Games 53 through 55 - Red Sox
Tigers 6, Red Sox 2
Red Sox 8, Tigers 3
Yankees 10, Red Sox 2 (in progress - bottom 3)
Record: About to be 33-22
I've been holding my breath over the past few weeks, thinking (hoping, maybe?) that Ebby Calvin Beckett's struggles were related to adjusting to a new league and not a sign that his bright, shiny million dollar arm was married to a 5-cent head. The jury came back tonight with an emphatic verdict. Gold? Gelded, maybe.
Beckett gave up 8 runs in 1 2/3 innings, allowing homers to Andy Phillips and Jason Giambi and running his ERA to 5.40 on the season. As I type this, Jermaine Van Buren just walked his 4th Yankee in relief of Beckett and won't make it out of the 3rd. With rookie David Pauley on the slate to be sacrificed to the Yankee offense tomorrow, it sure looks like we'll see a position player taking the mound at some point in this debacle. The Sox play 8 games in the next 7 days, which means that the starting staff has to take some of the burden off of the bullpen - this is a less than auspicious beginning to that stretch. (The Yanks just plated 3 more runs as I typed this paragraph - 13-2 after 3. Look for A-Rod to have a massive game - from this point on.)
On top of Matt Clement's well-documented headcase tendencies and David Wells' notorious instability, Beckett's mental midgetry puts the Sox in some jeopardy as the season progresses. Highly touted rookie Jon Lester makes his major league debut on Saturday - at this rate he's going to have to play a big role if the Sox want to be in the mix in September. And it's not like he's gonna have quality role models in the Fenway clubhouse. Doug Mirabelli's side job will be to keep Lester away from the twitchy guy wearing No. 30, the weird kid with the patchy beard, and the fat drunk dude. Then, Curt Schilling will get ahold of him and Lester won't be able to hear himself think for a week. It'll be up to Tim Wakefield to help the kid through his first start, which is fine so long as Wake's recent streak of snakebitten luck doesn't rub off on the lad.
Back to the issue at hand, Beckett's stuff is so, so good that it makes his inability to get outs baffling - or easily explained by his stubborn refusal to pitch instead of throw. I'll be sacrificing a live chicken in a few moments in hopes of reversing that trend. Until then, I'm just hoping that David Riske's got 6 innings in him.
(Random aside, as we're in the rambly part of this game and this blog - Jason Varitek has gone 0-2 with 2 double plays tonight, running his career record against Mike Mussina to 5-52 with 24 Ks. I'm not sure we're talking about small sample size anymore - mayhaps the Sox should consider resting 'Tek against Moose next time the righthander's turn falls against Boston.)
Oh, and in all the excitement, I completely spaced on the fact that the Columbus Clippers are the ones beating the Sox' brains in this evening. Miguel Cairo's playing short in Derek Jeter's absence, the aforementioned Andy Phillips is hitting bombs, Melky Cabrera and Bernie Williams are starting in the outfield in place of Gary Sheffield and Hideki Matsui - you get the point. I've got a sinking feeling that this may be the last morning I wake up to see the Sox in first place for quite some time.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Friday, June 02, 2006
Signs
Games 51 & 52 - Red Sox
Red Sox 8, Blue Jays 6
Red Sox 3, Detroit Tigers 2
Record: 32-20
I don't know where to begin the recitation of the Rod Sterling flavor that imbued my evening, so let's lead off with the thunderstorm.
The Sox trailed the Tigers, 2-1, entering the bottom of the 9th. I'd half-watched most of the game, distracted by assorted domestic duties (not the least of which was trying to make the perfect martini), but settled in on my couch with The Da Vinci Code in one hand and the aforementioned libation in the other. And yes, I realize that I might be the last sentient being on the planet to have read the book.
I was 40 pages from completing the book at the moment the Sox were 1 out from losing. The thunder rumbled distantly as Todd Jones retired Manny on a groundout. Jason Varitek popped meekly to 3rd when the rains began to fall, softly at first and then insistently against the windows in my living room. The DirectTV satellite struggled valiantly against the storm, but gave up the ghost just as Mike Lowell walked to the plate.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light was my first reaction, but the pull of the story's completion and the exaperation with the Sox' inability to solve Kenny Rogers compelled me to mute the television, turn on some live music and wait out the storm.
45 minutes, a martini and a beer later, I closed the book, done with the penultimate chapter in Dan Brown's best-selling story. At roughly that same moment, the TV flickered back on, showing fishing highlights on Fox Sports. Figuring the Sox had lost, I flipped a new page, but changed the channel to ESPNews just in case.
With the TV still muted, I thought for a moment that I saw a victory-signifying triangle next to the Sox' listing on the ESPNews ticker. As the line was obscured by the subtitles, I quickly turned to the mothership, hoping that ESPN could salve my curiousity. Alas, the Heat/Pistons postgame was in full bloom. Like Robert Langdon and Sophie Neveu, I sought the answer to my own personal riddle, flipping from ESPN to Fox to NESN in desparate pursuit of resolution.
Finally, Neil Everett's dulcet tones revealed the inspirational truth - Mike Lowell singled with 2 outs to keep the game going and Kevin Youkilis hit a 2-out bomb to left to give the Sox a 3-2 lead. Jonathan Papelbon throttled the Motor City Kitties in the bottom of the 9th to conclude the Sox quest.
While that was happening, I finished the book and the multiple drinks in the midst of a relatively epic light show, courtesy of the season's first really good thunderstorm. Signs, signs, everywhere signs - I can't help but think that this is a good, good omen for the Olde Towne Team. Or, at least, it makes for a good booze-addled blog theme.
Red Sox 8, Blue Jays 6
Red Sox 3, Detroit Tigers 2
Record: 32-20
I don't know where to begin the recitation of the Rod Sterling flavor that imbued my evening, so let's lead off with the thunderstorm.
The Sox trailed the Tigers, 2-1, entering the bottom of the 9th. I'd half-watched most of the game, distracted by assorted domestic duties (not the least of which was trying to make the perfect martini), but settled in on my couch with The Da Vinci Code in one hand and the aforementioned libation in the other. And yes, I realize that I might be the last sentient being on the planet to have read the book.
I was 40 pages from completing the book at the moment the Sox were 1 out from losing. The thunder rumbled distantly as Todd Jones retired Manny on a groundout. Jason Varitek popped meekly to 3rd when the rains began to fall, softly at first and then insistently against the windows in my living room. The DirectTV satellite struggled valiantly against the storm, but gave up the ghost just as Mike Lowell walked to the plate.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light was my first reaction, but the pull of the story's completion and the exaperation with the Sox' inability to solve Kenny Rogers compelled me to mute the television, turn on some live music and wait out the storm.
45 minutes, a martini and a beer later, I closed the book, done with the penultimate chapter in Dan Brown's best-selling story. At roughly that same moment, the TV flickered back on, showing fishing highlights on Fox Sports. Figuring the Sox had lost, I flipped a new page, but changed the channel to ESPNews just in case.
With the TV still muted, I thought for a moment that I saw a victory-signifying triangle next to the Sox' listing on the ESPNews ticker. As the line was obscured by the subtitles, I quickly turned to the mothership, hoping that ESPN could salve my curiousity. Alas, the Heat/Pistons postgame was in full bloom. Like Robert Langdon and Sophie Neveu, I sought the answer to my own personal riddle, flipping from ESPN to Fox to NESN in desparate pursuit of resolution.
Finally, Neil Everett's dulcet tones revealed the inspirational truth - Mike Lowell singled with 2 outs to keep the game going and Kevin Youkilis hit a 2-out bomb to left to give the Sox a 3-2 lead. Jonathan Papelbon throttled the Motor City Kitties in the bottom of the 9th to conclude the Sox quest.
While that was happening, I finished the book and the multiple drinks in the midst of a relatively epic light show, courtesy of the season's first really good thunderstorm. Signs, signs, everywhere signs - I can't help but think that this is a good, good omen for the Olde Towne Team. Or, at least, it makes for a good booze-addled blog theme.
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
The Kids Are Alright
Games 47 through 51 - Mets
Marlins 5, Mets 1
Mets 7, Marlins 4
Mets 7, Marlins 3
Mets 8, Diamondbacks 7
Diamondbacks 7, Mets 2
Record: 31-20
Looks like I picked the wrong week to start sniffing glue, or whatever the hell it was that precluded me from blogging at great length about the comings, goings, ups, downs, and all-around happenings at Mets Central. So much has happened, there’s not enough time or room to expound loquaciously about it all – and I just saw you wipe your brow, relieved by that fact. Bastards.
Since we started to sweat it a few weeks ago, the Mets have managed to win two series against legitimate contenders and one against the team whose payroll mimics that of an elementary school. They have a chance to notch another series W tonight with Pedro on the hill; despite the fact that the Metros have lost the last four games in which our cure-all “Tylenol P.M.” has started, and despite facing the 8-0 Brandon Webb, I still like the Mets’ chances.
The loudest news around Shea is that prospect A-#1 Lastings “Greenwich” Milledge made his big league debut last night. With Xavier Nady shelved with an appendectomy (and a bad back), Milledge was called up for at least a fortnight. His premiere went reasonably well: he appeared appropriately nervous, drove the ball well a couple of times, and went 1-for-4 with a garbage time double. Obviously the jury will be out for a long while on this kid, but you have to like what you’ve seen of him in various arenas thus far.
Meanwhile, Brian “Months Over My Hammy” Bannister is now on the 60-day DL, Lazarus Valentin has supplanted Kazarus Matsui, Cliff Floyd has officially transferred the title of his slump over to Carlos Delgado, the old new kid David Wright has resumed his reliably clutch role, and Steve Trachsel has failed to do much of anything worth a damn.
The rotation remains in flux to some degree; El Duque was somewhat solid in his first start, but Alay Soler was hit rather hard last night. With Trax looking incredibly ordinary at the moment, the Mets need Pedro to have one of those masterful outings tonight to demonstrate a rock-solid 1-2 to offset a gravelly 3-4-5. The offense has picked up the arms repeatedly, though last night you could sort of see a look of “look, are you guys even going to try to keep their runs down?” emanating from the dugout.
The Mets as a unit remain a promising squad that has work to do. They haven’t run up an ostentatious streak lately, mainly due to the unrest in the starting staff. That said, it doesn’t take a math whiz to realize that a progression of taking two of every three will lead them somewhere very comfortable. Enough holes to occupy their thoughts, enough success to keep them from pressing, enough non-baseball items on my personal agenda to keep me from doing much except watching the games and nodding along.
I do have to say: watching homegrown talent come through is a more inherently rewarding experience than seeing store-bought production do its job. I can only hope that Wright, Reyes, and now Milledge will bring me infinitely more moments of enthused excitement. These boys are ready to play – they ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm team no more.
Marlins 5, Mets 1
Mets 7, Marlins 4
Mets 7, Marlins 3
Mets 8, Diamondbacks 7
Diamondbacks 7, Mets 2
Record: 31-20
Looks like I picked the wrong week to start sniffing glue, or whatever the hell it was that precluded me from blogging at great length about the comings, goings, ups, downs, and all-around happenings at Mets Central. So much has happened, there’s not enough time or room to expound loquaciously about it all – and I just saw you wipe your brow, relieved by that fact. Bastards.
Since we started to sweat it a few weeks ago, the Mets have managed to win two series against legitimate contenders and one against the team whose payroll mimics that of an elementary school. They have a chance to notch another series W tonight with Pedro on the hill; despite the fact that the Metros have lost the last four games in which our cure-all “Tylenol P.M.” has started, and despite facing the 8-0 Brandon Webb, I still like the Mets’ chances.
The loudest news around Shea is that prospect A-#1 Lastings “Greenwich” Milledge made his big league debut last night. With Xavier Nady shelved with an appendectomy (and a bad back), Milledge was called up for at least a fortnight. His premiere went reasonably well: he appeared appropriately nervous, drove the ball well a couple of times, and went 1-for-4 with a garbage time double. Obviously the jury will be out for a long while on this kid, but you have to like what you’ve seen of him in various arenas thus far.
Meanwhile, Brian “Months Over My Hammy” Bannister is now on the 60-day DL, Lazarus Valentin has supplanted Kazarus Matsui, Cliff Floyd has officially transferred the title of his slump over to Carlos Delgado, the old new kid David Wright has resumed his reliably clutch role, and Steve Trachsel has failed to do much of anything worth a damn.
The rotation remains in flux to some degree; El Duque was somewhat solid in his first start, but Alay Soler was hit rather hard last night. With Trax looking incredibly ordinary at the moment, the Mets need Pedro to have one of those masterful outings tonight to demonstrate a rock-solid 1-2 to offset a gravelly 3-4-5. The offense has picked up the arms repeatedly, though last night you could sort of see a look of “look, are you guys even going to try to keep their runs down?” emanating from the dugout.
The Mets as a unit remain a promising squad that has work to do. They haven’t run up an ostentatious streak lately, mainly due to the unrest in the starting staff. That said, it doesn’t take a math whiz to realize that a progression of taking two of every three will lead them somewhere very comfortable. Enough holes to occupy their thoughts, enough success to keep them from pressing, enough non-baseball items on my personal agenda to keep me from doing much except watching the games and nodding along.
I do have to say: watching homegrown talent come through is a more inherently rewarding experience than seeing store-bought production do its job. I can only hope that Wright, Reyes, and now Milledge will bring me infinitely more moments of enthused excitement. These boys are ready to play – they ain’t gonna work on Maggie’s farm team no more.
Black Hole Sun
Games 46 through 50 – Red Sox
Red Sox 8, Devil Rays 4
Red Sox 6, Devil Rays 4
Red Sox 5, Devil Rays 4
Blue Jays 7, Red Sox 6
Blue Jays 8, Red Sox 5
Record: 30-20
I’m gonna hold off on the 50-game update for a few days, wait until game 54 and the 1/3 mark, because I’m in a foul, foul mood at the moment, and I really don’t think the Sox’ .600 record warrants the bile that I’d likely spew if I had to contemplate their season right now.
That won’t stop me from ranting about the events of the past few days, though. It seems that ownership of the Sox has been transferred from the Baltimore Orioles to the Toronto Blue Jays, with custodial rights to Vernon Wells. The Sox are 3-7 against the Jays thus far, largely because the pitching staff keeps throwing him fastballs middle-in and Wells keeps crushing them into the stands. Wells has 8 homers against the Sox this season after hitting 3 last night. He’s carrying a 1.449 OPS against his personal gimps on the Boston staff, chief among them Josh Beckett, who’s surrendered half of Wells’ longballs. Mayhaps a fastball to his ear today, gentlemen?
The Sox’ continued inability to beat the Jays is an annoyance, but the systemic meltdown of the last week is cause for grave concern in the Nation, masked as it was by the quiescence of the Devil Rays competitive spirit. (As an aside, perhaps the Rays should consider a more fitting moniker, like the Bunnies, or the Smiley Faces. They could establish a Stuart Smalley-inspired support group with the Kansas City Sleeping Dogs.) Exhibit the first is Matt Clement’s continued and excruciating lack of…hell, fill-in-the-blank: stones, skill, control, heart, etc. Like many Sox fans, I had high hopes when the Sox acquired Clement before last season, and those hopes seemed rewarded after his blistering start in 2005. Since then, perhaps influenced by the wicked liner he took off his head against the Bunnies, he’s been simply one of the very worst starting pitchers in baseball. His 6.91 ERA and 1.76 WHIP this season are bad enough, but his mental fragility compares unfavorably with that of long-departed Derek Lowe – like clockwork, the moment he faces moderate stress, Clement turns into a pumpkin. A pumpkin that gives up a ton of walks and puts an inordinate amount of strain on the bullpen.
Clement’s struggles exacerbate the Sox’ sudden pitching depth problem, especially since David Wells suffered a freak injury in his first start back from nearly season-long shelving. (Come to think of it, Wells was also hurt by a liner off the bat of a Bunny – those fuckers are owed some serious payback.) In addition to Wells, Mike Timlin is on the DL with shoulder tightness, meaning that the Sox will be counting on Jermaine Van Buren and Manny Delcarmen in increasingly high-leverage innings. Rookie David Pauley makes his major league debut this evening after never pitching an inning above AA – conveniently against the majors’ best offense. Couple that with back-to-back punchbowl turds courtesy of Beckett and Clement, and Mark Loretta may be asked to pitch in a mop-up role tonight.
Except that Loretta’s also on the list of walking wounded, missing last night’s game with a deep bruise after being hit on the toe with a pitch on Monday. Wily Mo Pena’s on the DL with wrist troubles, Manny’s missed a handful of games with nagging injuries this week, and Alex Gonzalez still can’t hit his way out of a paper sack. (Sorry, reflex)
And the real pisser here is that I can’t complain all that much about the Sox’ injury issues because the Yankees’ aches and pains are comparable. That’s another thing that’s chapping me at the moment – the Sox have had a chance over the season’s first third to gain some separation from a limping Yankee club, and every time they’ve found themselves with breathing room, they’ve handed it right back. Now that the grind of the regular season has caught up to the Sox, so have the Yanks – and asking David Pauley to rectify that circumstance was probably not part of the blueprint Theo drafted in March.
Luckily, in a way, I’m playing softball tonight, so I won’t get (have?) to watch as Tito sacrifices young Pauley to Vernon Wells and Troy Glaus. Traveling for work tomorrow and Friday, so you’ll have to wait for my reaction – the wounds won’t be as fresh by the time I get back here.
Red Sox 8, Devil Rays 4
Red Sox 6, Devil Rays 4
Red Sox 5, Devil Rays 4
Blue Jays 7, Red Sox 6
Blue Jays 8, Red Sox 5
Record: 30-20
I’m gonna hold off on the 50-game update for a few days, wait until game 54 and the 1/3 mark, because I’m in a foul, foul mood at the moment, and I really don’t think the Sox’ .600 record warrants the bile that I’d likely spew if I had to contemplate their season right now.
That won’t stop me from ranting about the events of the past few days, though. It seems that ownership of the Sox has been transferred from the Baltimore Orioles to the Toronto Blue Jays, with custodial rights to Vernon Wells. The Sox are 3-7 against the Jays thus far, largely because the pitching staff keeps throwing him fastballs middle-in and Wells keeps crushing them into the stands. Wells has 8 homers against the Sox this season after hitting 3 last night. He’s carrying a 1.449 OPS against his personal gimps on the Boston staff, chief among them Josh Beckett, who’s surrendered half of Wells’ longballs. Mayhaps a fastball to his ear today, gentlemen?
The Sox’ continued inability to beat the Jays is an annoyance, but the systemic meltdown of the last week is cause for grave concern in the Nation, masked as it was by the quiescence of the Devil Rays competitive spirit. (As an aside, perhaps the Rays should consider a more fitting moniker, like the Bunnies, or the Smiley Faces. They could establish a Stuart Smalley-inspired support group with the Kansas City Sleeping Dogs.) Exhibit the first is Matt Clement’s continued and excruciating lack of…hell, fill-in-the-blank: stones, skill, control, heart, etc. Like many Sox fans, I had high hopes when the Sox acquired Clement before last season, and those hopes seemed rewarded after his blistering start in 2005. Since then, perhaps influenced by the wicked liner he took off his head against the Bunnies, he’s been simply one of the very worst starting pitchers in baseball. His 6.91 ERA and 1.76 WHIP this season are bad enough, but his mental fragility compares unfavorably with that of long-departed Derek Lowe – like clockwork, the moment he faces moderate stress, Clement turns into a pumpkin. A pumpkin that gives up a ton of walks and puts an inordinate amount of strain on the bullpen.
Clement’s struggles exacerbate the Sox’ sudden pitching depth problem, especially since David Wells suffered a freak injury in his first start back from nearly season-long shelving. (Come to think of it, Wells was also hurt by a liner off the bat of a Bunny – those fuckers are owed some serious payback.) In addition to Wells, Mike Timlin is on the DL with shoulder tightness, meaning that the Sox will be counting on Jermaine Van Buren and Manny Delcarmen in increasingly high-leverage innings. Rookie David Pauley makes his major league debut this evening after never pitching an inning above AA – conveniently against the majors’ best offense. Couple that with back-to-back punchbowl turds courtesy of Beckett and Clement, and Mark Loretta may be asked to pitch in a mop-up role tonight.
Except that Loretta’s also on the list of walking wounded, missing last night’s game with a deep bruise after being hit on the toe with a pitch on Monday. Wily Mo Pena’s on the DL with wrist troubles, Manny’s missed a handful of games with nagging injuries this week, and Alex Gonzalez still can’t hit his way out of a paper sack. (Sorry, reflex)
And the real pisser here is that I can’t complain all that much about the Sox’ injury issues because the Yankees’ aches and pains are comparable. That’s another thing that’s chapping me at the moment – the Sox have had a chance over the season’s first third to gain some separation from a limping Yankee club, and every time they’ve found themselves with breathing room, they’ve handed it right back. Now that the grind of the regular season has caught up to the Sox, so have the Yanks – and asking David Pauley to rectify that circumstance was probably not part of the blueprint Theo drafted in March.
Luckily, in a way, I’m playing softball tonight, so I won’t get (have?) to watch as Tito sacrifices young Pauley to Vernon Wells and Troy Glaus. Traveling for work tomorrow and Friday, so you’ll have to wait for my reaction – the wounds won’t be as fresh by the time I get back here.
Friday, May 26, 2006
Play That Funky Music
Game 45 - Red Sox
Red Sox 4, Devil Rays 1
Record: 27-18
Good thing this music project is in full swing, because last night's game was probably the most frustrating victory I've seen since we've started this blog. The Sox left 329 men on base, taking 13 hits to score 4 runs - what should have been a laugher got not so funny after Jonathan Papelbon had to close the door on a Rays rally in the 8th.
But the musical meandering is underway, which helps take my mind off the suddenly anti-clutch hitting. Without further delay, the pitching staff:
Curt Schilling – I figure Schill would want something red, white, and blue, something pure rock and roll, something in keeping with his self-image as a warrior and a team leader. Springsteen’s No Surrender fits the bill, though Born in the USA or Glory Days would work great musically if not for the irony in the lyrics. Not many ballplayers would get that, but Schilling probably would.
Josh Beckett – rollicking rockabilly for the Sox’ new gunslinger, and one of my favorite songs: Old 97’s, King of All of the World is perfect for Beckett.
Matt Clement – Okay, I’m making an editorial statement here, one that’s not likely to help Clement get fired up, but his recent performances make Radiohead’s Creep the disappointing choice. “What the hell am I doing here/I don’t belong here”. Indeed.
Tim Wakefield – Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov’s Flight of the Bumblebee is a classical choice for the classiest of the Sox’ hurlers, on and off the field. That it describes his pitching style is a bonus.
David Wells – The pudgy no. 5 starter takes the mound tonight after a lengthy rehab. I fairly certain that he ingested his fair share of these while he was “working out”, making Cheeseburger in Paradise by Jimmy Buffett ruefully apropos.
Lenny Dinardo – Though he was never supposed to pitch as many high-leverage innings as he’s had to in the season’s first 50 games, Dinardo was game but overmatched. Which leads us to his theme song, Your Love by the Outfield, from the album Play Deep. Insert your wry smile here.
Rudy Seanez – I think Seanez is Mexican-American, but even if he’s not, Los Lobos’ Come on, Let’s Go is a pretty damn catchy song.
Julian Tavarez – Patsy Cline and Dave Matthews were bidding for this role, but Ozzy Osbourne bit both of their heads clean off. I think Crazy Train for Tavarez is the best match of player and music I’ve yet made.
David Riske – I don’t know a damn thing about Riske, and I don’t think I’ve seen him pitch yet, so I’m making a completely random choice, just because I love the song, and going with the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ Righteous and the Wicked.
Mike Timlin – the hard-throwing righty from Texas deserves some home cooking. George Strait’s The Fireman is not only a terrific tune, it describes Timlin’s sterling efforts since he’s been with the Sox.
Keith Foulke – Pearl Jam’s Jeremy works here, as Foulke was recently voted Most Likely Spree Killer by his teammates and the media.
Jonathan Papelbon – I really struggled with this one, as a number of great choices came to mind. Welcome to the Jungle, Hell’s Bells, Are You Experienced, Thriller (only for the Vincent Price spoken-word part) were all worth consideration. I landed on an obscure but classic selection, with Paps entering games to Zodiac Mindwarp’s Prime Mover – perfect combination of tempo and theme for the AL’s most dominant closer during the first 3rd of the season and maybe the single biggest reason for the Sox’ overall success to date.
This is fun - I may yet do the coaching staff.
Red Sox 4, Devil Rays 1
Record: 27-18
Good thing this music project is in full swing, because last night's game was probably the most frustrating victory I've seen since we've started this blog. The Sox left 329 men on base, taking 13 hits to score 4 runs - what should have been a laugher got not so funny after Jonathan Papelbon had to close the door on a Rays rally in the 8th.
But the musical meandering is underway, which helps take my mind off the suddenly anti-clutch hitting. Without further delay, the pitching staff:
Curt Schilling – I figure Schill would want something red, white, and blue, something pure rock and roll, something in keeping with his self-image as a warrior and a team leader. Springsteen’s No Surrender fits the bill, though Born in the USA or Glory Days would work great musically if not for the irony in the lyrics. Not many ballplayers would get that, but Schilling probably would.
Josh Beckett – rollicking rockabilly for the Sox’ new gunslinger, and one of my favorite songs: Old 97’s, King of All of the World is perfect for Beckett.
Matt Clement – Okay, I’m making an editorial statement here, one that’s not likely to help Clement get fired up, but his recent performances make Radiohead’s Creep the disappointing choice. “What the hell am I doing here/I don’t belong here”. Indeed.
Tim Wakefield – Nikolai Rimsky-Korsakov’s Flight of the Bumblebee is a classical choice for the classiest of the Sox’ hurlers, on and off the field. That it describes his pitching style is a bonus.
David Wells – The pudgy no. 5 starter takes the mound tonight after a lengthy rehab. I fairly certain that he ingested his fair share of these while he was “working out”, making Cheeseburger in Paradise by Jimmy Buffett ruefully apropos.
Lenny Dinardo – Though he was never supposed to pitch as many high-leverage innings as he’s had to in the season’s first 50 games, Dinardo was game but overmatched. Which leads us to his theme song, Your Love by the Outfield, from the album Play Deep. Insert your wry smile here.
Rudy Seanez – I think Seanez is Mexican-American, but even if he’s not, Los Lobos’ Come on, Let’s Go is a pretty damn catchy song.
Julian Tavarez – Patsy Cline and Dave Matthews were bidding for this role, but Ozzy Osbourne bit both of their heads clean off. I think Crazy Train for Tavarez is the best match of player and music I’ve yet made.
David Riske – I don’t know a damn thing about Riske, and I don’t think I’ve seen him pitch yet, so I’m making a completely random choice, just because I love the song, and going with the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ Righteous and the Wicked.
Mike Timlin – the hard-throwing righty from Texas deserves some home cooking. George Strait’s The Fireman is not only a terrific tune, it describes Timlin’s sterling efforts since he’s been with the Sox.
Keith Foulke – Pearl Jam’s Jeremy works here, as Foulke was recently voted Most Likely Spree Killer by his teammates and the media.
Jonathan Papelbon – I really struggled with this one, as a number of great choices came to mind. Welcome to the Jungle, Hell’s Bells, Are You Experienced, Thriller (only for the Vincent Price spoken-word part) were all worth consideration. I landed on an obscure but classic selection, with Paps entering games to Zodiac Mindwarp’s Prime Mover – perfect combination of tempo and theme for the AL’s most dominant closer during the first 3rd of the season and maybe the single biggest reason for the Sox’ overall success to date.
This is fun - I may yet do the coaching staff.
If Music Could Talk
Games 45 & 46 – Mets
Mets 5, Phillies 4
Phillies 5, Mets 3
Record: 28-18
There is much to discuss in Metville right about now: the emergence of Olay Soler, the arrival of El Duque, the acquisition of Dave Williams, the fadeout of Jeremi Gonzalez, the power surge of Jose Reyes, the resumption of the hero’s role for David Wright, etc. There are 15 good (and by good, I mean verbose and self-indulgent) paragraphs of material today.
And so, without further delay, I will jump right into the fun game Rob started. At the very least, it won’t be a rehash of what’s been better articulated elsewhere in the blogosphere . . .
Jose Reyes – Looking for something with some speed and a little power behind it, and a great leadoff track, I was tempted to go with Pearl Jam’s “Go,” envisioning batteries around the league harmonizing “Don’t go on me.” But since I spent my Eddie Vedder quotient on the 25-game check-up, I’ll go with another fast-paced album opener with a little muscle, as well as some ties in geography and content. Give me “Rhymin’ & Stealin’,” courtesy of the Beasties.
Paul LoDuca – The Brooklynite gets an oldie from neighbors John & John, They Might Be Giants. “We’re the Replacements” references the amazing job he’s done to make everyone forget (not forever, but for now) the beloved Mike Piazza.
Carlos Beltran – He’s beginning to tear the cover off it lately, and there are crossed fingers throughout the Township that he continues to ascend that long road toward the unreasonably high expectations. At the same time, even as he smashes big dingers, we’re still worried he’s a little too sensitive for this town. Cue R.E.M., “Crush with Eyeliner.”
Carlos Delgado – “Spanish Bombs.” Enough said, amigos.
David Wright – Dee-Dub gets his own album; yeah, he’s that special. I’ll throw one of my favorite albums from one of my favorite bands to one of my favorite players. Old 97’s Too Far to Care describes the tape-measure “Timebomb” he hit the other night. Meanwhile, Wright has traveled from the “Streets of Where I’m From” to “Broadway,” and there have got to be a limitless number of “Curtain Calls” in his bright future. As for a particular song to play while he strides to the plate, I’ll take “Four Leaf Clover” – it’s ominous-sounding, and it’s what the kid has meant to the Mets so far in his young career.
Cliff Floyd – Well, depending on whom you ask, his song should either be “Fade Away” (by either Springsteen or the BoDeans) or “Not Fade Away” (by Buddy Holly and hundereds of others). Come on Cliff, tell us how it’s gonna be.
Xavier Nady – While it’s most fun to tweak certain song lyrics towards his surname (“Three Times a Nady,” “Dude Looks Like a Nady,” “Voodoo Nady,” “Play Nady Play,”), when I think about his actual contributions, I’d say that so far he continues to, like fellow outfielder Joe Jackson, “Look Sharp!”
Kaz Matsui – I had to overlook “I Can’t Stand Up for Falling Down” by Elvis Costello and Jim Croce’s “New York’s Not My Home” because nothing – nothing – tops Alphaville’s “Big In Japan.” I honestly believe he could win a few of those boo-birds over if he actually went to bat to this song for comedic effect.
Julio Franco – There’s a one-track commentary on Franco – his age. “Born in the 50’s” and “Time in a Bottle” might fit, but the way he’s treated his body to stay as young as he has is worthy of R.E.M.’s “Life and How to Live It.”
Chris Woodward – His defensive lapses this year have grown in number and severity. He can “Catch the Wind” (Drivin’ ‘N’ Cryin’) and that’s about it -- it's usually what he comes up with a glove full of these days.
Ramon Castro – I wanted to throw some Ramons (sic) at the back-up backstop, maybe “I Just Wanna Have Something to Do." On second thought, I’ll go with another NYC troupe's “Slow and Low” for the burly catcher.
Jose Valentin – Give us Spoon’s “The Two Sides of Monsieur Valentin” and its reference to the one guy who hit brilliantly for a series or two and another guy who’s flailed away all season. Without that brief spell of competence, we’d have to suggest “I Missed Again” by Phil Collins.
The pitchers’ tunes will follow Rob’s. Happy listening, sports fans.
Mets 5, Phillies 4
Phillies 5, Mets 3
Record: 28-18
There is much to discuss in Metville right about now: the emergence of Olay Soler, the arrival of El Duque, the acquisition of Dave Williams, the fadeout of Jeremi Gonzalez, the power surge of Jose Reyes, the resumption of the hero’s role for David Wright, etc. There are 15 good (and by good, I mean verbose and self-indulgent) paragraphs of material today.
And so, without further delay, I will jump right into the fun game Rob started. At the very least, it won’t be a rehash of what’s been better articulated elsewhere in the blogosphere . . .
Jose Reyes – Looking for something with some speed and a little power behind it, and a great leadoff track, I was tempted to go with Pearl Jam’s “Go,” envisioning batteries around the league harmonizing “Don’t go on me.” But since I spent my Eddie Vedder quotient on the 25-game check-up, I’ll go with another fast-paced album opener with a little muscle, as well as some ties in geography and content. Give me “Rhymin’ & Stealin’,” courtesy of the Beasties.
Paul LoDuca – The Brooklynite gets an oldie from neighbors John & John, They Might Be Giants. “We’re the Replacements” references the amazing job he’s done to make everyone forget (not forever, but for now) the beloved Mike Piazza.
Carlos Beltran – He’s beginning to tear the cover off it lately, and there are crossed fingers throughout the Township that he continues to ascend that long road toward the unreasonably high expectations. At the same time, even as he smashes big dingers, we’re still worried he’s a little too sensitive for this town. Cue R.E.M., “Crush with Eyeliner.”
Carlos Delgado – “Spanish Bombs.” Enough said, amigos.
David Wright – Dee-Dub gets his own album; yeah, he’s that special. I’ll throw one of my favorite albums from one of my favorite bands to one of my favorite players. Old 97’s Too Far to Care describes the tape-measure “Timebomb” he hit the other night. Meanwhile, Wright has traveled from the “Streets of Where I’m From” to “Broadway,” and there have got to be a limitless number of “Curtain Calls” in his bright future. As for a particular song to play while he strides to the plate, I’ll take “Four Leaf Clover” – it’s ominous-sounding, and it’s what the kid has meant to the Mets so far in his young career.
Cliff Floyd – Well, depending on whom you ask, his song should either be “Fade Away” (by either Springsteen or the BoDeans) or “Not Fade Away” (by Buddy Holly and hundereds of others). Come on Cliff, tell us how it’s gonna be.
Xavier Nady – While it’s most fun to tweak certain song lyrics towards his surname (“Three Times a Nady,” “Dude Looks Like a Nady,” “Voodoo Nady,” “Play Nady Play,”), when I think about his actual contributions, I’d say that so far he continues to, like fellow outfielder Joe Jackson, “Look Sharp!”
Kaz Matsui – I had to overlook “I Can’t Stand Up for Falling Down” by Elvis Costello and Jim Croce’s “New York’s Not My Home” because nothing – nothing – tops Alphaville’s “Big In Japan.” I honestly believe he could win a few of those boo-birds over if he actually went to bat to this song for comedic effect.
Julio Franco – There’s a one-track commentary on Franco – his age. “Born in the 50’s” and “Time in a Bottle” might fit, but the way he’s treated his body to stay as young as he has is worthy of R.E.M.’s “Life and How to Live It.”
Chris Woodward – His defensive lapses this year have grown in number and severity. He can “Catch the Wind” (Drivin’ ‘N’ Cryin’) and that’s about it -- it's usually what he comes up with a glove full of these days.
Ramon Castro – I wanted to throw some Ramons (sic) at the back-up backstop, maybe “I Just Wanna Have Something to Do." On second thought, I’ll go with another NYC troupe's “Slow and Low” for the burly catcher.
Jose Valentin – Give us Spoon’s “The Two Sides of Monsieur Valentin” and its reference to the one guy who hit brilliantly for a series or two and another guy who’s flailed away all season. Without that brief spell of competence, we’d have to suggest “I Missed Again” by Phil Collins.
The pitchers’ tunes will follow Rob’s. Happy listening, sports fans.
Thursday, May 25, 2006
London Calling
Game 44 - Red Sox
Yankees 8, Red Sox 6
Record: 26-18
Since I didn't see this game, and it seems good that I didn't, now it's time for something completely different.
SoSH luminary Jose Melendez points out the surprising and sublime fact that Sox’ third-sacker Mike Lowell approaches the plate to the strains of London Calling, by legendary rockers The Clash. Setting aside for the moment the fact that Lowell will now automatically become Whitney’s favorite player, this nugget of triviana got me to pondering the most appropriate theme songs for the rest of the Sox lineup.
Kevin Youkilis – How can we go wrong with Hava Nagila here? Gets the crowd up and moving, puts a little rhythmic hop in Youks’ step, confuses the hell out of the opposing pitcher. Count it.
Mark Loretta – Must resist the urge to take the easy way out, and drop Coal Miner’s Daughter on the Sox’ second baseman. But what to do for a guy that defines stoic, solid, and nondescript? Let’s roll with Steady, As She Goes by the Raconteurs. And if you don’t know that song, you will, and you should.
David Ortiz – so many options for Papi, but I think we’ll let the big man stride to the plate to the tune that most often goes through my head when he steps up, the Violent Femmes’ Gone Daddy Gone. That title describes the baseball’s destination often enough that we’ll forgive last night’s 0-for-5, 4K performance.
Manny Ramirez – the Sox’ most enigmatic offensive force gets some help from one of rock’s most prolific shape shifters, arriving at the plate to a medley of offerings from the Thin White Duke, including Rebel Rebel, Fame, and Heroes.
Trot Nixon – lessee, something rednecky, grimy, gritty for the Sox’ original dirt dog. I love Copperhead Road, by Steve Earle, and I bet Trot does, too.
Jason Varitek – the taciturn captain has always longed to let his hair down, and we’re here to oblige, spinning Loverboy’s Turn Me Loose, which doubles as a prayer from the Nation to Tek’s bat.
Coco Crisp – with a name like his, Coco’s a perfect fit for The Tra La La Song (One Banana, Two Banana), the theme from The Banana Splits, as sung by Liz Phair.
Wily Mo Pena – I don’t know much from Latin music, but I think Sean Paul’s Temperature works for the erratic Wily Mo, in that Sox fans never know from at bat to at bat whether he’ll be scorching or arctic.
Alex Gonzalez – High Hopes fits for the noodle-stick shortstop, because I’m trying to remain optimistic, and because he reminds of the ant that’s trying to tackle the rubber tree plant during most trips to the plate.
Doug Mirabelli – I can’t get George Thoroughgood’s image out of my head while thinking about ‘Belli’s theme, but we’ll avoid the cliché by going with Who Do You Love.
Alex Cora – the reputed brainiest player on the Sox roster gets rewarded with a tune from rock’s reigning valedictorians, accompanied by They Might Be Giants’ Don’t Lets Start.
Willie Harris – the Sox’ only African-American player (and, wow, is that a testament to the fact that baseball gets no run at all in the black community) goes with the Godfather of Soul, firing himself up to the funky stylings of James Brown’s Get on the Good Foot.
J.T. Snow – the quietly disgruntled and essentially discarded Snow gets Solitary Man, by Johnny Cash.
Dustan Mohr – last, and most definitely least…I stayed away (reluctantly) from the very punny Dust in the Wind, (get it, Dustan…the wind?) but that didn’t leave me with much. Instead, the equally punny (just takes a little more thought) Rebel Yell, by Billy Idol gets Dustan to the plate.
In the interest of time, and in recognition of the limitations of my creativity, we’ll get to the pitching staff in a later installment. Viewer suggestions are welcome – like Bill Simmons, we’re not above milking the combined wisdom of the giant throbbing brain of our readership for a cheap blog entry.
Yankees 8, Red Sox 6
Record: 26-18
Since I didn't see this game, and it seems good that I didn't, now it's time for something completely different.
SoSH luminary Jose Melendez points out the surprising and sublime fact that Sox’ third-sacker Mike Lowell approaches the plate to the strains of London Calling, by legendary rockers The Clash. Setting aside for the moment the fact that Lowell will now automatically become Whitney’s favorite player, this nugget of triviana got me to pondering the most appropriate theme songs for the rest of the Sox lineup.
Kevin Youkilis – How can we go wrong with Hava Nagila here? Gets the crowd up and moving, puts a little rhythmic hop in Youks’ step, confuses the hell out of the opposing pitcher. Count it.
Mark Loretta – Must resist the urge to take the easy way out, and drop Coal Miner’s Daughter on the Sox’ second baseman. But what to do for a guy that defines stoic, solid, and nondescript? Let’s roll with Steady, As She Goes by the Raconteurs. And if you don’t know that song, you will, and you should.
David Ortiz – so many options for Papi, but I think we’ll let the big man stride to the plate to the tune that most often goes through my head when he steps up, the Violent Femmes’ Gone Daddy Gone. That title describes the baseball’s destination often enough that we’ll forgive last night’s 0-for-5, 4K performance.
Manny Ramirez – the Sox’ most enigmatic offensive force gets some help from one of rock’s most prolific shape shifters, arriving at the plate to a medley of offerings from the Thin White Duke, including Rebel Rebel, Fame, and Heroes.
Trot Nixon – lessee, something rednecky, grimy, gritty for the Sox’ original dirt dog. I love Copperhead Road, by Steve Earle, and I bet Trot does, too.
Jason Varitek – the taciturn captain has always longed to let his hair down, and we’re here to oblige, spinning Loverboy’s Turn Me Loose, which doubles as a prayer from the Nation to Tek’s bat.
Coco Crisp – with a name like his, Coco’s a perfect fit for The Tra La La Song (One Banana, Two Banana), the theme from The Banana Splits, as sung by Liz Phair.
Wily Mo Pena – I don’t know much from Latin music, but I think Sean Paul’s Temperature works for the erratic Wily Mo, in that Sox fans never know from at bat to at bat whether he’ll be scorching or arctic.
Alex Gonzalez – High Hopes fits for the noodle-stick shortstop, because I’m trying to remain optimistic, and because he reminds of the ant that’s trying to tackle the rubber tree plant during most trips to the plate.
Doug Mirabelli – I can’t get George Thoroughgood’s image out of my head while thinking about ‘Belli’s theme, but we’ll avoid the cliché by going with Who Do You Love.
Alex Cora – the reputed brainiest player on the Sox roster gets rewarded with a tune from rock’s reigning valedictorians, accompanied by They Might Be Giants’ Don’t Lets Start.
Willie Harris – the Sox’ only African-American player (and, wow, is that a testament to the fact that baseball gets no run at all in the black community) goes with the Godfather of Soul, firing himself up to the funky stylings of James Brown’s Get on the Good Foot.
J.T. Snow – the quietly disgruntled and essentially discarded Snow gets Solitary Man, by Johnny Cash.
Dustan Mohr – last, and most definitely least…I stayed away (reluctantly) from the very punny Dust in the Wind, (get it, Dustan…the wind?) but that didn’t leave me with much. Instead, the equally punny (just takes a little more thought) Rebel Yell, by Billy Idol gets Dustan to the plate.
In the interest of time, and in recognition of the limitations of my creativity, we’ll get to the pitching staff in a later installment. Viewer suggestions are welcome – like Bill Simmons, we’re not above milking the combined wisdom of the giant throbbing brain of our readership for a cheap blog entry.
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Loser
Games 41 through 43 - Red Sox
Phillies 10, Red Sox 5
Red Sox 9, Yankees 5
Yankees 7, Red Sox 5
Record: 26-17
And by loser, I mean me. I've got 5 minutes before I need to leave to play softball, and I have no realistic expectation that I'll be anywhere near this blog in the next few days, so I'm at least gonna ensure that I don't go 6 games without commenting on something.
I also mean Alex Rodriguez, in the sense that he's such a predictable stat-monger right now. As he came to the plate on Monday with a runner on and the Yankees down, 9-1, I said to my mother, "He's going deep here - no pressure." Boom goes the dynamite. Apparently the New York media crushed him for the same perceived flaw after the game. He did redeem himself last night, driving in the eventual winning runs on a ball he thought he popped to short.
I've been watching the games, and reading Whitney's commentary, but my new job has been kiiiillllling me in terms of getting here to say anything. Apologies to our many fans, and much appreciation for my colleague, who's been at the top of his form this year - much like his team. Me, eh. Get used to it.
Phillies 10, Red Sox 5
Red Sox 9, Yankees 5
Yankees 7, Red Sox 5
Record: 26-17
And by loser, I mean me. I've got 5 minutes before I need to leave to play softball, and I have no realistic expectation that I'll be anywhere near this blog in the next few days, so I'm at least gonna ensure that I don't go 6 games without commenting on something.
I also mean Alex Rodriguez, in the sense that he's such a predictable stat-monger right now. As he came to the plate on Monday with a runner on and the Yankees down, 9-1, I said to my mother, "He's going deep here - no pressure." Boom goes the dynamite. Apparently the New York media crushed him for the same perceived flaw after the game. He did redeem himself last night, driving in the eventual winning runs on a ball he thought he popped to short.
I've been watching the games, and reading Whitney's commentary, but my new job has been kiiiillllling me in terms of getting here to say anything. Apologies to our many fans, and much appreciation for my colleague, who's been at the top of his form this year - much like his team. Me, eh. Get used to it.
Stay Up Late
Game 44 - Mets
Mets 9, Phillies 8 (16 inn.)
Record: 27-17
[superlative]
[superlative]
[hyperbole]
[melodrama]
[melodrama]
[overstatement]
[expletive]
I don't have it in me to actually enter prose into the formula above, so you'll just have to fill in the blanks. 16 innings, five hours and 22 minutes, 14 pitchers, so many heroes, so few goats (Trachsel, Heilman, maybe Delgado, if really pressed). A Carlos Beltran bomb to right ended the affair in the middle of the night, mercifully.
I wrote the Mets off more than once in the original nine innings (like when a short-hop on an otherwise splendid chuck from Endy Chavez handcuffed Paul LoDuca, eventually costing the Mets four runs), then felt sure that the underbelly of the bullpen would falter. My crabby pessimism was rewarded time and time again. Several times I stood up from the couch, aimed the remote at the screen, and made thumb contact with the power button; though I was remarkably manic, the button was never depressed. I'd sit back down, cuss the Mets, and glance at my watch for another projected "okay, I'm going up at" time . . . which would be laughably discarded later.
I knew I had to get up at Tony Orlando's vantage point to drive three hours to work, but good night's sleep never ascended higher than see what happens in my agenda. More than once I've TiVoed the end of a Mets game and woken up early to catch the finish before seeing the box score, but this game had been too wild, too Loch Ness Monstery to relegate to groggy, early morning spectating. The post-midnight logic, of course (and you've been there before), is that if a game is worth watching for 14 innings, it's surely worth watching through at least [enter meaningless number here] innings. And so it went. How long would I have lasted? At some point my (and others') health on the road would have been seriously jeopardized, but I managed to log six hours of snooze time between radar guns reaching 91 mph. Good enough.
Carlos Beltran.
[superlative]
[superlative]
[hyperbole]
[melodrama]
[melodrama]
[overstatement]
[expletive]
A big, big win to say the least. A losable win, as we like to say. A comeback (x 4), extra-inning, walk-off, emotional, barn-burning, blah blah blah . . . it was a great end to a gut-wrenching, five-hour marathon. And now I'm spent. It's too bad Rob's Red Sox are on a premature All-Star hiatus or something, because this space could get awfully stale if I fall asleep for the next four or five days.
Mets 9, Phillies 8 (16 inn.)
Record: 27-17
[superlative]
[superlative]
[hyperbole]
[melodrama]
[melodrama]
[overstatement]
[expletive]
I don't have it in me to actually enter prose into the formula above, so you'll just have to fill in the blanks. 16 innings, five hours and 22 minutes, 14 pitchers, so many heroes, so few goats (Trachsel, Heilman, maybe Delgado, if really pressed). A Carlos Beltran bomb to right ended the affair in the middle of the night, mercifully.
I wrote the Mets off more than once in the original nine innings (like when a short-hop on an otherwise splendid chuck from Endy Chavez handcuffed Paul LoDuca, eventually costing the Mets four runs), then felt sure that the underbelly of the bullpen would falter. My crabby pessimism was rewarded time and time again. Several times I stood up from the couch, aimed the remote at the screen, and made thumb contact with the power button; though I was remarkably manic, the button was never depressed. I'd sit back down, cuss the Mets, and glance at my watch for another projected "okay, I'm going up at" time . . . which would be laughably discarded later.
I knew I had to get up at Tony Orlando's vantage point to drive three hours to work, but good night's sleep never ascended higher than see what happens in my agenda. More than once I've TiVoed the end of a Mets game and woken up early to catch the finish before seeing the box score, but this game had been too wild, too Loch Ness Monstery to relegate to groggy, early morning spectating. The post-midnight logic, of course (and you've been there before), is that if a game is worth watching for 14 innings, it's surely worth watching through at least [enter meaningless number here] innings. And so it went. How long would I have lasted? At some point my (and others') health on the road would have been seriously jeopardized, but I managed to log six hours of snooze time between radar guns reaching 91 mph. Good enough.
Carlos Beltran.
[superlative]
[superlative]
[hyperbole]
[melodrama]
[melodrama]
[overstatement]
[expletive]
A big, big win to say the least. A losable win, as we like to say. A comeback (x 4), extra-inning, walk-off, emotional, barn-burning, blah blah blah . . . it was a great end to a gut-wrenching, five-hour marathon. And now I'm spent. It's too bad Rob's Red Sox are on a premature All-Star hiatus or something, because this space could get awfully stale if I fall asleep for the next four or five days.
Tuesday, May 23, 2006
Here Come the Bastards
Game 43 – Mets
Mets 4, Yankees 3
Record: 26-17
Yep, here they come. No, the bastards we (Les Claypool and I) are referring to aren’t the New York Yankees, coming back time and time again. The Yanks made it interesting yet again on Sunday, with some help by Duaner Sanchez and Billy Wagner. Fortunately for the mental health of Mets fans everywhere, the rallies fell short. Meanwhile . . . well, I could blather on and on about back-to-back bombs by Carlos Delgado and David Wright, but I won’t. Things of beauty, though they were.
The bastards also aren’t the members of the club from the City of Your Motherly Love, kicking off a three-gamer at Shea tonight. The Phightins are still very much in the thick of things, and frankly, the pitching match-ups in this series look rather unsightly, but they’re not who should have you, the Met supporter, most taking notice.
No, the bastards I speak of are the once and future “friggin’ Braves.” They have quietly tiptoed right back into the fray without much fanfare. Their rotation, though it resembles the Mets’ to a degree (a pair of aces, a keeper, and several discards), has been increasingly solid as the Mets’ has begun to wobble. Their formerly maligned bullpen has righted itself uncomfortably well. At the same time, their lineup, which had been underachieving even to its uninspiring potential, is now catching fire. Slumps are being dug out, streaks are being ignited, and the Braves are rolling. Their 13-4 run began on a Sunday during Lima Time’s New York premiere; Lima starting their hot streak that day was the most impressive start he made.
Clearly, this day was coming. Any of you out there who actually counted the Braves out before now are the same people who breathed a heavy sigh of relief when Jamie Lee
stuck the hanger in Michael Myers’ eye. Just silly of you. If you listen closely now, you can hear John Carpenter’s eerie music starting up again. Dammit, I knew they weren’t dead.
That’s not to say the Mets should be looking over their shoulders or fixating upon any target other than the one at hand, the Philllies. Anything less than a stellar effort versus the Scranton Seniors and the already tenuous division lead could shrink to nothing. As I mentioned before, the prognosis as dictated by pitching probables is quite the eyesore, so we’re going to need to the Metbats – fresh off rescuing the team over the weekend – to stay strong in support of some pitchers with sizeable question marks attached. Hit early, hit often, and I won’t have to hit the bottle (any harder).
Mets 4, Yankees 3
Record: 26-17
Yep, here they come. No, the bastards we (Les Claypool and I) are referring to aren’t the New York Yankees, coming back time and time again. The Yanks made it interesting yet again on Sunday, with some help by Duaner Sanchez and Billy Wagner. Fortunately for the mental health of Mets fans everywhere, the rallies fell short. Meanwhile . . . well, I could blather on and on about back-to-back bombs by Carlos Delgado and David Wright, but I won’t. Things of beauty, though they were.
The bastards also aren’t the members of the club from the City of Your Motherly Love, kicking off a three-gamer at Shea tonight. The Phightins are still very much in the thick of things, and frankly, the pitching match-ups in this series look rather unsightly, but they’re not who should have you, the Met supporter, most taking notice.
No, the bastards I speak of are the once and future “friggin’ Braves.” They have quietly tiptoed right back into the fray without much fanfare. Their rotation, though it resembles the Mets’ to a degree (a pair of aces, a keeper, and several discards), has been increasingly solid as the Mets’ has begun to wobble. Their formerly maligned bullpen has righted itself uncomfortably well. At the same time, their lineup, which had been underachieving even to its uninspiring potential, is now catching fire. Slumps are being dug out, streaks are being ignited, and the Braves are rolling. Their 13-4 run began on a Sunday during Lima Time’s New York premiere; Lima starting their hot streak that day was the most impressive start he made.
Clearly, this day was coming. Any of you out there who actually counted the Braves out before now are the same people who breathed a heavy sigh of relief when Jamie Lee
stuck the hanger in Michael Myers’ eye. Just silly of you. If you listen closely now, you can hear John Carpenter’s eerie music starting up again. Dammit, I knew they weren’t dead.That’s not to say the Mets should be looking over their shoulders or fixating upon any target other than the one at hand, the Philllies. Anything less than a stellar effort versus the Scranton Seniors and the already tenuous division lead could shrink to nothing. As I mentioned before, the prognosis as dictated by pitching probables is quite the eyesore, so we’re going to need to the Metbats – fresh off rescuing the team over the weekend – to stay strong in support of some pitchers with sizeable question marks attached. Hit early, hit often, and I won’t have to hit the bottle (any harder).
Saturday, May 20, 2006
Thank You for Being a Friend
Games 39 & 40 - Red Sox
Red Sox 5, Philadelphia Phillies 3
Red Sox 8, Phillies 4
Record: 25-15
As Whit noted earlier this week, timing is everything. He has no idea how right he is on that count, though today's MLC-related action affirmed his genius.
2 major league baseball teams took 4 run leads into the clinching half of the 9th inning today. 1 of those teams closed out their opponent in 1-2-3 fashion, and the other plays in Queens - and played like queens in the last 3 frames. The Sox are doing their part, systematically dismantling the reeling Phils in the first 2 of their set. With Lenny Dinardo on the hill tomorrow for the Sox, my guys need their pals to step up - I'm looking at you, blue and orange.
I had a slightly different vantage point that my friend for the Mets/Yanks tilt, though I appreciate the explanation of his afternoon travels, as it explains why he didn't answer the phone when I tried to call and ask "What the fuck?!?!" We're having some landscaping done, and the architect was in my dining room as Wagner melted down. I'm not sure he appreciated the fact that my attention was oddly divided between choosing patio finishes and the Mets' closer self-immolating, but I'm about to stroke him a pretty big check, so I figure he'll get over it. For what it's worth, Whit, you're really better off not having seen that inning. It drove me batshit, and I'm not a Mets fan.
On the other side of the coin, fun doings tonight in Philly. Josh Beckett pitched 7+ strong innings, and would have gone 8 if not for J.T. Snow's "defense" and Citizen's Bank Park's extremely friendly confines - that park is tighter than a Kennedy at 2:00 am on a Saturday morning. In addition, and much more interestingly, the duck-legged righty went 2 for 4, driving in the Sox' first run, scoring their second, and hitting the first homer in 34 years by a Boston pitcher. Caused me to blurt out a "Holy Shit" in front of my mother. When Alex Gonzalez went deep in the following inning, she said the same thing, which tells you how bad A-Gon's been A-going of late. (Editor's note - that last sentence might be slightly embellished for literary purposes.)
Back to the timing thing, this evening offered yet another example of how 1 play, 1 inch, 1 moment changes everything in baseball. Phils starter Randy Myers had held the Sox to 1 hit through 5 innings, and when he struck out Wily Mo Pena to start the 6th with Gonzalez and Beckett to follow, it sure looked like he was well on his way to a dominant performance. Then, in the blink of an eye, Jimmy Rollins airmailed a routine throw from short to allow Gonzalez to reach 2nd, Beckett singled to right center to tie the game, and the floodgates swung wide. The Sox tallied 4 in the 6th, 2 in the 7th, and 2 more in the 8th to end the shouting. Every time the camera swung to Rollins, the Phils' terrific shortstop looked like he wanted second base to slide aside to reveal a hole into which he could dive.
In all likelihood, Billy Wagner'd be there to greet him.
Red Sox 5, Philadelphia Phillies 3
Red Sox 8, Phillies 4
Record: 25-15
As Whit noted earlier this week, timing is everything. He has no idea how right he is on that count, though today's MLC-related action affirmed his genius.
2 major league baseball teams took 4 run leads into the clinching half of the 9th inning today. 1 of those teams closed out their opponent in 1-2-3 fashion, and the other plays in Queens - and played like queens in the last 3 frames. The Sox are doing their part, systematically dismantling the reeling Phils in the first 2 of their set. With Lenny Dinardo on the hill tomorrow for the Sox, my guys need their pals to step up - I'm looking at you, blue and orange.
I had a slightly different vantage point that my friend for the Mets/Yanks tilt, though I appreciate the explanation of his afternoon travels, as it explains why he didn't answer the phone when I tried to call and ask "What the fuck?!?!" We're having some landscaping done, and the architect was in my dining room as Wagner melted down. I'm not sure he appreciated the fact that my attention was oddly divided between choosing patio finishes and the Mets' closer self-immolating, but I'm about to stroke him a pretty big check, so I figure he'll get over it. For what it's worth, Whit, you're really better off not having seen that inning. It drove me batshit, and I'm not a Mets fan.
On the other side of the coin, fun doings tonight in Philly. Josh Beckett pitched 7+ strong innings, and would have gone 8 if not for J.T. Snow's "defense" and Citizen's Bank Park's extremely friendly confines - that park is tighter than a Kennedy at 2:00 am on a Saturday morning. In addition, and much more interestingly, the duck-legged righty went 2 for 4, driving in the Sox' first run, scoring their second, and hitting the first homer in 34 years by a Boston pitcher. Caused me to blurt out a "Holy Shit" in front of my mother. When Alex Gonzalez went deep in the following inning, she said the same thing, which tells you how bad A-Gon's been A-going of late. (Editor's note - that last sentence might be slightly embellished for literary purposes.)
Back to the timing thing, this evening offered yet another example of how 1 play, 1 inch, 1 moment changes everything in baseball. Phils starter Randy Myers had held the Sox to 1 hit through 5 innings, and when he struck out Wily Mo Pena to start the 6th with Gonzalez and Beckett to follow, it sure looked like he was well on his way to a dominant performance. Then, in the blink of an eye, Jimmy Rollins airmailed a routine throw from short to allow Gonzalez to reach 2nd, Beckett singled to right center to tie the game, and the floodgates swung wide. The Sox tallied 4 in the 6th, 2 in the 7th, and 2 more in the 8th to end the shouting. Every time the camera swung to Rollins, the Phils' terrific shortstop looked like he wanted second base to slide aside to reveal a hole into which he could dive.
In all likelihood, Billy Wagner'd be there to greet him.
Good Times Bad Times
Games 41 & 42 - Mets
Mets 7, Yankees 6
Yankees 5, Mets 4 (11 inn.)
Record: 25-17
How quickly the wind can change, and today's game, much like the wind, blew to a significant degree. The first two games in baseball's overhyped Battle of the Boroughs were tense, late-finishing contests, if not classics. (I hesitate to extol the greatness of a game that features seven errors and a hideous blown lead.) That said, both were somewhat excruciating to me, thanks to modern technology.
Last night's exciting, 9th-inning win -- on a David Wright smash over Johnny Damon's head -- was eye candy for Mets fans, but the Extra Innings package had us all on a strict diet. For some reason, despite an uncanny bias towards mass-airing every Sox-Yanks game, pre-game, post-game, and re-enactor dramatization, the magic of television couldn't bring me the Yankees-Mets "Subway Series" Game 1. Agonizing. It ran on WPIX in the tri-state area and nowhere outside of it. I followed along on the ticker and entertained our houseguests to no end.
Today technology actually provided a great deal of enjoyment, as I sat on the beach for several hours with a cooler of suds and XM radio delivering WFAN's coverage of the game. It was brilliant, and quite an enjoyable means of experiencing the Mets win the second game. Except that it wasn't.
Somewhere after Billy Wagner threw his second pitch of the inning, the battery -- and my ability to hear the disgusting events that followed -- conked out without warning. I raced home soon thereafter but arrived after 4-0 had become 4-4. My chance to see Jorge Julio surrender the winning run and my exhaustive efforts to try to learn and comprehend what had gone down in my moments of blackout and why -- well, they only added to the gut-wrenchingly helpless malaise that settled over me like a fast-moving fog.
For those that might contend that I was blessed and not cursed by the slow, painful aggravation of hearing this loss in real-time, the frustration of missing it is amplified by my irrational belief that my battery failure affected the outcome of the game. What, after all this, you came here for sanity?
Predictably, Willie Randolph is taking a beating in the 'sphere, even moreso than Billy Wagner. While Wags has struggled more than we'd like, there's more of a track record to fall back on in blind optimism for his improvement than Willie's. I'm usually well between the poles of extreme accusation; in this case, while we can't overlook the ride of the Valkyries Wagner took us all on today by any means, Willie Randolph's gaffe was doubly fallible. Let's examine.
Randolph brought Wagner into the 9th inning of a 4-0 game. The sages at Baseball Tonight take as much time to make calculated judgments as I do to answer "Should I make that a double?", so Jeff Brantley issuing an edict like Never bring your closer into a non-save situation and using 20/20 hindsight to stare down anyone offering exceptions shouldn't mislead anyone; on the contrary, I usually applaud bullpen creativity. Managers who use their stoppers only in save situations and for just an inning at that lack the ingenuity to take their team to the so-called next level. At the same time, those who throw time-tested practices out the window completely are destined for high-profile abuse. The happy medium of strategic exceptions to every rule is a worthy path. That's why on its face, I won't join the hordes looking to pike Willie's head for violating that principle alone.
What really gets me about the ol' skipper is his seemingly stark unfamiliarity with his pitcher's pulses. In addition to ignoring obvious signs and trends about his pitchers (like, for instance, that Wagner's precision is usually down in consecutive appearances), it feels as if he is the very last person in the ballpark (or in the television viewing audience) to realize when his guy is toast. If his hook were any slower, it wouldn't move at all (and presumably Tom Glavine would still be pitching from his Opening Day start). I'm not asking for a quick one, but when it's brutally obvious that your pitcher -- no matter how great an arm, reputation, and contract he has -- just does not have it, leaving him in the game is akin to surrendering.
Billy Wagner was off, and off became awful very quickly. The consensus on when he should have been pulled is debatable, somewhere between 1-3 batters before he actually departed . . . assuming you believe he should have been in the game at all. After Duaner Sanchez sliced through the eighth, Willie went to Billy and everything got silly.
Here's a point: the chances of a pitcher going from ace to disgrace on consecutive nights are much, much higher than that of a pitcher doing the same in consecutive innings. Appreciate it when the man on the hill is dealing, and keep it in the back of your mind that nobody on this or most big-league rosters is able to eradicate bad outings entirely. Overreaction in the other direction is foolhardy, too, wearing guys out consistently, but when you know your more-than-solid set-up guy is throwing well in the 8th (on very few pitches), don't be afraid to give him the chance to finish off a 4-run ballgame. It sounds like hindsight, but it's what we've been preaching for a long time.
So . . . in conclusion . . . if you are going to break with tradition and use your closer in a non-save situation (look, I know it's only been two days since I asked Willie to do exactly that, but I meant in tie games, not comfortable leads, dammit), know something about the history and state of your pen, be able to spot an alarming meltdown taking place before the hook-and-ladders arrive, and don't be afraid to bail on the decision before it bites you in the ass. By striking out on these three managerial necessities, Willie Randolph has invited the histrionics of the Township and beyond, and better him than me to deal with the fall-out.
Mets 7, Yankees 6
Yankees 5, Mets 4 (11 inn.)
Record: 25-17
How quickly the wind can change, and today's game, much like the wind, blew to a significant degree. The first two games in baseball's overhyped Battle of the Boroughs were tense, late-finishing contests, if not classics. (I hesitate to extol the greatness of a game that features seven errors and a hideous blown lead.) That said, both were somewhat excruciating to me, thanks to modern technology.
Last night's exciting, 9th-inning win -- on a David Wright smash over Johnny Damon's head -- was eye candy for Mets fans, but the Extra Innings package had us all on a strict diet. For some reason, despite an uncanny bias towards mass-airing every Sox-Yanks game, pre-game, post-game, and re-enactor dramatization, the magic of television couldn't bring me the Yankees-Mets "Subway Series" Game 1. Agonizing. It ran on WPIX in the tri-state area and nowhere outside of it. I followed along on the ticker and entertained our houseguests to no end.
Today technology actually provided a great deal of enjoyment, as I sat on the beach for several hours with a cooler of suds and XM radio delivering WFAN's coverage of the game. It was brilliant, and quite an enjoyable means of experiencing the Mets win the second game. Except that it wasn't.
Somewhere after Billy Wagner threw his second pitch of the inning, the battery -- and my ability to hear the disgusting events that followed -- conked out without warning. I raced home soon thereafter but arrived after 4-0 had become 4-4. My chance to see Jorge Julio surrender the winning run and my exhaustive efforts to try to learn and comprehend what had gone down in my moments of blackout and why -- well, they only added to the gut-wrenchingly helpless malaise that settled over me like a fast-moving fog.
For those that might contend that I was blessed and not cursed by the slow, painful aggravation of hearing this loss in real-time, the frustration of missing it is amplified by my irrational belief that my battery failure affected the outcome of the game. What, after all this, you came here for sanity?
Predictably, Willie Randolph is taking a beating in the 'sphere, even moreso than Billy Wagner. While Wags has struggled more than we'd like, there's more of a track record to fall back on in blind optimism for his improvement than Willie's. I'm usually well between the poles of extreme accusation; in this case, while we can't overlook the ride of the Valkyries Wagner took us all on today by any means, Willie Randolph's gaffe was doubly fallible. Let's examine.
Randolph brought Wagner into the 9th inning of a 4-0 game. The sages at Baseball Tonight take as much time to make calculated judgments as I do to answer "Should I make that a double?", so Jeff Brantley issuing an edict like Never bring your closer into a non-save situation and using 20/20 hindsight to stare down anyone offering exceptions shouldn't mislead anyone; on the contrary, I usually applaud bullpen creativity. Managers who use their stoppers only in save situations and for just an inning at that lack the ingenuity to take their team to the so-called next level. At the same time, those who throw time-tested practices out the window completely are destined for high-profile abuse. The happy medium of strategic exceptions to every rule is a worthy path. That's why on its face, I won't join the hordes looking to pike Willie's head for violating that principle alone.
What really gets me about the ol' skipper is his seemingly stark unfamiliarity with his pitcher's pulses. In addition to ignoring obvious signs and trends about his pitchers (like, for instance, that Wagner's precision is usually down in consecutive appearances), it feels as if he is the very last person in the ballpark (or in the television viewing audience) to realize when his guy is toast. If his hook were any slower, it wouldn't move at all (and presumably Tom Glavine would still be pitching from his Opening Day start). I'm not asking for a quick one, but when it's brutally obvious that your pitcher -- no matter how great an arm, reputation, and contract he has -- just does not have it, leaving him in the game is akin to surrendering.
Billy Wagner was off, and off became awful very quickly. The consensus on when he should have been pulled is debatable, somewhere between 1-3 batters before he actually departed . . . assuming you believe he should have been in the game at all. After Duaner Sanchez sliced through the eighth, Willie went to Billy and everything got silly.
Here's a point: the chances of a pitcher going from ace to disgrace on consecutive nights are much, much higher than that of a pitcher doing the same in consecutive innings. Appreciate it when the man on the hill is dealing, and keep it in the back of your mind that nobody on this or most big-league rosters is able to eradicate bad outings entirely. Overreaction in the other direction is foolhardy, too, wearing guys out consistently, but when you know your more-than-solid set-up guy is throwing well in the 8th (on very few pitches), don't be afraid to give him the chance to finish off a 4-run ballgame. It sounds like hindsight, but it's what we've been preaching for a long time.
So . . . in conclusion . . . if you are going to break with tradition and use your closer in a non-save situation (look, I know it's only been two days since I asked Willie to do exactly that, but I meant in tie games, not comfortable leads, dammit), know something about the history and state of your pen, be able to spot an alarming meltdown taking place before the hook-and-ladders arrive, and don't be afraid to bail on the decision before it bites you in the ass. By striking out on these three managerial necessities, Willie Randolph has invited the histrionics of the Township and beyond, and better him than me to deal with the fall-out.
Thursday, May 18, 2006
Time of the Season
Games 39 & 40 - Mets
Cardinals 1, Mets 0
Cardinals 6, Mets 3
Record: 24-16
Timing. It's one of the most critical elements of baseball and life, if you care to differentiate the two. "Timing is everything" is an oft-used axiom that is somehow an understated exaggeration, which is either oxymoronic or just moronic, I realize. Within the national pastime, the word goes beyond descriptions of bat meeting ball. The hometown team can have an abundance of talent, shrewd management, inspirational coaching, clubhouse chemistry, and a healthy roster, but without the intangible known as good timing, the results can very easily disappoint.
The New York Mets dashed out of the gate this year with many of the aforementioned qualities, kicking around a couple of the league’s more destitute franchises and leaving those of us in the cheapies optimistic. As the season has begun to develop from the amorphous blob of those first few weeks into something with more definition, it’s become disturbingly clear that the Mets’ timing seems ever so poor. Timing is equal parts finding fortune and making your own fortune; neither has been easy in recent weeks for our lads.
Two nights ago Steve Trachsel pitched his first great game in a while, only to be outdone by Mark Mulder. Bad timing. Today the Mets touched Jason Marquis for a few runs, but with it being Central Daylight Lima Time in St. Louis, it just didn’t work out in their favor. As much as poor providence dictated this pair of scenarios, the Mets also suffered from their own untimely letdown. They were able to populate the basepaths in both games – including during the final innings when game-tying or go-ahead runs entered the batter’s box – but were unable to find fruition, and when runners don’t become runs, frustration ensues.
With every year a few more baseball statistics and associated acronyms come out, some of which only truly serve to cloud our judgment but a few of which are meritorious supplements to the age-old stats of significance. OPS (along with OPS+) is a fine example of that.
I’m less sure about DIPS, BABIP, VORP, and SNLVAR, but I do actually think that MUAFSHG is one of the most telling new-era stats around. (Bob Ryan wrote a nice, brief review of Baseball Prospectus’s new book Baseball Between the Numbers that’s in line with some of this thinking.) In the ever-continuing quest to find the quotient which yields objective answers to subjective questions such as “who’s the best?”, there are few universally accepted standards. One stat that has achieved widespread acknowledgment for approaching the answer to “who’s the most clutch,” however, is RISP2, a player or team’s offense with runners in scoring position with two outs. Bear with me as I delve deep into numbers-crunching geek vernacular to describe how the Mets have been at RISP2 hitting: really, really, sucky.
The Mets simply haven’t done themselves any favors with their performance when opportunity has knocked. Their overall numbers rank in the top five or so of the National League, and they’ve even put up decent marks over their recent 3-7 stagger; unfortunately, it doesn’t tell the story of their woes. Until we develop categories such as “Rallies Squandered,” “Great Performances Wasted,” “Clutch Moments Gacked,” “We Were Good, They Were Better Tonight,” “They Were Lousy, We Were Worse Tonight,” and “We Played a Great Game and Inexplicably Lost,” you’re just have to put aside the stat sheets and keep watching these Mets play ball to come away with any conclusion.
Trachsel’s fine outing Wednesday night was another dreary example of the Metropolitans’ day-late, buck-short M.O. over the past fortnight. If they’re going to live up to our inflated expectations, timing of all sorts has to work out better. The hitters need to start driving balls when it really matters, pitchers have to make that key pitch when the situation most calls for it, and the defense must bear down at the most pressing of moments.
On the “out of their hands” side of this Timing conundrum, the schedule needs to lend itself to the Mets’ favor more; catching an elderly Yankees squad now, fairly early in the season, is usually less advantageous than when they’re inevitably waist-deep in broken hips, cataracts, osteoporosis, and Alzheimer’s come late August, but this year the pains have caught up with the Bombers early, so maybe it’s a break upon which the Mets can capitalize this weekend. And as much as the Phillies now look like a pest that won’t be going away for some time, if they limp into Shea next week after a painful sweep by the Brew Crew and the Sox taking at least two of three (a deal is a deal), the timing would be just right for the Mets to step on their collective throat. Unfortunately, the new, new Mets have been reluctant to do just that thus far.
Speaking of injuries, the Metmen suffered a rash of starting pitcher wounds to the point where Lima Time! has made multiple appearances on the Mets’ schedule. Sure, it was a problem foreseen by nearly every resident in our neighborhood of the blogosphere after Omar dealt away two starters this winter, but it can still sort of, partially, somewhat be considered bad luck . . . –ish. The club hasn’t been able to shake it off and keep the pace despite the tough breaks, which bodes ill for the long term, but they just need to keep trying keys until one fits the lock. Aaron Heilman may not be the skeleton key that we have touted him as, but it’s clear that Jose Lima looks more like a piano key (a minor, flat one at that), one I seriously doubt will be unlocking anything in the near future. In the meantime, rapping out a clutch RISP2 hit now and then might go a long way into solving the riddle of timing that has plagued the Mets for some time. There is every reason to believe that this team is going to keep setting itself up with chances to tilt the majority of games in their favor; unless they learn to come through in those spots with some regularity, potential will never evolve into performance, and more frustration will ensue.
Cardinals 1, Mets 0
Cardinals 6, Mets 3
Record: 24-16
Timing. It's one of the most critical elements of baseball and life, if you care to differentiate the two. "Timing is everything" is an oft-used axiom that is somehow an understated exaggeration, which is either oxymoronic or just moronic, I realize. Within the national pastime, the word goes beyond descriptions of bat meeting ball. The hometown team can have an abundance of talent, shrewd management, inspirational coaching, clubhouse chemistry, and a healthy roster, but without the intangible known as good timing, the results can very easily disappoint.
The New York Mets dashed out of the gate this year with many of the aforementioned qualities, kicking around a couple of the league’s more destitute franchises and leaving those of us in the cheapies optimistic. As the season has begun to develop from the amorphous blob of those first few weeks into something with more definition, it’s become disturbingly clear that the Mets’ timing seems ever so poor. Timing is equal parts finding fortune and making your own fortune; neither has been easy in recent weeks for our lads.
Two nights ago Steve Trachsel pitched his first great game in a while, only to be outdone by Mark Mulder. Bad timing. Today the Mets touched Jason Marquis for a few runs, but with it being Central Daylight Lima Time in St. Louis, it just didn’t work out in their favor. As much as poor providence dictated this pair of scenarios, the Mets also suffered from their own untimely letdown. They were able to populate the basepaths in both games – including during the final innings when game-tying or go-ahead runs entered the batter’s box – but were unable to find fruition, and when runners don’t become runs, frustration ensues.
With every year a few more baseball statistics and associated acronyms come out, some of which only truly serve to cloud our judgment but a few of which are meritorious supplements to the age-old stats of significance. OPS (along with OPS+) is a fine example of that.
I’m less sure about DIPS, BABIP, VORP, and SNLVAR, but I do actually think that MUAFSHG is one of the most telling new-era stats around. (Bob Ryan wrote a nice, brief review of Baseball Prospectus’s new book Baseball Between the Numbers that’s in line with some of this thinking.) In the ever-continuing quest to find the quotient which yields objective answers to subjective questions such as “who’s the best?”, there are few universally accepted standards. One stat that has achieved widespread acknowledgment for approaching the answer to “who’s the most clutch,” however, is RISP2, a player or team’s offense with runners in scoring position with two outs. Bear with me as I delve deep into numbers-crunching geek vernacular to describe how the Mets have been at RISP2 hitting: really, really, sucky.The Mets simply haven’t done themselves any favors with their performance when opportunity has knocked. Their overall numbers rank in the top five or so of the National League, and they’ve even put up decent marks over their recent 3-7 stagger; unfortunately, it doesn’t tell the story of their woes. Until we develop categories such as “Rallies Squandered,” “Great Performances Wasted,” “Clutch Moments Gacked,” “We Were Good, They Were Better Tonight,” “They Were Lousy, We Were Worse Tonight,” and “We Played a Great Game and Inexplicably Lost,” you’re just have to put aside the stat sheets and keep watching these Mets play ball to come away with any conclusion.
Trachsel’s fine outing Wednesday night was another dreary example of the Metropolitans’ day-late, buck-short M.O. over the past fortnight. If they’re going to live up to our inflated expectations, timing of all sorts has to work out better. The hitters need to start driving balls when it really matters, pitchers have to make that key pitch when the situation most calls for it, and the defense must bear down at the most pressing of moments.
On the “out of their hands” side of this Timing conundrum, the schedule needs to lend itself to the Mets’ favor more; catching an elderly Yankees squad now, fairly early in the season, is usually less advantageous than when they’re inevitably waist-deep in broken hips, cataracts, osteoporosis, and Alzheimer’s come late August, but this year the pains have caught up with the Bombers early, so maybe it’s a break upon which the Mets can capitalize this weekend. And as much as the Phillies now look like a pest that won’t be going away for some time, if they limp into Shea next week after a painful sweep by the Brew Crew and the Sox taking at least two of three (a deal is a deal), the timing would be just right for the Mets to step on their collective throat. Unfortunately, the new, new Mets have been reluctant to do just that thus far.
Speaking of injuries, the Metmen suffered a rash of starting pitcher wounds to the point where Lima Time! has made multiple appearances on the Mets’ schedule. Sure, it was a problem foreseen by nearly every resident in our neighborhood of the blogosphere after Omar dealt away two starters this winter, but it can still sort of, partially, somewhat be considered bad luck . . . –ish. The club hasn’t been able to shake it off and keep the pace despite the tough breaks, which bodes ill for the long term, but they just need to keep trying keys until one fits the lock. Aaron Heilman may not be the skeleton key that we have touted him as, but it’s clear that Jose Lima looks more like a piano key (a minor, flat one at that), one I seriously doubt will be unlocking anything in the near future. In the meantime, rapping out a clutch RISP2 hit now and then might go a long way into solving the riddle of timing that has plagued the Mets for some time. There is every reason to believe that this team is going to keep setting itself up with chances to tilt the majority of games in their favor; unless they learn to come through in those spots with some regularity, potential will never evolve into performance, and more frustration will ensue.
All Apologies
Games 36 through 38 - Red Sox
Red Sox 11, Orioles 1
Red Sox 6, Orioles 5
Orioles 4, Red Sox 3
Record: 23-15
The title of this post refers to my recent efforts in this space, and to my take on what Willie Harris' post-game must've been like last night. I'll note for the record that my performance isn't likely to get better any time soon, and I'll note for Mr. Harris' sake that his sure as hell better.
Though the law of averages dictated that the Sox would eventually lose to the Orioles at some point after 13 straight wins, there's nothing written in that law that requires capitulation. Harris' inexplicable decision to try to steal 2nd with fastball-mashing Trot Nixon up against fastball-hurling Chris Ray with 2 out in the top of the 9th was about the single stupidest play of the Sox' season. That he did it in direct contravention of Terry Francona's orders means that Willie should be shopping for a nice rental in northern Rhode Island, if he's lucky enough to avoid outright waivers.
We've reached the "you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours" portion of the schedule, with the Mets lined up against the Yankees this weekend while the Sox take on the Phillies. Time for Whitney's boys to take the next logical step on their road to the league's elite by whipping their cross-town brethren. If the Mets will be so kind as to take at least 2 of 3 from the Yanks, I guarantee the Sox will return the favor. Me and Rasheed, baby, mark it down.
And in the absence of any material or a brain agile and rested enough to conjure it up, I'll leave my colleague with that little nugget.
Red Sox 11, Orioles 1
Red Sox 6, Orioles 5
Orioles 4, Red Sox 3
Record: 23-15
The title of this post refers to my recent efforts in this space, and to my take on what Willie Harris' post-game must've been like last night. I'll note for the record that my performance isn't likely to get better any time soon, and I'll note for Mr. Harris' sake that his sure as hell better.
Though the law of averages dictated that the Sox would eventually lose to the Orioles at some point after 13 straight wins, there's nothing written in that law that requires capitulation. Harris' inexplicable decision to try to steal 2nd with fastball-mashing Trot Nixon up against fastball-hurling Chris Ray with 2 out in the top of the 9th was about the single stupidest play of the Sox' season. That he did it in direct contravention of Terry Francona's orders means that Willie should be shopping for a nice rental in northern Rhode Island, if he's lucky enough to avoid outright waivers.
We've reached the "you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours" portion of the schedule, with the Mets lined up against the Yankees this weekend while the Sox take on the Phillies. Time for Whitney's boys to take the next logical step on their road to the league's elite by whipping their cross-town brethren. If the Mets will be so kind as to take at least 2 of 3 from the Yanks, I guarantee the Sox will return the favor. Me and Rasheed, baby, mark it down.
And in the absence of any material or a brain agile and rested enough to conjure it up, I'll leave my colleague with that little nugget.
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Where Is My Mind?
Game 38 – Mets
Mets 8, Cardinals 3
Record: 24-14
Now this was more like it. Tom Glavine continued his unwavering pace last night, and the Mets rewarded him with a win – they scratched across a run to take the lead in the seventh, and the bullpen took it from there. The weather actually cooperated with the Mets this time, too, as a rainstorm delayed but did not truncate the game, allowing the go-ahead run to stand.
I was unable to observe any of the game save the highlights, wining and dining my wife in the nation’s capital for an early birthday celebration. While treating her to some of the finest cuisine, tastiest beverages, and wittiest charm available in DC, I couldn’t help but wonder how my beloved Mets were coping in St. Louis. After lambasting them to some degree in my latest post, I felt the remorse of the reprimanding parent, feeling justified on most counts but questioning the severity of the scolding. Somewhere in the District dusk, the New York Mets crept into my otherwise romantic evening, and they were there to stay.
We began the night at Hank’s Oyster Bar, an upstart establishment with an obvious menu. A Brooklyn lager was the first and most literal of many mental segues to all things Mets, and the queens strolling through the Dupont Circle neighborhood brought my mind even closer to Flushing. The first round of oysters included some Wellfleets, a name which always takes me back to long afternoons throwing back a bucket of suds at The Beachcomber on the Cape, as a Mets fans stuck in Sox territory watching Mo Vaughn tear it up for the Sox. The last clause in that memory, like the aftertaste of the oyster, left me salty.
Another beer, another round of oysters. The beer was a Pilsner Urquell, which despite my best cerebral efforts invariably made me think of Urkel, but which conveniently slid into wondering how my chums over at MetsGeek were undoubtedly following the game in my stead. (Rob had to figure I was coming his way with that one.) The oysters were Blue Points from Long Island, say no more. While hoping that I’ll be able to order up some “Lynnhavens” in the not-too-distant future, the ones I had were top-notch. I excused myself to find a men’s room and a game score, and returned with a mission only half-accomplished. Hammerin’ Hank’s it was not.
Dinner followed at another relatively new DC joint, Komi, and just as many avenues to MetLand were stationed therein. The first course, a soft shell crab, was fantastic but its mere mention inevitably reminded me of Carlos Beltran in those first couple of weeks. The wine was pretty good, somewhat aged, didn’t last too long, and I can’t remember where it was from. Call it a bottle of Jeremi Gonzalez. The main course was sea bass, which, no matter how resolute a man’s dedication to his team is, has only one mental connotation. At that point I hoped the Mets were kicking the Cards’ ass, and wondered if either a Braves’ loss or the film in question was airing on TBS – both have occupied many a slot on that station's schedule this season. It was at this juncture that I (and now you) had to wonder about my psychological stability.
And so the night went. After a quick walk (Brian Bannister), we made the questionable call (every umpire of every Mets game these days) to hit the Townhouse Tavern -- an old, rundown hole in the wall (Shea Stadium) where the beers are cheap but enjoyable (David Wright) and always ice cold (Cliff Floyd). The bartender was inattentive but not to an obvious degree (Willie Randolph), and the bar was just how I remembered it – still kind of crappy to look at, but fairly underrated and undeserving of the abuse it takes (Kaz Matsui). They do have the best juke in town (Jose Reyes), and bad-talent pool (Norfolk Tides) is always in effect. It’s a wonderfully eclectic place, where every kind of weirdo (Jose Lima) fits in just fine.
Finally, at last, I was able to catch the rain-delayed final and a few replays of the game’s pivotal moments. That the Mets could execute this osmotic seepage into my cerebrum on such a night is frightening. There’s no fighting it, though, so I’ll embrace it. The origin of “fan” from “fanaticism” isn’t a technicality by any means. Tonight I’ll be out and about again in Washington, carousing with comrades. With the game on ESPN, the night should provide as pleasing a mélange of my passions as thinkable. With my previously dormant hangover now awake and raging, we’re going to need tonight to start real soon.
Mets 8, Cardinals 3
Record: 24-14
Now this was more like it. Tom Glavine continued his unwavering pace last night, and the Mets rewarded him with a win – they scratched across a run to take the lead in the seventh, and the bullpen took it from there. The weather actually cooperated with the Mets this time, too, as a rainstorm delayed but did not truncate the game, allowing the go-ahead run to stand.
I was unable to observe any of the game save the highlights, wining and dining my wife in the nation’s capital for an early birthday celebration. While treating her to some of the finest cuisine, tastiest beverages, and wittiest charm available in DC, I couldn’t help but wonder how my beloved Mets were coping in St. Louis. After lambasting them to some degree in my latest post, I felt the remorse of the reprimanding parent, feeling justified on most counts but questioning the severity of the scolding. Somewhere in the District dusk, the New York Mets crept into my otherwise romantic evening, and they were there to stay.
We began the night at Hank’s Oyster Bar, an upstart establishment with an obvious menu. A Brooklyn lager was the first and most literal of many mental segues to all things Mets, and the queens strolling through the Dupont Circle neighborhood brought my mind even closer to Flushing. The first round of oysters included some Wellfleets, a name which always takes me back to long afternoons throwing back a bucket of suds at The Beachcomber on the Cape, as a Mets fans stuck in Sox territory watching Mo Vaughn tear it up for the Sox. The last clause in that memory, like the aftertaste of the oyster, left me salty.
Another beer, another round of oysters. The beer was a Pilsner Urquell, which despite my best cerebral efforts invariably made me think of Urkel, but which conveniently slid into wondering how my chums over at MetsGeek were undoubtedly following the game in my stead. (Rob had to figure I was coming his way with that one.) The oysters were Blue Points from Long Island, say no more. While hoping that I’ll be able to order up some “Lynnhavens” in the not-too-distant future, the ones I had were top-notch. I excused myself to find a men’s room and a game score, and returned with a mission only half-accomplished. Hammerin’ Hank’s it was not.
Dinner followed at another relatively new DC joint, Komi, and just as many avenues to MetLand were stationed therein. The first course, a soft shell crab, was fantastic but its mere mention inevitably reminded me of Carlos Beltran in those first couple of weeks. The wine was pretty good, somewhat aged, didn’t last too long, and I can’t remember where it was from. Call it a bottle of Jeremi Gonzalez. The main course was sea bass, which, no matter how resolute a man’s dedication to his team is, has only one mental connotation. At that point I hoped the Mets were kicking the Cards’ ass, and wondered if either a Braves’ loss or the film in question was airing on TBS – both have occupied many a slot on that station's schedule this season. It was at this juncture that I (and now you) had to wonder about my psychological stability.
And so the night went. After a quick walk (Brian Bannister), we made the questionable call (every umpire of every Mets game these days) to hit the Townhouse Tavern -- an old, rundown hole in the wall (Shea Stadium) where the beers are cheap but enjoyable (David Wright) and always ice cold (Cliff Floyd). The bartender was inattentive but not to an obvious degree (Willie Randolph), and the bar was just how I remembered it – still kind of crappy to look at, but fairly underrated and undeserving of the abuse it takes (Kaz Matsui). They do have the best juke in town (Jose Reyes), and bad-talent pool (Norfolk Tides) is always in effect. It’s a wonderfully eclectic place, where every kind of weirdo (Jose Lima) fits in just fine.
Finally, at last, I was able to catch the rain-delayed final and a few replays of the game’s pivotal moments. That the Mets could execute this osmotic seepage into my cerebrum on such a night is frightening. There’s no fighting it, though, so I’ll embrace it. The origin of “fan” from “fanaticism” isn’t a technicality by any means. Tonight I’ll be out and about again in Washington, carousing with comrades. With the game on ESPN, the night should provide as pleasing a mélange of my passions as thinkable. With my previously dormant hangover now awake and raging, we’re going to need tonight to start real soon.
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