A brief note: I thought it might be time to pay some solid homage to other Mets fans blogging within the MLB sphere; tag searches pick up everything and anything.
So you’ll note the creation of a new link list on the right, with all the Mets MLBlogs I could find.
If you have one, I’ll be happy to add it to the roll. Cheers.
First, a bit of business: I’ll be at Two Boots Tavern tonight for the second installment of Faith And Fear In Flushing’s “Amazin’ Tuesdays” series. If you enjoy feedback loops, click here; Mr. Prince not only gives you a rundown of who’ll be there and how you can get a free beer, but he’s also been kind enough to link to my reviews of the first Amazin’ Tuesday and the earlier “Metstock.”
Those of you who are in the area are probably going to be eating pizza and drinking beer anyway. You should do so on Grand Street. If you do, say hello. I will not buy you a beer, unless you buy me one, but somewhat tangentially, I’m not contagious anymore and indeed, my head is quite nearly clear of congestion at this point. That alone should throw the proverbial wheel hard in the direction of approachably genial.
So, yes, Amazin’ Tuesday. Two Boots Tavern. What I like to do from the Upper East Side is take a Lexington express train down to Union Square, transfer to the local, and transfer at Bleecker to a Sixth Avenue express. Three trains, yet the ride somehow takes about fifteen minutes. I’m somewhat attention-deficient, so the movement keeps me upbeat.
Starts at seven. Go.
Now then: I wrote this post on August 12th, about the new Rawlings S100 batting helmet (use your back button to return).
On August 17th, I wrote this post hoping that Johan Santana wouldn’t suffer at my bony, cloak-wearing hand. Not “hands,” as the other is busy wielding a scythe.
However, he’s now with Dr. David Altchek at the Hospital For Special Surgery. I meant to take a spin by there and see if there’d been anything laid at the foundation. Perhaps it’s just enough that someone spent last night behind the gates somehow, clad in black and holding a single thorny rose.
Billy Wagner will probably not accept a trade to the Red Sox because he wants to be a closer, and Jonathan Papelbon already jigs-it-up for the Fenway folk. I think his particular brand of hard luck (and ours) will be at the negotiating table.
Luis Castillo’s taken his lumps already. Chowdah’s got the ligament issue (and Chowdah didn’t even show until July). Sheffield’s got his/has his/will get his; I can’t keep straight what’s bothering that guy anymore. But at least he’s gone out there. This is good.
Schneider’s a ghost already; predicting his doom would probably only RAISE his batting average.
If you’ve seen a Star Wars or an Indiana Jones movie–or even Quentin Tarantino’s Inglourious Basterds (which, if you enjoy a ruthlessly bloodthirsty matinee, I recommend)–you’re familiar with something called “The Wilhelm Scream.” It’s reserved for the death of cannon fodder: a foot soldier who you KNOW is going to go down in a hail of whatever fired by whomever our hero is.
If you do a search for NPR Wilhelm Scream, you’ll come across the On The Media transcript for an interview on said scream. Read (and listen? I don’t have the player) here.
The Mets are not the bad guys, though they’ve been made out to be. But at this point, all the Mets have are redshirts: guys who really should be faceless.
(“Three balls to Pedro Martinez after two three-run homers, and he was pulled mid-count.”)
I can’t, therefore, try my hand at predicting the next Met injury because, to the extent that the guys out there are pretty much all the same redshirt, it doesn’t matter. Luke and Leia are going to manage to swing onto the other side of the bridge; Indy will get the better of Belloq. Good guys or bad, that’s the script.
This is obviously not their year. As I’ve stated several times now, one should watch Mets baseball if Mets baseball is still fun. I will still watch, because it allows me time to decompress. And I enjoy a win whenever they do. Besides, after baseball comes football, but after football comes a whole lotta nothing.
However, while I will not predict the downfall of another Metropolitan, once my voice fully recovers, I will be practicing my “AIIIEEEEEEE!!!”
**I’ve been pulled from tonight’s game, by the way, in favor of Nelson Figueroa.
Chowdah tore a ligament in his thumb on that catch yesterday. Shades of Alex Cora.
Pat Misch has left the scene in exchange for Ken “The Executioner” Takahashi.
Johan Santana will miss tomorrow’s start because something’s up with his pitching elbow. Where did I see this information? Every–goddamned–where, damn it.
You realize that now every one of the players visible on the above Nikon photo montage has SOMETHING wrong with them, yes?
At least Angel Pagan is a one-man pinball wizard versus the Phillies defense. Jesus.
I’ve decided to build my own line-up. I figure watching this group play ball until the first weekend in October would be just as–if not more–entertaining than what we’ll likely see.
SS: Jon Cryer.
1B: Madlib.
2B: Osbert (Snarf) from Thundercats.
3B: MacGyver. Not Richard Dean Anderson from MacGyver or the guy Richard Dean Anderson played in MacGyver. The SHOW, as entity.
LF: A 1977 Topps baseball card featuring Texas Rangers outfielder Jeff Burroughs. (For those who take issue, click here.)
CF: The disembodied mole of Carlos Beltran.
RF: Bob Capano. This does not constitute an endorsement of Bob Capano. I’ve just seen his picture everywhere.
C: …
I will be tomorrow night’s starting pitcher, which means I must be off for the airport. I throw left-handed. If I do well, I might be signed to a three-year deal worth $36 million.
At least I hear that’s how that stuff goes.
Specifically, any one of the genus of Picoraviridae that knocked me out this weekend.
In short, I had a cold.
I have the worst colds because I suffer the shortest colds. For me, they’re the upper respiratory equivalent of ripping a Band-Aid off in a single yank. Or the baseball equivalent of turning a triple play.
Or the Perez equivalent of getting yanked mid-count.
I honestly have never seen that happen. To any pitcher. Granted, there wasn’t television available in the dorm rooms at Bennington College, so I missed a significant chunk of live Mets mediocrity. I had to settle for reading about it online. (Remember what the Mets website looked like in 2001? Neither do I.) But in my time of watching Mets baseball, I don’t recall a pitcher getting pulled out mid-count.
Hell, it’s to the point where I’ve been telling people not-in-the-baseball-know that you can’t take a pitcher out mid-count unless he’s injured. My God, was I wrong about that. Now I have to go back and tell people I’m a moron. They knew this already; still… embarrassing.
So now I’ve gotta find out when the last time was that such a thing happened. I will email various fine folks; I will scour the Intertubes. I may ask people at Two Boots tomorrow, if I’m not still hacking up a lung.
Which I don’t think I will be. Colds for me are done after a couple days; most I see suffering colds suffer them for a week or two. Not me. Something knocks me off my horse, I loll about in the dirt for a bit, I’m asked if I want some aspirin or cough suppressant and say no; I hallucinate in the middle of the night that Ron Livingston is going to blow me out into space; I sneeze like a maniac for four hours; I get right back on.
By the by, you may ask: why am I more interested in the history of pitchers removed mid-count than the eviscerating of Oliver Perez for his terrible performance? The answer: if this is indeed the rarity I think it is, I have him to thank for giving me a thumbnail answer to anyone’s assertion that he’s any sort of good.
Someone: “Oliver Perez is throwing some heat tonight.”
Me: “Three balls to Pedro Martinez after two three-run homers, and he was pulled mid-count.”
Someone: “Wow, that was amazing! You see Ollie get out of that jam?”
Me: “Three balls to Pedro Martinez after two three-run homers, and he was pulled mid-count.”
Someone: “Oliver Perez sure can climb into a car without hitting his head on the roof.”
Me: “Three balls to Pedro Martinez after two three-run homers, and he was pulled mid-count.”
The Mets have had some BAD players in their time. But this guy feels like he’s worse than New York Mets bad. I don’t know what that would be, but it’s out there.
Mets wrap it up in just about an hour against the Phillies. Bobby Parnell squares off against Cliff Lee, and I hear the Phillies are spotting the Mets four runs before the game even begins. Will not, I hear, affect Cliff Lee’s ERA.
Lest you think I’m a curmudgeon, know that I’ve watched this video at least a dozen times since yesterday. The best part is when Victorino throws up his hands.
Heh, heh, heh.
What’s unfortunate about that Omar Minaya/Adam Rubin flap is that the reporter became the story.
When that happens, too many are pulled into the realm of the meta, and unless one has a firm grasp on (among other things) elements of post-modernism, semiotics, and the works of the Wachowski Brothers, the meta becomes too much to handle.
“Some of us are world-class thinkers,” a college friend once wrote me. “Some of us are bankers, and lawyers. Some of us pump gas, some of us grow fat on the couch and collect a government check.
“And some of us are potheads.”
With that, I urge you to visit this discussion of the Sheffield mess from yesterday, as sparked by Adam Rubin’s Daily News Mets blog entry. If you follow blogs ravenously, I’m sure you caught Mr. Rubin’s take.
However, what’s evolved since 8:48a is a comment thread as long as my right arm (I discovered recently that my right arm is decidedly longer than my left). Despite more-than-occasional name calling, I’ve found this comment thread to be not only delightfully PG-profane, but, in aggregate, a full cover on the matter of Sheffield and the matter of Rubin’s alleged lackeyism. And on, and on, and on.
It’s remarkable people accuse the man of brown-nosing, even after he’s said on camera that his livelihood had been messed with. Red pill, blue pill: does it matter?
I agree with most of Mr. Rubin’s take; I wouldn’t hold him just to
release him spitefully, but he’s being paid. So he’s needed. If
Sheffield wants to slip in the shower or sprain his pinkie toe, that’s
his business.
I am not paid by the Mets or Adam Rubin, by the by. I’m also not paid by the New York Daily News, I’m not advocating the use of marijuana or any illegal drugs. I’m not trying to denigrate gas station attendants, nor am I advocating the use of fossil fuels in this dangerous political climate or given the nature of our fight to keep this planet from suffocating us all. I’m also not saying the effort to turn back climate change should be a confrontational fight.
It’s at this point that, were I a cartoon, my head would inflate to six times its already-massive size, and pop like a balloon, leaving only scraps just above the knot. Would the Mets front office hire a guy like me? Late twenties; a profiler of their ineptitude; scraps for a head?
Mr. Minaya, I hereby lobby for a job.
**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.
“And where the hell were you?”
“Sorry, T; the highway was jammed with broken heroes on a last-chance power drive.”
“What, are you a comedian now?”—The Sopranos, “Long-Term Parking”
Lots of injury seen yesterday:
Each of these points should be addressed before moving forward. I choose to do so in reverse order.
First: that floor in the Jackie Robinson Rotunda is a menace. It’s lovely and eye-catching and leads the fan to inserts detailing Mr. Robinson’s nine core values, but it’s slippery when DRY. And last night saw two sure signs of the Apocalypse: the current Mets line-up notching ten hits against the $60 million man, and a resultant flash thunderstorm. There was an easy quarter-inch of rain on the ground and no sign of decent drainage. Put that on the list for off-season adjustments.
Also add the completion of whatever this:
…is supposed to be, far west of the bullpen gate. (For orientation purposes, the window on the far right looks out onto the parking lot behind center field and, across the water, LaGuardia Airport.) Restaurant with thirty-foot ceilings? Mets museum? What up?
Next: Ryan Church had three ground-outs last night before striking out to end the game, leaving him 0-for-4 on the night.
I’m in the camp that believes Ryan Church’s concussions were handled poorly by the Mets–and I’ll get to my thinking in a moment–but in the Land of Put Up Or Shut Up (which is just across the border from Bring It, Turkey and shares a river with Yo Mama), Chachi was a beggar. Shame. He was afforded rounds of applause for each at bat. Had his output matched Chowdah’s and had the Mets still come out with the win, I’d’ve been cool with it.
Next: I don’t think Jerry Manuel had a leg to stand on in discussing the dueling concussion experiences of Ryan Church and David Wright. Hell, Mr. Manuel, Chachi had TWO of them, and in both instances he was playing hard, and in one, he was playing hard during SPRING TRAINING.
A man who plays like that is going to want to go out there until he can’t anymore. It’s management’s job to protect him. But Chachi’s situation was less complex than the chest-thumping war cries between man and other man. He’d suffered TWO CONCUSSIONS within three months. If you sprain your ankle twice in three months, you take it easier. If your right fielder knocks around his BRAIN twice in three months, you put the man on the DL.
I can’t believe I’ll pick a mild pun off the rack, but guys: it wasn’t like it was brain surgery. It’s common sense. Don’t listen to what the man says. He’s not Superman. His body slid, semi-conscious, past second base after hitting Yunel Escobar’s knee. I was watching as it happened and I grabbed my OWN head.
Furthermore, what does bringing all this up AGAIN get you but more aggravation and a series of day-job writers thinking your organization is rife with either incompetence or bullheadedness, from the trainers to the management to the press office? It’s the communications equivalent of intentionally walking a batter to get to the pitcher’s spot: you’ve only bought yourself more trouble.
Next: I’m awed and humbled that the derisive “Laaaaarry! Laaaaarry!” chant made it across the alley. This is the first Mets-Braves game I’ve been to all year, and hearing it made me feel truly, TRULY at home. No louder was it than when Omir Santos grounded to third on a fielder’s choice, and Jones bobbled it or couldn’t get a grip on it or was doing Chowdah a favor or what, and the ninth run scored.
I didn’t get a shot of it, but it appeared Larry gave a defeated shrug at the end of the play. Delightful.
He and Church were 0-for-8 on the night. That’s about as historic as a ten-hit Met inning, considering the team’s status at present.
Next: Anderson Hernandez.
I’d just gotten through talking about how Jose Reyes, Ramon Martinez, and Alex Cora were on the DL, and how it would behoove Anderson Hernandez to watch himself. And down he went.
It was about at this point during the game that, aside from derisive tomahawk chops and exhortations for the free-swinging to stop in the later innings, I decided to keep my fool mouth shut.
(For the record, I also called Adam LaRoche’s solo home run. The Wife can confirm that one, too.
Listen, I don’t report these things because I’m an ego-maniacal train wreck. I report these things because I find them scary. Though as my seatmate Mike reminded me, “Calling a home run off Oliver Perez is like calling the sun’s rise in the East tomorrow morning.” Fair enough.
By the way, have you seen The Wife? Here she is:
Next: Derek Lowe.
Probably would’ve helped, but here’s the video as captured by SNY, and the quote as caught by ESPN:
“That had nothing to do with it,” Lowe said, referring to his pinkie. “I was under every single ball flat.”
Very well, Mr. Lowe. You had a crappy night and your defense up the middle left a bit to be desired. I thank you for adding ten hits in an inning to my list of Mets History Witnessed, which includes Santana’s One Hundredth Win and Sheffield’s Five Hundredth Homer. Cheers.
Next: Oliver Perez.
C’mon, guy. Do you HAVE to look so goofy? Shouldn’t your hands be folded on a desk with a large vinyl reproduction of a library-scape hanging behind you? Perhaps with “2009” in white-on-black hanging upper left? Criminy.
To be fair, he walked only one ba
tter, and struck out four, and the Matt Diaz pitch looked from above to be a mistake, and I claim responsibility for the LaRoche home run. My question, really, is whether he was pulled after 78 pitches because of the tweak his knee got in the fourth inning, or because runners were starting to get on again as of said fourth.
I’m guessing a bit of Column A and a bit of Column B.
I will get off his case only enough to say he hustled to cover first, and he had me beat on the number of walks he issued. Whether his stuff was better than the Braves’ or whether the Braves were godawful… hell, how subjective IS this sport, anyway?
Here’s how subjective, both in amount and true nature: I was all ready to take a look at Derek Lowe’s record and Oliver Perez’s record, set them side by side, with no-decisions factored, and figure out just where the truth lay on who would be the better Met. But the Braves have not had NEARLY the spades of injury trouble the Mets have had. They’ve not had the same schedule. Hell, from what I see on his game log, he’s made each of his starts. Perez hasn’t. How do you reasonably compare the two without major question?
The only anecdotal way I know is this: from what I’ve seen, Derek Lowe throws first-pitch strikes. Oliver Perez oftentimes does not. It has been my experience that pitchers who throw first-pitch strikes get into less trouble, and last longer in games, than those who do not. Those who do not leave us with men named Elmer Dessens, and the ridiculous tactic of berating said Elmers for the purpose of reverse-psychology-derived gains.
That’s all I’ve got.
Lastly: Martin Prado–what’s going on with Martin Prado? I haven’t checked that had because, well, it’s Martin Prado and I care about Martin Prado just about as well as I can throw Martin Prado, which is to say not all that much. I care in that he’s a fellow human being and I don’t wish him any particular harm, but no one on the internet-box can tell me what his deal is with these headaches. Anyone know? Swine flu? The bends? Restaurant? Mets museum? What up?
Yes, lots of injury last night. Lots of potential for injury. We ran like hell for the Chernobyl-style stairwells from the Promenade overhang; we shoved past rubberneckers on the stairs in the rotunda; we ran like hell from the rotunda to the subway entrance, which was a SEAL-type operation in an of itself (I got to tell someone I “broke left” when running the after-action report).
You know it’s bad when the best I can do for my post-victory photo of the park is a runaway shot from the 7 Super-Express, above.
Hell, Big Man was in rare form and got a T-shirt for his ad-hoc mascot trouble:
As I’ve said in the past: great for branding. Keep that liver running, my friend.
As for me, I’m scheduled for a side session on Friday.
Took the morning off, and now have just about forty minutes left before I have to head out.
THIS guy:
God, I’ve been holding that in all night.
My thanks to the Newark Star-Ledger for the photo.
There is little to say about last night’s game save that I have no proof that I completely called the sixth inning (but I did), and Andy Green worked a walk in his first Met at-bat (it’s true; I saw it and the papers back me up).
Discussing the loss of Alex Cora’s grit and passion–I think the cool kids are calling it “grission”–would be more disheartening than discussing the plodding game management and shoddy pitching. So as the cool kids used to say, I won’t go there.
Except that the Mets have lost Jose Reyes, Alex Cora, and Ramon Martinez to injury this year. I have a feeling that if Wilson Valdez had even sniffed serviceability, he’d’ve gone down with a sinus infection. And now I understand why Anderson Hernandez takes big, wild hacks at balls outside the strike zone. If I had that kind of target on my back, I’d be swinging at pitches even if they’d decided to walk me.
Speaking of intentional walks: I’d like to go on record as stating that I HATE the intentional walk to bring up the pitcher’s spot.
Actually, scratch that. I feel like making a list:
The San Francisco Giants’ bench is not as awful as the New York Mets’ bench. Walk Edgar Renteria to face Nate Schierholtz? If Jerry Manuel thought Bruce Bochy was going to let Joe Martinez bat with the bases loaded, one out, and a chance to break the game wide-open, he’s out of his mind.
I only bring it up because I generally hate the intentional walk as a tactic, and because, as I said, I called it. If The Wife were a notary public, I’d’ve jotted the sequence down on my take-out napkin:
She’d’ve given it a seal; I’d’ve mailed it to myself in the past (I moonlight as a Timecop), and maybe saved myself a bit more grief. But there comes to be a saturation point with grief, after which one can wring most of it out, but it’s still damp. And that’s what I am, presently: damp with grief.
…There’s an image.
I’m not saying I can manage in the major leagues. I’m saying if I can guess that progression, and know it’ll end badly, and it happens anyway, then Mr. Manuel is not as crafty as I thought he was before the game began. And I wasn’t high on him before the game began.
Don’t intentionally walk a guy when the next guy up will, more likely than not, be a man whose batting average is thirty points higher, and when the whole team is playing for something. If this is it, if you believe your season is done, if you’re packing it in, have your tomato can of a starting pitcher GO AFTER EVERY GUY IN THE ORDER. That’d be “grission” for you. Ugh.
And now, in a replay of what I was lucky to miss because it happened in another state, the Mets face the Atlanta Braves, and Oliver Perez squares off against Derek Lowe.
I’ll make it clear in case I haven’t: I have no time for Oliver Perez. None. That I’ve paid money for this experience cheeses me off all the more. I’m setting the over/under on walks tonight at five and taking the over.
I’ll be getting there early, to boot; The Wife has never seen the new park and she and I will be walking all over it. Bloating from too much beer and box frites today; photos and highlights to come tomorrow.
Let’s go Mets! (Right? We still say that, cool or not? “Let’s go Mets”? Sure. Let’s go Mets.)
**Word came via comment from Matthew Peaslee over at The Pittsburgh Peas that Section Five Twenty-Eight is the most recent “Featured Blog” on the MLBlogs home page, and to quote a Hungarian friend with short Achilles tendons, that pleases me much.
If you’ve somehow found your way to this pit of misery and despair, please check out Mr. Peaslee’s blog. As for Mr. Peaslee himself, if he’s reading: I’ve got a short but packed day, but will email you specific thanks and thoughts later. Cheers.
omniality
Section Five Twenty-Eight 
