Snowman On Fire

One of those strange, lucky nights, when I had hockey on the brain. I ducked out to get a coffee around 4:30, and rather than zip over to my favorite Dunkin’ Donuts paradise, I stopped at the local Starbucks anticipating 10 minutes with the newspaper, something artery-hardening from the bakery case, and a short coffee break (literally).

As I turned with my guilty goodies, I ran into Scott Stevens, in line behind me. I double-checked, did a double take, and sat down with my paper. What should I say? “Thanks” for some spectacular hockey? “Good luck” with his coaching, parenting and other post-first-career activities? I simply took the Stevens sighting as a good luck omen.

Three hours later, my son connected on a 100-to-1 shot at our annual hockey fundraiser dinner, winning a Patrik Elias autographed stick that he wanted (perhaps more than his dinner). It’s significantly better than the basket of shampoo products that I usually seem to drag home from these events. A good night was had by all.

Poor Patty. He notches three assists in tonight’s shootout loss to the Predators, including flipping the puck to Gionta for the tying goal with 11 seconds left. In the shootout, after Erat scored the lone goal for the Preds, Patty dropped the puck, recovered enough to get a shot off but left it in the goalie’s pads.

I’m not worried, at least not with Patty playing on the second line with Zajac and Gunner (Lipper, Langs, Jamie Langenbrunner, pick your nick). He has 7 points in 7 games, enough to put him on an 80-85 point season. The goals will come, especially when he continues to take as many shots per game as he’s been rifling toward the net. But sometimes you need a goal, you want to will a goal to happen, and the little rubber biscuit just bounces around the wrong way.

The New York papers are abuzz with rumors of Joe Torre’s imminent firing. I hope the reports of his coaching death are greatly exaggerated, because Torre was far from the one to blame for the Yankees’ post-season demise. He was handed a pitching staff that might have been young (as opposed to the Padres’ Chris Young, who looked spectacular) a decade ago, sporting Carl Pavano (who didn’t throw a single pitch in pinstripes this year) as its poster child. Matsui and Sheffield got hurt, and along comes Melky Cabrera. Who knew? Joe knew. Joe managed, and played the hand he was dealt, and played it well. If Steinbrenner is going to give him the equivalent of 7-2 offsuit hole cards in a game of hold’em, Joe knows how to play it.

On my way to the airport this morning, the sports talk radio was filled with “Ditch A-rod” and “Take Jeter’s captaincy” complaints. The engineers were hitting the dump button more than for the Howard Stern show, deleting invective laced with expletive. Everyone seems to think it’s Jeter’s problem that A-rod doesn’t feel loved, and if A-rod isn’t loved then he can’t play well.

Excuse me? A-rod gets paid in a year what most people make in ten careers. That’s love. That’s the fans love of the game translated into insane ticket prices and $7 beers and $9 sausages and $25 t-shirts to pay for Mr. “I want to be liked”. You want to be liked? Start with the fans, and the community, and your teammates. Don’t wait for people to come to you, go to the people. Do the work. Joe Torre is in front of the press, win or lose, every day, doing the work even when his team isn’t.

Young, exciting prospects sell tickets and jerseys too. And they are eager to build up some street cred, on the street, so they’ll engage with the community. Veterans who want to win with every fiber of their (able) bodies sell tickets. Ray Borque, anyone? Pudge Rodriguez?

The Yankees will retool, and there will be a long winter of discontent when everyone is a manager, coach, third baseman, and negotiator, and then it starts again in 22 weeks. For once, it would be nice if the Yankees opened up with a clear gap between the average age of the players and that of the year-round residents around training camp. I just hope Joe’s still there to point out the players.

Stick a fork in the Yankees. They’re doing their best Atlanta Braves imitation, consistently winning the division and then failing to advance in the post season. This season’s choke-fest, though, was spectacular: They went without a run for 20 consecutive innings. Want to call a turning point? How about A-rod failing to do anything - anything at all - with the bases loaded in Game 2, at home, in front of a crowd that so very much wants him to be a hero.

The Yankees need pitching. They need to get Sheffield out of the infield, and maybe to the golf course permanently. More than anything else, they need leadership. Not “Jeter, the captain,” but someone in the club house who will step up and be the consistent performer; the player willing to do the work every pitch of every game. No whining about tags. No whining about called strikes. Sacrifice flies when they’ll break a tie, personal attention discarded in favor of team contribution.

At the 2000 All-Star Game in Seattle, my son was wearing a Texas jersey with “Rodriguez” on the back. Not A-Rod, but Pudge. Pudge, who put in his time in Florida, and then went to Detroit where he did the work through a few miserable seasons. We got some jeers from Seattle locals still reeling from A-rod’s departure for a Texas-sized contract — our four-letter word of choice was Ivan, not Alex or something else thrown our way.

I ignored the economics talking until I had a chance encounter outside the player’s hotel with A-rod. He walked by, spotted the two of us in our baseball finery, and kept walking. No autographs. No effort to reach out, literally, to the fans. All about A-rod.

I’d wager that Steinbrenner pays part of A-rod’s contract in an effort to deal him elsewhere. You can’t put a price on disappointment.