AJ pitched well tonight against the O’s, despite not getting the win. I was so frustrated watching the Yankees continue to waste scoring opportunities and do absolutely nothing against the thoroughly mediocre Kevin Millwood. Well, except for A-Rod, whose solo shot put us on the board. When A-Rod came up again in the ninth, down to his last strike and our last out of the game, I was feeling pretty low. But then….boom!
Did he spank that ball or what? I jumped up from the couch and started dancing around the room, totally elated. I knew Mo would take care of business, and he did. Never has beating the O’s been such a relief. With the Rays’ loss to the Angels, the Yanks are in first place for another few hours anyway. But here’s the other storyline: AJ’s black eye. He wouldn’t discuss it after the game. Neither would Girardi. All we know is that it’s “not baseball related.” So here are my theories for what could have happened:
1) AJ got in a fight in a bar. Except: his hands were fine and there was no police report.
2) Brian Cashman slugged him. Except: Cash is too short to reach AJ’s eye.
3) One of AJ’s teammates punched him on the plane. Except: That’s baseball related.
4) AJ’s wife hit him in the face with a golf club. Except: That’s so Tiger Woods.
5) AJ had a little “work” done on the off day and plastic surgery takes time to heal. Except: Why wouldn’t the other eye be black too?
OK, I give up. Anybody? Ideas? Or do I have to track down David Wells and get his input?
Since there weren’t any Yankees making news over the holiday, I had way too much time on my hands. I found myself musing about Randy Quaid, who, after being arrested in Texas, showed up at a hearing here in Santa Barbara this week. He and his wife are accused of skipping out on the $10,000 tab they ran up at the San Ysidro Ranch, a resort near my house. Mug shots are so unflattering, aren’t they?
Charlie Sheen got into a little scrape while vacationing in Aspen.
At least the media let the Tiger Woods story die (wishful thinking).
No, I promise this blog isn’t going all tabloid. The above items are just an excuse to post the following celebrity look-alike pics a friend sent me today. Enjoy and hope you had a Merry Christmas.
So there I was on Saturday night, having dinner at Sly’s Restaurant in Carpinteria, eating the best meal in Santa Barbara County, maybe even in the entire state of California. (Yes, it’s that good. If you’re ever in the area, do yourself a favor and order a steak, some mashed potatoes, their famous hot fudge sundae, anything on the menu. Chef James Sly and his wife Annie will make the experience a memorable one, trust me.)
My husband and I were joined in our food and wine gluttony by literary agent Angela Rinaldi and Joseph Parent, the author of “Zen Golf,” “Zen Putting” and “Golf: The Art of the Mental Game.”
Joseph is a pro golfer’s pro who’s worked with champions like Vijay Singh and many others. The truth is, I couldn’t care less about golf. I never play it, never watch it, never read about it…..except that I’ve been glued to the Tiger Woods story. Why was he leaving his house at 2:30 in the morning? What made him drive onto a neighbor’s property? How come his wife supposedly came running out with a golf club and smashed the car window? Inquiring minds want to know what was going on with those two.
I tried to worm some information out of Joseph, but he was maddeningly discreet. I was about to give up on him as a dinner conversationalist when he said, “Oh, by the way, how about the Yankees?” I immediately reached into my handbag and whipped out the She-Fan Cam. (You never know when you’ll meet up with a Yankee fan, so it’s important to have it handy at all times.) I told Joseph to get ready for his close up and he put on his Mr. Magoo glasses and here’s our interview.
The evening got off to a pleasant enough start, even though my husband Michael and I were watching TV in separate rooms.
I was in the bedroom, glued to the Australian Open final between Federer and Nadal. I was rooting for Federer, so I was sorry to see him lose in five sets. I was even sorrier when, during the presentation of the trophies, he broke down at the mic and couldn’t stop crying.
Talk about the agony of defeat.
“You should have seen Federer,” I said as I walked into the living room, where Michael was glued to the Super Bowl post-game show. “He -“
I was about to describe Roger’s crying jag when I noticed that one of the Steelers, Hines Ward, was crying about beating the Cardinals.
Talk about the thrill of victory.
Over dinner we discussed whether crying in sports was becoming more prevalent.
“I don’t think so,” he said.
“I do,” I said and launched into a list of prominent criers.
“And remember when Edwar Ramirez had that meltdown after he got shelled?” I pretended to sob. “The Yankees practically had to MedEvac him out of there.”
“I don’t see the big deal. These guys are human beings, not robots. Human beings cry. Men cry. It doesn’t make us weak.”
“Who said it makes you weak?” Yikes. He was being awfully crabby, so I did my imitation of Mike Schmidt choking up at his retirement speech, hoping to coax a smile out of him.
“You’re making fun of him,” said Michael.
“I am not. I love Mike Schmidt. I had a crush on him before I even met you.”
“You had a crush on everybody before you met me.”
“Oh, really?” So he was, what, jealous? “You had a crush on Michelle Pfeiffer before you met me and I’m not getting all wigged out about it.”
“I’m not wigged out.” He took a gigantic bite of his burger and then started talking with his mouth full.
“I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”
“It was nothing.”
“I hate when men say ‘nothing.'”
“You hate when men cry too.”
“I do not! It makes me sad when anybody cries. In fact, the second I see somebody tearing up I get -“
At that moment I flashed back to Game 4 of the 2007 ALDS against Cleveland, when the Yankees lost the series and were ushered out of the post-season; I had a meltdown of my own in the Upper Tier.
I put down my fork, my appetite gone, and succumbed to this. Losing never gets easier.