5/18-5/28: Five Below and Back

My twenty-ninth birthday was last Wednesday, May 21^st.

I was not a professional baseball player on that day, nor a professional writer, or even a lawyer for that matter.

But you know what?  My wife went into labor with our second son, David Cook won American Idol, and the Yankees began to turn their season around with the first of five straight wins, en route to a 6-and-2 mark through last night. 

I mean, honestly.  Can anyone ask for a better birthday?

The secret to happiness, I have begun to realize, is appreciating what has been given to us, not what other people have or what they have accomplished.  And the secret to accomplishment is dedicating your sole purpose to physically getting something done, as opposed to dreaming about it on a nightly basis, or during the day in the back of a New York City bus, or on the couch with a beer and the ballgame.

Take, for example, the wonderful world of baseball.  If X player comes up in Y situation and does not come through, one team wins, one team loses, and that player has to deal with his failure.  However, if that same player causes Z to happen, well then, he is a hero, a winner, and a physical God all wrapped into one shining, clutch performance.  The difference between success and failure in all walks of life is doing that which you set out to do in the first place.  For an athlete it’s a hit, a pass, a catch, or a kick.   For an artist it’s an audition, a take, a track or a note.  For me, the indifferent law school graduate who wants to inspire himself before he even attempts to inspire someone else, it’s a thought, an idea, a paragraph, or a final draft.

One day I will finish something I’ve started in this crazy life, and that will make all the difference.  What I have been lacking for the last twenty-nine years is the effort to make it so.

And that’s what people want to see more than anything from someone on TV, across the airwaves, or embedded in a newspaper or magazine – effort.  They want to see you hustle, take risks, and leave it all out their between the lines, inside the frame, or up on that stage.   They want to see you sweat, suffer, and grow as you overcome all obstacles in your path, and they want to see you do it with grace and humility. 

This is why everyone loves Derek Jeter and questions Alex Rodriguez.

This is why the country crowned David Cook over David Archuleta.

This is what inspires people, and in the end, that is all the matters to most of us in this perpetual, corporate rerun of a fast food, cynical, sarcastic, and corrupt sitcom called Society.

Talent only begets opportunity.  Character and heart beget respect.  And respect, my friends, turns into the love, admiration, and inspiration required to do something truly great with your talent.

Take, for example, my courageous and gracious wife, who has inspired me for the better part of eleven years now.  Take also David Cook, who has inspired me for the past five months.  And, don’t look now, but the Yankees are on the verge of inspiring me once again.  As of last night’s 4-2 win over the Baltimore Orioles at Camden Yards, they are 26-27, Alex Rodriguez has returned to the lineup, and Joba Chamberlain is on his way to the rotation.  Signs of life and fire and effort are brewing in the Bronx, and all that is left now for this team to do is to physically accomplish that which it set out to do in the first place.

Win baseball games.

Take a lesson from David Cook, would you all please?  Dig deep, be true to yourselves as athletes and people, and let your hearts hang out there for the world to see on the TV, across the airwaves, or embedded in the newspapers or magazines.

Maybe then you will inspire yourselves, and become a truly great team.

Only then will you find the effort it takes to win it all.  I will be watching, of course, waiting for the inspiration that makes all the difference in the world.

5/10-5/17: Two and Four

The sunlight warmed the nylon of his jersey like it hadn’t done in quite some time.  God, what a beautiful day for baseball, he thought to himself, the deep blue of the number two tracing hot lines in graceful arcs and right angles on his back.

Why is it that we always start so slow, he muttered to no one in particular, methodically swinging a black, weighted bat, back and then forth, as reciprocal and true as a metronome.

Why must we always give everyone else a head start?  If it’s our penance, I think I understand.

Derek thought long and hard in the on-deck circle.  Not about the Subway Series, or how Hank Steinbrenner’s Venezuelan dream was busy striking-out his fellow countryman, Bobby Abreu, from the extreme right side of the mound.  No, he thought about how his Yankees had just lost three out of four to the first place Tampa Bay Rays, and six of their last nine overall.  He thought about how pathetic and surreal his team’s name looked at the bottom of the standings.

This one’s for you, Hank.

Derek dug into the box against Johan Santana like he was just any other pitcher, exactly what you want your Captain to do.  He took a ball, he took a strike, maybe he fouled off a fastball or two.  Somewhere between Ian Kennedy’s last shellacking and Phil Hughes’ fractured right rib, however, DJ looked into the eyes of a hanging, drifting change-up from the blue and orange clad Santana, and smiled.

Boom.

Derek doesn’t turn on a pitch often, preferring to keep his hands in and angle base hits to right-centerfield all day, but on this afternoon he turned.  And he turned hard, didn’t he, smacking the wanderlust right off the face of that smug baseball, and sending it on a rope into the upper deck down the left field line.  Just like that, it was 2-0 Yankees in the bottom of the first, and now every fan in attendance smiled.

You see, who needs Johan Santana?

But then Johnny Damon got thrown out at the plate in the bottom of the third, snuffing out a sure-fire, Johan-killing rally, and Andy Pettitte had a three-run top of the fourth on only one hard-hit single from Carlos Beltran.  Add in a couple bloops, a couple walks, and one obnoxious swinging-bunt from Luis Castillo, and the score was now 3-2 Mets.

Man, you just had a bad feeling about this one.

How sad is that.  For the 2008 New York Yankees, as soon as they fall behind you feel like the game is over.  Even with a line-up that doesn’t have A-Rod or Jorge Posada, you still have your Jeters, Abreus, Damons, Matsuis, Giambis, and Canos, but they have shown no signs of tenacity, fight, or even a flair for the dramatic through the first quarter of the season.  In point of fact, this squad has not one come-from-behind victory when they are losing after six innings.

Not one.

And once again, they threw up another 0-fer with runners-in-scoring-position yesterday, dropping to a season-low three games under .500 without even a whisper of protest.  Of course, it doesn’t help when Kyle Farnsworth gives up three runs on two home-runs before he even records an out in the top of the seventh, but that’s to be expected, right, even when he is having a somewhat respectable year to this point.

What’s not to be expected in the Bronx is losing, and it’s starting to feel like this team is accepting their defeats, as opposed to fighting them off with every once of their competitive fire.

The Captain tried to send a message in the bottom of the first yesterday, to his new owner, to his teammates, and to this increasingly frustrated city.  But after the Yankees dropped their seventh game in their last ten, the question must be asked.

Was anybody in the dugout listening?

5/3-5/9: Three and Three

Another week of baseball, another week of life, and everything feels .500.

You could sense the sun beginning to shine though, couldn’t you, with Mike Mussina winning his third and fourth games in a row, and Darrell Rasner giving up only two runs over six frames in his first big league start of the season.  But no, not so fast, because then the normally lights-out Joba serves up a three-run jack to blow a vintage Andy Pettitte performance – his first regular season runs allowed at Yankee Stadium ever – and this coming on the heels of another perfect seventh inning from the normally maddening Kyle Farnsworth, a twist a fate that emphasizes just how humbling this sport can truly be.

And then of course, Chien-Ming Wang gets out-aced by the Indians suddenly emerged pitcher of perfection, Cliff Lee, and the roller coaster continues for the Yankees.

Win two, lose two.

Get swept by the Tigers, go ahead and sweep the Mariners.

Maybe if Joe Girardi stuck with one line-up for more than one game, this on-again, off-again offense could start to develop a rhythm, even with Morgan Ensberg, Wilson Betemit, Shelly Duncan, and Jose Molina playing starters each night.  Even with Robinson Cano and Jason Giambi having to combine their averages to reach .300.  Even with the rotation being held together by one Ace, two aging, gritty veterans, my other brother Darrell, and – drum roll please – Mr. K. himself.

Ladies and Gentlemen, may I please re-re-re-introduce, for your viewing pleasure, from the land of the rising sun, and direct from the Hashin Tigers… Kei “Triple-A” Igawa.

Last night he returned to the mound in Detroit, and the Detroit Tigers immediately returned the favor.  When it was all said and done, Kei allowed six runs in three-plus, batting-practice-type innings, and his debut ERA for the big club rang in at a resounding 18.00.

Please.

Whether you actually scouted him or not, Cashman, before you forked over nearly $50MM, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist now to realize this guy was not made for American League baseball.  His pitches are slow, his pitches are up, and his pitches just don’t move that much.  For lack of a better visual, it’s literally like watching batting practice.  The Yankees’ Triple-A rotation currently has their team in the division’s respective drivers seat, so there must be somebody else, right?

Please, anybody else.

Even a three-run, ninth-inning rally against Detroit’s pedestrian Todd Jones couldn’t give the Yankees their first come-from-behind victory of the season, and the boys from the Bronx fell back to one game below .500 at 18-19, losing this one by the score of 6-to-5.  If I didn’t love the game of baseball so much, and the New York Yankees for that matter, I might go out on a limb and call this team boring.  I might accuse these players of going through the motions.  I might even say that their new manager, for all the talk of fire and attitude and life, is looking about as flat and tired as Joe Torre ever did in that dugout.

And no, I don’t care if he stands up instead of sits, or paces instead of peruses.

This team is just different, and I can’t quite put my finger on it.

Ah well, what’s one week of baseball and one week of life if you can’t complain about the inconsistent, .500 performance of your favorite team for five consistent minutes.  Just as long as it doesn’t turn into another five consistent weeks, or five long months, and we’re not sitting here in September talking about injuries, unrealized potential, and a lack-luster 81-81 record.

You are the New York Yankees guys.  Start acting like it.

Or, at the very least, feeling like it.

4/30-5/2: One and Two

So the Calendar turned from April to May, and the rain remained.

In fact, for the New York Yankees, the drizzle began to change to a steady pour.  No longer is it a question whether or not “Generation Tre” will remain in tact for a full season.  It was revealed Thursday that Phil Hughes has a stress fracture of the ninth rib on his right side – funny, he has a 9.00 ERA in six April starts – which will sideline him until July at the least, according to the suddenly talkative (or nervous) GM, Brian Cashman.  And as for his embattled compatriot, Ian Kennedy, after last night’s additional sub-par performance on the losing end of a three-game-sweep to the Detroit Tigers, he may finally be on his way back to Triple-A Scranton Wilkes-Barre.

Manager Joe Girardi, who is growing more and more irritated with the media by the question, revealed that the team will not need a fifth starter for a while, given the way the off-days fall in May.  This means that when the Yanks bring up Darrell Rasner to replace the “injured” Hughes (somewhat shockingly, Rasner has a 4-0 record and 0.87 ERA at Scranton thus far), Kennedy will be expendable on every fifth day.  Suffice to say, this has not been a great month for the Yankees experimental Youth Movement.

Unless, of course, you want to talk about Melky Cabrera.

Here is a young man from the Dominican Republic who couldn’t catch a routine fly ball when he was first called up in 2005 for limited action, but is now known for leaping over walls to rob the Red Sox hitters of home runs, and gunning runners down from his perch in center.  The Melk Man went from a fourth outfielder in 2006, to flat out taking the hallowed green lawn of Yankee giants Joe D. and Micky Mantle out from under Johnny Damon in 2007, never to relinquish this piece of real estate again.  Just like his ascension to the starting line-up over the past three seasons, Melky is quick, tenacious, and versatile, willing to hit lead-off or ninth whenever he is asked to do so.

Last night at the Stadium in the Bronx, Cabrera’s two-run double in the bottom of the second inning was the difference in the ballgame, as he reached down to the dirt with his bat and raked a nasty Eric Bedard curveball inside the third base bag.  With the ball screaming down the line and headed for the blue-walled corner, Morgan “the accountant” Ensberg ambled home from third, and slick-fielding newcomer Alberto Gonzalez raced all the way to the dish from first.  Melky, of course, trotted into second with a stand-up double, his confidence and machismo growing taller by the day.

Thus far, Cabrera’s bat is hovering around the .300 mark.  He is also tied for the team-lead in home runs (5) with the .167-hitting Jason Giambi.  Melky’s big hit last night against the Seattle Mariners quickly made the score 3-0, and that is all the Ace-turned-Stopper Chien Ming Wang would need, as the talented, evolving pitcher threw six strong innings of one-run baseball.

Driven to adapt by postseason failure from a year ago, Wang is now mixing in more and more change-ups and sliders with his bowling ball sinker, and this is one Yankees experiment that is paying early dividends, and paying well.  The man’s new pitches move like angry, hump-backed waves on a stormy, Taiwanese sea, and opposing hitters can no longer sit and wait to ride his sinker safely back to shore.  They have to think about what’s coming next, and by the time they recognize a particular break in the water, it’s way too late and much too futile.

Wang is 6-0 now through his first seven starts.  The word indispensable comes to mind, especially with Pettitte getting knocked around for his second straight start on Wednesday night.

Guess who didn’t get knocked around in the seventh inning against the Mariners?  Much to my chagrin, Kyle “the Farns” Farnsworth came in and mowed down three straight hitters with a steady diet of 97 MPH fastballs.  Could Brian Bruney’s freak ankle injury be just the opportunity Kyle needs to motivate himself toward the realization of his own tantalizing potential?  If the crowd’s standing ovation and his teammates’ post-game words of praise are any indication, Yankees Universe is sure hoping so.

 Much to my subsequent pleasure, the Farns was followed by the meaty right hand of Joba, and the ice-cold right hook of Rivera, quite possibly the deadliest and most intimidating combination in all of baseball.  This game was over when the Yankees reached the eighth with the lead, a game-shortening advantage they have not possessed since the glory years of the late-90’s dynasty.  If Farnsworth can gain the momentum and confidence he needs to lock down the seventh for the next two months, then we’d really be talking about something, wouldn’t we?  However, it’s a marathon not a sprint, and Kyle has a few more laps to run before I’m ready to move Joba back to the rotation.

Ah, the rotation.  While Wang turned the steady pour of mid-Spring back to a drizzle for a night, two through four now consists of Pettitte, Mussina, and Rasner.  Hey, maybe Darrell will be the ray of sunlight both Hughes and Kennedy were supposed to be, and May will bring out the flowers of winning baseball in the Bronx.  At 15-16 on May 2, I can almost smell the roses in the morning light.

Can you?

Or am I dreaming of roses… it’s hard to tell from my perch on the couch.

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.