Gone South

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If you like Hearts Gone South, you may also like:. Other Girls by Lillie Mae. Room 41 by Paul Cauthen.

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Cauthen's mix of classic country and old-school soul come together on this album about coming back from the brink. Time Flies by Jim Lauderdale. The latest from Jim Lauderdale is a showcase for his heavily-detailed songwriting and soaring country melodies. Letters Never Read by Dori Freeman. Freeman updates her roots influences while fine-tuning her songwriting. Bandcamp Album of the Day Nov 2, Bandcamp Album of the Day May 9, Yazz Ahmed guests and we feature "The Music of" tribute to French musical legends. Explore music.

Purchasable with gift card. Queen Of The Curveball Livin' High Bottom Of The Well Ghosts Marlin-style ball, and a recognizable marque by now. He was in the mid-to-upper-ninety-m.

He compared Beckett to a teammate of his from a decade ago, the left-handed Atlanta phenom Steve Avery, but I had a better model in mind: twenty-one-year-old Bret Saberhagen, who gave up a lone run to the Cardinals over eighteen innings during the Series, and effortlessly won the M. Watching them both, you could see Cooperstown in the mists ahead—or else the waiting rooms of Dr. James Andrews, the celebrated Birmingham shoulder surgeon, et al.

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This is a tough trade. His fifty-five years in baseball include managerial tenures with four other major-league teams, and a decade as baseball-operations vice-president of the Padres, who made the World Series in but swiftly lost to the Tigers. Now he had that ring. Never retire—right? Counting the World Series, thirty-eight games were required to produce a champion, with eleven of them settled by one run, and six going into extra innings. The easy, almost endless run of summer ball was not just over but obsolete, and it requires effort to bring any part of it back, even the Mets.

Place should be reserved, however, for the achievement of the switch-hitting Red Sox infielder Bill Mueller, who twice hit home runs from different sides of the plate in the same game. The second time he did this, against the home-team Texas Rangers, the dingers—first right-handed, then left—came in consecutive innings and were both grand slams. Never before—never nearly before. For a single game, I will keep the drizzly, foggy evening of June 13th, at Yankee Stadium, when Roger Clemens, after failing in his three previous tries, at last nailed down his three-hundredth win.

He was the twenty-first pitcher to enter this particular club, but on the same night also notched his four-thousandth lifetime strikeout, a level previously attained only by Nolan Ryan and and Steve Carlton. Clemens, who is forty-one, was retiring after this season, his twentieth, and he had wanted these certifications before the end. The landmark K was odd, because Roger had just given up a home run and a double to the previous Cardinal batters here in the second inning it was an inter-league game and because the cheers greeting the whiff, by shortstop Edgar Renteria, now began to blend with a welcome for the next batter, designated hitter Tino Martinez, an old Yankee hero making his first appearance at the Stadium since his departure two years ago.

Clemens hugged his catcher, Jorge Posada; hugged his other teammates and coaches; hugged the Yankee P. Almost from the beginning of his career, he has been an enigmatic presence in the clubhouse and in mid-action—a tree in the living room, a dangerous object left on the highway. There have been six Cy Young Awards and those two epochal twenty-strikeout games, ten years apart, and also the fugues: his early ejection from a league championship start in for muttered curses on the mound; his nailing Mike Piazza with a fastball on the side of the helmet in ; and its sequel, the flung-bat-stump mystery in the World Series that same fall.

But now and for the rest of this season Clemens became calmer on the mound and less mumbly or Esperantoid with the media. Planet Roger had produced a sunset.

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He also won two huge starts in the post-season—the third game against the Twins in the Divisionals, which put his team in command at last, and that roily Game Three in Boston, where he stood cool amid the schoolyard punchings and pushings. He wanted to stay useful, and did so, besting his duellist Pedro in every category in his six innings and coming off with the win. Here was a harbinger, the first leaf of another hard Bosox autumn ahead—eleven more games of breathless and mindless, heroic and incomprehensible ball, ending in a fresh seismic shock to the Red Sox Nation, by consensus the worst one of all.


Gone South

I was at Fenway Park for most of the action, but cannot offer a reliable summary—certainly not of the Divisional third game, which featured a collective six errors and several base-running grotesqueries by the visitors. Handed a two-run first-inning lead against Roger Clemens, Martinez has given back a run in the second, then a solo homer to Jeter, and, just now, a walk and a single and an r. The Yankees lead, and will hold on to win, despite chaotic distractions.

After the teams change sides Manny Ramirez comes out at Clemens, bat upraised, in response to an eye-level pitch that was actually over the plate. Benches and bullpens empty, old Zimmer swings at Martinez and goes down—what was that? This game had been billed as a classic between the best pitcher of his day and the best of his era, but turned into low farce.

And the Sox front office enables him, just as they do Manny Ramirez. Just as they did with Roger when he was here and Yaz when he was here and Ted when he was here. Just this past season, he turned up in a dazzling new baseball trivia question, in good company. Name four guys who were ejected from major-league games in six different decades. Casey Stengel.

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Leo Durocher. Frank Robinson. It comes to a seventh game—could anyone have doubted it? Everything matters now. Clemens is back and so is Pedro—but this Roger appears frail and thought-burdened. The No. An inning later, Kevin Millar singles, and Trot Nixon, from his flat-footed left-handed stance, delivers a businesslike homer into the stands in right: his third two-run job in the post-season.

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  • With two out, the bearded, dad-like Jason Varitek doubles into the right-field corner. Martinez, for his part, survives some first-inning wobbles and is soon in rhythm: the stare-in from behind his red glove, the velvety rock and turn, and the strikes arriving in clusters. After each out, he gloves the returning ball backhand, and gazes about with lidded hauteur. No one else in the world has eyes so far apart.

    Clemens, down and almost helpless, gives up a walk and a hit-and-run single to Mueller and departs, maybe for the last time ever. A ten-year-old Yankee fan I know named Noah has by this time gone down on his knees on the concrete in front of his seat near first base, hiding his head. There were Sox fans here, too, of course—you could see them in red-splashed knots and small parties around the Stadium, and pick up their cries.

    Lonneke van der Palen shot the Cover Story for le Monde d'Hermès #70.

    The Boston offense had been a constant for them all year, including the sixteen-hit outburst in the series-tying win the night before. This year, the Sox set major-league records for extra bases, total bases, and slugging percentage. The Boston front office, headed by the twenty-nine-year-old G.

    Mueller, the double-grand-slam switch-hitter, was batting eighth today.

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    For me, Kevin Millar, a free agent acquired for cash from the Marlins last winter, was the genius pick. On April 1st, the second day of the season, he contributed a sixteenth-inning game-winning home run in Tampa, and in June pinch-hit a grand slam that helped pull off a seven-run turnabout against the Brewers. The unimaginable had happened: the Sox were loose. Mike Mussina, called into the crisis with Boston runners at first and third, and no outs—Clemens had just gone—went into his ceremonial low-bowing stretch and struck out Varitek, the first batter, on three pitches.

    Jason Giambi, struggling at. The press-box floor thrummed under my feet, as I had felt it do on an autumn late night or two before. Young Noah had lifted himself off the deck by this time and stood by his seat, yelling. I had been looking about the familiar Stadium surround in valedictory fashion—the motel-landscape bullpens, the UTZ Potato Chip sign over in right—but from here to the end sat transfixed by the cascade of events, scarcely able to draw a full breath.

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