On Saturday afternon I went over to Tompkins Square Park for a leisurely game of catch with Nick and Andra (a fiancée with a live arm). Leisurely, that is, if you consider the shrill blare of a hardcore band playing an outdoor show elsewhere in the park to be none too disrupitve. Suffice it to say we could have had a better soundtrack than one with a lead singer who sounded like a dog barking into a microphone.

A few minutes into our session, a zinger from Nick (who may be the next lefty option out of the Yankee pen if C.J. Nitkowski‘s religious awakening doesn’t include a miracle out pitch) literally went right through my glove. I looked down to discover that the laces on the middle run of its web had broken. In the words of Tanner Boyle, “CRUD!”

Now this glove, a Rawlings RBG80 “Greg Luzinski” model, dates back to my Little League days (yes, that’s it in my old photo). Only the second glove I’ve ever owned, it was big on me when it was brand-new circa 1980, back when Luzinski (“The worst outfielder I ever saw, bar none,” according to Bill James) was still “playing” the field. But 22 years later it fits my hand perfectly… like a glove, you might say. Replacing it is virtually unthinkable, despite — or rather, because of — the wear it’s endured over the years, which includes a bit of sweat-induced peeling on the interior heel. I haven’t done jack to maintain the mitt since I went out for my high school’s freshman team, due in equal parts to idleness (it lay dormant for well over a decade until I retrieved it from my childhood bedroom in Salt Lake City in the summer of ’98), laziness, and superstition — I’m too worried I may do more harm than good with some hamfisted attempt at maintenance. Just pound the leather a few times and let’s go, damn it!

I finished the afternoon’s game with my damaged mitt, one ball squriting through the hole in the web but the rest compensated for by catching the ball in the pocket (ouch) or the upper web. But it’s clear I’m going to need to send it to a glove doctor not only for a new lace but some long-overdue TLC. I’ve skimmed through several web sites and consulted Noah Lieberman’s definitive tome, Glove Affairs, and I have some options. What I’d like to know is if any readers have experience in getting their gloves repaired and can recommend somebody, especially if it’s a New York-area local so that I could save on shipping. I figure this could run $50-75 all in if I spring for a whole set of laces and perhaps a fix on that peeling, a price that still beats buying a new one.

A little help? Please drop a line in the comments.

Before I get back to the business of baseball, I’d like to thank everybody who responded to Monday’s post. Whether it’s my New York-area pals who’ve had the chance to meet Andra or just well-wishing readers offering a tip of the cap, it does mean a lot to me.

In the past week, the only thing that’s even come close to wiping the smile off of my face — a week that includes attendance at Tuesday night’s Yankee drubbing, where the pitching staff weren’t the only ones getting bombed — has been the infernal Connecticut traffic we faced on our way up to Northampton, MA on Friday. Lord help me, you’d think a state that had nothing to offer but an asphalt conduit between New York and Massachusetts could get something right, but Connecticut fails at even that lowly task, sort of like Felix Heredia in his one-batter-per-day regimen.

Thanks as well to everyone who entered my trading-deadline contest. Including emailed entries, 22 people responded, most of them offering names that weren’t ridiculous, if not necessarily enticing (Jeff Conine? Arthur Rhodes?). Two names came up twice, those of disAstros second baseman Jeff Kent and L’s — I mean M’s — closer Eddie Guardado. Alas, Brian Cashman and company surprised us all with one name that wasn’t on anybody’s entry, that of Esteban Loaiza, to whom we”ll return shortly. Given that nobody claimed the prize I offered, that there’s anticipated to be a fair amount of post-deadline trading as August 31 nears, and that a certain incompetent lefty still dwells in the Yankee pen, I’m going to keep the contest open until the end of the month. If you’ve already entered, consider your entry still valid unless you revise it. If you haven’t entered, you still can, either via email or a comment window.

By now nearly everybody else has weighed in on the plethora of deadline deals which came down, so I won’t go too overboard in adding my two cents. But with deals that affect not only the two teams dear to me but also their chief rivals, I can’t let it all pass unnoticed.

First, to the Yankees. I would have loved, loved, LOVED to see Randy Johnson in pinstripes for whatever protein-like goo the Yanks could have scraped out of their farm system. Robinson Cano? Too gooey — take him. Dioner Navarro? Not gooey enough — take him too. Eric Duncan? Ain’t ever gonna play third for the Yanks in this lifetime — take him. Having put in some 30 hours in July evaluating the Yankees’ track record in dealing prospects, I feel reasonably assured that whatever they could have given up wouldn’t have made much difference even a few years down the road. Randy Johnson, on the other hand, is a difference-maker, a pitcher perfectly capable of carrying a team to a World Championship.

But he’s not coming to the party, and perhaps it’s just as well. The Arizona Diamondbacks apparently weren’t dumb enough to fall for the low-grade prospects the Yanks were offering, a reaction which should serve as something of a wake-up call for the organization. It’s all well and good to cultivate resources which have market value to others — this is a FARM system, after all — but quality control is sorely needed. The Yanks must draft better (they haven’t had a first-round pick make an impact in the majors since Eric Milton in 1996, and that wasn’t even in pinstripes), and they must balance their penchant for signing Type A free agents — the kind who require compensation in the form of a first-round draft pick — with a habit of in-season pickups of other people’s Type A free agents if only so they can watch them leave at the end of the year. Voilà — no unsightly talent drain!

The trade of Jose Contreras for Loaiza is a mild upgrade at worst and a significant one at best. No, Loazia will never be confused with the Big Unit, especially not with a 6.04 ERA over the past two months. But what he will do is eat innings, something the Yankee staff has sorely needed in he wake of their musical rookie/cast-off starter program. Contreras, like Hideki Irabu and Jeff Weaver before him, was an incredibly frustrating enigma who neither Joe Torre nor Mel Stottlemyre had a hope of solving. While wishing the man nothing but the best — the combination of culture shock and separation from one’s family is as unenviable as any you might encounter while making $8 million a year — I’m incredibly relieved that I will never, EVER have to get behind his pitching again. He made the Granny Goodens the Yanks have cycled through seem like Dr. K by comparison, and I would rather eat dung beetles fresh off the manure pile than watch Contreras fiddle and filibuster with men on base.

On the subject of the Big Unit, I’m far more disappointed that he didn’t get traded to the Dodgers than to the Yankees. As best I can tell from the various reports I read, Surly McMullet apparently dragged his feet too long to suit the Snakes, first declining to waive his no-trade clause for a deal to L.A., then agreeing, only to have the Diamondbacks decide not to accommodate him. Whether that was to punish his intractability or to avoid sending him to a division rival is unclear, but amid all the verbage, one snippet does stand out. It’s from Selena “Yellow Fever” Roberts of the New York Times, so it probably isn’t worth the paper it was printed on, but nevertheless:

In the past week, that Seattle episode was apparently the seed of a warning shot during a conversation between Johnson’s agent, Barry Meister, and Arizona General Manager Joe Garagiola Jr., according to an article that appeared Tuesday in The Star-Ledger of Newark.

“If you don’t trade him to the Yankees, you’re going to have one unhappy player,” Meister reportedly said.

“And how would I tell the difference?” Garagiola Jr. responded.

If it’s true that the Diamondbacks decided not to trade Johnson only to punish him, then they’ve created every bit the headache for themselves that the Red Sox did with Nomar Garciaparra, dissolving their leverage and setting the stage for an ugly war of words come winter.

And speaking of Nomar… wow, what a barbecue. In the grand tradition of Roger Clemens and Mo Vaughn, the Sox front office ran off yet another superstar before his time and made like Ramiro Mendoza coming out of the bullpen to clean up the problem. The slugging shortstop’s Achilles heel may have been the Achilles heel of the team, so to speak, but to emerge from that three-way deal with anything less than a starter suitable to replace Derek Lowe — Matt “Pubic Beard” Clement was the name tossed around — is nothing short of Wild Card suicide. Orlando Cabrera? Doug Mientkiewicz? The Sox entered the weekend 7.5 games behind the Yanks, not to mention a game down in the Wild Card race. At this writing they’ve fallen a game further in the AL East, lost their favorite punching bag (Contreras was 0-5 with a 13.50 ERA in 20 innings against the Sox, including the postseason) and seen the narrow talent gap between the two teams widen considerably.

What’s more, the “He Said, She Said” game that’s going on between their exiled star and the front office has gone to DefCon-4. While from where I sit the Sox’s fragile equilibrium of unhappiness is a beautiful thing, I can’t help but feel as though this is the first sign that the Henry/Lucchino/Epstein management group is running out of rope. Baseball Prospectus’ Chris Kahrl put it best:

Let’s not beat around the bush: For the second year in the row, Theo Epstein has caved in to the mob. Hordes of bleating extras culled from the sets of Cheers or Bob Newhart or from the pages of The Shadow Over Innsmouth really ought to be ignored, but not here. Maybe Nomar started it, maybe the guys with the pitchforks and torches did, but after last year’s capitulation over bullpen management and this year’s craven trade-down to give the ballclub the appearance of owning some leather, I think it’s safe to say that concerns that Boston was going to mount a challenge to the Yankees were wildly overanticipated. If the fans had wanted leather, the Sox would have been better off hosting Bondage and Dominance Night at the ballpark.

…The question these pickups inspire is whether or not the Red Sox are really going to be able to keep up in the Wild Card chase in a season already choking on the Yankees’ dust. To me, it looks like these deals put them behind whichever two teams don’t win the AL West. Although I doubt that failing to make the playoffs would derail the putative sabermetric magic kingdom, if it’s followed by a slow start next year, and given the already-demonstrated willingness to submit to mob rule, the Red Sox’s competitiveness might be nothing more than a latter-day resurrection of those ’30s Red Sox teams, laden with All-Stars and ambition and a whole lot of nothin’.

Back in November, Nomar was thought to be worth trading for Magglio Ordonez. Now the best the Sox can get for him is two glove men whose bats have termites. I’ll let the Sox fans who read this blog tell me what they think of that one.

Turning to the Dodgers, my head is going one way and my heart the other. The wholesale changes they’ve wrought, trading catcher Paul Lo Duca, setup man Guillermo Mota, outfielders Dave Roberts and Juan Encarnacion and prospects in three deals, turning over one-fifth of their roster, certainly would have been easier to swallow with Randy Johnson taking the ball every fifth day. Lo Duca was one of my favorite players and widely known as the team’s “Heart and Soul,” but I can clearly see his limitations — he’s 32, his offensive value is almost completely tied to batting average (.288 career) rather than power (.431) or an ability to get on base (.344), and he has shown an overwhelming tendency over his career to wear down over the course of the season:

               AVG   OBP   SLG   OPS

Pre All-Star  .313  .368  .471  .840

Post All-Star .256  .313  .379  .692

Roberts was another favorite, a jackrabbit type who got on base at a so-so clip (.343 prior to the trade) and stole bases extremely well (33/34), the type of player who has more value in L.A.’s low-scoring environment than in most other places. But he’s 32 as well, and it’s very clear that he’s not going to wake up tomorrow and morph into the second coming of Rickey Henderson.

Mota was yet another favorite, a hard-throwing, intimidating, reliable setup man who had really only put it together in the past year and a half. But this year his strikeout rate has fallen, his walk rate has nearly doubled, and the Dodgers have been riding him fairly hard (as BP points out, over the last two years, Mota’s pitched 168 innings, more than any setup man in the game.

For all of that, those three players were at the peak of their trade value but about to get a whole lot more expensive (via arbitration or free-agency) and what they brought back in return gives the Dodgers more flexibility to build the team GM Paul DePodesta’s way. Additionally, trading Encarnacion, a crapfest of a hitter with his .235/.290/.415 “bat,” his balky shoulder, and his 2-year, $8 mil contract is addition by subtraction. I’m not 100% sold on new first baseman Hee Seop Choi — his platoon differential is 300 points of OPS, .915 vs. righties, .608 vs. leftie — but he’s a very promising player who could be the cornerstone of the infield for a few years. Finley has postive value both offensively and defensively, though not as much as he used to. He’s also got a certain tactical value just in keeping him from the other N.L. West contenders. Starter Brad Penny is a very solid addition to a rotation that has been making do with the smoke and mirrors of Jose Freakin’ Lima, Wilson Alvarez, Kaz Ishii (more BB than K) and Jeff Weaver.

It’s difficult, because the guys traded, especially Lo Duca, are the some of the ones who really kept me going during the darkness of the latter-day Fox years. But I have a lot of trust in DePodesta’s vision, not only as it pertains to the short-term goal of making a playoff run in 2004 but also the long-term goal of building a team that can dominate the division. This team may not only win the West this year, but may really become something special once that vision is allowed to play out.

Jon Weisman of Dodger Thoughts has, as you might guess, had some great coverage of these Dodger doings. Jon asks the questions, “Would you rather try to win with a true-blue Dodger, even if your chances of winning might be less than if you acquire outsiders? … Will a pennant or World Series title be as sweet without Lo Duca?” (Manager Jim Tracy answered that question by taking over Lo Duca’s uniform number in his honor.)

While there’s so much more to talk about with these deadline acquisitions, I’ll cut off this epic post except to mention one more item. Jon Weisman’s also got a post-deadline pickup for his team — a son born on Wednesday. Congrats to you and your wife, Jon!

The following is a special guest piece by my brother-in-law-to-be, Aaron Hardt, Jr. of Milwaukee. When it comes to both music and baseball, Aaron is a passionate and intrepid fan who will go to great lengths to chase down his favorites. Last spring, he accompanied me on a fantastic Grapefruit League trip. More recently, he and his girlfriend attended this year’s Hall of Fame induction ceremony in Cooperstown, a trek made in honor of one of his all-time favorites, Paul Molitor. Aaron was so enthusiastic in describing it to me that I asked him to pen a guest piece, so here he is in his capacity as the Futility Infielder roving reporter.

• • •

My girlfriend, Jamie, surprised me back in March by organizing a dream vacation: a weekend in Cooperstown to watch what could very well be the last Brewer inducted to the Hall of Fame. If you would have told me that fateful Game Seven World Series loss in 1982 would be the last time I’d see my home team in the postseason, I might have reconsidered choosing to see Barry Manilow at The Milwaukee Arena with my parents that night. Before you judge me, Manilow did start the second half of his show in a Robin Yount jersey! Also, my family had recently moved from Northern Illinois and my heart still belonged to those hapless White Sox teams. The Brewers had manufactured comebacks all year long in 1982. They took the Orioles and Angels at the last possible moment — why wouldn’t they do the same to the Cardinals?

The Brewers had been solid performers ever since 1978, and as a 14-year-old kid, I had no reason other than to believe that they would always be great. I’m fortunate enough to say I got to see those characters play, but sure wish I would have appreciated it more at the time. The Brewers’ making a joke of an offer to Paul Molitor forcing him to leave for greener pastures was the beginning of the end. Yount and Jim Gantner soon followed, the Dark Ages set in, and they continue to reign in Brewtown. So, when Jamie presented me with a chance to relive the salad days, I could hardly wait.

I should point out that an opportunity came up to meet Molitor at a local mall a few weeks back. I decided out of all of the Brewer “swag” I had that nothing would mean more to me than a signature on the itinerary that Jamie had compiled for our trip. There is a long story behind how I ended up first in line, but suffice it to say I secured a wonderful “Have fun Aaron and Jamie Best Wishes Paul Molitor” on the cover of our itinerary — Molly Rules!

After Jamie and I spent a magical couple of days in Niagara Falls, we made the scenic drive to Cooperstown. The town was absolutely buzzing the day before the Induction Ceremony as we made our way in on the trolley. The locals couldn’t have been friendlier! Street vendors were hawking everything from shirts to blueberry pies (which were VERY tasty). The Hall hosted two celebrity signings that drew large crowds that day, Don Zimmer and Rod Carew. I chose to snap a few photos as opposed to waiting in the lines for a signature. Vintage memorabilia ranging from a Honus Wagner card to the National League lineup card from the 2002 All Star Game I attended at Miller Park kept me fascinated for hours.

After a stop at The Blue Mingo Grill for lunch and a road trip to the National Soccer Hall of Fame, we found ourselves trying to figure out where we were going to park for the next day’s festivities. The trolley parking was free, but I couldn’t find anything that said it would actually take us to the grounds of the Clark Sports Center. The closest one would still be quite a long walk. We took a quick spin by the site of the ceremony, and to our horror saw rows of lawn chairs set up behind the VIP section. Instead of camping out, these lunatics already “claimed” all of the good spots by simply plopping a chair down! We had decided not to bring lawn chairs from Milwaukee and only had a blanket, but that was back at the hotel 45 minutes away. We brainstormed and decided to try and find a cheap beach towel at the local “Great American” which turned out to be a grocery store. I said to Jamie, “What about a picnic table cover?” She said that might work and we found a 4′ x 6′ beauty. $1.97 later and armed with a bunch of large rocks from a local construction area, we too had our own plot staked out for the ceremony. MacGyver would’ve been proud!

Sure enough, all of the free parking at the trolley lots had been taken by the time we hit town the next day. I just kept driving until we were only a few blocks away and saw a woman adjusting a parking sign on a tree by her driveway. She was only taking one car and we could have the space — a reasonably short walk compared to the pay for parking opportunities that we had passed. Armed with our cooler and blanket we headed over to see if the “MacGyver Cover” had survived the night. All was well and we settled on the ground right behind the VIPs with a dead-on center view. The hours waiting passed quickly as a large screen was broadcasting major league highlights over the years. Finally, the time came and over 50 Hall of Famers returned for the ceremony! Willie Mays, Reggie Jackson, Sandy Koufax, Rockin’ Robin Yount — they were all there.

After the National Anthem AND the Canadian National Anthem (performed by Fergie Jenkins) we got our first speech from honoree Murray Chass. The legendary New York Times writer received the Spink Award and delivered one of my favorite quotes of the ceremony: “When I was younger than eight I wanted to be a garbage man. I don’t know why I changed my mind, but I’m glad I did.” Next up was Frick Award honoree, San Francisco Giants/Oakland A’s announcer, Lon Simmons. His home run call, “And you can tell it goodbye” gave generations of fans in the Bay area a rally cry for every dinger hit. He started off by saying, “When I walked into the hotel and saw all these fellows there I thought I’d made a mistake. I thought I’d missed the hotel and gone into the wax museum” Lon’s speech might as well have been a roast as he told amusing stories about Orlando Cepeda, Juan Marichal, Willie Mays, Gaylord Perry and others. We were fortunate to be the first crowd to witness a new segment of the ceremony where they would honor a Hall of Famer from years past. This year was the 50th anniversary of Harmon Killebrew’s first year in the Majors, so he got special recognition. Being that Molitor is a Minnesota boy made it all the more significant. Johnny Bench busted out a hilarious rendition of “Take Me Out To The Ball Game” complete with Harry Caray glasses as we headed to the home stretch.

Paul Molitor started his speech with a quote that I think every boy believes: “My dreams never took me to Cooperstown. I didn’t play the game to get here, I played the game because I loved it.” I can safely say it’s that humility that endears Molly to every fan in America and especially the ones who reside in the cities where he’s worn the uniform of the home team. He continued, “When that snow would begin to melt and that grass would start to peak through in the spring time, it was time for baseball” I can’t tell you how many springs I spent staring at my parents backyard in Libertyville, Ilinois with glove in hand just begging for the waterlogged grass to dry off enough so my brother and I could get our season started.

Paul touched on all of the moments of his career from high school, to being signed by the Brewers (“Frank Howard asked me if the scout was drunk when he signed me”), to the ultimate Brewer moment (“Game 5 of the playoffs, Cecil Cooper, a big hit. He drove in Jimmy Gantner and Charlie Moore. And an inning later Rodney hit a ball to Robin at short, and he threw over to Cecil, and County Stadium just went ballistic. I think it was the loudest I ever heard that place”). He concluded by touching on his times in Toronto and Minnesota before thanking his friends and “all 9,000″ of his cousins and family members that had showed up. Most important to me he ended by saying, “And all the fans that came out today, I appreciate you more than you know sharing in this day with me.”

In true closer fashion, Dennis Eckersley brought it home. His tales of overcoming alcohol abuse, failed marriages, and poor performances as a starter only to thrive in the later stages of his career truly brought everyone to tears. His end quote will inspire me forever, “You leave me humbled and grateful for this honor. I’d like to leave an offering of a message of hope. That is, with the grace of God you can change your life, whoever you are.” He had this to say about Molitor: “Paul, you’re among the greatest who ever played this game and, most importantly, those who respect the game with all your heart. You’re one of the smartest players in the game. You did it all. You hit for average, you hit for power, you had the quickest bat in the game. And I tell you what, you were an all-around pain in the — to deal with.”

Our trip ended with us enjoying the presence of five Hall of Famers in one room — Whitey Ford, Rollie Fingers, Jim Palmer (who told us he “owned” Molitor), Tom Seaver and Johnny Bench. We spent the evening in the hotel room watching the last game of the Red Sox vs. Yankees series and dining on some killer Chinese takeout. Afterwards, Jamie asked if that experience made me feel like a 10-year-old boy again. I answered her that it honestly made me feel like a 36-year-old man saying goodbye.

Thank you, Paul Molitor. Thank you, 1982 Milwaukee Brewers. You showed me first hand why I should appreciate all the good in my life while I have it. While the past may be a nice place to visit, it’s time for this fan to stop cheering ghosts. Here’s hoping the current regime of Brewer management and players can field a team for just one season with the same kind of passion, commitment, joy, blood, sweat and tears that you gave for years. This time, me and my VCR will be ready!

Thursday was already shaping up to be a banner day by the time I walked out the door. Not only was I hotly anticipating the publication of my latest piece at Baseball Prospectus, in a matter of a few minutes I’d come up with another blog entry that ended up getting linked via Baseball Primer’s Clutch Hits Baseball Think Factory’s Newsblog. But all of that was small potatoes compared to what came later in the day.

At 6:30, my girlfriend Andra came home with the exciting news that she had been approved for a major promotion at work, an event which had been in the offing for several weeks and which at one stage found her the focal point of a nice little bidding war. After passing her background check and signing the appropriate paperwork, she’s officially the Graphics Manager at Hanes New Ventures Causal Wear, a mere three years after dropping the curtain on a career in film production, and it’s something of which she’s deservedly proud.

Andra wanted to take me out to dinner to celebrate, but I had made even bigger plans, and dinner was only a part of them. I’d spent all day sweating over those plans. In some way, I’d been waiting my entire life for them. My vision of the evening was going to trump hers, and for that I would make no apology.

At 8 PM, Andra walked out onto the lower roofdeck of our apartment, freshly showered after a quick swim, greeted by the sight of two wine glasses, a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, a plate of cheese and crackers, and a boyfriend grinning like a cat who’d just eaten a canary. She smiled at me and said something along the lines of, “Just what are you up to?”

I answered by pulling a small velvet box out of my pocket. “Honey, will you marry me?” I smiled, looking right into the beautiful blue eyes which had melted my cold, broken heart some three-and-a-half years ago. I showed her the diamond ring I had designed with the help of our friend Danielle, based on some preliminary specifications from Andra — she had known this was all coming, she just had no idea when. “Of course,” she replied, hugging me for an eternity before we shared a long, passionate kiss.

I don’t even think she’d looked at the ring yet. Finally, after our smooch, she looked at it, a stunning concoction that had taken my breath away earlier that day upon picking it up from the jeweler, a 1-carat emerald cut centered around 40 tiny little diamonds embedded in a detailed platinum band. “It’s perfect,” she smiled, and kissed me for even longer than before.

• • •

As I’m fond of saying, the events inside a two-week period in the fall of 2000 are the reason for this site’s existence. On October 26, in Shea Stadium, a frumpy but amiable reserve infielder named Luis Sojo delivered a single which drove in the World Series-clinching run for the New York Yankees and made Sojo a minor celebrity. Two days later, still quite heavy-hearted from a recent breakup, I went to a Halloween party in Brooklyn. Sweating quite a bit beneath a yellow Devo radiation suit, I chatted for the better part of an hour with the pink-wigged pal of my friend Brandi, who had invited us both along.

Six days after that party, on November 3, my pal Nick and I went to the Bradlee’s on Union Square to meet Jim Bouton, the author of Ball Four, my all-time favorite book. Bouton was doing a signing to promote the 30th anniversary edition of his classic diary, and as the first to arrive, we had the honor and pleasure of talking to Jim about the book, baseball, and life in general for 45 minutes. Jim even listened intently to my still-unpublished treatise, “Graphic Design as a Form of Pitching.”

Still abuzz after our conversation, Nick and I went for a Thai dinner and then headed for a quick drink before our scheduled connection with our friend Julie. We stumbled into a bar called Scratcher, and to our surprise, there was Julie, along with Brandi and the other gal from the Halloween party, this time wearing a winter cap instead of a pink wig. We sat down, and I somehow ended up next to that gal (whose name I couldn’t quite remember) and ended up talking with her for hours. She listened to me blather about Bouton and Ball Four, and as it turned out, she knew a bit about baseball herself, having grown up in a rabid sports-fan family with a brother who’d worked for the Milwaukee Brewers and once got to be Bernie Brewer. She knew about Stormin’ Gorman Thomas and Harvey’s Wallbangers, and had even helped to film a series of Brewer promos starring Robin Yount, Paul Molitor, and Bob Uecker. We talked of several other things — consumerism and capitalism, butter burgers and cheese curds, film and graphic design — but much of the conversation revolved around baseball.

We left the bar together that night, much to the amazement of our friends. And except for a brief time-out early on, we’ve been together ever since. Last April, we moved into a tiny one-bedroom apartment in the East Village, and besides the occasional dispute over the division of labor as it pertained to the bathroom’s upkeep, it’s been a dream come true, more laughs and hugs and fantastic meals and good times than I could have hoped.

• • •

To say that this blog would not be possible without the love and support of my gal Andra is a gross understatement, something on the order of saying, “Babe Ruth played baseball for the Yankees.” This blog, this website, this whole enchilada of sharing my unquenchable passion for the game with thousands of readers each week would be downright inconceivable. Back when our relationship was in its shaky infancy, Andra was the one who pushed me to start doing this, who gave me the space to follow my muse, and who showed me how being true to that muse and investing in myself made me somebody that she could love all the more. For that I am eternally, incredibly, staggeringly grateful.

Andra is the one who told me it was acceptable to come home from a hard day’s work in front of one computer and sit down in front of another one, crunching through numbers and clicking through links until I found something I wanted to share with the tens, hundreds, or thousands of eyeballs who might read what I thought about baseball on a given day. She’s the one who suggested we go back to Milwaukee for the 2002 All-Star Game, and she’s the one who demanded I tell Alex Belth “yes” in response to his invitation to attend the Winter Meetings in New Orleans.

Our relationship, of course, goes far beyond her support of my writing. We’ve gone through our ups and downs against the backdrop of major career changes, supporting each other emotionally and financially without ever looking back to wonder if we’d made the wrong moves. We’ve endured the terror of our city under siege, realizing that what mattered most to us was the other’s safety and well-being. We’ve gone to the Louvre to appreciate the classic works of European art, and we’ve run around our little apartment like demented, giggling four-year-olds. We’ve enjoyed aquavit and pickled herring at fine restaurants as well as hot dogs and beer at no fewer than six ballparks. And we’re only getting started.

For whatever predictions I may offer here — the Yanks will win, the Tigers Pirates Devil Rays Diamondbacks will lose, and Enrique Wilson will never hit big-league pitching well enough to carry Luis Sojo’s jockstrap — I don’t know what the future holds any more than you do. But I know I’ll have Andra by my side, loving me with as much passion as I love her, and for that I feel like the luckiest guy in the world.

Not that I want to wipe this contest off the top of the page, but I’ve got an article up at Baseball Prospectus related to the Yankees and the trading deadline. It’s my fifth Prospectus piece, a lengthy (and I mean lengthy) analysis of the prospects the Yankees have traded over the past decade, using BP’s Wins Above Replacement measure as the currency.

I analyzed 76 trades over the stretch from the end of the 1993 season to Opening Day 2004 and focused on the deals in which the Yanks gave up “unproven talent,” players who had less than 502 career plate appearances or 162 innings pitched (those numbers are equivalent to a qualifying for the batting or ERA crowns). No, Nick Johnson (P35 PA) and Ted Lilly (229 IP) don’t qualify, nor does Rickey Ledee (587 PA). That left me 70 players to analyze, spread out from the majors to the minors to the Mexican leagues to sheer oblivion. I wasn’t concerned so much with who they got in return or whether they “won” a trade. Rather, in thinking about last year’s Brandon Claussen deal and other deadline moves, I wondered how good the players they traded went on to become.

The moral of the story is that the Yanks have done pretty well based on who they traded. You’ll have to read the article to find out the details. It’s a freebie, so please check it out.

The world of baseball blogs doesn’t have very many women, but quality helps to make up for quantity. Batgirl, a Minnesota Twins fan, has a VERY unique way of getting her points across — Lego re-enactments. You absolutely have to check out her latest one. Thanks to All-Baseball.com for the tip.

I should have some big news here either today or tomorrow, and by that I don’t mean Jose Contreras to the Marlins in a 3-way deal for Randy Johnson. I honestly don’t think the Big Unit is going anywhere, and I’m more pissed that he nixed a deal to the Dodgers than the likelihood that the Yanks and Snakes don’t match up well enough to pull off a deal (these guys must be rolling on the floor laughing about this headline).

But I wouldn’t be too surprised if Brian Cashman has something else up his sleeve. Suffice it to say that by now, I don’t think I’m the only one calling for random distribution of Felix Heredia‘s vital organs (bselig@mlb.com/bselig will get you in there). Cashman’s ability to keep his mouth shut at the right time is what got the A-Rod deal done, and while whatever he does here won’t have nearly that impact, he’s got enough chips (Kenny Lofton, Scott Proctor, and Dioner Navarro come to mind) to pull off something small but perhaps vital to improving the team’s fortunes.

Just to indulge in my wild-ass crystal-ball polishing for a moment, names swirling around either in the news or inside my head that make varying degrees of sense include out-of-favor spot lefties like Ricardo Rincon, Buddy Groom, or Tom Martin, erratic, expensive starter Kevin Millwood, swingman Ramon Ortiz, starter Jason Johnson (if only so the Times editors can yuk it up with “Yanks Grab Somebody Else’s Johnson”), and ancient Mariner Jamie Moyer.

So here’s an idea: drop your best sleeper pick for a Yankee deadline acquisition into the comment window. The best one that turns out to be true (my judgement) wins a spiffy piece of Futility Infielder merchandise, either a mug or a t-shirt (your choice). Those of you who are Baseball Prospectus subscribers might want to bone up on the art of rumor-mongering with this Jim Baker piece. Let’s hear whatcha got, folks.

Rather than belabor the finale of the Yankees-Red Sox series — let’s just say that Jose Contreras should never, ever be let near that lineup — I wanted to take a quick look at what’s separating the two teams. Over at Bronx Banter, my old sparring partner Sully, who runs a blog called The House That Dewey Built noted the following, which I’ve reformatted to fit here (the extra O is for opponent’s):

        OPB   SLG   OOBP  OSLG

Sox    .358  .470   .326  .407

Yanks  .352  .456   .321  .431

Accompanying this, Sully asked, “Is there a better strategy for winning baseball games than hitting for more power and getting on base more often than your opponent?” Elsewhere he asked:

What do you all make of BP’s adjusted standings, pythag and the like? As a Sox fan, it’s little consolation to me that the Sox are better than the Yanks in this respect but it does provide conviction in my belief that the Sox are at the very least the Yanks’ equal. I am interested in sober thoughts here. Not “all that matters are wins and losses baby”.

I offered Sully some quick answers, which I may as well expand upon here because I’m not going back to dwell on that ugly mess of a game (though I’m ready for somebody to carve up Felix Heredia for organ donation). First, let’s look at a portion of the Baseball Prospectus Adjusted Standings (through Sunday) to which he referred:

Team       W   L   RS   RA   W1   L1    EQR EQRA   W2   L2    D1   D2  

Red_Sox   54  44  548  479  55.5  42.5  577  444  61.4 36.6  -1.5 -7.4   

Yankees   61  36  541  478  54.4  42.6  531  456  55.7 41.3   6.6  5.3

The first four columns are the two teams’ actual wins, losses, runs scored, and runs allowed. Using BP’s Pythagenport formula, a modification of Bill James’ Pythagorean formula which takes into account the run environment (the total number of runs per game), the Sox, based on their runs scored and allowed, could be expected to have a record that’s 1.5 games better than their current one. The Yankees, on the other hand, could be expected to have a record that’s 6.6 games worse than their current record — an eight game swing, the same gap as that in the loss column.

Looking at the next set of numbers, we find the Equivalent Runs produced by the team — a team’s total offensive production, adjusted for park and league environment – and the number of Equivalent Runs allowed as well. These numbers measure how the components of runs — the hits, the walks, the steals, the outs — should add up on both sides of the ball. The Red Sox could be expected to outscore their opponents by 133 runs, though they’ve actually outscored them by only 69 — a huge swing of 7.4 games to the negative. The Yankees, on the other hand, could have been expected to outscore opponents by 75 runs, and in fact, they’ve only done so by 63. They’ve outdone that projection by 5.3 games, another huge gap.

I said it after the Yankee sweep at the beginning of the month and I’ll say it again — despite the large gap in the standings, the run differentials show that these two teams are pretty close, and that kind of stuff has a way of evening out over the course of a season. The larger the sample size, the more closely a team’s record will resemble its Pythagorean record, and the more closely its projected runs will resemble its actual runs. The things that often cause over- and underperformance relative to the Pythagorean are things like records in one-run games, a large number of blowouts, and particularly clutch (or unclutch) performances. Timing is everything.

Just taking a quick glance at the two teams’ records in one-run games, the Yanks were 17-11 through Sunday, while the Sox were 7-10. How about that for an easy answer? Flipping through the two teams’ batting stats, check out their performance in the “Close and Late” split, situations when the game is in the 7th inning or later and the hitter’s team is ahead by one run, tied, or with the potential tying run on base, at bat or on deck.

       AVG   OBP   SLG   OPS  SL*OB

Yanks .292  .381  .481  .862   .183

Opp   .232  .290  .361  .650   .105



Sox   .281  .355  .449  .804   .159

Opp   .236  .312  .395  .707   .123

How do you like them apples? While close and late is not the be-all and end-all of clutch stats — hitting with runners in scoring position or with two outs and runners in scoring position are just as important, if not moreso, and just as elusive to trend-tracking — this performance nonetheless does explain a bit of the spread between those two teams. The Yankees have a higher OPS than their opponents in those situations by over 200 points, while the Sox are about 100 points better than their opponents. That last column is SLG times OBP, which is a pretty good thumbnail measure for runs created per at-bat, not to mention old, old favorite of mine. The Yankees are 75 percent more productive per at-bat than their opponents in those situations, while the Sox are about 29 percent more productive than their opponents. Yankee hitters are about 10 percent more productive than Sox hitters in those situations, and Yankee pitchers are about 15 percent more productive (or their opponents’ hitters less productive) than Sox pitchers in those situations.

Check out some of those Yankee OPS numbers in that situation:

           OPS  PA

Giambi   1.098  39

Posada   1.095  51

Matsui   1.059  56

Cairo    1.026  29

Jeter     .982  53

Sierra    .955  36

Lofton    .900  25

Sheffield .813  59

Rodriguez .736  58

Williams  .576  58

Clark     .557  32

With small sample sizes duly noted, that’s still a whole lot of clutch goodness on one end, not to mention Mariano Rivera — two consecutive blown saves after Monday night notwithstanding — on the other. Some Sox numbers for comparison:

               OPS  PA

Garciaparra  1.115  18

Kapler       1.060  20

Damon        1.012  50

McCarty       .995  29

Youklis       .911  23

Ramirez,      .897  55

Ortiz         .890  54

Bellhorn      .749  52

Mueller       .734  35

Nixon         .627  17

Varitek       .617  52

Millar        .576  43

Some good ones, but more clunkers than the Yanks. Add it all up and you can say that at least in this situation, the Yanks have been more clutch than the Sox this year. But be forewarned: clutch hitting is a statistical Sasquach, a mythical beast ofted hunted but never subdued, only found in retrospect. Clutch hits exist, consistent clutch hitters simply do not, no matter how many times your drunk-assed buddy on the barstool high-fives you as he talks about what a money player Ol’ Googly-Eye Jackson is. Just because certain Yanks have hit well in 40 or 50 trips to the plate in certain situations doesn’t mean they’ll continue to do so; in fact it’s more likely that those numbers will come to more closely resemble the rest of their stats. And whether or not the team in Boston is actually gunning for the AL East flag or merely trying to assure itself of the Wild Card, don’t be surprised when the race tightens.

That is, unless the Yankees throw Felix Heredia’s intestines to the wolves after finding another competent reliever, in which case the Bombers ought to run away with it all.

There’s plenty to be said about the last four Yankees games, all of which I’ve watched. I’ve got a bunch of other projects in motion, some social engagements, and a fairly pressing need to clear the decks, so I’m just to roll through these with more brevity (late note: riiiiiight) than I’d otherwise prefer lest I miss a chance to jot down a few thoughts. C’est la vie — I wouldn’t trade what I have going on right now for anything but a front-line starting pitcher for the Yanks or a power-hitting first baseman for the Dodgers (or is that the other way around?)

• Andra and I attended Wednesday’s game against the Blue Jays. At the outset I explained to her that Jays’ starter Pat Hentgen used to be a good pitcher, winning the Cy Young award back in 1996, but that he was hardly the same anymore. In the back of my mind, I recalled an email exchange with a certain member of the Toronto front office (you smart kids can connect the dots) about Hentgen in January. My correspondant had noted that while Hentgen’s Defense-Independent Pitching Stats weren’t so hot [a 5.07 dERA], the Jays had been impressed with his second-half performance last year [he went 6-3 with a 3.10 ERA for the Orioles] coming off of Tommy John surgery, his velocity had returned, his breaking ball was very good, and Toronto was taking little risk on his one-year contract. I just nodded to myself, figuring that either my correspondent either had a bit of wishful thinking going on or else was duty-bound to defend his team’s decision.

Anyway, the Yankees didn’t just knock Hentgen off the mound on Wednesday, they knocked him into retirement. In retrospect, it wasn’t at all surprising, because the guy had absolutely nuthin’. While the struggling Jays’ pitcher escaped a two-on, one-out jam in the first unscathed, he found trouble again in the second, loading the bases with no out. Bernie Williams broke a grisly 2-for-41 slump with a single up the middle, and the Yanks kept the line moving, batting around to put up a five-spot, climaxed by Jorge Posada’s two-run single. All of this with Derek Jeter and Jason Giambi sitting, the former with a small, nondisplaced fracture in his hand sustained the day before and the latter having undergone a battery of tests related to his still-sapped strength following that recent parasitic infestation (eeeugh).

In the top of the third, Yankee starter Javier Vazquez, who has not been sharp for the past month (a 7.06 ERA in his previous four starts) found trouble of his own, giving up two runs, ignominiously issuing a bases-loaded walk to backup catcher Greg Zaun. That Zaun, a career .375 slugger was batting in the fifth slot speaks volumes about the Jays’ disappointing season.

The Bronx Bombers kept shelling Hentgen. Bernie delivered another RBI single in the bottom of the inning, and a Miguel Cairo infield single chased the Toronto starter, leaving two men on. Reliever Bob File came in to face Gary Sheffield, who’s been swinging a hot bat lately despite bursitis in his left shoulder. Shef had delivered a game-winning two-run homer the day before, the 397th of his career. His shot had immediately followed Jeter getting hit by a pitch, just one more example of how he’s been the big bat in the Bomber lineup, exacting vengeance and wreaking havoc on opposing pitchers. As File warmed up, I caught Andra up with this news, reminding her that at the outset of the season I’d said repeatedly to anyone within earshot, “Personal feelings about the man aside, there’s no ballplayer I’d rather watch hit than Gary Sheffield.”

Shef stepped into the box, wagging his bat with his usual menace. He turrned on File’s first pitch, crushing it into the leftfield stands for a towering three-run homer that made the score 9-2. One of these days, I’m going to have to devote a whole piece to Shef. You take Barry, I’ll take Gary.

Each team scored one more run before the game was out, with the Yanks’ coming on Enrique Wilson lining a shot down the rightfield line, a perfect illustration that even a blind chicken finds a kernal of corn now and again, especially when a lousy middle reliever is the one scattering it. The only other event of note came in the seventh inning, when Toronto first baseman Carlos Delgado stepped to the plate. A knucklehead in a Yankee road jersey one section over stood up and started berating Delgado with lines like “Go back to the Dominican Republic!” and “Get out of my country!” It took me a moment to piece together what he was saying — Delgado has been the only major-leaguer to speak out regarding the U.S. war against Iraq. As I put two and two together, my blood began to boil, not only because of my own feelings on the matter, but also because the xenophobe in the stands couldn’t even get Delgado’s country right — he’s Puerto Rican, making him a U.S. citizen. Delgado’s got a history of speaking his mind, having protested the U.S. Navy’s history of testing weapons on the Puerto Rican island of Vieques, stepping up with money and his good name to back the cause. When I turned and shouted at the knucklehead to sit his ass down, I was heartened by the fact that more people around me were directing their disapproval at him than they were at Delgado; the tough-looking guy a couple rows behind me responding by yelling, “Hey, you get out of my stadium!” Within a minute, said knucklehead, obviously inebriated, was being escorted out by his own friends.

Delgado was conspicuously absent from the field during “God Bless America,” having been removed from the ballgame by manager Carlos Tosca and thus excuse from the rote display of patriotism during the seventh-inning stretch. The local media took note of the whole thing, of course, noting that while “God Bless America” is only played intermittently around the rest of the league, it’s rammed down the throats of Yankee Stadium denizens every single game.

• I missed Thursday afternoon’s ballgame because I was at work, but I watched parts of it during YES Network’s encore presentation Friday morning. With the Yankee starting rotation in tatters, the rejuvenated Orlando Hernandez twirled an absolute gem. With his knee-high socks and his cap brim low, El Duque was the nationwide badass of old, baffling the Jays’ hitters, pitching seven shutout innings and striking out ten while scattering a mere four singles and one walk. But the crafty 38-year-old Cuban was matching zeroes with former Yankee Ted Lilly, who was slightly less dominant but no less effective through 6.2 innings before giving way to the Toronto bullpen. The game stayed scoreless into the bottom of the ninth. Vinny (The Incredible) Chulk impressively struck out Sheffield and Alex Rodriguez, but Ruben Sierra lofted a 2-1 fastball over the fence for a 1-0 victory, only the second time in Yankee history a 1-0 game had ended in such a way, and the first time in 15 years that the 39-year-old Sierra had hit a walk-off homer — or as we prefer to call them around here, a Get Off My Property Home Run. Sierra’s reemergence has been one of the more heartening sidebars to the Yanks’ season, as the once-promising-but-petulant slugger has exhibited nothing but class and maturity while providing a big bat off the bench and in the DH slot.

• Volumes could be written about Friday night’s battle between the Yankees and Red Sox in Fenway Park. With the Yanks having sent the Sox reeling by sweeping them at the turn of the month — capped by that incredible 13-inning affair in which Jeter dove into the stands at full speed — the two teams entered the series nine games apart in the loss column, with the Sox more focused on maintaining the AL Wildcard than fighting for the division crown. The Yanks struck first against Bosox blowhard Curt Schilling with a Sheffield homer over the Green Monster, but the Sox roared back against shaky Yankee starter Jon Lieber, putting up three runs in the second, capped by Bill Mueller’s two-run homer.

Boston extended its lead to 4-1 with a homer by Kevin Millar in the fourth, the YES announcers noting that the “Cowboy Up!” sloganeer had failed to walk the walk this season until breaking out earlier in the week. I had swapped emails with my friend Nick regarding Millar, the context of which was a rumor that Boston would trade for Houston centerfielder Carlos Beltran, recently acquired from the Kansas City Royals before the Astros went in the tank. I explained my understanding that with Johnny Damon enjoying a fine season, the Sox would put Beltran in right, with Trot Nixon and Manny Ramirez sharing left and DH, David Ortiz taking over first base and Millar being sent to the little girls’ room with all of the other .380-slugging first basemen. I would soon be eating that crow.

The Yankees clawed for a run in the fifth, knocking Schilling out of his groove with a bunch of singles and a walk; Schill needed 25 pitches to get out of the innings. But the Yanks delivered an even harsher blow in the sixth. A-Rod reached on an infield single and then Giambi, who hasn’t had a base hit since July 11, worked a walk off of the Boston pitcher with an epic ten-pitch at-bat. Posada won an eight-pitch affair with an RBI single up the middle. Hideki Matsui grounded into a fielder’s choice which sent Giambi to third. Joe Torre, sensing he had Schilling on the ropes — he’d already thrown another 26 pitches in the inning — sent up Sierra to pinch-hit for Enrique Wilson. Five pitches later, Sierra chopped a pitch that a charging Millar fielded halfway between first and home. Giambi had gotten a good enough jump that he was already mid-slide by the time the Boston first baseman found the handle; in his hesitation he missed an opportunity to tag Sierra as he passed by, and when he turned to throw to first base, nobody was there. All hands were safe, and the score was now tied at 4. Immediately following that, Kenny Lofton smoked an RBI double down the rightfield line just under Millar’s glove, giving the Yanks the lead. That spelled the end for Schilling, and Mike Timlin came on in relief. But Bernie Williams further tormented Millar by lacing another double down the rightfield line, scoring two runs, both charged to Schilling’s room. Chalk up another five-spot for the Yanks.

The long inning had made Torre’s decision to pull the shaky Lieber academic, and Paul Quantrill cameon in relief. Quantrill quickly gave up a solo Monster shot to a penitent Millar, trimming the lead to two. He coughed up another run in the seventh on a Johnny Damon single and a Jason Varitek double. In came spot lefty Felix Heredia; calling him a one-out guy is overly charitable, as Heredia had already failed at the simple task of retiring a single batter five times this year. He took that total to six by walking David Ortiz. But Tom Gordon came in and induced a double-play grounder from Manny Ramirez. He plunked Nomar Garciaparra in the back of the shoulder — unintentionally, it appeared, but who knows? — but retired Trot Nixon on a flyout to end the threat with the Yanks clinging to a 7-6 lead. But Gordon’s magic wore off as Millar led off the eighth with his third homer of the game, another no-doubt Monster shot that tied the game. Gulp.

Boston closer Keith Foulke came on in the ninth inning and got Jeter — back in the lineup after a mere day’s rest — to fly out, but Sheffield hammered a double high off of the massive leftfield wall and then A-Rod drove him home with a single to left, helping to erase memories of his miserable Fenway series back in April. Mariano Rivera nailed the game down in the bottom of the ninth, and with the victory came the murmurs that the Sox, now ten games back in the loss column and 37-38 over their past 75 games, were D.O.A. Alas, I missed the game’s money shot — Curt Schilling sobbing in the dugout alone following the final out. Oh well. So long as he’s unhappy, I’m that much happier.

• Further suspicions that the Sox had flatlined came in the early innings of Saturday’s game, the start of which was postponed for over an hour by rain. The Yanks scored two runs off of Bronson Arroyo in the second inning and had just added a third in the third when A-Rod stepped into the box. The young Sox hurler had already hit 12 men in 89.1 innings, the highest rate in the league, when he plunked Rodriguez on the elbow on a 1-1 pitch. Livid, the Yankee third baseman barked some choice four-letter words at Arroyo before Sox catcher Jason Varitek got in his face. A-Rod told Varitek to come on, and the Sox catcher, still wearing his mask, decked him in the face. From the look of the replays (which were of course repeated ad nauseum, with Fox annnouncers Tim McCarver and Joe Buck bloviating all manner of macho bullshit), it appears as though A-Rod got Varitek in a headlock and delivered a few choice blows himself as both benches emptied. Yankee starter Tanyon Sturtze joined the fray, battling a tag-team of reserve Sox outfielder/bodybuilding prettyboy Gabe Kapler and already-suspended behemoth David Ortiz, emerging with blood trickling from his left ear.

It took several minutes for the umpires to restore order while Fox cut to a clip of the two teams’ May 20, 1976 fight at home plate following a collision between Lou Piniella and Carlton Fisk, the one in whch Sox pitcher Bill (Spaceman) Lee got his collarbone broken by Graig Nettles. Varitek comically resumed his position behind the plate before umpire Bruce Froemming told him to take a hike, and he got a massive ovation from the Fenway faithful upon exiting. Rodriguez was ejected as well, as were Kapler and Kenny Lofton, who was nowhere near any of the fray, at least as seen on TV. As the rest of the inning ended without further incident, speculation abounded as to whether Sturtze, clearly ready for war, would continue, and how soon before he would retaliate. The Fox idiots went so far as to wonder how it would look if Torre had another pitcher warming up while Sturtze drilled somebody, anticipating his own ejection.

Patched up with some goop over his ear gash, Sturtze did indeed return to the mound, his adrenaline obviously pumping. He gave up a single to Millar and a double to Bill Mueller, and then Millar scored on a Mark Bellhorn grounder. Another infield grounder scored Mueller, and the Sox had cut the lead to 3-2. Sturtze left after that inning, with reports that the Yankee pitcher had sustained a bruised pinky on his right (pitching) hand. Owie! Rookie Juan Padilla, incongruously wearing sunglasses on an overcast day, came on in relief and immediately shifted the game to a new kind of ugliness — bad relief pitching. The two teams had called upon a combined total of seven relief pitchers in Friday night’s emotional rollercoaster, most of them doing little besides pouring gasoline on the fire. With the Yanks forced to go to their pen early, they could only hope for the best while expecting the worst. And it was the worst they got. Padilla walked Ortiz, gave up a double to Manny, and allowed three straight singles to score two runs and load the bases with nobody out. He got lucky when he reacted quickly to a comebacker from Mueller, throwing home to begin a snappy 1-2-3 double play and then escaping on a Bellhorn lineout. But the Sox had taken a 4-3 lead.

The Yanks finally struck back in the sixth, still facing Arroyo. Wilson, who’d replaced Rodriguez in the batting order, reached on an infield single, and then Posada doubled. Matsui followed with a two-run double to rightfield to retake the lead. Arroyo got the next two hitters, but Miguel Cairo slapped a single up the middle to score Matsui. Bernie singled, ending Arroyo’s afternoon. Curtis Leskanic walked both Jeter and Sheffield, forcing a run home. Wilson, likely setting a personal record with two positive events in the same inning, singled home two runs, and then Leskanic walked Posada as well. Mark Malaska came out of the bullpen to restore some order, striking out Matsui to cap the Yankee rally at six runs — the third time in four days the Yanks had put up five or more in a single inning.

With the game now 9-4, it looked like a laugher in the Yankees favor, the Bronx Bombers finally stepping on the Sox’s collective neck. But Padilla remained in the ballgame, quickly allowing the first two hitters to reach. Joe Torre replaced the rookie mid-count with Quantrill, who yielded a single to Millar to load the bases. On each of the next three hitters, Quantrill yielded a run, with the best result being a sac fly to Mueller. He struck out catcher Doug Mirabelli, who’d replaced Varitek, and then Torre called upon Heredia to do more damage. The Lefthanded No-Out Guy (LNOGY isn’t as catchy an acronym as LOOGY, is it?) gave up walks to both Ortiz and Ramirez, allowing a run to cut the lead to 9-8. But rookie Scott Proctor saved the Yanks’ bacon by coming on to blow away Nomar with some high-90s heat. Still, by the time the dust settled, the two teams had scored ten runs in an inning that lasted over an hour.

Ruben Sierra looked to set things right for the Yanks by homering over the Monster on Malaksa’s third pitch of the next inning, and the Yanks then loaded the bases on three consecutive Boston errors, the hometown team looking something like the Bad News Bears. Alan Embree forced Tony Clark at home on a play that echoed the Yanks 1-2-3 DP, but Boston couldn’t finish the job, leaving Embree to strike out Sheffield on three pitches (how often does that happen?) and then retire WIlson.

Proctor continued his impressive pitching until he gave up a two-out single in the eighth inning, whereupon Torre called upon Mo to get Manny (where was Jack?), which he did on a first-pitch fly ball. By this time it was ten minutes to eight, and Andra and I shut off the TV to head over to Nick’s for a dinner party. The league’s best reliever on the mound with a two-run lead against a team they were 9.5 games ahead of in the standings? No reason for the dinner bell to go unanswered.

And it was just as well. My pals and I have a saying: “At this point, if the Yankees aren’t going to win this game, I don’t want to watch.” So we were spared the fiasco of the ninth. I was shocked when I got to Nick’s that he didn’t have the game on, but he’d been out all afternoon and was so wrapped up preparing an authentic taco fiesta that he hadn’t even bothered. We turned on the TV just in time to see somebody — Mueller it turns out — being mobbed at home plate by his Sox teammates as the Fenway crowd went wild. We cursed, immediately turned off the TV, gnashed our teeth a few times while uttering a few more choice words, cracked open a round of beers, reminded ourselves that this wasn’t Aaron Boone, and commenced partying. The Sox may have won, and the Sunday papers would be full of their rhetoric and the blow-by-blow descriptions, but we had better things to do than suffer.

Happy two-year anniversary to Jon Weisman’s great Dodger Thoughts blog, my hands-down favorite for news about the goings-on in Chavez Ravine. Jon’s intrepid coverage of the Dodgers has been exactly what I needed to bridge the 3,000 mile gap — not to mention the cynicism and alienation — between my current station in life and the team I grew up rooting for.

With the Dodgers in the midst of a hot streak (winning 14 out of 15 and going up 2.5 games in the NL West) Jon invited me and several other bloggers, not all of us Dodger fans, to contribute a quick take on the team. Here’s what I wrote:

Last week I decided to check in on the Dodgers on MLB.tv for the first time in a few weeks. It was the inning where Green hit the grand slam, the kind of thing that makes you believe that just maybe they can win something. Of course, with Jim Tracy, I always think they can find a way to be in it. Smoke, mirrors, duct tape around Adrian Beltre’s ankle and the arms of the starting rotation, perhaps some voodoo dolls – one of these days Tracy’s skill at getting the most out of this motley collection will pay off, and the Dodgers will return to their rightful place atop the NL West. I’m beginning to think that this is the year.

I’m a little scared to dig much deeper into the Dodgers with analysis right now, because the last time I did, they turned a mini-slump into a real slide. Even with this, I opened my big yap and they lost to the Rockies last night, so for now, I’ll just keep this brief. Check out the wide range of amusing and thoughtful responses at Dodger Thoughts.

At a recent Baseball Prospectus Bookstore gathering, Alex Belth recently helped me fight off a case of class clownism by showing me an advance copy of The Numbers Game: Baseball’s Lifelong Fascination with Statistics by Alan Schwarz, who writes for ESPN, Baseball America and the New York Times. Two minutes of thumbing through it, I could barely bring myself to return the book.

Hotly anticipating its publication, I jumped through the necessary hoops to score a review copy, and I’ve had my nose buried in The Numbers Game since it arrived on Friday. Suffice it to say that if you have any interest in the history of baseball statistics, from the development of the box score to the onslaught of Internet-based live stat feeds and splits to the entry of performance analysis into front offices, this is a book for you. Take this as a fine companion to Moneyball.

My man Alex Belth recently published a superb interview he did with Schwarz last month. Here’s an excerpt which captures some of the flavor of the exchange:

BB: How long have you had the idea to do a book?

AS: The idea for this project started about three years ago. Harvard Magazine asked me to profile a professor in their statistics department named Carl Morris. It’s possible that your readers have since heard of him because he dabbled in baseball statistics. He had a lot of fun with baseball statistics and had lots of little ideas, and even big ideas about baseball statistics. So they thought it would be a fun profile. I went up and met professor Morris, up in Harvard Square. And I’m in a bagel shop, just talking with him about his ideas. And he told me about a method of looking at the game that I had never heard of. It’s called the base-out matrix, where you look to see how many runs are scored in each of the twenty-four possible situations. There are three different out possibilities, zero, one or two outs. And then there are eight different configurations of bases empty, man on first, man on second, man on third, etc. So there are twenty-four different states. And if say, and this is off the top of my head, .57 runs are scored with a man on first and one out, and an average of .68 runs are scored with a man on second and two out, well then you know that the person who got a guy from first to second while making an out — say getting the ground ball and moving him over from the right side, or whatever it may have been — added on average .11 runs. It’s just a way of looking at the Markovian states of the game. And I was like, “Wow, that’s cool. I’ve never really looked at it that way.” And professor Morris went out of his way to tell me that this was not his idea. This had been done for the first time by a man named George Lindsey in the 1950s. I had no idea anyone cared about this stuff back then. I had always thought that sabermetrics had begun pretty much with Bill James and computers. George Lindsey? Who is this George Lindsey guy? Well, I went and tried to read about this Lindsey person and his name wasn’t anywhere. You couldn’t find anything on George Lindsey. The more I talked with professor Morris, he gave me more names — Earnshaw Cook was one — the more I realized I didn’t know anything about the history of baseball statistics — before Bill James, I knew nothing. Given that I’m supposed to be a well-informed baseball guy, I wanted to read a book about this. There wasn’t any. So I had to write it. I wrote it because it didn’t exist. And was happy to find that there was as much great material and history as I hoped there would be. It was absolutely amazing how deep and rich the history of people’s obsession with statistics is. It’s been a part of the game since Alexander Cartwright. It was very reassuring to know that the mania I share with so many has been descended from a long line of others. Lindsey wanted to know how often a guy scores from second base on a single, so you know what he did? He scored 1,700 games over ten years to figure it out. That’s insane. It’s wonderful, it’s inspiring, it’s disturbing, it’s enlightening — and it’s worthy of a book.

Indeed it is, and I’ll have a review of it sometime soon (I must admit I’m a bit surprised that Schwarz has never heard of a base-out matrix, but I’ll save that for later). Alex also has an enjoyable, rambling interview with injury expert and author Will Carroll, discussing the long and winding road to his unique niche and the publication of his book, Saving the Pitcher. As the Beastie Boys say, “Ch-check it out!”