Archives for posts with tag: 1986 World Series

Greg Prince over at Faith And Fear In Flushing marks the anniversary of Mets ’86, which occurred twelve days after the anniversary of Mets ’69.  Somewhere around here I’ve got the start of a none-too-positive “Twelve Days Of Metsmas” song; I’ll refrain from finishing it.  Last time I came up with a Mets song parody, I mailed it to a friend in hopes of executing some reverse karma.  Then most of the team went down with injuries and fourth place was clinched shortly before a playoff berth in the NL East.  YOU do the work this time.

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Slim, slim pickins when it comes to Mets baseball news.  I was emailed an article by a friend who’s not a baseball fan, asking who I’ll be rooting for.  I sent back my posts on the WWTwo.  Got to thinking about other teams that are making news this week, in one form or another.  Padres hired a new GM: Jed “Don’t Call Me Steny” Hoyer.  Indians hired a new manager: Manny “At Least I Do My Homework” Acta. 

Hell, even Mark McGwire’s pulling a Cardinals paycheck again.  (Everyone say it with me: dingers!) 

Really, in these stories there’s barely even a segue into Metsville.  These guys are all retreads in one way or another.  Jed Hoyer worked for the Red Sox.  Manny Acta (who yes, was a coach for the Mets, but so long ago the neurons have gathered dust) tried really hard with the Washington Nationals.  Mark McGwire’s going the HoJo route. 

There’s a bit of an incestuous quality to baseball, necessitated by history and difficulty, and an odd kind of pride and haught that excludes, on the whole, those who might seek to make a lateral move into the job market.  To wit: the Padres weren’t about to hire a floor manager from Goldman Sachs to be their GM. 

Players are bought from other clubs, signed as free agents, or traded.  But there’s absolutely no guarantee that the second baseman on the Tuscaloosa Barn Rats was the straw that stirred the drink, and will stir your team’s drink.  John Lackey’s past performance is not indicative of his future results.  I don’t care how much he declares something is his.  I suppose my point is: nobody knows nothin’. 

That stated, let’s play a game.

Use Cot’s Baseball Contracts list of 2010’s free agents, and see if you can spot desirable free agents in the consensus fields of need. 

What the hell do I mean by that?  I mean that consensus seems to be that the Mets need some combination of one or all: first baseman; left fielder; catcher; pitcher.  Go to the free agent list, and see if you can spot guys you like. 

This’ll be tons easier than trying to target a player for trade, as consensus also seems to be that the Mets don’t have much to trade, and what they do have they should hang on to.  Besides, rabid trade talk is the stuff of winter, and we’re not quite there yet.

Keep your list, and we’ll run through them all, Colbert Report “Better Know A…” style.  Management reserves the right to Bobby V. his homework if a person on any of the lists is a laughable option (Matt Stairs, for example, will be the Mets starting first baseman over my dead and violated body).  But the homework that I DO do should help when the time comes to put one’s hand on the hot stove.  Because no one likes second-degree burns.

We’ll start next Monday. Should give me enough time to come up with more Matt Stairs jokes.

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Last night, between slugs of some hideously bad house lager (I know) in a bar just off Broadway, I talked with a friend about how I would deejay his upcoming Halloween party and, in the back of my mind, considered how best to capitalize on the goodwill of TedQuarters and Amazin’ Avenue (found on the right-side blog roll in various sections), who linked to the growing John Olerud list yesterday and made my page views go home and slap their momma.

Something deep?  I have no depth; this week in day-job land has conspired to rob me of my Meaningful Remarks and Declarative Statements.

Something incisive?  I loudly applauded Shane Victorino’s being picked off first in yesterday’s NLCS Game One, and screamed some obscenity.  I can’t remember what it was now; I scream a lot of obscenities, all the time.  Besides, Raul Ibanez murdered sleep for the Dodgers; I learned this at 4a. 

(See, The Wife is back down in North Carolina and I’m back to my routine of setting a lengthy Arrested Development queue on Hulu, crashing hard at 11p, and waking up to some random, inaccurate group clucking in the middle of the night.  I checked ESPN, saw Phillies pictured on the front page, and went back to a fitful sleep.  That brings us up to speed; it’s 8a and FREEZING.)

Something humorous?  See “Something Deep.”  Or: dookie.  Sentence written in Awkward Ghetto Slang.  Run-on sentence.  Something written in Spanish.  Extended metaphor leading to… ellipsis mark, and joke about losing train of thought.  Meta-comment.

I do thank all who came and read, and I hope at least some of you stick around for more.  I started doing this because I was certain that if I got off my cloud and started commenting on everybody else’s blog, and hang the expense, I’d be at it for days and days on end.  And then I’d hang myself, because my points would be overly long and disjointed.  At least with this, I don’t have to remember that I went to Metsblog, then Metstradamus, then Brooklyn Met Fan, then then then, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs leading to the Hospital For Special Surgery, or in Jose Reyes’s case, a bunker somewhere outside Arlington, TX.  I’m a writer, and though I’ve only mildly published–and poems, at that–I prefer extended narratives.  A blog is a decent way to get that particular jolly out.  I prefer owning my work and my thoughts and in a way, having a public record accomplishes that. 

I DO do it for nothing because:
 

  • this is just about a sport, and one that should be cheaper and thus more accessible to all; and

  • as much as I would love to, I’m not very good at this yet, so I don’t presume that, at this juncture, I could possibly make a dime off it.

I’m a Mets fan.  I’m a solid Mets fan, and I’m thrilled that there are others out there who are Mets fans, and writers, and great writers, and photographers, and opinionated.  I link to those I have great respect for, whether it be because they’ve come up from nothing to be the go-to source, or because they’ve been at it diligently, like some Metsian Bob Graham, or they regularly make me laugh, or because they do their due diligence with a science I can barely understand but desperately want to. 

Take life.  Apply a filter.  You’ll still seek those you’re naturally interested in.  I could be all hot and bothered about ball bearings and seek out a blog titled: “Bearing Balls: A Guy’s Guide To Things That Are Large And Made Of Steel.”

That such a thing can happen is wonderful to me, in a way that goes past any love for the Mets or any frustration or anger toward them.  It’s heartening, especially during a week in which I’d like nothing more than to just do this.

As appreciation and acknowledgment that a good number of strangers now have a vague idea that I exist, I invite you all to go read someone else’s blog.

Greg Prince of Faith And Fear In Flushing was the first to link to Section Five Twenty-Eight after I covered his Metstock event at Two Boots Tavern down on Grand Street.  He correctly points out that today is the fortieth anniversary of Mets ’69; a day which should be a New York holiday. 

(Actually, if you want to go for a Twelve Days Of Mets kind of thing, the 16th can be bookended by the 27th.  “On the third day of Metsmas/My true love gave to me/Three general managers/Two torn hammies/And a ball club stuck in fourth place.”

Hmm.  Not very positive.)

So please visit Faith And Fear for thoughts on the Mets winning it all, forty years ago today.  And stick around for more insightful commentary.  You’ll be glad you did.

And lest you think I’m some empty-headed Joe Backslapper or Johnny Linkabout, let me say to Mr. Prince that I’m under 30 and have distinct memories of the Mets winning it all in 1986.  I remember my dad ordered pizza for almost every game; I sat and watched with him (my mom kept an ear open in the kitchen), and munched on a pepperoni slice. 

My strongest memory, by far, is how dejected he seemed near the end of Game Six; I thought he was going to cry, which was starting to make me cry.  Then Ray Knight hit his single to center.  He screamed, and jumped, and freaked me the hell out, but I was laughing. 

Then Bob Stanley uncorked the wild pitch and Kevin Mitchell scored.  He laughed; I laughed because he was laughing, and he explained what happened with a big grin on his face.

Then Mookie Wilson hit his grounder, and there was screaming, and screaming from across the courtyard in another apartment, and screaming down 38th Street in Brooklyn, and everyone was f***ing SCREAMING and the Mets had life and my dad shook me by the shoulders and I was crying by then, out of shock and happiness and fear at the noise and excitement.  My sister was two; I think she was just crying at the noise.

Oh, man.

Let’s go Mets.