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Adobe Digital Edition [ 1.1 Mb ]Street Date: Tuesday, March 24, 2009 Microsoft Reader [ 0.6 Mb ]Street Date: Tuesday, March 24, 2009 MobiPocket (OD) [ 0.2 Mb ]Street Date: Tuesday, March 24, 2009 eReader [ 0.2 Mb ]Street Date: Tuesday, March 24, 2009 Chapter One 1.0.0. The Unwritten Rules for Players — the Basic Canon of Baseball Behavior If there is a taxonomy to this list, it is that it works from moving the rules of the clubhouse — "The Code of the Clubhouse," in the words of author Ross Bernstein — onto the playing field. 1.1.0. The Clubhouse Is a Sanctuary During spring training in 2002, the New York Yankees expelled Ruben Rivera for violating this rule. He had stolen Derek Jeter's glove and bat and was apparently ready to sell them to a dealer in sports memorabilia for $2,500. A few days later, Yankees manager Joe Torre explained why the penalty was so quick and so harsh: "To me it's very important that you trust the people you are playing alongside of. The clubhouse is very sacred. You spend more time in the clubhouse than you do in your home during the course of the season. The players should be able to escape the pressures of the day . . . the media, the game itself." He added: "Players are now like rock stars — they command a lot of attention. They need a place to get away from all that." 1.1.1. A Player's Locker Is Off Limits to Everyone Save for the Man Whose Name Appears on It As Don Baylor, then managing the Colorado Rockies, told a reporter in 1998 after an incident in which a reporter had been seen poking around one of his player's lockers, "You don't go into a guy's locker. Even when I was a player, if another player asked for something and it was in my locker, no way. You don't do it." 1.1.2. This Sanctuary Rule Also Applies to the Visiting Team's Clubhouse In 1990, Murray Chass of the New York Times wrote an article, "Bats in Bronx: A Yankee Caper," in which he said that New York Yankees front-office employees, under orders from George Steinbrenner, for several years had secretly checked the visiting team clubhouse late at night to see if the opposition's bats were altered. Frank Robinson, then managing the Baltimore Orioles, was among those expressing a strong negative reaction: "It's an unwritten rule, I have no right to do that. I would never go into another clubhouse here." The assumption, according to then Cleveland Indians manager John McNamara, was that a visiting clubhouse was your home "and that you don't expect people to come invading your privacy." 1.1.3. Don't Even Think about Visiting Your Opponent's Clubhouse for Any Reason Whatsoever On April 3, 2002, Red Sox pitching ace Pedro Martinez took the opportunity of a rain delay to visit the Toronto Blue Jays clubhouse at Fenway. Blue Jays manager Buck Martinez learned what had happened and angrily invoked the unwritten rule of fraternization as well as clubhouse sanctity. "I don't understand the mentality of a player being in another player's locker room," said the angry manager, who was just as mad at any of his own players who may have welcomed the pitcher, especially since the Red Sox ace had hit Shannon Stewart of the Blue Jays with a pitch in the previous game. "If I were Shannon Stewart I've got to think of taking a pop at him or something," said Martinez. This transgression got a lot of media attention and the term "unwritten rule" was widely invoked, but that did not stop it from happening again. In September 2007, after former New York Met Julio Franco had signed with the Atlanta Braves, he wandered into the clubhouse of his former teammates to say hello, irking the Mets, most notably manager Willie Randolph and pitcher Tom Glavine. "That wouldn't go over too well in the clubhouses I grew up in," Randolph told the Record (Hackensack, New Jersey), to which Glavine added: "You play long enough, I guess... ![]() $0.53 Rewards
Adobe Digital Edition [ 2.6 Mb ]Street Date: Thursday, July 3, 2003 Microsoft Reader [ 0.8 Mb ]Street Date: Thursday, July 3, 2003 ![]() $0.53 Rewards![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() ![]() You Can Observe A Lot By Watching: What I've Learned About Teamwork From the Yankees and Lifeby Yogi Berra; With Dave H. Kaplan
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Adobe Digital Edition [ 2.5 Mb ]Street Date: Friday, June 1, 2001 Microsoft Reader [ 0.9 Mb ]Street Date: Friday, June 1, 2001 eReader [ 1.0 Mb ]Street Date: Friday, June 1, 2001 Chapter One Todo Bien The day he dropped dead, Arnaldo Hernández had never been more alive. He had begun his morning early, clearing a flowerbed for his girlfriend, Arelis Ruiz, and burning the weeds and the dead leaves in a mini bonfire in front of their house in rural Havana. Then he headed out. It was April 22, 1994, an ordinary day, another day to get by. Arnaldo had been working two jobs. On most days he clipped hair for five pesos a head at the local barbershop or occasionally on his front porch. On nights and weekends, he manned the front door of the Circulo Social, a community center and disco, tossing out the bad drunks and letting in his friends for free. He also played first base for San Miguel, a provincial league team on the other side of the capital. With relentless good cheer, he shuttled between these various responsibilities, shouting out "Todo bién!" from the seat of his Chinese-made bicycle, a beater that he often loaded up with his girlfriend, his glove and his beloved white poodle, Duque. He seemed more than able to balance it all. He was thirty years old, six-foot-four, well over two hundred pounds. "He had so much energy," said Arelis. "Sometimes he'd make these trips all day without eating." Arnaldo and his younger brother, Orlando, had grown up inseparable. The boys were less than two years apart in age, and they had slept in the same bed until they were in their teens. The bed had finally collapsed one evening under the collective bulk of their expanding, man-child bodies. "Then we moved to the floor," recalled Orlando. Together the boys had acquired an obsession with baseball-the obsession, of course, of the entire nation, but also "the family business," as their uncle "Miñosito," a slick infielder in his own right, had put it. Arnaldo had been huge, "an animal," according to his uncle, a pitcher with a terrifying fastball and a burning ambition to follow in the footsteps of his colorful father, Arnaldo Hernández Montero, the original "El Duque." Orlando was smaller, craftier, more creative on the mound, blessed even as a youth with what one of his coaches called a perra curva, a bitch of a curve. The boys often slept with their gloves on, so as to make it that much easier to hit the field in the morning. "We slept with tremendous dignity," Orlando said years later. "Every day, when we went to bed, when we got up, we were thinking about baseball." Later on, though, the brothers drifted apart, divided not so much by bad blood as by the economic earthquake that was splitting apart the country. Nineteen ninety-four was the worst year of a bleak period in Cuban history known as "the Special Period in Time of Peace." The name was an attempt by Fidel to recapture the early romance of the revolution, the adventure and the blind sacrifice but to most Cubans it signified only pitch-darkness and want. The Soviet Union had collapsed, and with it had gone the economic assistance that for decades had propped up Cuba's economy. Havana, a cradle of good times regardless of political ideology, was suddenly a desperate, crumbling city. During the day, the streets were overrun by hundreds of thousands of bicycles, substitutes for motorized vehicles in a society that lacked fuel. At dusk, the lights often flickered out, plunging the capital into darkness until morning. For many Cubans, the era was defined by these sweltering, silent evenings. In the darkness, parents waved pieces of cardboard over their children as they slept. "That was all you could do to keep the mosquitoes away," said Roberto Martinez, a longtime friend of the Hernández family. "It was a black time. As a Cuban, it touched every... ![]() $0.25 Rewards
Adobe Digital Edition [ 7.8 Mb ]Street Date: Wednesday, August 27, 2008 Don't Call Me Joey The alleged victim, William Kelley (6', 140 pounds) from Maryland, described the incident this way: "The bartender pointed out Kenny Lofton and Albert Belle to us. I referred to (Belle) as Joey a couple of times to get his attention. We were playing ping-pong. Belle and Lofton were playing foosball. When we finished playing they came over to use the ping-pong table." "He came over and said, 'You don't know who you're messing with/ Then he jabbed me with the paddle. He called me a punk and hit me again. I was very intimidated. I was in shock. He hit me, bam! bam! I was terrified." Belle (6V, 2,15 pounds), for his part, admits there was a confrontation, but denies hitting Kelley. According to the police report, however, Kelley was treated in a nearby emergency room for two "small lacerations," one on his forehead, the other on the bridge of the nose. "They were four nerds," Belle said in describing the incident. "His three friends were calling me Albert, but he kept calling me Joey. I just bumped him with the paddle. I was just explaining to him that my name was not Joey." "If I would have hit the guy, I wouldn't have hit him with the plastic tip of a ping-pong paddle," Belle says. "And I would have done some real damage." (The Plain Dealer, September 25, 30, 1993) "I feel like myself and the city of Cleveland are in the same boat. We're made for each other. A few years ago, everybody had bad thoughts about Albert Belle. I feel that has changed." Albert Belle in October 1995, after capacity crowds greeted him with standing ovations before every at-bat, including his 5Oth home run of the season. (USA Today, October 2, 1995) When a fan caught Belle's league-leading 2ist home run at the Arlington Ballpark and was invited down to the Indians clubhouse, he was cussed out by Belle for daring to ask for an autographed ball in return for the history-making one in his hand. The poor fellow left, of course. Damage control man Bart Swain swept in to apologize for Belle and offer the Rangers fan tickets to another Indians game and several baseball souvenirs — signed by lots of Belle's teammates, but not by Belle. Ray Buck (Sportsline USA, May 31, 1996) Joe Plaso brought home 18 souvenirs from his Florida vacation — one really cool photograph and 17 stitches courtesy of Albert Belle. While Plaso snapped pictures during a Cleveland Indians spring training game with Detroit, Belle took a big swing. The ball zinged off Ms bat and hit Plaso in the head, opening a nasty gash. Plaso didn't get the ball. He did, however, get a shot of the ball coming off the bat moments before it bloodied his head. A few days later, Plaso telephoned the Indians to ask if Belle could sign the photo. "They said Albert wouldn't do it," Plaso said. "We were a bit disappointed. I think sometimes our expectations of Belle are best left for when he's in the batter's box." (Associated Press, March 24, 1996) "It's ridiculous that I have to walk around with security guards and all these other precautionary measures. But you just have to realize the nit-wits we're dealing with." So said Albert Belle, after his former fans shower him with golf balls, cigarette lighters, quarters, nickels and paper money, and full cups of liquid during his first trip back to Jacob's Field, June 3, 1997. ![]() $0.53 Rewards
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Adobe ePub [ 0.7 Mb ]Street Date: Tuesday, September 14, 2004 Adobe Digital Edition [ 1.7 Mb ]Street Date: Tuesday, September 14, 2004 Microsoft Reader [ 0.4 Mb ]Street Date: Tuesday, September 14, 2004 MobiPocket (OD) [ 0.5 Mb ]Street Date: Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Chapter OneMariano Rivera sometimes paused to stand behind the crowd of teammates watching The Jerry Springer Show in the Yankees' clubhouse. As they laughed loudly and exhorted the on-screen combatants, Rivera remained silent, shaking his head. To him, the remedy for the many misbehaving teenagers on the program was clear: rigid discipline. Establish rules, and if the children don't adhere, then physical punishment -- a paddling that would hurt and be remembered -- must always follow. Growing up in Panama, he had been weaned on discipline. His father worked as a fisherman, collecting sardines to be processed for animal feed, a job that took him away from home a week at a time, and if little Mariano fell into trouble he would dwell in dread until his father returned, knowing that his mother would report his worst offenses. If he broke a window with a ball, he knew he would be spanked. There was no getting around this: mistakes are made, and consequences follow. His father insisted that Mariano be accountable for his behavior and show respect for others, and years later Mariano expected the same from his own children. Rivera, the Yankees' closer, thought players should act properly, as well; he despised pitchers who were disrespectful to opponents -- glaring insolently at hitters and stomping and swaggering around the mound like angry Neanderthals, pumping a fist to celebrate the smallest successes. You should act as though you've won before, Rivera believed; you should act as though you expect to win again. Some pitchers grew mustaches and beards and groomed them in arcane ways to make themselves look threatening, but this made Rivera more certain they were actually very much afraid. During a Yankees game in Toronto in 1999, Blue Jays closer Billy Koch stalked in from the bullpen, a spaghetti strand of beard descending from his lower lip to his chin, and after throwing his first fastball for a strike, he lingered at the apron of the mound to stare at the batter. Rivera watched from his own bullpen and seethed. What a tough guy, he smirked to himself. What a joke. Show some respect for the game. Show some respect for yourself. There was inflexible structure to everything Rivera did. Some of the other Yankees adhered only grudgingly to the team's policy against long hair and beards, and a few holdouts always took the field with day-old facial growth. But Rivera shaved before every game and had his thinning hair cut close to his scalp, like stitches on a baseball. He wore his uniform precisely to code, with the cuffs of his uniform pants raised to the proper height above his heels, and he followed the same disciplined regimen before, during, and after games. When Rivera emerged from the Yankees' bullpen to pitch, he held his glove in his right hand and jogged steadily to the mound, running on the balls of his feet, his head always tilted downward -- the coolest entrance of any closer, teammate Roger Clemens thought, because it was so understated. Rivera never looked angry or arrogant or intense. He had the demeanor of a customs agent, serious and polite. All eyes were on him whenever he stepped out of the bullpen, though, because Rivera was the most successful relief pitcher in postseason history. The Yankees had won four World Series in five years from 1996 to 2000, resurrecting the dormant franchise, and many opposing players thought Rivera was the linchpin of the team's success. ![]() $0.25 Rewards
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Adobe ePub [ 0.6 Mb ]Street Date: Tuesday, May 6, 2008 Adobe Digital Edition [ 1.2 Mb ]Street Date: Tuesday, May 6, 2008 Microsoft Reader [ 0.3 Mb ]Street Date: Tuesday, May 6, 2008 eReader [ 0.2 Mb ]Street Date: Tuesday, May 6, 2008 ![]() $0.15 Rewards
Adobe Digital Edition [ 2.1 Mb ]Street Date: Tuesday, December 2, 2008 Microsoft Reader [ 1.9 Mb ]Street Date: Tuesday, December 2, 2008 MobiPocket (OD) [ 0.8 Mb ]Street Date: Tuesday, December 2, 2008 eReader [ 0.8 Mb ]Street Date: Tuesday, December 2, 2008 Chapter OneIt was about eight years ago--when I was five that I discovered baseball cards were sort of . . . oh, magical to me. It was past my bedtime, I remember. I was sitting at the kitchen table with my dad. This was before my mom and dad split up, before things got weird around the house. Dad was showing me his collection of baseball cards. He had hundreds, a few of them dating back to the 1920s. My dad never made a lot of money working as a machine operator here in Louisville, Kentucky. I think he spent all his extra money on his two passions in life-fixing up old cars and buying up old baseball cards. Dad loved his cars and cards. They were two of the things Dad and Mom argued about. Anyway, we were sitting there at the table and Dad handed me an old card. "That's a Gil McDougald card. from 1954," Dad said. "He was my hero growing up. What a sweet swing he had." I examined the card. As I held it in my right hand, I felt a strange tingling sensation in my fingertips. It didn't hurt. It was pleasant. It felt a little bit like when you brush your fingers lightly against a TV screen when it's on. I felt vibrations. It was a little frightening. I mean, it was only a piece of cardboard, but it felt so powerful. "Joe," my dad said, waving his hand in front of my face, "are you okay?" I dropped the card on the table. The tingling sensation stopped immediately. "Uh, yeah," I said uncertainly as I snapped out of it. "Why?" I "You looked like you were in a trance or something," Dad explained, "like you weren't all there." "I felt like I wasn't all there." "He's overtired," my mom said, a little irritated. "Will you stop fooling with those cards and let Joey go to bed?" But I wasn't overtired. I didn't know it at the time, but a baseball card-for me-could function like a time machine. That tingling, sensation was the signal that my body was about to leave the present and travel back through time to the year on the card. If I had held the card a few seconds longer, I would have gone back to 1954 and landed somewhere near Gil McDougald. After that night I touched other baseball cards from time to time. Sometimes I felt the tingling sensation. Other times I felt nothing. Whenever I felt the tingling sensation I dropped the card. I was afraid. I could tell something strange was going to happen if I held on to the card. I didn't know what would happen, and I wasn't sure I wanted to find out. Gradually, I discovered that the year of the card determined whether or not it would cause the tingling sensation. Brand-new cards didn't do anything. Cards from the 1960s to the 1990s didn't do much. But I could get a definite buzz from any card from the 1950s. The older the card, I discovered, the more powerful the tingling sensation. One day, I got hold of a 1909 T-206 Honus Wagner card--the most valuable baseball card in the world. The tingling sensation started the instant I picked up the card. It was more powerful than it had been with any other card. For the first time, I didn't drop the card. As I held the Wagner card, the tingling sensation moved up my fingers and through my arms, and washed over my entire body. As I thought about the year 1909, the environment around me faded away and was replaced by a different environment. It took about five seconds. In those five seconds, I traveled back through time to the year 1909. What happened to me in 1909 is a long story, and I almost didn't make it back. After that, I didn't think I would ever travel through time with a baseball card again. But once you discover you've got a special power, it's... ![]() $0.30 Rewards
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