Many of us grew up with uniform numbers inextricably attached to players. Inextricably, as in still and forever.
Most numbers were seasonally shared. To me, No. 8 was/is Yogi Berra, and even after they were traded, Walt Bellamy and Bob Nevin.
No. 7 was easy: Mickey Mantle and Rod Gilbert.
No. 16? Whitey Ford, Frank Gifford and, believe it or not, Rod Seiling. Elston Howard and Sandy Koufax were No. 32.
But there was and always will be only one No. 81. Andy Robustelli. Whether 81 was a grade on a test or the temperature, it was “an Andy Robustelli.”
A couple of weeks ago, while playing golf, I noticed that the number of the cart was 81. “Andy Robustelli,” I said out loud to myself.
Robustelli, who died this week at 85 — 85 was Giants receiver Del Shofner — was among the easiest for this kid to root. Even by early-1960s standards, he was a small defensive end. Listed at 6-foot-1, 230 pounds, he played lighter. He’d play you blood-and-guts straight-up or spin and slide; either way, he’d beat you. His uniform always was among the dirtiest.
In the late 1960s the Jets had a similar end, Gerry Philbin. He, too, was a light but highly skilled and determined player who’d also become an All-Pro. He, too, wore No. 81. But it was too late by then. No. 81 was Robustelli, and only Robustelli. Still is.
Wilpon a hapless victim? Don’t buy it!
It’s not hard to buy the Fred Wilpon/Saul Katz/Sterling Equities explanation — provided one suspends common sense.
Do you think that if they’d lost millions while everyone else was making millions they wouldn’t have demanded to know why?
But we’re supposed to believe that they were too financially naive to ask why they were making millions while everyone else was losing millions? Can’t buy that.
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Pirates manager Clint Hurdle, with Ed Coleman on yesterday’s WFAN pregame, explained Pittsburgh’s unexpectedly good start as a matter of “running hard to first.” Radical.
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It’s almost mystifying how the Heat, with three superstars on the court at once and throughout the season, produce so few drive-and-dish layup baskets. Tuesday, Game 1, Miami attempted 24 3-pointers. Good Mavericks’ defense? Or minimalist Heat offense? Both?
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Readers have asked why Mike Francesa has pounded Jim Tressel as a win-at-all-costs bad guy, yet treats Jim Calhoun like Prince Valiant. Good question. Call Mike and ask; he’d love to hear from you on that.
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Wednesday, Chris Berman out-ESPNed himself. Of the Giants, he said, “They have seven walk-off wins, thus far, most of them at home.” Most, huh?
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Pomp and Circumstances: After calling Tuesday’s Mavericks-Heat on ABC/ESPN, Mike Breen flew back here for his daughter’s graduation, then back to Miami for last night’s game.
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Wednesday, during Kim Jones‘ her YES in-game report, she five times said, “He told me,” when once would have been plenty. Whatever happened to “He said”?
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Rep. Anthony Weiner has been suspended for two weeks by ESPN.
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If Gary Cohen were at a ballgame and the fellow next to him said, “Here’s the 2-2 offering,” he’d think that guy was a bit off, no?
Cohen and Ron Darling, on SNY, Monday, were discussing the small foul territory at Citi Field. Cohen said, “You must have loved pitching in Oakland.”
“Well,” said Darling, “by that time batters were keeping it mostly fair.”
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Larry Goldfarb, North Woodmere, has asked for our help after ESPN presented this stat: “The Lightning are 3-2 lifetime in Game 7s, and are one of three teams to have never lost a Game 7, along with the Wild and Panthers.”
Final insult: NBA takes Cee Lo road
Keep pounding, fellas.
The cumulative and coordinated effect of the entertainment, sports and advertising industries on American culture seems irreversible.
They relentlessly continue their remorseless, scorched-earth tromp designed to turn every kid into a wise-guy punk. Or worse. There is no other plan. None needed. They’re doing a hell of a good job with this one.
Tuesday night in Miami, just before Game 1 of the NBA Finals — and just before the Heat were introduced to public-address-system hysteria on loan from the Psychopathic Philharmonic — the visiting Mavericks were introduced.
And as the starters were identified, the fine people at the AmericanAirlines Arena played an instrumental version of a popular song sung by Cee Lo Green, a song titled “F— You.”
Clever, eh? And with that one- fingered salute, directed at the visiting team for the unpardonable sin of being the visiting team, the 2011 NBA Finals, televised throughout the world, began. That’s right, this year’s NBA Finals began with the playing of “F— You.”
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The handshake line at the end of a Stanley Cup series is logically among the easiest things for TV to show. Just show it.
And when the two goalies have been particularly good, as is often the case, stick with them as they approach each other, then meet. It’s that simple, that easy, that sensible.
Yet such scenes almost always are butchered.
With the end of Game 7 of Bruins-Lightning — Dwayne Roloson and Boston’s Tim Thomas were for the most part exceptional — Thomas was shown on Versus making his way along the line. Still, just in case, Doc Emrick reminded us — and very likely the production crew –what would and should soon appear:
“Still one more congratulations is coming, from Dwayne Roloson. Were these two guys ever great.”
Seconds later, as Roloson approached Thomas, Versus cut to a so-what closeup of Boston’s Nathan Horton. By the time we saw the Thomas-Roloson meeting it was over. Good grief, and good night.