Welcome b-hack to the Mike Francesa program. My guest is Joe Torre, who wrote a book that’s pretty interestin. Pretty interestin. If you like books that are interestin, you will like dis book. Lotta headlines outta dis book. Lotta big news. It’s a book with a lotta stuff in it. A book made of pages. 
Thanks, Mike, I think you summed it up pretty well.
So Joe, has the passage of time led you to rethink certain things about your years as a manager?
Well, back in 2000 I defended Roger Clemens pretty hard when he beaned Mike Piazza, and when he threw a bat at him in the World Series. I now have some reason to suspect that steroids might have had something to do with his behavior.
What l-hed you to that conclusion?
I watched the World Series footage. With my eyes.
Monthly Archives: February 2009
Vehicular Homicide (of Your Own Dignity)
Speaking of commutes, my morning trip to work involves a lengthy walk once I de-bus. And on my way to the office, I saw a car with several hats in the back window. One of them said ALLENDALE TEQUILA TEAM.
My first thought was, Does this belong to a contestant on Tool Academy? But it was a Honda Civic, and I picture guys from that show driving souped-up Camaros with spinny rims and purple neon around the license plate.
So who could this car possibly belong to? It has to be the kind of person who (1) would actually purchase such a hat, or accept it as a gift from someone, and (2) be so proud of it that they’d display it in their car, and (3) be dumb enough to not think twice about such a move.
Because that’s totally what you want cops to see while you’re driving: an article of clothing in your car that says THERE’S A BETTER THAN 50% CHANCE THIS GUY’S DRUNK RIGHT NOW. I can’t see any way that could lead to you getting pulled over.
Because there are many alcoholic beverages that can be appreciated without inebriation, but tequila is not one of them. If you’re drinking tequila, you have one goal: getting sloshed. And if you have a hat advertising your membership in a TEQUILA TEAM, that further implies that you are extremely dedicated to getting effed up as much as possible.
I almost wanted to stick around and wait for this guy to get back to his car. But either he would be exactly what I think he is–some fat mess in a sweatshirt that says SHIT HAPPENS WHEN YOU PARTY NAKED–or a hipster who put the hat their for its ironic value. Best to marvel at the sight and move on.
The MTA’s Very Own Buster Keaton
My usual bus driver was born too late for vaudeville or silent film. That’s too bad, because she would’ve hit it big in either genre. She has mastered the long, drawn-out visual gag, and she has just the right amount of sadism to make it really work.
The bus I take to work in the morning starts its route around the corner from where I live. So people line up at the stop, waiting for said bus to arrive. The bus pulls up, and the queue inevitably shuffles closer to the curb, even though we are nowhere close to leaving yet.
The bus driver s l o w l y hoists herself out of her seat, wraps herself up in a jacket and scarf, and then opens the door–so she can go into the Dunkin Donuts right by the bus stop, use the facilities, and order herself a coffee.
After completing these tasks–which take a bare minimum of five minutes–she returns to the bus. She opens the door just wide enough to let herself in and make it clear that no one else is getting in yet. Then she takes off her jacket. Then she takes off her scarf. Then she carefully folds them up and places them in the locker behind her seat.
And just when you think she’s totally done, oh no, not even close. Because she proceeds to engage in a million little OCD- rituals before she even dares to start the bus. Adjusting her seat. Adjusting her rear view mirrors. Adjusting her seat again. Adjusting the side view mirrors. Adjusting the rear views again.
And then, just when you think she’s ready, she notices something amiss. Like the strap of her shoulder bag caught in the locker door. So she gets up from her chair s l o w l y and fixes it, and sits back down just as s l o w l y, and goes through her whole Tourette’s syndrome ritual all over again.
Then she starts up the bus. But she is so good at this routine, she knows how to start up the bus in the most fekachteh way possible. She turns the key, the bus sputters, the lights flicker, but the engine doesn’t quite catch.
Not only is she able to do this every morning, she is able to do it and look just as perplexed and annoyed every morning. Like she’s not doing it on purpose.
But after the second or third try at starting the bus, she finally gets it going. And we’re ready to roll, right? Oh no, there are more adjustments on their way before finally, finally she opens the door and lets everyone in.
And–this is the kicker–as passengers walk in, she’s totally stone-faced. Not the least bit of recognition of what has just transpired. Like she hasn’t made you needlessly wait in 15 degree weather for no good reason.
It would be completely hysterical, if I was watching it on a silent movie screen in 1923 and not about to have my ears drop off my head from the cold.