The Futility Infielder

I spent the better part of the weekend at Yankee Stadium, watching the suddenly resurgent Yanks take on the Cleveland Indians. I already had tickets for Sunday's game, but when Andra accepted an invitation to the beach on Saturday and my boy Cliff Corcoran offered me a shot at Old Timer's Day in the bleachers, I couldn't say no, not with a forecast of 80 degrees and sunshine.

During the ten years I've been going to see the Yanks, I'd only been to one other game in the bleachers, also with Cliff -- the infamous Bloody Sock/A-Rod Slap game, Game Six of last year's ALCS. Needless to say, I was eager for a more positive experience out there, even if I felt like a tourist in that environment.

We arrived in time for the Old Timer's festivities, which consisted of about 45 minutes worth of introductions by John Sterling and Michael Kay, two voices of the Yankees that test the patience of even their most ardent fans. The buzz in the bleachers centered less on the pinstriped legends of our lifetime -- Don Mattingly, Reggie Jackson, Ron Guidry, Goose Gossage (in tribute to whom Cliff had shaved his goatee into a menacing mustache; alas, he won't let me post the photo) -- than on the Dark Age-era scrubs who were making their OTD debuts -- Scott Bradley, Dan Pasqua, Neil Allen (now the bullpen coach and perhaps the heir apparent to Mel Stottlemyre), Steve Sax (not a scrub, but of that less memorable time) -- along with current Yankee coach Joe Girardi and broadcaster David Justice.

The obscure and incompetent are equally well met on OTD, forgiven for their past transgressions as if they were simply crazy hairstyles of a bygone era (which covers the decidedly less Afro'd Oscar Gamble), and so Bye Bye Balboni and Kevin Maas, a matched pair of one-dimensional sluggers, drew warm responses, as did Cliff Johnson, best remembered for breaking Gossage's thumb in a '79 clubhouse brawl. More predictably, the Hall of Famers (Reggie, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, and Phil Rizzut) drew huge ovations, but the biggest was reserved for Mattingly, a man for whom I have a decidely lukewarm reaction. With Jim Bouton not in attendance, my own cheers were loudest for Jim Leyritz, the King of the postseason (eight homers in 61 at-bats, including the big three-run shot in the '96 World Series, and one in the '99 Series clincher -- the last home run of the 1900s, actually -- which I witnessed first-hand).

As the Old Timer's Game intros rolled on endlessly, dark clouds rolled in, and after an inning and a half of surreal play in which Luis Sojo cracked the biggest blow, in which Justice played the infield, rain began to fall, all before the crowd could watch Reggie hit. Drat.

Fortunately, the rain subsided by the time of the 4 PM start, but it quickly got out of hand. Gary Sheffield and Alex Rodriguez cracked first-inning homers off of Indians' starter Scott Elarton, and at first it looked as though the Yanks might add to their six-game winning streak. Shef's shot went over the visiting bullpen, which makes for a ball that ends up a looooong ways away. But Yankee starter Darrell May couldn't hold the lead. Acquired in the Paul Quantrill trade from the Padres, May is a lefty with a career ERA above 5.00, but he's got a pulse and enough working body parts to throw the ball towards the plate, which these days is enough to earn at least the major-league minimum (see Wayne Franklin for further evidence) and even a shot on a thin Yankee staff. He retired the side in impressive fashion in the first inning, striking out both Grady Sizemore and Travis Hafner after which I turned to Cliff and said, "Well, it's all downhill from here for his Yankee career."

So true, so true. Before May had retired another batter, Jose Hernandez cracked a two-run shot off of him in the second, immediately followed by a solo homer from the terminally misspelled Jhonny Peralta. Six outs into the game, and we'd seen four homers and five runs. I had predicted a total of 27 runs on the day given the two starters, and we were ahead of pace. Hernandez cracked another two-run shot in the third to keep us on schedule -- seven runs, 14 outs -- but the Yanks were stymied by Elarton, and the prediction of a slugfest faded.

But not the Indians' offense, which chased May in the fifth by scoring two runs, the second on a single by Hernandez, giving him five RBI on a day in which he'd entered with a mere 16 all year; 7-2, Indians. Robinson Cano plated Ruben Sierra, who'd doubled to leadoff the home half of the fifth, but the Yanks couldn't capitalize further.

By the seventh inning, I'd been battling the late-afternoon sun for a good hour, but even with a cap and a pair of sunglasses, I had a splitting headache. Four and a half hours at the ballpark, and I was cooked. So I took my leave of Cliff and his fellow bleacher denizens (considerably better behaved than my last outing there), only to miss an exciting comeback that fell short, with Hideki Matsui stroking a three-run homer and the two teams trading runs in the ninth. Joe Torre made some questionable bullpen decisions, and the Yanks had the tying run on second base with no outs but failed to capitalize; you can read all about in Cliff's writeup. Thanks to my mustachioed friend for the ticket, even if he won't let me publish the pic.

• • •

Though Sunday was about 10 degrees hotter, the view from my more familiar perch in the upper deck made me much more comfortable, as I'd spent the rest of Saturday suffering from some moderate eye strain (I'm hopelessly nearsighted, and the view from the bleachers taxes my vision to the max). With my pal Nick Stone joining me, I felt right at home in the House That Ruth Built.

Randy Johnson started for the Yanks, giving me my first opportunity for a firsthand look at the Unit in pinstripes. But after the Indians scored runs in the first and second, I began to wonder if I'd gotten a 6'10" imposter instead. Johnson gave up hard-hit balls to the leadoff hitters of the first three innings, with rookie Melky Cabrera, who'd made two sun-influenced misplays the afternoon before, again struggling on a double hit way over his head to right center. The Yankee outfield of Matsui, Cabrera and Sheffield looked particularly brutal all day long, Matsui tumbling ass over teakettle in pursuit of a Grady Sizemore fly ball that ended up a triple in the seventh.

But I'm getting ahead of myself. In the bottom of the second, the Yanks loaded the bases with one out against former farmhand Jake Westbrook (sent away in the Justice deal), and John Flaherty "Will Get You Nowhere" (to use my own Bermanism) plated a run with a sacrifice fly, only his third RBI on the year. In the bottom of the fourth, Matsui reached on an error by Peralta, and Jason Giambi, who already had four homers on the week, murdelized (to borrow from Bugs Bunny) a Westbrook pitch deep into the rightfield bleachers-- a tape-measure blast for which I never saw a measurement, but I'd guess 430 feet. Cliff? -- to give the Yanks a 3-2 lead.

Alas, Johnson gave the run right back on consecutive singles to Aaron Boone (who went 8-for-16 in his first return to Yankee Stadium since the 2003 postseason, helping him finally put some distance between himself and the Mendoza Line), and Sizemore and a sac fly by Travis Hafner. Though he'd struck out six to that point, the Big Unit was clearly laboring.

The Yankee offense picked him up, however. With two outs and nobody on, Sheffield worked a walk off of Westbrook, and A-Rod did the same. Matsui followed with a double to rightfield. Giambi was "un"-intentionally walked after a conference on the mound ("Did you see how far that bastard hit my last pitch? Hell if I'm going there again..."), drawing three high pitches before Indians' catcher Victor Martinez stuck his fist out for the inevitable intentional pass. Sierra, who'd doubled twice and homered the day before, kept up his hot hitting by slapping a single to left, with two runs scoring, 6-3 Yanks.

Johnson departed after six, having gritted his way through 109 pitches, allowing nine hits but only one walk while striking out eight on a day when he clearly didn't have his best stuff. This is the Randy Johnson we're going to have to learn to love, Yankee fans; not all that dissimilar from the Roger Clemens we got, and that didn't work out so badly. Wayne Franklin came on and ponderously -- 27 pitches to three batters -- worked his way into a jam, yielding two hits, including the Sizemore triple, and a walk, scoring a run. Tanyon Sturtze, who'd pitched two innings the day before, quickly put out the fire by striking out Martinez and inducing a popup from Casey Blake. Quality relief work there.

The game began to drag, as Indians manager Eric Wedge used three different pitchers in the seventh, each of them striking out a Yankee in the service of quelling a potential rally. With the score now 6-4 and the All-Star break in sight, Joe Torre did summoned Mariano Rivera, whom he should have used to pitch the ninth the day before, for a two-inning save situation. Rivera struck out Hernandez looking, then escaped early three-ball counts to the next two hitters to survive unscathed. The Yanks gave him some breathing room in the bottom of the inning when Sheffield drilled a three-run shot off of Bobby Howry, one set up by perennial Yankee bitch Arthur Rhodes (somewhere, David Justice was lacing up his spikes, itching to pinch-hit). The day before, Howry had put two runners on in the eighth before yielding to Rhodes, who promptly allowed the Matsui homer, so the symmetry worked out nicely. Actually, it was pretty impressive for the Yanks to bomb the Cleveland bullpen so effectively, as they entered the series with the best ERA of any pen at 2.68.

At 9-4, that was effectively the ballgame. The Yanks closed the first half by winning seven of their last eight games, with Giambi hitting .478/.586/1.217 in that span and looking like the big slugger they doled out $120 million to after the 2001 season. Behind him, the Yanks have taken over the major-league lead in scoring at 5.56 runs per game, a fact noted in my epic All-Star break edition of the Prospectus Hit List, where the Yanks rank eighth. Don't say I never gave you anything for free.