Game 151 - Mets
Mets 8, Nationals 4
A nation rises and falls on a nightly basis with every win or loss by a baseball team. As does a Township. These next two weeks may damn well put Rob and me in the hospital, sanitarium, drunk tank, rage counselor's classroom, or divorce court. God bless baseball.
Because the Mets won last night, and because the St. Louis [expletive removed] Cardinals finally pulled one out against the Phils thanks to Yadier [expletive still lingering] Molina, I can breathe this morning. Not breathe easy . . . hell, no. I just mean oxygen can actually make it to my lungs on a semi-regular basis, as opposed to the past few mornings. My cohort knows what I mean.
The Mets at last put together a victory over the vaunted Washington Nationals. I suppose I didn't help the Mets' plight by having mocked the Gnats early and often this season, but all I'm asking for now is that the Erstwhile-Expos continue this mad barrage on the baseball against the Phillies over the next week and a half. Please, don't pick and choose when to overachieve. (Like the Marlins, who gave the not-dead-yet Braves a game last night because they bumped Dontrelle Willis to pitch tonight against the Mets. That's crap.)
Mike Pelfrey got the job done last night. He wasn't stellar, but he got it done, and that's something that can't be said about a lot of arms on the Mets' staff lately. Just as importantly, and possibly overlooked (but not by Lee Mazzilli), Jorge Sosa came into the game in a jam and worked out of it unscathed. He's been victimized along with everyone in that bullpen lately, but I have more faith in Sosa than I do in a slew of others. (Not saying whom; in an unrelated story, Feliz Navidad, Now Batting for Pedro Borbon, Posture-pedic.)
Speaking of Mazzilli, the Metmen had be so mentally twisted up that I was taking solace in the most trifling of things Met-related; for example, I recently found satisfaction in realizing whom Maz reminds me of when he speaks, something that had been gnawing at me for a while. Doesn't mean much to you, but he is a dead ringer (vocally) for an old Long Island college crony of mine, "Pip" Pipia. I saw Pip after the Mets-Astros game a couple of weekends ago, and that must have crystallized it for me. Not sure how it eluded me for this long -- Pip's partner in crime (quite literally) during the frat guy days was a kid named Mazzoni, or Maz for short. Duh.
[A massive] Aaaaaanyway . . . The Mets now square off against the air-conditioned (no fans) Florida Marlins for four huge (okay, every game is now huge) contests. Glavine, Pedro, Ollie & Maine. That's as fearsome a foursome as we're going to throw at anyone right now. But in this crazy time of the season in this silly sport, we know that that somehow doesn't mean much.
To profane the classic line from one of the most widely underrated (or underviewed) films in all of cinema, "Throw straight, you bastards -- don't make a mess of it!"