I’ve been up since about 2a. My electronics are cooperating; I watched a load of Miami Vice on Hulu and battled one of the few surviving mosquitoes in Bay Ridge. The damn thing actually got me, among other places, on the pad of my middle finger.
I have NEVER been stung on the pad of a finger before. It’s remarkably painful.
Throughout all this, I debated about putting up the following photo, taken near the end of Friday’s game against Washington (L; 6-5). It’s up–you see it out of the lower corner of your eye, so you know it’s there. Just understand that while it pained me terribly to see–I’ve never been stung on the pad of the finger, I’ve never seen this sort of business in person–it needed to be shown. Shying away from images such as these would, for me, be like the Mets wrapping up the season at 81-81, in some alternate reality, and taking the argument that they weren’t SO bad. I mean, .500 season’s got some merit. They must’ve battled.
Nay, nein, nyet. No battling here. Only guys wearing paper bags over their head.
Guys wearing paper bags and chugging beer, with a guy who looked vaguely like John Olerud behind him.
Observation and Interrogation revealed that it was not, in fact, John Olerud. For one, John Olerud does not chug beer. He drinks it, steadily. …There’s a “Facts About Chuck Norris” style bit in there, somewhere, about John Olerud.
John Olerud never “takes” a base. He always asks permission.
John Olerud once drove over the speed limit. Once.
John Olerud asked for an order of wheat toast at a diner. He was given rye by mistake. He ate the toast anyway.
Other photos from that night, with limited commentary:
That’s Mike Pelfrey. He, along with chicks, digs the long ball.
I have a MASSIVE head. And I think my face is getting thicker. This can’t be good.
That video board seen at the last game turned out to be a standings board, which until I saw it I’d not given a thought to. Seems somewhat mocking, now, but one hopes it comes in handy next year.
The thing did suffer an attack of Mercury in retrograde as the game wore on:
That “M.L.” should say something about Boston being ahead of Texas not in the “M SEVENTH” but in the “A.L. WILD CARD.” It was turned off eventually. Better that way.
On the screen at center there, Jerry Dior, designer of the MLB logo (
read this post for more). I’m assuming he and his wife are wearing No. 40 in honor of the logo’s fortieth anniversary, and not in honor of Robinson Cancel or Tony Tarasco. MAYBE Randy Niemann. …Wait. No, not even Randy Niemann.
(Believe that’s MLB president and COO Bob DuPuy to Dior’s right/your left.)
From bagmen to batting helmets to beer, we all find our joys at the park where we can. I think fans have to own it; we’ll get through this if we don’t run away from the misery and misanthropy. Odd, though, that I’m known now in the section for not being a fan of Sean Green:
Me: (after Green throws a pitch gone wide of the strike zone) “Hey, Green! The strike zone’s about three goddamn yards to your left!”
Fan Seated Four Rows Down: “What is it with you and Sean Green? You’ve been on his case all year!”
Me: “He’s been horrible all year!”
Fan Seated Four Rows Down: “True, but jeez, man! Ease up!”
I will ease up. He’s not been horrible all year. He’s been horrible MOST of the year. The only thing I got out of the J.J. Putz trade was a few glorious nights of singing “Thunderstruck” at the top of my lungs and the mild competence of Jeremy Reed.
Vitriol feels good when you’ve been up for seven hours and the sun’s been up for two.
Tim Redding pitched an efficient gem yesterday (vs. Nationals: W; 3-2) while I followed via Gameday, too tired and irritated to stray from my bed until about 5p. There are thirteen games left to play, and doubtless more feeling like this.
As I am not John Olerud–who replaced all the incandescent light bulbs in his home with energy-saving fluorescents–I am sure I will get angrier before I get better. I don’t wear paper bags; that is the province of those who laugh to keep from crying, and I’d forget to bring one anyway.
But I appreciate the sentiment, and the desire to do so. Misery, company, yada yada damned yada.
**
Visit Jon Springer’s Mets By The Numbers
to read his piece on the Top Ten Mets #6s Of All Time, which he read at last week’s Amazin’ Tuesday event over at Two Boots. You can find my write-up on the whole event by clicking here. My thanks to Greg Prince of Faith And Fear In Flushing
for pushing my coverage of the event. Hooray for page views!
Congratulations, Sean, you’ve graduated. Way to pitch to contact against a swing-happy basement-dwelling team that’s not your own. Now kindly leave the stage, and never come back, you miserable… So and so. You miserable so-and-so.
Regardless (or “regahdless,” as it came out of my mouth late), there’s got to be hope for the next season of Mets baseball. If Chowdah can learn to pick up the ball better out of the glove, and Murphy can find a solid stroke, and some protection can be found for Wright and Beltran in the line-up, then the Mets will only have pitching and defense to worry about.
omniality
Section Five Twenty-Eight 