The Fall of the House of Dykstra

The New Yorker's Ben McGrath offers a pretty damning post mortem on Lenny Dykstra, the former Met hero and latterday contagion of the financial industry who filed for bankruptcy yesterday morning:

His grand plan included a partnership with A.I.G., the soon-to-fail insurance giant; his great champion in the investment world was Jim Cramer, the “Mad Money” host, who was later forced to repent for his irrationally exuberant ways in front of Jon Stewart. But, in retrospect, perhaps the most telling detail about Dykstra’s complicity in the age of magical thinking can be found in the Mitchell Report, baseball’s Book of Atonement for steroids. It describes a meeting that took place nearly ten years ago between Dykstra and Kevin Hallinan, an official in the commissioner’s office: “According to Hallinan, Dykstra said that using steroids eliminated the need for him to work out during the season.

That Dyskstra, a man Keith Hernandez denounced for his off-the-field antics, was celebrated as a stock market whiz by anyone, speaks volumes about how out of hand things got in the financial industry. Now that I think about it, with guys like Dykstra, Bernie Madoff, Joe Cassano and countless others running amok, I'm actually shocked the dollar is still worth the paper it's printed on. If you can stomach it, take a look at the following clip of Bernie Goldberg's Real Sports spot about Dykstra from, I believe, early last spring. It's not pretty.   

What Mighty Contests

I don't just get my sports jollies from men in baggy shorts and baseball caps. Every now and again, I like to check in on the tweedier contests of the more erudite-- and  galactically less coordinated. From the Book Bench, the New Yorker books blog, comes this interesting round up of a recent table quiz that pitted three teams-- of authors, editors and agents-- against one another in a winner-take-all, 5 v 5 literary trivia battle royale. Although the authors ultimately took home the fake, plastic trophy, the best line of the night came from the mouth of a disgruntled literary agent.  I'll let the Book Bench's Victoria Loustalot set the scene, and deliver the well-timed kicker:

In the first round, when Lethem correctly answered the question “The clocks strike thirteen in the opening line of what classic novel?” (answer: “1984” by George Orwell), a feisty young agent in knee-high black leather boots yelled, “Get a job!”

The contest was sponsored by Splice magazine, a Brooklyn-based literary journal I never knew existed.

"That Next Goddam Guy Up, Rickey."

Roger Angell picks off recent Baseball Hall of Fame inductee Rickey Henderson, who was, according to Angell, one of the greatest--and most annoying--players in the history of baseball. Why was Rickey such a pain in the ass? Because Rickey made it thus: 

It was all on purpose, of course. Rickey’s plan, from the first day, was to get into the minds of the other team’s pitcher and the other team’s manager and the other team’s infielders, and their fans, too, and get them thinking about Rickey instead of the business at hand. That at-bat scrunch shrivelled the strike zone to the size of a Kleenex; his furrowy, imperious frown, twisting head, and curatorial glare at each passing pitch turned the home-plate ump’s calls his way. Once he was on base, that squinting, finger-twitching pause when leading away from first made the infielders sidle to more awkward places in the diamond, and insufferably burdened the pitchers’ attention. Managers, out of their gourds with anxiety, more than once ordered an opposing lead-off batter walked intentionally, with nobody on base, to clog up the base-paths and avert more potential damage by that next goddam guy up, Rickey.

For a look at Henderson's, um, impressive lifetime stats, take a look over here. To get the complete story of Rickey, though, feast your eyes on this. 

But Can He Post Up Jim Davis?

I've always been interested in the obscure talents of famous people. Like Ted Williams' proficiency for fly-fishing. Or shooting down Koreans. There's just something kind of reassuring about knowing, for instance, that Oscar Wilde was also a pretty good boxer or that millionaires Warren Buffet and Bill Gates are also world-class bridge players.

I'm not sure this qualifies on either front, but I stumbled across this oddly hypnotic video of Robert Mankoff, the cartoon editor of the New Yorker, on the magazine's blog, "The Cartoon Lounge," showing off his basketball skills.

For those of you unfamiliar with Mankoff, he’s in charge of pulling together each week the best collection of cartoons on the planet. He also occasionally contributes his own work, one of which featured this memorable line about the Mick:

"I'm probably in the minority, but I would've loved to see Mantle on steroids."

Although Mankoff’s shooting isn't anywhere in the same vicinity of the Splendid Splinters' otherworldly gifts, the cartoonist is pretty good at hitting the open J, from the same spot, unguarded, over and over again.

Now, don't get me wrong: Mankoff's no Stephen Curry. His form is a bit stiff, to say the least, and I doubt he'd have much luck getting his shot off against a defender, even in an one-on-one against the paunchy dude who appears toward the end of the clip. Still, 9 for 9 is a good night, in any league.

Odds & Sods

The New Yorker has some fantastic treats in this week’s issue. Take a bite out of this mouthwatering profile about the best little BBQ joint in Texas, which is, appropriately enough, run by a former rodeo clown and a middle school janitor. (I’m still partial to the Salt Lick myself). Wash it down with the magazine’s feature about Delaware’s Dogfish Head Beer. Fans of FreeDarko should check out the Seattle Weekly’s story—which includes the first coherent explanation of the most magically delicious basketball blog I’ve ever come across—about the mensch behind the site. My Knickerbockers just took a giant first step toward getting under the cap. And they’re apparently just getting started. Finally, FanIQ points out this hilarious video about what happens when mascots cross the line.