Archives for posts with tag: Tim Redding

I’ve stated repeatedly that when the game stops being fun to watch, one should stop watching the game. 

I took my own advice Friday night through Sunday, and missed the Mets comeback against the Marlins, John Maine & Co.’s implosion, and Misch’s complete game.  I don’t feel bad about that, considering I was ready to tear my house apart Friday night.

(And as to the questions regarding my last post: I was certainly not advocating any action be taken, least of all dismissing of management.  In fact, I was merely making a reference to a humorous and fictional account of arson. 

There; I’m glad that’s cleared up.)

I slept with my time off; tried out the new bed.  I stared out the window and felt the sweet kiss of not watching a frustrating team.  I had a dream about the Mets, sure–but who doesn’t dream about the Mets?–and when I awoke it was dark out.  The series was over; the Marlins had been officially eliminated from NL East contention, and I felt a happy twinge of schadenfreude. 

Better still, they’ve got six games left and are five off the pace for the wild card.  Colorado, Atlanta, and San Francisco would each have to take a powder to let Florida in.  The Marlins might take out one of those teams, but I don’t see them leapfrogging all three. 

More joy at misfortune.  Mind you–I spent some of my weekend reinforcing the leg of my desk chair, after slamming it into the floor a little bit.

There’s the right kind of passion and there’s the wrong kind of passion.  Going C. Zambrano on the furniture is the wrong kind of passion, especially since I don’t make a dime off it.  Evidence suggests the only thing that comes of getting so aggravated is the chance to miss complete game shut-outs by guys you definitely don’t want to see hanging around next year.

I would much rather be rooting for a fine finish than hoping against hope that Tim Redding doesn’t turn it on and thus pretend at being a viable option for 2010.  It’s a crummy feeling.  Didn’t think entertainment could do that to me.  I hate this product like it’s my job.

Anyway, something to work on in the offseason. 

Speaking of the end of the season, I’ll cement my Mets heresy by taking my hat off to the Yankees for clinching a division title.  No crosstown hatred as a general rule here at Sec. 528–only irritation at individual acts of idiocy and/or Brian Bruney-ness.  Someone this weekend asked via email where my rooting interests lay for the playoffs; I’ll dig my own grave a little more when all the spots are locked.

I hope all can tell that I’m a bit deflated here.  I will try and perk up for the morning, and see what my psychosis can dig up in terms of fun topics.

**For those who want to vote on what my off-season profile pic will be, check out the rules and options here and email your choice to omniality [at] gmail [dot] com.

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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.
bagman.jpg
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:
pelfrey warms up.jpg
That’s Mike Pelfrey.  He, along with chicks, digs the long ball.
giant head.jpg
I have a MASSIVE head.  And I think my face is getting thicker.  This can’t be good.
it's a standings board.jpg
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:
board breakdown.jpg
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.
jerry dior.jpg
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!

Labor Day is nearing its end.  Time to get back to work.

coney island.jpg

There’s a large part of Coney Island that can be called a hole, and that’s being charitable.  When my mother would take My Sister and I out to Astroland Park on too-warm summer weekdays, my father out working, I would try my best to enjoy it, but even then there was a seediness I could not abide.  The water in the flume ride reeked of oil; the bumper cars squealed and shrieked.  I couldn’t escape the feeling that the adults around were having a lot more fun than I was.  Maybe not so for my mother, who toted us about.  But the wacky ones on the dilapidated boardwalk: sure.
the dock.jpg
These days, there’s a patina of theme park on all the elements that make Coney Island a disagreeable, damned place. Feel the grime in the air as you use a restroom!  Chuckle at the locals, surly to the point of assault!  Wander through the urban desert which lies just beyond Surf Avenue!  And live to tell the tale!
This crystallized for me on Friday.  And it felt good to feel right about what opinion I’d formulated while being splattered with gear grease from the Cyclone.  The place is a dump.  Let people keep their homes, and don’t wreck the view of the ocean.  Besides that, take it down.  Raze it.  Salt the earth so nothing so obscene grows again.
Don’t know why I’m so belligerent about it; I had fun doing what I’d set out to do: drink beer, eat hot dogs, watch sailboats, and cheer on Carlos Beltran.  I guess I’m still not over that Jerry Koosman thing.  Ugh.  
I want to put my fist through a door every time I think about it.
No, I’m not drunk.  Last I was drunk, I was at a bar on the Lower East Side, watching a fifth NYU co-ed try to stay on a mechanical bull.  Add that place to the list of what should be scrubbed from history.  (By the by: there, no one knew who the hell Jerry Koosman was, either.  Pay your taxes, kids.)
All right, enough.  Carlos.

beltran in the field.jpgbeltran throwing.jpg

beltran to the dugout.jpg
Watching major league players in rehab stints is relatively new to me.  I mentioned in an earlier post that I watched Angel Pagan play last year, but then I considered him a bench player, and quite young.  He’s still grade-A bench player material, and still quite young.  Beltran took it easy.  I didn’t see him sprint, really.  He jogged carefully to the dugout; he jogged carefully to the outfield.  Best thing he did during the game was move a runner over in the first.
beltran hits.jpg
That’s him running out from the box, stage right.  Beltran went 0-for-3 and the Cyclones lost, 8-2, victims of a seven-run seventh and a pre-game collective reading of Dr. Seuss’s Go, Dog. Go! 
I don’t know; that kind of thing would unman me prior to playing an adrenaline-fueled game.
keyspan board.jpg
Those with the means to take in a Cyclones game during their playoff run should do so; it’s a fun park and the team is not half-bad.  I’m slammed with work and the boys out in Flushing, myself, but now that I know they’ve done away with the nutso sound effects following every visitor gaffe (SPROING!!! CLUNK!!!), I no longer have to worry about lapsing into a decibel-heavy Thompson-esque hallucination.  They DID keep the hot dog race.
are those beans.jpg
Brought a colleague from work to the game, who wasn’t paying attention until roughly this moment, and asked, honestly: “Are those supposed to be beans?”
I’d like to point out the Lowell Spinners third baseman, Michael Almanzar, whose expression you can’t see but who must’ve had money on the gig, as his attention is obviously directed at the hot dog runners.  Ketchup was sucking hind Relish until a beat before the end, when somehow it found a burst of speed and took the race.  Fix.
beltran swings.jpg
Word is Beltran will be back for the game on Tuesday against the Marlins.  Same word has John Maine in action on Sunday in Philadelphia.  Roger Rubin (any relation to Adam?) reports Gary Sheffield and Carlos Delgado are probably done for the year.
beltran about to swing.jpg
I’m most concerned about Beltran.  It was fun to have Sheffield while it lasted; it’s sad to think I’ll most likely never see Carlos Delgado in a Mets uniform again.  
Maine is out to sea.  I’ve no idea what to make of shoulder pain, except that I imagine it hurts worse when trying to throw a ball at ninety miles an hour.  It hurt
s when I sleep on mine for nine hours.
Perhaps it’s not about the machismo, this business of Beltran coming back for increasingly irrelevant games in September.  What the press has reported him saying–he’s a baseball player; he has to play because he knows nothing else–may come closer to it.
I wonder if it’s about needing to get that sense of anticipation back, that instinct that doubtless takes over when the pitch is thrown and a millisecond of fear gives way to more milliseconds of action.  That’s what I always considered to be at the core of getting one’s “timing” back.  To an extent, perhaps all that is the same as the reason given: he’s a baseball player.  He has to play if he can play.  The alternative–NOT playing–can be counted on to extend that millisecond of fear.  It must worry a man like hell to have such a livelihood taken away.
So very well, Mr. Beltran.  You want to play baseball? I’ll keep my mouth shut and hope for the best.  Produce, though, man: stand tall in the batter’s box and swing at pitches you can hit.  Do NOT challenge that bone bruise for supremacy; it knows no logic, it seems, and in Citi Field, there be some damned dragons.
**
lounging.jpg
A grab-bag of notes (that image is the view I had from The Frying Pan on Friday; the end of baseball season means new shoes that I don’t have to worry about getting shelled, and I’m excited for that because these are starting to hurt like a mother):
  • David Wright ditched the Rawlings S100. He said it was an uncomfortable fit.  While some may ream him for this, I’m willing to take that at face value.  I watched the guy take hacks with it and it looked like it was sliding every which way.  
The helmet is supposed to make things safer for him; his protective gear rattling around on his melon doesn’t achieve that goal.
No excuse for getting the kinks worked out during the off-season, though.  I expect to see it and laugh all over again during Spring Training.
I miss the ’80s.  If Keith Hernandez had determined the better part of valor was to wear that helmet, and he got razzed hard for it, he’d’ve probably flipped some guys off.  I don’t see David doing that, nice guy that he is.
  • Greg Prince of Faith And Fear In Flushing wrote about the lack of Mets coverage in The New York Times.  His piece mentions Sunday’s paper, in a way that’s almost Fred Exley-esque.  But Mr. Prince, if you’re reading this: they’ve been quite late in posting material to the website, and this has been the case since at least last week.  Usually game recaps post within two hours of a victory.  All last week, they were coming in late morning/early afternoon-ish.  I would leave a comment on your site, but my browsers are wonkifying your comments module.  I would send you an email, but I’m afraid of what else lurks in that inbox.  My BlackBerry’s been blinking at me for days.
  • Speaking of the Faith And Fear folks: there’s another Amazin’ Tuesday event being held on September 15th at the Two Boots on Grand Street in Manhattan.  Though it’s my birthday and I’m winless at Mets events outside Flushing and my own living room and favorite bars, I’ve decided the Fates owe me one, so I will be there.  Jon Springer of Mets By The Numbers (see right blogroll for a link to his site) spilled the beans about who’s going to be there, and confirmation by Mr. Prince has only whetted my appetite.  I think it’s going to be a really fun night run by some quite engaging, and level-headed writers.  Plan to be there, if at all possible.  You are not obliged to say hello to me, or join me for post-game birthday karaoke.
  • Daniel Murphy was a double short of the cycle yesterday against the Cubs (W; 4-2).  He’s got nine home runs this season (eight + one: Subway sign-aided).  He’s committed, focused, and not a horrible embarrassment on the field.  If the Mets are destined to wander in the wilderness for a couple more years, and he maintains a level of competence, there’s no earthly reason to ship the man off.  Keep him within the organization.  At present, he’s at least deserving of a nickname more imaginative than Murph, and what we shout at him from the upper deck would be wildly inappropriate for consistent use.
  • I finished watching the first season of Commander In Chief.  Glad they changed the opening theme, which was bordering on plagiarism.  Shocked at the overuse of firing as plot device.  If the Mackenzie Allen Administration were a ball club, there’d be no NOBs on their uniforms.
  • There are some old posts that need some tweaking.  Less than a handful.  If you’ve found this blog and have been working to catch up, and notice an error, my bad.  They’ll be fixed Thursday night.
  • There’s this continued business of a Mets Hall Of Fame been discussed in and around the intertubes.  I had an idea from way back that, if time permits this week, I will attempt to explain cogently.  I’d planned to write about it in the off-season, but I feel inspired.
  • Nathan’s is delicious.  Mmm… nitrates.
nathan's.jpg
I will be at the park tomorrow for Mets-Marlins.  This game will be a Tim Redding joint, featuring more likely than not the return of Carlos Beltran, and hopefully the purchase of my very own Section Five Twenty-Eight T-shirt, which will be much appreciated, as I never washed my jersey after that last monsoon, and it reeks of urban rain and desperation.
Hope your Labor Day was fun and safe.  Time to kick it into gear for the stretch run.  Yes… the stretch run.
Let’s go Mets!

The Mets are now allowed to leave Miami (W; 10-3).

I took a peek at ESPN’s Gamecast during the bottom of the ninth inning, and had a Chuck-like mental flash. 

So I took a screen cap, and as I’m no longer the MLBlogs featured blogger (thanks for the ten-day hit, MLB Advanced Media; someone let me know if a guy I know named Mark B., who may work for your division or MLB straight-up, managed to see it), I no longer feel completely obliged to push baseball media with the MLB imprimatur.

This picture is the control; look for thick red outlines for the intended focus on subsequent shots.  All images are thumbnails–you can get to slightly larger ones by clicking on them:

01.jpgOnward!

02.JPG10-3?  You spoil us, line-up.

03.JPG

In an odd confluence of fate and sheer circumstance, this is the defensive line-up I would expect on the field during the bottom of the ninth, a day game after a night game, with the score exactly the way it is and the Mets and Marlins season records reversed.

04.JPGRemarkably, however, this was your line-up throughout the day, with every Met managing two hits…

05.JPG…except for Anderson Hernandez… who had THREE.  With an RBI and a walk.

For today, Mr. Hernandez, I’m sorry I occasionally mistake you for Argenis Reyes.

06.JPGIt occurs to me that I cannot recall a single Tim Redding at-bat.  With his .053 batting average, it’s clear I’m not missing much.  However, for the uninitiated (and to break this up a bit):

Teflon Tim.jpgHa!

07.JPGYou’re a professional baseballer, for Chrissakes.  Don’t smile like you’re four.

08.JPGIt’s a rare day when Sean Green is called on to rescue Pedro Feliciano, but it’s also a rare day when every man in the Mets line-up records more than one hit.  So it’s a very rare day.

09.JPGMy actual thought, hand to God: “Huh.  Brian Stokes.  Thought he was on the DL.”

10.JPGMy second thought was, “An intentional walk, with one out and no one on?  Jerry, you son of a–” …and then I looked at the ball locator directly above.

I’ve got a rash from this intentional walk thing, and it’s beginning to cloud my judgment.  I need to seek counsel.  I shall, I shall.

And finally, some fun with facial hair.  Shouldn’t be too hard to discern.

11.JPGHeh, heh, heh.

Nice win in a walk, gentlemen.  And my thanks to ESPN.

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 agencyFound 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.

See what I did there?  With the titles?  Har.

I’m getting the sense that this blog is prep for my eventual transformation into Andy Rooney.  So be it.  This one’s on Mets baseball, indoors.

I can find plenty who will watch a ball game with me at a bar.  To some, I live at the figurative end of the earth, so watching at home with others is rare, but it happens.  Everyone is all hot to trot to actually GO to a game until it comes time to pay the piper, or get on the train, or both.

The phenomenon of going to a movie theater, to watch a ball game, that one could just as easily watch at home or a bar: this is a different beast altogether. 

People are intrigued, but confused.  But people are so easily confused.  People who go have a good time, but it can feel a little hokey; much like a grade-school assembly.  By the by, I’ll date myself by offering that, because my particular elementary school was woefully overcrowded, they couldn’t let us all out in the yard for recess at once.  So we went out in shifts; those who were inside watched ’80s era Alvin And The Chipmunks videos on the auditorium’s big screen.  (“My Pierre Cardin SOCKS!”)

Baseball’s an outside sport, unless you live in Toronto or lived in Montreal or live in Seattle during the seventeen months a year that it rains out there or live in Milwaukee when it’s hailing cheese… I guess there are a lot of retractable-roof stadiums and parks out there; too many to keep this joke going, at any rate.  Point is, baseball’s an outside sport.  The effect of watching inside can be a little deleterious.

The first time I attended a “Mets At The Movies” event, the technology was a little wonky and the electro-organ music was a bit forced.  It was a Phillies game in late summer 2007, so the heat was on literally and figuratively, and we all had a good time, I guess, until “Marvelous” Marlon Anderson made that headfirst slide at second and was called out to end the game, at which point, everyone was sad and livid and just about done. 

I didn’t go in 2008 because watching a Mets-Braves game or whatever it was at the Clearview Chelsea–your standard cineplex–didn’t appeal to me. 

Tonight, I’m watching the Mets play the Orioles, at the Ziegfeld.  And the Ziegfeld is a magical place for me.  I’ve had some of the best movie-going experiences of my life there.  Including watching Pleasantville with The Wife, back in high school (now further dating myself).

And yet… inside?  On a screen?  Sure, a huge screen; sure, getting the chance to laugh along with folks as Keith says something random to Gary; sure, Pepsi T-shirt whatever; sure, beer in a cushy seat.  Baseball was not meant to be this way.  I go because it’s the Mets, and it’s an experience, but it won’t really be like baseball.

I’d like a drive-in baseball game, if we’re going to continue going this route.  Or follow the example of HBO’s Bryant Park series or the Hudson River RiverFlicks series, and hold these things out in the open air, at a park or pier.  There has to be a way, logistically, to still charge an obscene $5 “service fee” on top of the $12 movie ticket.  If it rains, we’ll be S.O.L., but that’s baseball.

“That’s baseball.”  I guess I’m also practicing my Joe Morgan.

And speaking of Joes, I’m about ten seconds from going back home and watching that Artie Lange thing from Joe Buck Live.  Everyone keeps talking about it, and I thought we were done talking about Artie Lange.  Frankly, I thought he’d Belushied himself years ago before I heard he was going to be on.

(People should not be down on the phrase “Belushied himself.”  I know tons about the man; he’d laugh at it, I’m sure.)

At any rate, Artie Lange’s alive, Joe Buck got shanghaied, baseball should be outdoors but tonight it’s the Ziegfeld for me.  Time to warm up for my Tim Redding chant: “Redd-ing! Redd-ing! Redd-ing! Je-sus! Dear God! Stike zone! Strike zone!  Strike zone!”

On occasion, Metsblog.com does something straight-up funny.  Earlier today, their notes on the Mets game versus Baltimore on Wednesday read thusly:

Date: Wed., June 17 
Time: 7:05 pm
Mets: Not John Maine
Orioles: Koji Uehara
Where: Camden Yards

Setting aside the fact that the Baltimore Orioles appear to be starting a guy who may bear some relation to the communications officer of the Enterprise (I know, I know: Uhura, Uehara; Swahili, Japanese), the idea of the pitcher being “Not John Maine” tickled me.

Not for nothing, but Not John Maine could be Johan Santana or Roy Halladay or Zach Greinke.  Not John Maine could also be Chien-Ming Wang circa 2009 or Victor Zambrano circa whenever with the Mets or that redheaded guy from My Boys, who got tagged hard by the Cubs in an episode at the end of this past season.

Hell, not John Maine could’ve been Kris Benson, except, you know. 

(By the way, Kris Benson’s now a long reliever for the Texas Rangers [had to look that up].  By the way, Google image results for the search term “Kris Benson” brings up one image with Kris in the background and a whole heapin’ load of Anna Benson images.  By the way, I’m not complaining about that.)

Point is, by this evening it had been decided that the part of Not John Maine would be played on Wednesday by Tim “The Executioner” Redding.  Tim had recently played the role of Not Oliver Perez after coming off the disabled list. 

And, y’know, while he was on the disabled list, the part of Not Tim Redding had been played, not too badly, by Livan Hernandez.  Who beat out Timmy, and Freddy Garcia himself, for the role of Not Freddy Garcia (previously known as the role of Not Pedro Martinez/Not Orlando Hernandez).  And, in fact, John Maine and Livan Hernandez were swapped in the rotation for the Subway Series, to give Omar Minaya and the Braintrust the chance to bring up Fernando “The Double Executioner” Nieve.

So really, Tim Redding is playing the part of Not Livan Hernandez, who played the part of Not John Maine, but if we look at the starting rotation as was presented on Opening Day, Tim Redding in at number three means he’s playing the part of Not Oliver Perez (again).  We can forgive Metsblog for forgetting that Oliver Perez existed; we can thank them and wish we had that kind of selective amnesia.

(You will learn quickly that I am not a fan of Oliver Perez.  I could give a damn about his upside.)

But most of all, we can forgive Metsblog for having a hard time keeping all of the above straight.  Consider the nightmare that would ensue if one tried to diagram all that, and you would see the humor, too.  This rotation’s a mess:

  1. Johan Santana
  2. Mike Pelfrey
  3. Tim Redding
  4. Livan Hernandez
  5. Fernando Nieve

Uh… huh…

*Let’s do a little backseat Monday morning armchair Sunday driving:

I fault Perez’s bloated contract first and foremost, though I also fault Carlos Delgado’s option and Luis Castillo’s contract and all the talk about how at each point, the Mets front office had a reasonable case to make for each.  Nay, nein, and nyet; there are always possibilities, to bring it back to Star Trek, but you limit those opportunities when you commit $30.5M in a season to a past-prime infielder who squares to bunt on 0 and 2 and can’t catch a pop-up, a slugging first baseman whose hip I could hear ticking from the nosebleeds, and a left-handed pitcher with a near-terminal case of the Mondays.

Orlando Hudson is a serviceable guy with four more home runs than Luis Castillo.  He’s also making half as much and has just as many Gold Gloves, and his last is half as old as Castillo’s.  I have little to say against Carlos Delgado; I was convinced he’d get to 500 home runs before Gary Sheffield, bum hip or no.  But $8M, by cursory observation, would have gotten us Hudson and Randy Wolf (two more wins than Oliver Perez), and left us $22.5M to buy two more of each.  Or any other more reasonable combinations of hitters and pitchers and sluggers.  Oy.

In any event, we’re here now, which is the phrase I imagine keeps Omar Minaya in smiles and butterscotch candies (which are from the devil).  Complaining will only get a new GM, and I try not to concern myself with front office business, unless it’s good for a chuckle.  Today, when scratching the surface of a comment such as “Not John Maine,” it absolutely is good for a chuckle.  Not John Maine.

I’m not John Maine.  I throw right-handed and I think Jennifer Aniston’s hair is pretty, too.  I do crossword puzzles sometimes, and if I tried real hard I bet I could hit a home run before Mike Pelfrey could.  Why not me?  Why can’t me?  I’ll pack his lunch and take Koji Uehara to school.

Hell: shave his beard and Randy Wolf looks a LITTLE bit like Kris Benson.  You have to squint.

*Salary whatnots were researched on CBS Sports’ MLB Players Page.