Game 47 - Red Sox
Mmmmm, Colon Blow
A's 15, Red Sox 2
Record: 29-18
This was a classic "Shit Happens" game, one in which the good guys had no chance from the moment they strapped on their uniforms. The A's were up 12-0 after 3 1/2 innings, and both teams went through the motions from that point. The Sox had ripped off 5 in a row, while the A's had dropped 5 straight, and both teams were due for a reversal of fortune. So, ces't la vie.
As I believe I've posted before but am too lazy to confirm, every team has a few games like this one each year, and they serve the same purpose as an enema - clean out and refresh the system, and prepare the body/team to get back to its main pursuit. That they also feel like enemas, uncomfortable at first and then downright violating, is all part of the cleansing process.
Looking at the box score, I noted A's starter Mark Mulder's 115 pitches in less than 6 innings. Pitch count (at least for starters) is something I focus intently on in every game I watch (wicked geek alert), because it's intuitive that the earlier the Sox can chase the starter and get to the soft underbelly of the opponents' bullpen, the better their chances of scoring a bunch of runs. The converse is true for Sox pitching - the longer the starters stay in, the better the Sox' chances of preventing runs. Not a concept that requires astrophysics to understand.
The importance of pitch counts, at least as related to understanding and controlling the strike zone, is one of the key tenets of the "new" school of baseball management. So it's no surprise that the Sox lead the major leagues in pitches faced for the season, averaging 162.9 per game, more than 5 per game more than the second-place Oakland A's, and over 27 per game more than the last-place Tampa Bay Devil Rays. At this rate, the Sox will force opposing pitching staffs to throw 810 more pitches than will the A's, and 4,374 more than the Rays. Extra pitches = tired arms = battered pitching staffs = more runs for the good guys.
The Sox are seeing 16 more pitches per game than their pitchers are throwing - 4 full plate appearances per game (at 4.01 pitches/PA, the Sox average). 4 more chances to get on base, drive in runs, make something happen. Over the course of the season, 648 more chances than their opponents. All from being better than anyone else at making the other team's pitchers work.
Apologies in advance to the masses reading this humble blog for the preceding descent into statheadgeekdom. That's the kind of stuff, though, that makes me more and more insane everytime someone like Rob Dibble opens his mouth to blather on about the uselessness of stats in evaluating the game. Simple concept, easy to understand, and easy to measure - in the same way that on-base percentage correlates more directly to runs scored than batting average - so why the hue and cry from the "old school"? No answer from this lonely corner of the blogosphere.
Friday, May 28, 2004
Thursday, May 27, 2004
Game 46 - Red Sox
The Sound of One Man Blogging
Red Sox 9, A's 6
Record: 29-17
Last night's Red Sox battery was enough to make Scott Boras certifiable. The uberagent represents both Derek Lowe and Jason Varitek, opposite sides of the performance coin at the moment. While Lowe got the win last night to even his record at 4-4, his 6IP, 5ER performance actually raised his ERA to 6.22. Tek, on the other hand, belted his 9th homer of the season in the bottom of the 6th to give the Sox their winning margin. Boras should rightfully be sweating at the moment, having turned down the Sox offer of to Lowe of a guaranteed $27 million. He would be sweating, that is, if Satanic spawn actually had sweat glands.
After Anastacio Martinez gave up hits the first (and only) three A's he faced in the bottom of the 7th, the trio of Embree, Timlin, and Foulke slammed the door just like they have all season. Foulke's ERA is a fast-pitch softball-like 0.37, with 1 earned run in 24 1/3 innings. (That sound you hear is Foulke breaking things knowing that I've dropped the MLC jinx on him. Hey, better now than in October.)
That other sound you hear is the soft whisper of wind through an empty keyboard, mournfully singing the ballad of the lost Metblogger.
The Sound of One Man Blogging
Red Sox 9, A's 6
Record: 29-17
Last night's Red Sox battery was enough to make Scott Boras certifiable. The uberagent represents both Derek Lowe and Jason Varitek, opposite sides of the performance coin at the moment. While Lowe got the win last night to even his record at 4-4, his 6IP, 5ER performance actually raised his ERA to 6.22. Tek, on the other hand, belted his 9th homer of the season in the bottom of the 6th to give the Sox their winning margin. Boras should rightfully be sweating at the moment, having turned down the Sox offer of to Lowe of a guaranteed $27 million. He would be sweating, that is, if Satanic spawn actually had sweat glands.
After Anastacio Martinez gave up hits the first (and only) three A's he faced in the bottom of the 7th, the trio of Embree, Timlin, and Foulke slammed the door just like they have all season. Foulke's ERA is a fast-pitch softball-like 0.37, with 1 earned run in 24 1/3 innings. (That sound you hear is Foulke breaking things knowing that I've dropped the MLC jinx on him. Hey, better now than in October.)
That other sound you hear is the soft whisper of wind through an empty keyboard, mournfully singing the ballad of the lost Metblogger.
Games 42 through 46 - Mets
A New Era, an Old Name for It
Mets 9, Rockies 7
Mets 5, Rockies 4
Mets 4, Rockies 0
Mets 5, Phillies 0
Phillies 7, Mets 4
Record: 23-23
Had I merely resisted the urge to blog on and rip my associate, the Mets surely would have completed the mini-sweep of the Phightin' Phils in addition to the more traditional three-gamer against Colorado. But according to the Cosmic Rules of Fan Torture, because I typed something mildly laudatory in this space, destiny was irrevocably altered, and the Mets lost.
This pattern was kind of funny for a while, but it's just excruciating now. When I step away, the Metropolitans thrive as if they were a real baseball team. After I'm sucked back into it, they wilt. Mike Piazza's heave of a potential game-saving DP ball into left field might as well have been right off my forehead. It was in my face.
It seems like this scenario could not possibly be reality. How could my optimism continually yield poor play while my pessimism and/or apathy renders drastic improvement?
Maybe it's not as it seems. Thomas Hardy once philosophized:
"Pessimism is, in brief, playing the sure game. You cannot lose at it; you may gain. It is the only view of life in which you can never be disappointed. Having reckoned what to do in the worst possible circumstances, when better arise, as they may, life becomes child's play."
By quitting on the New York Mets time and time again, I play the sure game. If they continue to lose, I haven't wasted my time with them, and the team has demonstrated why jumping ship was the wise move. If they rebound, even in small doses, I am elated, if also frustrated by my decision to bail out. The unfortunate timing that has intertwined my lapses of attention to my team and their relative peaks of success are coincidental in the particulars but to be expected overall. The ups and downs of a 162-game season are inevitable. The choppy ripples of this squall season so far are not uncanny; that my own biorhythmic waves have formed a double helix with the Mets W-L pattern might be, but it's not the X-Files-worthy material I have made it out to be. If I could simply maintain a more stable, even-keeled approach to the New York Mets season, I'd shake this notion that 30 people in poly-blend outfits and cotton caps are out to get me.
I should have been a psychologist. What a heap of dung. The frickin' Mets are out to get me and everyone else who pulls for them, and they're breaking down mental states in more than the Tri-State Area. The real truth is that even in my moments of supposed stolidity, I am still affected. Even after I've written the Metros off for the season, it's still torturous to watch them languish. Those spring training feelings of hope are real, and they remain there in your head, getting publicly whipped with every miserable defeat in September. If it doesn't bother you, you weren't all that much of a fan to begin with, and you won't be blessed with the overwhelming sense of dream realization when the promised land is finally reached. Did you see the second-coming type of pandemonium after the Marlins won it all last fall? That's because there wasn't any. And don't get me started on the Yankees. Oops, apparently you just did.
One of the problems with YankeeLand being so large now isn't its sheer size. Hey, New York is one of the largest cities in the world, and it's arguably the most important, so a massive fan base should be expected. It's just that the YankWagon was a little jalopy putting along with painfully few riders in the eighties and early nineties. The diehards were there, but they multiplied like wet gremlins when the Bombers started winning again. And although hearing these real Yankee fans' witless chants when the Yanks started catching up to their legacy wasn't any less grating (apparently 17 seasons without a trophy isn't always enough time to breed cleverness), at least the extra-annoying issue of where the hell they were in the dead years (a.k.a. the Donnie Baseball Era) doesn't further agitate you. Those guys loudly overhyping Don Mattingly when he was leading the Yankees to their second last-place finish in 80 years and their first since 1960 truly felt the joy of 1996 as much as they felt the groin tear of 1990. That's the risk in Boston and Chicago: if you don't bleed with the losers along the way, you won't have the scars to pour the champagne salve onto if and when the unthinkable miracle finally happens. Pay your dues, laddies, for you'll receive exponential compensation someday . . you hope.
So this is why my seasonal shuckings of the Mets are only superficial. My head's telling me to find a lifeboat quick before the iceberg sinks the season, but my heart keeps pumping signals of "3.5 games out? We're right in the thick of it!" to my brain. And I get up and the Mets go down and I get down and the Mets go up and the teeter-totter goes on ad nauseum, literally for me.
Mark the date and time -- I hereby renounce my heretofore ritualistic formula of swearing the Mets off and sheepishly sneaking back into rah-rah over and over. To borrow from the other side of the tracks in MLC Episode I: The Fandom Menace, I am entering the Era of Positivity. Here are a few of what will be my trademark slogans:
1. Hey, we're just happy to be here at this point.
2. Did you see 2003?
3. The pieces are there, and you just never know.
4. There's always my case bet with Rob as a fall-back.
and finally, and most importantly:
5. With every loss, we're paying our dues, earning our stripes, and every other rite-of-passage cliche about going through the muck now to sweeten the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. (That's the metaphorical equivalent of leftover soup at your school cafeteria, but you get the point.)
And so I begin the new era with a few reasons to believe. The Mets are at 23-23, the latest they've been .500 in . . . well, just a few years, but it seems like an eternity, doesn't it? They've won nine of their last 13. In May they swept two series but weren't swept. And in the case race, the Mets are but six games back of the Red Sox close to 1/3 of the way through the season -- projecting an 18-game deficit by season's end, on the better side of the all-important 22-game line. There is still a long road to hoe, but the Era of Positivity II isn't completely delusional.
Up next: remember last year's 12-game stretch that was going to be make-or-break time? Yeah, I know, the whole thing was a bust because the Mets went 7-5, still fell further from contention, then dismantled the team the way a good 12-game outcome was supposed to prevent. Well, anyway, it's that time again. The Mets have a similar 10-game gauntlet to run starting Friday. Three at Florida, three at Philly, and four more against the Fish back at Shea. With the exception of the ridiculous NL Central, the NL East is currently the biggest crapshoot in baseball. Four teams within four games, none clearly dominant. If they go 8-2 I'm buying postseason tickets (this positivity thing can be carried too far), 6-4 and I'm happy, 4-6 and I'm worried, anything less and the Era of Positivity has a shorter run than The Bad News Bears Go To Japan, which, of course, I saw in the theater way back when.
And finally, on that note (and on a Rob Russell-style tangent), I just read that they are remaking the original Bad News Bears to star Billy Bob Thornton. This is a mistake. The original 1976 film was perfectly cast, perfectly written, and perfectly acted. The mix of sports, comedy, and sentiment was ideal, the kids weren't too-cute, and the ending was letter-perfect. There is nowhere to go but way, way down, and there simply is no point to a remake. But one thing knock-offs do is bring the original back into the spotlight, so treat yourself to the classic. Because no matter whom they cast as Kelly Leak, there will be no way he can pull off "I got a Harley Davidson. Does that turn you on? Harley Davidson?" quite the same way as the one, the only Jackie Earle Haley.
A New Era, an Old Name for It
Mets 9, Rockies 7
Mets 5, Rockies 4
Mets 4, Rockies 0
Mets 5, Phillies 0
Phillies 7, Mets 4
Record: 23-23
Had I merely resisted the urge to blog on and rip my associate, the Mets surely would have completed the mini-sweep of the Phightin' Phils in addition to the more traditional three-gamer against Colorado. But according to the Cosmic Rules of Fan Torture, because I typed something mildly laudatory in this space, destiny was irrevocably altered, and the Mets lost.
This pattern was kind of funny for a while, but it's just excruciating now. When I step away, the Metropolitans thrive as if they were a real baseball team. After I'm sucked back into it, they wilt. Mike Piazza's heave of a potential game-saving DP ball into left field might as well have been right off my forehead. It was in my face.
It seems like this scenario could not possibly be reality. How could my optimism continually yield poor play while my pessimism and/or apathy renders drastic improvement?
Maybe it's not as it seems. Thomas Hardy once philosophized:
"Pessimism is, in brief, playing the sure game. You cannot lose at it; you may gain. It is the only view of life in which you can never be disappointed. Having reckoned what to do in the worst possible circumstances, when better arise, as they may, life becomes child's play."
By quitting on the New York Mets time and time again, I play the sure game. If they continue to lose, I haven't wasted my time with them, and the team has demonstrated why jumping ship was the wise move. If they rebound, even in small doses, I am elated, if also frustrated by my decision to bail out. The unfortunate timing that has intertwined my lapses of attention to my team and their relative peaks of success are coincidental in the particulars but to be expected overall. The ups and downs of a 162-game season are inevitable. The choppy ripples of this squall season so far are not uncanny; that my own biorhythmic waves have formed a double helix with the Mets W-L pattern might be, but it's not the X-Files-worthy material I have made it out to be. If I could simply maintain a more stable, even-keeled approach to the New York Mets season, I'd shake this notion that 30 people in poly-blend outfits and cotton caps are out to get me.
I should have been a psychologist. What a heap of dung. The frickin' Mets are out to get me and everyone else who pulls for them, and they're breaking down mental states in more than the Tri-State Area. The real truth is that even in my moments of supposed stolidity, I am still affected. Even after I've written the Metros off for the season, it's still torturous to watch them languish. Those spring training feelings of hope are real, and they remain there in your head, getting publicly whipped with every miserable defeat in September. If it doesn't bother you, you weren't all that much of a fan to begin with, and you won't be blessed with the overwhelming sense of dream realization when the promised land is finally reached. Did you see the second-coming type of pandemonium after the Marlins won it all last fall? That's because there wasn't any. And don't get me started on the Yankees. Oops, apparently you just did.
One of the problems with YankeeLand being so large now isn't its sheer size. Hey, New York is one of the largest cities in the world, and it's arguably the most important, so a massive fan base should be expected. It's just that the YankWagon was a little jalopy putting along with painfully few riders in the eighties and early nineties. The diehards were there, but they multiplied like wet gremlins when the Bombers started winning again. And although hearing these real Yankee fans' witless chants when the Yanks started catching up to their legacy wasn't any less grating (apparently 17 seasons without a trophy isn't always enough time to breed cleverness), at least the extra-annoying issue of where the hell they were in the dead years (a.k.a. the Donnie Baseball Era) doesn't further agitate you. Those guys loudly overhyping Don Mattingly when he was leading the Yankees to their second last-place finish in 80 years and their first since 1960 truly felt the joy of 1996 as much as they felt the groin tear of 1990. That's the risk in Boston and Chicago: if you don't bleed with the losers along the way, you won't have the scars to pour the champagne salve onto if and when the unthinkable miracle finally happens. Pay your dues, laddies, for you'll receive exponential compensation someday . . you hope.
So this is why my seasonal shuckings of the Mets are only superficial. My head's telling me to find a lifeboat quick before the iceberg sinks the season, but my heart keeps pumping signals of "3.5 games out? We're right in the thick of it!" to my brain. And I get up and the Mets go down and I get down and the Mets go up and the teeter-totter goes on ad nauseum, literally for me.
Mark the date and time -- I hereby renounce my heretofore ritualistic formula of swearing the Mets off and sheepishly sneaking back into rah-rah over and over. To borrow from the other side of the tracks in MLC Episode I: The Fandom Menace, I am entering the Era of Positivity. Here are a few of what will be my trademark slogans:
1. Hey, we're just happy to be here at this point.
2. Did you see 2003?
3. The pieces are there, and you just never know.
4. There's always my case bet with Rob as a fall-back.
and finally, and most importantly:
5. With every loss, we're paying our dues, earning our stripes, and every other rite-of-passage cliche about going through the muck now to sweeten the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. (That's the metaphorical equivalent of leftover soup at your school cafeteria, but you get the point.)
And so I begin the new era with a few reasons to believe. The Mets are at 23-23, the latest they've been .500 in . . . well, just a few years, but it seems like an eternity, doesn't it? They've won nine of their last 13. In May they swept two series but weren't swept. And in the case race, the Mets are but six games back of the Red Sox close to 1/3 of the way through the season -- projecting an 18-game deficit by season's end, on the better side of the all-important 22-game line. There is still a long road to hoe, but the Era of Positivity II isn't completely delusional.
Up next: remember last year's 12-game stretch that was going to be make-or-break time? Yeah, I know, the whole thing was a bust because the Mets went 7-5, still fell further from contention, then dismantled the team the way a good 12-game outcome was supposed to prevent. Well, anyway, it's that time again. The Mets have a similar 10-game gauntlet to run starting Friday. Three at Florida, three at Philly, and four more against the Fish back at Shea. With the exception of the ridiculous NL Central, the NL East is currently the biggest crapshoot in baseball. Four teams within four games, none clearly dominant. If they go 8-2 I'm buying postseason tickets (this positivity thing can be carried too far), 6-4 and I'm happy, 4-6 and I'm worried, anything less and the Era of Positivity has a shorter run than The Bad News Bears Go To Japan, which, of course, I saw in the theater way back when.
And finally, on that note (and on a Rob Russell-style tangent), I just read that they are remaking the original Bad News Bears to star Billy Bob Thornton. This is a mistake. The original 1976 film was perfectly cast, perfectly written, and perfectly acted. The mix of sports, comedy, and sentiment was ideal, the kids weren't too-cute, and the ending was letter-perfect. There is nowhere to go but way, way down, and there simply is no point to a remake. But one thing knock-offs do is bring the original back into the spotlight, so treat yourself to the classic. Because no matter whom they cast as Kelly Leak, there will be no way he can pull off "I got a Harley Davidson. Does that turn you on? Harley Davidson?" quite the same way as the one, the only Jackie Earle Haley.
Wednesday, May 26, 2004
Game 45 - Red Sox
38 & '24'
Red Sox 12, Oakland A's 2
Record: 28-17
Thoughts while soaring over a sea of dorsal fins, firmly abreast my cyber-Harley:
I'm very appreciative of the Sox scoring early and often during last night's nationally televised contest against the A's. My guys' thorough domination of Oakland's stud, Tim Hudson, allowed me to focus on the season finale of '24' from 9:00 to 10:00 without remorse, especially since Curt Schilling was dealing and the Sox had a 9-0 lead.
Yesterday was my first real opportunity to watch Schilling work, and even though he wasn't otherworldly - 7 IP, 2 ER, 9H, 6K, 113 pitches - he was in complete control. He pitched around a lead-off double to Erubiel Durazo in the 5th when the lead was only 5 runs, then struck out Eric Chavez with his final pitch of the night with the bases loaded and the score 9-2. Unlike a certain basketcase who shall remain nameless, Schilling seems to get better under pressure, almost daring the opponent to string together a series of hits.
ESPN's camerawork provided another interesting insight Schilling and how he fits into the Sox bench dynamic. At various times during the game the cameras caught Schilling in earnest, animated discussions - generally one-sided - with Terry Francona, pitching coach Dave Wallace, Derek Lowe, Manny Ramirez, and David Ortiz. Schilling and Ortiz talked for nearly 30 minutes at one stretch. Schilling's intensity and preparation seems to have rubbed off on Manny and Ortiz, who combined for 6 hits, including 2 doubles and a homer. It was cool to watch Schill making entries in his notebook, and to see how seriously he takes winning. "Listen to me", he seems to be saying with his words and actions, "I know what the hell it takes to get the job done."
Flipping between '24' and the Sox, it occurred to me that Schilling is Boston's Jack Bauer, the super-intense, super-motivated, and super-effective win-at-all-costs alpha dog. The comparison doesn't suffer from the fact that Schilling and Kiefer Sutherland share more than a passing resemblance. The free world is safe from biotoxins this morning, and maybe the Red Sox have a guy that can drag them to the promised land, hopefully without cutting off Pedro's arm at the wrist. (Whitney is just squirming with Great White imagery as he reads this.)
Lots of offensive stars in this one, as the Sox battered Hudson for 5 earned runs in 4 innings with a combination of extreme patience and efficient hitting when they got their pitches (save for Kevin "LOB" Millar). Mark Bellhorn continued to contribute, falling a triple short of the cycle and driving in 5 runs. Ortiz doubled twice and drove in 3, Manny hit a mammoth blast into the monster seats, Varitek went 3-for-3, and Kevin Youkilis reached base 4 times.
Yesterday also brought news that Billy Mueller went under the knife for a procedure to repair some degenerative damage to his knee. The defending AL batting champion will be out 4-6 weeks, so young Youks(!) will get all the playing time he wants. Good to know that he seems up to the task.
And finally, it was awesome to see Fenway react to Andy Dominique's major league debut. Dominique was called up to take Mueller's roster spot, and pinch-hit in the bottom of the 8th. With the game well in hand, the Sox faithful rose as one, chanting "Andy, Andy, Andy", as Dominique faced former Sox farmhand Justin Duscherererererer. That's gotta be an all-time goosebump moment for Dominique, even though he swung through strike three. He's another in the Morgan Burkhart body by cheesesteak slow white guy mold, which means he'll probably tear it up for three weeks, earn the eternal admiration of Sox fans everywhere, and then fade into oblivion. There are worse fates.
38 & '24'
Red Sox 12, Oakland A's 2
Record: 28-17
Thoughts while soaring over a sea of dorsal fins, firmly abreast my cyber-Harley:
I'm very appreciative of the Sox scoring early and often during last night's nationally televised contest against the A's. My guys' thorough domination of Oakland's stud, Tim Hudson, allowed me to focus on the season finale of '24' from 9:00 to 10:00 without remorse, especially since Curt Schilling was dealing and the Sox had a 9-0 lead.
Yesterday was my first real opportunity to watch Schilling work, and even though he wasn't otherworldly - 7 IP, 2 ER, 9H, 6K, 113 pitches - he was in complete control. He pitched around a lead-off double to Erubiel Durazo in the 5th when the lead was only 5 runs, then struck out Eric Chavez with his final pitch of the night with the bases loaded and the score 9-2. Unlike a certain basketcase who shall remain nameless, Schilling seems to get better under pressure, almost daring the opponent to string together a series of hits.
ESPN's camerawork provided another interesting insight Schilling and how he fits into the Sox bench dynamic. At various times during the game the cameras caught Schilling in earnest, animated discussions - generally one-sided - with Terry Francona, pitching coach Dave Wallace, Derek Lowe, Manny Ramirez, and David Ortiz. Schilling and Ortiz talked for nearly 30 minutes at one stretch. Schilling's intensity and preparation seems to have rubbed off on Manny and Ortiz, who combined for 6 hits, including 2 doubles and a homer. It was cool to watch Schill making entries in his notebook, and to see how seriously he takes winning. "Listen to me", he seems to be saying with his words and actions, "I know what the hell it takes to get the job done."
Flipping between '24' and the Sox, it occurred to me that Schilling is Boston's Jack Bauer, the super-intense, super-motivated, and super-effective win-at-all-costs alpha dog. The comparison doesn't suffer from the fact that Schilling and Kiefer Sutherland share more than a passing resemblance. The free world is safe from biotoxins this morning, and maybe the Red Sox have a guy that can drag them to the promised land, hopefully without cutting off Pedro's arm at the wrist. (Whitney is just squirming with Great White imagery as he reads this.)
Lots of offensive stars in this one, as the Sox battered Hudson for 5 earned runs in 4 innings with a combination of extreme patience and efficient hitting when they got their pitches (save for Kevin "LOB" Millar). Mark Bellhorn continued to contribute, falling a triple short of the cycle and driving in 5 runs. Ortiz doubled twice and drove in 3, Manny hit a mammoth blast into the monster seats, Varitek went 3-for-3, and Kevin Youkilis reached base 4 times.
Yesterday also brought news that Billy Mueller went under the knife for a procedure to repair some degenerative damage to his knee. The defending AL batting champion will be out 4-6 weeks, so young Youks(!) will get all the playing time he wants. Good to know that he seems up to the task.
And finally, it was awesome to see Fenway react to Andy Dominique's major league debut. Dominique was called up to take Mueller's roster spot, and pinch-hit in the bottom of the 8th. With the game well in hand, the Sox faithful rose as one, chanting "Andy, Andy, Andy", as Dominique faced former Sox farmhand Justin Duscherererererer. That's gotta be an all-time goosebump moment for Dominique, even though he swung through strike three. He's another in the Morgan Burkhart body by cheesesteak slow white guy mold, which means he'll probably tear it up for three weeks, earn the eternal admiration of Sox fans everywhere, and then fade into oblivion. There are worse fates.
Full of Sound and Fury, Signifying Nothing
At the risk of turning this portion of MLC into a bad parody of a 100,000-word poetry slam between Bill Simmons and Ralph Wiley (wait, they've already done that to themselves), I must respond to my colleague's harangue. Coming from a guy that I had to literally (okay, figuratively) shake out of a blogcoma mere weeks ago, I find his sentiments a bit hypocritical, if not schoolmarmish (we point out grammatical errors and typos now - that'll be hours of fun for reader of all age (NOTE: that's intentional, serving to note that we only really have one reader, please keep your Chicago Book of Style in its holster)). And if he's trying to say that it didn't take him 6 years to graduate college, well, we all know better than that.
With an entire day off of work to spend crafting eloquent Metprose, I expect something Dickensian, or at least Lupican from our traveling correspondent.
At the risk of turning this portion of MLC into a bad parody of a 100,000-word poetry slam between Bill Simmons and Ralph Wiley (wait, they've already done that to themselves), I must respond to my colleague's harangue. Coming from a guy that I had to literally (okay, figuratively) shake out of a blogcoma mere weeks ago, I find his sentiments a bit hypocritical, if not schoolmarmish (we point out grammatical errors and typos now - that'll be hours of fun for reader of all age (NOTE: that's intentional, serving to note that we only really have one reader, please keep your Chicago Book of Style in its holster)). And if he's trying to say that it didn't take him 6 years to graduate college, well, we all know better than that.
With an entire day off of work to spend crafting eloquent Metprose, I expect something Dickensian, or at least Lupican from our traveling correspondent.
A Dimension Not Only of Sight and Sound . . . But of Mind
I'm gone for five days and:
1. The Mets rattle off four wins.
2. Rob Russell tries to jump the shark with this site.
Now pitching for the Mets: Rod Serling. What's more puzzling? While the Mets won with ease while I was away, reinforcing my ever-solidifying theory that my fandom is a disease to them, Rob's meager three postings read like the final season of a long-running sitcom. Few and far between episodes, limited content, plenty of formulaic retread. He even linked to an old posting of his like a clip show! There were typos, grammatical no-nos, and mathematical errors (my college year total). He linked to a site doing our job better than we were! (For the last five days, for sure.) He quoted the Sports Guy, then blatantly ripped off his mailbag segment, then further emulated the SG by posting a non sequitur non-sports bit without any reference to the topics at hand. (Those still are the Red Sox and Mets, no?) And T.J. Doyle? Was Vince McMahon unavailable for comment? MLC becomes the XFL in five short days. I am scrolling down now to see if there are ads for erectile dysfunction cures somewhere below.
By saying all of this, I heave myself onto the slide and under the microscope for the next few days. I'd better have some good material that doesn't read like vacation slides. Well, I'm technically still on vacation until Thursday AM. So the Mets can keep doing whatever it is they're doing, and Rob can blame his daughters for his Mondesi-like commitment this week.
And if baseball comes to the "D.C. area" but winds up at Dulles, I am back to going to Orioles games - it'd be closer.
I'm gone for five days and:
1. The Mets rattle off four wins.
2. Rob Russell tries to jump the shark with this site.
Now pitching for the Mets: Rod Serling. What's more puzzling? While the Mets won with ease while I was away, reinforcing my ever-solidifying theory that my fandom is a disease to them, Rob's meager three postings read like the final season of a long-running sitcom. Few and far between episodes, limited content, plenty of formulaic retread. He even linked to an old posting of his like a clip show! There were typos, grammatical no-nos, and mathematical errors (my college year total). He linked to a site doing our job better than we were! (For the last five days, for sure.) He quoted the Sports Guy, then blatantly ripped off his mailbag segment, then further emulated the SG by posting a non sequitur non-sports bit without any reference to the topics at hand. (Those still are the Red Sox and Mets, no?) And T.J. Doyle? Was Vince McMahon unavailable for comment? MLC becomes the XFL in five short days. I am scrolling down now to see if there are ads for erectile dysfunction cures somewhere below.
By saying all of this, I heave myself onto the slide and under the microscope for the next few days. I'd better have some good material that doesn't read like vacation slides. Well, I'm technically still on vacation until Thursday AM. So the Mets can keep doing whatever it is they're doing, and Rob can blame his daughters for his Mondesi-like commitment this week.
And if baseball comes to the "D.C. area" but winds up at Dulles, I am back to going to Orioles games - it'd be closer.
Monday, May 24, 2004
Mailbag
Wait, we've got a mailbag? Sweet!
Avid (only?) reader T.J. Doyle from Arlington, VA chimes in with the first-ever MLC mailbag entry:
"Worst sequel, Ghostbusters 2 or Another 48 hours?"
The answer, unequivocally and without question, is Highlander 2, The Quickening. To steal unabashedly from the once and future Boston Sports Guy, I will not argue this. The original Highlander was simply a terrific film, with an intriguing (assuming willing suspension of belief) time-twisting plot, a chilling, pitch-perfect villain (I defy you to watch the scene where the Kurgan describes killing Ramirez and raping Connor MacLeod's woman without the hair standing straight up on the back of your neck), and a bunch of cool swordfighting scenes.
I will admit that Highlander resonates all the more with me for the fact that I've seen it literally dozens of times. It, along with Fletch and Spinal Tap, served as the videotrack for my college years, playing over and over again on the television in my fraternity house living room.
So when the sequel came out in 1991, the brotherhood of Pi Lambda Phi rose as one to attend opening night at the Carmike Cinemas in downtown Williamsburg, VA, anticipating the continuation of the legacy of the One. We knew within the film's first 10 minutes that the sequel was an unredeemable pile of stinking monkey shit. The filmmakers took an epic fantasy, nuanced and clever, and turned it into a hackneyed futuristic cliche. We were laughing at ostensibly serious dialogue less than halfway through the movie, and openly rooting for the bad guys (aliens, as it turns out, fucking aliens) to destroy the earth and with it the screenwriters.
The Quickening? We dubbed it the Sickening. And it's the worst sequel ever even contemplated. Next question, please.
Wait, we've got a mailbag? Sweet!
Avid (only?) reader T.J. Doyle from Arlington, VA chimes in with the first-ever MLC mailbag entry:
"Worst sequel, Ghostbusters 2 or Another 48 hours?"
The answer, unequivocally and without question, is Highlander 2, The Quickening. To steal unabashedly from the once and future Boston Sports Guy, I will not argue this. The original Highlander was simply a terrific film, with an intriguing (assuming willing suspension of belief) time-twisting plot, a chilling, pitch-perfect villain (I defy you to watch the scene where the Kurgan describes killing Ramirez and raping Connor MacLeod's woman without the hair standing straight up on the back of your neck), and a bunch of cool swordfighting scenes.
I will admit that Highlander resonates all the more with me for the fact that I've seen it literally dozens of times. It, along with Fletch and Spinal Tap, served as the videotrack for my college years, playing over and over again on the television in my fraternity house living room.
So when the sequel came out in 1991, the brotherhood of Pi Lambda Phi rose as one to attend opening night at the Carmike Cinemas in downtown Williamsburg, VA, anticipating the continuation of the legacy of the One. We knew within the film's first 10 minutes that the sequel was an unredeemable pile of stinking monkey shit. The filmmakers took an epic fantasy, nuanced and clever, and turned it into a hackneyed futuristic cliche. We were laughing at ostensibly serious dialogue less than halfway through the movie, and openly rooting for the bad guys (aliens, as it turns out, fucking aliens) to destroy the earth and with it the screenwriters.
The Quickening? We dubbed it the Sickening. And it's the worst sequel ever even contemplated. Next question, please.
Games 42 through 44 - Red Sox
Sweep Emotion
Red Sox 11, Blue Jays 5
Red Sox 5, Blue Jays 2
Red Sox 7, Blue Jays 2
Record: 27-17
Now that I've got a very active 2 year-old (is there any other kind?), weekends are never terribly conducive to following the Sox closely. In light of that, and of the fact that I've always been extremely lazy, I'm instituting a new Monday policy of Larry King-style weekend roundups.
1. Looks like I've figured out - at least for the moment - the proper mixture of optimism and pessimism to inspire the Sox to victory. Friday's lukewarm endorsement of the Sox' chances against the Jays seemed to be just the right measure of hopefulness and cynical detachment.
2. The Sox bullpen posted 8 more scoreless innings against the Jays, only allowing 1 hit over the weekend. The starters have to be immensely confident knowing that all they need to do is get to the 7th with a lead and the game's all but in the bag.
3. Which is a stronger possibility: the Sox will significantly pick up the pace when Nomar and Trot return to the lineup, or the Yankees are certain to rip off a 40-10 stretch when all their hitters start performing to their capabilities? My personal belief on the topic doesn't make me all warm and fuzzy.
4. Sox face Oakland, Seattle, and California 8 times over the next 9 days, with a single makeup game against Baltimore thrown in for good measure. 5-4 over that time will be a positive result.
5. Sox signed David Ortiz to a 2-year, $12.5 million contract extension with a team option for the third year. I think we'll look back at that deal as a lead-pipe steal when it's all said and done. Love the Tizzle.
6. Something's wrong with the schedule when the Sox have faced Roy Halladay 4 times before the end of June. Something's right with the Sox when they've won three of those four.
7. Newest D.C. baseball stadium plan calls for a ballpark as the centerpiece of a huge retail, commercial, and residential complex near Dulles Airport. To which I say, where do I sign up? The proposed site is 10 minutes from my house, well-supported with infrastructure, and in the middle of the nation's fastest-growing county. All of which conspires to mean that there's no chance in hell that Bud Lite and his cronies will pull the trigger on it.
8. Derek Lowe's given up 81 baserunners in 40 1/3 innings. I'm not a good enough writer to adequately describe that kind of putrescence.
9. It's early, but Kevin Youkilis has acquitted himself pretty well in his first week in the bigs. .850 OPS in 25 plate appearances, with a .300 average and his first major league homer. Plus, it's fun to type and say, "Youks!".
10. Can't wait to see Whitney compare and contract Tom Glavine and David Weathers.
11. And finally, the good people over at East Coast Agony seem to be putting out the same product as Whit and I. Near as I can tell, they're college guys with a lot more time on their hands than us - which led to a debate over whether we'd have been able to pull off a blog of this nature during our time in college. I said we would, as we found time to play marathon games of Risk, complete entire Strat-o-matic seasons, and develop elaborate new sporting events in the living room of our fraternity house during those hours not dedicated to drunken idiocy - all before the advent of the internet. Whit said no chance, which I found interesting coming from the king of doing anything but academic work in his 6+ years in Williamsburg.
Sweep Emotion
Red Sox 11, Blue Jays 5
Red Sox 5, Blue Jays 2
Red Sox 7, Blue Jays 2
Record: 27-17
Now that I've got a very active 2 year-old (is there any other kind?), weekends are never terribly conducive to following the Sox closely. In light of that, and of the fact that I've always been extremely lazy, I'm instituting a new Monday policy of Larry King-style weekend roundups.
1. Looks like I've figured out - at least for the moment - the proper mixture of optimism and pessimism to inspire the Sox to victory. Friday's lukewarm endorsement of the Sox' chances against the Jays seemed to be just the right measure of hopefulness and cynical detachment.
2. The Sox bullpen posted 8 more scoreless innings against the Jays, only allowing 1 hit over the weekend. The starters have to be immensely confident knowing that all they need to do is get to the 7th with a lead and the game's all but in the bag.
3. Which is a stronger possibility: the Sox will significantly pick up the pace when Nomar and Trot return to the lineup, or the Yankees are certain to rip off a 40-10 stretch when all their hitters start performing to their capabilities? My personal belief on the topic doesn't make me all warm and fuzzy.
4. Sox face Oakland, Seattle, and California 8 times over the next 9 days, with a single makeup game against Baltimore thrown in for good measure. 5-4 over that time will be a positive result.
5. Sox signed David Ortiz to a 2-year, $12.5 million contract extension with a team option for the third year. I think we'll look back at that deal as a lead-pipe steal when it's all said and done. Love the Tizzle.
6. Something's wrong with the schedule when the Sox have faced Roy Halladay 4 times before the end of June. Something's right with the Sox when they've won three of those four.
7. Newest D.C. baseball stadium plan calls for a ballpark as the centerpiece of a huge retail, commercial, and residential complex near Dulles Airport. To which I say, where do I sign up? The proposed site is 10 minutes from my house, well-supported with infrastructure, and in the middle of the nation's fastest-growing county. All of which conspires to mean that there's no chance in hell that Bud Lite and his cronies will pull the trigger on it.
8. Derek Lowe's given up 81 baserunners in 40 1/3 innings. I'm not a good enough writer to adequately describe that kind of putrescence.
9. It's early, but Kevin Youkilis has acquitted himself pretty well in his first week in the bigs. .850 OPS in 25 plate appearances, with a .300 average and his first major league homer. Plus, it's fun to type and say, "Youks!".
10. Can't wait to see Whitney compare and contract Tom Glavine and David Weathers.
11. And finally, the good people over at East Coast Agony seem to be putting out the same product as Whit and I. Near as I can tell, they're college guys with a lot more time on their hands than us - which led to a debate over whether we'd have been able to pull off a blog of this nature during our time in college. I said we would, as we found time to play marathon games of Risk, complete entire Strat-o-matic seasons, and develop elaborate new sporting events in the living room of our fraternity house during those hours not dedicated to drunken idiocy - all before the advent of the internet. Whit said no chance, which I found interesting coming from the king of doing anything but academic work in his 6+ years in Williamsburg.
Friday, May 21, 2004
Game 41 - Red Sox
Laid Lowe
Devil Rays 9, Red Sox 6
Record: 24-17
After careful rereading of this post, I'm pleased to report that I can safely disparage Derek Lowe, as long as I stick to his performance and not his mental makeup. And right now, his performance sucks. He gave up 7 earned runs in 2 1/3 innings last night - completely melting down after a series of bad breaks in the bottom of the third inning. His ERA stands at 6.02, which would be horrid on the Rockies, let alone the best pitching staff in the American League. He's walked more men than he's struck out. And he's, as always, a headc...dammit, must...resist...urge...to...psychoanalyze...Lowe.
The rest of the team scrapped back from a 7-0 deficit to make things interesting, scoring three each in the 4th and 5th to make it a 7-6 game before succumbing to the league's worst team. Predictably, Manny went 0-for-5 the day after I sang his praises. Slacker.
Johnny Damon Superstar shaved his beard this afternoon, but left his flowing hair intact. Instead of Jesus Christ, the Sox now have Peter Frampton patrolling centerfield. Look for a Damon Comes Alive! headline in this space in the next several weeks.
End of the week, on the way out the door, apologies abound for this abbreviated and rambling entry. Promise to do better next week after the Sox paste the Blue Jays. And by that I mean after they scuffle against another mediocre opponent.
Laid Lowe
Devil Rays 9, Red Sox 6
Record: 24-17
After careful rereading of this post, I'm pleased to report that I can safely disparage Derek Lowe, as long as I stick to his performance and not his mental makeup. And right now, his performance sucks. He gave up 7 earned runs in 2 1/3 innings last night - completely melting down after a series of bad breaks in the bottom of the third inning. His ERA stands at 6.02, which would be horrid on the Rockies, let alone the best pitching staff in the American League. He's walked more men than he's struck out. And he's, as always, a headc...dammit, must...resist...urge...to...psychoanalyze...Lowe.
The rest of the team scrapped back from a 7-0 deficit to make things interesting, scoring three each in the 4th and 5th to make it a 7-6 game before succumbing to the league's worst team. Predictably, Manny went 0-for-5 the day after I sang his praises. Slacker.
Johnny Damon Superstar shaved his beard this afternoon, but left his flowing hair intact. Instead of Jesus Christ, the Sox now have Peter Frampton patrolling centerfield. Look for a Damon Comes Alive! headline in this space in the next several weeks.
End of the week, on the way out the door, apologies abound for this abbreviated and rambling entry. Promise to do better next week after the Sox paste the Blue Jays. And by that I mean after they scuffle against another mediocre opponent.
Thursday, May 20, 2004
Game 41 - Mets
I am Lester, Lord of the Idiots
Cardinals 11, Mets 4
Record: 19-22
And I follow up today's earlier guarantee with another: I guarantee you I will never do that again. Holy hell.
Sloppy play, bad pitching, and three runs against non-marquee pitching. The Mets hadn't looked this bad since the first half (the ugly half) of the series in Arizona. I guess the blame's on me for this one, what with that half-baked Broadway Joe imitation.
What have we learned? Anything I write here leads to losses for the Mets. I am at a loss, and so are my guys. I suppose I should pack it in and rename this site "Misery Loves Company But Rob Ain't Gettin' Any," but (a) it's not my style to do the prudent thing, and (b) that title would contain more double entendre than my cohort is comfortable with. So, I press on, right in the face of the facts. The only time the Metropollys have come to life is when I swear them off, curse their stupid-sounding name, and watch other sports. But I won't do that, if only because watching the NBA is like having eyeball acupuncture and watching the NHL is watching a dead man walking. And I refuse to let the Mets defeat my will to watch. Just when it makes no sense to tune in and see my boys get their brains beaten in, I'm cooking up a pair of dogs in my Hot-Diggety-Dogger, cracking open a cold one (six), and telling my kids it's Mommy Time for a few hours. But that's just me. Not too bright, huh?
I am off to vacation for a few days, so I'll be blogless for a series or two. Enjoy my silence and Rob's double-shot make-up for it.
I am Lester, Lord of the Idiots
Cardinals 11, Mets 4
Record: 19-22
And I follow up today's earlier guarantee with another: I guarantee you I will never do that again. Holy hell.
Sloppy play, bad pitching, and three runs against non-marquee pitching. The Mets hadn't looked this bad since the first half (the ugly half) of the series in Arizona. I guess the blame's on me for this one, what with that half-baked Broadway Joe imitation.
What have we learned? Anything I write here leads to losses for the Mets. I am at a loss, and so are my guys. I suppose I should pack it in and rename this site "Misery Loves Company But Rob Ain't Gettin' Any," but (a) it's not my style to do the prudent thing, and (b) that title would contain more double entendre than my cohort is comfortable with. So, I press on, right in the face of the facts. The only time the Metropollys have come to life is when I swear them off, curse their stupid-sounding name, and watch other sports. But I won't do that, if only because watching the NBA is like having eyeball acupuncture and watching the NHL is watching a dead man walking. And I refuse to let the Mets defeat my will to watch. Just when it makes no sense to tune in and see my boys get their brains beaten in, I'm cooking up a pair of dogs in my Hot-Diggety-Dogger, cracking open a cold one (six), and telling my kids it's Mommy Time for a few hours. But that's just me. Not too bright, huh?
I am off to vacation for a few days, so I'll be blogless for a series or two. Enjoy my silence and Rob's double-shot make-up for it.
Game 40 - Red Sox
Renaissance Manny
Red Sox 4, Devil Rays 1
Record: 24-16
In October, the Red Sox placed Manny Ramirez on waivers, making him (and his $20 million per year contract) available for anyone who was willing to take on his salary. Then, throughout the holiday season, the Sox actively and openly shopped the enigmatic slugger to the Texas Rangers as part of the ill-fated quest for Alex Rodriguez. Last season saw Manny involved in a seemingly endless spate of minor controversies - expressing his sort-of desire to play for the Yankees, sitting out a game with a sore throat, meeting Enrique Wilson in a hotel bar while sick, and so on ad nauseum. Add all this to Manny's career-long reputation as a flake - deserved or not - and anti-superstar public profile, and Red Sox Nation was less than clueless about what to expect from the team's most prolific offensive force.
Sox fans desperately want to jump on the Manny bandwagon. He's goofy, he's fun-loving, he's an offensive machine. But he's always lacked the one thing that puritanical Bostonians and their spiritual ancestors adore: passion. Boston loves the gritty, gutty guy more than the supremely talented guy who makes it look easy. It's why Larry Bird's the pinnacle - he combined massive talent with an equally massive work ethic - and why Ted Williams had a bit of a love/hate relationship with Sox fans. Despite reports extolling his hard work, Manny's gametime actions have always seemed to lack urgency, from not running out a groundball here and there, to a laconic personal style, even when he was actually hustling.
This year, though, things look a little different. First of all, he's hitting the cover off the ball, posting a .368/.443/.632 (Avg/OBP/Slg) line, good for the 6th-best OPS in the majors. He's also started hitting longballs, with his 9th homerun last night. We expected those things. What's been unexpected, and joyous to watch, has been Manny's transformation into a fan favorite and clubhouse presence. He's been speaking out to the media, defending his teammates, and displaying a sense of humor we hadn't seen previously. He became an American citizen a few weeks ago, and celebrated by running to his position in leftfield at Fenway carrying a little American flag, basking in the cheers of Red Sox Nation as the wind whipped the banner behind him. He'd better be careful, or he's gonna find himself loved by Boston soon.
Schilling goes 7 strong, Manny hits a tater, as does Damon, and Foulke lowers his ERA to a staggering 0.40 with another 1 1/3 scoreless innings. At the quarter pole, the Sox are in a better position than I'd expected. Good times.
Renaissance Manny
Red Sox 4, Devil Rays 1
Record: 24-16
In October, the Red Sox placed Manny Ramirez on waivers, making him (and his $20 million per year contract) available for anyone who was willing to take on his salary. Then, throughout the holiday season, the Sox actively and openly shopped the enigmatic slugger to the Texas Rangers as part of the ill-fated quest for Alex Rodriguez. Last season saw Manny involved in a seemingly endless spate of minor controversies - expressing his sort-of desire to play for the Yankees, sitting out a game with a sore throat, meeting Enrique Wilson in a hotel bar while sick, and so on ad nauseum. Add all this to Manny's career-long reputation as a flake - deserved or not - and anti-superstar public profile, and Red Sox Nation was less than clueless about what to expect from the team's most prolific offensive force.
Sox fans desperately want to jump on the Manny bandwagon. He's goofy, he's fun-loving, he's an offensive machine. But he's always lacked the one thing that puritanical Bostonians and their spiritual ancestors adore: passion. Boston loves the gritty, gutty guy more than the supremely talented guy who makes it look easy. It's why Larry Bird's the pinnacle - he combined massive talent with an equally massive work ethic - and why Ted Williams had a bit of a love/hate relationship with Sox fans. Despite reports extolling his hard work, Manny's gametime actions have always seemed to lack urgency, from not running out a groundball here and there, to a laconic personal style, even when he was actually hustling.
This year, though, things look a little different. First of all, he's hitting the cover off the ball, posting a .368/.443/.632 (Avg/OBP/Slg) line, good for the 6th-best OPS in the majors. He's also started hitting longballs, with his 9th homerun last night. We expected those things. What's been unexpected, and joyous to watch, has been Manny's transformation into a fan favorite and clubhouse presence. He's been speaking out to the media, defending his teammates, and displaying a sense of humor we hadn't seen previously. He became an American citizen a few weeks ago, and celebrated by running to his position in leftfield at Fenway carrying a little American flag, basking in the cheers of Red Sox Nation as the wind whipped the banner behind him. He'd better be careful, or he's gonna find himself loved by Boston soon.
Schilling goes 7 strong, Manny hits a tater, as does Damon, and Foulke lowers his ERA to a staggering 0.40 with another 1 1/3 scoreless innings. At the quarter pole, the Sox are in a better position than I'd expected. Good times.
Game 40 - Mets
Defense D'Art
Cardinals 1, Mets 0
Record: 19-21
I just can't win. I suggest that the Mets should win, and they lose. I outline exactly why they should lose, and they lose in precisely that way. Well, sort of: Trachsel had no letdown (I am becoming a huge fan of his), but Suppan was great, Rolen won the game for the Cardinals, and the Mets once again found away to lose. 1-0 is such a shot in the gut. These are the opportunities that the Metmen had been taking full advantage of lately, but they just came up short.
Today's New York Post has multiple articles that lay a fair amount of blame on the ol' skipper in this game, including one whose entire contents consist of breakdowns of Art Howe's tactical . . . breakdowns. I love the Post for its very New Yorky, shoot from the hip style. (Not so much for its eloquent sportswriting, skillful composition, or journalistic professionalism; those are niceties monopolized by the Times. Anyway, the "Can Art" movement (not to be confused with Andy Warhol) is rolling, but I'm not so sure it isn't a little premature. His relaxed demeanor doesn't befit a New York manager, though he did blow a gasket last week over a horrible call at second base and get tossed. In addition, his quiet, thinking man style is being questioned more and more often with some head-scratcher maneuvers. Admittedly, Art Howe has forced me (that's my defense, at least) to heave inanimate objects across my living room in frustration more than once over the past season and a quarter. But I refuse to join this misguided lynch mob.
The recent resurgence in Metville has been Art Howe style all the way. Not flashy -- no ostentatious win streaks, just take two of three and call it a series, just effective. It's a slow creep from jockeying with Les Expos for the NL cellar to slipping by the malfunctioning Braves to calmly looking on a few games back while the Marlins and Phillies fixate on each other. Counted out early and often, the Mets have quietly returned to the mix, though the only national articles about them these days are Disabled List updates. (Today Big Al hit the DL; if only I were like Antonio Alfonseca so I could cross more fingers for his quick and successful return.) This is just fine by Art Howe.
I don't think Mr. Howe enjoys any sort of spotlight, which will ultimately be his undoing in New York. The only time his A's received a whole lot of attention was in the postseason, when they folded like origami, usually to the Yanks. So this low-profile drag up the standings is perfect for him. Scrapping him now would undo this season, in all likelihood, and there's too many good times left in it to do that now. Let's see how far he can go flying under the radar, and then, if the Mets continue to improve, let's see what he does when all of the spotlights that have been blinding Derek Jeter & Co. get wheeled towards Queens. All we are saying is Give Art a Chance.
The scariest thing is that the chatter about Art Howe is errily similar to that of Grady Little during the regular season last year, except with half as many wins. Yikes.
Back to my personal problem (one of many): what do I write in this space so as not to steer my boys inexorably downward into another loss? Hmmm, I have yet to guarantee victory. Well, here it is: the Mets will win today, completing another series win, avoiding the gaudy win streak that might draw national attention, and continuing the upward progression. Slow progression, that is, like a trawler that doesn't grab the eye like the neon-colored speedboats that flit about, but which nets the catch and subsequently satisfies my hunger. (I must not have eaten enough at lunch today. Better grab a snack and follow this game online.)
METS WIN. You read it here.
Defense D'Art
Cardinals 1, Mets 0
Record: 19-21
I just can't win. I suggest that the Mets should win, and they lose. I outline exactly why they should lose, and they lose in precisely that way. Well, sort of: Trachsel had no letdown (I am becoming a huge fan of his), but Suppan was great, Rolen won the game for the Cardinals, and the Mets once again found away to lose. 1-0 is such a shot in the gut. These are the opportunities that the Metmen had been taking full advantage of lately, but they just came up short.
Today's New York Post has multiple articles that lay a fair amount of blame on the ol' skipper in this game, including one whose entire contents consist of breakdowns of Art Howe's tactical . . . breakdowns. I love the Post for its very New Yorky, shoot from the hip style. (Not so much for its eloquent sportswriting, skillful composition, or journalistic professionalism; those are niceties monopolized by the Times. Anyway, the "Can Art" movement (not to be confused with Andy Warhol) is rolling, but I'm not so sure it isn't a little premature. His relaxed demeanor doesn't befit a New York manager, though he did blow a gasket last week over a horrible call at second base and get tossed. In addition, his quiet, thinking man style is being questioned more and more often with some head-scratcher maneuvers. Admittedly, Art Howe has forced me (that's my defense, at least) to heave inanimate objects across my living room in frustration more than once over the past season and a quarter. But I refuse to join this misguided lynch mob.
The recent resurgence in Metville has been Art Howe style all the way. Not flashy -- no ostentatious win streaks, just take two of three and call it a series, just effective. It's a slow creep from jockeying with Les Expos for the NL cellar to slipping by the malfunctioning Braves to calmly looking on a few games back while the Marlins and Phillies fixate on each other. Counted out early and often, the Mets have quietly returned to the mix, though the only national articles about them these days are Disabled List updates. (Today Big Al hit the DL; if only I were like Antonio Alfonseca so I could cross more fingers for his quick and successful return.) This is just fine by Art Howe.
I don't think Mr. Howe enjoys any sort of spotlight, which will ultimately be his undoing in New York. The only time his A's received a whole lot of attention was in the postseason, when they folded like origami, usually to the Yanks. So this low-profile drag up the standings is perfect for him. Scrapping him now would undo this season, in all likelihood, and there's too many good times left in it to do that now. Let's see how far he can go flying under the radar, and then, if the Mets continue to improve, let's see what he does when all of the spotlights that have been blinding Derek Jeter & Co. get wheeled towards Queens. All we are saying is Give Art a Chance.
The scariest thing is that the chatter about Art Howe is errily similar to that of Grady Little during the regular season last year, except with half as many wins. Yikes.
Back to my personal problem (one of many): what do I write in this space so as not to steer my boys inexorably downward into another loss? Hmmm, I have yet to guarantee victory. Well, here it is: the Mets will win today, completing another series win, avoiding the gaudy win streak that might draw national attention, and continuing the upward progression. Slow progression, that is, like a trawler that doesn't grab the eye like the neon-colored speedboats that flit about, but which nets the catch and subsequently satisfies my hunger. (I must not have eaten enough at lunch today. Better grab a snack and follow this game online.)
METS WIN. You read it here.
Wednesday, May 19, 2004
Game 39 - Red Sox
Wake Me Up Before the No-No
Red Sox 7, Devil Rays 3
Record: 23-16
We come here not to bury Tim Wakefield, but to praise him. The knuckleballer went 7 innings last night, giving up three hits and one run to raise his record to 3-2 and lower his ERA to 3.31. Even better, I didn't have to watch him, which significantly enhances my enjoyment of the Tim Wakefield Experience.
I've discussed this conundrum briefly in the past. I love Tim Wakefield. I love his durability, I love his sense of team and community, I love that he's evolved into a guy who'll do anything his manager needs, and I love that he throws a weird little pitch and still manages to be a highly effective major league pitcher. Hell, he's won 119 career games, 105 with the Sox. He's only 19 wins away from third on the Sox' all-time list, and a mere 117 innings from being second amongst all Sox pitchers. He's also the Sox' all-time leader in hit batsmen, which brings us back to the conundrum: I love Tim Wakefield, but watching him pitch renders me slowly but inevitably insane.
Maybe it's because he really doesn't have any control over what happens to his flutterballs when they leave his hand, or because every pitch seems fraught with peril - especially with men on base. Maybe it's because it doesn't seem possible that a pitch traveling 60 - 65 mph can consistently fool major league hitters and I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. Wake's game just looks so much different that it feels somehow untrustworthy, and the result is that I'm happy to follow the ESPN Bottom Line to get my Sox results 1 out of every 5 games.
The fact remains, though, that Timmeh's posted 534 1/3 innings with a 3.64 ERA and 7.6 K/9 IP over the last three years - really good for almost any pitcher not named Martinez, and sensational for a No. 4 starter. Just don't make me watch him pitch.
Workmanlike win for the Sox last night, though they waited until the 7th inning to blow the game open. Mark Bellhorn continues to produce, ripping his 5th homer to give the Sox their final 3 runs. Despite only batting .231, Bellhorn is 14th in the AL in OBP (.394) and 2nd in the league in walks (35). He also leads the league in strikeouts, which is a bizarre daily double. Chris Berman must hate him.
Another great memory popped up yesterday as I caught the final inning of Randy Johnson's perfect game against the Braves. TBS flashed a graphic relating the last time an opponent no-hit Atlanta - Houston's Ken Forsch turned the trick in April 1979. As the graphic appeared, I thought to myself, "Hey, I watched that game."
I was 8 years old, watching the game on TV in Huntsville, AL. When bedtime came (probably somewhere in the 4th inning or so), I pleaded with my father to let me stay up, because Forsch was going to pitch a no-hitter. Dad let me do it, surely thinking that the Braves would shortly get a hit and send me to bed. Didn't happen, and I got to stay up for the whole thing. Fathers and sons and baseball - makes you feel kind of good inside.
Wake Me Up Before the No-No
Red Sox 7, Devil Rays 3
Record: 23-16
We come here not to bury Tim Wakefield, but to praise him. The knuckleballer went 7 innings last night, giving up three hits and one run to raise his record to 3-2 and lower his ERA to 3.31. Even better, I didn't have to watch him, which significantly enhances my enjoyment of the Tim Wakefield Experience.
I've discussed this conundrum briefly in the past. I love Tim Wakefield. I love his durability, I love his sense of team and community, I love that he's evolved into a guy who'll do anything his manager needs, and I love that he throws a weird little pitch and still manages to be a highly effective major league pitcher. Hell, he's won 119 career games, 105 with the Sox. He's only 19 wins away from third on the Sox' all-time list, and a mere 117 innings from being second amongst all Sox pitchers. He's also the Sox' all-time leader in hit batsmen, which brings us back to the conundrum: I love Tim Wakefield, but watching him pitch renders me slowly but inevitably insane.
Maybe it's because he really doesn't have any control over what happens to his flutterballs when they leave his hand, or because every pitch seems fraught with peril - especially with men on base. Maybe it's because it doesn't seem possible that a pitch traveling 60 - 65 mph can consistently fool major league hitters and I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop. Wake's game just looks so much different that it feels somehow untrustworthy, and the result is that I'm happy to follow the ESPN Bottom Line to get my Sox results 1 out of every 5 games.
The fact remains, though, that Timmeh's posted 534 1/3 innings with a 3.64 ERA and 7.6 K/9 IP over the last three years - really good for almost any pitcher not named Martinez, and sensational for a No. 4 starter. Just don't make me watch him pitch.
Workmanlike win for the Sox last night, though they waited until the 7th inning to blow the game open. Mark Bellhorn continues to produce, ripping his 5th homer to give the Sox their final 3 runs. Despite only batting .231, Bellhorn is 14th in the AL in OBP (.394) and 2nd in the league in walks (35). He also leads the league in strikeouts, which is a bizarre daily double. Chris Berman must hate him.
Another great memory popped up yesterday as I caught the final inning of Randy Johnson's perfect game against the Braves. TBS flashed a graphic relating the last time an opponent no-hit Atlanta - Houston's Ken Forsch turned the trick in April 1979. As the graphic appeared, I thought to myself, "Hey, I watched that game."
I was 8 years old, watching the game on TV in Huntsville, AL. When bedtime came (probably somewhere in the 4th inning or so), I pleaded with my father to let me stay up, because Forsch was going to pitch a no-hitter. Dad let me do it, surely thinking that the Braves would shortly get a hit and send me to bed. Didn't happen, and I got to stay up for the whole thing. Fathers and sons and baseball - makes you feel kind of good inside.
Game 39 - Mets
Cheers! Cliff Back to His Norm
Mets 5, Cardinals 4
Record: 19-20
Mike Piazza said Sunday that he liked the energy of the team, that there was a definite difference between this club and that of the past two seasons. Not exactly a Tug nugget, but even mildly optimistic vibes are welcome these days. Last night against St. Louis the New York Mets added another chapter of what I thought I overstated yesterday as "inspired play." This team has considerably more scrap to them than we've seen in Mets uni's in some time.
Tom Glavine allowed four in six, which marked his worst start of the year -- but would have been a pretty decent outing for him last season. He's pitched brilliantly thus far, so we'll just keep our fingers crossed this was an aberration. His successors on the night, Orber Moreno and Ricky Bottalico, held fast and, with the aid of an amazing Jason Phillips double play in the top of the ninth, kept a 4-3 Cards lead from expansion. Bottom 9, down 1, time for more Mets drama.
Mike Cameron walked, and Joe McEwing bunted him over. I tend to take the whiz out of Super Joe for his overly emphatic scrappy hustler rep that belies an absence of talent, but laying down a bunt to advance a runner who'd eventually score the tying run during go-time -- well, his fundamentals are super-solid, and I have to tip my cap. With two on and two out, Kaz Matsui splintered his bat but muscled one into shallow right, scoring Mike Cameron and sending Karim Abdul Garcia to third. A minute later, Cliff Floyd lined one to right that dropped in, scoring Garcia and winning the game.
Former Met Jason Isringhausen took the loss, and former Cardinal Bottalico got the victory. Bottalico, the third member of the triumvirate of aged arms left for dead by the rest of the league but scooped up by the Mets this offseason, has been a pleasant surprise. While James Baldwin and Scott Erickson have had seasons soon to be protested by right-to-lifers, Ricky Bottalico has, in a small period of time so far, gotten the job done. At the very least, he helped the Mets win this one.
Jason Phillips hit another home run, was 2-for-4, and made the great play; Jason, if you need a refill on that dosage of ragging at any point, just say the word. I'm good for it.
Steve Trachsel takes the mound against the Cards and Jeff Suppan tonight. Every time it's looked like a game the Mets should win, they've fumbled it, so I'll just say this: Trachsel's due for a letdown, Suppan is underrated, Scott Rolen is on fire, Ty Wigginton should throw his bat in the fire (0 for his last 18), and any time the Mets get close to a breakthrough (a win tonight puts them at .500), they usually find a way to lose.
And one last thing. The Atlanta Braves watched Randy Johnson hurl a perfect game against them last night, one game after Ben Sheets stuck out 18 Braves batters. As the season wears on, it may become more obvious that Atlanta is not the key divisional adversary to root against, but old habits die hard. Heh heh heh.
Cheers! Cliff Back to His Norm
Mets 5, Cardinals 4
Record: 19-20
Mike Piazza said Sunday that he liked the energy of the team, that there was a definite difference between this club and that of the past two seasons. Not exactly a Tug nugget, but even mildly optimistic vibes are welcome these days. Last night against St. Louis the New York Mets added another chapter of what I thought I overstated yesterday as "inspired play." This team has considerably more scrap to them than we've seen in Mets uni's in some time.
Tom Glavine allowed four in six, which marked his worst start of the year -- but would have been a pretty decent outing for him last season. He's pitched brilliantly thus far, so we'll just keep our fingers crossed this was an aberration. His successors on the night, Orber Moreno and Ricky Bottalico, held fast and, with the aid of an amazing Jason Phillips double play in the top of the ninth, kept a 4-3 Cards lead from expansion. Bottom 9, down 1, time for more Mets drama.
Mike Cameron walked, and Joe McEwing bunted him over. I tend to take the whiz out of Super Joe for his overly emphatic scrappy hustler rep that belies an absence of talent, but laying down a bunt to advance a runner who'd eventually score the tying run during go-time -- well, his fundamentals are super-solid, and I have to tip my cap. With two on and two out, Kaz Matsui splintered his bat but muscled one into shallow right, scoring Mike Cameron and sending Karim Abdul Garcia to third. A minute later, Cliff Floyd lined one to right that dropped in, scoring Garcia and winning the game.
Former Met Jason Isringhausen took the loss, and former Cardinal Bottalico got the victory. Bottalico, the third member of the triumvirate of aged arms left for dead by the rest of the league but scooped up by the Mets this offseason, has been a pleasant surprise. While James Baldwin and Scott Erickson have had seasons soon to be protested by right-to-lifers, Ricky Bottalico has, in a small period of time so far, gotten the job done. At the very least, he helped the Mets win this one.
Jason Phillips hit another home run, was 2-for-4, and made the great play; Jason, if you need a refill on that dosage of ragging at any point, just say the word. I'm good for it.
Steve Trachsel takes the mound against the Cards and Jeff Suppan tonight. Every time it's looked like a game the Mets should win, they've fumbled it, so I'll just say this: Trachsel's due for a letdown, Suppan is underrated, Scott Rolen is on fire, Ty Wigginton should throw his bat in the fire (0 for his last 18), and any time the Mets get close to a breakthrough (a win tonight puts them at .500), they usually find a way to lose.
And one last thing. The Atlanta Braves watched Randy Johnson hurl a perfect game against them last night, one game after Ben Sheets stuck out 18 Braves batters. As the season wears on, it may become more obvious that Atlanta is not the key divisional adversary to root against, but old habits die hard. Heh heh heh.
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