What must it feel like to see the empire’s Mariano Rivera jogging to the mound when you’re down a couple of runs? Though we are not privy to the inner monologue of Philadelphia’s hitters, it would surely be screaming: “We’re doomed! Doomed, I say”!
Yes they were. Mr. Rivera overshadows all, much like an eclipse of the sun sends the tribesmen of aboriginal civilizations scurrying away from the boiling pot holding the leader of a safari who stumbled onto sacred ground. The hi-def screens at Yankee Stadium should read “Abandon Hope, all ye who enter here” when Mr. Rivera stands 60-feet, 6-inches from the hexagonal plate we fondly call home.
He should be the MVP every year. The exception that proves the rule, of course, is the seventh game of the 2001 World Series, but that was against a drawn-in infield. In this case, a six-out save seemed all but predestined. Rivera is Calvinism personified. Since God has already determined who is to be saved, it matters not a whit what one does on the diamond to achieve it.
A.J. Burnett left his evil twin in the clubhouse, allowing only one run and Mr. Rivera to summon the gods to push the moon between the sun and the earth and scare the Phillies into submission.
Pedro , for his part, made two mistakes, but “for want of a nail” on the hoof of a horse a battle is lost.
We must question, however, Charlie Manuel not sending the runners in the eighth inning with one out on a 3-2 count, as the redoubtable Tim McCarver pointed out. Still, blue’s call was wrong. There was no double play. Utley was safe, but life is not fair, something we are impressed with every day.
The cure for the senior circuit representatives? They must resume swatting the ball out of the confines to retain their championship. The series, as this sporting life, will not be won by small ball.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Thursday, October 29, 2009
World Series Diary: The Name Is Bond
Ladies, there’s a new fashion trend in leather accessories this fall for fending off unwanted advances. Wear a baseball glove and leave the thick laces normally tied at the wrist and the outside of the hand hanging loose. This seems to hypnotize pinstripers (powerful bankers or Yankee hitters) unable to believe they can’t get to first base with you.
Just ask the Phillies’ Cliff Lee, the artful Arkansan who addled the most powerful line-up in baseball in their own home-run derby park in the first game of the 2009 World Series. The untied straps of leather dangled at the wind-up, then they slapped like Indiana Jones’ whip when the ball came out in the bare hand, striking out 10, walking none and giving up not one earned run in a complete game 6-1 Phillies victory.
More impressive, Mr. Lee’s sangfroid makes him the leading candidate to become the next James Bond. “What’s the point of being nervous?” he said after the game.
The Smersh operatives known as the Bronx Bombers were dispatched with an array of pitches (one of which is called a spiked curveball) that rivaled all the gadgets with which Q equips 007. His nonchalant, hip-high catch of a pop fly and his behind-the back, matador-like snaring of a hot ground ball up the middle brought insouciant Bond-like smirks to Mr. Lee’s face. It was as if he were saying, “This game is too easy.”
Meanwhile, the pajama-clad CC Sabathia labored manfully for the empire, despite giving up two homers to fellow left-hander Chase Utley. We won’t even go into manager Joe Girardi’s pitching changes here. It was like Dr. Evil dispatching underlings with the touch of a button.
But the fun has only begun. Tonight, Pedro takes the mound for the visitors in the new Yankee Stadium, a house meant to revive the glories of Pharaohs past with new monarchs. Can the aging tomb raider steal a win?
In any event, James Bond has managed to keep the free world alive for another day.
Just ask the Phillies’ Cliff Lee, the artful Arkansan who addled the most powerful line-up in baseball in their own home-run derby park in the first game of the 2009 World Series. The untied straps of leather dangled at the wind-up, then they slapped like Indiana Jones’ whip when the ball came out in the bare hand, striking out 10, walking none and giving up not one earned run in a complete game 6-1 Phillies victory.
More impressive, Mr. Lee’s sangfroid makes him the leading candidate to become the next James Bond. “What’s the point of being nervous?” he said after the game.
The Smersh operatives known as the Bronx Bombers were dispatched with an array of pitches (one of which is called a spiked curveball) that rivaled all the gadgets with which Q equips 007. His nonchalant, hip-high catch of a pop fly and his behind-the back, matador-like snaring of a hot ground ball up the middle brought insouciant Bond-like smirks to Mr. Lee’s face. It was as if he were saying, “This game is too easy.”
Meanwhile, the pajama-clad CC Sabathia labored manfully for the empire, despite giving up two homers to fellow left-hander Chase Utley. We won’t even go into manager Joe Girardi’s pitching changes here. It was like Dr. Evil dispatching underlings with the touch of a button.
But the fun has only begun. Tonight, Pedro takes the mound for the visitors in the new Yankee Stadium, a house meant to revive the glories of Pharaohs past with new monarchs. Can the aging tomb raider steal a win?
In any event, James Bond has managed to keep the free world alive for another day.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Magical Flags
Whatever happened to fact-based reality?
“In my heart,” umpire Tim McClelland said, the Yankees’ Nick Swisher left third base too early on a fly ball out. In the words of a philandering husband caught red handed: “Are you gonna believe me or your lyin’ eyes.” At least the husband cited an organ with the power of vision.
Then Mr. Napoli, the catcher for the Angels of Anaheim, tags two dolts, Messrs. Posada and Cano, each inexplicably looking at third base, not standing on it, and Mr. McClelland only calls one out. How hard can it be to enforce the rule that while the ball is in play a runner not on a base can be tagged with the ball and ruled out?
This malady is not confined to professional sports. The Southeastern Conference seems determined to keep Florida and Alabama undefeated with blatantly wrong calls against their scrappy opponents. Just this past week, Lane Kiffin, the brash head coach of Tennessee, justified his decision to run down the clock and not run another play before going for a game-winning field goal against the Tide because he didn’t want “a magical flag” to appear. It was blocked by a ‘Bama behemoth who yanked his helmet off in celebration, which should have resulted in a penalty and a re-kick, according to rules aficionados.
Those weighted yellow hankies flying haphazardly through the fall breeze and the decisions of old men in blue with questionable cognitive skills remind us that to expect a fair outcome is to believe Bernie Madoff had Faustian powers to bend the stock market to his will.
To expect perfection is delusional, but necessary. Is it right to howl when one has been jobbed? Of course. Don’t basketball coaches “work” the refs to get a favorable call down the line?
Mr. Kiffin of Tennessee, though reprimanded for his comment, has sent a not so subtle message to the SEC officiating crews that they better not be seduced by the glamour teams. The age of extra slo-mo video renders the men in blue subject to the scrutiny every man, woman and child must now endure. Tip: re-read every e-mail message before hitting send.
Kev claims no special insight into the human heart, or his own, for that matter, but “magical flags” land on our daily fields of play all the time. To not object is cowardly.
“In my heart,” umpire Tim McClelland said, the Yankees’ Nick Swisher left third base too early on a fly ball out. In the words of a philandering husband caught red handed: “Are you gonna believe me or your lyin’ eyes.” At least the husband cited an organ with the power of vision.
Then Mr. Napoli, the catcher for the Angels of Anaheim, tags two dolts, Messrs. Posada and Cano, each inexplicably looking at third base, not standing on it, and Mr. McClelland only calls one out. How hard can it be to enforce the rule that while the ball is in play a runner not on a base can be tagged with the ball and ruled out?
This malady is not confined to professional sports. The Southeastern Conference seems determined to keep Florida and Alabama undefeated with blatantly wrong calls against their scrappy opponents. Just this past week, Lane Kiffin, the brash head coach of Tennessee, justified his decision to run down the clock and not run another play before going for a game-winning field goal against the Tide because he didn’t want “a magical flag” to appear. It was blocked by a ‘Bama behemoth who yanked his helmet off in celebration, which should have resulted in a penalty and a re-kick, according to rules aficionados.
Those weighted yellow hankies flying haphazardly through the fall breeze and the decisions of old men in blue with questionable cognitive skills remind us that to expect a fair outcome is to believe Bernie Madoff had Faustian powers to bend the stock market to his will.
To expect perfection is delusional, but necessary. Is it right to howl when one has been jobbed? Of course. Don’t basketball coaches “work” the refs to get a favorable call down the line?
Mr. Kiffin of Tennessee, though reprimanded for his comment, has sent a not so subtle message to the SEC officiating crews that they better not be seduced by the glamour teams. The age of extra slo-mo video renders the men in blue subject to the scrutiny every man, woman and child must now endure. Tip: re-read every e-mail message before hitting send.
Kev claims no special insight into the human heart, or his own, for that matter, but “magical flags” land on our daily fields of play all the time. To not object is cowardly.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Tomorrow's Hero
Goat, thy name is Chase Utley. Wait, maybe it’s the left side of the Angels infield, Chone Figgins and Erick Aybar, who should wear the horns. And let’s not forget young J.A. Happ, who not so happily walked in the Dodgers’ winning run.
In the Dodgers-Phillies game, Mr. Utley, the second baseman for the Philadelphia team, inexplicably threw away a sure double play in the 8th inning with a heave way wide of first baseman Ryan Howard, allowing the tying run to score and spoiling the two-hit, no-run effort by the forever young Pedro Martinez. A sports psychologist may be needed.
Mr. Happ failed on a 3-2 count to Andre Ethier, who resisted the temptation to swing and “drove” in the winning Dodger run with a bases-loaded base on balls. Ouch, babe.
Later, back at the Yankee ranch, Messrs. Figgins and Aybar looked at each other like little leaguers as a pop-up fell harmlessly between them at the edge of the outfield grass, allowing the pinstripers to plate a run in chilly Yankee Stadium (The Bronx was not burning).
All of these miscues led to great wailing and gnashing of teeth among those who live this sporting life. These failures shall forever be called “Castillos”, named after the New York Metropolitans’ Luis Castillo, whose inability to catch a pop fly for the final out this past season allowed the pinstripers to score two runs and ruin dreams of riches for a sporting man with a stake in the outcome.
None of these goats will miss a meal, though we might want to feed them tin cans instead of the pellets that are doled out at petting zoos. However, let’s be fair. These young men will not sleep well tonight. Well, maybe they will. I remember a young boy in tears after a strike-out to end the game, but I also remember the same boy stroking a two-out, two-strike double into the gap in left center in Prospect Park to drive in three runs and lead his team, down seven runs in the final frame, to an improbable come-back victory. In fact, I’m taking Athens (OU) against Sparta (Texas) today and the Lucky Charms girls soccer team against whomever they face today.
Yesterday’s goat could be tomorrow’s hero. For every “Bonehead Merkle” there is “I don’t believe what I just saw!” You can look it up.
In the Dodgers-Phillies game, Mr. Utley, the second baseman for the Philadelphia team, inexplicably threw away a sure double play in the 8th inning with a heave way wide of first baseman Ryan Howard, allowing the tying run to score and spoiling the two-hit, no-run effort by the forever young Pedro Martinez. A sports psychologist may be needed.
Mr. Happ failed on a 3-2 count to Andre Ethier, who resisted the temptation to swing and “drove” in the winning Dodger run with a bases-loaded base on balls. Ouch, babe.
Later, back at the Yankee ranch, Messrs. Figgins and Aybar looked at each other like little leaguers as a pop-up fell harmlessly between them at the edge of the outfield grass, allowing the pinstripers to plate a run in chilly Yankee Stadium (The Bronx was not burning).
All of these miscues led to great wailing and gnashing of teeth among those who live this sporting life. These failures shall forever be called “Castillos”, named after the New York Metropolitans’ Luis Castillo, whose inability to catch a pop fly for the final out this past season allowed the pinstripers to score two runs and ruin dreams of riches for a sporting man with a stake in the outcome.
None of these goats will miss a meal, though we might want to feed them tin cans instead of the pellets that are doled out at petting zoos. However, let’s be fair. These young men will not sleep well tonight. Well, maybe they will. I remember a young boy in tears after a strike-out to end the game, but I also remember the same boy stroking a two-out, two-strike double into the gap in left center in Prospect Park to drive in three runs and lead his team, down seven runs in the final frame, to an improbable come-back victory. In fact, I’m taking Athens (OU) against Sparta (Texas) today and the Lucky Charms girls soccer team against whomever they face today.
Yesterday’s goat could be tomorrow’s hero. For every “Bonehead Merkle” there is “I don’t believe what I just saw!” You can look it up.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
4.25 Inches
Common Wisdom:
The culture vultures said The Beatles were just a passing fad. Ponderous pundits said the United States wasn’t ready to elect an African-American president. The bully George Amberson Minafer (in Booth Tarkington’s “The Magnificent Ambersons”) believed the automobile would never replace the horse. Economists drunk on algorithms thought the unemployment rate would never hit 10% again. Football minds stuck in play-action and the West Coast offense opined the wildcat formation was a gimmick that top-notch defenses would soon defenestrate.
As it turned out:
Yeah, Yeah, Yeah. The audacity of hope. Whoa, Nellie. The Great Recession. The return of the single wing.
Yep, the New York Jets’ defensive genius Rex Ryan was befuddled by the Miami offense, just as Alan Greenspan never saw the housing bubble collapse coming. We have seen the future and it works. Sure, there are no fullback spinners in the Dolphins’ playbook, but the new single wing (aka the wildcat) is here to stay, so you better start swimmin’ or you’ll sink like a stone.
Inserting rookie Patrick White into the wildcat in the fourth quarter with the game on the line gleamed with confidence. Ricky Williams as the crossing back (fullback in the old single wing) in front of the tailback (Ronnie Brown) puts the rock into the hands of dynamic runners with an extra blocker at the point of attack, the key attribute of the single wing.
It occurs to me that I need a new blocker at my point of attack – aka the closely cut greensward that surrounds a hole 4.25 inches in diameter. A new strategy is required. Use your mentality, face up to reality, Cole Porter told us. Once the weather clears, it’s off to the practice green with wedge and putter in hand. Mastering these sticks, breaking 100 will be a snap. Once I do some push ups, reaching the greensward in two will be possible and breaking 90 will loom.
Of course, this strategy risks using up all the good strokes God originally granted me, but I’m willing to believe He has some greater plan in mind for my golf game. As a friend of mine reminds me, God hates a coward.
Then I’ll be infallible and qualified to assume the papacy when Benedict is gone, though some lobbying of the College of Cardinals may be in order.
Picks this week: Take road favorite Cincinnati and give the 2 ½ points against South Florida tonight (QB Tony Pike will expose the Bulls). Take Oklahoma and 3 ½ points tomorrow against Texas at the Cotton Bowl in Dallas (OK, I’m biased, but with two losses OU has the incentive to play the spoiler). On Sunday, take the Saints and give the 3 points against the Giants (Drew Brees is too good to lose at home).
The culture vultures said The Beatles were just a passing fad. Ponderous pundits said the United States wasn’t ready to elect an African-American president. The bully George Amberson Minafer (in Booth Tarkington’s “The Magnificent Ambersons”) believed the automobile would never replace the horse. Economists drunk on algorithms thought the unemployment rate would never hit 10% again. Football minds stuck in play-action and the West Coast offense opined the wildcat formation was a gimmick that top-notch defenses would soon defenestrate.
As it turned out:
Yeah, Yeah, Yeah. The audacity of hope. Whoa, Nellie. The Great Recession. The return of the single wing.
Yep, the New York Jets’ defensive genius Rex Ryan was befuddled by the Miami offense, just as Alan Greenspan never saw the housing bubble collapse coming. We have seen the future and it works. Sure, there are no fullback spinners in the Dolphins’ playbook, but the new single wing (aka the wildcat) is here to stay, so you better start swimmin’ or you’ll sink like a stone.
Inserting rookie Patrick White into the wildcat in the fourth quarter with the game on the line gleamed with confidence. Ricky Williams as the crossing back (fullback in the old single wing) in front of the tailback (Ronnie Brown) puts the rock into the hands of dynamic runners with an extra blocker at the point of attack, the key attribute of the single wing.
It occurs to me that I need a new blocker at my point of attack – aka the closely cut greensward that surrounds a hole 4.25 inches in diameter. A new strategy is required. Use your mentality, face up to reality, Cole Porter told us. Once the weather clears, it’s off to the practice green with wedge and putter in hand. Mastering these sticks, breaking 100 will be a snap. Once I do some push ups, reaching the greensward in two will be possible and breaking 90 will loom.
Of course, this strategy risks using up all the good strokes God originally granted me, but I’m willing to believe He has some greater plan in mind for my golf game. As a friend of mine reminds me, God hates a coward.
Then I’ll be infallible and qualified to assume the papacy when Benedict is gone, though some lobbying of the College of Cardinals may be in order.
Picks this week: Take road favorite Cincinnati and give the 2 ½ points against South Florida tonight (QB Tony Pike will expose the Bulls). Take Oklahoma and 3 ½ points tomorrow against Texas at the Cotton Bowl in Dallas (OK, I’m biased, but with two losses OU has the incentive to play the spoiler). On Sunday, take the Saints and give the 3 points against the Giants (Drew Brees is too good to lose at home).
Friday, October 2, 2009
Season of Mists and Mellow Fruitfulness
The world is strangely silent now. Oh, I know wars still rage and suits still bark at the suitless and the well-perfumed clippety-clop heels still resonate in Grand Central Terminal. The cars and trucks still roll by my Brooklyn apartment all hours of the night. A comely Polish waitress still asks me what I’m reading as I dig into bacon and eggs. Youtube still provides hours of mindless reliving of youth. Sports talk radio still provides a background for a restless night’s sleep. Golf still beckons one to the course for one more joust for glory before winter clamps down.
But something is missing now. It’s the cicadas. My brothers and I used to catch them and fly them around on a string.
Only yesterday, it seems, the throaty mating call (if that is what it is) hummed through the trees of summer, a comforting murmur as one strolled in shorts and a golf shirt. Now the long pants must come out, a jacket must be at hand to guard against the winds of change. ‘Tis “the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,” Mr. Keats penned. But I must object. ‘Tis the season of sadness and loss. Why, I am hitting the driver on par threes and not hitting the green. One must acknowledge his limitations.
If one is a student, fall is a time of hope, a chance to be better, a new chapter. I remember this. But if one is in his dotage, and I speak for myself, it is a melancholy season, a time to regret chances lost. Summer contains the seeds of its own demise, as God planned it. Let’s see if the Rockies can sweep the Dodgers.
But something is missing now. It’s the cicadas. My brothers and I used to catch them and fly them around on a string.
Only yesterday, it seems, the throaty mating call (if that is what it is) hummed through the trees of summer, a comforting murmur as one strolled in shorts and a golf shirt. Now the long pants must come out, a jacket must be at hand to guard against the winds of change. ‘Tis “the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,” Mr. Keats penned. But I must object. ‘Tis the season of sadness and loss. Why, I am hitting the driver on par threes and not hitting the green. One must acknowledge his limitations.
If one is a student, fall is a time of hope, a chance to be better, a new chapter. I remember this. But if one is in his dotage, and I speak for myself, it is a melancholy season, a time to regret chances lost. Summer contains the seeds of its own demise, as God planned it. Let’s see if the Rockies can sweep the Dodgers.
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