Keefe To The City

Jul 24, 2012

Former Bleacher Creature Foe Ichiro Now a Friend

Sheriff Tom welcomes Ichiro to the Yankees by looking back at the hard times the Bleacher Creatures have given other legendary players.

In this age of social media slamming, it was interesting for me to watch the reactions across the board from Yankees fans when Ichiro was traded. It actually sailed by the head of one of my buddies, who was out mini-golfing of all things. He came home after chopping up that course, had a hearty repast and settled in for the Yankees game. Imagine his surprise when he saw Ichiro settling under a line drive in Yankees duds.

Immediately after hearing of the deal I scrambled to my binders of scorecards to seeing if I happened to be in attendance for the fanfaronade of Ichiro’s 2001 debut, or any other big games the man partook in. Well, I got hit with the slapdash of reality that my last scored game was from 2000, even though I have surely been out there a fair deal since then. My days of “scoring” stopped once I started getting into the games in the fourth after prolonging my drinking time outside, so I have nothing documented on this man, but I do have the memories.

I remember Hiro, a longtime creature who was also from Japan, eagerly giving us lessons in the language out in the seats, so we could shout an insult Ichiro would actually recognize. And I remember our good friend MetsSuckBalls coming in with printouts from his computer with all kinds of naughty Japanese words. (Hey, its how we worked out there!) The printouts weren’t just for Ichiro. They were for all the Asian baseball fans he brought in with him. Bless them.

Did people respect Ichiro? Surely. Did we boo him? Oh, very loudly. When a legend comes to town you take a moment to appreciate them, and then move on and fight for your home turf. I think back to when Tony Gwynn, that roly-poly hitting machine, came to town for some hot World Series action. The first time he came shambling out to the outfield, we welcomed him with a warm hand. We were standing, waving, welcoming him to New York and wishing him well. He grinned and waved back. Everyone was happy. Then the game started and the first pitch was thrown. “Hey, Gwynn!” someone hollered. “You suck!” At this, hundreds of people jumped back to their feet and a “Gwynn sucks! Gwynn sucks! Gwynn sucks!” chant boomed through the night. Gwynn was taken aback. The affair was over. Respect was shown, but now it was time for rancor.

Ichiro understood this. Sure, we would talk out there about how annoying he was, how stupid it was that he was swinging at pitches over his head or buzzing the ground and pinging them for hits, and throwing beams from the outfield and busting rallies. He looked wispy and even frail at times. He ran fast, but it was sort of funny looking from where we sat. He was always playing hard and while you love that in a player you don’t like to see it against your team, so you boo it.

While I’m sure the Bleacher Creatures are no way in Ichiro’s head, I’m confident that if asked about that group and other rowdy Yankees fans he has encountered from the opposite sides of the fence, he would have a chuckle. But now it’s the foe becoming the friend, and it’s time to move on.

It only took about six minutes after the first tweets earmarking the deal had hit before the “He’d better not touch No. 51!” started flying about. While Bernie Williams’ number hasn’t been retired, Yankees fans continue to scare everyone else away from it. I’m not adverse to someone claiming the digits sometime in the future if the number isn’t retired (and Ichiro with his Hall of Fame resume surely would be deserving of the accolade), but this may simply be a two-month rental, and it’s not the time. It was interesting to watch the salvos going back and forth, and a longtime bleacher denizen and buddy of mine, Justin, tweeted “Future HOFer Ichiro Suzuki can’t have non-HOFer Bernie Williams’ number, so he gets HOFer Dave Winfield’s number instead. Got it.”

Another interesting crop of fans are the ones that dislike the deal. There are few who are ruminating on the loss of D.J. Mitchell or Danny Farquhar, but I’ve seen a lot of grumbling over the loss of DeWayne Wise. Look, I liked Wise in his own way, but I prefer taking a flyer on a player like Ichiro. Sometimes Yankee fans (myself included) like to complain just to complain. I was actually a D.J. Mitchell fan, griping that he was passed up for spot starts last year and was always behind Adam Warren in the pecking order.

For now, Ichiro is our friend. He will be greeted with cheers that immediately turn to jeers once the first pitch is thrown. He will get to come up with a way to acknowledge Roll Call, and get a groaner of a home run call concocted by Jolly John Sterling. And after the season is over, he will probably move on, and we can boo him again.

Blogs

Jul 19, 2012

Scorecard Memory: Grown Men Slapping Each Other, the ‘Gang Bang’ and Rusty Greer

Sheriff Tom goes back to April 12, 1996 in Section 39 of Yankee Stadium for a Yankees-Rangers game.

This is the first of a recurring series of recollections, where I will be marching though my old scorecards from my halcyon days in good old Section 39 of the Yankee Stadium bleachers. Let’s pick this up in 1996. You’re invited to join me. Please bring beer.

April 12, 1996: Yankees host the Texas Rangers. (My first game in ’96 and on a Friday night to boot!)

This year was huge. Obviously closing with a World Series win, but along the way we saw a no-hitter, the debut of some of your favorite Bleacher Creatures of lore, the passing of our beloved friend Ali the Cowbell King, vicious fights in the stands and all kinds of hubbub. To top it all off, in regards to scorecard fodder, my love affair with the beer bottle was seemingly at its zenith this year. Leafing through some of the cards without peeking too deeply at the jokes, I see a lot of scraggly, drunken scrawl and a lot of cards look beyond repair. But let’s get past that and kick this mother off!

I had big plans for ’96. On the top margin of this evening’s scorecard I confidently wrote “my first of 50+” however, as I type this, I’m not sure of my exact number of scorecards when it was all said and done, but I know I sailed through 50-plus games, and that was sans playoffs. On the other hand, I was far from midseason form coming in. I lost my voice early on during this evening game, actually before 8 p.m.! It was a frosty April night causing at least half-a-dozen people to walk up the stairs and crack the same joke, “Is it spring yet?” Heck of a time to recall this too, in the midst of a spate of heat waves here in New York, but in marking down the crisp nature of the evening air, I can understand the cynicism as to the missing spring.

I’m getting ahead of myself. Before the game there was a madcap slap-fight outside on the bleacher line when some drunkard decided to take a tinkle right there on the sidewalk and peed on another guy’s leg. The guy getting sprayed slapped him in the face like they were wearing pigtails in a playground and the peeing guy stopped what he was doing long enough to slap him back. They exchanged a flurry of slaps, much to the amusement of everyone on hand that managed to stay dry through the whole encounter. “Throw a punch, for Christ’s sake!” someone hollered. I turned to a crony as things were broken up and said, “That’s going down on the scorecard.”

Let me address the idea of the “bleacher line” as it may confuse some used to the bleachers of today. Back then we had a “GA” situation going on. (General admission seats! You could sit wherever you want!) The gates opened at a certain time and until then you snaked along the sidewalk, patiently. Well, except the guy who was too impatient to hold in his pee. Most of us did not yet have a ticket, so we queued up to grab one once the grumpy guys opened the windows. It was long a favorite tact of bleacher legend Gang Bang Steve (that’s him pregaming to the left of me in the picture above) to get to the window and ask fervently, “Can I have a seat right behind Bernie? It’s my first time in town and I’m a longtime fan!” The ticket guy would snarl, “It’s general admission, sit wherever you want,” and Steve would throw his arms up in the air in mock exasperation, blustering, “You don’t understand! He’s my favorite player ever! I just want a seat right behind him. It would mean a lot.” It was like a Laurel and Hardy routine. This would play out all the time, and Steve used to walk the line here and there asking others to pitch in and ask the guy for a seat “behind Bernie.” (No wonder the ticket guys were so grumpy.)

It was a surreal scene outside on this night, which was par for the course. There was even a licensed pretzel vendor proudly wearing a Red Sox cap. I remember a few brazen Yankee fans not only cursing at him, but also taunting him that they were going to get him fired. All the while these same guys were buying pretzels from him.

Ah, I see we touched upon current events, a consistent scorecard theme over the years. Anyone remember the seven-year-old girl that crashed the plane? At the time she had been attempting to be the youngest person to pilot a plan across the United States, and I was one of many who had been howling about how ridiculously dumb this idea was. I was soliciting jokes for the scorecard, pretty much asking, “Anyone have any jokes about the seven-year old that crashed the plane?” Thankfully, there were none.

Random crack written down on here from Tina (the revered “Queen of the Bleachers” to this very day and beyond) that simply says, “Sit down already! We know you’re Puerto Rican!” to some mope that kept standing up at any and all times, and I would assume holding a flag aloft to claim this lineage. Someone else promptly dubbed the offending stander-upper “El Sucko.” This “standing up for no reason” was inherited by a Panamanian long-timer, who still haunts the seats to this day, named Junior. He would stand up if someone pointed out a pretty cloud. Junior is also known to go on beer runs for the crew and return with the one beer we told him not to get, or crashing on the floor of my old Long Island City apartment back in the day, only to wake me up at 7 a.m. the following morning because he would be watching Matlock with the volume up too high.

In regards to special guests for this game that made the scorecard, there was a George Foreman look-alike, and a gigantic gawky woman we promptly dubbed Big Bird. There was a Jim Leyritz look-alike, too.

The legendary cowbell mix master Ali Ramirez showed up late enough to where it became a topic of discussion. Ali was the kind of guy whose absence could not go unnoticed, and sadly we lost him a month later. On this night he rang up the first cowbell at 7:25 for the 7:30 game, and even “shook his ass” for the crowd while he did it. For a while (until the number of jokes scrawled on the card became beyond too voluminous for mundane minutia) I used to keep such archaic notations as actual times of cowbell serenades, vaunted entrances of the notoriously late and random bursts of the litany of songs that added to the festive atmosphere back then. So if you wanted to know how many times Ali clacked his bell, and more importantly at exactly what time on a certain date, I inexplicably had this information.

Apparently there were a lot of “Chinese guys” out there as well causing me to muse how cool it would be if we could get a Chinese guy to sing the “Gang Bang” sometime. For the uninitiated, the “Gang Bang” was an early staple that had a run of quite a few years, surprisingly so given the general surliness of the security staff through the years. Here’s a video of Dr. Dirty John Valby for you to get the picture. Now take that picture and imagine that song being belted out nightly by dozens of rowdies in the bleacher seats. Better yet, here’s vintage footage of this very grandiose presentation with our own Gang Bang Steve leading a very raucous crowd through the bouncing ditty in Section 39 in 1996. (You can even spot yours truly, expertly multitasking as I can be seen scribbling away on my scorecard while lustily partaking in verse.)

In oddball bleacher trivia, this is how Gang Bang Steve came upon his moniker, as he was a noted ringleader for this caustic tune, although the air of mystery as to how he got his name always added to the frivolity when he would be introduced to people over the years. Eyebrows would raise when anyone was offered a handshake to someone introduced as “Gang Bang Steve” and many times I’d hear, “He sure doesn’t look like a swinger.” (The reaction upon introduction was a hit at my wedding.) Speaking of the “Gang Bang” song and the aforementioned Steve, I commented proudly on the card that Gang Bang Steve was back at my side, helping keep score and providing some of these very jokes. So blame him if you’re not entertained! One of the first things he did upon settling in for the night was draw the “Joey Cora infield” on the scorecard, including a first base line that takes a hard right and loop back towards first, in a nod to Cora’s getting away with running out of the baseline during that sickly playoff the year before.

Time for a story. For years Steve was entered into my cell phone simply as “Gang Bang.” This passed by without incident to a time where I was training at what was then my new job, sitting pretty much shoulder-to-shoulder with my new boss, who was teaching me some things on the computer. Well, my phone, just to right of the computer on the desk, started blinking that a call was coming in. It was on mute, so I was just going to let it go until I saw the words “Gang Bang” flashing on and off the screen. My boss never asked and I never told, but I know she saw it as it was directly in front of her, and human nature would surely make one wonder why someone’s phone would flash such a tawdry remark. She must have thought it was an appointment reminder. Add to this that only days before I had shown up for my first day at this new job with a black eye and my boss must have really been wondering what the hell was going on with me, and how I passed the background check.

Ah, back to the night’s affairs. One guy came up bedecked in a stunning array of bling, and I remarked that he “Looks like a real G.” This guy Chris promptly responded, “No, he looks like a real A.” He then added, “As in a–hole” though that was superfluous.

DING, DING! Looks like Gang Bang Steve got the first home-run ball of the year that was tagged out to the bleachers, and it came off the bat of none other than Ruben Sierra. I don’t know if it was on the fly or a series of bounces off empty seats as I was too busy marking times that Ali clanked on his bell to recount this admittedly more interesting factoid, but Steve got it and it’s mentioned multiple times on the card. I need to ask Steve if he still has that ball, though I’m sure he amassed quite a collection over the years from our drunken forays into the Stadium for BP. Ironically enough, just before Ruben’s jack, someone said (and I quote), “I want to see Ruben go yard!” and we laughed at the phrase “go yard.”

Not much more on here, which I suppose I shall attribute to the cold temps making writing not fun. We busted on a fellow fan ID’d as “Lee” for his “Little Rascals haircut.” We ripped into some Coneheads, the wacky crew with dunce caps on their head, who were back for more with David Cone on the mound. “School’s over, put the dunce cap away!” A “Dickheads! Dickheads!” chant sparked up as the Coneheads sat there with sad expressions at this vitriol. They wore out their welcome fast. I remember them being met with mostly apathy and tolerance in 1995, but by ‘96 their fellow fans had had enough of them, and Tina especially was on the warpath when it came to them. I guess our sort of exclusive pack were the only ones out there allowed to have nice stuff. The same thing befell the folks who would show up in “Moose” antlers when Mike Mussina would take the mound. They were not exactly “fan favorites.” To cap off the card I also mentioned we actually got to hear some Loverboy (one of my favorite old-school bands, bless them) over the Stadium PA. I suspect I was doing some air guitar, too, and hopefully others joined in.

Some interesting names from the past on here include our elderly and mysterious friend “Godfather” (who used to skulk around in the old days putting the “voodoo” on Yankee foes) and on this night he muttered, “He’s doing bad, take him out,” as John Wetteland was imploding in the ninth. We let Angel, the ex-girlfriend of the previously mentioned George (Big Nose/Little Drummer Boy), keep score for an inning somewhere on here. She was well known for once gazing at Cal Ripken Jr. out at short with a long-sleeved black sweatshirt on under his jersey and saying in a confused manner, “I didn’t realize Cal Ripken Jr. was black?” Tina, who was considered more of a strict boss back then than the honored elder she is these days (much more on her to come), had one of her patented temper tantrums at 9:25, but sadly the reason for this particular outburst is lost to history.

For the record, the first “MO” of the season (Mystery Out, of course) was hung on Joe Girardi, during his at-bat in the sixth. (I can and will do a separate column on the wonders, and the astounding frequency, of the infamous “Mystery Out.”) The “Mystery Out” was another longtime friend in the bleachers that never left and one we would visit time and time again. I’m happy that Phil Rizzuto shared this same propensity on his own scorecards, although he earmarked his missed plays as “WW” for “Wasn’t Watching.”

Always like to see this: I noted that Yankees history was made on this same day, as the team signed Juan Rivera to a contract as a non-drafted free agent.

As for the game action, the Yankees took this one 4-3 behind a strong performance by David Cone (one run, unearned, in seven innings) and solid setup work by new Yankee and former foe Jeff Nelson, who recently enjoyed a visit to the bleachers, where he sat for nearly eight innings with the modern crop of Creatures. I like to think he would have had more fun back in ‘96 when we were allowed to carry on without the shackles of security, but cheers to him for the gesture and nod to the merry. Wetteland almost coughed it up in the ninth – a recurring prospect – getting tagged for a deuce, but escaped with his first save of the season, albeit amidst some grumbling from the crowd. That relic Ken Hill took the loss for the Rangers, and we got to see none other than the likes of Dennis Cook and Matt Whiteside also toe the rubber for Texas.

The Yankees only mustered six hits on the night with two off the bat of Sierra, who homered and plated two runs. Your Yankees lineup was:

1. Wade Boggs, 3B
2. Mariano Duncan, SS
3. Paul O’Neill, RF
4. Ruben Sierra, DH
5. Tino Martinez, 1B (Welcome!)
6. Bernie Williams, CF
7. Dion James, LF (He was still here?)
8. Joe Girardi, C
9. Derek Jeter, SS

The Rangers countered with:

1. Darryl Hamilton, CF
2. Pudge Rodriguez, C
3. Will Clark, 1B (Just this week he was being touted for the freakin’ Hall of Fame by some delusional fan online)
4. Juan Gonzalez, RF
5. Mickey Tettleton, DH (We deemed him a racist for putting up a “KKK” line on the scorecard with three whiffs)
6. Dean Palmer, 3B
7. Rusty Greer, LF
8. Mark McLemore, 2B
9. Kevin Elster, SS (LOL)

The Rangers only managed five hits with Palmer nabbing two of them, including a mighty clack off of Wetteland to scare us in the ninth.

How about a quick profile? I always enjoyed doing these to add to the shine of those old days. (Fear not, I’ll keep it brief.) Rusty Greer it is!

Greer was quite the gamer, and he’s looked upon fondly. He stuck around Texas from 1994-2002, getting out of there with a .305 lifetime batting average. In 1,027 games (3,829 at-bats) he knocked 119 taters and drove in 614. His aggressive play could never be credited for art of speed, as he managed only 31 stolen bases in his nine years, while being nailed 15 times. He walked almost as many times as he struck out (555 strikeouts, 519 walks), which is an admirable feat in itself, but he was a better player than I gave him credit for. Well, come to think of it, his estimated salary data has him pulling in nearly $40 million over his career, so he made his bones. In ‘96 and ‘97 he batted .332 and .321 respectively, so we saw him here in a flourish. Born in 1969, he was originally a 10^th-round pick in the 1990 draft and the only player ever drafted out of the University of Montevallo in Alabama in his native state. As of July 17, 2012, his monumental page on Baseball-Reference has been viewed 30,582 times, which sounds shamefully low to me. His passion for the game and his firebrand style of play is sorely missed!

Only 20,238 were on hand for my first Friday night game of the year in the cold, and the game took 2:51 to play, so at least we got out of there in reasonable fashion, (most likely to drink the night away). Thank you, Red Sox, for not being in town, and getting us out of there before 11:30. Your umpires on hand were none other than Dale Scott, Rocky Roe, the late and lamented Durwood Merrill and Gary Cederstrom.

Welcome to 1996. Please enjoy your stay.

Blogs • The Joe Girardi Show • Yankees

Jul 16, 2012

The Joe Girardi Show: Season 3, Episode 2

The Joe Girardi Show returns for another episode after the manager’s questionable decisions in the Yankees’ loss to the Angels on Sunday.

Did you think my version of The Joe Girardi Show got canceled for no reason like How to Make It in America? I know there hasn’t been an episode of the show since April 9 following the Tragedy at the Trop to open the season, but that’s because Girardi’s questionable decision making has been spread out. It’s been a while since Girardi has made several decisions that were puzzling before they inevitably backfired in a game the Yankees lost, but had a chance to win.

I know the Yankees have the best record in baseball and lead the AL East by eight games and I have nothing to complain about, but when a series of poor choices are made in one game, I feel the need to address it.

On Sunday the Yankees lost a game in which they scored eight runs in a game started by Jered Weaver. And while Ivan Nova wasn’t exactly good (6 IP, 9 H, 6 R, 6 ER, 2 BB, 3 K, 3 HR) … OK he sucked … the Yankees had opportunities to build on their early 3-2 lead and even come back from trailing in the late innings. However their comeback would fall short and turn out to just be “Yankees blue balls” thanks to Girardi’s managing throughout the game, which made Kevin Gilbride’s third-down playcalling for the Giants look brilliant.

So after Sunday’s debacle, and despite a series win and all that best record stuff, I thought it was necessary to fill in for Michael Kay on my version of The Joe Girardi Show for the second episode this season and ask Girardi why he made the decisions he made.

What the eff happened on the bases in the third inning?
Here’s the situation: The Yankees have a 3-2 lead in the bottom of the third inning. With one out, A-Rod singles and Robinson Cano follows that up with a single and A-Rod goes to third. It’s first and third with one out and Mark Teixeira at the plate.

Here’s what Teixeira had done in his last eight games entering Sunday: 10-for-30 (.333), 2 2B, 1 3B, 4 HR, 15 RBIs, 5 BB, .429 OBP, .867 SLG. In case you weren’t aware, it’s the second half of the season. The All-Star break is over. It’s Teixeira’s time (well, until October). The time of the year when he takes what looks to be the worst statistical season of his career and ends up matching the numbers on the back of his baseball card. Isn’t that right, Michael Kay?

In case you also weren’t aware, Robinson Cano is not a base stealer. Hell, he isn’t even a good base runner. There is this idea around the league (and apparently with the Yankees too) that Cano has speed, but he’s probably the slowest Yankee of the last decade not named Jorge Posada, Jose Molina or Sal Fasano. Yet a couple times a year Cano will get caught stealing at an inopportune time and for some reason opposing pitchers keep throwing over to first thinking he might run. (Cano is 29-for-56 on stolen-base attempts in seven-plus this seasons.)

So you have possibly the hottest hitter in the league at the plate with two on and one out against an elite pitcher who came into the game with an ERA of 1.96, but has already allow three runs and seven hits in just 2 1/3 innings. You would think that you would want your No. 5 hitter to swing the bat in this situation. But what happens? Cano breaks for second and gets picked off. While in a rundown, A-Rod (who actually is a good baserunner) hesitates and breaks late. Erick Aybar tags Cano out and then throws home where A-Rod is out. Yes, a double play on the bases without the ball even being hit.

(Let’s remember for a second that in the past Curtis Granderson, who can actually steal bases, has been held from running, with Mark Teixeira at the plate (when Teixeira is cold) because Girardi has said he doesn’t want to take the bat out of Teixeira’s hands. But when it’s Robinson Cano on first and Teixeira is the hottest he’s been as a Yankee? No big deal!)

Why is Russell Martin bunting in the fifth inning?
I’m not going to talk about Russell Martin bunting for a base hit in the second inning (which ended up serving the same purpose as a sacrifice, but wasn’t scored a sacrifice) because I have to pick my battles and my battle here is why is Russell Martin bunting in the fifth inning?

Here’s the situation: The Yankees lead 3-2 in the bottom of the fifth inning. Eric Chavez leads off the inning with a single. Russell Martin is at the plate.

I don’t think I need to explain why the situation I just presented screams, “Don’t bunt! Don’t do it! Please, don’t do it! Don’t look down at third for the sign! Rob Thomson is going to tell you to bunt! Don’t look at him! Don’t do it!” But I will anyway.

The Yankees already have the lead in the game. It’s the fifth inning of an American League game at Yankee Stadium. Why would you play for one insurance run with still four-plus innings of baseball left?

If you don’t know what happened, I bet you’re thinking that Martin bunted it right back to the pitcher and he threw the lead runner out at second. I wish that happened. Instead, Martin popped up the first pitch to Weaver, who threw to first with Chavez off the bag for a double play. Ah, the second unnecessary double play made by the Yankees in less than five innings. But what’s giving away 1 1/3 innings of outs anyway? No big deal!

(On another Girardi decision from the weekend … Why didn’t Russell Martin play on Saturday? Yes, it was a day game after a night game, but Martin had just played his best game of the season on Friday night and had four full days of rest prior to Friday. The Yankees won on Saturday and the move didn’t impact the game, but if you’re trying to get Martin on track for the second half, why isn’t he playing after the offensive and defensive job he did on Friday night?)

Why Chad Qualls in the eighth inning? Why? Actually, why Chad Qualls ever? Whyyyyyyyyyyyy?
I like to imagine a Relievers Anonymous support group where all of the failed Yankees relievers meet at a community center or church or middle school cafeteria and Paul Quantrill serves as the group leader. I see Jose Veras there and Tanyon Sturtze and Sean Henn, Edwar Ramirez and Chan Ho Park. Chad Gaudin and Sergio Mitre are sitting next to each other and next to them are Brian Bruney and Scott Proctor. I can picture Quantrill getting everyone back to their seat from the refreshment table and telling Jonathan Albaladejo he can continue to share his stories from Japan after the session is over.

Quantrill gets everyone to quiet down to introduce the newest member of the group: Chad Qualls. Chad stands up and shyly proclaims, “Hi, my name is Chad, and I suck at pitching.” And led by Quantrill, everyone awkwardly responds, “Hi, Chad.” Qualls then goes on to tell about his career and how despite being on six teams in nine years and having a 5.14 ERA and 1.506 WHIP since the start of 2010, the $200 million Yankees still managed to pick him up.

Here’s the situation: After blowing the 3-2 lead in the sixth by allowing three runs, Girardi lets Nova start the seventh after Granderson homers to make it 5-4 Angels. Nova gives up a double and a single and it’s first and third with no one out. Girardi now decides it’s a good time to take out Nova, and he brings in Chad Qualls with the Yankees trailing 5-3 and Albert Pujols due up. Qualls gets Pujols to ground into a double play, but the run scores. Qualls gives up another hit, but gets out of the inning with the Angels up 6-4.

In the bottom of the seventh, Chavez homers to cut the Angels’ lead to 6-5. I hate to go all John Sterling Talking Baseball Like He’s Talking to Elementary School Children on you, but if the Yankees can hold the Angels, they will have two innings and six outs left to score one run and tie the game. But first the Yankees’ bullpen MUST HOLD the Angels scoreless. So here comes Chad Qualls out for the eighth inning.

With one out, Maicer Izturis walks. Peter Bourjos follows that with a bunt single. A wild pitch moves Izturis to third. Bobby Wilson singles to score Izturis and Bourjos goes to third. Mike Trout doubles to score Bourjos and Wilson goes to third. The Angels now lead 8-5 with one out and the middle of their order coming up. Qualls faces eight hitters and five of them reach base, and three of them score … in 1 1/3 innings.

Where was Boone Logan to start the eighth inning? (Yes, we’re at the point where I want Boone Logan in games.) Oh, that’s right. Logan came in to get the last two outs of the eighth after Qualls let a 6-5 game turn into a 9-5 game. So if Logan was available to pitch and was going to pitch anyway, why was he not used until the game was out of hand? Why wasn’t he out there to start a clean inning?

Qualls should be pitching in games that are over. He shouldn’t be the reason games become over, and he shouldn’t be pitching in high-leverage situations. Really, he shouldn’t be on the Yankees or probably in the league as a whole.

When I found out the Yankees signed Qualls I tweeted that “I hate Chad Qualls.” This meant that he could turn into a dominating force (though unlikely) and I would have already put it out there that I hate him, but I didn’t care. I didn’t give him a chance because I didn’t need to give him a chance. When Brian Cashman signed Qualls he 100-percent knew that at some point he would be designating him for assignment because there was a 100-percent chance Qualls would give him a reason to DFA him. So why pick him up in the first place?

When Qualls came into the game on Sunday, David Cone said he was “surprised that the Yankees were able to steal Chad Qualls off the scrap heap.” There’s a reason for that, and there’s a reason another team will have a chance to “steal” him from the scrap heap in the coming weeks.

Blogs

Jul 15, 2012

No Reason for Knicks to Draw Line at Jeremy Lin

David Heck wonders if James Dolan even cares about Knicks fans when it comes to Jeremy Lin’s situation.

Jerome James was a career backup. A second-rounder who averaged less than 20 minutes a game. But in his fifth NBA season, he lucked out.

Injuries allowed him to get more playing time in 11 playoff games for the Sonics, when he averaged almost 13 points and seven rebounds. Heading into free agency that year, the 30-year-old James figured to get a modest contract and a chance to start for another team. Isiah Thomas and the Knicks gave him that chance to start, but there was nothing modest about his contract. $30 million for five years, during which time he played in all of 90 games – slightly more than one NBA season.

The Knicks have never been frugal, which is something you have to appreciate as a fan. Unfortunately, they haven’t been prudent, either. Stephon Marbury, Eddy Curry, Steve Francis, Zach Randolph – the list of mistakes from the past decade goes on and on.

Which is why it’s baffling that the franchise has chosen to draw the line now with Jeremy Lin. They broke the bank for a guy who played decently in 11 playoff games, but they won’t do it for a guy who played exceptionally in 26 games last year – and lit up the Garden and New York City in the process.

Granted, there are some complications with Lin’s reported three-year, $25.025 million contract. The biggest concern is his $14.8 million salary in the third season. With the Knicks being over the luxury tax, that final year of Lin’s deal will cost them about $30 million. If they agreed to the contract, the Knicks would have $75 million committed to just four players in 2014-15.

Yes, that’s a lot of cash. And maybe that would be a problem for the Milwaukee Bucks or the Memphis Grizzlies. But it shouldn’t be a deal-breaker for the New York Knicks. Stock in Madison Square Garden has increased in value by over $600 million since Lin became a phenomenon. Plus, the Knicks will be over the salary cap the next three years even without Lin, meaning their personnel moves will be limited either way. Money and roster flexibility are not the issues here.

Some argue that because of Lin’s inexperience, he’s still a relatively unknown commodity. Maybe he’s just a flash in the pan. Maybe last year was just luck. Maybe he’s just not that good.

The problem is that basketball doesn’t really work that way. It’s not like baseball, where a hitter can string together a few bloopers or infield dribblers and all of a sudden be riding a 15-game hitting streak. It’s not like football, where a running back can get stuffed all day but break off an 80-yard touchdown run thanks to a missed tackle and finish with a great overall line.

Lin showed the ability to drive the lane consistently. He showed the ability to run the pick-and-roll. He showed the ability to score in isolation. Sample size has nothing to do with it, because you can’t luck your way into doing what Lin did.

He’s not another Jerome James. James played against two different opponents and benefited from good matchups, so he put up respectable statistics. Lin played against 21 different opponents during his 26-game streak. He failed to put up double-digit points three times – once against the Heat (because they’re the Heat), once against the Trailblazers when he got limited minutes in a blowout win and once in a poor game against the Raptors. He averaged 7.7 assists.

Lin still has to improve his shooting and reduce his turnovers, but that makes him the same as just about every other young point guard ever. Kyrie Irving, last year’s No. 1 overall pick, had similar issues last year (admittedly not as severe as Lin’s).

But what about Raymond Felton? He averaged 17.1 points and 9.0 assists with the Knicks. Perhaps he’s better than Lin, or at the very least, a better investment.

No, he isn’t. And it’s not even close.

Felton benefited a healthy Amar’e Stoudemire and Mike D’Antoni’s offense with the Knicks. Without those two things, he became a bench-warmer on a Portland team that went 28-38 last year. He was one of the worst in the league at running the pick-and-roll last year. He can’t play in isolation, which is a staple of the Mike Woodson offense. He’s fat and terrible at defense.

At age 28, Felton is an average player with a chance to be good if he gets in shape. At age 23, Lin is a good player with a chance to be great if he continues to develop.

There is no question about which one is a better choice for this team.

It’s hard to find any reason for the Knicks not to keep Lin. The cynic in me thinks that he might’ve just done too much. James Dolan’s stock his up, Time Warner came to an agreement with MSG and the Knicks already have legitimate stars in Melo and Amar’e. It’s possible that Dolan has simply gotten everything he ever could have wanted out of Jeremy Lin.

But the fans haven’t. And it’s about time Dolan started paying attention to us.

Blogs

Jul 12, 2012

An Old Man Fell Down the Stairs in the Bleachers

Sheriff Tom tells about how he became a Bleacher Creature at Yankee Stadium and what happened to change the way he used his scorecards during games in Section 39.

It all started because an old guy fell down the stairs. Thankfully, he wasn’t hurt. If he was, I would be keeping it to myself.

So how does this fit into the story of me, the bleachers and how I ended up documenting 600 games worth of nonsense from Section 39 in the right-field bleachers of Yankee Stadium through the 90s and vaunted championship run (most of which was totally unrelated to the actual game on the field)? And how does it bring me here?

It was April of 1993. I was young, wild and possibly in hiding at the time. New to the city and trying to figure out how someone who hadn’t yet charmed or bought anyone off yet to be his friend could go somewhere without standing out and being “that guy.” Ah, how about the Yankee game?

In random trips to the Stadium before my solo ventures, I would sit in the uppers – the old “top eight rows of the Stadium have the cheapest seat” gag. I’d be behind home plate, in another stratosphere, closer to planes up above than Matt Nokes on the field. Well, on my own accord, in 1993 I bought a bleacher seat (probably because all my scant cash was going towards single guy staples like macaroni and cheese and tuna fish) not knowing anything of what wonders went on within.

So there I sat with my scorecard in the bleachers. People sure seemed to know and, for the most part, like one another out there. I immediately felt left out of the loop. I saw Tina, the Queen of the bleachers who has since become a lifelong friend, holding court. (Trust me, if you have been in the bleachers, you know her.) These were the general admission days, and if you weren’t in, you weren’t in. A few wayward souls were steered clear to seats on the periphery, as outsiders weren’t welcome.

I watched this dance with mild amusement, and sort of wondered what exactly made these people boss. I had my scorecard and I was sitting there, keeping to myself for possibly the last time ever, when I heard the unmistakable sound of … song. What the hell? These people were singing. I knew all about drunken bursts of song since I grew up in a volunteer fire department family, and spent many nights hearing the “Horse’s Ass” ditty on the bus home from a parade, but here I was in the seats at the venerated Yankee Stadium, hearing people singing my beloved “Horse’s Ass” song. I knew the words, so I joined in with gusto. Then, out of the blue a portly sort got up and screamed, “Box seats suck, jerkoff!” I was enamored. They had me at “Box Seats Suck!”

And then the old man fell down the stairs.

Before this night my scorecards were kept neat and tidy with succinct game-scoring action, and trivial facts like “sunny but chilly” or “Cap Night here at the Stadium!” How timid and staid I was. Well, it all changed on this first night in the bleachers when this old man fell down the stairs. He was up as soon as he went down, steered to a seat and fawned upon with such fervor by a couple of young women that I started mulling over the idea of falling down the steps myself. Anyway, I felt a need to document this. So I wrote, “old man falls down the stairs.” I then checked my work, liked what I saw, and decided to fill in the columns of my scorecards with such factoids going forward.

That same night I saw fit to mention we were told in no uncertain terms to “STAY OFF THE SEATS!” by security when we stood up to do some such thing. Considering what was to come over the years on the seats not involving sitting on them (from Creatures making speeches or doing stripteases to me dancing in wild gyrations or reading children’s books to a rapt audience to people doing tumblesaults or using them as a diving board to seats below), this is now amusing to me on so many levels. I’m sure I had a grin as I documented that Brian McRae was serenaded with chants of “Daddy’s Little Girl!” I pointed out “a big fat guy” in the box seats, and I didn’t even bother cracking a joke, which was beyond lazy of me. I just documented he was there for posterity. Ruminating on this now, I wonder how many guys scoring in the box seats look over now and see me out in the bleachers of today and write out “big fat guy in the bleachers” – you know, the student becoming the master sort of thing.

When the Daddy’s Boy himself made a snag on a Pat Kelly liner, I gave out a “star” on the play, which I had always done on my scorecards, but my new unabashed self, freed by the carefree atmosphere of the bleachers added a descriptive, “an unbelievable leave-his-feet catch.” My scorecard, before my very eyes, was transforming itself from a neat archive of a relaxing night in the park to a random spate of verse, jokes and remarks with snark. And what a game to start my run with.

That night I learned, along with joy, a sense of community, and a chance to sharpen my rapier wit … rage! The freakin’ Yankees had a chunky 4-0 lead going into the ninth behind eight shutout innings by Jimmy Key, and Steve Howe and Steve Farr COUGHED THE DAMN THING UP! This was the metamorphosis for a snide that would used in the future of “Oh, here comes the bullpen … HOWE FARR will they hit it?”

So yeah, Howe comes in to start the ninth, gives up a single to Wally Joyner, a double to Hubie Brooks of all people, and a bases-clearing double by Felix Jose to make it 4-2. That is when Steve Farr came ambling in. Everything from trepidation to menace hung in the air. And sure enough, in no time at all, we are tied, as Mike McFarlane hoisted a homer. I sat in a sea of boos and groans, stewing in rage. After some more assorted lunacy and two outs that gave us hope we may get through this turmoil, Brian McRae got the last laugh on us with a dinky infield single that somehow plated a run, and the Royals were up.

I inexplicably had one of those doofy souvenir bats that soon went the way of the dodo when people figured out they made nifty weapons, and I not so inexplicably slammed it on the empty seat next to me (there were lots of those about as only 14,091 fans were listed as attendees that night, quite possibly the smallest crowd I was ever a part of) and broke the damn thing. As Farr left the field to a cascade of boos and I surveyed my splintered wood, someone shouted with aplomb, “Joey Gasoline! Fireman of the year!” That too made the card.

And I’ve never looked back. Over the next few games I moved closer and closer to this inner circle that I had watched with a wary eye. I was soon recognized, and from what people recall, respectful. I started adding my own quips to the sea of sarcasm, joining in the songs, chastising the meek as they shuffled up the steps, trying to figure out where their “general admission seat” was located. I’d point out the furtive Boston fan peeking over the upper deck rail, sparking off a booming chant for him to jump, which would then win me backslaps and handshakes for pointing out this chance for us to all be merry. I began chatting with the likes of Animal, Captain Bob, “Big Nose” George (The Little Drummer Boy), Tina, the legendary cowbell man Ali Ramirez, Fat Daddy Chico and it went on and on. Soon I was sitting right in there, helping Tina hold the seats for the established regulars, looking forward to the day that was surely coming where I too would have a seat held for me while I glugged a couple of last brews outside.

Many times over the years I would hear the question, “How the hell did you sit through 600 baseball games?” This question would be asked with that tinge of derision one would get as if the question were “Why would you pick up garbage on the side of the road if you weren’t forced to?” The thing is not only did I love baseball, which bought me to the bleachers of Yankee Stadium in the first place and has me watching Kansas City-Seattle games on the MLB package to this day, watching a game in the bleachers was akin to going to a bar where you knew your best friends, and other characters out and about would surely be there. There would be lies and laughs, jokes and songs, fights and flirts, but the thing was there was a baseball game going on right in front of us. What a selling point!

Night after night security was busy admonishing the rowdy, escorting the drunken pugilists to the gate under a canopy of hoots and hollers. Outfielders would sneak a peek over their shoulders, only to be buried in a barrage of insults and just plain old-fashioned boos. Fathers with your young kids would go from covering their children’s ears to the naughty ditties to patting us on the back for a particularly funny line. It was a wonderland. Throw in the beers, and in those early-days cigars, and we were the proverbial pig in a poke. Tickets were cheaper then (Hell, I’m thinking they were six bucks when I started going) and the beers were cheaper too! If I could afford them back then, anyone could!

I learned the wonders of going in for batting practice (remember beer was sold in the bleachers at one time, but once beer was banned for a stint that lasted a few years it was the end of me and a bunch of cronies making it in before first pitch) and hooting and hollering with players from the road. In times I will recant tales of “Dancin’” Tony Phillips, Bo Jackson, Ben McDonald, the late John Marzano, the foul-tempered (and fouler mouthed) Bobby Ayala and the likes of Todd Jones and Phil Nevin, who attempted to draw a few Creatures into actual fisticuffs before a game. What a place! I saw the phenomena of “holding seats for friends” (in a world where Tina ruled with an iron fist) and there was even a game where someone commandeered some yellow police tape to rope off our section within a section to make sure the friends could sit together.

In time I will discuss what really killed the rowdiness of the bleachers (and yes, the bleachers as I knew them are dead). While the banning of beer in the late 90s was a big part of killing the spirit, it was the doing away with the general admission seating that blew the whole thing up. Back then you sat in your gaggle of goons, where you could share a private joke without making it public by shouting it four rows and five seats to the back and left. I have never laughed louder in my life than the nights I’d be there in a row with Big Tone Capone, Grover, Gang Bang Steve, Angry Teddy and Donahuge, all in a line like the Little Rascals on a curb, but firing them off one after another. And, lucky you, the results of these ended up in what are now five binders of scorecards on a shelf in my closet, preserved forevermore. I could (and I have) randomly pulled these books out in times of dismay to sneak a guffaw.

So here is where Scorecard Memories comes to play. Over the years, starting on a message board that became a ghost town, I documented the storied years of 1993-1995 in Section 39. In time I may revisit them here, and you will surely get the stories in a fireside chat style regardless. But I’m going to pick it up here in 1996 for a myriad of reasons, and of course, 1996 holds a special place in the heart of any Yankees fan. It’s a great place to start to share the bleacher journey with many of you for the first time. But even more so this is when true characters came creeping out of the woodwork as I had in 1993. The jokes were funnier and more biting. Security was as lax as ever and just about every single night an astounding array of lunacy prevailed. We had a World Series to see, a no-hitter and a tragic loss of one of our own out there in Section 39 when longtime cowbell man Ali Ramirez passed away that May. The emotion that came out of that, reached a crescendo on the night Gooden tossed his no-hitter on the same day Ali was laid to rest and it brought us together as a family and created a bond that has morphed into the most dysfunctional, and dare I say the BEST DAMN FAMILY out there.

At my wedding I had a series of family tables, a friends table, and a Bleacher Creature section. Since my run kicked off in the early 90s, folks have come and gone, but more have stayed. Couples have met and broken up. New relationships have flourished and some have married and there are now Bleacher Babies running around. I myself met my own wife out there, and have a Bleacher Baby of my own.

This month is the 10^th Annual Ali Ramirez Bleacher Creature Softball Tournament held on the Heritage Field on the grounds of Yankee Stadium. Over the years, 90 different people with bleacher connections (as in “sat there and became a part of this” connections and not “I have connections out there” connections) have played in this game, and another couple of hundred or more have come out to see the games and join in the day, and the inevitable trips to the bar afterwards.

So what am I going to be doing here? I’m going to take you through a stint in the stands, recounting seasons and baseballian memories through the art of the drunken scorecard. I’m going to be regaling you with all kinds of madcap capers involving my Bleacher Creature friends, from road trips to vaunted destinations like Toronto and Baltimore, Staten Island and Coney Island (where I brandished my scorecards). Your average scorecard would contain anywhere from a half-dozen to half-a-hundred witty cracks, and allusions to fights, bottle throwing, drunkards passing out or falling down the stairs, ejections, folks in costumes, flashing women and some of the strangest characters ever seen in public. I will intersperse these accounts with abbreviated game recaps, to stir up memories of names gone by like Yankees stars Mike Gallego and Mark Hutton, to visiting wunderkinds like John Jaha and Troy O’Leary.

Why would anyone care about bleacher scorecards (even ones with jokes) from over 15 years ago? For one thing, funny jokes are funny at all times, and who doesn’t like baseball stories? They tell stories about the barnstorming Cincinnati Red Stockings! I may stir up some memories of childhood heroes and guys you used to laugh at. There will be snapshot style profiles of luminaries of the time. There will be tales of on-field brawls, triple plays and a whole ton of mystery outs (or as Phil Rizzuto used to score them, “ww” for “wasn’t watching”). You will simply be amazed at some of the arcane factoids I shall present between the oddballs who threw out first pitches or sang the anthem here and there (including Barry “Greg Brady” Williams and our own Suzyn Waldman, who belted it out in the mid-90s before we realized she was theater trained, and not just annoying) to absolutely doofy polls taken in the seats like “What would you rather smell like: pee or poo?” and “Who was your favorite character in Winnie the Pooh? (in which Christopher Robin inexplicably got three votes). The fun never stopped.

The Bleacher Creatures have had road trips to just about every city in the baseball world, though I pretty much only made it to Boston, Baltimore, Shea and Toronto, and you’ll hear those stories too. And oh, the get-togethers in the bars, pregame hangouts in the bodegas and the park and even trips to the clink. There will be fights and affairs and some names will be changed to protect the guilty. But you’re gonna hear it all along with how I morphed into the “Drunk Guy That Does the Tom Tom Dance on the Benches” while wearing a plastic toy Sheriff badge.

The next time you hear from me it will be April of 1996, and you will be in the bleachers. Enjoy the ride.