Of starting this blog I will only say this: I hope I can keep various defunct presences on the web straight.  We’ll see.

Now then:

I should’ve paid attention in high school when certain friends showed a talent for remembering statistics, and cracking jokes.  See, I’m a guy who enjoys being outside or at least near fresh air on moody summer days such as these, and I thought to myself on my way back from a sugar run that had I paid attention to the stat minders, I’d’ve learned how to mind stats myself, and parlayed that ability and a decent wit into a job as a sports writer.  I could then be near a field or on a bus or plane on my way to a field today.

Sadly, I didn’t pay attention, and that didn’t happen.

By way of inelegant segue, watching baseball for me is a window to a literal and figurative field I envy both for its grand stage and sense of community.  I’ve been fortunate enough to bear witness to some late-breaking history: Gary Sheffield’s 500th home run, Johan Santana’s 100th win; and have had the pleasure of introducing the game to several people.  But man, do I want to get on or near that field.

Except for this past weekend.  Keep this past weekend.

Rather than rehash the atrocity that was Friday night and the horrible, horrible mayhem that was Sunday afternoon, I’d like to offer some (perhaps overly) hopeful words:

  • Billy Wagner’s rehab is progressing nicely.  I trust he’s seeking redemption, and should be back the split-second there’s any chance of Brian Stokes getting more playing time.
  • There’s not been a whiff of surgery talk regarding Jose Reyes.  I’ll take that as a minor victory.
  • Carlos Delgado will be a novelty in the batter’s box if he keeps his goatee shaved.
  • Neil Diamond and his hateful repertoire appear to have been banned from Citi Field.  For the time being.
  • I have no clue where Oliver Perez is, and you should love that as much as I.

There will be more on each of these points as the days and weeks and months progress.

Actually, let me say one thing about Friday night, versus the Yankees (June 12, L 9-8).

I haven’t seen the play.  Or maybe it should be The Play, unless Initial Caps are Intended Only For Awesome Things, such as Endy’s Catch (which is, gratefully and phenomenally, the near sole-owner of the term The Catch [in Mets circles, anyway]).  In any event, I haven’t seen it.  I returned home after watching The Taking Of Pelham 1-2-3, and swore I wasn’t going to watch a bit of the game, after the toll the Phillies series took on me.

But in between watching DVR’ed repeats of The X-Files and avoiding Kent Jones’s shtick on Rachel Maddow’s program (I know he’s a nice guy, but I can’t handle him or his voice), I flipped over to the game for a few minutes at a time.  I know on the whole I was missing a wild ride.  But in addition to the Phillies-addled time I’d had in the days prior, my wife (My Wife? The Wife? The Wife.) was coming into town for the weekend.  It was time to let one go.

She arrived I guess around when the Mets were sending Frankie R. to the mound to wrap it up.  She asked me the score; I was already in bed and said I didn’t know.  I checked my Blackberry as she was brushing her teeth.  And there you go.

Yet I still have not seen The Play.  I was spared the inundation of replays by dint of a trip out to Butler, NJ for a birthday in a VFW hall–random–and cocktails and pizza afterward with The Wife.  I was nowhere near a TV at any point that Saturday.  And PIX spared me a replay of The Play yesterday.  Probably because nearly every time the Yankees hit a ball, it was to the outfield, and not anywhere near Luis Castillo.

So I haven’t seen The Play.  At this point, it’s an endurance test.  How long can I last without seeing it?  Think of this: I was–also random–in a hot tub when Sean Green walked in that run against the Phillies in May.  I was in Loge at Shea in ’07, when Oliver Perez walked in three runs against the Marlins in the first game of that last weekend series.  I’ve cheered Jeff Conine in my lifetime.  Considering all the other awful and pathetic things I’ve witnessed, maybe I can let this one go?

Or is the true result of die hard fandom the masochistic big nut bar that comes from subjecting oneself to such debilitating crapulence? 

You parse that sentence; I’ll think about it.

More, of course, later.

Advertisements