Despite this being old news, I thought some might enjoy photos from the Mets game against the Diamondbacks on July 31 (L, 3-2):

rain at citi.jpgThis is the game which gave Sean Green his second strike on my personal enemies list.  If my left eye wasn’t the source of some recent consternation (ocular hypertension sounds a lot better than glaucoma suspect), y’all might’ve had the full text of an oft-alluded to story: the day I watched from a jacuzzi as Sean Green walked in the Phillies’ winning run at Citizens Bank Park.

But my eye is the source of some recent consternation, so despite the screen text now set at twice the size I usually prefer it, I’d rather follow the ophthalmologist’s advice and not expose the eye to undue stress.  I want you all to know he laughed when I told him I was planning on heading out to see the Mets that night.

Laughter can out poetry.  Laughter can also make me want to punch a guy in the face.  Thank God I’m civilized.

rainbow at citi.jpg

Rain events are truly events at Citi Field.  Last time there was an appreciable rain delay, the skies curdled with the blood of our collective ancestors.  On this day, a rainbow.  Three rows behind me, a semi-tasteless joke was made at Daniel Murphy’s expense.  I laughed.  Of course I laughed.

band at citi.jpgThe potzer on the left (though I doubt he’s a chess player) whipped off his Mets cap before singing badly.  I’m all for equality but I’m against the [Ethnicity] Day construct at a ball park.  It always comes off as forced.  These poor schmoes had no decent place to play; their sound was poor; they could barely get a song in because the rain had killed the chance for that.  Amateur hour for a group just barely above amateur league.  I know.  I’m a connoisseur.  Marcy Place is not the band you want representing Latin heritage or Hispanic heritage or whatever your preferred politically correct term is.

Who am I to talk?  My mother’s Dominican; my father’s family is Puerto Rican.  As if I needed credentials to label artistic output as cruddy.

I can’t say if the crime of the wild pitch that night was exclusively Sean Green’s or Omir Santos’s.  The laptop I use to reliably watch video is a netbook, and that bad boy’s off limits to me because of its eight-inch small screen.  So if anyone wishes to haul off on the topic, please fill me in. 

I was prescribed a steady diet of rest and abstention from my eye glasses, which could stand an upgrade anyway, so I missed Angel Pagan’s grand slam to take it to the D-bags D-backs on Saturday.  When I allowed myself to watch the game yesterday, I swear it felt as though the thing was about to pop out of its socket.

So it’s come to this, essentially: the Mets are hazardous to my health.

Nevertheless, I have a game tomorrow, and I will be there.  It seems repetetive to talk about the Mets chances, the ineptitude of Sean Green, and the return of once-prodigal son Nelso Figueroa tonight.  I can only quote what a great individual said with regard to a team in another sport: just win, baby.

God.  Imagine if Al Davis ran both the Raiders AND the Mets.

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