A-rod invades my space again.

A-rod makes an okay team into a contender and a contender better. He does his own product origination, sales & marketing, management - execution of deals in bulk.

Kills in Kansas City.
Owns the (Pac)Northwest territory.
Rules the Twin Cities.

He does well in any city with one newspaper, a short history or at least short memories. No memories would be best of all. Momentoland. We erased the indigenous peoples on the way west? Oh. When was that? Oh.

But A-rod can't close the deal in New York.
Or Boston.

The air is more rarefied during big town moments.

And that has to feel normal to you.

You can't get worried when hot dog wrappers start twister-ing in the right field corner.

The Poltergeists have landed.
Funky ions will be interrupting our regularly scheduled broadcast.

And THAT has to feel normal to you.
In fact, you better love it.

Everybody stands for the duration of the game.
Things will get weird.
It will matter.
You will care.
Dad and Mom will care.
The dead forebearers will care.
The forebearers forebearers who invented the team nickname will care.

Boston Beaneaters? Not bad. But we're better than that. We're Boston-Irish Kings. Royal Rooters of the Red. We wear the Red. The royal socks. SOX better than socks.

And down in NYC. The Highlanders? No, not quite right. Yankees! That's it! That's another word for the winner you love to hate or hate to love. Now bring in the wealthy beer baron to lift that Babe from Boston for the price of a mediocre musicale.

Game on. Game that never ends for all the marbles on.

So A-rod comes to the plate against the Royal Red Rivals.
And the ghosts, old team photos take the field.
All eyes alive or dead on A-rod.

In this situation, Jeter winks at the Babe, takes a gentle dig at the Scooter, does tasteful hand jive with Reginald - then puts the ball into play. The ghosts help him. Ole Mick might even enlist a kid to reel in a long fly for a short-porch homer.

But A-rod feels a ghoulish chill. His motivational Madonna tells him to take his time and carve out his own space. Wrong. Too much thinking. Not enough playing.

That works in Anaheim, because history & truth get paved over in Orange County.

In the big town, you have to fight for your right to join the party. Sweet Lou flattens Pudge Fisk at the plate. Pedro makes Babe's spirit take a dirt seat. Then Babe hits the Bloody Sock out of yard.

And they say baseball isn't a contact sport.

A-rod has all five PHYSICAL skill sets required in a ballplayer. But he's not really THAT great because he tries to step up to an A-rod moment when he just needs to add to the history of moments already in progress.

No crime. Dave Winfield was much like Alex.
Rickey Henderson didn't do much in NYC.
He'd feel the hammy tighten when it wasn't about Rickey - book his October exit strategy in August to avoid September pressure.

Is that choking?
Yes.
Not breathing when everybody is watching is choking.

The Yankees need skilled pluggers to surround A-rod. The red asses. The ones who get chapped over lapses in fundamentals, the boys who elbowed their way off the charter to Nowhereville.

Get those guys and A-rod will breath, do what he does best - pile up early game homers that DO make a difference, even look clutch on the stat sheet.

And leave the big moments to players who can share oxygen with ghosts.

Bobby Murcer returns

On August 6th 1979, the day after giving teammate Thurman Munson's eulogy, the late Bobby Murcer drove in every run for the Yankees – including the walk-off game winners.

Honest to God of Baseball, Murcer was my first idol. He could run, fly-catch with Gold Glove and once hit homers on 4 straight at bats in 1971 (his best year). He had a smooth stroke. Calm hands from the left hand side. He could pull a pitch, but had more than just a power scoop to the short porch in Yankee Stadium's right field corner. He could go the other way. He swung the Hideki Matsui Zen rock garden rake.

He was the anointed 'next' in the line of immortal Yankee center fielders. He was from Oklahoma – just like Mickey Mantle: "Signed by the same scout!"

In truth, he was no Mantle. He wasn't as good.
No crime. Very few have ever had that Mick-talent.

But Bobby was my baseball idol just the same because:

Rather than laze in the shade of "I shoulda been born sooner cause I woulda been as good as Mantle if I coulda played for the Yankees when they were good," he was almost great when the Yankees weren't good – or cool.

Hard to believe now, but in 1971, the Yanks were the underdog team in Miracle Metland – while also personifying the over dog from your parents' passé pastime. The Yankees were the flagship franchise of uncool. Your father's Oldsmobuick for 1971. Cruuuuuuise control – but a bit spongy on the turns.

Tom Seaver's Mets: hot-cool.

Roberto Clemente's Pirates: cool-caliente.

Murcer's Yanks? As tepid as yesterday's cruise ship mashed potatoes squeezed through a pastry bag. Tap your coffee spoon on those potatoes. Tap Tap. Neither Caliente. Nor chill.

In 1971, rooting for the Yankees was like rooting for US Steel, which was like rooting for the Military Industrial Complex, which was tantamount to rooting for more troop commitment in Vietnam, which was not dissimilar to rooting for kids getting hosed in a Newark race riot. Perhaps these connections may seem extreme. But I tell you I speak the truth of a time when ballplayers sported Vegas Elvis sideburns without irony.

Despite this context, Murcer respected team history – without overdoing the Yankee Empire Esquire bit. He had a self-deprecating sense of humor - played corn-fed cred for chuckles. Without being a corn-pone clown.

He had a rocking chair in front of his locker; he was Skoal dippin' time while the Yanks built a team worthy of him and All-star catcher Munson.

Which they did in earnest after George Steinbrenner bought the team.

"Yankee types" came via trades.

Sparky Lyle to close – he was Mo of the day.
Nettles to play 3rd. Chambliss for 1st.

Lou Piniella in the outfield - a Paul O'Neill with fewer skills but even more 'intensity.' That's a lot of intensity. Piniella had that volatility and then some. Whereas O'Neill exploded when personal perfection was not achieved, "Sweet Lou" took his rage out on the Red Sox. In 1976, Piniella was in a bang-bang play at the plate against the arch-rivals; he rolled catcher Carlton Fisk, starting the 'rhubarb' that instigated an 'imbroglio' that made a serious statement.

So Murcer had to like the way the team was evolving except… THEY TRADED HIM - for Bobby Bonds (yes the father of THAT Bonds).

Bonds had the better stats on the back of his baseball card - was considered a Bobby with more, maybe even the Mantle that Murcer could never be; so said the number crunchers.

So that was the day I officially decided that numbers do lie.

That intangibles count more.
That context was equally important ... who you played for, the ballpark, the time.
I just knew we already had the better Bobby.

I was right. Bonds was flash hash from a can thrown in a pan - stolen bases in blowouts, homers too little too late. And he struck out +150 plus a year – way too much wood whiffed through air and no Reggie clutch. So George Stienbrenner traded Bonds after just one season – appropriate justice for the crime. And the players the Yanks got for Bonds – Mickey Rivers and Ed Figueroa - were not impact names.

But then… the unexpected residual check that taught me that mistakes can be repaired if you're willing to stay loose, not fixate on the botch: Rivers and Figueroa were a fit. A great fit. Figueroa really could pitch - first Puerto Rican to win 20 games in a year. And Rivers had real stolen base speed in the leadoff spot. He only walked 12 times a year; but each at bat was epic. He was Johnny Damon Pesky. Mick the Quick would foul tip pitch after pitch until he found something to drive. Plus: Rivers had the best post swing twirl ever. Better than the Jimmy Ley-ritz.

When the Yanks won the 1976 American League Pennant, I was elated like never before. But I felt sadness for Murcer. He missed the party he had worked so hard to prepare - admitted feeling some bitterness while playing out the string in San Fran and then Chicago and seeing old teammates on TV pop pennant champagne corks.

Right after I curse Steinbrenner for being so imperially George, I credit him for always leaving a light on for real Yankees-for-life. It makes business = back page sense. George is sentimental - in a good way. Knows there can be crying in baseball. Not for failure, but for resonant history.

And when George brought Murcer back in 1979, Bobby didn't even need to pretend to be a Mantle 1964. In fact, now that the Yanks were champs, the Murcer '79 didn't even need to be as good as a Murcer '71. The pressure was off; the team was already good without him.

Then Munson got killed in his private plane just two weeks later.

I have lived the mysteries of the faith based game. Spoken in tongues when Chambliss hit his 1976 pennant winning shot. Felt the Stadium rumble like an L-train when ReggieReggieReggie did trois into the 1977 blackout looters.

But Murcer's game for Munson was sanctified - the action eulogy for New York's fallen baseball captain.

And right after the game, Murcer sent the bat that drove in every run direct to Munson's wife. I imagine her opening the shipping box - sobbing sorrow onto the sacred wooden Excalibur.

In the church of baseball, there is catharsis and closure for the believers.

Boocock is Back after these messages!