Archives for posts with tag: Carlos Delgado

Yes.  Latin this early in the morning, after significant pop culture events conspire to make late-night YouTube hounds of us all. 

There’s no real good video for “Human Nature.”  My friend–of the baseball-learning the other evening–prefers “Man In The Mirror.”  To each their own.

Post hoc, ergo propter hoc.  After this, therefore because.  Id est (i.e.) gibberish.  But good gibberish.  Gibberish we live with on a daily basis.  I had socks.  You came over.  You left.  Socks are no longer where they were.  Never mind an enterprising soul put them in the wash; you took my socks!

In sport, interesting: the Mets were losing and listless.  Bring up Nick Evans.  Nick Evans drives in the coffin runs of the last two victories over the Cardinals (yesterday’s game: W, 3-2).  The reason the Mets were losing and listless was they didn’t have Nick “The Executioner” Evans.

I like Nick Evans and I love that bat stroke he’s got.  I also remember last year’s Colorado series where he came up and was an RBI-doubles machine, then fell off the proverbial cliff.  Back then, the reason why the Mets were losing and listless was the presence in the line-up of Nick “the Black Hole” Evans.

The Mets could be a lot better if Fernando Tatis wasn’t playing, hitting into double plays.  And then a blooper before Ryan Ludwick, and some decent stuff the night before.

Chris Carpenter takes a no-hitter into the fourth.  Ralph Kiner comes into the booth, and talks about Carpenter’s no-hitter, my roommate says.  Sure enough; no-hitter gone.  Mets with life.  (UPDATE: Brooklyn Met Fan appears to love him some Ralph Kiner.)

I love baseball, but at what I believe is the halfway point in my 2009 Citi Field Splurge Pack, causality is starting to wear me a bit thin.  It makes me want to walk into the park tonight and spout all sorts of nonsense about Pelfrey’s prowess and Sabathia’s lack thereof. 

(If I happen to see him, I will demand that Danny Meyer start pumping some distracting Blue Smoke aroma towards the field earlier than the fourth or fifth inning. …That’s a half-joke about Sabathia being a big guy.)

I’m excited for tonight’s game, as I always am, but I’m already sanguine about a letdown and in that, am anticipating a let down.  They took three of four from the Cardinals and lose to the Yankees.  The reason why they lost to the Yankees was that they took three of four from the Cardinals, and any sub-reason you’d like to assign.  No.  Gibberish.

They’ll lose to the Yankees because they won three of four against the Cardinals–the lesser known *** hoc ergo propter hoc, but the stock in trade of pessimists.  No.  Backwards gibberish.

(UPDATE: MLBlogs Network, I’m trying to keep a PG blog yet I’m citing Latinate phrases.  Is there REALLY a need to censor the Latin?  Can’t we find a censor that will accept contextual conditionals? 

Ugh.

Go here and read what I meant to have displayed.  Giggle like a pre-teen if you must.)

The latter softens the coming blow and the former takes the rest of the sting out of it.  The Mets are not invincible.  They weren’t in any year they played games in October.  But on this Friday morning, post hoc and *** hoc (…Lord, give me the strength…) seem to be defying the laws of physics: negative plus negative does not equal more negative, does not equal zilch.  Negative plus negative equals positive.  Hell. The Mets can take this game.  They can take the series.  They can go on a ten-game winning streak, and play Delgado and J. Reyes off the bench when they come back.  Exciting thoughts.

I have no real clue.  I’m trying to remember if I called Wilson Valdez “Wilmer” the other night.  I know my prospects but I only sort of remember my Joe Cool DFAs.  I haven’t done laundry and my “I’m Calling It Shea” T-shirt could’ve benefited from the Peter Venkman Ghostbusters II treatment: a couple hours hanging outside the window, and it’s fine.  Why am I wearing it?

Because I’m avoiding the object lessons of logical fallacies, as explained by smarmy damned Latin.  It’s come to this.  When I start pulling out my eyelashes and making wishes on them, you’ll know I’ve gone Stratosphere.

Mets vs. Yankees.  Pelfrey vs. Sabathia.  Bring on the voodoo dolls and the gypsy curses.

Reasons for my confusing the Tampa Bay Rays and the Toronto Blue Jays in my post on Friday afternoon:

  1. It’s interleague play and that doesn’t usually interest me in the slightest, save for the potential for gains in the standings.  That the Mets have been unable to gain any decent ground given the Phillies’ struggles DOES interest me.  That they haven’t lost much ground either just makes the whole thing silly.
  2. Look at the teams’ names: (a) Tampa Bay Rays; (b) Toronto Blue Jays.  TBRays, TBJays.  They should’ve left the “Devil” in their name; I could’ve made a far funnier and more egregious error and thought the Mets were playing the New Jersey Devils, or the Charlie Daniels Band, or Bill O’Reilly.
  3. I was blinded by hate for my usual compatriots, who used the lame excuses of their mother’s sixtieth birthday and their best friend’s wedding to leave me with the task of filling their seats.  (This rage would also cause me to sit in the wrong section for a good forty-five minutes before the game started, marveling at how much more of the outfield I could see.)
  4. I was blinded by hate for the friend who DID join me, and doesn’t believe there’s anything redeemable about We Are Marshall.  C’mon.  Rousing cheer.  Ian McShane.  Matthew McConaghuey sporting a ridiculous accent and ‘do.  What’s not to like? 
  5. I was blinded by hate for ALL THE OTHER REGULARS in my section who didn’t show up that night.  It was just me and the older couple who sit in the row ahead and two seats over.  And besides my shouting “Don’t bunt!” whenever Luis Castillo comes up to the plate, my antics appear to be wearing on the older guy’s better half.
  6. Brian Schneider’s three-run blast got hit so far that it traveled back in time and hit me in the head.  These things happen.
  7. I knew I’d be seeing Pat Burrell, who played for the Phillies last year, who themselves played the Blue Jays in the previous set at Citizen’s Bank Park.  Transitive property, Q.E.D., ergo yo mama.
  8. I’d been up ’til 3 AM the night before, prepping for a long day at work followed by a night at the ball park followed by a long morning of work followed by Father’s Day.
  9. I miss Carlos Delgado so much that I’d hoped the Blue Jays would be in attendance, just so he could hit four more home runs in one game against the Rays, who would absolutely be there.
  10. Speaking of Delgado, 9/25/2003: 9+2+5+2+0+0+3=21.  2+1=3, which is how many runs the Rays scored in their loss to the Mets on June 19, 2009 (6/19/2009: 6+1+9+2+0+0+9=27; 2+7=9 divided by 3 equals THREE), and how many runs they beat the Mets by on June 20, 2009 (6/20/2009: 6+2+0+2+0+0+9=19; 9 divided by one is nine, and divided by 3 equals THREE).  Isn’t that WEIRD?

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!

Teflon Tim.jpgPepsi Porch.jpgDaniel Murphy.jpg

Sonnanstine Zipper.jpg
Schneider Runs The Bases.jpg
Pat Burrell.jpg
Mets Win.jpg
My thanks to Ed who showed up and paid far too much for two tickets that had no shot at being able to see the two run double Parnell let slip late.  I’ll be in the seats next week for the game against the Yankees.  I double-checked.  It’s absolutely against the Yankees.

**

I’ll say it.  I don’t think it’s going to happen.  Ever.

Santana Scrim.jpgBut 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.