Raineth drop and staineth slop, And how the wind doth ramm! Sing: Goddamm.

It's been a cold winter for fans of both New York teams. The Game need not remind you that after months of breathless courtship – winks, nods, shy smiles, and fistfuls of cash – Cliff Lee spurned our romantic overtures in favor of an old flame, Philadelphia. Not even the overtures of the newly svelte C.C., his old pal from Cleveland who has foresworn his once daily consumption of an entire box of Cap'n Crunch, could win Lee over. (It was a thoughtful gesture of C.C., incidentally, to donate his junk food to the Fernando Valenzuela Institute for Strength Training, of which Joba Chamberlain is a now a devotee.)

A man on a mission.

Nor need we rehash the public relations debacle that was the Derek Jeter contract negotiation. Or note that Andy Pettitte, New York's most reliable pitcher of the past 15 years, officially retired. Or point out what every Met fan understands all too well: the Mets enter 2011 with the same roster, one year older, that went 79-83 last year. Oh yeah, minus their best left-handed reliever, Pedro Feliciano. Who went to the Yankees.

But we go there anyway, because griping is a quintessentially New York tradition.

As if the Mets on-field problems weren't enough, we learned in recent weeks that for the past 20 years, the de facto chief financial advisor for the New York Metropolitans was one Bernard L. Madoff. (Who else? Were you expecting Alan Greenspan?) The repercussions of that relationship have caused ownership to explore selling a roughly one-quarter stake in the team. It will take a lot more, however, than a minority owner with little influence over team operations to turn around a culture defined by dysfunction. (It's a new year – where's the optimism, you ask? Um...I know this: the Citi Field Shake Shack has great burgers, fries, and fixins. Wow, what a burger! Enjoy!)

Citi Field's prime attraction, in all its glory.

The news that the Yankees acquired all-star Rays closer Rafael Soriano was the best of the weary winter. Of course, moments after the Yankees introduced one of the best relievers in baseball, Brian Cashman took the podium at Soriano's news conference and proceeded to discuss in detail his strenuous opposition to acquiring him. That said, welcome! The passing of the Old Man certainly appears to have liberated Cashman to speak his mind. Yet the more we hear, the more it becomes apparent that the Yankees' philosophy of coupling a big budget with shrewd baseball management is missing half the equation.

Cashman has done good things for the franchise, to be sure, especially his building of the farm system in recent years. But his inflated ego was all too evident in the Jeter negotiations, in which he sought leverage by publicly denigrating the most popular Yankee since Mickey Mantle. Shall we see where his stellar business acumen gets him as general manager of the Pittsburgh Pirates, a team whose annual payroll matches approximately that of the Yankees' third baseman? He may get his chance in 2012.

Cashman at Foley's this winter, sharpening his skills for a potential career change.

But never mind 2012. 2011 awaits! At least according to the calendar. In a coup of talent acquisition this winter, the Yankees obtained such boldface names as Mark Prior, Bartolo Colon, Freddy Garcia, Andruw Jones, and Eric Chavez: sometime all-stars who now cling to big league status by a phantom of a thread. Indeed, we're on our way to 120 wins, if we can somehow turn the clock back to 2003.

Pitchers and catchers this week – huzzah!

Freddy Schuman: A New York Icon

The passing of Freddy "Sez" Schuman this past weekend brought a sense of sadness to the New York Game. Freddy and his colorful signs and frying pan were as much a staple of the old Yankee Stadium experience as were long bathroom lines, maddening traffic conditions, Bob Sheppard's elegant voice, and incredible late-inning comebacks.

Thinking about Freddy reminds me of the games my parents took me to as a boy, in the early and mid 90s, when I knew Yankee Stadium as a collection of crazy characters. There was an electric guitarist who played for tips near River Avenue whom my brothers called The Jimi Hendrix Guy, because he kind of looked like Jimi and seemed to be trying to channel him. Mostly he just made a lot of noise and appeared to be having a good time. Inside, there was Cousin Brewski, who along with his brews offered rapid-fire quips in a deadpan, heavy Noo Yawk tone. ("Cousin Brewksi's here! Get a buzz from the cuz!")

Cousin Brewksi

There was also a season ticket holder in the field level box seats known as The Scatman. He was a big guy with intense eyes and long, graying hair who gyrated like a holy roller to whatever song was playing in between innings. The stadium video crew even made a montage of his best moves, which was sometimes played after the seventh inning stretch (before Cotton Eyed Joe took a lamentable stranglehold on that spot). My brothers and I were wondering around the field level late one game, no doubt looking to upgrade our seats, when we bumped into him. "Hey, it's The Scatman!" I said. He smiled and nodded, seeming to take great satisfaction in our recognition of him. Later that game, the crowd erupted as Yankees scored. As the cheers dissipated, one baritone voice remained behind me, delivering a deep-throated aria, as if he were on stage at Lincoln Center. Several fans turned around. "Let's-a-go Yankees!" he roared in an Italian accent. He looked like Pavarotti's thinner younger brother. Only in New York. That was the old stadium.

The first time I can recall meeting Freddy was at a game in 1996. The Yankees were cruising in first place, and Freddy's sign reflected the exuberant mood: "Freddy Sez: Yankees Are Like Wow!" My brothers and I each took a turn banging on his pan. Later that year, my father, who is a Manhattan College alum, took us to a Manhattan Jaspers basketball game. Freddy was there. This guy really gets around, I thought. I banged on the pan.

At a game in '97, I spotted Freddy in the loge, and decided to walk up and shake his hand. "Go Jaspers, Freddy," I said. "Hey, alright!" he laughed, pumping my hand vigorously. I banged on the pan.

As the years went on, Freddy became friends with more and more fans, and cemented his status as much more than a minor celebrity: he become part of the fabric of the New York baseball community. He had a role in a MasterCard commercial and in the video for House of Pain's Jump Around. He made it over to the new house in 2009, but I suspect he felt out of place amidst the luxury boxes, sushi bars, and hedge fund managers in thousand-dollar seats. The posh amenities are nice, for those who can afford them, but for my money I'd rather see the old characters.

It was proper for the Yankees to honor Freddy with a moment of silence before game three of the ALCS. He represented that which is great about the New York Game.

George Steinbrenner Monument's Park

The New York Game was snapped out of its months-long hiatus with the recent unveiling of the George Steinbrenner Monstrosity in Monument Park. Three times larger than the dedications to those no-names of yore (Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio, Mantle), it stands five feet high and seven across, weighs in at 750 lbs., and bears a slight resemblance to a widescreen HDTV. Josh Alper of NBC Sports notes that it is visible from space.

Mariano Rivera, who will have his own monument out there one day, stared open-mouthed for a good spell, as if thinking but trying to restrain himself from saying, WTF...?

"It was big; probably how The Boss would have wanted it. The biggest one out there," Derek Jeter said, displaying his characteristic deftness for observation that keeps his own opinion to himself.

Granted, it's not quite as garish and unmerited as, say, the monument in Ashgabat to Turkmen dictator Saparmurat Niyazov...

But not that far off. I'd put it somewhere between the permanent preservation of Vladimir Lenin's body and Saddam Hussein's now-toppled statue in Baghdad...

As do many Bombers fans, I have mixed feelings about George's reign. There's no question he's an important figure in the history of the Yankees, and indeed, all of baseball. He did a lot of good for the team, and we all know, quite a bit of bad. But come on.

Artists on the Mound

Well, it’s been a spell. Hated to have left you hanging, but the New York Game had graduate school mid-terms, and also works full-time, has one of those “Let’s go out and do things” girlfriends, had to do his taxes, and the laundry never stops, does it?

But, thank God, spring is here and the great game is but days away. Like many of you (many? ok, the three of you who read this blog) I’ve been getting my winter baseball fix through MLB Network. On their ranking show Prime 9, they recently counted down the top pitching deliveries of all time.

Which got me thinking about my favorite deliveries, and the pitchers who, through their creativity and style, transcended the act of pitching into an art. The Picassos and Vermeers of the diamond: Let’s get to it.

Satchel Paige

Perhaps the greatest pitcher ever, Ol’ Satch modified the full classic delivery with an extra-high leg kick and varied hesitation moves designed to disrupt timing. He combined pinpoint control with a parade of imaginatively-named pitches, as described in this clip from Ken Burns’ definitive documentary:



Luis Tiant

A rocking, rolling, twisting, turn-away-and-gaze-at-the-blue-sky-of-summer delivery that baffled hitters, delighted the Fenway faithful, and was surely an inspiration to a young Fernando Valenzuela. One of two Cubans on my list, I would have loved to see the Yankees do battle against El Tiante in the wild Bronx is Burning era.

Mike Mussina

Perhaps he lacks the flair for this list, but the Thinking Man’s Moose is no doubt an artist in his own right. Pitching his entire career in the AL East in during the steroid era, Moose disassembled lineups stacked with men twice his size with an assortment of curveballs, knuckle-curves, changes, and high-riding fastballs. He could throw any pitch at any time, for a strike or intentionally out of the zone. I’ll never forget his dominating performance at Fenway Park in 2001, when he came within one strike of a perfect game. It was the second best pitching performance I’d ever seen, with the first being Pedro’s 17-strikeout one-hitter against the Yankees that I attended in 1999. He went out in style, with the first 20-win season of his career in 2008. See you in the Hall, Moose.

El Duque

My personal favorite: Orlando El Duque Hernandez, who joined the Yankees mid-season in 1998 after defecting from Cuba at the tender age of 29, or 39, or 53, depending on your sourcing. Not only did have one of the most distinctive of deliveries, with his knee-to-your-face leg kick, he could throw nearly any pitch, including an impossibly Frisbee-like slider and an old-school super slow eephus. It’s a shame New York only had him for the latter half of his career, but what we saw was indelibly memorable.

This classic Adidas commercial captured the cult status he acquired almost immediately, positing that fellow artist David Cone has grown jealous at the attention focused on the duke: