Soundin' Off

…both here and in the house. Cleaning=fun use of vacation.

Trevor Smith wins it in OT, which does nothing to disspirit the notion that it’s still the second half of last season for him.

Ryan Shannon was among those sent to Binghamton.

Tip o’ cap to Dellapina, who’s departing the NYDN after a long, long run.

It’s been 100 years (Tuesday) since Fred Merkle did something that used to be called something other than “blunder,” as the NYDN’s David Hinckley has rendered it here. I assume suppose, if only to avoid the tittering snickering, you probably shouldn’t use that word anymore. (The word is akin to “bonehead,” if you’re unfamiliar.)

Glaciation revealed at the World Trade Center. It’s horrible that we got to find it out. (I’m a little surprised they didn’t know it was there… you’d think they excavated in the ’60s and ’70s…)

Hank Steinbrenner doesn’t like the division system. We understand his point in principle, and we certainly agree in one case in particular: this one. We think it only fair that the Yankees vacate their last World Championship, which would naturally devolve to the National League champion. Thanks, Hank!

And RIP, Mary Garber and Dick Lynch.

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The first ballgame I ever attended was in the Bronx. My grandfather took me. Kansas City. Wish I could remember enough details to pick out the date. He had been going to the Stadium since it was young; he followed all those Yankees teams, still follows this one while railing about how the announcers talk too much. (That’s not just a Yankees thing for him, though.) You’ve probably gathered that I ended up rooting for the other guys. I don’t think Pop understands how that happened.

My dad grew up a Yankees fan. He cut ties when they cut ties with Yogi. (The first time.) But I grew up knowing all those names, Berra, Kubek, Richardson, Tresh, Ford, Maris, Mantle above all. When my first Little League jersey bore 14, I was told I was wearing Moose Skowron’s number before I was told I was wearing Gil Hodges’ number.

We’d watch Old Timers Days together, even went a few times. We’d go other times, too. (This was back when you could a) get in and b) not get beaten up for wearing Orange and Blue.) Even though I knew the park looked and played entirely differently than it used to, it was still the carved-out parcel of my home borough on which Babe Ruth had played, on which Lou Gehrig had played, on which that Holy-Cow guy had played, on which Mantle and DiMaggio had played.

Even for someone whose heart belonged to the team that gets cursed out in the bleachers every few minutes, that meant something.

That team belongs in the Bronx. Their stadium, whether “a stadium” or “The Stadium,” belongs at 161st and River. Their late-’90s run (which magically transformed the neighborhood from a place where “no one wanted to go” into a place where 4 million people showed up every year) probably made sure it would stay there; perversely ironic consolation. Time hurries on; we’re all about maximizing revenue through efficiency and quality of product, and if a new park is part of that, well, we get it.

But it’ll be different in Macombs Dam Park. Same corner; different address. Same stop on the IRT; different parcel. It won’t be the same.

Until they roll out Berra and Ford and Skowron and Mrs. Rizzuto and Jackson and Randolph and Nettles and Winfield and O’Neill and Martinez and Cone and all of them.

And it’ll be just right again.

(Especially if they play the way they played this year.)