“The New York Game”, Part 2

The New York Game: Baseball and the Rise of a New City is a new book from Kevin Baker that explores the early impact of New York and New Yorkers on the game we know today. Kevin is a contributing editor for Harper’s, and has published in The New York Times, The New Republic and New York Observer. He is also the co-author of Reggie Jackson’s Becoming Mr. October. Part 1 of our discussion appeared last week. 

So, that was quite a World Series.

Yeah.

You don’t seem very happy. Was this year the very worst Yankees playoff loss?  Ever?

Far from it. In the Brian Cashman era, you get used to incredible, humiliating losses in the postseason. I think I speak for all Yankees fans when I say that, considering the circumstances, the 2024 World Series—even the already notorious fifth inning of the fifth game—doesn’t lay a glove on the 2004 American League Championship Series, when the hated Red Sox come back from down, three-games-to-nothing. Or the ninth-inning, seventh-game loss to Arizona, in the 2001 World Series, just weeks after 9/11.

Wasn’t this World Series already lost, with the Dodgers having jumped out to a 3-0 lead in games?

More than likely. But the Dodgers, who played magnificently despite a tidal wave of injuries that had gone on all year, seemed to be finally wobbling. Their relief pitching was starting to fray. Shohei Ohtani was running the bases with his arm in a sort of sling. I actually felt sorry for him when Cole struck him out in that fifth inning, with high fastballs he couldn’t reach. And then—

Ralph Branca of the Brooklyn Dodgers

Yes, then.

“The worst defensive inning in the history of the World Series,” they’re calling it. And I think that’s about right.

Who made the worst mistake?

For the players involved, the worst mistake was one thing. But for me, it wasn’t anything a player did at all. That play was inexcusable, of course, where Mookie Betts beat out a ground ball because Anthony Rizzo and Gerrit Cole couldn’t decide who was going to cover first. All credit to Betts, who was running hard on what looked like a sure out, in a game his team was losing by five runs. But that mix-up should never happen between two veteran players in a World Series game.

For me, though, the really unforgivable part of that inning was not what any player did, but what Aaron Boone did not do.

The Yankees manager? What was he supposed to do?

He needed to make it stop.

Yankees fans get on Boone perhaps too much, especially considering how constrained he is under Brian Cashman. But this World Series was not his finest hour. He made some terrible lineup and pitching decisions that cost the Yanks at least one game. And then there was what he did not do.

Continue reading ““The New York Game”, Part 2″

Clemente’s Throw

by Ron Halvorson

All the OG sluggers the Old Fans watched play at Candlestick Park–
Miracle Mays, Mighty McCovey, Cyclone Cepeda, Uppercut Evans, Angry Jack Clark, King Kong Kingman, Redneck Jeff Kent, Mayhem Matt Williams,
and the Millennial Enigma himself—Titanic Barry Bonds!

But all those star shots launched into the infamous Candlestick jet stream
pale in comparison to the atomic arm displayed by visiting Pirate Roberto Clemente in 1968.

Old Fan still visualizes that cold, windy summer night,
watching Clemente dashing for, scooping up the bouncing baseball,
Negotiating the warning track deep in right-center field.

Clemente as whirling dervish spinning,
Athletic possession,
hardwired into baseball poetry,
like a Rumi poem divinely inspired.

Clemente’s arm now dispossessed from the body,
Superpower unleashed,
Following through like an Olympian hammer thrower.

Then the baseball rose into the fluorescent lights,
Gaining altitude,
Higher than a wicked drive by McCovey,
Now level with the disbelieving eyes of Old Fan in the upper deck behind home plate.

Who needs a cut-off man?
Not Clemente.

The majestic arc,
Seemingly suspended in the ethos,
slowly descended,
as the lumbering Giant runner rounded third base.

Into the waiting big paws of the Pirate catcher,
Who stood nonchalantly on top of home plate,
Clemente’s mighty heave softly fell.

The dead duck Giant runner?
He just stopped,
Staring in disbelief,
As the laughing catcher tagged him out.

So wax poetic about Clemente’s throws,
All you talking heads on the radio,
Who wish you saw him play.

Well, that foggy night at Candlestick,
During the summer of love in iconic San Francisco–
It ain’t on the internet.

That throw was visceral, not virtual–
You had to be there,
Amid the blowing hot dog wrappers and wafting cannabis smoke.

We were there, and you weren’t—
Old fans, real eyes,
Witnessing the Great Clemente live.

Ron Halvorson is a freelance writer and lifelong San Francisco Giants fan who went to his first game at windy Candlestick Park in the early 1960s.