4/28-29: One and One

Quiet.

That is my impression of last night’s game, and the game before that, and the whole month of April baseball for the New York Yankees.  Quiet like a construction man who walks alone from the worksite toward his beat-up pick-up truck at day’s end, lost somewhere between the motions of time and endless routine.  Quiet like you’re already gone, and only the body remains.

Quiet like that.

Twenty-seven games in twenty-eight days, eighteen of their last twenty on the road, two all-stars hitting somewhere around .150, and the collective cast hitting just South of .220 with runners in scoring position.  Quiet like a team that is stuck somewhere over the skies of America for one month solid, uncomfortably asleep in their jet-like home of steel, always moving and never knowing exactly when the merry-go-round will spin to rest.  Maybe today is the day I love this game again, they think to themselves.

Phil Hughes knows quiet, doesn’t he?  It’s the sound of six starts in April and never a fourth inning reached.  It’s the sound of expectation and youth with their backs turned toward one another, unwilling or maybe incapable of looking each other in the eyes, of speaking the unspoken truths tickling the tongues of every one watching this early season progress.

Maybe this kid just isn’t ready yet?

Patience or no patience, maybe we need to think about sending him down, stretching him out, and rebuilding some of that no-no confidence he displayed in Texas last year, just before a hamstring cried “pop” and turned his season inside out.

Maybe six runs over three and two-thirds innings in last night’s loss to the Detroit Tigers, at the Stadium for once, is not the type of performance that will re-energize a team that won a 1-0 game on Sunday in Cleveland, and scratched out four runs in Monday’s win on the strength of one hit, one walk, two infield singles, and two RBI groundouts.  There is nothing wrong with winning by attrition occasionally, don’t get me wrong.  Except for the fact that your offense may start relying on fortune instead of firepower if allowed to continue.

Or maybe the Yankees just need to sleep.

I know I do, and all I do is write about what they do.

Quiet like a Stadium on its last tour of duty that has nothing to cheer about for one painful, obligatory ballgame, and the length of a night to think about leaving thirteen runners stranded on base.  Not to mention sending both Jorge Posada and Alex Rodriguez to the DL on two consecutive days.

Quiet like that, wouldn’t you agree?

4/23-27: Two and Three

Yesterday was one of the best days I can remember in a long time, and it had nothing to do with the Yankees.  My son and I did yard work in the cool of an overcast, late-April afternoon, and I knew at once why fathers are meant to have their sons.

Because they love you, unconditionally.

As mine followed me around the front lawn in true toddler earnest, trying to pick-up the shovel I was using to edge the shrubbery at one turn, trying to race his plastic dump truck faster than the breeze at another, I felt a closeness to him that cannot be explained, only related to by other fathers.  This was my son, and even at the young age of two I could see him looking up to me, wanting to do everything I was doing, wanting to impress me with every move, asking the questions that he knew only I could answer on this particular day.

For instance, was the bee really inside the yellow tulip?  I don’t know son, but let’s look together.  So we did, pulling apart the fragile, vibrant petals slowly, ever so gently, the excitement building as only searching for bees in the half-light can provide.  There was no bee on this occasion, but we would see him later, and I would explain to my son while we whispered how these insects use the flowers for food, much like he uses his plate at the dinner table with me and his mother.  Not the most perfect analogy when you think about it, but it was perfect to him, and only because I spoke the words.

On and on the afternoon went, me digging and knocking the dirt from the stubborn clumps of grass I had unearthed, Frankie’s golden locks running circles around the giant oak tree I was edging, as simple and sublime as a childhood memory with my own father.  Who would have thought pure happiness could be found in the tedious routine of yard work, the reason for life itself embodied in the love and admiration of a two-year-old little man?

It’s shocking how much this journey teaches us, the when and the why always the mystery and the pleasure at the same time.

I remember college, and rebellion, and cross-country road trips.  I remember Jack Kerouac and Ernest Hemingway, and never wanting to let up.  I remember a fire inside that gave life to dreams and poured gasoline on words that could only burn on paper, and I remember that I was going to write it all before I was even twenty-five.

Well, it has been a long, winding, unbelievable road since I sat on the edge of the Grand Canyon for what seemed like an evening, since I crossed the Great Plains alone and slept in the basement of a church in a Minnesota cornfield.  It was on this night that I waited for God to walk through the door and into my room, maybe to tuck me in for the ending of youth, and maybe just to tell me everything was going to be alright.

For one, crystallized period of time, everything was so real… so alive.

Somewhere between that quiet, lonely basement and my front yard today, the Great American Novel never got written, and my Academy Award-winning screenplay never produced.  But you know what, I am happy in a way I never saw coming, and maybe I never would have been if my dreams of fame and fortune and endless wandering had somehow come true.

Everything happens for a reason, I truly believe it so.

Maybe that’s why Aaron Boone hit the home run that knocked me out of bed on 96^th street, and slammed not only my fist into the ceiling, but baseball back into my life.

I love the New York Yankees because my father does.  And now, I am suddenly coming to realize, because they give me an excuse to write, every single day.  Maybe my former boss dubbed me Yankee Joe for a reason, looking back on it now.  Maybe these words, my lightly-trafficked blog, and this pin-striped team are my chance to finally write something worth reading… to finally see if the potential will ever find the courage and the discipline to step up to the plate, every pun intended.

Or maybe I should just stick to the action across the diamond, and leave these late-night revelations to Chris McCandless, somewhere out there in the wild.

We are twenty-six games into this thing now, and the Yankees stand at 13-13.  Not spectacular, but not terrible either, just predictably inconsistent for a team that is indeed in transition.  When Mussina finally pitches a gem to stifle his critics for a much-needed night, such as last Wednesday against the White Sox in Chicago, the always dependable Pettitte gets battered around like a rookie, a la Friday’s opener with the Cleveland Indians.  When both rookies Phil Hughes and Ian Kennedy turn in decent performances of their own to stifle the eminently quotable Junior Boss, both Thursday’s weather and Saturday’s untimely hitting serve to put a damper on their outings.

Such is baseball, especially in April.

What has not been so predictable is Chien-Ming Wang’s record, 5-0 after he pitched seven shutout innings yesterday in a pitchers duel against Cy Young winner C.C. Sabathia, and Mariano Rivera’s 0.00 ERA, the number as it stood when he closed out Wang’s game and earned his seventh save in only thirteen Yankee wins.

Pitching and defense wins championships, as we are told time and time again by the experts.  Well, the Bombers are winning their share of games so far without an inkling of timely hitting, so maybe it’s pitching and defense that is getting the job done.

Either way, it’s still April, and I’m still in my front yard in the half-light, even if only in my mind.  There will be better stretches of games for the Yankees over the course of this season, mark my words, but there may never be another day as perfect as the one I just had with my son.

Here is to happiness, like only championship rings and searching for bees can bring.

4/22: Yankees 9, White Sox 5

                Bobby Abreu witnessed Derek strike out.  Taking his easy, fluid swings from the on-deck circle at U.S. Cellular Field in Chicago, he watched in quiet amazement as Octavio Dotel blew a high heater right past the Captain on a 2-2 count.

                “Whoosh,” said the bat, fighting the air on its way through the strike zone.  Derek just shook his head and stared back at the mound, looking as comfortable with his failure as he does with his countless success.  Try teaching that in Little League, coach.

                Bobby was amazed though.

The more he thought about it, the more it didn’t make any sense.  The bases are loaded right?  There are two outs in the top of the seventh, and we are down 3-2… the game is hanging in the balance, am I wrong?  Bobby wrinkled his brow into deep, wavy furrows and began digging his back foot into the batter’s box.  He was miles away in the far reaches of his mind.

Why didn’t Jeter get a hit?

“Whap,” the glove grunted, Octavio having throw ball one.

Suddenly, oh so subtly, Bobby realized the inevitable truth.  This game is on my shoulders now, isn’t it?  It’s up to me, and nobody else in that dugout over there, to make sure Wang-er gets the win.  After a gritty, gutsy, less than perfect six innings of work, Chien-Ming Wang could only sit and observe, a jacket and a towel wrapping his valuable right arm in warmth.

So valuable, in fact, the Taiwanese stock market fluctuates on its performance.  Can that be true?

“Whap,” the glove shouted this time, Octavio having thrown ball two.

Alright, Bobby, time to wake up.  He’s gotta groove one right here.  No way he’s going 3-0.

So Bobby came back down to earth, and with the clarity and conviction of a wandering, salt-of-the-earth prophet, launched the fastball that he knew was coming deep into the Windy City night.  The left-fielder leapt, Bobby Abreu tossed his bat, and just like that, the Yankees went for losing this game 3-2, to winning 6-3.  Talk about a New York minute.

And talk about a clutch, two-out hit.

No, talk about a baseball player picking up his Captain, and dusting off his ace.

Even when Billy Traber and Brian Bruney loaded the bases on three walks and one strike-out in the bottom of the seventh, Joba rolled in and picked up his fellow relievers.  Pumping in nasty heat and snapping off ridiculous sliders, the young stud from Nebraska got out of the jam without breaking a sweat.  He did walk one run home to tighten the score to 6-4, but shrugged it off and got Juan Uribe to pop-up on the very next pitch.

Try teaching that in Little League, coach.  Try moving this kid into the rotation now, Hank.

The heart of a champion beats with the blood of a fighter, a cool, calculated, single-minded confidence that cannot be taught, and cannot be denied.  Jeter knows how it feels, so does Mo, so does Pettitte, and as is becoming more and more obvious by the New York Minute, so does Joba Chamberlain.

Bobby Abreu got a taste Tuesday night in Chicago.

Don’t think.  Just swing.  Grand Slam.

Sweet, saucy, Venezuelan perfection, and the Yankees win.

4/18-20: One and Two

A weekend with the kids in Baltimore… what could be better?

According to the animated statements of Hank Steinbrenner in yesterday’s New York Times, Joba Chamberlain in the starting rotation for the New York Yankees.  After Phil Hughes couldn’t get out of the fifth inning Friday night at Camden Yard, and Ian Kennedy couldn’t get out of the third in the same, beautiful, brick ballpark on Saturday, the faith of the organization as a whole – especially Brian Cashman’s – is suddenly being put to the test.  These two young guns are the same two prospects that Brian would not trade for Johan Santana in the offseason, a deal that Hank was less than casual about wanting to consummate, so here we stand today.

Is anyone the least bit surprised?

Twenty games into the 2008 season, with the Yankees record at 10-10, Boston’s at 12-7, and the team’s collective starting ERA hovering somewhere around 10.00, management is being asked to exercise patience with the enthusiastically proclaimed “future” of the franchise.  They are being asked to stick with the plan, no matter what the outcome.  In other words, they are being asked to act in a very unfamiliar way for the Tampa Faction, and most notably the Steinbrenners, even if it might be very familiar behavior to the majority of other teams in Major League Baseball.

Have a little faith, right?  These kids are exactly that: kids.  They need to learn and grow and mature into Cy Young candidates, and that takes time, persistence, and above all else, that enviable, hard-to-wait-out virtue known as patience.

After all, they did watch Andy Pettitte take a perfect game into the fifth inning on Sunday against the same orange-colored birds from Baltimore, finishing the day with seven strong, veteran innings of work.  In assuming his very familiar role of “stopper”, Andy tutored by example, pitching a gem with only well-located 86 MPH fastballs, diving sliders, and of course, tailing cutters.

You don’t have to be a flame-thrower to be a good pitcher, and Hughes, Kennedy, and maybe even Mussina could stand to take a few notes from Pettitte’s latest outing.

Maybe even Steinbrenner could learn a thing or two from No. 46 as well… you don’t have to spout flames in the newspaper to show that you have passion for your baseball team.  We all know your last name, so dazzle us next time with a few well-located, eloquently spoken words.  A show of patience, possibly.

Location, just like timing for the rest of us, makes all the difference in baseball.

4/17: Red Sox 7, Yankees 5

               Sometimes you have to swallow your pride as a pitcher, and realize that your 86 MPH fastball just isn’t good enough.  Sometimes, you have to realize when an opposing hitter has your number categorically, and just walk the guy.  Live to fight another day, in other words, and give your team a chance to win the ballgame.

                Since some indeterminate, star-crossed pitch a few years back, Manny Ramirez of the Boston Red Sox has owned Mike Mussina, plain and simple.  And may I be the first person to say that the Moose is either too smart for his own good, too stupid for somebody so smart, or just plain stubborn in his decisions to both pitch to Ramirez in the first place, and then in his particular pitch selection during each at-bat.

                In whose reality is an 86 MPH fastball going to get buy, sneak past, or even surprise one of the best all-around hitters to play the game, especially when it has a tendency to drift back toward the middle of the plate, every, single, frightening time?

                Just walk the guy, Mike.  Everyone will understand.

                But no, the lukewarm heater is thrown, the red-hot man with the elongated dreads takes his stride, and with each lightening, powerful swing that sends these pitches on a permanent vacation from the Stadium, his smiles grow wider, his homerun trot more loose and more confident.

                And there Mike Mussina stands, alone on the mound with his thoughts, as his personal nemesis circles and circles like a hawk on the breeze.  During Thursday night’s final game against Boston until July, Manny was Manny not once, but twice off of Mike, playing a prominent role in knocking him out of the game after only three innings and five runs scored.  Jonathan Albaladejo pitched well in relief but allowed two more runs over a few innings of work, and this game was quickly 7-0 Red Sox with Josh Beckett on the mound for our bitter rivals.

                Let’s be honest though, the Beckett versus Mussina match-up – twice in the past week, no less – is not exactly a game stacked in the Yankees favor is it?

                So when The Farns reared back in the late innings and drilled Manny Ramirez with a fastball between the numbers, the Stadium finally had something to cheer about, and Ramirez finally had something to think about at the plate.  Farnsworth would later say the pitch had “slipped… sometimes the balls get dry and they slip out,” but that’s because he has a 5^th Amendment right against self-incrimination, and he was exercising it well.  After all, it was only one night earlier that A-Rod was drilled between the numbers by Boston reliever Brad Aardsma, so nobody is going to fault The Farns either way.

                If anything, it served to brighten Kyle’s image in the eyes of the fans, in a way that having the back of your teammates always does, and inflicting some level of discomfort on your hated opponent’s best hitter tends to do.  In short, it put a smile on my face, what about yours?

                Maybe Mike Mussina should just start drilling Ramirez too.  There’s no doubt that it would be a lot more effective, and less damaging to his ERA, that’s for sure.  How could it not be?

                This sleepy, frustrating affair was over early in the Bronx, probably around the second time Manny traced an arcing, happy circle around his favorite Yankees pitcher, and Beckett’s loan three-run hiccup in the sixth only stirred the comeback thoughts for a heartbeat, and then they were gone.  The Boston Ace went on to work eight complete, efficient innings of winning baseball, and even Papelbon’s shaky close wasn’t enough to turn this one around.

                Sometimes, when the winds change for the long haul, short term corrections in the air patterns still must be endured, and hopefully, used as a learning experience.

                Mike, just walk Manny.  Please.

                Manny, watch your back, kid.  These aren’t the same Yankees.

                And  Paps, you are not invincible, son, especially when you’re trying to close out your city’s biggest rival.  The list of shaky ninths, and blown saves, is growing longer by the day.

                Remember all of this for July, when New York versus Boston resumes. 

4/16: Yankees 15, Red Sox 9

Numbers have always meant something to me, ever since I can remember.

Call it a mild case of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, or the inherent superstition that develops in a childhood filled with sports and big dreams, but the numbers have always played a role, giving reason and meaning to consequence.  My birthday, for example, is May 21, so any combination of numbers that add up to twenty-one, such as a phone number, zip code, or locker combination, had special significance to me.  In sports, I always wanted to wear No. 5 (for the month of May) or No. 21, or at least a number that added up, subtracted, or multiplied to derive one of the two, such as 37, 23, or 26, the latter being the simple addition of both together.

                I looked for these numbers everywhere in youth, their presence a sign of good things to come, their absence an indicator of worry.  I must admit, I still look for these numbers today, even adding my wife’s and my son’s birthdays to the mix.  For instance, my two-year-old baby boy, Frankie, was born on March 5, 2006.  If you look hard enough, the number 3 (for March) multiplied by 5 equals 15, and 15 plus 6 (for 2006) equals 21.  Never was there a better birthday for a son of mine, whose arrival in this world and every day since – next to meeting my wife, of course – has indeed been the best thing that has ever happened to me.

                So, you ask, what does all of this have to do with last night’s Yankees game against the Red Sox at the Stadium?  Well, I respond matter-of-factly, the numbers were everywhere.

                Take for example, the talented Mr. A-Rod, who entered last night’s contest tied for 15^th place on the all-time homeruns list with Ted Williams and Willy McCovey, sitting pretty with 521 dingers at the tender age of 32.  Recognize any of these numbers?  No sooner did I finish clapping for Bobby Abreu’s two-run blast into the left-field bleachers off of Boston’s rookie phenom Clay Bucholz, than did Alex launch a prodigious shot over Monument Park (filled with retired numbers) and into the Red Sox bullpen.  This was his fifth homerun of April, coming in the Yankees’ sixteenth game, two numbers that just happen to add up to the blessed No. 21.

                Now comes the crazy part, lest you think my ramblings above are sane.

The official end of the most recent Bronx Dynasty has long been dated to October 2001, during the ninth inning of the seventh game of the World Series against the Arizona Diamondbacks.  A month before this fateful frame, in which the invincible Mariano Rivera would blow the biggest save of his life, the once invincible city of New York was dealt it’s greatest tragedy of record: 9-11-01.  This forum is not the time or the place to go into my personal beliefs concerning that historic and catastrophic event, but the numbers and symbolism involved do have a strange way of tying into the fortunes of New York City’s iconic baseball franchise since that terrible day.

Tom Verducci, the prolific and much admired sports writer for Sports Illustrated, noted shortly after the 2001 Series ended that, when Luiz Gonzalez stepped up to the plate to face Mo with the game, the history, and outright destiny hanging in the balance, the clock in the ballpark read 9:11 P.M.

We all know what happened next.

Much like this great city has been recovering from the fallout of September 11 for the past seven years, the great Yankees franchise has been recovering on the baseball diamond from the fallout of this one, single defeat.  Never quite out of the race entirely, but never quite as strong and confident either, each subsequent postseason seeing them drift towards and then away from their past glory, each offseason trade a hopeful reach for the missing piece that will return them to the promised land.

Mark my words, that missing piece now sits quietly and patiently in Nebraska, giving his father all of the strength and support he needs to recover.  Our prayers are with you Joba.

Returning to last night’s game against the rival Red Sox, the first meeting between these two ancient foes in the last year of Ruth’s famous house, suddenly the numbers 9 and 11 were everywhere all at once.  After the Yankees surged ahead in the bottom of the fourth inning to take a 7-3 lead, Clay Bucholz being knocked out of the game by his boyhood idol, Derek Jeter, with a two-out, bases-load, Jeterian single to right, Chien-Ming Wang suddenly forgot how to pitch.  In the top of the fifth, the Red Sox scored six maddening runs over a combination of five straight hits allowed by Wang, and three valiant outs recorded by his young replacement, Ross Ohlendorf (only one run was charged to Ross).

The scoreboard line for the Red Sox now read 9 runs on 11 hits.  Doom and dread filled the Stadium to its silent core, as the once invincible four-run lead handed to our staff Ace disappeared into thin air.

However, showing the same dogged, detemined fight of a city that always gets back on its feet, the Yankees quickly counter-punched their smiling opponent.  The smoking hot Hideki Matsui stroked a one-out single off of Boston reliever Julian Tavarez, then Jorge Posada followed with jam-shot RBI double down the right-field line.  When Robinson Cano cracked an RBI single that chased Posada to the plate, the scoreboard line for the Yankees read 9 runs on 11 hits.

Hmm…

As if this one wild game was a microcosm for the relative fates of both the Yankees and Red Sox over the past seven years, maybe things were about to change.

Sure enough, the Bombers plated two more runs in the frame on a would-be, bases-loaded, inning-ending double play, where the return throw from shortstop Julio Lugo sailed as if on wings into the thundering stands.  Now the Yankees had 11 runs to the 9 posted by Boston, another stunning reversal in this instant classic of a game.  The Red Sox had also just committed their first error, changing their numbers on the scoreboard to read 9-11-1.

If that doesn’t send chills down the back of your neck and arms, I don’t know what will.  Could these numbers and events be a sign of a change in the winds, which began somewhat quietly last year with the late-August arrival of a boy from Nebraska?  Only time will tell, but remember this: numbers give reason and meaning to consequence, and the numbers were everywhere last night at the mythic, historic, oft times spiritual, Yankee Stadium.

Just ask Latroy Hawkins.

Maligned by the fans since Opening Day for choosing to wear the former number of the people’s warrior, Paul O’Neil – hey, isn’t that No. 21 – Hawkins jogged out to the mound amidst the turmoil sporting a brand new No. 22 jersey.  Before I continue, let me point out that Latroy now has a sticker in his locker that reads “Retire No. 21”, which has raised my respect level for him exponentially, not to mention my image of the man.  Self-deprecating humor and humility can go a long way in this world, especially when your job puts you front and center on the YES Network, night in and night out.

At any rate, as if the change in numbers has changed the predetermined fate of the much-traveled Latroy, he became the unlikely savior of this game when he quieted the Red Sox bats for the sixth and seventh innings.  Quietly, honorably, and somewhat surprisingly, Hawkins has now pitched seven scoreless innings in his last five outings.  Funny, I didn’t hear any boos last night, did you?

On came lefty-specialist Billy Traber in the top of the eighth inning, his one pitch to David Ortiz inducing the desired popup and ending his night all at once.  Brian Bruney then touched 97 MPH on the radar gun as he closed out the eighth, the new Yankees bullpen stepping up in the absence of their young stud flamethrower.  I must say, the performance of this bullpen in the early going is a world of difference from anything the Yankees have put together in the past four-to-five years, and that in its own right is a sign of good things to come.

In the end, the 9-11 score held up until the bottom of the eighth inning, when the suddenly combustible Yankees offense exploded for four more runs off of the aging Mike Timlin, allowing Mariano Rivera – already warming in the pen – to take a seat for the final three outs.

Fitting isn’t, it?  It was Mo on the mound the last time the winds changed and ended a dynasty, and it was Mo’s teammates that picked him up last night, giving him the rare opportunity to sit back, relax, and enjoy the new wind on his grateful, veteran skin.

That is the best sign of another Bronx Dynasty taking shape, isn’t it?  An offense that picks up its Ace, and a bullpen that picks up its closer.  Teammates and friends coming together, one number at a time.

4/15: Yankees 5, Rays 3

               Two out runs win ballgames.  And good pitching, of course.

                In the top of the fifth inning at The Trop last night, with the New York Yankees sporting a 3-2 lead over the hometown Tampa Bay Rays, Johnny Damon worked a two-out walk against the powerful but notoriously wild, Edwin Jackson.  In this situation, with your speedy lead-off man at first and your most clutch singles hitter, Derek Jeter, at the plate, it makes a lot of sense to send the runner early in the count.  If Damon makes it to second base, then you are set up for a two-out RBI.  On the other hand, if he gets gunned out at second, then you have The Captain leading-off the top of the next inning.

                Again, two outcomes that you can live with as a manager, worry-free.

                So when Damon took off like a rabbit toward second early in Jeter’s at-bat, I smiled the smile of a fan who has watched enough baseball to think along with his favorite team, and thought right.  Johnny slid in under the tag and popped up to his feet in one, fluid motion.  Then, as if written on a script that Joe Girardi had folded neatly in his back pocket, Jeter ripped a single into center that prompted the young and supremely talented B.J. Upton to challenge Damon’s hard-charging dash to the plate.  The throw was late, Johnny was safe, and Jeter took second like any in-tune, heads-up ballplayer should remember to do.

                Perfect, textbook execution.

With one two-out run in the books and Jeter standing on second, looking for more, Bobby Abreu delivered.  He ripped his own RBI single, this particular baseball careening over the second baseman’s head and into the right-centerfield gap.  When Jeter slid across the dish in a hazy cloud of dirt and chalk, the scoreboard changed its white, wooden numbers to read, Yankees 5, Rays 2.  Another clutch, two-out run scored, helping solidify a victory for the gritty, high-80’s-only performance of Andy Pettitte, who battled in vintage fashion from the first pitch of the game, batter after batter.

And that’s what Andy Pettitte does best – he battles.  The Family Guy from Texas doesn’t have the mid-90’s fastball, the Mariano cutter, or the Joba slider, but he has been extremely successful over the course of his career for one very important reason – he knows how to pitch.  Last night was a prime example of this trademark quality, as he worked out of a first-and-third, one-out jam in the first, and then a bases-loaded, one-out jam in the second.  After getting touched up for two runs on two hits in the third, Pettitte dug in and threw two consecutive 1-2-3 innings in the fourth and fifth frames.  Similarly, after the Rays final run scored from third base on a routine ground ball in the sixth, Andy finished his outing by recording a perfect seventh.

Vintage Andy.  Bend but don’t break, and give your team a chance to win.  That is why he has been a successful pitcher for so many years.  To me, that’s what makes him a Yankee.

Now, what makes Kyle Farnsworth a Yankee is a completely different story.  So when the vaunted Bombers lineup failed to buy any insurance during a bases-loaded, one-out situation in the top of the seventh inning, and then again during a bases-loaded, two-out situation in the top of the eighth, I started to get a little worried.  Joba Chamberlain, our lock-down, lights-out setup man was not available for both personal and admirable reasons, which left the unpredictable and deeply frustrating Kyle Farnsworth as the next logical choice to pitch the bottom of the eighth.  When the cameras finally panned to the bullpen and showed me that my single greatest fear was indeed true, I nearly switched off the TV.

I can’t do it.  I can’t watch him blow this game, I said to myself.

But I did watch.

And do you know what happened next?  The Farns, as if sent down to the mound from way on high, pitched a 1-2-3 scoreless inning against Johnny Gomes, Mike DeFelice, and Eric Hinske.  Suddenly, after Kyle’s final fastball struck out Hinske swinging, a chorus of angels appeared over centerfield, singing the softest, gentlest, and most sublime version of “Hal-le-lu-ya” I have ever heard.  It was amazing, it was magical, and truly the most surreal experience I’ve ever had watching a baseball game on television.

Okay, so there were no angels hovering, and no sweet, soft music being sung, but Kyle getting the ball into Mo’s right hand without blowing the game to smithereens truly was a vision unto itself.  It was something I fully appreciated, given his history with the team, and something I will never forget.

Fine.  I will stop now.

Mariano Rivera then did what Mariano Rivera does best – close – and the Yankees had themselves a two-game sweep of their divisional foes, the Tampa Bay Rays, heading into tonight and tomorrow night’s throw-down with the Red Sox.  All the boys have to do now is beat Boston soundly at the Stadium, not once but twice, and the chorus of angels will reappear, hovering quietly over the Bronx, ready and waiting to sing.

4/14: Yankees 8, Rays 7

“Robbie!” the Manager cried out,  twisting to face his players.  “Get in there and get us a hit, kid.  You’re up.”

                Adrenaline surged into Robbie’s veins as if fed through intravenous tubes.  He quickly snapped to his feet, grabbed one of his favorite black, wooden bats from the rack, and picked up his helmet on the way up the dugout steps.  Striding slow and deliberate toward the box, he heard the P.A. announcer’s voice call out his name, both loud and low as it echoed through the cavernous rafters of Tropicana Field.

                “Now pinch-hitting for Gonzalez, number twenty-four, Robinson Cano.”

                God that sounds good, he thought to himself, the hair on the back of his neck already at full attention.  Passing Alberto Gonzalez on the rookie’s way back to the dugout, a mutual fist pound was exchanged, and now it was all business for New York’s struggling second baseman.

                He dug his first foot into the soft, manicured dirt of the left-handed hitter’s box, and tried to erase the .170 batting average from his mind, telling himself that he was indeed the player who hit close to .500 this Spring Training, and the player who hit nearly .340 in his second full season in The Bigs.  Even when he stumbled out of the gate last year, he had finished with an average North of .300.  Why is this happening to me again?

                No no, Robbie, get that crap out of your head.

                Digging his front foot in now, feeling for that familiar, comfortable distance with his cleat, he tried again not to think about the parade of ground balls and pop-ups coming off his bat in celebratory style, and tried to visualize centering a pitch on the barrel for the first time in fourteen games.  I’m better than this, he repeated in his mind, over and over, as the opposing pitcher went into the windup.

                Fastball, down and away.  Okay, I’ve got his speed now.  This guy’s got nothing.

                Fastball, swing Robbie!  Damn, that was close.  I hate foul balls, c’mon.

                What’s he gonna do now, what’s he gonna do?  Probably something off-speed.  Yeah, sit off-speed, Robbie, keep your weight back.  Keep your hands back, kid, here it comes.

                Gotcha!

                In baseball, there are homeruns that have a chance off the bat, the ones where everyone holds their collective breath and watches the movements of the closest outfielder to determine if the ball is gone.  Then there are homeruns like the one Robinson Cano hit last night for the Yankees, the game knotted at 7-7 in the top of the eighth inning, where everyone watching – players, coaches, fans and commentators alike – know it’s gone as soon as we hear that “CRACK!”  These homeruns are the no-doubters, and they are a beautiful sight to behold, sweet and powerful perfection sailing high above the diamond.

                Robbie knew it too, because he felt that feeling in his hands and in his arms that you only feel when you connect with a baseball as square as you possibly can.  Two-and-a-half weeks of frustration and angst rocketed through the air of Tampa Bay’s indoor stadium, the trajectory of the ball halted only by the stands in right field.  Cano flipped the bat, allowed a slight smile to warm the corners of his face, and began the most satisfying, triumphant trip around the bases his sport can offer – the homerun trot.

                Finally, our All-Star second baseman appeared, right before our very eyes.

                And finally, after two torturous, second-guess type moves in Boston over the previous two nights, Joe Girardi looked like a manager who knew exactly how to motivate his struggling athlete, something only the truly good managers in the game know how to do.  After giving Robbie the night off, presumably to allow his mind to stop obsessing and worrying about each at-bat, or maybe it was done so that he could witness someone else succeeding and having fun at second base – only Joe knows – Girardi called on No. 24 in a situation where both the team and the player needed a big-time boost.  On this night, it was the perfect call in the perfect situation, and it just might turn out to be the hit that puts Cano back on the fast-track to .300.

                The offense as a whole seemed to feed off the fresh breath of warm air in Tampa, reaching season-highs in hits (14) and runs (8) as a unit.  Case in point, Johnny Damon hit his first homerun of the year on just the second pitch of the ballgame.  Alex Rodriguez then tied Teddy Ballgame on the all-time homeruns list (521) on the fourth pitch of his first at-bat (he would finish the night 4 for 5), and Morgan Ensberg continued to rake as a part-time first baseman when he launched a hanging slider deep to left in the top of the second inning for his first homerun as well.

                Even journeyman catcher Chad Moeller, called up yesterday to fill-in for both Jorge Posada (shoulder) and Jose Molina (hamstring), played a pivotal role with his bat in the four-run fourth inning that knocked Tampa Bay starter Andy Sonnanstine out of the game.  With Melky Cabrera at first base and nobody out, Sonnanstine tried to execute a pitchout.  However, Joe Girardi had called a hit-and-run for the Yankees, so Moeller leaned across the dish and slapped a single through the hole at second base created by the covering Akinori Iwamura.  He literally hit the ball right out of the glove of the standing catcher, John Riggins, truly a bizarre but heads-up play that set New York up for a big inning.

                After Damon ripped an RBI double down the first base line, and the Captain Derek Jeter smashed an RBI single to center in his first game back in exactly a week, young rookie pitcher Ian Kennedy held the score firm at 7-2 through six solid innings of work.  However, he was forced to depart the game abruptly in the seventh, taking a screaming, come-back liner off his right front hip.  The usually solid pair of relievers, Billy Traber and Brian Bruney, then lost him the win just as abruptly.  Both pitchers combined to allow three homers and five earned runs in the inning, which evened the once laughable score at seven, just like that.

                 But, before the impending panic that follows blowing a huge lead had time to take root, in walked Robbie, sent in by Girardi, each man earning a small level of redemption with one sweet, swing of the bat.

                And then, as always – we are so, unbelievably spoiled – Mariano Rivera slammed the door shut with a 1-2-3 bottom of the ninth, carving like a knife through Carl Crawford, Carlos Pena, and B.J. Upton, the legitimate and powerful heart of the Tampa Bay order.  The aging, one-pitch wonder is now four-for-four in save opportunities on the early season, with a 0.00 ERA.  How this guy continues to dominate game after game, year after year, with a single cutting fastball is beyond my comprehension.  But he does, and he will continue to do so until he can’t anymore, and that’s what makes him Mo.

                What makes Joba the man amongst boys that he has become today starts and ends with the unconditional love and support of his father.  Before the first pitch of tonight’s two-game-series finale against the Rays, let’s all say a silent prayer for Harlan Chamberlain, who continues his daily battle against fate and health from a hospital bed in Nebraska.  Maybe that’s why Joba is the mature and grounded individual that he is, and quite possibly, the next “warrior” for the New York Yankees - from living his life in the constant presence of true strength and true grace.

                His dad.

4/13: Red Sox 8, Yankees 5

               There should be a rule in Major League Baseball that reads, “When it’s cold outside and your team is struggling to score runs on a nightly basis, and your offense has runners at first and second base with no outs in the top of the eighth inning at Fenway Park, down by two runs, a Yankees manager must instruct Johnny Damon to bunt or else be subject to ejection from the game.”

                Even if he gets thrown out at first, which is not a one hundred percent certainty by any means, the tying run would be at second base with the heart of the order coming to the plate.  Instead, to my extreme shock and subsequent disgust last night, Joe Girardi allowed Damon to swing away in this same exact situation, and the worst of all possible scenarios took place: he hit into a double-play.

                Rally over, game over, series over.

                For all of the top billing about Girardi’s acumen for National League style baseball, more commonly referred to as Small Ball in the increasingly educated media circles, there was never a more obvious place to bunt the runners over to second and third, and he did not pull the trigger.  This decision, of course, came on the heels of Saturday’s risky bet that Mike Mussina could pitch carefully to Manny Ramirez with the game on the line.  Two situations requiring a manager’s marching orders, two chances for Girardi’s Northwestern intellect and career of catching experience to impact two important baseball games, and he failed to make the obvious and arguably routine decisions, twice.

                Not sure how I feel about all of this.

Conflicted is a good word, or perhaps disappointed, but I think surprised might be the most accurate.  How do you not bunt in that situation, Joe?  The Yankees were not in need of a big, four-run inning at this particular juncture.  What they needed to do was score the two runners that were on base already, which would have tied the game and kept their chances of winning alive.  At a bare minimum, you have to score the guy from second base, especially because he arrived there with no outs recorded, but neither of these desired outcomes took place last night.  Instead, another foolish bet was placed on the table, and on a second consecutive evening in Boston, the wager did not pay off.

Oh well.  You live and you learn, right?  Let’s just hope our Joe Girardi is a better student than he is a gambler.

Leading up to the fateful eighth inning, Phil Hughes threw thirty-nine pitches in a rocky first, recorded a decent second frame, then failed to induce a single out in the third before he was pulled from the game, much to the delight of the Fenway faithful and their endearing chants of “Yan-kees Suck”.  By the time Ross Ohlendorf did manage to wiggle out of the frame, the Yankees were trailing the Red Sox by a score of 7-1.  All seven runs were charged to the young, impressionable Hughes, whose last two outings have been on par with a pitcher who is twenty-one years of age, but drastically subpar for what the Yankees both need and expect out of their future ace.

Straining to see the positive side of this game, the bullpen did throw a few zeroes at the base of the Green Monster until the deciding eighth, and the Yankees offense – minus Derek Jeter and his barking left quadricep for the sixth consecutive game – clawed back to within 7-5, the fifth run being a Jason Giambi homerun off of Mike Timlin (only his third hit of the season) to start the eighth.

But then, like a greedy card player who never knows when to turn and walk away, the foolish wager was placed on Damon.  Robinson Cano followed up the double-play with a weak ground ball to end the Yankee threat, continuing his bizarre struggles at the plate in the early going.  After he ran through the bag at first, as required, it appeared he wanted to throw his hands up in surrender, looking younger and less professional than he has in a long, long time, probably since he was first called up in May of 2005.

Man.  Where have you gone, Mr. Robinson?

In the latter half of the eighth, my favorite Mr. Farnsworth entered the game and promptly gave up a run to the bottom three in the Red Sox order, as he is oft prone to do, removing the Yankees from the hope of a bloop and a blast in the ninth, and hammering home the proverbial nail.  As the final game of the opening series against Boston wound down to its grinding, exhausting close, there was a lot to be frustrated about – for Yankee players and their fans alike.

But alas, the duel excuses of April and Weather are always there to comfort us in the first two weeks of the season, and thus, there is no need to panic just yet.  Girardi is still learning, Hughes is still learning, and the Red Sox are only separated from us by one game at the bottom of the American League East.  If worrying about the Rays, Jays and (gasp) the Orioles was not on any of our minds up until last night, maybe it should be for the next thirty days.

Or maybe it shouldn’t, but in baseball as well as life, only time will tell.

Maybe, just maybe, we should worry about other David Ortiz jerseys buried deep beneath the hardening concrete of the new Yankees Stadium.

4/12: Red Sox 4, Yankees 3

                Again, I didn’t watch this game.  I had to check my Blackberry for updates between a countless, seemingly endless supply of cold beers, find ESPN on the hotel room TV at 2:00 A.M. for extended highlights, and of course, scan the back pages of the Big Three daily newspapers in New York – the Post, the Daily News and Newsday – to find out early this morning what everybody else already knew.

                This game came down to two key moments, and the Yankees lost out on both.

                Of course, the big question mark of the evening was an easy one to ask: why would Joe Girardi allow Mike Mussina to pitch to Manny Ramirez with the game on the line, bottom of the sixth inning, Red Sox runners standing confidently at second and third base.  There were two outs, Joe, first base was open, and the Moose was hanging tenuously to the slippery ledge of a 2-1 lead in Boston.  Why was there even a conversation on the mound concerning NOT intentionally walking Manny Ramirez?

                As it is beginning to feel like more and more in this storied rivalry, the outcome was written before it was ever decided.

                First pitch, a hanging breaking ball inside the black of the outside corner, and Ramirez did what he does best with mediocre pitching, especially when that pitching comes by way of the New York Yankees: he ripped a screaming, lead-changing double deep into the Fenway triangle in centerfield, a blast from which the Yankees would never recover.

                Now, I know Mike Mussina was pitching well up to this point, and I know he had just struck out the struggling yet still-freakishly-intimidating David Ortiz, but this was Manny.  The same Manny who is hitting north of .350 in April, the same Manny who always hits the Moose well (he had already hit a ridiculous home run over the Monster in his first at bat), and the same Manny whose career numbers against the Yankees are too extensive - and thus depressing – to list.

                Joe Girardi, well known already for his tireless studying of statistics, pitcher-to-hitter match-ups, and his overall aptitude for situational baseball, made his first mistake of the 2008 season.  No big deal, right?  The problem, of course, is that the mistake came against the Boston Red Sox, giving an excited, disgruntled push in the back to the swarm of negative media attention in today’s headlines.  However, whether the Moose asked to pitch to Manny, or player and manager agreed to be careful with the pitch selection, or both men genuinely forgot who was digging into the box at home plate, there is no excuse.

                You pitch to Kevin Youkilus with the game on the line, not Manny Ramirez.

                The second key moment of the night involved none other than Alex Rodriguez, but that is hardly a surprise anymore to fans hailing from New York.  His chance to produce a pivotal, game-changing hit came in the top of the eighth inning, with two-outs and runners in scoring position.  The Yankees trailed by only one now, prompting Boston skipper Terry Francona to go to his young, enigmatic, flame-throwing closer, Jonathan Papelbon.

This was a match-up worth watching, wasn’t it?  This is the reason fans like you and I can never have enough of the Yankees-Red Sox eternal grudge-fest.  This is a pitcher Alex can mash, we all thought, as memories of last season’s game-winning, top of the ninth inning homerun into the Boston bullpen came flashing back to life.

Alright.  Here we go boys.

                The problem, of course, was a two-and-a-half hour rain delay, an exceedingly unfortunate, frustrating circumstance that sucked all of the life and intensity out of this classic power-versus-power confrontation.  When the heavens cleared, the tarp rolled, and the players re-took the field, it didn’t take long for Papelbon to strike-out A-Rod, adding a satisfying notch to his side of the ledger in this growing battle with No. 13.

                Young Jonathan then struck out two in a one-two-three ninth, as effortless and efficient as can be, and the game was in the books for good.  Not for the good of the Yankees, but recorded nonetheless, another chapter to add to this engrossing, dynamic anthology between rivals.

                And what did Joe Girardi learn from re-reading his second chapter of work?

                My guess is that it has something to do with Manny being Manny.