Archives for posts with tag: Bobby Parnell

While clicking around during my lunch hour, I found evidence–hideous, hideous evidence–of Nick Evans’s existence. 

I don’t know who “saubrey02” is, but between The ‘Ropolitans and 24 Hours From Suicide, it’s been determined that Nick Evans will wear anything to prove he’s a part of the team.  See the photo set here.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

For more dress-up fun, vote on what my off-season profile pic will be. Check out the rules and options here and email your choice to omniality [at] gmail [dot] com.  No write-ins (i.e. Bobby Parnell in braids) allowed.

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Amusing:

I’m sure most Mets fans who troll the internet for some small speck of daylight have already seen Adam Rubin’s coverage of this year’s rookie hazing.  If you haven’t, click here.  Omir Santos is waaay too excited to be dressed up as the Boy Wonder.

Additionally, check out Jay Horwitz’s expression behind the tall-walking, stiff-upper-lip-having Ken Takahashi:

takahashi.JPGI’d be confused, too, Mr. Horwitz.

Now then: I point you to a snippet of Marty Noble’s coverage of yesterday’s game against the Marlins (W; 4-0). 

“Bobby Parnell was dressed as Goldilocks, though there is no record of
her having worn a beard and shades. Lance Broadway was a nurse. Josh
Thole wore long ears that stood erect; he was a Playboy bunny. Nick
Evans was Minnie Mouse — round ears, white polka dots on red and his
own street shoes
. Tobi Stoner was a maid. Forty-year-old rookie Ken
Takahasi was a snake charmer with a boa. And Omir Santos was Robin…”

Emphasis mine.  Click here for the full read.

Now find the read from Rubin on who’s pictured in the hazing shot (it’s in the comments):

“left
to right, it’s Lance Broadway [check], Bobby Parnell [check], Tobi Stoner [check], physical
therapist John Zajac [extra], Daniel Murphy [extra], Josh Thole [check], with Omir Santos [check] in
front.”

Everybody who’s mentioned got a photo.  We even got some extras thrown in for good measure (John Zajac?).  What we don’t have is any confirmation that Nick Evans was dressed up as Minnie Mouse.

I’m thoroughly uninterested in seeing Nick Evans in cartoon mouse drag, but you have to admit it’s funny. First, the man can’t seem to buy a plate appearance, and now even cross-dressing and aping a completely different species can’t get him a humiliating photo. 

Perhaps the Mets sent him down to Triple-A Orlando and purchased Goofy’s contract.

This was not Pat Misch’s night.

One and a third innings pitched.  Eight runs, all earned, on seven hits, and three of those hits home runs.  Forty-two pitches, and six of those to Adam LaRoche, who struck out.

I don’t know why I want to subtract those, but I do. 

So seven hits in thirty-six pitches.  Eight runs on thirty-six pitches, which means he gave up, on average, one run every four and a half throws to the plate.

For all the talk of Pat Misch being “Tom Glavine-like,” it’s important to point out that Glavine was somewhat of a punk until 1991.  Misch has pitched about 140 innings.  Glavine pitched many more than that at the end of his first four seasons. (Click here for the summed stat line on Glavine, 1987-1990.  I know it’s off to compare the two this way, but hopefully you take this to mean I don’t think they should be compared.)

I don’t know if it’s going to work out for the guy; I hope it does.  I think, though, that with the Sword of Damocles dangling over homeboy’s career, it’d behoove him to work things out at least a LITTLE, and quickly.

Lots of guys are gunning to carry the dirty laundry that’s owned by the guy who carries Santana’s dirty laundry.  And if things are really working out, one would hope that Mike Pelfrey, John Maine, Jon Niese, Bobby Parnell, and, what the hell, Nelson Figueroa are working to fill that laundry carrier’s laundry carrier position.

Your advantage, Pat Misch and underperformers, can’t just be that you’re cheap.

Letters.  I get letters. I get half a dozen letters.
 
Letters:

**These have been sanitized and edited, lightly, to keep my head from blowing off. There’s such a thing as a difference between a plural and a possessive, folks. 

If you’d like, email me at omniality [at] gmail [dot] com.
 

“Like your idea about the Mets Museum, but it’s just too small. 200,
300 people? That park holds THOUSANDS. Space is too small and they’ll
never do it. Even if, I could just see them ****ing it up like
everything else.”

 
Think I should work backward here:
 

  • I don’t grant the premise that the Mets **** up everything.

  • They either will or they won’t. I think space is the least of the concerns with the idea. Harder still is the thought that they’d be into putting together the workforce to produce these segments, to say nothing about handing over some editorial control to these guys.

  • Putting this together would appear to require a sea change in the way the ownership and management thinks about the team. It’s hard to put yourself in the position of teaching tool, showing your team’s great plays even if they came in a loss.  That’s before wrangling together all the permissions and partnerships.  That doesn’t mean I don’t think it’s worth it; that just means it’d be hard. Shouldn’t shy away from hard, though.

  • I think the viewing rooms should hold two to three hundred in aggregate. The museum itself (adding the Hall Of Fame stuff to it) could hold a hundred or a couple hundred more. I’ll take a look at the spot I posited again, but that was really just a general suggestion of where to put it, if on the current property.  I don’t think you want it any bigger than four hundred; that becomes a bear to evacuate in case of emergency. Additionally, people should be coming to see the game, not the museum. This should be a novelty.

 
There were a couple of other emails that fell into the same general category.  In fact, two were nearly identical:
 

“They’ll never go for it. Too expensive and Madoff Madeoff-ha-with too much of their $$.”

 
That Madoff/Madeoff thing is getting old. Guy’s in prison; it’s done.
 
But given what could be made on DVD compilations of the sets (“Watch May’s Mets Museum Series from the comfort of your own home! Only $15.99!”), and the uptick in concessions sales you’d see by getting people to the park a couple hours earlier, I think the trade-off is worthwhile.
 
What we’re really talking about is a way to get more people to the park, increase revenue and develop new streams of it, and changing the way people perceive ownership/management when it comes to handling the Mets’ image.
 
I’m not saying it’ll ever happen. I’m just saying it’s more interesting for me to think about than trying to gin up trade ideas. Not that I don’t do that, either. And on that note:
 

“Why don’t you ever talk about what the Mets need for next year? Your guys are in for a world of hurt”

 
Quickly? Left fielder, righty off the bench. Second, third starters. A way to get rid of Fauxhawk’s (Oliver Perez’s) contract. A legitimate first baseman. A quality backup infielder that’s SPEEDY.
 
A time machine for Fernando Tatis. A deal with the devil to lock Luis Castillo into his 2009 form. A cage in which to lock Sean Green whenever he’s been bad. A clue as to what to do with Bobby Parnell.
 
That’s for starters.
 
I think I mention it subtly. I don’t have their ear, and I don’t know diddly about what’s out there save for what I read on ESPN and MLB and various Mets blogs that suggest trade ideas. I’m trying to be original. Last time I ham-handedly thought a big trade was in the offing, I thought the move for Chowdah was the first step to getting Roy Halladay.
 
THAT… was incorrect.  And speaking of Chowdah:
 

“Like the blog! Good writing. Who the hell is Chowdah?”

 
Chowdah is Jeff Francoeur. Somewhere on this site is a clip from an episode of The Simpsons where Diamond Joe Quimby’s nephew berates a French waiter.
 
“Say it, Frenchy! Say ‘Chowdah’!”
 
And speaking of that:
 

“Ur a moron.”

True, but not for the reasons you may think, and not for anything listed above.

I once tried to get a friend to eat a sandwich that was just two slices of white bread and a huge honkin’ schmear of vegemite.  He said he would but we never got around to arranging a date and time to do this.  So, one lonely night, I decided I would.  And I did. And I nearly died.
 
Yet another shining example of why The Wife should wrap up grad school as soon as possible: I’m liable to kill myself if she’s away much longer.
 
I’m out to the game tonight, to catch the Mets playing the Washington Nationals in what I’m sure will be dubbed “The Blind Leading The Blind Bowl.” Seeing as how my camera is once again responding to external stimuli, but my laptop is now literally held together by duct tape, I can’t promise pictures and a recap right away.

But as the Mets are now only getting the AP and second-stringer treatment from the Times, perhaps everyone’s bar for coverage has been set a little lower.
 
Let’s go Mets!

**Written prior to reports in the local New York papers that allege certain unsavory behaviors undertaken by Mr. Sheffield.  Catch the drama from the Daily News here, Newsday here, and because I was tipped off by Metsblog but find lame the Post‘s assertion that “sources” are viable without explaining if it’s the batboy or the guy guarding the door or what, Mr. Cerrone’s reporting on the Post article here.

Yes, yes, citing second and third-hand sources.  I know, I know.  I don’t do this for a living.

If Gary Sheffield truly asked out of the line-up last night to clear his head, that’s one thing.
 
If he asked out of the line-up in order to show Mets management what they’d be missing, then, well, to quote Chad Ochocinco: child, please.
 
Odd, this business of holding out hope for a reclaimed season and understanding that the hope is based purely on the math.  Got a comment on a previous post saying the Mets should pack it in and plan for 2010, but they’d still have to overcome the daunting injury obstacles facing them in 2009.  Planning for 2010 is difficult when you don’t know what kind of shape your shortstop will be in, after missing most of the year.
 
I will now pile on regarding planning for 2010.  I don’t mean it as a piling on of the commenter at all.  I mean to pile on the sentiment, which is held by many.

Perhaps planning for 2010 means shutting certain players down for the year, even if they’re not injured.  But I get the sense you’d have to break Johan Santana’s kneecaps to keep him out, and even then, the man pitched on a bum knee and three days’ rest last year. If you broke his kneecaps, he’d probably pitch and catch.

Omir Santos is auditioning for a job and Brian Schneider is doing the same. Chowdah’s got nothing better to do but work on his swing. And the Mets paid too much money for Luis Castillo to sit him.  Pelfrey and Perez need to figure their business out on the mound. Same with Bobby Parnell, but with a lot more “aw, shucks,” and a lot less, “listen here.”
 
Really, I’d posit that injury has taken the choice out of the Mets’ hands; they HAVE shut down their best players for the year.
 
(This excludes Carlos Beltran, who is still pushing for a return. As I’ve intimated: sheer idiocy, from my vantage point. Even if they were in the hunt, he should be undergoing whatever procedure/regimen is dictated for his injury, and think about getting healthy. Ye gods, man. Do you do EVERYTHING that mole tells you to?)
 
Planning for 2010 may mean attempting a trade. Which they’re doing. But any trade to bring in a backup at short, or a first baseman for next year, or a catcher, or or or–would be highway robbery at the prices the Mets can pay, or ill-advised at the prices they might be asked to pay. Anyone on waivers is on there because they’re not that good or they’re not now worth the salary they’re drawing. Billy Wagner may be one of the scant few that can bring a player of equal value. We’ll find out soon enough.
 
Planning for 2010 may mean playing the organization’s youth. What youth?
 
I’ll be a little less glib, for the sake of killing time on the train now CRAWLING into Canal Street (I write these posts on my phone most days): anyone at triple-A lighting things up would be up. Injury has warranted the call-up of players who were closest to lighting things up. Fernando Martinez is at home, resting comfortably. One could call up a player from double-A, but one could also sign one of the kids heading to Williamsport; I hear the Little League World Series is all about the parties and not about the work, anyway.
 
No, sirs, the Mets are over a barrel and are doing, essentially, what they should be doing. Everyone who should be playing is playing. That they haven’t completely cratered is a testament to the talent on the field, such as it is.
 
Planning for 2010 means more for the fan than the team at this stage. I’m on record as saying that, even without baseball, there are still things like lemonade and barbecues and sunsets. If the team on the field is not worth watching to you, don’t watch. There are precious few days of warmth and beauty to justify spending your time on something that’s only going to prove an aggravation.  They don’t watch in Washington all the time.
 
Maybe Gary Sheffield’s thinking along those lines. Difference is, if he’s on the team, he has to be in uniform unless he’s injured. I suppose the fact that he didn’t go out there last night and tear his Achilles on a ladybug, or a napkin that drifted in from the left field landing, is a testament to his character. As a nod to that strength of person, I will not start a Gary Sheffield Hangnail Watch.
 
But man, either play or fake the hangnail to get out. Don’t be an abscess. That’s not cool.

Those having followed since at least the weekend know I skipped last Friday’s game to meet The Wife at The Airport, and quite possibly go to The Movies.
 
I met The Wife at The Airport, but going to The Movies did not happen. There was traffic, of the sort which implied that people had heard a young starter-turned reliever-turned starter named Robert Parnell was shutting down the San Francisco Giants. We got to Bay Ridge and settled by the time the movie was to start in Chelsea, and had dinner at a place that deemed Jets preseason football more important than the game out in Flushing.
 
(…Perspective eluded me there.  Mark Sanchez’s Jets debut is a lot more important at this stage of Bay Ridge’s dealing with the 2009 season than Bobby Parnell’s start against the Giants.  My bad.)
 
Anyway, we didn’t get to The Movies. Last night, though, was the rain check. And by dint of working during the afternoon on the Upper East Side, I was spared the onrush of traffic leaving Flushing as this time Bobby Parnell was meeting a team with offense, wearing the pinstripes and blue cap everyone’s always so on about. Bobby got jacked for nine runs before I left Jake’s Saloon for the theater down the block. But at least he was well-dressed.
 
Saw Julie & Julia, and not exactly by choice. Much like Mets games I’ve watched lately, I sat through it out of an admixture of essentially blind devotion, curiosity, and hope for something great. 
 
It’s a fine enough movie; if you find yourself stuck in the house on a Saturday afternoon in about six months (remember when it took Jurassic Park two YEARS to come out on VHS?), and this happens to be on a movie channel, turn it on.  It’s a great nap movie, too, and I say that without snark: I am a fan of nap movies.  Make a sandwich. Turn the movie on. Eat the sandwich. Stretch out on the couch. Drift in and out. Jolt awake whenever Meryl Streep’s Julia Child impression drifts from Meryl Streep Butter to Dan Aykroyd Ham. Fine for that.
 
We all sat too close to the screen and I’d had a long enough half day to make the experience less enjoyable than that, and Amy Adams has yet to capture my interest in a role. But as I stated, a fine enough movie.
 
When the movie ended and politesse allowed for the checking of BlackBerry widgets, I’d found no saving of Bobby Parnell’s performance, which had not matched Robert Parnell’s for poise. He just wasn’t very good after the first inning. His pitches didn’t sink late, and the Braves ate him alive.  Because, unlike the Giants, the Braves can hit.
 
He seemed to lose his composure after the defensive lapses behind him led to two more runs than had any right to score. Bobby’s meltdown was portrayed much more subtly than Julie’s, though that’s not saying much. There are no hissy fits in baseball.  No crying, no tantrums, no hissy fits. Please to note, however: giving up eight runs in one inning in front of thousands is more worthy of a hissy fit than a failed aspic.
 
(An aspic, by the by, is a dish composed of your choice of ingredients in a gelatinized stock, most often meat-based. And I will pitch a FIT if that’s ever served me.)
 
Hopefully Bobby will watch some tape of his game against the Giants, of his better relief outings, and find the Robert within. He was pitching more for himself than anyone else last night anyway, and that’s fine if this season’s indeed come to that. Besides, rubber matches are why they invented Johan Santana.

As long as he doesn’t try to feed me aspic, whine about cooking, or marry that schlub from the last season of Six Feet Under, I’ll enjoy watching Bobby’s next outing.

**Those in the New York City area should come out on Tuesday, August 25th, to the next Amazin’ Tuesday hosted at Two Boots Pizzeria on Grand Street, and presented by the good people at Faith And Fear In Flushing.  By my count, this will be the third event they’ve had there, following one in late July and one in mid-June.  I should be there, and if you’d like to come say hello I’ll be the one taking the photos and drinking the beer and, if he’s there, chatting with Kirby behind the counter.

Check out details on the event here, and come out.  Barring any rambunctious children celebrating a birthday, it should be a fun time.  Yes, the game will be on: should be Johan in Florida.

(Written at 7 AM, posted at 3 PM.  Brilliant.)

It’s early and, truth be told, I’m still a bit hungover.  This will be somewhat disjointed.  But there will be pictures.  Everyone likes pictures.

First, let’s get the wiseacre business out of the way.

This is what a Met with an extra-base hit looks like:

second base.jpgThat’s Daniel Murphy there, of the Jacksonville Murphys.

This is what the scoreboard looks like when the Mets notch a run:

scoreboard.jpgThat’s all for sarcasm at present. 

Section Five Twenty-Eight was fortunate enough to have the presence of the guy I’m calling “Big Man” in the house with us (the mascot I mention in my rambling, devoid-of-line-breaks bio).  We were all concerned, and muttering hopes for his well-being.  And then, like a shining beacon… my eyes crossed just now; I did indeed type “beacon” and not “bacon,” right?… he appeared:

big man.jpg…in all his Beltran finery. 

And along his back-up band of relatives, thus excusing his early departure. He had a kid with him who wanted to hit some balls off a tee over in Kiddie Field, so there you go.  Four beers chugged. Two bought from groups in other sections, as though the gaggle up in Promenade Left are collective macrocosms of players in that Goodfellas scene at the Copa.  I like it.

The man’s a celebrity, and as with all celebrities, we’ve gotten a little too involved with his health.  He’s got a long way to drive, and it was a Wednesday, and the man appears to have lived a fun life already.  So we began to chant, “Sip!  Sip!  Sip!” when another beer materialized in his hand.

Baseball, in the in between moments–and there were many, as Oliver Perez decided to pitch in a gear normally reserved for sloths, slugs, and the infirm–can be quite entertaining in the stands.  Others have already picked up the mantle for Big Man.  In the manner of Spartacus, we had other revelers shouting “Section Five Twenty-Eight!” and doing damage to their own livers for a change. 

I tell ya, it’s great for branding.  I should have some business cards made up and leave them with the poor lambs still trying to sell season tickets.  Or at the sausage stand.

By the way, Sean Avery was on the Kiss Cam.  He did not kiss the woman seated next to him, and I think it’s because they just happened to be seated together, and not actually together-together.  Donald Trump was ALSO on the Kiss Cam.  He nodded, waved, then planted a deep one on what someone in the men’s room later described as “a fine piece of filet gumbo,” which is perhaps my FAVORITE superlative to bestow on a member of the fairer sex.  A kudo to you, sir.

The question of songs one would have play as one entered the batter’s box came up; this is similar to the old joy of picking the song to be played as one enters relief, but has the benefit of multiple choice: first time in; second time in; clutch situation.

The oddest suggestion was “What’s Going On?” by 4 Non Blondes.  It’s frightening that three fairly grown men did not need the help of the three women across the aisle from us to belt a verse and the chorus:

“And so I cry sometimes when I’m lying in bed
Just to get it all out, what’s in my head
And I, I am feeling a little peculiar
And so I wake in the morning and I step outside
And I take a deep breath and I get real high
And I scream from the top of my lungs,
‘What’s goin’ on?’

And I say hey… hey…
I said HEY! What’s goin’ on?
And I say hey… hey…
I said HEY! What’s goin’ on?”

Songs are universal.  Especially gems such as those.

And then Daniel Murphy made perhaps the best play I’ve ever seen in the infield, in person or on television.

**

It’s not The Catch.  It’s not Johan fielding the ball off the barrel of the broken bat.  But if ESPN runs a piece calling out the worst Mets plays of the season, in EARLY JULY, then calls Murphy’s behind the back toss to Bobby Parnell the “Web Gem Of The Year,” either their calibration and their motives are off, or the Mets do indeed have the concurrent capacity for dreckitude and amazibility.

I’ve watched it about twenty times.  The ball settles in Parnell’s glove.  As L.A. Dodgers first baseman Mark Loretta’s foot plants onto the bag, Parnell’s glove closes around the ball.  He maintains possession.  There’s your out, Mr. Loretta.  Thanks for playing.  You had a hit and knocked in the first run with it, and that’s more than your opponents last night had been able to say in a while.  So no talk of luck or lack of luck, please.

What thrilled us was it appeared, rightly, that Murphy would have to be like unto The Flash to grab the ball so far away from the bag, then get into position to fire to Parnell.  No one thought it was going to be a behind-the-back toss like that.  We were instantly on our feet, all of us, all around us.  Unbelievable.

**

I was in attendance for Manny Ramirez’s passing of Jimmie Foxx on the home run list.  Good for him.

**

ground rules.jpgCiti Field’s ground rules include the following admonition (paraphrased): “Please refrain from using foul or inappropriate language.”  I took that picture after I took this picture:

oliver perez.jpg…which is of Oliver Perez heading for the bullpen to warm-up.  You can tell by the high socks.  Faux-hawk is, thankfully, obscured by the ball cap.

There were children present all around me and my group yesterday, which made watching Ollie and getting frustrated by Ollie after his fourth pitch and Ollie’s fist pumps after getting out of hells of his own making very difficult.

I am so thankful to be done with an Ollie start and escape unscathed.  I have no evidence to refute my various claims regarding the man, and as I of course did not wish harm on the Mets, I’m still safe from the blade of hindsight.  Nevertheless, my personal calculus for last night runs thusly:

Seven walks, including walking the bases full in the third, after getting the first two outs (negative)

+

Holding Manny Ramirez hitless each of the three times he saw you (positive)

=

Zero.

So he did not do any further damage to himself, in my eyes.  I can now think about other things for the next few days.  Delightful.

Good job, guys.  Catch you this evening.

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.