Baseball Toaster was unplugged on February 4, 2009.
You know it doesn't much matter if the groundhog sees his shadow this morning or not, according to what I read in the paper this morning, there's only 14 more days until pitchers and catchers report to spring training. Hey, New York native John Perricone would be happy to know that in his home town, sometimes if feels as if only baseball really does matter. Yesterday, a friend of mine showed me a poll on WFAN's website that had more New Yorkers amped about spring training than the Super Bowl or the Final Four. Granted, hockey has a limited audience, the Knicks are awful, and there aren't any local teams playing in the big game this Sunday, but still...
Yo, I forgot to tell you guys the sight for sore eyes I caught last Saturday up in Inwood. It was another unseasonably warm day and I went to visit my brother. On the way over, I was walking up 207th street and saw an older guy standing in the sun, filling out a lotto card outside of a Bodega. He was earing a Red Sox hat, not an uncommon site uptown. I thought to myself, I wonder if there have ever been as many Sox fans in New York as we see these days? Not only do you have a lot of transplanted New Englanders living here, proudly showing their colors, but the Latin communities uptown--especially the Dominicans--have been rockin' Boston caps ever since Manny signed with the Sox, and they got Pedro. Formerly, you'd see a lot of Indians hats, but even with Pedro gone, Manny is a hometown hero in these parts. Add in Ortiz, and the fact that the Sox are just a good team, you see that Boston has become almost like a third team in New York, next to the Yankees and Mets.
It was so nice out, that we took Ben's little boy Lucas (all of a year-and-a-half) out to Inwood park to tool around. The park is right across the street from their apartment. There are basketball courts, tennis courts and a huge green field with at least five baseball diamonds. Inwood is still a predominately Dominican neighborhood, so it didnt' come as a major surprise that there, in the middle of winter, were kids playing baseball. A warm day? Quick, let's get out and play. Now, this may not seem like a big deal for those of you who live in California or Florida, but in up here in the Northeast, where we're always bemoaning the fact that kids don't care about baseball anymore, it sure is a warming scene.
We passed the first diamond where seven kids--must of been 8th or 9th graders--were playing: two dudes on the left side of the infield, a guy in center, another in left, a pitcher, a batter, and a lone kid on the right side of the infield. They were using muddied old baseballs, were dressed like scrubs in sweats, and playing some kind of game of round robin. As we walked by, the kid at bat swung and missed at a pitch, and then popped one up to second base. The fat kid who was stuck on that side of the field because he was probably the worst of the lot made a futile stab for the ball, which landed with a thud about five feet away from him. Immediately, the rest of the guys started laughing, busting on him, including the batter. A wave of anger shot through me and I remembered being that age, taking pick-up games like this so seriously that I lost any sense of humor I may have had at the time. I wanted to defend the poor kid who wasn't much good and who was laughing at himself along with the other guys. I imagined that I was him, humiliated, directing my anger at the hitter. I wanted to yell, "Yo dog, what the hell are you laughing about, why don't you try hitting something besides a cheap-ass pop-up, you fuggin toy?"
My brother carried his son on his shoulders. We were approaching the playground. But before we got there we passed a second diamond that was occupied by a girl's softball team. The girls were roughly the same age as the boys, but this was an official, or semi-official workout. They too were dressed in scrubs, but they had helmets, and looked altogether more organized than the boys. A middle age man stood on the mound, and a thick, middle aged woman, yelled out instructions from behind third base. It didn't look as if there were enough girls for two teams, but it appeared as if a game was in progress. There was an intensity in the air that was almost palpable. I stopped and watched as the batter swung and missed at a pitch and then fouled the next one into the backstop. The coach was not just lobbing the ball in there. There was a runner on third, and the batter grounded the next pitch to short. The runner came home but the batter didn't move out of the box. The third base coach came out onto the field, pointed around, gave some specific intstructions, clapped her hands and returned to her position. Soon, it became evident that they weren't playing a game, but running through game situations.
I was almost besides myself. I mean, how cool is this, I thought. It's January, and these girls are out here working on game situations, at full tilt. They cut right to the chase: bottom of the ninth, tying run on third, here's what we're going to do. The girls were focused, attentive, fierce.
After cooling our at playground for a while we made our way back. It was getting late and sky was grey. Three of the boys had taken a seat and only four kids were left on the first diamond. I'm sure at least one of them was a competitive red ass like I had been at that age, wanting to win whatever competition they were having, pissed at the fat asses sitting out. One thing was sure, though, a couple of them were going to keep playing until it got too dark to see anymore. Yup, in some parts of the country, even our city, it's true: only baseball matters.
In the spring it was the random pickup baseball games or little league in Inwood, those were always great times. A beautiful spring day in NY and a trip to Inwood always felt like another part of the world for me. Still does actually. Growing up in the city and seeing so many trees in my own backyard was a refreshing feeling. As a kid it always made me realize that there was more to the world than the noisy 1 & 9 train, the sounds of merengue blasting at 8 am on a Sunday morning, and the struggle one always identifies with growing up in the inner city. It's funny what an influence a park can have when growing up in the city. It's a nice looking park and lately the parks department has been doing a great job maintaining Inwood. I have a few friends that coach little league there and whenever I'm visiting mom-dukes I'll stop by and pay a visit to the ball fields.
The other park I'd go to for basketball and stickball was the small park on Nagle and 204, but Inwood was always my favorite. A day at Inwood was always a good memory for me.
Those days seem to have left us; departing on a graffiti-covered train . . . .
Another 45 degree day here in Boston, I'm getting very itchy for pitchers and catchers.
There was nothing like the first few moments of getting reacquainted with your baseball glove each season: flexing your hand inside this most amazing and perfect piece of sports equipment to see if it still works, inspecting the web with a craftman's attention to detail, tightening the ties, taking a few whiffs of the musty oiled leather, repeatedly punching and grinding the palm of the mitt with your fist, the first loud pop of the ball impacting your glove, and the welcomed sting that followed. The rust was off the throwing arm within a minute, and every snowflake that would follow the first winter catch would be unwelcomed, even if it could shut down the school for a day. The baseball season was on again, as if it had never ended.
However, I always stood up and learned rather quickly that standing up for oneself in Crooklyn meant one of two things, 1) a beat down, or 2) they'd peacefully walk away, dumbfounded. Surprisingly, #2 happened more often.
To make a long-story short, a couple of times kids had tried to steal my mit (because of this, I kept a second one that I had found), but I always stood up and ended up keeping it. HOWEVER, if I only had a dollar for every time my bat was stolen from the pile up of bats by the side of the diamond. I never came home with my bat in hand...but I still went out and begged my grandpa for another 15 bucks to buy a new one.
http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/columns/story?columnist=klapisch_bob&id=2315013
Many of the "B"-heads appear to be out-of-townas, just visiting to catch a Broadway show, or Johnny Damon's next interview, but most appear to be NYers of every variety.
During the season, it's funny how the AL East standings seem to determine which hat-wearer seeks eye contact with the enemy and which avoids it.
Mets fans always seem to be looking at the ground. (c'mon, just kidding Metsies)
"Azra Shafi-Scagliarini, his friend, consultant and spiritual adviser. "
Whatever happened to his personal trainer, wasn't that guy his friend too? This guy sounds like a Muslim cleric that will recommend Jason go on a Jihad against the infidels from Boston. Hopefully Jason will be dropping bombs (of the 3 run variety, "daaa Giambino") on Fenway.
The Slope is exactly exactly the Back Bay of Boston. It's a wonder it hasn't seceded from Brooklyn yet.
However, up in the Heights and in the Inwood area there have always been "hometown" favorites...and anywhere Manny goes the Heights and Inwood are going to wear the hat.
I used to watch Nick from Washington Heights play up at diamond 6 in Inwood (being his brother and all).
I loved those games. He was a pretty dynamic SS by the way--and then the women and the drugs and the money ruined him.
If you're looking to make a baseball comeback (and get back on the money, women, etc. train) the independent Canadian-American league is holding an open audition for professional players sometime in May.
You'd have to bring your show out to Sussex County, NJ if interested.
www.sussexskyhawks.com
You play any professional baseball? I wonder how many posters here are players of some sort.
I do have to get my arm back into batting practice shape because my little sons are coming up fast, and showing great interest in the game. I'll have to get myself a glove, too, which will be a fun purchase.
Good luck finding your heart in San Francisco.
brockdc,
The suburbs sure ain't what they used to be. It's sad and even eerie to see those barren ballfields on a sunny day. The game's outside, kids!
At the plate, some guys were Ted Williams, I saw myself more as a hammerin' Hank Aaron.
On the mound, my repertoire was a dangerously-potent mix of Koufax and Gibson.
Never could throw a strike with a baseball though, and as a baseball hitter I was more Felix Millan than Aaron.
Childhood obesity is rampant people! Get those kids ot of the house. Vitamin D is not your enemy (yet)!
Oh Nick, good luck in SF. I hope you have a high shock tollerance.
I was a huge Dave Winfield fan; but my OBP and Run production in our whiffle league was much higher. I think I liked the idea that Dave was huge and also had been drafted to basketball (which was my sport growing up) and football...it made him more. Plus, one of my earliest memories of going to a Yankee game was hearing the starting line ups and some father and son team next to me in the nose bleeds started chanting "Reggie Jackson" when Winfield was announced and really disliking him for what, to me seemed like no reason.
Then in the top of the 8th inning, with a 1-0 or 2-1 lead (I can't remember for the life of me who the Yanks were playing) a deep fly ball went to right and Winfield caught the ball, bobbled it and lost it against the wall--a run scored, the game was tied.
He was showered with what seemed to my little ears like the entire city of New York "booing" and as a young kid I couldn't understand why everyopne was rooting against our own guy. I felt bad for him.
Dave Winfield led off the next inning (or may have batted second with one out) and with the boos pouring down, belted a shot over the left center field fence and took back the lead and the game for the Yankees. I thought that was so cool that from then on I was convinced he was a superhero.
I know it's a little off the topic. So, I was Dave Winfield (and sometimes Ricky Henderson, occasionaly Mattingly) with ted Williams/jimmie foxx's stats.
I also was a devastating stickball pitcher...and whiffle ball and tennis ball.
Of course, since Nick was younger he didn't always get an impartial umpire
You turned that 'standuptriple' into an in-the-park homer with the "Sweet Lou on Red Bull" image.
Let the record show 'standuptriple' coined the phrase that will soon be sweeping the nation:
Sweet Lou on Red Bull, that was a crap call!
Is she worth all the hassle, man? Sweet Lou on Red Bull, no!
Beg for a raise? I'm bustin' in there like Sweet Lou on Red Bull.
How does the car run? Like Sweet Lou on Red Bull.
Damn, it's hotter than Sweet Lou on Red Bull today.
She was furious, I mean, Sweet Lou on Red Bull pissed.
I think booing anybody at the ballpark is ugly enough, but turning it on a hometeam guy is just a disgrace.
Just glad to be part of the team.
It is there when I try and breath-in-breath-out and say it's only spring training, then I have to remind myself that three years ago Detroit had the best record coming out of the grapefruit league only to lose 119 games in the regular season.
Hit onto the first roof, over the porch-double,unless you caught the ball as it rolled off-out. Snag a grounder-out. Catch a fly/liner-out. Catch the ball before it hit the ground off any wall-out. Anything else hit between the foul lines-single. Balls landing on the second roof that didn't come down-homer.
Games went the required nine innings unless the light from the porch wasn't bright enough or we had to go into dinner. We didn't have triples. We didn't run. Never argued. Mel announced the games.
We also hit tennis balls with a real bat. Threw hard. Broke a few windows. Hit some over the house or between the buildings onto Bedford Avenue, errr, Summer Street. Then we ran. As if we could hide.
I don't care about the fights, though they certainly go down in the story. I don't care about the press. He played them; they played him (take heart Broadway Johnny). I remember the big times. I remember the small times. The former were very big, the latter very small. And how about them slumps, fielding lapses, baserunning boo-boos.
Alex. Write a book about the Reggie years from a fan's standpoint. Just start with him coming to the Yanks as an afterthought and end with him leaving. No Oakland. No Orioles. No Angels. Find a picture of the Rolls. How about some of the babes. Where did he live? Where did he party? You can do it.
As an aside, look at the most recent edition of the SABR baseball research book. Reggie, who didn't respond to the author's request, is reported to have worn a black armband following the killing of the Israeli Olympic Team members in Munich. Quite a guy.
According to the MLB Hall of Fame website, Reggie joined fellow Oakland A's Ken Holtzman and Mike Epstein and wore a black arm band on his uniform after the 72 Munich Games massacre.
I never knew this and WOW, am I impressed!
Yeah, a lot of NY fans jumped on the Yankees bandwagon after Reggie came to town. Others, like me, converted.
I was a still an 8-9 year old kid from Flushing, Queens, obviously a Mets fan, when the Bronx Zoo menagerie was coming together.
My dad had been a lifelong Yanks fan, so I had a sense of the history, and I guess he raised me to appreciate both teams.
Elston Howard's autograph, obtained, I believe, at a little league dinner, piqued my interest in the Yanks. I read up on Ruth, Gehrig, Yogi, DiMaggio, Mantle, etc.
Then, enter Reggie, and all hell breaks loose.
Thurman, Nettles, Lou, Catfish, Sparky, Gator, Billy, the Royals, the Red Sox, the Dodgers. In the middle of it all, Willie Randolph, the 2nd baseman I remember my dad suggested I should watch closely.
Randolph was always focused, always appeared to be planning a step ahead, but was always cool and smooth. He didn't make it look easy. He made it look like the best job a guy could have. He played proud, disciplined baseball.
Yeah, I loved Reggie, Thurman, and all the other tough guys on those teams. But I admired Willie Randolph most of all.
Elston Howard's autograph, and Willie Randolph's approach to baseball converted this kid from Flushing.
Ellie. What a tragedy. George wouldn't give him a salary or let his kid sing the National Anthem. Paid for his funeral. Then let the kid sing the following year after he was dead.
Willie. Where would the armless Mickey be without his cutoff man Willie. Take heed BJ and pal up the Jete. Brian Doyle, where you be boy. No one sadder than me when Willie went down and couldn't play in the Series. Thought it was over.
But as for Reggie whom I adore, tainted by having lived through it and then having read about it. Don't remember which is which anymore. Look at his numbers. You prayed they didn't hit the ball to him. Played out his contract as the DH. Resented Dave Winfield. Couldn't wait for him to leave. I thought he was finished. Even he thought he couldn't hit anymore. Then he had that big season with the Angels. Showed me up.
Try to overlook the 3 homer WS game, all on the first pitch, yes. You really had to love the guy not to hate him. He wasn't there all the time. When he was, he could carry the whole team, bench included. Stirred the drink, eh. Big homeruns. A little hop, eyes towards the ball. Head down around first almost to third, looking up only a bit. Slap the coach. Not always joy from the team. Still not enough mustard for that hot dog.
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