"The Funnest I've Ever Had"

So this is what the World Series, the real World Series, feels like, huh?

What with the pitching and the timely hitting and the Mariano-ing and the Hoosierdaddy-ing and the mid-game-change-your-luck-Tweetups with Amanda Rykoff and Brent Nycz and the OHMIG-D YOU DID NOT REALIZE PAUL O'NEILL WAS THROWING OUT THE FIRST PITCH!

This is what it feels like.

It feels pretty darn good.

This isn't just baseball.

This is love.


***
Unlike last night's cold, rainy and windy drudge, tonight felt like October baseball.

There was, first of all, getting off the subway and walking, in the pale, dying sunlight, across the street to the Stadium. There, you find yourself transported to another world, one in which nothing matters except baseball. Nothing.





There was, in the pregame, the Jay Z/Alicia Keys mini-concert.

I'm not even a Jay Z fan, but the show the two put on seemed to set something off: the Stadium came alive, as if, finally, finally, we realized what it is our team has accomplished.







We're here, in the World Series.

We've reached the last round, we will play in the last Major League baseball game on the 2009 calendar; we will play into November.





The National Anthem is sung by John Legend and there's a flyover which goes right over my head, all of which is utterly awesome and makes it hit me again: HEY THIS IS THE WORLD SERIES, but it pales in comparison to the reaction when Paul O'Neill comes out to throw out the first pitch.




We are ready for this game to start.


AJ Burnett takes his warm up tosses not to the 300 soundtrack as normal, but instead to Marilyn Manson.

I don't know if today will be Good AJ or Bad AJ, not yet, but the music choice soothes me: almost every other time I've seen Burnett pitch this season with his normal warm up music, he's been bombed. Maybe the change will do him good.









After a few innings, after the Phillies take a 1-0 lead and Pedro Martinez refuses to let the Yankees do anything besides chant "Who's Your Dad-dy?", Amanda Rykoff and I start texting. She's scored a last second ticket to the game and we're talking about a mid-game tweet-up, along with Brent Nycz, to change the Yankees' luck. We decide: Top of the fourth inning, by section 413.

So, we meet and we walk over to one of the concession stands so I can buy myself some Twizzlers.

We watch the game on the screens, which are about 10 seconds behind the actual play on the field.

We watch AJ Burnett pitch a 1-2-3 inning, and then we watch Mark Teixeira hit a game-tying home run into the Yankees' bullpen, and we decree the tweet-up a success: our luck has been changed.



After we part, Burnett pitches as though he has taken it to another level. Slowly, we stop holding our breath with every pitch AJ throws, and instead begin to long for the next one. It may not be Lee's dominance, but you could have fooled us.

In the seventh inning, the crowd senses that this is something spectacular. So we chant: "AJ! AJ! AJ!"

He dazzles.

Later on, while speaking to reporters, he'll say it's "the funnest I've ever had".



In the bottom of the seventh, with a one run lead, the Yankees threaten for more. With first and third and no one out, a Melky Cabrera singles makes the score 3-1 and knocks Pedro Martinez from the game. Hoosierdaddy!







After a pinch-hitting Jorge Posada reaches, Derek Jeter bunts foul ("I was stupid", he is rumored to have said) and Johnny Damon comes to the plate.

I'll examine this in more detail tomorrow, but from our seats, what we saw was him ground to Ryan Howard, who, without touching first, threw the ball wide of second base. It should have left the Yankees with the bases loaded and no one out, but it was instead ruled a double play.

Somehow, you get the feeling, that it's impossible to conduct a 2009 postseason game without some sort of major umpiring scandal.



Still, the umpires' awful call notwithstanding, the Yankees took no chances, and went straight to Enter Sandman.

With the top of the Phillies' lineup due up in the eighth inning, going to Mariano Rivera is, in terms of, leverage-baby-leverage, a no-brainer. With the off day tomorrow, the Yankees could afford to do it, and so they did.

Rivera did make things a little exciting, but, being the great Mariano, he found a way.



Ball game over, Yankees win, theeeee Yankees win!



****

I found and purchased a "Got Pie" t-shirt. It's a much better souvenir than the program, which cost $5 more than normal and is mostly a reprint of the LCS program.

I still can't get over the umpires' call in the bottom of the 7th. I will address tomorrow, likely in the afternoon.


Any photo taken after the fourth inning is credit Brent Nycz. The video of the final out (will be uploaded in morning) is credit Amanda Rykoff.

How I discovered that I could throw a knuckleball for a strike

Two nights ago, my friend Brent suggested getting tickets to tonight's Brooklyn Cyclones game because of a Darryl Strawberry bobblehead giveaway.

Being me, I said yes, because, hey, it's baseball and an excuse not to do more important things.



We took the long D train ride all the way down to Coney Island, headed over to Keyspan Park and sat through the first couple of innings of Short Season A ball.



Let me tell you, in that first inning, the Cyclones played both like an affiliate of the New York Mets and like a class A team.

After a while, we got a little tired, not so much of the game itself, but the summer camp sitting next to us. Lots of kids. Lots of very, very LOUD kids. So we decided to get up and walk around.

The cool thing about Keyspan Park is that part of the park--or at least part of it accessible via the same ramp that leads to the bleachers--is a separate turf field. It's got two soccer goals and a home plate and mound area, still outlined in chalk.

So Brent, who came prepared with a glove and a baseball, and I did the only thing one could possibly do in those circumstances: We took turns pitching and catching.

I tried every grip I knew: two-seamer, curveball and knuckleball. The only one that was a strike on a consistent basis was the knuckleball, but don't let me fool you. The fastest I've ever thrown a pitch is 30 MPH, and even pitching from a flat mound that was probably closer to 50 feet from home plate than 60 feet 6 inches, there were quite a few pitches that came, well, uh, short.



My pitching form is only slightly less embarrassing than my batting stance, which really doesn't say much...

In other words, please, please, please don't ask me to throw out the first pitch any time soon...


At any rate, we stayed there, switching on and off for about an hour.

My one, real shining moment came when Brent was attempting a side-arm delivery. After quite a few pitches that were nowhere near the strike zone, I was sort of joking, sort of not when I blurted, "you're throwing across your body too much. More arm, less body."

Strangely, the advice worked--the next three throws were all strikes.


Still, on that field I realized something: this is something every minor league park should have. While it would be unfeasible for a major league park to do so, the idea that one can go immediately from watching a game, to playing it, to watching again tugs at the very heartstrings of what this game is about.

After darkness fell and it became impractical to continue, Brent and I ended up exiting the ballpark to take in some delights of the Coney Island pier at night.




Oh, and for what it's worth, some dude on the Hudson Valley Renegades hit a home run that took out the video board in left field.

I am Woman, I am Baseball Fan, I am Blogger: Hear Me Roar

(Today, 8 March, is International Woman's Day. In honor of that, I offer this post, on my thoughts, feelings and experiences as a blogger.)

Being a blogger has its roots in being a sports fan, so please pardon me the momentary detour through my youth:

I don't know how it started, my interest in sports.

There's really no logical reason for it: neither of my parents were very interested in sports, I was such a bad athlete that I got cut from my middle school basketball team when fifteen tried out for twelve spots, and I can't begin to enumerate the number of times I was picked last for pretty much everything remotely athletic.

Everything from my childhood states this girl should not be a sports fan, and yet, here I am.

By some odd confluence of events and circumstances, I am here now, a blogger, a writer and a die-hard sports fan.

I remember the year it happened. Twelve years old, my math teacher nursed a passion for the Yankees I had never seen anyone have before (his son was taken in the 2008 draft by the Minnesota Twins), and I, ever the teacher's pet, latched on to it. There was nothing quite like the feel of competition, and, unlike the Nets, who never won, and the Devils, to whom I had not yet been acquainted, the Yankees won, and they won a lot.

I remember learning about David Wells' perfect game, about one of Darryl Strawberry's giant home runs (which happened to, as my older brother says, "bounce off my friend's chest"). Of course, in the pre-Stub Hub days, it was possible to get $12 bleacher seats on game night, and such things seemed more possible than they might now.

In 1998, the year of Sosa and McGwire, it was impossible not to fall in love with the Yankees.

We watched Game One of the World Series as a family, and when Tino Martinez came up to bat in the seventh, worked a 3-2 count with two outs, it wasn't hard to figure out what would happen next–these were the Yankees, after all, and the season was 1998.



There was, however, one drawback.

There were few people with whom I could share it.

Most twelve year old girls care about boys and trying to get away with being more grown up than they are. Trust me on this–I was one of them. Most twelve year old girls do not care so much about baseball unless they are on the field, playing the game.

I never really bothered to hide it when I became obsessed, and it was probably a very short track from being obsessed to becoming a blogger, though blogs first had to be invented and my ability to be critical of the team, instead of blindly delusional, had to develop.

Still, develop it did, and now I've been at this small thing for about a year and a half–just over it, actually.

I've been fortunate enough to be able to do this at a time where women baseball bloggers are not an absurdity, even if we still are a little unusual. For instance, in January, when guest bloggers appeared on The Yankees LoHud Blog, I was only one of two women to make an experience. Actually, thinking about it, I can't actually remember if the second woman scheduled to post ever did post...

I have to be honest. The most sexism I've ever seen are comments left by trolls, which obviously don't count, and that is, perhaps, an incredibly encouraging thought.

Granted, a blogger will never experience what a beat writer or broadcaster will, as we don't exactly get press passes here, and thus will likely never be in an all-male locker room. It's no secret that until recently women weren't even allowed in the press box, so you can imagine how much trouble the locker room may have been for the first to integrate it.

Even if we can't stand Suzyn Waldman's nasally voice or Kim Jones's, well, not very questioning questions, you have to remember that as recently as 30 years ago, a time that many of you, dear readers, may remember, the idea of a woman broadcasting or a woman in the locker room would have been preposterous.

Women may still be underrepresented in baseball (though that is changing), but the wonderful thing about blogging is that, at least in the fan community, that ratio is getting narrower.

I am lucky enough to be a part of it now.

It means that in ten or twenty years, as the case may be, I can tell my (future) daughter, that yes, she can be a sportswriter if she so desires, and that her being a sportswriter in itself won't be an objectified spectacle.

My grandmother was born only three years after women in the United States won the right to vote; I have grown up in a world where traditional gender norms have been questioned to a point where we can banter around terms like 'transsexual' and 'transgender' without much thought.

Still, it's hard to be completely satisfied. I have this opportunity, but many do not.

In Iran, for example, women are not even allowed to watch their national football team , never mind being a sportswriter that covers male teams.

Even here in the United States, Title IX legislation was needed to ensure girls of an equal opportunity. While such legislation may no longer be needed as attitudes have shifted, that there is still a debate shows that this is not the same thought everywhere.

I started my blog because one person told me he'd read what I wrote. I don't actually know if he still reads–if you do, ChiDave, more power to you–but, it got me to do something that has utterly changed my life for the better.

I hope there are more women out there, willing to take the opportunity.

Cheers, and since I don't say it nearly often enough, thanks for reading.

Welcome to Spring Training 2009!

Welcome to Spring Training 2009, here to help you recover from Winteritis and Lackofbaseballitis, not to mention HotStoveLeague-coli and WhereWillTheySign-fluenza.

Please note that while all treatments are voluntary, there are some side effects. These side effects include:

1) Reading about your baseball team in a non-competitive scenario
2) Discovering more than you ever want to know about some players (like Joba and Brackman's nipple rings, for starters...)
3) Reading writing from sportswriters marooned for two months in Florida and Arizona.
4) Occasionally forgetting that in NY it might still be in the 30s
5) Compulsive comparison to see who bulked up and who slimmed down
6) Compulsive temptation to start a blog

The owners of SpringTrainingCure assume no liability should you suffer from any of these conditions.

Shadow of Summer

I felt the sun on me today.

The bright blue sky, the parents taking their babies out for a stroll.

On the D train Chinese immigrants hollered Wallies, One Dollar, One Dollar, Wallies while two Mexican men did their best Mariachi impersonations.

In the middle of February, I remembered what summer is all about: the warm, the comfort, the vitality.

The sight of toddlers in the playground and teens on the basketball court.

The smell, sightly musty, perhaps, but, also the smell of hot dogs, pretzels and other street vendors.

The sounds, a steady beat, a steady pulse of the City's life.

It's not really fair, this tease. Spring is not even official for another six weeks.

Yet...

For this brief, shining moment, we remember why they play baseball in the summer--because it's when you're most alive.

The Bird-Man

I saw the bird man in the Bronx today.

Whistling and cawing, he was, as though trying himself to bring back all the birds, as though saying "winter is over, come back home", even though winter technically still has another two months to go.

Even so, one can tell that the thaw is beginning.

It is no longer as dark as the dead of night at four thirty in the afternoon, snow seems old and pointless instead of fresh and fun, and the gear that greets me on the streets is not that of the Giants or the Knicks or the Rangers, but that of the Yankees and Mets.

It is, of course, no secret that New York is a baseball city. Baseball first, baseball foremost, baseball forever.

We live for spring because it makes us believe again.

It makes us believe that the world doesn't have to be an oppressive place, it makes us believe that things that are bad, whether they be minor like a third place finish in the division, or major like a collapsed economy, that these things cannot endure. It makes us believe that we can be bold with our predictions, that A-Rod can have a monster year and CC can (again) win the Cy Young and that those chilly October nights will be worth it.

We are a cold weather city, but winter is not our thing. We can do Christmas all right in Rockefeller Square and no one rivals our New Year's, but these things we would do anyway, even if they were six months later.

Our hearts lie in the spring, in the endless promise of hope, though we refuse to forget our history and perhaps this is why baseball and, of course, the Yankees mean so much to us.


So go ahead bird man, caw and tweet as you will.

We like spring around here.

All Things Must Pass

That's it, then.

The end of Yankees baseball 2008.

Right now seems a far cry from when the season started, from those days in February and March when we were all psyched for what looked like the start of an unforgettable season.

The Yankees were supposed to be an offensive powerhouse supplemented by a core of young pitchers, with some veteran guidance and a firm resolve not to get off to the same, slow start as nearly derailed the team in 2007.

Alas, the thing about sports--nothing ever plays according to the script.

Players get hurt. Sometimes they miss a couple games, sometimes the entire season. Sometime they're borderline major leaguers, sometimes they're the stars of your team.

Players under perform. Sometimes coaches can discover the reasons why; sometimes they can't.

Other teams improve. Sometimes they're in the other league; sometimes they're in your own division.

Some teams recover, some don't, but if there's one thing baseball tells us, it's that time can be measured in eternity, or in thousandths of a second.

The memories of Yankee Stadium will last forever. The fleeting moment where one mistake pitch is the difference between a win and a loss is never gotten back.


No matter what we might think, going forward, we won't forget 2008.

Whether it's because it's the first time since 1994 we won't see baseball in October or because it's the year we paid tribute to Yankee Stadium, that's up to you. I, being my delusional, optimistic self will choose the latter--but I don't blame you if you choose the former.

Of course, the end of 2008 also means looking forward to 2009, and so we shall.


We will look forward to what will likely be one of the most eventful, if not entertaining, off-seasons in recent Yankees history. Among the issues that need addressing:

a) Will Brian Cashman come back?

a1) If not, who replaces him?
a2) If so, for how long? With any conditions?

b) Do we go after CC Sabathia?

b1) What are we willing to spend to get him--not just in terms of cash, but in terms of time?
b2) If CC is uninterested, do we look at AJ Burnett? Ben Sheets?

C) Who plays first base?

c1) What do we offer Teixiera?
c2) Do we re-sign Giambi or Abreu as a DH?
c3) What if Posada doesn't heal well and can't catch?



The list goes on. The fact is, the Yankees in 2009 might look very different than 2008.

With a new Stadium, a new team might seem fitting, but no Yankee team can forget the past.

Joba Chamberlain will be there in 2009, and so will Derek Jeter.
Phil Hughes will (likely) be there in 2009, and so will Mariano Rivera.

I will be there, and, I hope, so will you.


The Quest for 27 in 2009 starts now.

For Love of the Game

You love baseball.

You love it or you wouldn't be reading this.


People love baseball for different reasons. Some love it for the monster home runs, the sight of baseballs thrown at 98 miles an hour, the leaping catches over the outfield wall.

Some love it for the history--the players and the teams that become icons of a city, a year, a decade, a century.


Tonight, I realized that I love baseball for all these reasons--but that there's another as well.

There's something magical about playing catch in any circumstance, just with a baseball and a glove, where the game becomes accessible to everyone, regardless of athletic (or, in my case, lack of athletic) skill.

When you go to play catch with your boyfriend, and the two of you end up doing so with three children barely old enough for Kindergarten registration...now, that is something special. That's a game that you can pass on from generation to generation. It becomes something that's not just bigger than any person, but it's bigger than any generation.

You don't need to memorize any plays, learn to skate or find a net to bring baseball to the next generation.

****

I'm headed out to Fanfest tomorrow.

Tonight's loss was not much fun, but given the line up that Joe Girardi had going in the game, I can't say that I am all that surprised. If anything, it illustrates a) why rain outs suck, and b) how much we miss Johnny Damon's bat.