) to be the day when I slept it off. I have no regrets, unless tomorrow ends up being the day Burnett makes good on the no-no promise he showed last time around. It's a long season. Maybe a further offer will be extended from the same source.

Anyway, time to get back to work, basically. Zero hour approaches.

This? THIS is the tradition you bothered to carry over?

So while the Yankees see no problem pissing all over their fans, pissing all over their history, and pissing all over the greatest cathedral the sporting world ever knew, they apparently have a problem with their fans pissing all over their shiny new urinals, at least while one of the worst renditions of any song ever recorded is being blasted over the Fan Re-Education System.

I refer, of course, to the playing of "God Bless America," as recored by Kate Smith, during the 7th inning stretch, which is easily the one tradition from the Stadium I would not have missed if they hadn't brought it over to the Interactive Yankeetainment Experience.

And yet, in an impressive display of failing to appreciate the irony of the situation, some geniuses with badges decided to teach one fan the value of the freedom he was supposed to be singing about by proving that he wasn't even free to not sing about it if he didn't feel like it. Let's say that again, slowly, for those of you who think it makes sense:

(a) It's a free country

(b) The Yankees want us to show our appreciation of (a) by blindly singing along with a 400 pound dead woman while she asks God to bless our secular undertakings, thus devaluing both God and America.

(c) In a free country, one would theoretically be allowed to go to the bathroom during such a display as (b) if so inclined.

(d) If (c) is false, then (a) is false and (b) is all the more ridiculous.

(e) The "experts" who provide "security" at "Yankee Stadium"  believe (c) is false.

(f) Does anybody else see the irony here?

Look, I love my country as much as the next guy, provided that guy doesn't drive a pickup truck and insist on pronouncing it "Amurrica," in which case, he probably loves his country more than he loves anything besides Busch Light, and that's really none of my concern. But why should I have to engage in some hollow gesture to prove it? Why should anyone have to prove it at all? Does life here on planet Earth get one iota better or worse if I'm in the john while the Yankees continue to pretend to be the Philadelphia Flyers? I sincerely doubt it. If God is that petty, why are we asking for his blessing? If the notion of "freedom" is so flimsy that I'm not even allowed to make my own decision as to whether I feel like singing a song or hitting the head, then what good is a "free" country and why should anyone bother singing about it?

Oh, and to top it all off, they couldn't even be bothered to win the ball game. Thanks, Yanks.

So much for the Designated Swisher Rule. Home, now, to the Interactive Yankeetainment Experience.

I guess I asked for it when I asked for the Designated Swisher Rule, but it looks like Nick Swisher is about to become the Yankees' everyday right fielder while Xavier Nady gets his elbow fixed. This could prove problematic if Teixiera's wrist keeps bothering him...everybody get your Stephen Colbert "WristStrong" bracelets on and try to keep Tex's wrist, well, strong.

Meanwhile, the Yankees ride a winning record into the Interactive Yankeetainment Experience, thanks to the combined efforts of the left side of their infield, Jeter driving in Ransom. Hopefully the ghosts choose to look the other way on the whole "crime against baseball and humanity" thing, and the whole so the team can continue to build on its reasonably strong start. The Curse of Clay Bellinger is enough to cope with...the last thing we need is an additional curse, no matter how understandable this one might be.

Well, remember, on April 18, 1923, the Yankees beat the Red Sox to christen Yankee Stadium, with Babe Ruth hitting the first home run. That's right, Babe Ruth hit the first, Melky Cabrera hit the last...as Hamlet would say, what a falling off was there. At any rate, 85 years from now, when they're tearing down the Interactive Yankeetainment Experience because it only has one Hard Rock Cafe and one high-priced steakhouse, whose name will be tossed about as the guy who hit the first home run, who notched that first strikeout, who killed the first rally by hitting into a DP (oh, A-Rod's not back yet, forget that one)?

Who will wax nostalgic about the good old days, when we had only one Great Hall to honor the same tradition we were simultaneously pissing all over, and we liked it? Who will tell the youngsters of 2094 what life was like when all it took to get a seat behind home plate was $2650 and a dream (i.e. between 100 and 200 times what it cost 15 years ago, mind you...is he team 200 times better?), plus the desire to watch the game through the screen, if you watched at all. 

True grandeur is understated. It cannot be ignored, but it cannot be ignored because of its imposing presence, not because of its bombastic pretentiousness. Can the Interactive Yankeetainment Experience do quiet dignity? Or any kind of dignity? I guess we'll see. Yankee Stadium was, as the Jacob Ruppert plaque said, an "imposing edifice," even as remodeled, its stony portals, muted but monumental, standing watch over all who dared enter. The tall upper deck that must have felt, to an outfielder, like it had placed its many thousands of screaming occupants directly over your head, cast long, forbidding shadows and lent a sense of drama and urgency to all that transpired below. The minuscule foul territory down the lines made the Big Ballpark in the Bronx feel like an alleyway, no escape for those mere mortals who dared ply the corners of both infield and outfield. There was no need to bash fans and players over the head with the Yankee tradition. You simply breathed it, smelled it, sensed it. You were in the presence of greatness, whether this year's team was providing it or not. No goofy oversized letters were needed inside to tell you this was Yankee Stadium. The goofy oversized letters outside were the most flamboyant the old Stadium knew how to be, which by today's standards looked like a gray flannel suit, white shirt, skinny black tie.

And speaking of that, I need to go to work. Like, now.

Burnett burns 'em

It was a gem, I'm told, but I was once more chained to my desk and blissfully unaware of how annoyed I would have been if I'd missed a no-hitter. Not as annoyed as I continue to be at having had tickets for, but having not attended, a boring Sunday matchup on May 17, 1998 against the Minnesota Twins, but annoyed.

Once again, Burnett shines...Swisher and Burnett, in fact, have been the two best pitching acquisitions of the offseason. If he stays healthy, I really like where this is headed. If Wang remembers how to pitch, we'll be unstoppable. It's really nice having a solid pitching staff for a change. 

Small-market fans (and the more hypocritical big-market fans...you know who you are) are, at this time, I'm sure, saying "please, you guys can buy whatever pitchers you want." And you're right. The problem is we...well...not "we," but the people who make "our" decisions, have wanted some really awful pitchers in recent years, and rushed out to get them, at the expense of the staff's overall strength. This time, while Burnett is injury prone (knock on wood that he stays sharp) and Sabathia's return to the AL, like any pitcher coming (back) to the AL, is a question mark, at least I can see what the Yankees were going for, and at least we're seeing some kind of results.

Nick Swisher: Bugs Bunny in our midst?

I'm reminded of Bugs Bunny's showdown with the Gashouse Gorillas: Now pitching, Bugs Bunny, now catching, Bugs Bunny, now playing first base, Bugs Bunny, second base Bugs Bunny, shortstop Bugs Bunny, third base, Bugs Bunny, left field Bugs Bunny, center field Bugs Bunny, right field Bugs Bunny.

Except replace Bugs Bunny with Nick Swisher.

And then shoot me. Please. Swisher is no Wade Boggs, or even a Mike Aldrete. And yet, as Michael Kay just said (because for better or for worse, he and I have a tendency to think the same thing at the same time) Swisher pitched the best inning of the ball game for the Yankees tonight. Just keep telling yourself: it's just one out of 162.

Memo to Chien-Ming Wang:

You are not Carl Pavano. Why are you behaving as though you are?

Memo to B.J. Upton:

You are not Melky Cabrera, or even Brett Gardner, as you've proven with an outstanding play. Certainly you'll understand my inability to offer further praise, given that you're the opposition, but your play has been duly noted.

Memo to Robinson Cano:

You are not Derek Jeter. Keep your feet on the ground before you turn into Chuck Knoblauch. Thank you.

Oh, there's a ball game going on? Meh. Another "martini" that's not actually a martini, barkeep!

In his blog on the newly launched ESPN Chicago site, Nick Friedell extols the virtues of Wrigley Field's no-frills-itude and begs the Cubs to stick with it (I wasn't aware of any machinations by the Cubs to move out of Wrigley, so I'm guessing this is specifically in response to the Interactive Yankeetainment Experience).

I haven't made much of an effort over the years to hide my disdain for the newfangled oldfangled ballparks that hamfistedly blend syrupy nostalgia for a time that never existed with a host of unnecessary amenities designed to squeeze the most money possible out of "fans" who wouldn't know baseball if it jumped up and bit them in the personal-trained ass. So it should come as no surprise to anyone that I couldn't agree more. Following is a typical schedule for one of my visits to a night game at Yankee Stadium (the real one):

6:15: Emerge from 161 Street subway station...not the el, but the subway, because I'm not a sardine.

6:20: prove to surly usher that neither my cell phone nor my hat is a bomb; be allowed grudgingly into Stadium via Gate 6

6:21: Good-luck pilgrimage to Section 31, Box 323A, Seats 1 and 2 in honor of my late father.

6:25: Escalator to Tier level. Visit men's room.

6:30: Pick up hot dogs and drinks from concession stand in Section 25.

6:35ish: Arrive at seats, sooner if I'm on preferred right-field side; later if I'm on stupid left-field side with the losers.

6:40: Get tired of watching Yankeeography: Melido Perez on scoreboard. Eat aforementioned hot dog.

6:45: Lineups announced. Sit on hands for Alex Rodriguez, but refrain from booing him until he actually does something stupid (all in due time).

6:50: Stand up and take hat off for national anthem. Get in the middle of disputes between jingo idiots and people who forgot to take hats off with simple line, "What kind of free country is it if you're not free to leave your hat on?"

7:05: Baseball! Finally!

8:00: Root for D train in scoreboard train race, get really pissed if the 4 train wins.

9:05: In anticipation of another nauseating rendition (no pun intended) of God Bless America, head for the bathroom.

9:25: Cotton Eye Joe.

10:15: Yankees most likely lose because I'm in attendance. Still, a bad day at the ballpark beats a good day at the office. And I'm gone.

Notice all the amenities I made use of...let's see...a concession stand, a seat, and a urinal. That's all I ask. I know, I know. Give the Interactive Yankeetainment Experience a shot. I will. But with a heavy heart for memories paved over. And even if I grow to like the place, the fact remains: it will never be the same.

On to visit the Tampans...or actually the Saint Petersburgers.

Michael Kay used to call Yankee Stadium (the real one) "The Home Office for Baseball." Of course, anyone who has followed the soap opera of the Yankee organization in the Boss's twilight years can see the irony: Home Office for Baseball or not, the Stadium (and for that matter the Interactive Yankeetainment Experience) hasn't been the home office for the Yankees for some time. That would be Legends...er...Steinbrenner Field and the surrounding compound, which the team no doubt flew over as they approached Tampa International Airport, holder of the the self-appointed title "America's Favorite Airport," last night.

As the team's plane dipped its wings in its usual salute to The Boss, George was overheard shouting "Damn kids! Get off my lawn!" before going back to sleep.

With those pleasantries out of the way, the real Clueless Joe and his boys, who fortunately play much better than they're managed, are on to the home of the AL Champion Tampa Bay Devil Rays...er...Rays. Pardon me while I finish vomiting at having written that sentence...

And we're back. By the way, let's take a moment to congratulate the three big-time sports teams who reside in Tampa and St. Petersburg. By their insistence on naming themselves after the body of water that separates their twin cities, they have succeeded, not in their intended purpose of proudly representing a whole region, but in making the rest of the country think the one town is called Tampa Bay, and all three teams play in it. It doesn't help matters, of course, that the St. Petersburg Times has slapped its name onto one of the two facilities in Tampa, having been beaten to the punch by Tropicana for the shot to name the one facility in St. Petersburg.

In other words, the sports scene the Yankees have landed in for the next three days is an unholy mess, and it's time to restore the natural order of things by putting the Devil Rays (yes, they're still the Devil Rays to me, dammit) back in their place. Let's do it!

Coke, fiend.

The title is misleading. Though the Royals managed to have a Coke and a smile, Phil Coke wasn't the problem per se. He was beating himself up after the game, but let's be honest: there was no reason to bring him in. In a bizarre and ironic twist, Veras had been brought in as a "righty specialist" and didn't get the job done. But let's not crucify Veras, either. The bigger question is what buzzcut-sporting genius decided to pull Marte for no reason other than the lefty-righty game? 

Am I being unfair to Girardi? Maybe. He continues to inspire very little confidence in me, and so it's always going to be tempting for me to point a finger his way in these situations.

Meanwhile, what were the Royals wearing? I love powder blue unis as much as the next guy, provided the next guy is my cousin, who is the only other guy who likes powder blue unis (Hi Frank), but there were serious problems here. First commandment of powder blue unis: Thou shalt wear powder blue pants with thy powder blue jersey. I will waive commandment #2 (thou shalt not wear powder blue at home) on the grounds that the Royals wore powder blue at home in the height of the Powder Blue Era. However, note the white-on-blue lettering on George Brett in this...uh...interesting photo:

The Royals' alternate shirt as seen today was blue-on-white-on-blue, which looked like death. It looked, actually, like they just ripped the patches off their whites and sewed them on the blues. 

By the way, apparently the Royals had these unis last year, too... I could just admit that I forgot and/or hadn't noticed, but instead I'm going to pretend I just felt the need to comment now because I didn't have a blog then.

A modest proposal

The following is an open letter to my friend and yours, the greatest used car dealer ever to become the Commissioner of Baseball, Allan H. "Bud" Selig, about a rule change whose time has come.

Dear Mr. Commish:

It has come to my attention that in these days of ersatz traditionalism, virtually every actual historic ballpark in baseball (and some not-so-special, but still old ones, too) has been knocked down in favor of a fake historic ballpark, one that hearkens back to traditions that never existed in a time that only happened in the imagination of the same people who would have mistaken Up With People for some sort of musical act.

This return to "traditional" baseball values has also seen a continuous onslaught against the Designated Hitter rule, which is frequently assailed by observers of all stripes, many of whom are too young to remember a time when it didn't exist. I myself am too young to remember such a time, but until today I have never called for the abolition of the Designated Hitter rule.

And I'm still not...In fact, I like the idea so much, I think it needs to be expanded. What am I talking about? I ask myself the same thing every day. But since you asked, I'll tell you. I'm talking about a rule whose time has come: The Designated Swisher Rule.

What the hell is that, you ask? I knew you would, so I came prepared with an answer. You see, a certain member club of your organization that plays in the Bronx finds itself faced with an existential crisis. Not only are people suddenly unwilling or unable to spend $2600 to watch one of 81 regular season games on a Tuesday night, but the lynchpin of their offense is currently a fiery, rotund backup first baseman/outfielder, by the name of Nick Swisher.

Where am I going with this? Wow, Mr. Commish, you ask a lot of questions...if you asked this many questions ten years ago, we could have avoided the whole steroid scandal. Here's where I'm going with this: The New York Yankees find themselves in a position where it's rather difficult to slot Mr. Swisher into the lineup each day. Xavier Nady and Mark Teixiera are both valuable assets to the team, and being forced to choose each day between one of those two fine young men and Mr. Swisher is quite the unfortunate situation. The Designated Swisher Rule would right this wrong by allowing each team the option of having Nick Swisher take the place of any one position player in the batting order. All the rules and restrictions surrounding the Designated Hitter slot, such as not being allowed to move the Designated Swisher to a regular position during the game, would still obtain.

I realize, Mr. Commish, that teams who do not have Nick Swisher will claim that this rule is unfair, and at best arbitrary and capricious. And they'll be right. But the hell with them.

Best,

Mike Jiran

Asleep at the switch, or Kansas City is so exciting I couldn't sit still long enough to comment on the last two games.

First, my apologies for being asleep at the switch, and therefore failing to fawn over Andy Pettitte (as I've basically done for the last 14 years) after he started his season off with a solid performance. Second, a further confession: I missed most of today's game, too. But 7 2/3 scoreless innings from Sabathia is, indeed, more like it. I'm not sure why he had to come out, but I guess there's something to be said for preserving your starters so early in the season, even if they come with a rubber-arm reputation.

And so, onward. Joba Chamberlain, the man who would logically be the closer-in-waiting, gets the start because it's been decided he's a starter. I have yet to see much evidence to that effect, so we'll see how it goes.

Nick Swisher: Great backup outfielder, or the greatest backup outfielder?

Nick Swisher has fun out there. He enjoys playing baseball. He smiles. In other words, Joe Girardi will probably hate him by the end of May. 

With 5 RBI today and a grin on his face usually reserved for some sort of creepy clown obstacle on a miniature golf course, Swisher was half of today's one-two punch of second-choice free agents. Burnett and Swisher were supposed to be consolation prizes for whoever didn't get Sabathia and Teixiera, but at this early juncture they look like the better pair. I'm sure that's subject to change after Burnett's first injury and once Teixiera settles in, but...yeah. 

It was a good showing all around...home runs are nice but I was much more interested in the prolonged rally in the 6th. Not every game will feature pitching as miserable as the Orioles had today, so the small-ball stuff is much more meaningful as far as I'm concerned...that's how you beat good pitchers as well as bad ones.

Still, because it's my nature to wrest anxiety from the jaws of a feel-good moment, I can't help but notice that this was yet another blowout win. The 2008 Yankees only knew how to win in a blowout, and always seemed to choke in the close games. Until I see some wins without absurd run differentials, I will remain skeptical. However, the energy level was definitely encouraging today, led in no small part by Swisher and Burnett, who looked, unlike most Yankee players in recent memory, like they wanted to be there. That's the kind of thing that carries you through those long, hot summers under the tabloid magnifying glass, and that's what I like to see.

Wang goes limp...

I'm told Wang was limp in his start tonight. I wouldn't know, I just got home from work, after spending 17 hours there. In other news, Alex Rodriguez made my annual salary between the hours of 12 midnight and 9 am today in exchange for his efforts at not playing baseball.

Will Wang go soft on us?

I know there are many games ahead, and that no one game is do-or-die in April. However, since most of the 2008 Yankee team, possibly the streakiest Yankee squad I can remember since about 1993, remains intact, momentum is essential. Hence the reign of terror the Yanks perpetrated in the grapefruit league...meaningless, yes, except that the fact remains the team compiled their 24-10-1 record in very hot and cold fashion. The hot streak was longer than the cold one, but still.

So as Wang takes the ball tonight, the question is whether he'll be rock-solid or go soft on the Birds (wow, that was...that was quite a sentence). There was no question the Yankees missed him last year after they lost him to one of the stupidest injuries you'll ever see (in the sense that interleague play shouldn't exist, and if it didn't, an AL pitcher wouldn't have a chance to get hurt on the basepaths). But I've never seen him as the kind of stopper that, for instance, a young Andy Pettitte was, so who knows what we'll see.

I'm not worried yet, but if this team is anything like last year's, two games counts as a losing streak, and a losing streak can perpetuate itself better than The Myth of A-Rod. A win tonight will go a long way towards keeping the club focused and reminding them what winning looks like (it should take more than one loss to forget, but...)

Tempest in a (Bigelow Green) Teapot

Okay, so while I'm a voracious reader in general, no one ever accused me of having priorities in that (or any) department. And so I just, 5 minutes ago, finished reading The Yankee Years, having only gotten to it in my pile of books about a week and a half ago. Well, since everyone else has weighed in on the Joe Torre/Tom Verducci memoir several times over by now, I do believe it's my turn.

I'll approach the issue the way the confederacy of dunces who have seized control of my team in recent years would approach it: ass-backwards. 

I'll begin with the final verdict: Quite honestly, I can't begin to understand the flap this book generated. Was anyone really shocked by any of these revelations? Did we think A-Rod was a popular figure in the clubhouse? Did we think George Steinbrenner was still running the show? Did we think any of the people running the Yankees had any concept of how to remain competitive in the shifting landscape of contemporary baseball? Did we feel good about acquisitions like Jaret Wright and Kevin Brown? Did we think the older, richer, whinier Yankees of the last few years really had much in common besides their pinstripes with the championship teams of the '90s? Anyone who answered yes to more than maybe any two of these questions probably hasn't been paying attention.

Perhaps people were shocked, not by the revelations made by Torre and others to Verducci, but rather by the fact Joe Torre, with his nice-guy reputation, would take this project on so soon, while he's still in baseball, while he still has a bad taste in his mouth. But to that, I say why not? I just don't see how this qualifies as some sort of gratuitous hatchet job. Torre got the pinstriped shaft towards the end of his tenure in the Bronx, being held singularly accountable for a host of problems for which the front office deserved at least some substantial part of the blame. It didn't take this book for me to realize that, and I doubt I was the only one.

Is it "fair and balanced"? Well, only as much as Fox News. But there's a difference: this is a memoir. It says Joe Torre right on the cover. It makes no claim to being an unbiased, impartial accounting of events. It's Joe Torre's side of the story, and a side worth hearing. The Yankee brass spin their own narratives of infallibility daily, with their cathedrals to themselves, their appropriation of the past. History is written by the winners, even when a bunch of losers in cheap suits end up in the role of winners, and so the memoirs of a winner cast in the role of a loser are always at risk of sounding like so much whining. I guess some might see The Yankee Years as just so many sour grapes, but I see it as the product of a (perfectly valid, given the inauspicious parting of ways) desire on Torre's part to clear the air a bit.

I found it to be an enjoyable read overall, though if I had one complaint it would be the lengthy digressions on the steroid scene and on the Moneyball phenomenon. I realize those two trends help to set the stage for the actual narrative, but if the "shocking" revelations about Yankeeland were less-than-revelatory, the ones about Bud Selig-era baseball at large were almost painfully obvious. 

Next book review: The Year I Owned the Yankees, by Sparky Lyle with David Fisher.

This 1990 novel, nominally by Sparky Lyle, is one of the reasons I was late to the Yankee Years party. Well, really it only took me a day and a half to read it, but it was one of the books in the queue. At the time, it must have been quite the farce: computers dictating personnel decisions, a meaningless panel of fan-advisers intended to keep the masses at bay, new leadership for the Yankees quickly becoming just as drunk with power as The Boss at his very worst. Today it reads like a preview of a season yet to come. When I get around to a review, you'll be the first to know.

NL Update: Mets overcome gaping 1/2-game deficit; Manuel's job safe for now

CINCINNATI--Behind a strong performance from opening day starter Johan Santana, the Mets topped the Reds in their season opener, 2-1. It was a clutch win for the struggling Mets, who began the day a half-game behind the Atlanta Braves in the NL East, and a victory that many Wilpon-watchers believe saved the job of manager Jerry Manuel. "The front office was getting restless, the fans were getting restless, and rightfully so," said one Mets ballboy, who asked to remain anonymous lest he jeopardize his own place in the line of managerial succession. "After all, without playing so much as an inning, Jerry had managed to let the Braves pull out a lead, and it's hard not to think of the last two Septembers when that happens."

Manuel might not be out of the woods just yet. Most sources have listed the Mets last among the three teams currently tied at 1-0 in the NL East, owing to the fact that they come last alphabetically whether the teams are listed by their cities or their nicknames. "[Mets GM Omar] Minaya has been a little antsy about that since he saw SportsCenter this evening," the ballboy explained. "He's trying to give Jerry time to turn it around, but unless Jerry gets to work sewing #1AAAAAAMets logos onto the uniforms or starts working the phones for a name-trade between New York and Albany, it's hard to make the case that he's doing all he can to keep this team ahead of the Atlanta Braves and the Florida Marlins in that NL East table."

The embattled manager responded to the criticism, telling reporters "I can't help it if the Atlanta Braves have stacked the deck. I mean look at that, an A and a B...this club just isn't ready to compete for alphabetical priority with the likes of that. That's not on the manager, it's on everyone."

Met fans will no doubt recall the team's miraculous turnaround after Manuel's predecessor, Willie Randolph, was fired last summer. The club Randolph had mismanaged through a September collapse to a disappointing and playoff-missing 88-74 record in 2007 was expertly steered into a quiet September free of the distractions of winning and playoff preparations in 2008, as the team improved drastically to 89-73.

Pitching wins ball games

Pitching wins ball games. Pitching also loses ball games. Fortunately, there are 161 more games still to be played. On the plus side, with the exception of one particularly bad pitch from Phil Coke, who was otherwise pretty good, the bullpen was fairly solid. The offense was less than efficient, leaving enough men on base to make the 2007 or 2008 Yankees jealous, but the important thing on that front was the strong comeback drive over the middle portion of the game, as well as a good combination of power and manufactured runs. There are still 161 more games ahead, and it's safe (I certainly hope) to assume the starting pitching, particularly from Sabathia, will be better for many if not most of them. Our first baseman will also make himself a bit more useful on offense, I suspect, so these things will sort themselves out.

Remember the none-too-auspicious beginning for the 1998 Yankees, and don't sweat this one too much. There are 161 more games to go, and if this is to be the toughest loss we endure, then we're lucky fans indeed.

Live blog, you say? Sure, why not...

Well, here we are in the fourth inning. Sabathia coughed up three last inning, but it could have been worse. Certainly, the Yankees should be able to come up with two more.

The B&O warehouse, which Kay and Singleton are talking about right now, is, if you ask me, the best thing about Camden Yards. It was a nice idea, a Disneyfied nod to Old-Tyme Base-Ball, but I honestly don't care for the place. I haven't been there since 1996. Maybe I'd like it better if I went back. But I doubt it, now that it's not even distinctive, having been copied so many times since. Supreme irony, that: it was supposed to be a reaction to the cookie-cutter copies of Shea, and it has spawned a brood of imitators Shea could only have dreamed about. Including Shea's own  replacement.

Bottom 4: Derek Jeter has plenty of range, thank you very much, but it's mostly vertical. And Michael Jordan wouldn't have had that liner, so Derek gets a break. CC Sabathia is a large man. I knew this, but wow. He is a large man. And based on his command thus far in this game, he ranks second to David Weathers as best Yankee pitcher to wear #52, at least among those I can think of offhand. Jose Contreras, another 52, is starting to come to mind, and that's not a good thing. I'm sure he'll be fine later, but he looks ill at ease out there. Nice reach by Teixiera to dig out a low throw from Jeter for the DP. CC's clearly not at his best, but he doesn't have that deer-in-the-headlights look so many Yankee pitchers have had over the last few years, so I'm encouraged.

Top 5: CC and that heating pad are making me nervous. Brett Gardner is scary fast, but not quite fast enough. Speaking of speed, nice work by Johnny Damon legging out a triple here. I've been a boobird myself, but these guys are truly impressive...Teixiera has been up long enough to run the count full, and they're still at it. Aaaaand Matsui pops out to end the inning. I'm tired of writing this, and you're tired of reading it. I'll check in after the game.

Update: Sabathia went 4 1/3 and allowed 6 ER. I take back everything I said...this was a terrible start for Sabathia. However, that was a beautiful play by Gardner to end the inning.

John Sterling and other sources of noise pollution

I couldn't take it anymore. I listened to an inning and a half on the radio, before becoming seized with the urge to staple John Sterling's mouth shut. So I rushed home to catch the rest on TV. The Yankees scored a run, the first of the season, while I was in transit. Thanks, John.

It all begins in Baltimore

And so in a matter of hours, the Yankees kick off their season in a not-so-charming one-horse town that has alternately called itself, over the years, "Charm City," "The City That Reads," and perhaps my personal favorite self-appointed title for any purpose, under any circumstances, ever: "The Greatest City in America."

Very few things on the Major League Baseball master schedule have made any sense in recent years...two-game series on the west coast, road trips to one town at a time, stopping at home in the Bronx between Oakland and Anaheim, and it goes on. But this...the Yankees opening at Baltimore...this makes sense. To wit:

• The Yankees were the Highlanders, and the Highlanders were the original Baltimore Orioles when the American League was born in 1901.
• Babe Ruth? Baltimore native.
• Baltimore invented the trend of tearing down an actual old ballpark in favor of a fake old ballpark. Not that Memorial Stadium is comparable to Yankee Stadium per se, but...yeah.
• Rumor (i.e. complete fabrication on my part) has it that working title for Interactive Yankeetainment Experience had been Camden Yards XVII; Citi Field was to be called Camden Yards XVIII.
• Yankees poised to knock down House that Ruth Built; Orioles knocked down Bar that Ruth's Father Built to make way for Camden Yards.
• Baltimore is the setting for The Wire, HBO drama about illegal drug trade. Yankees' offseason was the setting for The Alex Rodriguez Circus, ESPN drama about illegal drug trade.
• Remember that 4-game sweep of the then-relevant Orioles at Camden Yards in the Summer of 1996? I was at those four games. Good times. Inebriated fellow Yankee fan in front of me dubbed Jesse Orosco "Jesse Fiasco," which was pretty awesome. Oriole brass kept 40,000 fans waiting through hurricane-induced rain delay during second game. Not so awesome.
• Season has to begin somewhere.

So there you have it. It all begins in Baltimore. And it all begins at 4:05, which means I have to go find a radio to bring to work in the very likely event I don't actually leave at 4 like I'm supposed to.

One down, 2429 to go

The first game of baseball year 2009 is in the books. No longer is everybody in first place, at least in the division once known as the NL Least. The Braves are in first, and the (chokes repeatedly trying to say it) World's Champion Phillies, in their goofy gold-trimmed uniforms (bush even by Philly sports standards, and that's quite a bit of bushitude) are in 5th. And so the Mets, Nats and Marlins begin their campaign with a half-game lead over the Phils but a half-game deficit to  make up on the Braves. If Willie Randolph were still managing the Mets, their fans would be calling for him to be fired tonight.

But in the other five divisions, most notably the AL East of course, the zeroes still have it, standing silent vigil up and down the table until tomorrow. The Royals are tied for first in the central, which is how you know it's Opening Day. The dawn of a new season awaits, another chance for the New York Baseball Yankees (yeah, get used to that...I really like to say "New York Football Giants," but football season's a long way off and I need a fix) to show some heart and hustle, two things not associated with the Bombers in recent years, unfortunately, unless you ask A-Rod where he was after the game last night and he tells you "Heart and Hustle, my favorite strip club."

The months ahead will have their ups and downs, their injuries, their screaming liners, their screaming fans, their screaming back pages. The weeks ahead will have their growing pains, their teething problems, their time-will-tells. The days ahead will have their comically meaningless batting averages, the .000s, the 1.000s, the .500s and everything in between. Consider these the signs of a season still wet behind the ears, but know this: September and October will be here before you know it, and this child-season will be either an old friend we'll miss when it's gone, or a crotchety old man who mocks us by his refusal to go away. The hours ahead will have their own frustrations: Is it game time yet? Is it game time yet? Are we there yet? Yes. Almost. 

Almost.

Welcome! Make note of the nearest exit, just in case...

Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to my new blog. The way I see it, I spend enough time pontificating about baseball and general and the Yankees in particular, often with no basis whatsoever other than my own irrational opinions, to warrant further pollution of the blogosphere with yet another baseball blog.

My hope is to make you think (even if your thought is "this guy's an idiot!"), make you laugh (even if you're laughing at the fact this blog exists in the first place) and ultimately lend a new (if slightly bizarre at times) voice to the conversation/shouting match that is the Yankee-flavored area of the interweb. (If you're wondering, Yankee flavor is a mixture of stale champagne and overripe, past-prime pitching, with a dash of misguided hope courtesy of people like me). 

With the new season finally officially kicking off tonight (the Phillies are currently losing to the Braves in the first inning, which means the natural order of things...i.e. Philly and losing going hand-in-glove...might be returning to the land of baseball), I figured there was no time like the present. Further thoughts to come, whether you like it or not...