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By omniality
August 17, 2009 //
3

The article posted in The New York Times regarding the Rawlings S100 batting helmet went up less than a week before David Wright’s blow to the “melon.”  I believe I caught it and wrote about it, if not first, then ahead of the curve along with the other ahead-of-the-curvers.

The words “already lost season” have been used in speaking peripherally about Wright’s concussion, his post-concussion symptoms, the review of his road to recovery as seen by Atlanta outfielder Ryan Church, his roster replacement Andy Green (did we really, REALLY need another Green?), and the staggering company Wright’s now keeping on the DL.

The Mets are not yet mathematically eliminated from playoff contention.  But in the interest of sharing another article and testing my luck, I’ll grant the premise.  The Mets are done; 2010, here we come.

I just read something from the same newspaper that has not seen comment yet from baseball players, unless Fernando Martinez has chimed in and I’ve not heard it.  This, then, bearing the title “Novelties,” about a neat artificial plug that can help repair bone and cartilage by providing a scaffold around which new natural tissue can grow.

Again, I’ve not heard Met reaction regarding this advancement in medicine, though I’m sure the folks in the front office are getting right to it, Steven Matz and his impending signing be damned. 

But if it’s just about me bringing it up and a Met getting injured in such a way as the new tech will or would have helped, well, the clock is ticking.  I mentioned the helmet on Wednesday and Wright was beaned on Saturday.  So if today is Monday, we should be looking at a Met player blowing out his knee on… Thursday.  Johan Santana is slated to pitch against Kenshin Kawakami.

Let it NOT be Johan.  I can take being the Blogging Angel of Death, but that man’s suffered enough.

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You Could See That Pierre Did Truly Love The Mademoiselle

By comedyliteracy
August 14, 2009 //
0

Normally I’d be getting jazzed to leave work in about ninety minutes, for the horrors glories of the Mets at Citi Field.  Instead, I’m prepping for a trip out to LaGuardia with my mother-in-law, to pick up The Wife and, more likely than not, go see Julie And Julia at the movies.

First off, it’s a testament to this blog’s readership that my desire to keep my change of plans a surprise isn’t hurt by open discussion of same.

Second, my mother-in-law’s a wonderful woman.  Lots of fun.  I’m being serious; I lucked out there.

Third, it’s been a long week.  Julie And Julia could be Jules et Jim or Freddy Vs. Jason; as soon as my butt hits a seat not surrounded by screaming fans and the piercing, wretched sound of Alex Anthony (I apologize: I just can’t stand his voice), I’m falling asleep.

I may try and get there tomorrow; else I’ll be there Tuesday afternoon and evening.  In the meantime, I’m making like a tree and getting out of here.  Hasta Sunday or Monday.

Until then, enjoy, and let’s go Mets!

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I’m Thoroughly Disinterested In Oliver Perez’s Performance Last Night

By comedyliteracy
August 13, 2009 //
0

So he walked six and gave up the same number of hits, yet struck out seven, yet YET escaped with one run.  And the Mets avoided the sweep against the Diamondbacks (W; 6-4).  That’s supposed to be positive?

He threw 5 1/3 innings and 111 pitches.  Sean Green, for all the good he’d do the next day, threw 19.  Feliciano 17.  Stokes 13. 

You know what that’s like, telling me Oliver Perez was not terrible?  That’s like telling me the unemployment rate ticked down slightly in July and wholly ignoring the fact that the rate does not reflect the number of people who’ve given up looking for work. 

Yes, I’m on his case.  But I’m on his case because I don’t think he’s a good pitcher, and using this start to tell me (middle of page) the man relishes pitching with men on base (doghouse, Omir Santos–doghouse) and that he’s showing signs of, if not greatness, then at least usability, ticks me off.

Bad contract.  BAD.

And while I’m on the subject of Sean Green, an open letter to the man:

Paul Vargas
Section Five Twenty-Eight
http://omniality.mlblogs.com

August 13, 2009

Sean Green
New York Metropolitans Baseball Club @ Citi Field
Roosevelt Avenue
Flushing, NY 11368-1699

Dear Mr. Green,

STOP.  HITTING.  BATTERS.

Regards,
Paul Vargas

enclosures: one (1) photo of me, shaking my fist angrily.
cc: Omar Minaya, General Manager
Jerry Manuel, Manager
Nelson Figueroa

**

Separately: Section Five Twenty-Eight endorses loud booing, heckling, and other non-physical forms of abuse at people who roundly deserve it.  Shane Victorino?  Roundly deserving.  Throwing an elbow at a player while deeming yourself and your team as the vaunted overlords of taste and class makes you deserving of my invectives.  Hell, you could just be there and the opposition, and deserving of a li’l sumthin’.  See: Gregor Blanco, 2008.

But should I ever be within shouting distance of Victorino (he’s not getting a Mister), he’s getting the deluxe treatment.  ‘Cause he’s a no-account whiner on top of his dirty tricks and vindictive showboating and general attention-paid-to-anything-but-baseball-so-the-spotlight-is-on-him-as-often-as-possible.  Boo, Shane Victorino.  Boo.

No, trolls, I am not discounting skills.  Plenty of wastes of time have remarkable skills.  Karl Rove is a genius, for example.

Knowing, as I’m sure readers do, where this is going, I should say that while I condone certain violent acts when appropriate, and enjoy petty vandalism when the results are not permanent or costly to reverse (this excludes grafitti and scratchitti), I don’t know that I condone Victorino’s beer shower.

You can see it, if you haven’t (I watched it live at a bar and nearly choked on my grilled chicken sandwich) by clicking here.  I suffered for that link, by the way: that level of red, applied to Phillies or not, burns the crap out of my corneas.

I don’t condone it because it makes the Cubbies look bad, and I bear no animus toward the Cubbies; I don’t condone it because it looks cheap in the face of an eleven-run deficit; I don’t condone it because it’s a waste of beer. 

To paraphrase Chris Rock: if you are one of the fortunate few on this earth to get your hands on a beer, drink the s**t out of it.

All that said, you gotta admit that from that angle, past the ball-catch on the wall, and with such an oddly-shaped projectile: it was one hell of a shot.**

Way to file the complaint, by the way, Shane-o.  “We’ll get the guy”?  Slow down, McGruff.  Chicago PD will get the guy.

**For the record, I’ve been doused with beer, whiskey, pillow feathers, and shaving cream.  I’ve also been sprayed with a fire extinguisher, been shoved down a flight of stairs (that was in good humor), and swung into a concrete wall, suffering a light concussion (that too, with best intentions).  In all occasions, I was able to find at least one aspect of my behavior I could’ve changed that would have kept me dry and/or uninjured.

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Batting Helmet “…Uh-huh…”

By omniality
August 12, 2009 //
0

David Waldstein of The New York Times writes about the new Rawlings S100 batting helmet.

Article here.

Review and video on helmet here (buy it, too, if you want).

Ridiculousness in quote pulled, here:

“No, I am absolutely not wearing that,” Mets right fielder Jeff Francoeur said with a laugh after seeing a
prototype, as if he were being asked to put a pumpkin on his head. “I
could care less what they say, I’m not wearing it. There’s got to be a
way to have a more protective helmet without all that padding. It’s
brutal. We’re going to look like a bunch of clowns out there.”

That’s settin’ an example for the kids, Chowdah.  Nice job.

Other nincompoops quoted include Nomar Garciaparra (who probably doesn’t have to worry about balls coming at his head for TOO much longer, anyway) and, to a lesser extent, Mark Texeira.  At least Texeira isn’t in print complaining about the style factor.

All slight insults aside, why are you balking at a piece of equipment that has the potential to save your life?  What sense does that make?  You make so much damned money.  Why not give yourself the best chance to live to enjoy it?

Frustrating.

The only one that came off sounding intelligent–who’s NOT home with a bad concussion–is David Wright:

“If it provides more protection, then I’m all for it,” said Mets third baseman David Wright, who last week dodged a Brad Thompson fastball traveling on a
frightening vector for his head. “I’m not worried about style or
looking good out there. I’m worried about keeping my melon protected.”

However, points off for using the word “melon.”

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Yo… That Team’s No Good

By omniality
August 12, 2009 //
0

Specifically, the one Eric Simon of Amazin’ Avenue points out as being the sum of the Mets’ starting line-up against the Diamondbacks last night (L; 6-2):

Cory Sullivan, CF
Luis Castillo, 2B
Fernando Tatis, 3B
Daniel Murphy, 1B
Jeff Francoeur, RF
Jeremy Reed, LF
Alex Cora, SS
Brian Schneider, C
Livan Hernandez, P

The Opening Day 2009 regular position players there are Luis Castillo and Brian Schneider.  That’s it.

Allow me to play to type, and quote The Simpsons.  Specifically, the Season Three episode “Homer At The Bat”:

Mr. Burns: “The only way we can lose is if our nine ringers befall nine separate misfortunes.  But that will never happen.  Three misfortunes?  That’s possible.  Seven misfortunes?  There’s an outside chance.  But NINE misfortunes?  I’d like to see that.”

Methinks Darryl Strawberry could’ve taken Max Scherzer to school last night.  Though maybe this happened last night:

Mr. Manuel: “Francoeur!  Hit a home run!”
Chowdah: “Okay, skip!”
::Crack of bat.  Roar of crowd.::
Mr. Manuel: “Heh… I TOLD him to do that.”
Sandy Alomar: “Brilliant stratagem, sir.”

So it’s come to this: picturing the Mets as a cartoon’s bad-news company softball team.

Time to get the morning pressure in my eyeball checked.  Exciting.  Mets play at 3:40p today, and we the fans get a sorely-needed off day Thursday.

Let’s go Mets, in whatever compound form they choose to take.

*Note: Watch the commentary on that Simpsons episode, and you’ll learn that Roger Clemens is just as much a jerk to people making a semi-sophisticated cartoon as he is to people who question what he’s doing with syringes in his possession.  That Strawberry is the goody two-shoes of the team… oh, man. 

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Brent Mayne And The Bottom Of The Second

By omniality
August 11, 2009 //
0

The other of my two roommates returned from extended travels last night, and in deference to his Red Sox fandom, the house flipped between the end of the Boston game against the Detroit Tigers, and the Mets game against the Does-It-Really-Matter?.

We talked about what football team I should root for this coming season.  If I’m not mistaken, I may have mentioned on this blog that I’m a man without a team, finding it impossible to root for the Jets for the pain it would cause; being banned from rooting for a number of other teams because of friends’ Jets-framed ire.  No Giants, no Cowboys, no Patriots, no Steelers.  I mentioned the Kansas City Chiefs.  I bear no animus towards the Chiefs; I think, despite the Herm Edwards business–or perhaps because of it–the Jetstock hold no grudges, either.

Then it was revealed to me: “My cousin was a catcher for the Royals.”

“Really?  Who?”

“Brent Mayne.”

For those who don’t know, Brent Mayne was a catcher for the Mets back in 1996.  I barely remember him on the Mets because while Todd Hundley had a bit over six hundred plate appearances, Mayne had barely over 100.  He struck out almost as many times as he hit safely.  He did have a home run that year, which is more than I can say for some Metsies hanging about right now.

But he was quite a citizen for the Royals, and Wikipedia rides the rail (but is technically correct) with his trivia claim to fame, being the only MLB catcher in the 20th century to have won a game as a pitcher.  He had only 131 days left to do it.  Hell, from the most highly technical perspective, he only had 39 days left in that season to do it.  The year 2000 was in the 20th century.  Pennies are money.  The bus fumes are free.  Et cetera.

Fourth all-time in fielding percentage is a gaudy stat, as well.

He has a great blog to boot: see it here.  Spent most of the night reading through it.  HIGHLY recommended.

So, yeah, Brent Mayne.  My roommate’s story checks out.  Who the hell knew?

** 

I have to think he’d’ve done better than Omir Santos last night.  Or had the presence of mind to argue against walking Augie Ojeda in the bottom of the second.  Miguel Montero on second with two out and the score freshly 1-0.

In the bottom.  Of the SECOND.

Look, if the Mets are at the stage of baseball in 2009 where they can’t trust their onetime second act to Johan Santana to get Augie Ojeda to fly out, ground out, or otherwise show his human frailty, and save the pitcher’s spot for the bottom of the third, then I just don’t know what in the hell to do. 

And don’t give me playing the percentages.  Mike Pelfrey should, at this stage in his career, know how to get right and left and switch-hitters out, even in pressure situations.  And I’ll remind you again: it was the BOTTOM of the SECOND.  Yikes.

I don’t like getting this heated about something like this, but since the overmanaging of the game against the Cardinals on the 4th, I’ve worried about coming back to baseball and seeing only the heavy hand of Jerry Manuel.  I don’t like disliking the manager.  But now I do. 

What’s the score if you take away Doug Davis’s hit in the bottom of the second and replace the dessicated remains of Elmer Dessens for a competent relief pitcher in the seventh?  It’s a fallacy; a weather balloon could’ve crashed in the outfield and suspended the game.

But if I’m truly one of the last few with hope for the season, and the name of the game is seeing what they guys have got, then why not let Pelfrey pitch his way out of trouble, and send Elmer Dessens (a known and unhelpful quantity) back where he came from?

I won’t accuse Mr. Manuel of giving away the game.  At this point, I’m accusing him of doing a poor job with admittedly limited options at best, and at worst betraying an inside directive to see what parts of this team can do for 2010.

*Soon you’ll see a few new I-Can’t-Do-Without links on the sidebar.  I’ve come to Jesus and Baseball-Reference, as well as the MLB-based stats pages.  Thanks, CBS; it’s been real.

**Be well and rest easy, Mrs. Mantle, who passed away yesterday.  A true example of how strong men are backed up by stronger women.

***You don’t need help from me to visit Faith And Fear in Flushing, but a point Jason Fry makes in his post today bears browbeating.  He’s stated my case in a fashion with more concision than I have:

Doctor’s Orders: You could fold this one into the
question above, but let’s go over it anyway. The Mets either have
incompetent doctors or competent doctors whose recommendations are
ignored by incompetent baseball executives. It’s one or the other, and
neither answer is acceptable. The question isn’t why there have been so
many injuries, but why so many injuries seem to have been misdiagnosed
and/or mishandled, leaving guys sliding with excruciating slowness from
Day-to-Day to We Don’t Know to Being Re-evaluated to Finally on the DL
to Still on the DL to Out for the Year. The Mets have consistently
taken the field with 22 or 23 guys available, which is a dereliction of
someone’s duty. Fix. This. Now.

Yes, absolutely.  Fix it.  Who’ll accept a trade to the Mets (and we need the kind of players that can fetch no-trade clauses) with the mess this place looks like?  ::strangled, irritated, impotent groaning.::  Goddamn it.

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The Return Of This Second-Generation Chico Escuela

By comedyliteracy
August 10, 2009 //
0

Thing about a doctor’s orders to “relax” is that one can never be quite sure what form relaxing should take.  There are certain red lines:

  • don’t do anything which would make you want to jump up and down, angrily;
  • don’t do anything which would make you want to put your fist in anything (in anger; settle, children, settle);
  • don’t do anything which would lead to a headache.

Thus I’ve been without significant word from the Mets since Tuesday, when, among other things, Luis Castillo forgot how to put one foot in front of the other and sprained his ankle.  How to keep track?

Check the word on my Mets BlackBerry widget.  Loss, brake, honk.  Loss, brake, honk.  Honk, honk, punch.  Gas, gas, gas.

Occasionally catch a glimpse while stationed at a bar, “relaxing” after a bleak, monochromatic film.  Erase that relaxation by losing a game of pool, then getting schooled in darts, then discussing the finer points of web marketing and audience share.

Glimpse at the back page of tabloid sports sections Squint to see if there happens to be some diagonally-applied Mets-Orange banner across the corner of a full-color photo of Yankee bliss at Boston’s expense. (“Yankee bliss” is not stated with a dash, dollop, or deluge of bitterness; in other remarks, that Okajima guy looks about four years old.)  Determine if banner is positive or negative.  Excise all memory of squinting, so ophthalmologist doesn’t give YOU the stink-eye.

There was little real peace, even when getting word while at a sparsely-attended yet quite fun house party late Saturday night.  The party wrecked all chance of decent sleep that night; against further orders, I took down a twenty-ounce bottle of soda and was wired.

Yes.  I’m that guy.  Beer, liquor, greasy foods, sure.  Caffeine?  Rarely.  Very rarely.

So it came to pass that after a fitful sleep led me to sticky Sunday sun, and The Wife’s desire to have me find some sort of sewer grate or manhole cover or some kind of something with a striped bass on it (for a presentation she’s working on down in North Carolina), and a few episodes of Californication, I found the couch and a blissful nap.

When I came to–one wakes in the fall, rises in the winter, stirs in the spring, but comes to in the summer–the double vision and haloing were, essentially, gone.  Not being one to allow grass to grow under his feet, I switched on the Mets game taking place in San Diego.

Johan was there.  Luis was there.  It was like I’d hit the pause button on Tuesday’s 6th inning, and resumed on Sunday, in a different park, state, and time zone.  Johan went eight, again.  Frankie Rodriguez came in, again.  The Mets were done, again (this time, W; 5-1).

The double-vision and the haloing are still gone and tonight, Pelfrey gets the start against current low-level pain-in-the-neck Doug Davis.  I don’t get a chance to extort a clean bill of health until Wednesday, so my watching is incumbent upon how infuriating the group performance is.

If nothing else, I’m annoyed at the Mets for presenting such a Catch-22: watch them play; perhaps not see well at all for awhile.  Don’t watch them play; see all too clearly that other people care more about pool and darts and the Yankees and shots of something called Cynar than the Mets, and wonder just what is wrong with them.

All that said, I’m skipping my Friday game.  The Wife flies into New York (and LaGuardia, for Christ’s sake) at 6:30p Friday night.  Big bags which say, “Take us home,” and not, “Run into Manhattan, leave us at the office, then pick us up after the game.”  Should’ve planned better.  Hell, should just live in Queens.

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“Scar Tissue That I Wish You Saw…”

By omniality
August 6, 2009 //
0

More photos as pertains to Tuesday, below, with brief comments. (The eyes… not so much.  There’s some sweet halo action goin’ on.  Ev’rybody done Risen!)

frankie.jpgFirst off, I was negligent in assigning full blame for Tuesday night.  The order is fine, because of the atrocities committed.  Nevertheless, Frankie Rodriguez came on to face the bottom third of the St. Louis order at the top of the ninth, and retired no one he should’ve. 

Is he a public enemy?  No, not yet.  Frankie Rodriguez hasn’t so incredibly blown a hold or a save in the WAYS Sean Green has, and neither he nor Green would have the misplaced aggression to bring in Brian Stokes for ONE PITCH, then Pedro Feliciano to load the bases, then Green to fold faster than Kozmo.com.  All in one damned inning.

red moon.jpgBut there were some serious negative waves going on that night.  A friend of seatmates managed to join us for the game–a serious Mets fan if ever there were, but who somehow found it necessary to tell me to “shut up” whenever I attempted a “Let’s go, Mets!” chant.  Classy, man.  Real classy.

…And not in a loud, obnoxious “shut up,” kind of way.  Dismissive.  Granted, it was not looking good.  But I refuse to apologize for being hopelessly optimistic.

I wouldn’t even mention it if it hadn’t happened more than once.  What moods do you fly into when something so right goes so horribly wrong?  I get unpleasant, but I don’t go snidely fatalistic.

cowbell and big man.jpgCow-Bell Man (left) and Big Man (right) were all smiles throughout, but the woman between them gave another friend a dirty look at the beginning of the game when the Geico Gecko came out to accompany the man tossing the first pitch:

gecko.jpgReaders, no matter how much we may disagree on the issue of first pitches and their backslide into commercialism, let us not lose sight of the fact that on-screen, the Geico Gecko is a cute creature with a delightful accent, and who loves clams. 

In person, the Geico Gecko is a felt-and-velour monstrosity with a sewn-shut mouth and a b.o. that recalls clams left on rocks steaming in the hot Newark sun.  He should be booed, and soundly so.

I have a photo of Gary, Keith, and Ron broadcasting in the booth.  For no other reason than to spend a moment on their general excellence, here it is:

gary, keith, and ron.jpgListen, any game that begins with Rihanna’s “Disturbia” blasting from the PA is destined to be problematic.  But to leave with such a sour taste in the mouth… awful.  Just awful.

Anyway.

**

This report from Doug Miller (himself from MLB.com) does not paint the whole picture regarding Jose Reyes’s injury.  David Lennon’s initial report on his blog does a little better.

But if you’ve been living with this as most ardent followers have, the best I can do is give you the lowdown as presented over the months (MONTHS!) by Metsblog.  As Slick Rick would say, here we go:

May 15th: Reyes has a stiff right calf.

May 18th: Reyes misses three straight games.

May 19th: Reyes misses five straight games; won’t go on the DL.

May 20th: Reyes plays.

May 21st: Reyes is out again; flies to New York.

May 21st: Later that day, we learn Reyes has tendinitis behind the right calf and is day-to-day.

May 26th: Reyes does light running (I do some light running sometimes).

May 31st: Reyes, on DL (since May 26th but retroactive), goes to Port St. Lucie.

June 3rd: As far as Jerry Manuel knows or has been told, Reyes didn’t tear anything.

June 4th: Reyes leaves a rehab game with discomfort in his knee.

June 4th: Now Reyes has a slight tear in his hamstring.

June 5th: Mr. Cerrone’s sources suggest Reyes will be out until after the All-Star Break.

June 5th: Reyes’s treatment goes Innerspace (or, if you prefer, Osmosis Jones).

June 16th: Some with the Mets think it’s gotta be the shoes.

June 20th: Reyes only feels something when he makes sudden movements, thus disqualifying him from spotting Gary Sheffield.

June 22nd: Reyes runs.  No, he doesn’t.

June 23rd: The fire truck incident.

July 1st: Reyes will run the bases in a week.

July 9th: Reyes, having had a cortisone shot, still isn’t running; it’s been over a week.

July 13th: Reyes runs.  For realsies.

July 18th: Reyes doesn’t wanna run.  You can’t make him.

July 21st: At some point, Reyes swung a bat at something called a “baseball.”

July 24th: Reyes will play in a simulated game.

July 28th: Reyes will play in a rehab game soon.  So sayeth the buzz.

July 31st: Setback!

August 3rd: Reyes will do some light running.  I’m out of jokes.

August 4th: Medic!

August 5th: Scar tissue, and inflammation.

My thanks to Mr. Cerrone.  I’m tired.  That took forty minutes to compile.

Tired and angry.

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You CANNOT Be Serious

By omniality
August 5, 2009 //
0

Public Enemy #1:

http://www.nypost.com/seven/06222008/photos/manuel.jpg

And not just because I have to credit the New York Post and Reuters for the image.

Public Enemy #2:

http://www1.pictures.gi.zimbio.com/New+York+Mets+v+Baltimore+Orioles+Y87PkamV0EIl.jpg

Seen here in his true guise: stupefied expression; uniform number 48.  Breakdown of location, late this photograph, here.

Offensive.  Truly, TRULY offensive.

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Things Happen.

By omniality
August 4, 2009 //
0

Nelson Figueroa of Brooklyn, USA last pitched for the Mets on April 19, 2009.

This is how it went.  Read the MLB-branded recap here.

Then this from Brian Costa of the Newark Star-Ledger.

From a post by Matthew Cerrone on Metsblog.

Figueroa declared free agency.  Found no takers save for the Mets.  Wound up in Buffalo. 

His ERA in Buffalo was 2.25 over 112 innings (praise be, again, to Metsblog).

The Diamondbacks were thirteen games below .500 before the start of last night’s game.

Figueroa gave up six runs in 1 2/3rds innings before being pulled.

The Mets were reasonably saved by this man, who vaguely looks like this man:

Teflon Tim.jpgYet the Mets lost to the Diamondbacks, 6-5.

This is how last-night’s game went.  Read the MLB-branded recap here.

Nelson Figueroa gave up the totality of runs last night, pitching for a team that is offensively challenged.

There is no crying in baseball.  There are no I-told-you-sos.  There are victories snatched from the jaws of defeat, like last night almost was, and there are defeats snatched from the jaws of victory, like most of 2008.  These are the cliches we live with.

The Diamondbacks are now twelve games below .500.  The Mets?  Five.

Billy Wagner should be back in a little while.  So will J.J. Putz.  The Mets are not mathematically eliminated, and won’t be for some time.  So in the interests of keeping peace and moving on, I won’t rake Mr. Figueroa over the coals from my back-row vantage point on the sand.  I could not hope to reach him.

But I will say this, sir: if you’re DFA’d, and you eventually come up against the choice of going back to Buffalo or declaring free agency?  Go back to Buffalo. 

Happily.

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