At a certain point early on in tonight’s telecast of the Mets-Marlins match-up (L; 5-3), SNY grabbed a shot of the Mets bullpen, in its current configuration:

  • Lance Broadway
  • Elmer Dessens
  • Pedro Feliciano
  • Sean Green
  • Francisco Rodriguez
  • Brian Stokes
  • Ken Takahashi

I watched from a bar, chin dripping with the juice of a fairly unsatisfying burger, pint glass greasy from my unwashed paw’s grubbing at it, and The Sister jabbering on about some nonsense about my aunt’s St. Barth’s guest house bathroom.

With all this discussion of adjacent opulence while I sank into sloth, I still could not help but feel scrubbed and dudded to the nines compared to those seven poor, damned souls.  Besides the drab gray uniforms, they were slumped. Slouched. Worn out and wasted.

If you haven’t seen the current starting pitcher rotation, it’s as follows:

  • Mike Pelfrey
  • Tim Redding
  • Pat Misch
  • Bobby Parnell
  • Nelson Figueroa

And here I once harbored wild delusions of the Mets trading for Roy Halladay AND Carl Crawford. 

But they’re dumping salary like I’d dump radioactive waste.  That is to say: quickly and hastily, and with little regard for the long-term consequences.  I once harbored delusions of both Carloses coming back.  At present… well…

At present both would provide a decent bat. It’s not like all these guys are not hitting.  It’s that none of them can reasonably be expected to move them over or drive them in.  Tonight’s game was eminently winnable, but for the lack of someone who can hit a ball at the fence against a woeful outfield.

But this is the hope I have.  The guys I watched in the bullpen may have struck those poses before, in less exposed environs, but tonight, behind their gum chewing and facial hair picking and cup scratching, I could see a lifelessness.  A “We’ve Been Through This Before, Don’t Ask Us To Try For A .500 Season” pall had settled on the sandy meadow.  Ain’t no home for them.

If their secret doesn’t involve drugs or working through the ranks of minor league ball, I’d sure like to know it.  I want to chew gum.  I… want to not care.

At the least, knowing their secret will allow me to scratch my groin area without fearing it’s impolite.