Can My Powers Be Harnessed For Good?

So, I just remembered that I wrote this paragraph a couple months ago, about Freddy Sez:

Freddy will never die. Or at least, he better not. I dread his passing almost as much as I dread Phil Rizutto's.

Yuck.

Happy Labor Day Everybody!

Baltimorons or Huckleberries?

As Baltimore leaves town after winning some meaningless games (for them), and after the Yankees honored the great Phil Rizzuto during Tuesday night's game, this tale seems particularly appropriate.

In 1994, mere days before the strike that ended up cancelling the World Series and ruining Don Mattingly's best chance to win a title, the Yankees honored Phil Rizzuto at the Stadium for his election to Cooperstown.

The Yankees were playing the Orioles, over whom they held a comfortable lead in the A.L. East. The Yankees were fielding their best team in years, and the Orioles were a good, solid second-place club, led by Mike Mussina, Cal Ripken Jr., and a couple of guys who have never taken steroids: Raffy Palmeiro and Brady Anderson.

Rizzuto came out on the field before the game to a thunderous ovation from fans who recognized his enshrinement was long overdue. Everyone in attendance was given a print of a Leroy Neiman painting of Scooter in action. It was a truly a warm, magical day.

Um...except for the upper deck section in which my friends and I were sitting. A couple rows ahead of us sat three Orioles fans who heckled and crowed throughout the game because the Orioles were winning. They conveniently ignored the fact that there team was 7 games out of first place with a month and a half (supposedly) remaining in the season.

These three men were loud, obnoxious, arrogant assholes, and not your typical ballpark assholes, either. They were middle-aged, clearly well-to-do, and dressed in shorts and sandals, a horrible hybrid of yuppies and dorks. If cell phones had been prevalent in 1994, they would surely have been on theirs the entire time, talking golf with buddies and calling the wife to make sure she had made reservations at the Hard Rock Cafe. I hated them immediately and violently.

Sometime in the middle of the game, after much bad-natured taunting between these douches and all the Yankees fans within shouting distance, one of them stood up, turned to face the crowd, held up the Leroy Nieman print of the Scooter...and tore it in half.

There were gasps. Then, there were obscenities. Loud, angry obscenities. The term "Baltimorons" was bandied about. But, being the peace-loving Yankees fans were are, no physical harm came to the douches, and they sat back down in peace.

Now, while all this was going on, the gentleman sitting immediately to my left grew increasingly agitated. He was a large fellow, on the wrong side of 300 pounds, and he was wearing a tank top. An attractive young lady sat directly behind him, and often throughout the game reached her hand down and under his tank top to massage his right nipple and bulbous man-breast.

As the game wound down, my friends and I remained incensed at the Baltimorons and their sacrilege (seriously, go ahead and root for the visiting team, shout whatever you want, but show some fucking respect in someone else's ballpark). So, as soon as the game ended, we persuaded the large man to my left to pour his full cup of beer over the head of the douche who ripped up the picture. He did just that, to rapturous applause.

And that's how we honored Phil Rizzuto that day.

A Cannoli-Filled Sendoff

Yesterday, I either wanted to write 50,000 words about Phil Rizzuto or none. This was my compromise.

Let's check around and see how some other folks handled the loss of an icon:

Steve Lombardi named his blog after one of Scooter's idiosyncrasies, and Was Watching shares some personal memories of Mr. Rizzuto, as Derek Jeter calls him.

Bronx Banter enjoyed YES's coverage of Rizzuto, which I found somewhat lacking, considering the wealth of clips at their disposal. I also thought Yogi Berra was clearly in pain during his half-inning in the booth, and we would have all been better served if Yogi had been given a few days to process the loss before speaking about it publicly. And I'd much rather hear Bill White reminiscing about The Scooter than the self-aggrandizing Michael Kay.

Bleeding Pinstripes recalls the days when Scooter and the other Yankees' announcers would switch back and forth between TV and radio during the same game.

Heartland Pinstripes justifiably calls out the douches who sponsor Rizzuto's Baseball Reference page. And no, I won't link to that page.

Ugh. All this reminiscing not only makes me sad that Scooter passed away, it's made me sad that I'm not 10 years old anymore, listening to him during games.

White, You Huckleberry..

"Bum cheese on rye with ham and prosciutto
Got more Louie than Phillip Rizzuto"
--Beastie Boys

I was born in 1975, the same month that Carlton Fisk hit his famous home run. At that point, Phil Rizzuto was already 18 years into his fabled broadcasting career calling Yankees games for radio and television.

For me, like so many other Yankees fans who came of age after 1957, Phil Rizzuto was the Yankees. More than Don Mattingly, more than Billy Martin, more than George Steinbrenner, more than Guidry, and Pags, and Boggs, and Rags, and Jeter and O'Neill, The Scooter represented what being a Yankees fan meant.

Other than grainy highlight videos, I never got to watch Rizzuto play, although by all accounts he was the original Captain Intangibles. So I only know him by his broadcasting. Which means I feel like I know him as well as my own grandfather. His rambling personal anecdotes during boring stretches of games introduced me to his wife, Cora, his kids and his grandchildren, not to mention Rosie from Newark who is turning 87 today.

Watching baseball has never been quite the same since Scooter retired following the 1996 season. No one else can match his combination of passion, charm and humor. Those who try fall miserably short. Those who don't try come across like bland robot announcers, endlessly reciting the same statistics and analyses.

Rizzuto had an effortless chemistry with every broadcaster he ever partnered with. He and Bill White were like an old, bickering married couple sitting at the next table over at dinner, except you wanted to join them and listen to their stories (at least until Rizzuto left before dessert to beat the traffic). His presence and cajoling allowed Bobby Murcer to loosen up in the booth, and he even drew some drops of personality from Tom Seaver, who has never been as likable since. Scooter would endlessly razz newcomer Rick Cerone, until the former catcher lost his facade of professionalism and broke down into gales of hearty Italian laughter.

Sure, Scooter rooted for the Yankees, but he was never a dick about it. He was the anti-Hawk Harrelson. It wasn't for show, he was a New York kid, and you could tell he genuinely lived and died with the team, even long after his playing days were over. Maybe if I was a fan of another team watching the games, the homerism would have pissed me off. But I was a Yankees fan, so I loved it.

(And while we're talking about other broadcasters, Harry Caray can fuck himself and go die all over again with his claim that he originated "Holy Cow!" Rizzuto says he was using that expression all his life, and I believe him. Scooter earned my trust. He brazenly admitted on air when he wasn't paying attention or when he was leaving early to get over the bridge. Harry Caray was a slurring drunk, so it stands to reason he was a liar also.)

Rizzuto had so many idiosyncrasies as a broadcaster, they're impossible to list or count. He loved cannoli, this we know. And he grew to love Seinfeld in his later years, often recounting the exploits of Kramer and Newman on-air after watching the re-runs in syndication.

1996 was Rizzuto's last year on the air, and the first year of a budding new Yankees dynasty. Scooter had a blatant crush on Derek Jeter, often commenting on the amusing facial expressions and tics of his heir apparent. Like Jeter, Rizzuto did all the little things right on the field, and stood as the centerpiece of a team for the ages.

Being a Yankees fan means having a lot of heroes. And being a Yankees fan means watching a lot of heroes die. Thurman Munson went suddenly, tragically, inexplicably. Billy Martin went like he lived, drunk and violent, poignant and sad. Mickey Mantle went before his time, after treating his body like a punching bag for too many years. Joe Dimaggio went with grace, solitary and resolute to the end. But nothing's ever been sadder than saying goodbye to the Scooter.

Phil Rizzuto's left early to get over the bridge one last time. Fuck, I'm going to miss him.