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There Is No Baseball Without Hope

By omniality
July 7, 2009 //
1

The Mets did not lose last night; more a function of not having played than anything else. If I am not the first person to tell that joke today, I’m sorry. I swear I came up with it last night.
 
A day off can be considered a small victory, in that it brings them one day closer to at least getting someone back, be it Billy Wagner or Angel Pagan or the Section 528 mascot. Seriously, Big Man, where are you?
 
And while we hurtle as Mets fans toward the doom that will doubtless be Wednesday, we can enjoy victories of precedent at the halfway point of the season. 
 
The 2007 Phillies were seven games out as late as September, and went on a tear as the Mets imploded.  The 2006 Cardinals didn’t break 90 wins, but won the World Series.
 
There. Precedent. Recent, no less. With no idea how strong Carlos Delgado will be when he returns and no possible way to predict whether Hanley Ramirez will eat some bad shrimp that will keep him out of the Marlins’ line-up for a pivotal series, we just don’t know.
 
I don’t begrudge anyone their whining (see yesterday’s post about the imminent return of Ollie 2.0: The Reawakening [that’s not the post’s title]), but I can brook no inconsistency. Don’t like Ollie? Unless and until he starts firing lightning bolts along with his fastball, keep that emotion right where it is. Think Omar Minaya should trade for a bat? Don’t tell me he should save everyone in the farm system and currently on the field with the other side of your mouth.
 
And unless circumstances change in such a manner as to make you a buffoon for stating otherwise–such as Josh Thole discovering his inner Albert Pujols, and proving it consistently on a major-league level–you should be pretty damned sure about making statements-in-stone, such as, “This team will go nowhere unless Omar gets us a bat.”
 
If Josh Thole does light up like a Griswold Christmas tree, you may amend your statement slightly. “This team was going nowhere. Omar needed to get us a bat. Thank the Lord he didn’t have to trade for one.”
 
But let’s get to the 98-pound gorilla in the room: if you’re giving up and are still watching the games, you may feel free to enjoy any individual victory. But be careful about rescinding your desertion. Be very careful. No one likes bandwagoners. You are not automatically saved by your years of fandom prior. You’re getting a long hard look, buddy, and you’re going to have to prostrate yourself at each amazin’ opportunity.

Anyone seeking contradiction between this and my feelings re: Oliver Perez’s start tomorrow, take note: I’m not advocating stick-to-itiveness on the belief that the Mets will go undefeated in the second half; rather, I’m advocating stick-to-itiveness on the basis of this needing to be FUN on the whole to be worthwhile, not an exercise in self-flaggelation.  If Ollie started each game, I’d have a significant problem.  If Ollie wins on Wednesday, he’s still a scrub.  If Ollie wins game Seven of the World Series by pitching a no-hitter, that will be the equivalent of lightning bolts with the fastballs.  See earlier mention; I’d have some happy soul-searching to do.

(I doubt I’d change my mind.)
 
Gary Sheffield takes a pinch-hit opportunity to whack a two-run homer that puts the Mets back into first? “Wow. I had given up on this team. I’m excited they’re doing so well. I hope they make it, so I can feel bad for giving up when I did for the rest of my life.”
 
Johan Santana, Billy Wagner, J.J. Putz, and Frankie Rodriguez combine for a 2-hit shutout to clinch a playoff berth? “Oh, happy day! For all of you! Me, I have to wallow in my own pity, for having decided this season was lost. I cannot possibly enjoy this moment as much as you are, right now.”
 
The boys make it to the Big Time? “I can’t believe it! The year I stop believing is the year they go? And… What’s that? …The Red Sox’ve re-signed Bill Buckner? He’s playing first base and batting clean-up? Son of a bitch!”
 
If the Mets do what appears at this point to be the damned improbable, and you gave up on the season but still watched, how could you enjoy any future seasons? Am I the only one messed up to believe, hypothetically, that I’d have to be in a perennial bad mood in order to coax some joy out of my hobby at the end and victory for the town?
 
(Anyone who’s shut the game off when the Mets were behind 5-0 in the third and tuned back in when they were up 8-5, then turned it off again when it was 8-8 in the bottom of the 9th with runners on for the opposing team KNOWS what I’m talking about, and are barred from passing judgment on my neuroses.)
 
Furthermore, and forgive me for saying so, but:
 
This is at least a time-consuming endeavor, this being a baseball fan. Takes three hours on average to watch a game, and I figure the average steady fan gets sixty to seventy games in during a season. It can be expensive if you go out to a ball park and take a game in; you don’t have to buy the Bass Ale or the $5 hot dog, but who among us is strong enough to resist those temptations?
 
So if you have given up all hope of your team playing good baseball, and if playing good baseball is at least crucial to enjoyment of the game, then why are you watching?  Don’t watch!

Baseball is great and wonderful and painful and heart-stopping, but if baseball never existed, there would still be great literature and the sun would still set late in the summer.  There’d still be romance and crisp, delicious lemonade.

These things, in fact, exist now, even with baseball in full swing.

So what are you doing?  If you have no hope because they’re playing poorly, why are you in your house watching on TV?  Why are you at the games?  Are you such a masochist?  Do you live in Newark?  Stop watching!  You’re wasting your precious time on Earth clinging to the most specious of reasoning while playing voodoo games with your head. 

Go outside.  Take in a free show put on by hard-working raw talents.  Make something yourself.  Make something OF yourself.  Meditate.  Exercise.  Play some baseball yourself.  But don’t sacrifice yourself on an altar that doesn’t exist.  You’re only making it weird for us who still believe.

I say that without knowing absolutely everyone’s personal viewing habits.  I know that from the moment I wake up until I go to bed, ninety percent of my time isn’t mine.  It’d be unthinkable for me to give up the remaining ten percent to something I USED to believe in.

Let’s go Mets.  Ollie, make me eat my words.

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But I Don’t Wanna. You Can’t Make Me.

By comedyliteracy
July 6, 2009 //
0

The Wife was up for the Fourth of July weekend.  We watched dribs and drabs of the Phillies series, in between trips out to the harbor by Shore Road, and to the movies (Public Enemies is a sound purchase to make with your cinema dollars; I had problems with it, but in all, a sound purchase), and to the barbecue grill.

It’s not the sweep which bothered me this weekend.  The Mets loked listless versus the Pirates on a make-up day; I’m not interested in writing another post about how these guys should suck it up and catch pop-ups, nor am I interested in writing another post on “leadership.”  They could’ve shown some offense but didn’t.  They could’ve been seven games out by now but aren’t. 

The Mets don’t see the Phillies again until August 21st.  Moving on.

The red caps bothered me, but not to the extent that I wished temporary and sudden illness on myself.  If this is to be A Thing, I wish the Mets luck next year in playing a team on Memorial or Independence Day that doesn’t regularly wear red.  Washington in May; Philadelphia in July.  And on this note: I saw no recognition of Flag Day.  Then again, there was enough figurative blood spilled at Yankee Stadium on Flag Day.  I’m sure if Johan could trade those nine earned runs for a novelty lid, he would.

(By the way, anyone notice the Jays had red caps, but with Canadian flags as the logo fill?  Way to celebrate Canda Day, fellas; I feel compelled to point out that it fell on Wednesday, but… meh.)

No, what bothered me, to the point that I’ve now come to dread this coming Wednesday, is the news that Oliver Perez will be making his first start off the disabled list that night.  I have a ticket to this game against the L.A. Dodgers.

No.  Please, no.

I’ve taken to licking subway seats.  I’ve threatened men thrice my size with death for walking within ninety feet of me.  I thought about dropping my bowling ball (an orange-and-blue thing I call Little Stevie) on my bare foot.  Then picking it up, and dropping it on my other bare foot.

Because I will go to the game.  I won’t NOT go to the game.  Because I have a ticket, and because I paid money, and because it’s the Mets, I will go to the game.  But knowing I’m going to watch Oliver Perez pitch is really making me reconsider the vaccinations I received as a child.

I am not being hyperbolic.  I am not.  I am not.  I am not.

Buy into whatever hype you must to watch an Oliver Perez start: he wins the big games.  When he’s on, he’s electric.  He’s a lefty and really more fun to watch than John Maine (that nugget comes from a “non-partisan baseball fan” friend, and to this day I don’t get, or care to get, the comparison).  I will not be drinking whatever Kool-Aid you want me to be smoking.  The train has sailed.  Semper crap: Lord save me from Oliver Perez.

Why so vitriolic?  Because I can hold a grudge.

Friday, September 28, 2007.  A friend (Oby) working as an operations manager for a plumbing company calls me and tells me he has three free tickets in Loge, six rows off the pace, behind home plate, for that night’s game against the Florida Marlins.  I took them all, because I’m a Mets fan and I don’t turn down tickets and I have friends who are Mets fans and less fortunate than I.  The call was made at 3 PM; by 5 PM, the other tickets were spoken for and we were all set.  My boss let me leave early, saying, “Go ahead; it’s all hands on deck out there tonight.  Good luck; let’s go Mets!”  He’s been a Yankees fan since the ’50s, but another example of a Yankees fan that doesn’t wish death and destruction on the team in the Senior Circuit.

I head out with Oby, my sister, and a colleague from work.  My colleague was born in Vancouver; this would be his first baseball game.  Shea could’ve levitated with the collective energy of the fans that night.

And then this happened.

I was an Ollie supporter when the game started.  I was an Ollie supporter after the first inning.  He rewarded my support with a 1-2-3 second inning.

Then the third inning.

A single to Byung-Hyun Kim (the pitcher).  A Hanley Ramirez double.  Hits Dan Uggla with a pitch to load the bases.  Gets the force-out on Jeremy Hermida; Kim is out at the plate.  One out, bases still loaded.  Miguel Cabrera strikes out.  Two out; bases still loaded.

He hits Cody Ross with a pitch.  A run scores.  He hits Mike Jacobs with a pitch.  A run scores.  Matt Treanor, by the grace of Hickox, is called out on strikes.  4-1, Marlins.

Oliver Perez jogs off the mound, and hops over the first base line to the dugout.

Carlos Beltran got the Mets back into fighting shape with a two-run homer in the bottom half of the inning.  Marlins 4, Mets 3.

Then the fourth inning.  Two out and no one on in the top of the fourth inning, to be precise.

Hanley Ramirez singles; Dan Uggla singles but the throw moves them to second and third.  He walks Jeremy Hermida.  Miguel Cabrera then hits an RBI single that plates two.  That ends Ollie’s night; he hops over the foul line on his way back to the dugout.

Six earned runs.  Three HBPs.  Two walks.  A home run.  Garbage.

I’ve since seen Oliver Perez pitch a 3-1 gem against the Yankees.  I’ve also seen him pitch horribly for Mexico in the World Baseball Classic, and seen him get rocked by the Red Sox in the second exhibition game at Citi Field.  I’ve also read about his less-than-stellar performance against the CHARLOTTE STONE CRABS (caps intended).  But I was done with Oliver Perez on September 28, 2007. 

I screamed bloody murder when he won his arbitration case.  The remains of a shredded pillow–rended when he got his three-year deal–have long been carted away.  Yes, all for September 28, 2007, though he’s committed quite a few baseball-centric atrocities since.

That was a big game; he is not a big game pitcher.  There is no Good Ollie or Bad Ollie; there’s just Ollie, a broken clock that’s right twice a day but wrong the other 86,398 times.

I don’t hate Oliver Perez; I have a deep-seated, intense, burning dislike for Oliver Perez as a baseball player.

I used to work at a public school, and one of the many things I learned as an administrator is how to spot b.s. artists.  They have some talent and always a klatch of people pulling for him.  But when faced with difficulty, they’ll let the occasion slide away rather than rise to it.  Their core is consumed not with the desire to be excellent, but the desire to survive a situation they can’t believe they’ve found themselves in.  I struggle with this myself, honestly.

I’ve struck this pose, and this pose, and this pose.  (While I’ve also struck this pose, I’ve never done it wearing such a snazzy jacket.  Kudos, Johan.  Kudos.)

So don’t b.s. a b.s.er.  That man goes out onto the mound with the pitching minder’s equivalent of the Marine Corps Band whispering in his ear, a crowd of people who’ve seen him squander goodwill through lack of focus and conditioning, and a team that NEEDS him to be a competent mid-level starter.  And he wants out.  I can tell he wants out.  Every painfull
y incompetent dissembling post-game interview tells me he wants out.

When he wins, he doesn’t want out.  Of course not.  Winning feels good.

But there is a disconnect between the desire to win and the desire to generate the consistent ability to win.  And boy, do I wish I just happened to be projecting, and this was all in my head.  But no.  I know from b.s. artists.  I don’t like to pay money to see b.s. artists.

However, I have.  Therefore, I will.  I will not be doing what I usually do when I go to games.  I’m not writing the season off and I’m not hoping for a loss, but I’m going under fan protest.  Given the abject horror that was September 28, 2007, and the maddening inability to play to potential since, my conscience should allow me to skip this one. 

I wish the Mets employed priests and set them up in confessionals on the Queensboro Plaza 7 train platform.  “Bless me, Father, for I shall sin by walking downstairs and heading back home.  I simply can’t go to a game and drink enough beer to forget who’s on the mound.”

If someone can send this to Oliver Perez and point me in the direction of the man if he’s angry enough to take me out, please do so.  I really don’t want to go to this game, and will take a punch to avoid it.  But with my luck, the one time he’ll MEAN to hit someone, he’ll miss.

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I Hear They’re All Flying To Pittsburgh Together, Too

By comedyliteracy
July 2, 2009 //
0

Okay, okay.  I kid because I love.

In case you’d not heard, Jerry Manuel had a family chat with the team on Tuesday night, and the team rode over to Miller Park together Wednesday morning.  Then Mike Pelfrey pitched a gem, and the Mets beat the Milwaukee Brewers 1-0 to avoid the sweep.

In reply to a commenter on the previous post, let me say that it appeared by the encore presentation of the game that the Mets DID play some baseball.  There is the notable exception of the seventh inning, wherein Mike Pelfrey, like Bono and Alexander Haig before him, forgot a key nuance of his day job and committed a balk.  But they played ball, and I thank you for your words.  I like to think we had some part in it.

John Franco spoke some nonsense about David Wright not being a clubhouse leader, and David Wright retorted in quite fine fashion before going 0 for 4 with three strikeouts. You can read about it from Metsblog here.  (UPDATE: Adam Rubin of the New York Daily News presents a transcript here.  Despite openings and closings not transcribed, I get the sense it’s otherwise complete.)

I’m a supporter of the idea that the Mets need a team captain.  I also think they need to trade Oliver Perez and bid a heartfelt farewell to Fernando Tatis.  But in all those cases, what does a team do if an injury takes that guy out?  Mark DeRosa went over to the Cardinals, sprained his wrist after three games for them, and will be out for the next three or four games.

And if the Mets trade Brad Holt and Bobby Parnell for Adam Dunn, and Adam breaks his hand trying to open a jar of pickles?

And if the Mets sell half of the Acela Club, Mr. Met, and his kids for Roy Halladay, and Halladay breaks down like a ’77 Dodge Dart? …Though I’d almost do that deal.  Swap Mr. Met for three minor-league mascot prospects, and make the call.

Any Mets captain would have to be resilient and magnetic enough to draw attention even if on the bench.  These attributes are not quantifiable; Mr. Franco was right about that.  But what he has wrong is not the need, but the reason for the need.  The Mets need a captain for our sake, not theirs. 

David Wright is right: we don’t know what goes on in the clubhouse behind closed doors. All reports are that Carlos Delgado is still at home recovering and Gary Sheffield’s a model citizen, so John Franco’s further afield than most.  They need to play as a team, and pick themselves up in times of trouble.  Playing coherent baseball as a team will keep the crew from air-mailing balls and throwing to the wrong bag and all that nonsense.  I think the 2009 Mets are working hard at playing as a team, with some glaring goddamn missteps.

But we need a captain because on any given day during this injury crisis, we’ve seen half this lineup play a few handfuls of games.  Argenis Reyes; Fernando Martinez; Nick Evans?  To the masochistic Mets fan, these names are familiar if not battle-tested.  To the casual observer, they’re nobodies.  The captain fills the gap in crowd confidence with his captaincy, like so much *Great Stuff.

Gratuitous link.

And when the captain goes into the locker room, he controls the message to the media hordes who demand to know just what they’re gonna do about all these injuries and do you think Omar should trade for a bat or some rotation help and oh my gosh oh my goodness gracious the 2009 Mets are a step away from 1962! 

(Ah, Suzyn Waldman.  When digital photo frames can reliably play downloaded video, I’m hanging that Clemens bit in my bathroom.)

When Delgado comes back and Jose Reyes comes back and Carlos Beltran and J.J. Putz and John Maine come back, we should see these guys as a team with a colorful history.  The captain can continue to control the message, but we really should hold no illusions that, when the door closes on the clubhouse, David Wright is going up to Carlos Delgado and telling Carlos how to play the game.  Carlos would be well within his rights to take an aluminum bat to the man.

The captain frees the rest of the team up to coalesce and do their job.  The captain takes the heat for the other veterans and the rookies.  For that, he’s awarded a slightly larger percentage of the glory and the pain.

From this perspective, the reason Mr. Franco believes the Mets need a captain is because he needs to hear a player voice of authority account for what’s going on at the park.  But to extend that to be the reason for the shoddy play is false.  The Mets have not played at their best because they are not at all at full strength.

A team in better shape, DL-wise, would be the Philadelphia Phillies.  They got blown out by Atlanta yesterday, no-hit all the way through to the seventh, and the Mets are now two games behind first. 

I’m sure David Wright wants to lead the Mets, Mr. Franco.  Tell me if anyone wants to lead this division.

*Great Stuff is a registered trademark of The Dow Chemical Company.  If you’re going to use it, WEAR GLOVES AND EYE GOGGLES AND CLOTHES YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT EVER WEARING IN PUBLIC AGAIN. 

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Moral Victories

By omniality
June 24, 2009 //
0

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.

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“En-dy Cha-vez!” ::CLAP, CLAP, CLAP CLAP CLAP::

By comedyliteracy
June 22, 2009 //
0

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.

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La-Di-Da-Di, We Like To Party

By omniality
June 19, 2009 //
1

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.

Going Home.jpgAs 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.

Fearless Leader.jpgBordering 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.

Hubie Doobie Doo.jpgThat 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.jpgReaders 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.

Gratuitous link.

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.

Jon Springer Speaks.jpgMy 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):

Cora Beats The Tag.jpgThat 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.

Greg Prince Reads.jpgHere’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.

Chat With Fans.jpgFans 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.

Skyhorse Editor.jpgAll 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.

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“Schhhecond schhhtanza…,” or How To Wear Your Rally Cap

By comedyliteracy
June 18, 2009 //
0

Are you superstitious?  I am.

Do you have routines because you’re superstitious?  I do.

Do you fear for your psychological well-being sometimes, as a result of this blind devotion to superstitious routines?  I do.

Would you ever, EVER, tell anyone about those routines, for fear of them permanently and catastrophically losing their power?  I wouldn’t.

With that, here’s the Ziegfeld Theater, which is where I watched the Mets play the Baltimore Orioles (L, 6-4):

Outside.jpg

I can’t tell you whether, upon office departure for the Ziegfeld, I began any kind of superstitious routine.  I can only tell you that last year, any game I attended at Shea in which the Mets emerged victorious had the coincidental concurrence of my enjoying one beer every three innings.

The days I didn’t do this, they lost.  One day in particular–July 25, 2008–saw them lose to the Cardinals in an interminable number of extra innings.  Brandon Knight’s 4-run first inning start.  Eighty-dollar field level seats on the third base line, for my sister and I.  A horrible head cold (on the same day I quit my previous job).  Fernando Tatis bringing the Mets back from the brink twice.  Aaron Heilman actually holding a tie past the point where she (my sister) absolutely had to go home, and I either had to leave and barely make the LIRR back to Long Beach and the rented beach house with The Wife, or sleep in Shea’s parking lot. 

–And that’s another thing, which I won’t put into a parenthetical: my sister had to go home during the 13th inning of that game because she had to pack for a flight that was leaving from JFK four hours later.  If my head didn’t feel as though it was going to explode, or if I’d brought my Brooklyn house keys, I’d’ve stayed to watch Heilman give up the tie.  There was no way to make it so I could stay.  There was no way for my sister to stay.  We had absolutely no choice that wouldn’t have cost us untold sums of money or our health.  IN THOSE CIRCUMSTANCES, it’s okay to leave a game early.  If you feel a need to beat the traffic, head yourself off at the pass and DON’T COME.  The wave will go on without you.–

I got to the Ziegfeld.  Met a friend there, subbing for aforementioned sibling.  Sat in the back, because I felt there was some good juice in the back, but not on the left side center, because that’s where I watched Marlon get robbed.  Took some photos from this vantage point, because I’m not a reporter and until or if and so forth, I’ll be comfortable in my documenting of live events.

Bud Harrelson.jpgBud Harrelson and Ed Kranepool were brought up early on, to talk about the ’69 Miracle Mets.  That was a treat, though at the outset a guy thought it charming to shout “Cesspool!” at Ed.  This is the same charity case who, despite the Mets being down 6-4 with a frame left, proceeded to chant “T shirt!” at the hurlers of the Pepsi Party Patrol.  AND HE ALREADY HAD A SHIRT.  Moron.  When I felt the sober urge to chant “Ball game!” in response to his loserdom, I had a sense the night was lost.  I chanted it anyway.

Speaking of anyway, here’s Ed:

Ed Kranepool.jpg

Still using the Gillette Foamy.  Nice to see.

So I avoided the taste of the creature, so to speak, having had a near-epic time of it the night before, but still chanted and cheered.  Bobby Parnell seemed in need of the slow clap with one out and the prey at a ball and two strikes, so I indulged, even though you just don’t do it with just one out.  I’ll fight anyone who says you do.

The Crowd.jpgThe place was not terribly packed.  Good seats were available in prime spots; I just like to mutter and curse away from children, and there were gaggles of ’em wherever I’d want to be.  On the other hand, I also wanted to be with Mr. Met, so I braved the crew and had my subbing friend take the shot.  He’s six feet seven inches tall (not Mr. Met, the friend), and Mr. Met was animated, and it was dark.  Now that I’m done equivocating:

Mascot.jpg I DON’T avail myself of the Gillette Foamy.  Sensitive skin; no need to raise my batting average.

There were loud cheers for Sheffield’s home run, and the requisite laughs for Keith Hernandez’s tangent of the game: this particular one related to the Ziegfeld, where last Keith saw Lawrence of Arabia and met David Lean (but not Alec Guinness; he couldn’t make it).  Keith also kept his program for the movie, from when he was a boy, and got some autographs.  Mr. Hernandez, I had no idea you were so sentimental.

There was the seventh-inning stretch:

Seventh Inning Stretch.jpgAnd Mr. Met has the choreography down COLD.  And the Mets didn’t skimp on the “Lazy Mary,” either, which was heartwarming.

But still the crowd.  Boy, I don’t know.  When Aubrey Huff hit the two-run homer past Eutaw and into the downtown Potomac twenty minutes away (I still don’t want him on the team), people got up and out of their seats, never to return.  There was the attempt at rally caps, but the kids were wearing them with the brims facing front.  Not to the side, not to the back.  So I followed along gamely.  Look where it got me.

I blame the loss squarely on the ten year-old in the Jets T-shirt, with his rally cap on in ENTIRELY the wrong fashion.

It’d be impossible to complete a superstitious routine while watching a game in a movie theater.  But then again, I may or may not even have one, so perhaps that ten year-old is safe from my fearsome, vengeful wrath.  These are constructs I may or may not build around the game itself, which is devoid of interest in whatever the hell I may or may not do.  I firmly believe this.

I also firmly believe in giving people hell if they don’t do what they should do, which is pay at least SOME attention to the game.  Which is why, in the late innings of that game against the St. Louis Cardinals, I demanded from eight rows away that David Wright put his goddamn glove on.  This after seeming to forget the ball was about to be put in play and remaining flat on his feet.  He did, nodded at me, and I shouted a quick “Thank yo
u!”

Even that parasite shouting for more swag left before the ninth.  For that, I shouted “Thank you!” too.

I wonder what kind of pain I’ll make myself to everyone tonight at Two Boots.  We’ll see.

*By the way, there’s a thing tonight at Two Boots off Grand Street in Manhattan, hosted by the fine folks at Faith And Fear In Flushing.  For more on the event, click here.  And if you go here, you can read up on the rally cap with absolutely no idea as to the veracity of the material presented.  Enjoy.

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Fired Up

By omniality
June 16, 2009 //
0

“You know the Times says the air’s bad down here.”
“Yeah?  Well —- the Times; I read the Post.”
–From 25th Hour

I am a fan of many things.  No one can call me anhedonic, based solely on the thrill I get from describing various recipes for grilled burgers.  I am a fan of most Spike Lee movies, and the red-rimmed bug-eyed work of Barry Pepper (you may remember him as the sniper in Saving Private Ryan), and when they got together for 25th Hour, whoo boy.

Mostly, however, I’m a fan of being fired up.  I LOVE to be fired up, which is difficult because there’s often the chance that getting fired up might mean coming down hard on a loss.  It’s hard to be a fan for this reason.  It’s great to be a fan for the opposite reason; you might just float down on a win.

I’m not looking to spec’ out a battle royale between the Times and the Post; but Barry Pepper’s comment was what rang in my head when I read an article in the Times this morning about the irregulars coming in to keep the Mets afloat, then saw the back of the Post’s edition while on the subway.  Plenty of blogosphere reports today re: the “Save Our Season” message; note that exhortation shortens to “S.O.S.,” and No don’t tell me they made the Mets logo the “O” gosh that’s so clever.

I don’t care how sophisticated your sports reporting is; if your front page that day boils Iranian election trauma down to the phrase “Turban Warfare,” and you send a clown to Albany in the midst of procedural Senate turmoil, I will laugh at you plenty, but take next to nothing you say seriously.  At this point I’m using the Daily News for movie timetables.

The difference between the Times and the Post highlights the difference in most fans: some are wild about the fact that the Mets are three games above .500 with the equivalent of the Lower East Ghananian All-Stars out there; some are panicked that we’ll never again climb onto the mountaintop and see the Promised Land.  Or is it get to the Promised Land and climb up to the mountain there?  Who knows.  They want a trade.  NOW NOW NOW.

(Lower East Ghanania doesn’t exist, and if they did, I’d doubt they’d have an All-Star team in ANYTHING.)

So with Jerry Manuel coming up on a year of gainful employment as a headliner, and Willie Randolph spending Month Whatever on the bench in Milwaukee, are we screwed or are we waiting patiently to be saved?  Are we either; are we both; are we neither?  I specifically do not think there is an answer.  I’m not trying to be flip about it.  I mean, specifically, that it is not a question that can be answered.

Because even if the Mets were fine, there’d be problems.  And in these current problems, there are Herculean bright spots.  That shouldn’t take the joy or blah out of fandom.  Fandom’s like eating; I don’t know a soul who isn’t a fan of SOMETHING.  You have to do it.  And sometimes you’ll roll down to Frankie’s 17 on Clinton Street and tear into a delicious plate of homemade gnocci and sausage, and take that down with a glorious glass of white.  And sometimes you’ll have no choice but to stop into the McDonald’s outside Ramapo, scarf a Big Mac, and regret the hell out of it when you’re still twenty miles away from the next rest stop.

I don’t mean to put a pin in everybody’s fun by deconstructing fandom, either.  Quite the opposite.  I want everyone to be fired up, all the time.  Just understand that the other guy might be just as fired up in the opposite direction, and that’s okay.  You’re on Clinton Street with coin in your pocket; they’re in Ramapo hoping there’s some Pepto tabs that haven’t been destroyed in the glove compartment.  Or vice versa.

Only time will make fools of those who thought one way or the other (this is where I bring it back to 25th Hour; OF COURSE the air was bad down there–are you KIDDING?!), and in the meantime, there’s life to live baseball to be played.

Tonight it’s Big Pelf versus this region’s version of the Birds.  Why are there so many birds in baseball, anyway?  Cardinals, Blue Jays, Orioles?  Un-im-pressed.

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It begins.

By omniality
June 15, 2009 //
0

Of starting this blog I will only say this: I hope I can keep various defunct presences on the web straight.  We’ll see.

Now then:

I should’ve paid attention in high school when certain friends showed a talent for remembering statistics, and cracking jokes.  See, I’m a guy who enjoys being outside or at least near fresh air on moody summer days such as these, and I thought to myself on my way back from a sugar run that had I paid attention to the stat minders, I’d’ve learned how to mind stats myself, and parlayed that ability and a decent wit into a job as a sports writer.  I could then be near a field or on a bus or plane on my way to a field today.

Sadly, I didn’t pay attention, and that didn’t happen.

By way of inelegant segue, watching baseball for me is a window to a literal and figurative field I envy both for its grand stage and sense of community.  I’ve been fortunate enough to bear witness to some late-breaking history: Gary Sheffield’s 500th home run, Johan Santana’s 100th win; and have had the pleasure of introducing the game to several people.  But man, do I want to get on or near that field.

Except for this past weekend.  Keep this past weekend.

Rather than rehash the atrocity that was Friday night and the horrible, horrible mayhem that was Sunday afternoon, I’d like to offer some (perhaps overly) hopeful words:

  • Billy Wagner’s rehab is progressing nicely.  I trust he’s seeking redemption, and should be back the split-second there’s any chance of Brian Stokes getting more playing time.
  • There’s not been a whiff of surgery talk regarding Jose Reyes.  I’ll take that as a minor victory.
  • Carlos Delgado will be a novelty in the batter’s box if he keeps his goatee shaved.
  • Neil Diamond and his hateful repertoire appear to have been banned from Citi Field.  For the time being.
  • I have no clue where Oliver Perez is, and you should love that as much as I.

There will be more on each of these points as the days and weeks and months progress.

Actually, let me say one thing about Friday night, versus the Yankees (June 12, L 9-8).

I haven’t seen the play.  Or maybe it should be The Play, unless Initial Caps are Intended Only For Awesome Things, such as Endy’s Catch (which is, gratefully and phenomenally, the near sole-owner of the term The Catch [in Mets circles, anyway]).  In any event, I haven’t seen it.  I returned home after watching The Taking Of Pelham 1-2-3, and swore I wasn’t going to watch a bit of the game, after the toll the Phillies series took on me.

But in between watching DVR’ed repeats of The X-Files and avoiding Kent Jones’s shtick on Rachel Maddow’s program (I know he’s a nice guy, but I can’t handle him or his voice), I flipped over to the game for a few minutes at a time.  I know on the whole I was missing a wild ride.  But in addition to the Phillies-addled time I’d had in the days prior, my wife (My Wife? The Wife? The Wife.) was coming into town for the weekend.  It was time to let one go.

She arrived I guess around when the Mets were sending Frankie R. to the mound to wrap it up.  She asked me the score; I was already in bed and said I didn’t know.  I checked my Blackberry as she was brushing her teeth.  And there you go.

Yet I still have not seen The Play.  I was spared the inundation of replays by dint of a trip out to Butler, NJ for a birthday in a VFW hall–random–and cocktails and pizza afterward with The Wife.  I was nowhere near a TV at any point that Saturday.  And PIX spared me a replay of The Play yesterday.  Probably because nearly every time the Yankees hit a ball, it was to the outfield, and not anywhere near Luis Castillo.

So I haven’t seen The Play.  At this point, it’s an endurance test.  How long can I last without seeing it?  Think of this: I was–also random–in a hot tub when Sean Green walked in that run against the Phillies in May.  I was in Loge at Shea in ’07, when Oliver Perez walked in three runs against the Marlins in the first game of that last weekend series.  I’ve cheered Jeff Conine in my lifetime.  Considering all the other awful and pathetic things I’ve witnessed, maybe I can let this one go?

Or is the true result of die hard fandom the masochistic big nut bar that comes from subjecting oneself to such debilitating crapulence? 

You parse that sentence; I’ll think about it.

More, of course, later.

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