Game 77 - Mets
The Truth Is Out There in Cincinnati
Mets 7, Reds 6 (I think)
Record: 38-39
I almost threw up at work today, and not because of the usual reasons. The Mets played an afternoon game, and I was excited to have an afternoon devoid of meetings. That meant that I could do some work, then follow some of the game on the Internet, then do a little more work, then follow a lot more of the game, then do no more work and tune in to the rest of the game. It sounded like a good idea at the time, but it nearly put me in the infirmary.
The Mets cruised through the first few innings on the same run production cycle as last night. Another in a long line of Pitchers Who Aren't This Good, Jose Acevedo, shut out the New York nine for the first four innings. In the bottom of the fourth, Cincinnati threatened after Eric Valent, playing first while Piazza caught, booted leadoff hitter D'Angelo Jimenez's grounder. After Jimenez stole second, giving the ol' 1-2 punch to Art Howe's lineup card, a walk and a fielder's choice put runners at 2nd and 3rd with one out. Especially considering how well Al Leiter was pitching (once again), it was maddening to think the Reds would take the lead -- perhaps an unsurmountable one, based on the Mets' bats of late -- because of Valent's fielding gaffe. Meanwhile, Valent had ended the Mets' chances in the second inning by grounding into a double play. Right about then, I pulled out the old Hoosiers quote (pretty fresh in the head, since it's been on the tube every other night for a month), "Uh, Coach, what you're doing with Eric Valent . . . I'm not seeing it."
Fast-forward to the top of the fifth (we can fast-forward because Al Leiter is the man). It was as if my negative brainwaves had just reached Great American Ball Park (nice rah rah name) after zapping into my computer screen and over phone lines all the way to Ohio. Eric Valent homers on a fly ball to right field. Ah, yes, thank you for showing me the light. I'll go back to my non-baseball-manager job now. Valent's dinger seemed to wake the slumbering Mets hitters. Oh, wait . . . we can do that? Ohhh, okay.
But here's where it got weird for me, the Internet viewer. I had been following along on ESPN.com's Game Update for the first few innings. After opening another browser window to check out some All-Star voting tallies on MLB.com, I opened their Gameday window as well. Simultaneous, multitasking Internet baseball, ensuring (a) that I got the latest action as quickly as possible and (b) that everyone realizes I am a total geek.
So, in the top of the 6th, MLB tells me that Mike Piazza doubles, Cliff Floyd pops out, and Richard Hidalgo walks. ESPN says the same. After a strange delay in both places, MLB reports that Shane Spencer bangs a 3-run homer to left. Bedlam in my office. Paper clips everywhere. But when ESPN finally refreshes, it goes from Hidalgo's walk straight to a popout by Ty Wigginton. What the . . . ? MLB goes on to show Wigginton's out and a Valent groundout and we're on to the bottom of the 6th with the Mets up, 4-0. Meanwhile, ESPN follows with Valent's out and the end of the frame, Mets up, 1-0. It was as if Shane Spencer's at-bat never happened. Strange things were afoot here.
Things got weirder in the 7th when Jose Reyes, whose average had dipped to .111 -- which I noticed, glared at, shook my head at, and prepared to assault in this space, homered to left as well. At this point it truly crossed my mind that someone was having some fun at my expense. Eric Valent, Shane Spencer, and Jose Reyes (who'd hit a combined seven homers all year) go yard in successive innings? ESPN confirmed the Reyes shot, now posting a 2-0 lead. ESPN, what you're doing with the Mets game . . . I'm not seeing it.
Top 8. Hidalgo launched one to center. 6-0 according to MLB, 3-0 according to ESPN. This thought occurred to me. If MLB.com is affiliated with and has any similarities to the think tank that is the MLB executive office, there's no way in hell they're right! Are they inventing Baltimore specials that never happened as a way to appease Peter Angelos? Is this a trumped-up scandal to throw the scent off the high-heaven stench of their shady ownership of a franchise? These questions and more were being kicked around the desk.
In the bottom of the eighth, Ricky Bottalico -- relieving Al Leiter after seven shutout innings -- retired two batters and then ran out of gas. Ran out of gas, careened into the guard rail, hit his head on the steering wheel, got out and was struck by an oncoming bus. In other words, he gave up a double, a single, a double, and a hit batsman before it occurred to Art Howe to hook him. By the time Braden Looper took over, 6-0/3-0 had become 6-3/3-all. I was getting nervous/screaming frantically. Looper proceeded to demonstrate he wasn't quite warmed up by allowing consecutive singles, thereby completing the Ricky Bottalico ERA-Tripling Project. With it 6-5/5-3 Reds, I couldn't believe the Mets were on the verge of blowing/had blown a six run/three-run lead this late. The Mets simply aren't going to hit four/three home runs in a game very often, and the increasingly slippery bullpen was coming dangerously close to ruining it/had ruined yet another game. Looper forced a grounder and the Mets went to the ninth. 6-5 in Cooperstown (?), 5-3 in Bristol. I still wasn't sure who was right, but I was going with MLB -- can you claim a win on such a technicality if baseball's official website reports it wrong? I'd love to see an asterisk in the standings due to some dweeb's technical equivalent of a Red Sox fielding play.
Just when it looked a little foolhardy for Manager Howe to have subbed for Piazza when he did, replacement Jason Phillips walloped a double to score Kaz "Shinjo at Short" Matsui. So the Mets tacked on a valuable insurance run./So the Mets were within one. Alas, a pair of groundouts ended the rally/game. 7-5, Mets./5-4, Reds. This seems monotonous at this point, but I'm telling you, this was how ESPN.com was reporting it. Their folks covering the game had "lost time" a la The X-Files during Shane Spencer's home run. Perhaps an extra-terrestrial life-force had abducted them for one at-bat, or maybe Mo Vaughn sat down for an interview in front of them for a couple of minutes. Either way, they missed it.
That both sites went into the bottom of the ninth made me feel a lot better. That with two outs Adam Dunn hit Braden Looper's 2-0 offering over the Kentucky state line did not. Braden, what you're doing with the lead . . . I'm not seeing it. Now it was tense no matter which website I was checking out. Several colleagues stopped by but quickly exited when it was apparent the project I was working on was exasperating me. Finally, however, Wily Mo Pena grounded out to second for the final out. Whew. This one really would have been more comfortable as just a box score sifted through tomorrow morning. A win is a win is a punch in the gut.
ESPN.com eventually altered their final score to reflect a 7-6 Mets win. At this writing, though, they still don't have a Game Log or even a line score. It's simply not available. Somebody get Mulder, and I don't mean the Cy Young candidate in Oakland.
Thursday, July 01, 2004
Games 75 & 76 - Red Sox
Trying Hard to Follow Mom's Advice
Yankees 11, Red Sox 3
Yankees 4, Red Sox 2
Record: 42-34
As you surely recall, Mom always said, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." I'd been hiding behind that old saw for the better part of today, until chided by Whitney about my blogslackitude. Because I've got a whole lot of nothing good to say about this so-called team of mine.
Frankly, and I am not exaggerating for the purpose of literary punch, the Tampa Bay Devil Rays are a better team than the Boston Red Sox on July 1, 2004. And that, gentle reader, fucking sucks.
The Sox are offensively inconsistent, defensively offensive (literally the worst fielding team in the majors), and short on effective pitching - at least for a team with championship aspirations. And worse, they are maddeningly underachieving with massive talent. I've been on this soapbox quite a bit recently (mainly because it makes me taller), but this team keeps telling the world that they're too good to keep playing this bad, as if all they have to do is show up and their talent will eventually win out. Pardon me if my 34 years of Red Sox fandom make me a bit paranoid about the reality of that belief.
Sometimes being a Red Sox fan feel fabulously noble - the long-suffering underdog tilting against windmills, losing painfully but with dignity. Other times, like right now, I feel like the worst kind of sucker, a loser who keeps believing in something even though it's absolutely hopeless, sending Oral Roberts my $50 each week in search of my never-to-come miracle.
Forgive me, but I'm not even going to address the last two games, except to say that the Yankees are exposing the Sox for what they are (or at least appear to be): a talented but flawed team with very little heart. And I'm real, real close to placing the blame squarely on the milquetoast manager, because I can't for the life of me figure out why this team isn't playing better.
Trying Hard to Follow Mom's Advice
Yankees 11, Red Sox 3
Yankees 4, Red Sox 2
Record: 42-34
As you surely recall, Mom always said, "If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all." I'd been hiding behind that old saw for the better part of today, until chided by Whitney about my blogslackitude. Because I've got a whole lot of nothing good to say about this so-called team of mine.
Frankly, and I am not exaggerating for the purpose of literary punch, the Tampa Bay Devil Rays are a better team than the Boston Red Sox on July 1, 2004. And that, gentle reader, fucking sucks.
The Sox are offensively inconsistent, defensively offensive (literally the worst fielding team in the majors), and short on effective pitching - at least for a team with championship aspirations. And worse, they are maddeningly underachieving with massive talent. I've been on this soapbox quite a bit recently (mainly because it makes me taller), but this team keeps telling the world that they're too good to keep playing this bad, as if all they have to do is show up and their talent will eventually win out. Pardon me if my 34 years of Red Sox fandom make me a bit paranoid about the reality of that belief.
Sometimes being a Red Sox fan feel fabulously noble - the long-suffering underdog tilting against windmills, losing painfully but with dignity. Other times, like right now, I feel like the worst kind of sucker, a loser who keeps believing in something even though it's absolutely hopeless, sending Oral Roberts my $50 each week in search of my never-to-come miracle.
Forgive me, but I'm not even going to address the last two games, except to say that the Yankees are exposing the Sox for what they are (or at least appear to be): a talented but flawed team with very little heart. And I'm real, real close to placing the blame squarely on the milquetoast manager, because I can't for the life of me figure out why this team isn't playing better.
Game 76 - Mets
Do We Need to Fire Another Hitting Coach?
Reds 2, Mets 0
Record: 37-39
"Talk to me tomorrow after Cory 'American' Lidle silences the Mets hitters and I'm in a funk."
I didn't actually think that it would happen! Yes, Lidle beat the Mets last Thursday, but at 5-5/5.05, he wasn't a pitcher who should be able to do that twice within a week. He did. The Mets managed just four measly singles (two of them the infield variety, including a Tom Glavine bunt single) against Lidle and two relievers. Danny Graves recorded his 30th (!) save, inducing a Mike Cameron groundout with a man aboard to end it.
The Mets seemingly have been two games under .500 for the entire first half of the season. They're still but three games out of first, thanks to the Braves and Expos knocking off the Marlins and Phillies, respectively. They're only 4.5 games out of the wild card spot, though they rank 7th in those standings. And since you won't be able to do the math on how many games the Mets trail the Red Sox in our wager (since Rob has neglected his duties once again), I'll tell you: the Sox are 5 games up on the Mets, needing 22 to earn Rob the golden prize.
Glavine continues to look sharp, and the rotation, minus a few bumps in the road here and there, is coming together. The bats are still quite cold, though, and that's going to be an issue in the very near future. The Mets seem to be just trying to hang in there until the All-Star break; to be within a handful of games of the top spot in the division would be an accomplishment in any Met fan's book. Here's the problem:
JULY:
Thu. 1 at Cincinnati
Fri. 2 NY Yankees
Sat. 3 NY Yankees
Sun. 4 NY Yankees
Mon. 5 at Philadelphia
Tue. 6 at Philadelphia
Wed. 7 at Philadelphia
Thu. 8 at Philadelphia
Fri. 9 at Florida
Sat. 10 at Florida
Sun. 11 at Florida
ALL-STAR BREAK
Yikes, zoiks, skiddit, and every other nonsensical expression meaning "I think I just soiled myself." Today's season-series closer against the Redlegs looks like "must-win" all of a sudden. The Yanks have used the Mets like a drum pad over the last few years, and seven straight games visiting the current divisional co-leaders looms just over the behemoth Yankee shoulders. It will have been 13 consecutive days with games against non-slouch adversaries. I suppose there are some tiny rays of light here -- there's no chance for bats to become rusty, plus there won't be too many Mets heading to Houston for the All-Star game. Actually, there may be more than in recent years; Mike Piazza looks to have been voted in at catcher, which is amusing, plus Glavine and possibly Al Leiter could get the nod from Jack McKeon. This is a significant step up from last year's selection of Armando Blownitez, who was traded to the Yankees shortly thereafter. Of course, it's not exactly the Yankee domination of the ballots, though there's little surprise there, since they signed a half-dozen high-priced All-Stars this offseason.
A team that tries to coast into the break often finds itself three or four games worse in the standings than they should have been, and the hump over which they have to climb in the latter half soon proves insurmountable. These are the teams who are the last-minute entries in the dump-a-thon come late July. They hover around respectability for three months, then plummet down to mediocrity for the final three. If the Metropolitans can buck up and just break even over the next 11 contests, there will be sufficient momentum to tough it out through July. (An optimist might look at this as a huge opportunity to gain ground, but I don't think there are any left in the Mets' camp.) And pretty soon we're getting to what Mr. Wilpon called "meaningful games." Fancy that.
Do We Need to Fire Another Hitting Coach?
Reds 2, Mets 0
Record: 37-39
"Talk to me tomorrow after Cory 'American' Lidle silences the Mets hitters and I'm in a funk."
I didn't actually think that it would happen! Yes, Lidle beat the Mets last Thursday, but at 5-5/5.05, he wasn't a pitcher who should be able to do that twice within a week. He did. The Mets managed just four measly singles (two of them the infield variety, including a Tom Glavine bunt single) against Lidle and two relievers. Danny Graves recorded his 30th (!) save, inducing a Mike Cameron groundout with a man aboard to end it.
The Mets seemingly have been two games under .500 for the entire first half of the season. They're still but three games out of first, thanks to the Braves and Expos knocking off the Marlins and Phillies, respectively. They're only 4.5 games out of the wild card spot, though they rank 7th in those standings. And since you won't be able to do the math on how many games the Mets trail the Red Sox in our wager (since Rob has neglected his duties once again), I'll tell you: the Sox are 5 games up on the Mets, needing 22 to earn Rob the golden prize.
Glavine continues to look sharp, and the rotation, minus a few bumps in the road here and there, is coming together. The bats are still quite cold, though, and that's going to be an issue in the very near future. The Mets seem to be just trying to hang in there until the All-Star break; to be within a handful of games of the top spot in the division would be an accomplishment in any Met fan's book. Here's the problem:
JULY:
Thu. 1 at Cincinnati
Fri. 2 NY Yankees
Sat. 3 NY Yankees
Sun. 4 NY Yankees
Mon. 5 at Philadelphia
Tue. 6 at Philadelphia
Wed. 7 at Philadelphia
Thu. 8 at Philadelphia
Fri. 9 at Florida
Sat. 10 at Florida
Sun. 11 at Florida
ALL-STAR BREAK
Yikes, zoiks, skiddit, and every other nonsensical expression meaning "I think I just soiled myself." Today's season-series closer against the Redlegs looks like "must-win" all of a sudden. The Yanks have used the Mets like a drum pad over the last few years, and seven straight games visiting the current divisional co-leaders looms just over the behemoth Yankee shoulders. It will have been 13 consecutive days with games against non-slouch adversaries. I suppose there are some tiny rays of light here -- there's no chance for bats to become rusty, plus there won't be too many Mets heading to Houston for the All-Star game. Actually, there may be more than in recent years; Mike Piazza looks to have been voted in at catcher, which is amusing, plus Glavine and possibly Al Leiter could get the nod from Jack McKeon. This is a significant step up from last year's selection of Armando Blownitez, who was traded to the Yankees shortly thereafter. Of course, it's not exactly the Yankee domination of the ballots, though there's little surprise there, since they signed a half-dozen high-priced All-Stars this offseason.
A team that tries to coast into the break often finds itself three or four games worse in the standings than they should have been, and the hump over which they have to climb in the latter half soon proves insurmountable. These are the teams who are the last-minute entries in the dump-a-thon come late July. They hover around respectability for three months, then plummet down to mediocrity for the final three. If the Metropolitans can buck up and just break even over the next 11 contests, there will be sufficient momentum to tough it out through July. (An optimist might look at this as a huge opportunity to gain ground, but I don't think there are any left in the Mets' camp.) And pretty soon we're getting to what Mr. Wilpon called "meaningful games." Fancy that.
Wednesday, June 30, 2004
Game 75 - Mets
(NYM:-@CIN)
Mets 7, Reds 5
Record: 37-38
You know what's really stupid? I've noticed over the course of the past year and a half that a certain percentage, call it anywhere between 5 and 20% percent, of my overall mood on a given day is based on the results of my sports team's latest performance. This is tough to justify, particularly if I were to snap at my children overly harshly on the heels of a sweep to the Pirates. But that doesn't make it any less actual.
During football season, Monday mornings (or the occasional Tuesday, though my team hasn't been nominated for too many MNF outings of late) feature an upbeat or downtrodden demeanor 50-75% of which is easily gauged by checking the very top of the front page of that day's Washington Post. The rest of the week is either hill or valley shaped, as mid-week even-keel reverts to Monday-morning form by the eve of the next game, in either a "we can't lose" euphoria or "here comes another beating" dread. Sunday finds me on edge, and it's back to square one on Monday. It's a cycle more regular than a gymnast's.
Then there's baseball season. There are ten times as many games, and therefore ten times as many highs and lows. Somewhere on a bulletin board inside my brain is the calming phrase "See the Big Picture," intended to diminish the roller coaster of the MLB season. Of course, right under that is witless graffiti such as "I took a big picture of your mom last night," since hokey, pseudo-inspirational mantras like that which find themselves on the coffee mug in your boss's hand and 8 x 12's in airplane magazines aren't worth the cheap crap they're printed on. (Uh, I think I just referred to my brain as cheap crap, but if the Dollar-Store Cerebrum fits . . .) Assuring myself that the season is a long one, so one-game emotions should be tempered by this wisdom just ain't enough Ritalin for this spaz. (Sorry . . . attention-challenged; looks like my PC just crashed). When the jokers from Queens put it together for nine long innings and add another entry in the cavernous W column, adrenaline flows a little, though it may be more of a sigh of relief than true elation. And when they lose, it's deflation. Not all wins or losses are the same (the Montessori approach to reading the standings), so there are varying degrees of weight placed on or lifted from my frame afterwards. But there's more of this weight added and dropped over the course of a season than on a high school wrestling team. And so the mood swing chart of a baseball season looks as erratic and spiky as my cardiogram when I ate half-priced burgers at The Cowboy Cafe fifty Tuesdays in one year. (Did You Know?: There's actually more metaphor than statement in this paragraph. Feeling a bit flowery today, Whitney?) (Did You Know? II: There are also more parentheses in here than in an Emoticon Dictionary.) (Which, by the way, might be the dorkiest thing in a dorky industry.)
Whew. Anyway, back to the Mets. I guess my point here is yes, the season is incredibly long, making games like last night's win over the Reds less than monumental. Especially considering Sean Casey's calf strain and Junior Griffey's cramps (sorry, one cycle gag per column) neutralized the pep in Cincy's order. But do you think I won't take this win and run with it? Come on, now. Little moments in a game often determine the outcome, and little games make up a season. Take the Orioles' loss to KC last night: two umpires' failure to correctly call a two-out, two-strike check-swing that didn't check led to two runs, which ultimately X-ed the O's. And between bad luck like that, lumped in with poor fielding, a rotation with more holes than a wiffle ball, and a closer who closes as well as a car door with Jorge Julio's head stuck in it, have added up to double-digits' worth of winnable losss for Baltimore, making the difference between a successful first half and a disappointing one. The Yankees, already holding the pink slip for their playoff berth, can afford to drop those little cheapies along the way, though, to their credit, they aren't doing so. The Mets, however, need to be miserly with such offerings, and when the meat of an opponent's lineup is sliced from the batting card, they must capitalize. They did, thanks in large part to Cliff Floyd, and so I appreciate yet another little positive in this marathon of a season.
As an aside, when I called my brother-in-law Patrick last night and asked him what he was doing, he replied, "Watching the Mets win." It was 7-1 in the seventh. Two innings later, at 7-5, I hollered towards Manhattan, demanding to know if he'd bothered to read yesterday's drivel about superstition. Please, people, don't do that crap to me.
Man, today's post has more fluff than a Tony Kornheiser column eating smores on a featherbed. My apologies. I guess I'm just on Cloud 9 after a win. Talk to me tomorrow after Cory "American" Lidle silences the Mets hitters and I'm in a funk. And by the way, for those of you buying into Rob "Sick Temper Tyrannis" Russell's cool nonchalance on the other side of the blogtracks, caveat emptor. I'm reasonably certain he hasn't weighed in today on last night's bludgeoning because he smashed his computer.
(NYM:-@CIN)
Mets 7, Reds 5
Record: 37-38
You know what's really stupid? I've noticed over the course of the past year and a half that a certain percentage, call it anywhere between 5 and 20% percent, of my overall mood on a given day is based on the results of my sports team's latest performance. This is tough to justify, particularly if I were to snap at my children overly harshly on the heels of a sweep to the Pirates. But that doesn't make it any less actual.
During football season, Monday mornings (or the occasional Tuesday, though my team hasn't been nominated for too many MNF outings of late) feature an upbeat or downtrodden demeanor 50-75% of which is easily gauged by checking the very top of the front page of that day's Washington Post. The rest of the week is either hill or valley shaped, as mid-week even-keel reverts to Monday-morning form by the eve of the next game, in either a "we can't lose" euphoria or "here comes another beating" dread. Sunday finds me on edge, and it's back to square one on Monday. It's a cycle more regular than a gymnast's.
Then there's baseball season. There are ten times as many games, and therefore ten times as many highs and lows. Somewhere on a bulletin board inside my brain is the calming phrase "See the Big Picture," intended to diminish the roller coaster of the MLB season. Of course, right under that is witless graffiti such as "I took a big picture of your mom last night," since hokey, pseudo-inspirational mantras like that which find themselves on the coffee mug in your boss's hand and 8 x 12's in airplane magazines aren't worth the cheap crap they're printed on. (Uh, I think I just referred to my brain as cheap crap, but if the Dollar-Store Cerebrum fits . . .) Assuring myself that the season is a long one, so one-game emotions should be tempered by this wisdom just ain't enough Ritalin for this spaz. (Sorry . . . attention-challenged; looks like my PC just crashed). When the jokers from Queens put it together for nine long innings and add another entry in the cavernous W column, adrenaline flows a little, though it may be more of a sigh of relief than true elation. And when they lose, it's deflation. Not all wins or losses are the same (the Montessori approach to reading the standings), so there are varying degrees of weight placed on or lifted from my frame afterwards. But there's more of this weight added and dropped over the course of a season than on a high school wrestling team. And so the mood swing chart of a baseball season looks as erratic and spiky as my cardiogram when I ate half-priced burgers at The Cowboy Cafe fifty Tuesdays in one year. (Did You Know?: There's actually more metaphor than statement in this paragraph. Feeling a bit flowery today, Whitney?) (Did You Know? II: There are also more parentheses in here than in an Emoticon Dictionary.) (Which, by the way, might be the dorkiest thing in a dorky industry.)
Whew. Anyway, back to the Mets. I guess my point here is yes, the season is incredibly long, making games like last night's win over the Reds less than monumental. Especially considering Sean Casey's calf strain and Junior Griffey's cramps (sorry, one cycle gag per column) neutralized the pep in Cincy's order. But do you think I won't take this win and run with it? Come on, now. Little moments in a game often determine the outcome, and little games make up a season. Take the Orioles' loss to KC last night: two umpires' failure to correctly call a two-out, two-strike check-swing that didn't check led to two runs, which ultimately X-ed the O's. And between bad luck like that, lumped in with poor fielding, a rotation with more holes than a wiffle ball, and a closer who closes as well as a car door with Jorge Julio's head stuck in it, have added up to double-digits' worth of winnable losss for Baltimore, making the difference between a successful first half and a disappointing one. The Yankees, already holding the pink slip for their playoff berth, can afford to drop those little cheapies along the way, though, to their credit, they aren't doing so. The Mets, however, need to be miserly with such offerings, and when the meat of an opponent's lineup is sliced from the batting card, they must capitalize. They did, thanks in large part to Cliff Floyd, and so I appreciate yet another little positive in this marathon of a season.
As an aside, when I called my brother-in-law Patrick last night and asked him what he was doing, he replied, "Watching the Mets win." It was 7-1 in the seventh. Two innings later, at 7-5, I hollered towards Manhattan, demanding to know if he'd bothered to read yesterday's drivel about superstition. Please, people, don't do that crap to me.
Man, today's post has more fluff than a Tony Kornheiser column eating smores on a featherbed. My apologies. I guess I'm just on Cloud 9 after a win. Talk to me tomorrow after Cory "American" Lidle silences the Mets hitters and I'm in a funk. And by the way, for those of you buying into Rob "Sick Temper Tyrannis" Russell's cool nonchalance on the other side of the blogtracks, caveat emptor. I'm reasonably certain he hasn't weighed in today on last night's bludgeoning because he smashed his computer.
Tuesday, June 29, 2004
Games 72 through 74 - Red Sox
Changes in Altitude, Changes in Attitude
Red Sox 12, Philadelphia Phillies 1
Phillies 9, Red Sox 2
Red Sox 12, Phillies 3
Record: 42-32
It's amazing what three days in Golden, CO and the surrounding environs - with absolutely no access to Red Sox baseball - will do for a man's perspective. Nearly all my Red Sox angst has flowed away, and seemingly drifted to Whitney judging by the essay immediately below this one. In its place on the eve of Armageddon, Part III - This Time It Means Something to Steinbrenner, is a strange, laid-back calm.
Granted, that calm will only last until Derek Lowe's first pained expression after walking three straight batters in tonight's game against the Yankees, but I'm better than I was before I went to the Rockies. While I was gone, Martinez and Schilling won and Arroyo lost, the offense had two monster outings and one mediocre one, David Ortiz continued to mash the cover off of the ball, and, well, who knows what else. Ignorance (and a .667 winning percentage, albeit in a small sample) is bliss.
Let's ponder the month that David Ortiz has had, shall we. He entered June batting .274 with a .323 OBP and a .500 SLG average. Since the last day of May, he's put up .365/.382/.698, good for a 1.080 OPS, with 8 homers and 28 batted in. He's struck out roughly once every 6 ABs in June, after posting 1-in-4 numbers during the season's first two months. Those, frankly, are Player of the Month stat lines. Short right field porch in Yankee Stadium, meet Mr. Ortiz.
Speaking of Yankee Stadium, the Sox head into the maw of the beast for a three-game set beginning tonight. Big Stein has declared payback an imperative, as the Sox currently own a 6-1 season mark against the Yankees. From my now-mellow perspective, the Sox have to take 1 of the 3 games - they can't fall to 8.5 back, even in June, because the psychological implications are unpleasant to contemplate. Anything better than 1 of 3 would be sublime, and might make Steinbrenner's head explode. The pitching matchups aren't spectacular for the Sox - Lowe/Vazquez, Wakefield/Lieber, Martinez/TBD (actually, Pedro should dominate TBD) - but neither are they lopsided in favor of the Yankees, depending upon which Tim Wakefield shows up.
I've been searching for a new mantra for this season, and maybe my altitude-inspired (seriously, the Rockies are just freaking spectacular) laissez-faire is the perfect guide. We'll see how the Yankee series goes, but the MLC staff is leaning towards a climbing-the-mountain sort of theme for this Sox club. Just so you know.
Changes in Altitude, Changes in Attitude
Red Sox 12, Philadelphia Phillies 1
Phillies 9, Red Sox 2
Red Sox 12, Phillies 3
Record: 42-32
It's amazing what three days in Golden, CO and the surrounding environs - with absolutely no access to Red Sox baseball - will do for a man's perspective. Nearly all my Red Sox angst has flowed away, and seemingly drifted to Whitney judging by the essay immediately below this one. In its place on the eve of Armageddon, Part III - This Time It Means Something to Steinbrenner, is a strange, laid-back calm.
Granted, that calm will only last until Derek Lowe's first pained expression after walking three straight batters in tonight's game against the Yankees, but I'm better than I was before I went to the Rockies. While I was gone, Martinez and Schilling won and Arroyo lost, the offense had two monster outings and one mediocre one, David Ortiz continued to mash the cover off of the ball, and, well, who knows what else. Ignorance (and a .667 winning percentage, albeit in a small sample) is bliss.
Let's ponder the month that David Ortiz has had, shall we. He entered June batting .274 with a .323 OBP and a .500 SLG average. Since the last day of May, he's put up .365/.382/.698, good for a 1.080 OPS, with 8 homers and 28 batted in. He's struck out roughly once every 6 ABs in June, after posting 1-in-4 numbers during the season's first two months. Those, frankly, are Player of the Month stat lines. Short right field porch in Yankee Stadium, meet Mr. Ortiz.
Speaking of Yankee Stadium, the Sox head into the maw of the beast for a three-game set beginning tonight. Big Stein has declared payback an imperative, as the Sox currently own a 6-1 season mark against the Yankees. From my now-mellow perspective, the Sox have to take 1 of the 3 games - they can't fall to 8.5 back, even in June, because the psychological implications are unpleasant to contemplate. Anything better than 1 of 3 would be sublime, and might make Steinbrenner's head explode. The pitching matchups aren't spectacular for the Sox - Lowe/Vazquez, Wakefield/Lieber, Martinez/TBD (actually, Pedro should dominate TBD) - but neither are they lopsided in favor of the Yankees, depending upon which Tim Wakefield shows up.
I've been searching for a new mantra for this season, and maybe my altitude-inspired (seriously, the Rockies are just freaking spectacular) laissez-faire is the perfect guide. We'll see how the Yankee series goes, but the MLC staff is leaning towards a climbing-the-mountain sort of theme for this Sox club. Just so you know.
Monday, June 28, 2004
Games 67 through 74 - Mets
Not Quite Back in the New York Groove
Mets 4, Tigers 3
Mets 6, Tigers 1
Mets 7, Reds 4
Reds 6, Mets 4
Reds 6, Mets 2
Mets 9, Yankees 3
Yankees 8, Mets 1
Yankees 11, Mets 6
Record: 36-38
And you're still the same
I caught up with you yesterday
There you stood, everybody watched you play
I just turned and walked away
I had nothing left to say
'Cause you're still the same
You're still the same
Moving game to game
Some things never change
You're still the same
No, I wasn't hanging out with Bob Seger last week, though I was forced into consuming a few Silver Bullets -- an unfortunate When In Rome effect. But Seger's lines do apply here, as I caught up yesterday after a week as far removed from all things New York Mets as I will comfortably go. And it was still the same -- seven days away did nothing to change the hideous pattern. Here's how the Metless week went:
On the road for 2 days without baseball -- Mets complete sweep of the Tigers
Out in Aspen with no ESPN -- Mets beat the Reds
Call in to Rob for an update -- Reds beat the Mets
Catch some highlights -- Reds win again
Attend wedding festivities Fri/Sat, oblivious -- rainout and a win vs. Yankees
Read details, catch up on Mets while flying home -- Mets crushed in Game 1
Watch Game 2 of doubleheader -- Mets peppered again
It's such a tired act by now. That it parallels the hot-and-cold Red Sox performances which follow Mr. Russell's rant-or-rave postings has me wondering, though. Is this just the law of averages applying to baseball results, and we're too stupid to realize it? Do all baseball teams go through these ups and downs, and as fans we're just off? It reminds me of Spring Break in Daytona when 14 of us were going through the cycle of party day/hangover day/party day/hangover day and there was just this one ridiculous friend who would be going wild while we recuperated and lying on the floor while we went out. Is that me with the Mets? Pathetic.
If that's true, though, then all I need to do is fake-left-go-right, right? Now that I'm back and it's time to bemoan dropping a winnable series against Cincy and yet another bungled doubleheader, I should just continue to keep a close eye and it'll all work out? Rob just needs to crush the Sox after they took two of three from the Phillies, and the cosmic, anti-magnet force will adjust, no?
No. We've tried this before, and the evidence is mounting. When I follow the Mets' progress closely, they lose. When I hunker down and tune in for the duration, they lose badly. If I were to go to a game, they might fold the franchise. When Rob applauds the Red Sox, they lose. When he trashes them, they win. And the level of vitriol therein is directly proportional to the level of solid play soon thereafter. It's beyond uncanny. It's odder than The Odd Couple, it's weirder than Weird Science, it's stranger than L'Étranger. It's not just bizarre, though, it's painful.
Part of understanding how this continuing phenomenon affects me is understanding my idiotically superstitious nature. If there's any correlation between the amount of attention I give the Mets and how well they perform, this cannot be coincidental. This is real. It's probably a punishment for something I've done, but that's irrelevant. I'm a guy who's afraid to flip around at commercial if my team is playing well, and as an ADD case study, that's saying something. Of course, if they start to falter, I'll flip away, then come back, repeating this measure until they do pick it up. Like many fans, I have lucky jerseys and hats, but past history has taught me that all team paraphernalia has hot and cold streaks just like a sports team, and sometime you have to yank that lucky shirt and go with something else. I've worn absolutely hideous clothing just to shake things up. In college, there was an extended period of time when my Washington Redskins would only play well when my friend Cliff and I would leave the gang watching it on the tube and drive around Williamsburg in his Accord with the game on the radio. The difference wasn't marginal, and it wasn't a vague sense of improvement via karmic alteration. It was palpable, it was plain to see, and it was perfectly obvious. It was real.
I have always been willing to make changes in the way I follow my teams in order to improve their chances. Look, I realize that there was nothing a lucky hat or a special seat at the bar could do to avoid that little stroll through the valley of the shadow of death last season, but there is luck woven into the seams of major league baseball, and acknowledging that there might be something you can do to help is the mark of the fan (short for fanatic). With umpiring calls, bounces, sun location, fan interactions, and the occasional surreal in-game happenings all floating up there in that good luck / bad luck mesosphere, if you can decrypt but one temporary key to good fortune, you have to act upon it. If you say you don't believe in such things, you're just being lazy. Step it up, and perhaps the bad things will start happening to other teams.
I'll flaunt the ugliest piece of crap Mets-wear if I must. I'll watch the game from a 1973 9" RCA if it pushes them over the top. I'll cheer for them exclusively in French, take a lap around the house between innings, or eat a hot dog for every run they score if it seems to be working. Hell, I even donned an A's cap last year to aid Rob's Sox in the playoffs when I realized I was a jinx. (That I refused to wear Yankees garb to help a brother out doesn't diminish the level of friendship, it just magnifies the ill will against a certain crosstown club.)
I'm certainly not unique, though; I saw Rob Russell nearly hospitalize himself when he vowed to take a pair of Bacardi shots for every run the Sox scored in the high-scoring Game 3 of the 1988 ALCS. This self-inflicted torture in the name of the home team is something every true die-hard will levy, and it can pay off twice -- you're helping the team win, which makes you happy, and you'll be able to accept some of the credit for the success, which makes you happier. It also makes you a candidate for some R&R at the Golden Brook Sanitarium, where you can get some prescription happiness to boot.
So what is the point of all of this? I've belabored the point that I'll go to just about any extreme to improve the chances of the Mets winning, but I will not do what this season's empirical evidence leads me to conclude is the necessary measure: I will not abandon my participation in this Mets season in order to see them thrive. I won't give up this column, turn off the tube, and shy away from the boxes on D3. I won't closet the caps, delete the links, and redirect conversations away from the Metropolitans. I don't care if it becomes clear that the Mets are one fan's neglect away from the World Series, I refuse to take myself out of the game. Because deep down in places I don't talk about at parties, I'm not sure I actually believe in any of the cosmic bullshit I just spouted about for four paragraphs. And just in case I'm wrong about all of that, I don't want to have missed even one inning of baseball.
Wow, there's some sound and fury for you. Well, I'll cut it here, keeping me from having to figure out why the Mets can't even salvage a split in doubleheaders. They conceded both games of all four double-dippers they played in 2003, and they kicked off their '04 two-fers with a pair of nut-shots yesterday. Even scarier is how badly they've lost those 10 games -- by a combined 81-31, allowing five or more runs every time. Supposedly the next time the skies are ready to open up on the team, Art Howe is going to grab the PA microphone and lead the crowd in a "No rain!" chant a la Neil Young in Live Rust. It's either that or go 70's retro and build the Shea-dome. Whatever it is, until the Mets come to terms with the fact that doubleheaders aren't optional practices, we'll be keeping our fingers crossed for a drought to follow the Mets' plane route. If this drought has peripheral effects that cause damage to communities around the nation, we'll just chalk it up to Things We'll Endure to Help the Mets, as found in Fandom 101.
Not Quite Back in the New York Groove
Mets 4, Tigers 3
Mets 6, Tigers 1
Mets 7, Reds 4
Reds 6, Mets 4
Reds 6, Mets 2
Mets 9, Yankees 3
Yankees 8, Mets 1
Yankees 11, Mets 6
Record: 36-38
And you're still the same
I caught up with you yesterday
There you stood, everybody watched you play
I just turned and walked away
I had nothing left to say
'Cause you're still the same
You're still the same
Moving game to game
Some things never change
You're still the same
No, I wasn't hanging out with Bob Seger last week, though I was forced into consuming a few Silver Bullets -- an unfortunate When In Rome effect. But Seger's lines do apply here, as I caught up yesterday after a week as far removed from all things New York Mets as I will comfortably go. And it was still the same -- seven days away did nothing to change the hideous pattern. Here's how the Metless week went:
On the road for 2 days without baseball -- Mets complete sweep of the Tigers
Out in Aspen with no ESPN -- Mets beat the Reds
Call in to Rob for an update -- Reds beat the Mets
Catch some highlights -- Reds win again
Attend wedding festivities Fri/Sat, oblivious -- rainout and a win vs. Yankees
Read details, catch up on Mets while flying home -- Mets crushed in Game 1
Watch Game 2 of doubleheader -- Mets peppered again
It's such a tired act by now. That it parallels the hot-and-cold Red Sox performances which follow Mr. Russell's rant-or-rave postings has me wondering, though. Is this just the law of averages applying to baseball results, and we're too stupid to realize it? Do all baseball teams go through these ups and downs, and as fans we're just off? It reminds me of Spring Break in Daytona when 14 of us were going through the cycle of party day/hangover day/party day/hangover day and there was just this one ridiculous friend who would be going wild while we recuperated and lying on the floor while we went out. Is that me with the Mets? Pathetic.
If that's true, though, then all I need to do is fake-left-go-right, right? Now that I'm back and it's time to bemoan dropping a winnable series against Cincy and yet another bungled doubleheader, I should just continue to keep a close eye and it'll all work out? Rob just needs to crush the Sox after they took two of three from the Phillies, and the cosmic, anti-magnet force will adjust, no?
No. We've tried this before, and the evidence is mounting. When I follow the Mets' progress closely, they lose. When I hunker down and tune in for the duration, they lose badly. If I were to go to a game, they might fold the franchise. When Rob applauds the Red Sox, they lose. When he trashes them, they win. And the level of vitriol therein is directly proportional to the level of solid play soon thereafter. It's beyond uncanny. It's odder than The Odd Couple, it's weirder than Weird Science, it's stranger than L'Étranger. It's not just bizarre, though, it's painful.
Part of understanding how this continuing phenomenon affects me is understanding my idiotically superstitious nature. If there's any correlation between the amount of attention I give the Mets and how well they perform, this cannot be coincidental. This is real. It's probably a punishment for something I've done, but that's irrelevant. I'm a guy who's afraid to flip around at commercial if my team is playing well, and as an ADD case study, that's saying something. Of course, if they start to falter, I'll flip away, then come back, repeating this measure until they do pick it up. Like many fans, I have lucky jerseys and hats, but past history has taught me that all team paraphernalia has hot and cold streaks just like a sports team, and sometime you have to yank that lucky shirt and go with something else. I've worn absolutely hideous clothing just to shake things up. In college, there was an extended period of time when my Washington Redskins would only play well when my friend Cliff and I would leave the gang watching it on the tube and drive around Williamsburg in his Accord with the game on the radio. The difference wasn't marginal, and it wasn't a vague sense of improvement via karmic alteration. It was palpable, it was plain to see, and it was perfectly obvious. It was real.
I have always been willing to make changes in the way I follow my teams in order to improve their chances. Look, I realize that there was nothing a lucky hat or a special seat at the bar could do to avoid that little stroll through the valley of the shadow of death last season, but there is luck woven into the seams of major league baseball, and acknowledging that there might be something you can do to help is the mark of the fan (short for fanatic). With umpiring calls, bounces, sun location, fan interactions, and the occasional surreal in-game happenings all floating up there in that good luck / bad luck mesosphere, if you can decrypt but one temporary key to good fortune, you have to act upon it. If you say you don't believe in such things, you're just being lazy. Step it up, and perhaps the bad things will start happening to other teams.
I'll flaunt the ugliest piece of crap Mets-wear if I must. I'll watch the game from a 1973 9" RCA if it pushes them over the top. I'll cheer for them exclusively in French, take a lap around the house between innings, or eat a hot dog for every run they score if it seems to be working. Hell, I even donned an A's cap last year to aid Rob's Sox in the playoffs when I realized I was a jinx. (That I refused to wear Yankees garb to help a brother out doesn't diminish the level of friendship, it just magnifies the ill will against a certain crosstown club.)
I'm certainly not unique, though; I saw Rob Russell nearly hospitalize himself when he vowed to take a pair of Bacardi shots for every run the Sox scored in the high-scoring Game 3 of the 1988 ALCS. This self-inflicted torture in the name of the home team is something every true die-hard will levy, and it can pay off twice -- you're helping the team win, which makes you happy, and you'll be able to accept some of the credit for the success, which makes you happier. It also makes you a candidate for some R&R at the Golden Brook Sanitarium, where you can get some prescription happiness to boot.
So what is the point of all of this? I've belabored the point that I'll go to just about any extreme to improve the chances of the Mets winning, but I will not do what this season's empirical evidence leads me to conclude is the necessary measure: I will not abandon my participation in this Mets season in order to see them thrive. I won't give up this column, turn off the tube, and shy away from the boxes on D3. I won't closet the caps, delete the links, and redirect conversations away from the Metropolitans. I don't care if it becomes clear that the Mets are one fan's neglect away from the World Series, I refuse to take myself out of the game. Because deep down in places I don't talk about at parties, I'm not sure I actually believe in any of the cosmic bullshit I just spouted about for four paragraphs. And just in case I'm wrong about all of that, I don't want to have missed even one inning of baseball.
Wow, there's some sound and fury for you. Well, I'll cut it here, keeping me from having to figure out why the Mets can't even salvage a split in doubleheaders. They conceded both games of all four double-dippers they played in 2003, and they kicked off their '04 two-fers with a pair of nut-shots yesterday. Even scarier is how badly they've lost those 10 games -- by a combined 81-31, allowing five or more runs every time. Supposedly the next time the skies are ready to open up on the team, Art Howe is going to grab the PA microphone and lead the crowd in a "No rain!" chant a la Neil Young in Live Rust. It's either that or go 70's retro and build the Shea-dome. Whatever it is, until the Mets come to terms with the fact that doubleheaders aren't optional practices, we'll be keeping our fingers crossed for a drought to follow the Mets' plane route. If this drought has peripheral effects that cause damage to communities around the nation, we'll just chalk it up to Things We'll Endure to Help the Mets, as found in Fandom 101.
Thursday, June 24, 2004
Games 69 through 71 - Red Sox
Quick and Dirty (and Shitty)
Red Sox 9, Minnesota Twins 2
Twins 4, Red Sox 2
Twins 4, Red Sox 3
Record: 40-31
My boss has been on vacation all week, leaving me in charge. Lesson: if being the boss means I have to work this hard all the time, I don't want to be the boss.
As for the Sox, I have little time, and little good to say, so here goes:
This team is playing like making the playoffs is a foregone conclusion - all they need to do is go through the regular season motions, and they'll wind up in the inevitable Good vs. Evil ALCS with the Yankees. Which is a load of crap. If they keep losing home series' to inferior opponents, they'll wind up squandering the most talented Sox roster in the last 30 years, which will piss me right off. I'm thisclose to getting really down on this team, because I believe in them so, so much, and they're not rewarding that belief. Turn it on, goddammit.
Gone for the weekend effective right now, so we'll see on Monday how my aimless missive from cyberspace impacts the Sox' performance.
Quick and Dirty (and Shitty)
Red Sox 9, Minnesota Twins 2
Twins 4, Red Sox 2
Twins 4, Red Sox 3
Record: 40-31
My boss has been on vacation all week, leaving me in charge. Lesson: if being the boss means I have to work this hard all the time, I don't want to be the boss.
As for the Sox, I have little time, and little good to say, so here goes:
This team is playing like making the playoffs is a foregone conclusion - all they need to do is go through the regular season motions, and they'll wind up in the inevitable Good vs. Evil ALCS with the Yankees. Which is a load of crap. If they keep losing home series' to inferior opponents, they'll wind up squandering the most talented Sox roster in the last 30 years, which will piss me right off. I'm thisclose to getting really down on this team, because I believe in them so, so much, and they're not rewarding that belief. Turn it on, goddammit.
Gone for the weekend effective right now, so we'll see on Monday how my aimless missive from cyberspace impacts the Sox' performance.
Tuesday, June 22, 2004
Too Clever by Half
I hate it when my brain thinks it's being funny and forgets to remind my fingers to complete the thought. The headline of yesterday's post reflects the fact that Edgardo AlFONZo hit game-winning homers in each of the Sox' losses to the Giants. Sure would have been nice for me to include that in the actual post itself.
In a related note, the Sox held Barry "Shut Up, You Ninny" Bonds pretty well in check during the series, allowing only 1 hit in 13 plate appearances, though they did walk him 5 times. It gets harder and harder to appreciate Bonds' incomprehensibly good statistics every time he opens his mouth. Apparently, Boston is a racist city, and will never change, according to Bonds - even though he's never played there. As a wise man once said, 'tis better to keep your mouth shut and have people think you're an idiot then to open it and confirm that you are. A pox on his house.
The Whitney Across America tour finds our hero in Denver this morning, after a stop in Kansas City on Sunday night. He and his traveling companion, Dave Pellicane, stayed up until 2:00 am throwing darts and drinking on Saturday night/Sunday morning, then jumped in the car at 6:00 am and drove for 16 hours. Well played, sirs.
I hate it when my brain thinks it's being funny and forgets to remind my fingers to complete the thought. The headline of yesterday's post reflects the fact that Edgardo AlFONZo hit game-winning homers in each of the Sox' losses to the Giants. Sure would have been nice for me to include that in the actual post itself.
In a related note, the Sox held Barry "Shut Up, You Ninny" Bonds pretty well in check during the series, allowing only 1 hit in 13 plate appearances, though they did walk him 5 times. It gets harder and harder to appreciate Bonds' incomprehensibly good statistics every time he opens his mouth. Apparently, Boston is a racist city, and will never change, according to Bonds - even though he's never played there. As a wise man once said, 'tis better to keep your mouth shut and have people think you're an idiot then to open it and confirm that you are. A pox on his house.
The Whitney Across America tour finds our hero in Denver this morning, after a stop in Kansas City on Sunday night. He and his traveling companion, Dave Pellicane, stayed up until 2:00 am throwing darts and drinking on Saturday night/Sunday morning, then jumped in the car at 6:00 am and drove for 16 hours. Well played, sirs.
Monday, June 21, 2004
Games 66 through 68 - Red Sox
The Gang at Arnold's is Going Bonkers
Red Sox 14, San Francisco Giants 9
Giants 6, Red Sox 4
Giants 4, Red Sox 0
Record: 39-29
I simply cannot get a handle on this team. When I rant and pout about their poor performance, they blitz somebody. When I fill my head with positive vibrations, they shit themselves. One minute I think they're stacked, and with any luck at all will cruise to the inevitable ALCS showdown with the Yankees. The next breath finds me crawling along the floor looking for fissures in the foundation that I'm certain exist. And nearly every waking moment finds me decrying interleague play, if only because the Sox suck so miserable against the Senior Circuit.
After all the soul searching, and the doubt, and the True Sox Fan passion plays, I keep coming back to this: these Sox are wicked talented, and despite losing 4 of 6, only going 24-23 over the last 47, and all-in-all not playing to nearly their full potential, they're still only 4.5 behind the white-hot Yankees and on top of the Wild Card standings. The question that's on the table, then, is this: will the real 2004 Red Sox please stand up?
18 games until the All-Star break, including 12 at home and 3 in the Bronx, and all 18 against contenders (MIN, PHI, NYY, ATL, OAK, TEX). This could well be a defining stretch for this team. 12-6 isn't out of the question, but neither is 8-10 the way the Sox seem to be indifferent for annoyingly long spans this season. I just don't sense any fire in this team, led as they are by another mild-mannered, kumbaya-singing sort of guy. Then again, it's a long season, and they are positioned right where they need to be to make a playoff run.
Cripes, if I flip-flopped any more about this team I'd be John Kerry. I need a slogan, a rallying cry, a fifth starter, and somebody to kidnap Cesar Crespo, but as Stewart Elliott learned to his dismay in the Belmont, going to the whip too early is a sure recipe for disaster. So the Express remains in the garage, and the faint echoes of targets, and "lotta ball" whisper aimlessly around the ballyard, to be collected and harnessed as needed, but not any time soon. Until that time, how 'bout you win a few games in a row, huh?
The Gang at Arnold's is Going Bonkers
Red Sox 14, San Francisco Giants 9
Giants 6, Red Sox 4
Giants 4, Red Sox 0
Record: 39-29
I simply cannot get a handle on this team. When I rant and pout about their poor performance, they blitz somebody. When I fill my head with positive vibrations, they shit themselves. One minute I think they're stacked, and with any luck at all will cruise to the inevitable ALCS showdown with the Yankees. The next breath finds me crawling along the floor looking for fissures in the foundation that I'm certain exist. And nearly every waking moment finds me decrying interleague play, if only because the Sox suck so miserable against the Senior Circuit.
After all the soul searching, and the doubt, and the True Sox Fan passion plays, I keep coming back to this: these Sox are wicked talented, and despite losing 4 of 6, only going 24-23 over the last 47, and all-in-all not playing to nearly their full potential, they're still only 4.5 behind the white-hot Yankees and on top of the Wild Card standings. The question that's on the table, then, is this: will the real 2004 Red Sox please stand up?
18 games until the All-Star break, including 12 at home and 3 in the Bronx, and all 18 against contenders (MIN, PHI, NYY, ATL, OAK, TEX). This could well be a defining stretch for this team. 12-6 isn't out of the question, but neither is 8-10 the way the Sox seem to be indifferent for annoyingly long spans this season. I just don't sense any fire in this team, led as they are by another mild-mannered, kumbaya-singing sort of guy. Then again, it's a long season, and they are positioned right where they need to be to make a playoff run.
Cripes, if I flip-flopped any more about this team I'd be John Kerry. I need a slogan, a rallying cry, a fifth starter, and somebody to kidnap Cesar Crespo, but as Stewart Elliott learned to his dismay in the Belmont, going to the whip too early is a sure recipe for disaster. So the Express remains in the garage, and the faint echoes of targets, and "lotta ball" whisper aimlessly around the ballyard, to be collected and harnessed as needed, but not any time soon. Until that time, how 'bout you win a few games in a row, huh?
Saturday, June 19, 2004
Games 65 and 66 - Mets
Mountain a Comeback?
Mets 6, Indians 2
Mets 3, Tigers 2
Record: 32-34
Now this is what playing the AL Central is supposed to be like. After succumbing to the Twins and Royals like it was the mid-1980's or something, the Mets took two of three from the Tribe and opened up the series against Detroit with a dramatic win. Mike Cameron, whose first couple of months only fueled speculation about a Carlos Beltran deal, jacked a ninth-inning off-speeder into the back of the left-field bleachers to beat the Tigers last night.
Tom "Gold" Glavine not only presented another quality start for the Metros but also drove in two with a single in the fifth to tie the game, enabling Cameron to break the tie in the ninth with his solo shot. The legions of writers who declared Mr. Glavine dead in the water after last year haven't yet begun to own up to jumping that gun, and I won't hold my breath waiting, but let me be the first to retract my wholesale rejection of TG last year. An MLC reader recently wrote in with a hypothesis of even year/odd year fortunes and Glavine which he equated to Bret Saberhagen in the 80's, and maybe even the Cincinnati Bengals. We'll look into that one.
Third place, 4.5 out, two games under sea level. I think it's time for a big run by the boys in blue and orange, which necessitates one thing. I need to leave town, not blog on, and follow the Mets only with the passing fancy of, say, a Braves fan. Catch a box score here, a highlight there, have little to no insight on the team. [I know, I know, I have none anyway -- hilarious, Rob.]
Well, that's just what I'll do then. I am packing my bags and heading far, far away . . . the Rockies sound far enough. Alrighty then. Tomorrow morning I will drive to the Colorado for the week. I'll return refreshed and ready to resume my role as the scribe of all things New York Mets. And as long as they have Internet access in Detox, no problem. And remember, Mets fans, I am doing this for you. When it comes to this team, there is no sacrifice I won't make up.
One of Life's Little Questions: can you get a Pabst at Coors Field?
Mountain a Comeback?
Mets 6, Indians 2
Mets 3, Tigers 2
Record: 32-34
Now this is what playing the AL Central is supposed to be like. After succumbing to the Twins and Royals like it was the mid-1980's or something, the Mets took two of three from the Tribe and opened up the series against Detroit with a dramatic win. Mike Cameron, whose first couple of months only fueled speculation about a Carlos Beltran deal, jacked a ninth-inning off-speeder into the back of the left-field bleachers to beat the Tigers last night.
Tom "Gold" Glavine not only presented another quality start for the Metros but also drove in two with a single in the fifth to tie the game, enabling Cameron to break the tie in the ninth with his solo shot. The legions of writers who declared Mr. Glavine dead in the water after last year haven't yet begun to own up to jumping that gun, and I won't hold my breath waiting, but let me be the first to retract my wholesale rejection of TG last year. An MLC reader recently wrote in with a hypothesis of even year/odd year fortunes and Glavine which he equated to Bret Saberhagen in the 80's, and maybe even the Cincinnati Bengals. We'll look into that one.
Third place, 4.5 out, two games under sea level. I think it's time for a big run by the boys in blue and orange, which necessitates one thing. I need to leave town, not blog on, and follow the Mets only with the passing fancy of, say, a Braves fan. Catch a box score here, a highlight there, have little to no insight on the team. [I know, I know, I have none anyway -- hilarious, Rob.]
Well, that's just what I'll do then. I am packing my bags and heading far, far away . . . the Rockies sound far enough. Alrighty then. Tomorrow morning I will drive to the Colorado for the week. I'll return refreshed and ready to resume my role as the scribe of all things New York Mets. And as long as they have Internet access in Detox, no problem. And remember, Mets fans, I am doing this for you. When it comes to this team, there is no sacrifice I won't make up.
One of Life's Little Questions: can you get a Pabst at Coors Field?
Friday, June 18, 2004
Games 64 & 65 - Red Sox
Playing Under Duress
Rockies 7, Red Sox 6
Red Sox 11, Rockies 0
Record: 38-27
The above-mentioned duress is mine, not the Red Sox', laboring as I am under the pressures of a deadline at work and an impending 4-hour car trip with two children under the age of 3. That's my excuse for the brevity of this offering, and I'm sticking to it. You, gentle reader, should be thanking your lucky stars for even this tiny burst of inspired Soxprose.
It's amazing what an 11-run win will do to a man's perspective, especially when it involves 7 more shutout innings from Derek Lowe. Sure, the Sox lost a series to the bottom-dwelling Rockies, and with it dropped another game to the Yankees. But Lowe's now hurled 19 consecutive scoreless innings, right after the villagers of Red Sox Nation had taken up torches and clubs and begun hunting his monstrous presence in the rotation will malice aforethought. "Nothing to see here," Lowe's performance over the last three games declares, "Go on back home and pray for Curt's ankle." And so we do, sheepishly.
Nomar was 3-for-5 with a triple yesterday, Trot homered in his first game back in the loss on Wednesday, Schilling's MRI reportedly showed no major damage, and the Yankees finally lost to the D-Backs. You won't likely hear from me this weekend, but know that I go into the break with pleasant Soxthoughts flitting through my mind.
Playing Under Duress
Rockies 7, Red Sox 6
Red Sox 11, Rockies 0
Record: 38-27
The above-mentioned duress is mine, not the Red Sox', laboring as I am under the pressures of a deadline at work and an impending 4-hour car trip with two children under the age of 3. That's my excuse for the brevity of this offering, and I'm sticking to it. You, gentle reader, should be thanking your lucky stars for even this tiny burst of inspired Soxprose.
It's amazing what an 11-run win will do to a man's perspective, especially when it involves 7 more shutout innings from Derek Lowe. Sure, the Sox lost a series to the bottom-dwelling Rockies, and with it dropped another game to the Yankees. But Lowe's now hurled 19 consecutive scoreless innings, right after the villagers of Red Sox Nation had taken up torches and clubs and begun hunting his monstrous presence in the rotation will malice aforethought. "Nothing to see here," Lowe's performance over the last three games declares, "Go on back home and pray for Curt's ankle." And so we do, sheepishly.
Nomar was 3-for-5 with a triple yesterday, Trot homered in his first game back in the loss on Wednesday, Schilling's MRI reportedly showed no major damage, and the Yankees finally lost to the D-Backs. You won't likely hear from me this weekend, but know that I go into the break with pleasant Soxthoughts flitting through my mind.
Thursday, June 17, 2004
This Just In
All of the pertinent news sources (except WFAN, who says the Mets claim this deal isn't finalized) are telling us that the Mets have shipped David Weathers to Houston for outfielder Richard Hidalgo. I have been harping on Weathers' slow (not slow enough) decline for some time, but what with the bullpen in full-on Colander Mode, this might not be the time to pull a resource. Still, there's no denying the need (a) to make some changes or (b) to add a potentially potent bat. Here's what was said about Hidalgo today:
"Hidalgo, 28, hit 44 homers and drove in 122 runs as recently as 2000, but has fallen off since and is now a part-time player with a .256 average, four homers and 30 RBI in 199 at-bats."
A fallen-off, part-time player with a better batting average than half our starting lineup and with five more RBI's than anyone except Mike Piazza. Wow, the Mets really are putrid at the plate. I have always felt that Hidalgo was a flash in the pan type of player who benefited from Houston's tinker-toy ballpark and who strikes out way too much (3-to-1 K-to-BB this year). His speed on the basepaths is nil, though his arm in RF is solid. He's definitely a question mark, but he does fill a void, somewhat.
Right field, though lacking a marquee player, had not been an area of real need during the first month of the season -- the ex-Yank tandem of Shane Spencer & Karim Garcia had been getting the job done quite nicely. Then Garcia forgot how to make maple meet horsehide and Spencer got dinged up. Gerald Williams has managed a few hits thus far, but at 37 he's not any sort of future. (Hidalgo's 12 million dollars owed if the Mets pick up his option in '05 probably make him no future, either, but never mind that.)
Oh, well, what the hell. We'll try anything at this point. The season's not lost yet, so add a few more elements to the potion. If it blows up, at least you tried. In addition to Hidalgo, the Astros are reportedly sending $4 million to help even out the salary discrepancy. This won't even be that much of a financial investment. I hope this deal is indeed done. I was tired of watching Dave Weathers retire 11% of his first batters, anyway.
In other news, Vance Wilson's strained hamstring is serious enough for a trip to the DL. He's scheduling an appointment with Jose Reyes's doctor so he can hurt his back, too, and return next spring. To replace Wilson, the Mets called up . . . Wilson. Tom, that is, the former Blue Jay catcher who has a little bit of pop, if I recall. The Wilson boys thing is kind of neat, huh? Kind of like a Wilsons thing in the Beach Boys, or the B-52's, or Heart, or even Wilson Phillips? Holy hell, what is it about being named Wilson that when you form a band you have to include your siblings? I guess when Mookie and the Metmen take the stage, he'll need a sib in his back-up band.
All of the pertinent news sources (except WFAN, who says the Mets claim this deal isn't finalized) are telling us that the Mets have shipped David Weathers to Houston for outfielder Richard Hidalgo. I have been harping on Weathers' slow (not slow enough) decline for some time, but what with the bullpen in full-on Colander Mode, this might not be the time to pull a resource. Still, there's no denying the need (a) to make some changes or (b) to add a potentially potent bat. Here's what was said about Hidalgo today:
"Hidalgo, 28, hit 44 homers and drove in 122 runs as recently as 2000, but has fallen off since and is now a part-time player with a .256 average, four homers and 30 RBI in 199 at-bats."
A fallen-off, part-time player with a better batting average than half our starting lineup and with five more RBI's than anyone except Mike Piazza. Wow, the Mets really are putrid at the plate. I have always felt that Hidalgo was a flash in the pan type of player who benefited from Houston's tinker-toy ballpark and who strikes out way too much (3-to-1 K-to-BB this year). His speed on the basepaths is nil, though his arm in RF is solid. He's definitely a question mark, but he does fill a void, somewhat.
Right field, though lacking a marquee player, had not been an area of real need during the first month of the season -- the ex-Yank tandem of Shane Spencer & Karim Garcia had been getting the job done quite nicely. Then Garcia forgot how to make maple meet horsehide and Spencer got dinged up. Gerald Williams has managed a few hits thus far, but at 37 he's not any sort of future. (Hidalgo's 12 million dollars owed if the Mets pick up his option in '05 probably make him no future, either, but never mind that.)
Oh, well, what the hell. We'll try anything at this point. The season's not lost yet, so add a few more elements to the potion. If it blows up, at least you tried. In addition to Hidalgo, the Astros are reportedly sending $4 million to help even out the salary discrepancy. This won't even be that much of a financial investment. I hope this deal is indeed done. I was tired of watching Dave Weathers retire 11% of his first batters, anyway.
In other news, Vance Wilson's strained hamstring is serious enough for a trip to the DL. He's scheduling an appointment with Jose Reyes's doctor so he can hurt his back, too, and return next spring. To replace Wilson, the Mets called up . . . Wilson. Tom, that is, the former Blue Jay catcher who has a little bit of pop, if I recall. The Wilson boys thing is kind of neat, huh? Kind of like a Wilsons thing in the Beach Boys, or the B-52's, or Heart, or even Wilson Phillips? Holy hell, what is it about being named Wilson that when you form a band you have to include your siblings? I guess when Mookie and the Metmen take the stage, he'll need a sib in his back-up band.
Game 64 - Mets
Slop Sloppy Baseball
Indians 9, Mets 1
Record: 30-34
At first glance, this was a throw-away game, one of those 35 games a year that Rob talks about being a predetermined loss. But it wasn't, really, and the problems that led to the 9-1 whipping aren't an aberration and aren't going away with any more firings. The game was 2-1 into the 6th. The 35 doomed games come when you must tip your cap to the other team for simply being better on a given night. Committing two errors, firing a pair of run-scoring wild pitches, and bungling several more fielding plays certainly means the Mets were worse, but were the Indians really that much better last night?
Yeah, okay, pretty much. C.C. Sabathia threw a great game, making the Mets look bad -- fire-your-hitting-coach bad. Their batters had timely hits, the kind the Mets swore off sometime in April. Part of that is top-to-bottom hitting, with every player contributing something. While the Mets haven't been making contact all that well, their timing has been worse. I'm not talking about bat-meets-ball timing, though that could obviously use an overhaul as well. It's times when the 1-2 hitters go 6-for-8 and the 3-4 hitters go 0-for-8, and one run is scored. Last night saw three hits by the 2 & 3 spots and three hits by the 7 & 8 spots sandwiching a fat slice of 4-5-6 oh-fer turkey. How many times have the Mets worked to load the bases and then shot themselves in the spikes? The defense has the excuse of being played largely out of position, but that complaint doesn't really transfer to the offense, unless you count "in the major leagues" as "out of position."
Speaking of playing out of position on defense, that reminds me of a story. Wanna hear it? Here it go. Sometime over a decade ago (yikes), Rob Russell and I attended a Tidewater (now Norfolk) Tides game at Met Park. Met Park was a strange old place. Right off I-64, it was a dated, run-down, very minor-league-looking stadium that sported us to not only good baseball every time we made the trip, but also to something bizarre and usually humorous. From our bellowing buddy Chris dropping a foul pop on TV to Chuck Carr lacing a triple to the gap three minutes after Rob's and my definitive conclusion that you couldn't possibly leg out a triple in that park to this mildly humorous episode, it was always a little bit out there. (Not to mention my touchdown at my high school Homecoming game in the Park -- that was certainly X-files rare.)
Rob and I didn't notice it in the second inning, but I think we picked up on Tim Bogar's position switch to start the third inning. And when he took left field to start the fourth, we knew what was up. It was the last game of the season for the Tides, and starting shortstop Tim Bogar was playing a different position every inning. He made his way around the outfield in the middle innings and took first for the seventh. Rob and I mused whether he'd actually suit up the gear and get behind the plate, and especially whether he'd take the mound. Sure enough, there was Bogar at catcher in the eighth, and doing a pretty good job at it, too. The Tides had a comfortable lead, making this sidelight gravy. Bogar completed the feat as he stepped onto the hill in Top 9. The crowd roared when Bogar fired a strike. That he might be competent at the role was unexpected. When he struck out the first batter, it was a as frenzied as it could get for the postseason-denied Tides; these theatrics were taking a pleasant evening at the ballpark and raising it to a level that obviously embanked itself in my memory. The thought of this infielder possibly coming in and striking out the side to end the season was, albeit in a baseball equivalent of small-town community theater, high drama. And then Tim Bogar reared back and fired a fastball right into the face of the second batter. The hitter was taken to the hospital and Bogar was lifted for a "real" pitcher, who did close it out. Hollywood feelgood becomes black comedy. Awesome. And that, my friends, plus the sinister, muffled laughter Rob and I choked back until we got to the car, is why this little outing is memorable. Tim Bogar did make it to the bigs with the Mets and Astros; his numbers were largely unimpressive (.228 BA), but every time we saw him we'd think of him re-arranging someone's facial structure during his little gag. He actually had a pair of major league pitching appearances, with a 4.50 career ERA. And you think Roger Clemens scares hitters?
Slop Sloppy Baseball
Indians 9, Mets 1
Record: 30-34
At first glance, this was a throw-away game, one of those 35 games a year that Rob talks about being a predetermined loss. But it wasn't, really, and the problems that led to the 9-1 whipping aren't an aberration and aren't going away with any more firings. The game was 2-1 into the 6th. The 35 doomed games come when you must tip your cap to the other team for simply being better on a given night. Committing two errors, firing a pair of run-scoring wild pitches, and bungling several more fielding plays certainly means the Mets were worse, but were the Indians really that much better last night?
Yeah, okay, pretty much. C.C. Sabathia threw a great game, making the Mets look bad -- fire-your-hitting-coach bad. Their batters had timely hits, the kind the Mets swore off sometime in April. Part of that is top-to-bottom hitting, with every player contributing something. While the Mets haven't been making contact all that well, their timing has been worse. I'm not talking about bat-meets-ball timing, though that could obviously use an overhaul as well. It's times when the 1-2 hitters go 6-for-8 and the 3-4 hitters go 0-for-8, and one run is scored. Last night saw three hits by the 2 & 3 spots and three hits by the 7 & 8 spots sandwiching a fat slice of 4-5-6 oh-fer turkey. How many times have the Mets worked to load the bases and then shot themselves in the spikes? The defense has the excuse of being played largely out of position, but that complaint doesn't really transfer to the offense, unless you count "in the major leagues" as "out of position."
Speaking of playing out of position on defense, that reminds me of a story. Wanna hear it? Here it go. Sometime over a decade ago (yikes), Rob Russell and I attended a Tidewater (now Norfolk) Tides game at Met Park. Met Park was a strange old place. Right off I-64, it was a dated, run-down, very minor-league-looking stadium that sported us to not only good baseball every time we made the trip, but also to something bizarre and usually humorous. From our bellowing buddy Chris dropping a foul pop on TV to Chuck Carr lacing a triple to the gap three minutes after Rob's and my definitive conclusion that you couldn't possibly leg out a triple in that park to this mildly humorous episode, it was always a little bit out there. (Not to mention my touchdown at my high school Homecoming game in the Park -- that was certainly X-files rare.)
Rob and I didn't notice it in the second inning, but I think we picked up on Tim Bogar's position switch to start the third inning. And when he took left field to start the fourth, we knew what was up. It was the last game of the season for the Tides, and starting shortstop Tim Bogar was playing a different position every inning. He made his way around the outfield in the middle innings and took first for the seventh. Rob and I mused whether he'd actually suit up the gear and get behind the plate, and especially whether he'd take the mound. Sure enough, there was Bogar at catcher in the eighth, and doing a pretty good job at it, too. The Tides had a comfortable lead, making this sidelight gravy. Bogar completed the feat as he stepped onto the hill in Top 9. The crowd roared when Bogar fired a strike. That he might be competent at the role was unexpected. When he struck out the first batter, it was a as frenzied as it could get for the postseason-denied Tides; these theatrics were taking a pleasant evening at the ballpark and raising it to a level that obviously embanked itself in my memory. The thought of this infielder possibly coming in and striking out the side to end the season was, albeit in a baseball equivalent of small-town community theater, high drama. And then Tim Bogar reared back and fired a fastball right into the face of the second batter. The hitter was taken to the hospital and Bogar was lifted for a "real" pitcher, who did close it out. Hollywood feelgood becomes black comedy. Awesome. And that, my friends, plus the sinister, muffled laughter Rob and I choked back until we got to the car, is why this little outing is memorable. Tim Bogar did make it to the bigs with the Mets and Astros; his numbers were largely unimpressive (.228 BA), but every time we saw him we'd think of him re-arranging someone's facial structure during his little gag. He actually had a pair of major league pitching appearances, with a 4.50 career ERA. And you think Roger Clemens scares hitters?
Wednesday, June 16, 2004
And Now for Something Slightly Different
I've been wildly enjoying SOSH poster Jose Melendez' KEYS TO THE GAME - a must-read component of every game thread. See here for an example. Makes even crappy games like yesterday's highly entertaining.
I've been wildly enjoying SOSH poster Jose Melendez' KEYS TO THE GAME - a must-read component of every game thread. See here for an example. Makes even crappy games like yesterday's highly entertaining.
Game 63 - Red Sox
Rocky Mountain Highly Annoying
Colorado Rockies 6, Red Sox 3
Record: 37-26
I hate getting old for a lot of reasons. Today's particular beef is that getting old means I can't stay up until 12:30 am any more to follow baseball games that start at 9:05 EST to their conclusion. At least, I can't without stumbling through the better part of the morning in a coma. Which leads to:
I hate waiting patiently for the ESPN SportsTicker to scroll through WNBA, Tennis, and Major League Soccer scores before going to commercial just as baseball overnights come up. And I hate holding my breath just to see Red Sox 3, Rockies 6 followed by Yankees 4, Diamondbacks 2. And, apropos of nothing, I hate Gary Sheffield.
Schizophrenia Tour 2004 - Sox Over America continues in full bloom, as I don't know whether to remain positive or start breaking things. Among the positives:
* - Trot Nixon starts for the Sox tonight, marking his first appearance of the 2004 season. Of course, if Nomar's first week is any basis for comparison, I'd probably rather see Gabe Kapler in the lineup.
* - Scott Williamson's back in the bullpen, and throwing fairly well.
* - Curt Schilling is slated to start tonight, which tells this medically untrained fan that he's not too badly injured - though he's going to get an injection of something called Marcaine before the game. That sound you hear is the furious knocking of wood. Not my own.
* - The Yankees have received some fairly negative injury news in recent days, with Kevin Brown heading to the DL (Shocked. I'm shocked.), Mike Mussina leaving a game with a groin strain, and critical relief component Steve Karsay cancelling a rehab start with discomfort. New York's relatively old relief corps (at least the Rivera-Gordon-Quantrill meat of it) will be called on to throw a lot of innings during June and July, which could spell good things for the Sox in August and September.
* - And finally, to continue to beat this drum, the Sox haven't had a full team yet, and they're still within hailing distance of the Yankees and in the Wild Card lead.
On the other hand:
* - They're 4.5 games back of the Yankees, who are on a wicked tear despite the aforementioned injury worries.
* - The Sox seem incapable of going on a serious tear, despite chalking up series victory after series victory. The entire Yankee lead in the division has been built on the strength of an 11-2 run, during which the Sox have scuffled to 6-6.
* - Nomar's not been effective in his first week back - not shocking, but still not happymaking.
* - While Pedro and Lowe had had recent effective starts, Tim Wakefield's allowed 20 runs in his last 18 1/3 innings.
Still 99 games to play, and a handy Prozac/Percoset cocktail stands at the ready on my bedside table just in case. With a sigh, I reluctantly remain optimistic about the rest of the season. As I've said before, I could be a Mets fan.
Rocky Mountain Highly Annoying
Colorado Rockies 6, Red Sox 3
Record: 37-26
I hate getting old for a lot of reasons. Today's particular beef is that getting old means I can't stay up until 12:30 am any more to follow baseball games that start at 9:05 EST to their conclusion. At least, I can't without stumbling through the better part of the morning in a coma. Which leads to:
I hate waiting patiently for the ESPN SportsTicker to scroll through WNBA, Tennis, and Major League Soccer scores before going to commercial just as baseball overnights come up. And I hate holding my breath just to see Red Sox 3, Rockies 6 followed by Yankees 4, Diamondbacks 2. And, apropos of nothing, I hate Gary Sheffield.
Schizophrenia Tour 2004 - Sox Over America continues in full bloom, as I don't know whether to remain positive or start breaking things. Among the positives:
* - Trot Nixon starts for the Sox tonight, marking his first appearance of the 2004 season. Of course, if Nomar's first week is any basis for comparison, I'd probably rather see Gabe Kapler in the lineup.
* - Scott Williamson's back in the bullpen, and throwing fairly well.
* - Curt Schilling is slated to start tonight, which tells this medically untrained fan that he's not too badly injured - though he's going to get an injection of something called Marcaine before the game. That sound you hear is the furious knocking of wood. Not my own.
* - The Yankees have received some fairly negative injury news in recent days, with Kevin Brown heading to the DL (Shocked. I'm shocked.), Mike Mussina leaving a game with a groin strain, and critical relief component Steve Karsay cancelling a rehab start with discomfort. New York's relatively old relief corps (at least the Rivera-Gordon-Quantrill meat of it) will be called on to throw a lot of innings during June and July, which could spell good things for the Sox in August and September.
* - And finally, to continue to beat this drum, the Sox haven't had a full team yet, and they're still within hailing distance of the Yankees and in the Wild Card lead.
On the other hand:
* - They're 4.5 games back of the Yankees, who are on a wicked tear despite the aforementioned injury worries.
* - The Sox seem incapable of going on a serious tear, despite chalking up series victory after series victory. The entire Yankee lead in the division has been built on the strength of an 11-2 run, during which the Sox have scuffled to 6-6.
* - Nomar's not been effective in his first week back - not shocking, but still not happymaking.
* - While Pedro and Lowe had had recent effective starts, Tim Wakefield's allowed 20 runs in his last 18 1/3 innings.
Still 99 games to play, and a handy Prozac/Percoset cocktail stands at the ready on my bedside table just in case. With a sigh, I reluctantly remain optimistic about the rest of the season. As I've said before, I could be a Mets fan.
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