Mets defeat the St. Louis Cardinals 11-0.
I suppose this was possible because it wasn’t technically a rubber game.
My thanks, too, to the TBRays, for the victory over the Phillies.
How ’bout that Fernando Nieve, at 3-0?
More when I’m not basking in the glow of an authentic blowout.
None necessarily to be found during last night’s Mets game (vs. St. Louis Cardinals: L 3-0; leave me alone, numerologists) but one to be found while watching the game with a friend who knows very little about baseball that I don’t tell her.
Joel Pineiro (assume the tilda over the n) doubles. Because Tony La Russa’s cute as a button, Brendan Ryan bats ninth.
Friend: “Wait, why’s that guy batting ninth? Doesn’t the pitcher usually bat ninth?”
Me: “Very good.”
Friend: “So why’s he batting ninth, the shortstop guy?”
Me: “Because Tony La Russa’s cute as a button.”
Brendan Ryan bunts.
Friend: “Bunt! To get the runner to third!”
Me: “Shh shh shh shh shh!”
Livan Hernandez picks up the bunt. Omir Santos indicates first base. Livan checks third. No one there. Not Joel Pineiro, certainly. Brendan Ryan makes it safely to first.
Friend: “Wait, why’d he look over at third? I mean, I know if he went to third, you want him out because he’s closer to home base.”
Me: “Home plate.”
Friend: “Right. But there was nobody there. He could’ve gotten the guy out at first.”
Me: “Yes, probably.”
Friend: “And the catcher guy was telling him… well, that sucks.”
Me: “Yes, definitely.”
Friend: “I mean, isn’t this pitcher guy like, crafty, or whatever? He coulda made it out without a… um, run.”
Me: “Indeed.”
Friend: “Now the pressure’s on everybody. Seems unfair.”
Me: “Life is rarely, if ever, fair.”
I’m fairly certain that few people watching last night’s game had a similar experience. And given the awful tidiness of last night’s game, that’s a damn shame.
The hit and run with Livan Hernandez at the plate: que? Have we regained such faith in Luis Castillo’s bald tires or were we expecting a double play? Given the way the first five frames went, I guess pressure had to be applied. But I’d much rather see the Mets try and freeze Yadier Molina with the “top” of the order than the “bottom” (again, I see little distinction at this stage).
I know you apply the heat when the pot’s on the stove, but to extend a heinous metaphor, Livan went up without a pot holder, or even one of those flexible trivets.
A “trivet,” by the way, is a straight-up plate, or stone, or even piece of high-test textile one uses to protect a table from the heat of a dish or pot. There. Now you’ve learned something, too.
When the Mets lose a game and I need to travel from site of game-watching experience back home, I try to find a consolation song to listen to. Lately, the song I’ve been using is “Agnes, Queen Of Sorrow,” by Bonnie “Prince” Billy (a.k.a. Will Oldham). Excusing the portion of the song which breathes a reference to the passing of a child, I feel it sums up my experience as a fan in this long lean period. One verse keeps cycling in my head:
If you wait another day
I will wait a day
If you wait another day
I will wait a day
Every time I think you say
It’s time for us to go our way
I say wait another day
Not getting rid of me that easily, gentlemen. I seem to have taught a friend who’s admitted to having the memory of a goldfish that you don’t bat the pitcher eighth unless you’re Tony La Russa; you try for a bunt with nobody out and the runner in scoring position; if your catcher tells you first base, you throw to FIRST BASE. That there’s a moral victory for me. And I’ll take it. See youse mugs tonight.
I watched the game last night against the St. Louis Cardinals (W, 6-4) in stages. The first stage: Upper East Side of Manhattan, where I took notes in my head and quickly forgot them upon watching a plate of fried calamari get confiscated for… what? Why take the plate away? There was still food there; I was still eating it. There was no signal. I don’t care what you say.
Unbelievable.
The second stage, Brooklyn. Pacific Standard on Fourth Avenue. The MOST delicious microbrews. I took full advantage. And here now, are the full extent of the notes I took, unedited:
Different Stokes to move the world
Double paly on Pujols
How does castillo beat out that infield hit?
Guy Keith was demo-ing on was Schumaker
Dennys reyes can’t handle Fmart’s bunt
Yadier Molina has farty pants
I suppose he does have farty pants. Let’s go down the line:
Think about the heartburn going into the bottom of the eighth, and think about how the bottom half of the line-up (though with these players, is there a bottom half of the line-up anymore?) manufactured a run:
Luis Castillo: infield single.
Fernando Martinez in for Stokes: bunt between Dennys Reyes and Yadier Molina.
Alex Cora: single up the middle on Dennys Reyes. No extension on Reyes’s part to catch it because he can’t leave his feet; Cora safe; Luis Castillo scores. Yadier Molina goes nanners.
The digital zoom on the camera catching the money end of the third base line had Castillo safe. Molina catches it, Castillo geeks out, and grabs the plate as Molina tries to apply the tag. It was close, but Castillo was in.
The run gives Frankie Rodriguez wiggle room against the middle of the Cardinals’ order. Now, the middle of the Cardinals’ order isn’t exactly setting the world on fire, but today’s Mets aren’t sure things when it comes to putting out fires. There was nothing more poetic, by the way, than yesterday’s crash on the RFK Bridge involving trainer Ray Ramirez, Jose Reyes, and a fire truck. On the day that Carlos Beltran goes on the DL.
I love a metaphor as much as the next guy, but c’mon.
I guess until Tim Redding loses a game, I can keep calling him Teflon Tim. Dear Tim Redding: don’t lose any games. We need them. Love, Paul. P.S.: Don’t call me. Your facial hair is frightening.
**
Oliver Perez pitched in Port St. Luice yesterday. Against the Charlotte Stone Crabs.
I would review, but… no. Just… no.
CHARLOTTE. STONE. CRABS.
Doom, meet Gloom. Gloom, this is Doom.
Carlos Beltran has been put on the DL with that bone bruise business he felt last month. He’d said it was painful yesterday as he ran about the base paths and in the field. This according to MLB.com.
… .
I suppose it’s a good thing that Brian Schneider’s unloaded a couple home runs recently. Let’s, uh, see if he can keep that going against the Cardinals.
Buh.
The problem with being a finesse team is that you typically need dominant pitching to stay in the game long enough to eke out runs. But I’ve pointed this out before–the Mets’ starting rotation is:
I repeat:
… .
Fernando Tatis will need to be more patient. Gary Sheffield will need to pick his spots. David Wright, at this point, must go fifty for his next fifty. No pressure.
I’m heartened by Daniel Murphy’s picking up steam. Word is Angel Pagan will be back at some point soon. But this line-up’s lying in a burned-out basement, hoping for replacements. And there are no real viable options out on the block.
So we will no doubt be watching some very interesting or very heartbreaking baseball as we work to the All-Star break. Here’s hoping the rest of the NL East’s competition is as deadly to them as pursuing a physical activity for the purpose of earning a salary appears to be for the 2009 New York Mets.
A typing machine today… I really meant to post this one on Saturday, but you know the story.
The Mets play in a park that is literally devoid of an exclamation point.
If you go to Citi Field, and stare at its “Citi Vision,” you’ll note the aesthetes were smart enough to spice up some of the garish advertising with a clear, concise “LET’S GO METS” at the top.
But that’s all. Not “LET’S GO METS!!!” (which would have killed me for the two superfluous exclamation points) or “LET’S GO METS!” (much better) or “LET’S GO METS!” (fine).
LET’S GO METS
reads like
BUTTER
SAUSAGE
DISHWASHING DETERGENT
or
MARK
PLEASE REVIEW AND MAKE NOTES
PAM
or
STOP GET TICKET
…which threw me in my youth. Everyone was stopping. Weren’t tickets bad? Shouldn’t we be GOING to AVOID TICKET?
I’m not a fan of the name “Citi Field,” but they (the Mets) signed a contract with Citi, and that’s that. This stuff about taxpayers’ money doesn’t wash. I know from budgets; yes you can look at it as being all in one pool; no, they don’t sign a contract in 2006 for $400 million over twenty years and NOT project where the money would come from. Projections based on revenue wrong? Sure. That happens. Adjust and move on. There’s plenty to be mad at Citi about without picking on $20 million a year in “excess spending.”
But all the nonsense did spark an email discussion with ticket plan friends about what the park would be renamed, in the event that all hell broke loose and Citi split.
The favorite was “Metropolis,” until it was pointed out that Metropolis is glass and steel, not brick and iron. The name was modified to “Metropolis Park,” and lost its luster.
“Iron Triangle” was next on the list; an homage to the chop shops next door.
I bought an “I’m Calling It Shea” t-shirt from No Mas, and I call the park Shea more often than not, out of habit I’m in no rush to break. But Citi Field is less a stadium and more a ball park; to call it “Shea Stadium II” would be weird; to call it “Shea Field” would seem like a demotion; there’s an aural dissonance with “Shea Park.”
Frankly, I’m surprised they went with “Citi Field,” given what else rhymes with “Citi” and the exact nature of the Art Howe era.
If Citi ever imploded as a company, the Mets could make a ten-degree turn and start calling the place “City Field.” I have a friend from New Hampshire who seems to know next-to-nothing about baseball, and believed for months that “City Field” was its true name. Negative.
I have little to offer by way of foolproof suggestion; I think it would be wrong to memorialize anyone living (Seaver Field) or double-dip on anyone who’s passed (Robinson Park). Aside from MetLife, I can’t think of a decent corporate sponsor, and besides, we’re trying to get away from that sort of thing.
Not really looking to open this whole can of worms again, though, really. What I’d really like is for that sign to read:
LET’S GO METS!
…and in a non-sellout font.
Bobby Parnell doesn’t want to be traded.
He’s the kid staying over at the cool friend’s house for the weekend, and on Sunday morning he breaks a dish or smashes a lamp, thinking that when his parents come to pick him up, there’ll be such a ruckus about how bad he is that they’ll leave him there. “I don’t want him. Breaking lamps; drawing on the walls; nine runs and eleven hits over ten days and three innings pitched? You keep him. He likes the pool here, anyway.”
You may argue that the Mets’ pool is above-ground and hasn’t been skimmed since Papa Delgado hurt his hip down at the factory, and they also had to cut down on cheese and Charmin toilet paper. I’ll argue that Papa Delgado has nothin’ to do with nothin’ around here as far as Bobby’s concerned; the Mets have a losing record in June but the Phillies are swooning, so they’re living on credit. The Mets are still a contender. Any team that trades a power hitter or a front-line pitcher to the Mets either feels they’re out of contention, was never in contention to begin with, or is smoking something delightful.
Or you may argue that Bobby’s pitching badly because he DOES want to be traded, but to someone who’ll take him in this condition. My guess is that’d be the Nationals. If that were actually the case, then I’d want no part of him. Ladies on the bus. Gangstas on the field. All that good stuff.
Or you may argue that he’s sincerely trying to do a good job, he’s struggling under the use and the pressure, and I’m wrong for assuming any ill intent. You’re the most correct, certainly, but that theory’s no fun. Nuh-uh. Citi Field’s got the Nintendo Wii, and Danny Murphy’s Honda Civic is awesome to bomb around in on off days, cranking the Dropkick Murphys and the *Mighty Mighty Bosstones, and Old Man Stokes has the funniest stories. He’ll break enough stuff until the trade deadline, after which his parents’ll have gone, and he’ll be good. He promises.
*Besides once again using the CBS Sports MLB Players’ Page, I do not mean to imply that Daniel Murphy is a fan of the Mighty Mighty Bosstones.
Woof, Endy.
Woof.
ACL, MCL, cartilage, all busted, along with the season, and next season’s spring training, at least.
That should not be the consequence of playing hard. Playing hard should earn you fame, cheers, and a good night’s sleep. Instead, Endy Chavez gets an indeterminate amount of time on the Mariners’ DL. Not. Cool.
I’ve seen the replay; can’t really fault Yuniesky Betancourt, either. He was chasing for it hard; maybe he didn’t hear Endy calling for it… . It was just nasty luck.
The guy could barely hit a lick in ’08 for the Mets, but I love Endy Chavez still. My plan tickets have me entering Citi Field, regularly, through the Left Field gate, and observation as well as a note from Metsblog from way back leads me to believe that the silhouette at the gate is that of The Catch. Spectacular.
I attend my Friday games with a Mets fan and a Yankees fan, and they were with each other, at a bar, during Game 7 of the 2006 NLCS. The Yankees fan (he’s a SHINING example of one of the good ones; find yourself a Yankees fan who loves baseball so much that he’ll gladly plunk down $300 on fifteen METS games) regularly tells the story of how he believes he blacked out briefly when Endy made The Catch, and as soon as the relay was coming in to first, he was standing on his bar stool. Cheering his guts out.
I was home, and shaking on my floor, on my knees, fist pumping in the air. My landlord–the octogenarian war veteran living (by choice! by choice!) in the basement–was shouting as loud as I’d ever heard him. My sister, living with me at the time, came out of her room believing someone had broken in or I’d fallen from the roof. Neither was the case, but had a thief broken in, we’d’ve stood in front of the TV together and watched the replay on my DVR; had I been watching on my roof and fallen out of excitement, then adrenaline and euphoria would’ve been enough to sustain me while I took in the rest of the game, and walked to Lutheran Medical.
I cried in 2006 because of The Catch. I drank HARD after strike three to Beltran, but I cried after The Catch.
The MLB highlights promo that runs at Citi before every game draws my loudest cheers for The Catch. Not the Grand Slam Single or Piazza’s home run at the game post-9/11. The Catch was one of the greatest grabs in all of sport. And I’m going back to when the ball was invented. I’m talking centuries here.
The only way I could be hyperbolic about this is if I were to say that a greater catch has never been made in all of imagination. I once scaled a sixteen foot-high wall to rob Ryan Howard of a home run, then flung my glove, El Duque-style, at Shane Victorino off second for an unassisted double-play that ended the inning. On my way back to the dugout I flipped off Oliver Perez, who was heading to the mound (in this version, he’s been traded to the Phillies). That catch was SLIGHTLY better than Endy’s.
A knock against my Yankees fan friend is that he repeatedly states that The Catch can’t truly be considered great because the Mets wound up losing that game. Obviously I disagree.
You can’t deny Endy’s spirit, Endy’s hustle. (By no means am I saying he was the only one on that 2006 team that had it.) It’s a great play because, in that moment, the Mets were alive, and the potential for turning the tide, rather than just holding it off, was there. It was the physical manifestation of that feeling I got when the Mets won games in late September, chugging to the finish line, and DiamondVision showed the crowd one word: “BELIEVE.”
We could believe then because of Endy. I will continue to believe because of Endy. I believe he’ll get better, and I hope he still has many playing years ahead of him.
Reasons for my confusing the Tampa Bay Rays and the Toronto Blue Jays in my post on Friday afternoon:
But seriously; I kid the numerologists.
Sights from the game against the Tampa Bay Rays (W, 5-3), below. Even Teflon Tim Redding takes the train to the game!
**
I’ll say it. I don’t think it’s going to happen. Ever.
But in appeasement of those who, like me, are superstitious, I’ll only say that, and give you the picture, above, and let you think back to Saturday’s game (L, 3-1). Get it now? You’re familiar with that feeling. You’ll think about it for another day or so, and then file it away with John Maine and Nelson Figueroa and all the Tom Seavers and, tangentially, David Goddamn Cone, and Dwight Goddamn Gooden, and Nolan Goddamn Ryan times too many to count without crying. Among others.
I missed this particular one myself; I had to get up early for work, and was so tired by the time I got back home that I dropped into bed and didn’t wake up until 7:30 in the evening. My personal record this week was a wash so I gave myself a break on Saturday’s. Frankly, I thought it would be rained out.
But think about this: are we entitled to one? We have Johan and we’ve had Cone and Ryan and Seaver. If memory serves, the Padres’ cupboards are bare, too. Hell, the last time the Chicago Cubs won the World Series, Charles Fairbanks was bemoaning Teddy Roosevelt’s backing of William Howard Taft for the presidency. Do you even know who Charles Fairbanks WAS? I didn’t until about a minute ago.
What are we, as fans, owed besides a comfortable, safe place to watch a game, a competent crew to broadcast the proceedings whenever we can’t or don’t want to make it, a front office that doesn’t treat us like idiots, and a team that goes out and plays hard every day? If the Mets can get all that right–and I get the sense that the front office sometimes/often forgets how smart this fan base is, and I could kill Jose Reyes for his occasional loafing–then we should find ourselves proud of our boys. Success will follow, assuredly.
I want one as bad as the next Mets guy, but I think I’m about done thinking about it every time I walk into the park, and every time I see a 1-2-3 first inning. And second inning. And–goddamn it Dioner Navarro!
Ugh. Fine.
Today is Father’s Day. I am late for several things. Hope those father-son duos going out to Citi have some good weather; I will be watching on a 42-inch plasma at the parents’ homestead.
*My thanks to
Greg Prince of Faith And Fear In Flushing for the link re: Metstock. Greg, I owe you an email and an offer of crappy hi-res images.
I’m 0 for 2 in Mets events that I view away from home, yet away from Citi Field.
David Wright is 0 for 9 with an RBI in that span, but he gets paid to go to these things (ball games).
I just spend money at local establishments.
As stated in the previous post, Metstock was yesterday: food, fun, and fans at Two Boots Pizzeria on Grand Street. I’d already been to every other Two Boots Pizzeria in New York City, so this was a double treat for me. I can get fired up about pizza.
For my money, the best pizza around is at Peppino’s on Third Avenue and Seventy-Seventh Street in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, but in that case I’m a homer, and I appreciate a great neighborhood place. They actually LOWERED their prices recently, in the wake of the Great Recession. Who does that?!
…Apparently Phil Rizzuto called; he wants his tangents back.
Bordering the windows at Two Boots are amazing paintings of New York sports heroes. This one, of Keith Hernandez, I found quite inspiring. Later, I’d feel a near-irrepressible urge to fly a Zero into Camden Yards. But that would have been an inappropriate reaction to the events in the bottom of the ninth inning (L, 5-4), and chances are the Mets will need Aubrey Huff sooner rather than later.
That poster (behind Pick Me Up Some Mets! blogger Zoe Rice’s head) is amazing, and further example of how this particular Two Boots caters to the clientele. I will someday come back here and offer them $5,000 for this work of Hubie Brooks art. They will reject me out of hand. I will be disappointed.
Readers at the event were Jon Springer of Mets By The Numbers, Greg Prince of Faith And Fear In Flushing, and Skyhorse editor Mark Weinstein filling in for Stanley Cohen, author of A Magic Summer.
If you read back on the blog, you can probably piece together that I was sentient and ambulatory during the Mets ’86 World Championship, but not so much that I could ever put down recollections of that time or even of the kind Greg Prince has of 1969. Being a fan of the Mets, as I’ve stated before, is like eating to me. I don’t remember the dinner I had in late October when I was four. I’m sure I enjoyed it. Inductive reasoning would suggest it was pizza; my dad loves it. But we’re back at pizza again. I should just fly a fighter jet into myself, and call it a day.
My point is, I sat and drank Brooklyn Lager and marveled at the descriptions of jubilant chaos, after Mr. Springer regaled us with the story of Jeff McKnight, who now has become my favorite goateed Met, if only for the glasses which he wears in his publicity photo (visit Mets By The Numbers and find the “McKnightmare” link at top). I also ate pizza (why so spicy, Two Boots? Why?) and watched a game unfold. It’s heartening to be with a group of fans who will listen as an event goes on in their presence, but will also clap and cheer as an event is televised before them. Made me wish the Ziegfeld was packed with these folks instead of traffic-beaters the other night, but maybe they understood too well what I spoke about a few days ago: baseball’s played outside. A stadium or stadium-like atmosphere cannot be replicated in a movie theater; instead one’s options are either to sit in a bar-like place (like the Two Boots on Grand) or at home, or at the damned ball park. Very well. I’m sufficiently down on my luck with regard to the Ziggy and gatherings with strangers that I might cut the bar out altogether, and stick with home or Second Home.
But this was fun.
We watched the game and moaned at the Orioles scoring. We cheered the Mets scoring, as Alex Cora did twice, including this play (after which it got LOUD):
That hazy representation is somewhat purposeful; I don’t want to land on the wrong side of MLB’s or SNY’s boilerplate. Suffice it to say that’s Alex Cora weaving ’round Matt Wieters, who dropped the off-target Howitzer throw from right.
Here’s something, and I don’t want to get on the wrong side of anyone’s Ornery or Glance Askance (God, I should’ve been beaten up more in junior high): Mr. Prince (featured, left) has an admittedly funny chapter devoted to Yankees fans, and it’s not complimentary.
I have Yankees fan friends, and Mr. Prince does, certainly, and we all do because they’re everywhere and nearly unavoidable. (Sarah Palin can see Russia from her house, but can she see the South Bronx? Does she see David Letterman waving from the box seats? He’s giving you the finger, Sarah, and ninety-nine point nine percent of me is sure you deserve it, with an oh-point-one percent margin of error.)
Many Yankees fans, including my friends–from time to time–are obnoxious. It does stem from undeserved entitlement; it does speak poorly of the organization, which could perhaps get off its high horse about history and tradition and realize that the schtick, like its last World Series title, is getting old.
But I got the sense that the prevailing attitude last night was to hate the Yankees because they’re the Yankees and that’s just that. They’ve won championships and feel entitled and Willie Randolph was a drip and that stadium of theirs can just go take a bath and how dare they take David Cone and have him accomplish THAT and oh-for-the-love-of-God-please-make-it-stop. I am not of the camp that hates the Yankees success as much as he revels in their failures.&
nbsp; My Yankees friends are not like that regarding the Mets, and I have to dismiss any such feeling as a generational thing or misguided adoration of the game. With respect.
Had the Mets won tonight’s game against Baltimore AND the Yankees had lost, I’d’ve texted my friend currently working up at Tanglewood. “3-0? To the Nats? Wha’ happen’, Boli didn’t kick in yet?” And he’d’ve probably texted back. “Quiet, son. Remember 15-0, vs. Johan.” This is rivalry. When the Yankees are playing the Chicago White Sox, I could give a damn unless someone on the Yankees makes a miraculous play. I’ll cheer that. I’m a fan of baseball. I’m a fan of the baseball I watch in front of me. (By the way, cannot STAND scoreboard watchers at Mets games who erupt into a “YANKEES SUCK!” cheer when they see the Blue Jays are giving them a thumping. My response is reflexive at this point: “THEY’RE NOT HERE!” Atrocious.)
And I’m a fan of New York City. If New York stands at the top of the baseball world, then the world makes sense. If the series were between the Padres and the Yankees, I’m rooting for the Yankees. Not obnoxiously, not with my Mets cap or jersey on. But I’m at a bar for one of those games, and I’m rooting for the home team. My opinion is valid, and if you think it misguided, feel free to try and convince me otherwise. But I loves me gloating rights over another, lesser city (and they’re all lesser cities). I loves me a parade. La-di-da-di, we like to party.
Now, if what floats your boat is specifically hating on the Yankees, that’s fine. I enjoy talking smack about Premio sausage patties (as opposed to the links, which are top notch). I can lay into Uwe Boll with glee. I don’t particularly enjoy three-drawer lateral filing cabinets: they’re too tall to make a seat and too short to be useful on any reasonable scale. But if it’s Yankees hatred because they’re not the Mets and they’re crowding you with their obnoxiousness, chill out. They’re due for a slide into terminal mediocrity, and the town will clear of the knuckleheads. Fear not.
Fans stayed until the game was over, which was heartening. The place was more crowded than this during the reading, but I suspect this was because there were a number of Skyhorse employees who had come to show their support of the house. Commendable. But Pearly McNecklaceson who was sitting beside me and jabbering about how cool it is to be in charge of interns, was it necessary to thwack me with your knock-off bag at EVERY opportunity? I was wrong: it should be you that gets the fighter jet to the face.
All in all, a great time. Fun to see people, whose words I’d been reading, reading their words. I was tickled by Ms. Rice’s covering of her eyes as Frankie R. loaded the bases. Something my sister would do. And as I left the loss and proceeded down the–I’m sorry–AWFUL-smelling Grand Street, my switch flipped and I was in prep-for-Citi mode (will be in attendance tonight for Fernando Nieve’s tilt against the Toronto Blue Jays). (Update: I must’ve been high when I wrote this, and never mind the fact that I don’t smoke: they played the Rays.)
“Great,” I thought to myself. “More birds.” (Update: I probably cared more about getting the joke out than getting the team right.) Perhaps I felt better recalling that this is still interleague and Andy Sonnanstine would have to bat. He’s 2-for-8 so far this year. That HAS to be his high-water mark.
*The only link I didn’t supply is one that I have in the past, to CBS Sports’ MLB Players Page.
If you’re coming to this blog for late-breaking updates on the Mets game, you’re coming to the wrong place.
I was at Faith And Fear In Flushing’s METSTOCK event tonight at Two Boots Pizza on Grand Street this evening. Watched the Mets game with them, and Mets By The Numbers, And Pick Me Up Some Mets, and Dana Brand. I have photos. Tomorrow, tomorrow.
Frankie Rodriguez couldn’t get his first pitch in place for a strike. They’d dip low and then he’d be behind in the count. Regardless of how much the Mets SHOULD have scored, this loss is on him. Everybody gets one.
Gee, thanks, Spidey.
More tomorrow. Sleep now. Huzzah.
Goddamn it, Frankie.
omniality
Section Five Twenty-Eight 