Question

Can we move on to the Hot Stove phase of the season yet, Whit? I realize that there's a series being played, but it's somewhere out in the Midwest, amongst all those red state people that we don't talk about at cocktail parties. I'd rather focus on what matters to us East Coast elites. Like the fact that the Sox resigned Mike Timlin this week to a $2.8m, 1-year deal. Guess I'll be waiting another year before I give him that Gilley's gift certificate as a retirement present.

We've got big plans here at the LC, including but not limited to the expansion of the blogroster and a broadening of the focus to include 2 more of our favorite things, beer and music. If we execute on this vision, you're looking at the interweb's primary purveyor of all things baseball, brews, and backbeats. Or, perhaps, a site frequented by 25-30 mostly bored nitwits, as opposed to the 15-20 that visit us now.

So we need you to wrap up the Mets' season, which despite the admittedly painful end was a pretty damn successful one. As we've discussed, the pain will serve to make the pleasure that much sweeter next year, if the Curse of MLC runs its natural course.

Here's Where the Story Ends

Game 7 - NLDS

Cardinals 3, Mets 1
Cardinals win National League pennant, 4-3

I'm not ready to talk too much about this yet. The highest of highs was all too quickly followed by the deepest depths. There are stories to be shared, but it'll have to wait until the nausea that comes with every discussion fades away. I'll say with the perspective that 48 hours brings that the Endy Chavez catch was the greatest live sports moment in my life. The chills still come at the memory of the moment that we all realized he'd actually come down with it, not to mention the double play that ensued. If only . . .

Damn. It's just . . .

Damn.

New York City/The Believer

NLCS Game 6

Mets 4, Cardinals 2
Series tied, 3-3

My nameless colleague asked me to pinch-hit for him this afternoon as he speeds up Interstate 95 with his equally nameless brother-in-law, bound for Mezzanine Section 33 of Shea Stadium and a Ferris Bueller-esque evening of hijinks and merriment (and, in all likelihood, heart-stopping tension). Jealous? Yes, perhaps just a tad.

I found myself nervous and fidgety as Billy Wagner turned a 4-0 Mets lead into a tightrope exercise by eschewing his 100 mph fastball for his slightly wild 85 mph slider, so I can only imagine what my Metfan friend was going through. (In truth, I know exactly what he was going through - echoes of 2004, and all that.) In my brief interview with him this afternoon, though, he claims to have been mostly calm, expecting Wagner to finish off first Taguchi (not So much - erkerkerkerk) and then Eckstein (ecks-hale).

As for this evening, both Shea-bound Mets fans surveyed are mostly happy that their squad finds themselves in this situation, describing their mindset as "cautiously optimistic". I neglected to ask how many road sodas had already been consumed. I might have a different take, were I a Met fan contemplating the fact that Oliver Perez was taking the ball on 3 days rest in the most important game of the season.

There's already been some interesting symmetry between these Mets and the Idiot Red Sox of 2004, so I leave my colleague with this thought, lifted directly from my entry on the afternoon before Game 7 of the 2004 ALCS: "I don't have any words of analysis, because none of them are worth anything. Roll the balls out, get the game on, and let the chips fall where they may."

Is This It

Game 5 - NLDS

Cardinals 4, Mets 2
Cardinals lead, 3-2

Well, that wasn't much fun. The Mets are now on the verge of elimination, and their saving grace is one John Maine. Oh, my. All season long, like most in the Mets' blogosphere, I have offered my two cents on exactly how the Mets should tackle the challenge at hand. I have no such guidance at this point. Here's all I can muster in the way of advice:

Score more runs than your opponent through nine innings.

Genius, I know.

Looking at the pitching match-up is the first place to begin any pre-game analysis, and it doesn't bode well for the Metropolitans. That said, nothing in this series has gone down the way it should. From the Met bats being silenced, to the crappy Cards hitters blowing up, to the good pitchers pitching badly to the bad pitchers pitching well, it's been an altogether . . . stupid series, for lack of an appropriate baseball term. No reason to think it'll get any smarter from here on out.

Worth mentioning: we've got tickets to Game 7 in hand. Man, oh, man, do I not want Patrick to get reimbursed for those. Get me there, Mets, and I'll take care of the rest. (Hey, I have 24 hours and a train ride to think of how that'll happen.)

Momentum

NLCS - Game 4

Mets 12, Cardinals 5
Series tied, 2-2

Willie Randolph did well to paraphrase an old baseball adage last night, that momentum is only as strong as the next day's starting pitcher. Honestly, it means little to nothing in this game. (And in the Township, mention "Big Mo" and you've got a knuckle sandwich ordered up.) Now, in the case of sweeping momentum, a la the Detroit Tigers of the past couple of weeks, it's palpable. When it's a game's worth, or even a couple, it really can be undone with one starting pitcher.

Enter Oliver Perez.

Okay, I'm joking. But he did get enough of a job done to make it work, and frankly he was a hell of a lot better than Maine or Trachsel . . . hey, a quick typo there enlightened me to the fact that "trash" is in "Trachsel." Who knew?

The real story of last night's enormous, gargantuan, series-swinging, and if you believe the hype, momentum-changing win was the offense. Big bats went a-flyin' in Busch Light last night, and about the only downside I could find was a continued reliance on the long ball -- but hey, if they're going to keep hitting them with that regularity, press on. (And they did manage some old-style rallying after the barrage of taters.)

True Confessions: I may have pulled a muscle in my side when I leapt off the couch upon seeing Carlos Delgado's three-run jack. Worth every twinge as I danced and jumped and made hideous caucasian fist-pumping mayhem in the den. It ain't no sin to be glad you're alive, the sage once crooned. And dammit, I was.

Rain in tonight's forecast; more chatter worthy of talk radio and other low-brow forms of communication as to which club is better aided by the delay. Both starters will be going on the same two days' rest. Glavine has done it fairly often, not to much success in the playoffs, but he doesn't rely on velocity much. Weaver throws harder, but he's younger and presumably heals more quickly. What a quandary. Don't care. After last night, momentum is suspect but my frame of mind is bolstered immeasurably. I'm still mentally frail and wrought with anxiety, but my debilitated state has a pleasantness to it absent 24 hours ago. Play tonight, play tomorrow, but just play the way you can -- like last night reminded you, perhaps?

Let's Go Mets.

To the Kill

Games 2 & 3 – NLCS

Cardinals 9, Mets 6
Cardinals 5, Mets 0
Cardinals lead, 2-1

Well, that was just pure agony. The past two nights have been brutal on my innards, as the usual angst and tension supplemented by doses of frustration, rage, resignation, disappointment, and dread. Watching baseball sure is fun, huh?

Game 2 hurt because I felt the game was in hand all night, even as the Cards kept coming back. As I predicted, the Mets got to the St. Louis ace, Chris Carpenter, but John Maine went in the tank. Guillermo Mota held fast, then let up – that was the blown lead that really stung, when I thought the Mets would coast. But this Redbird team has that increasingly annoying eye of the tiger / team of destiny thing going on – there’s no denying it. They, along with the Tigers, seem propelled by a force greater than what’s on display between the lines. Damn them.

That sentiment was underscored when Jeff freaking Suppan shut down the Mets’ O and, oh yeah, homered off Steve Trachsel. There’s little I can say about Trachsel that hasn’t already been said, capitalized, emphasized with many exclamation points, and censored at certain Mets forums in the last 24 hours – or that hasn’t been written in this space. His upside over the years (inning-eater, solid, not prone to the big inning) evaporated in an instant last night. He and John Maine both folded when the Mets most needed them.

The home plate umpires have had something to do with it. Not that you can take the onus off Maine & Trax – hell, no – but they rely on calls like Glavine got, and instead they got squeezed like an intern’s cheeks in the Steve Phillips era. It was a recipe for a long night, and that it was . . . twice.

I’ve been trying like hell to get my superstitious regimen lined up, but this series has stood as Exhibit A in the case to debunk the voodoo hex that has commanded my behavior in postseasons past. Hats, shirts, and Met gear of all kinds – no configuration seems to work consistently. Patterns of where I watch, how I watch, with whom I watch . . . non-existent. The only thing I have noticed that has worked has been the Rob Russell Anti-Mojo Factor. Basically, when Rob has made a comment lauding or cheering for the Mets’ opposition, the Mets seem to win. It’s a bizarre reverse-psychology form of fortune I employed several years ago in the ALCS when the Red Sox went down 2-0 to Oakland until I donned an A’s cap and changed the outcome. I need something from my cohort now before it gets desperate here.

Oliver Perez goes tonight in a must-win game, a horrifying statement for Mets fans throughout the Township. On a related note, I’m going to go throw up. David Wright appears to have regressed into wide-eyed rookie status, Jose Valentin left his bat in the regular season, and the Mets’ world seems to quake when Scott Spiezio steps to the plate. It’s been ugly for a couple of nights, and there’s at least a decent chance that it could get worse tonight.

Meanwhile, my brother-in-law is pleasantly applying the blinders and sipping the Kool-Aid, bidding on tickets for Game 7 and checking out plane fares to Detroit. I’m a wreck, of course. Now that the Redskins have soiled themselves once again, costing Rob 50 grand, this has the makings of the worst sports weekend for me in recent memory. Only William & Mary’s fourth-quarter comeback against a team they should beat with their second string on roller skates saved a clean sweep, but good reason, the Mets are consuming my rooting interest now.

This is it. These are the moments that will stick with you forever, boys. As Gordon Gano sang, this will go down on your permanent record. Don’t get so distressed, just go out there and play the kind of baseball you’re capable of playing. I’m not ready to kiss off this season just yet.

Start!

Game 1 -- NLCS

Mets 2, Cardinals 0
Mets lead, 1-0

Last night I watched a Mets game that could hardly have been more perfect. It was a tense, tightly contested match-up that was neck-and-neck for all nine innings. There was stellar pitching, there was inspired defense, and there was a mammoth Met bomb off the scoreboard that won the game. Oh, and it opened up the 2006 NLCS.

Everyone wants to talk about Beltran's tater, how he has dominated in a small but freakishly good but still small sample size in October and especially against St. Louis. I think it's great, of course, and I hope all of the chatter will get Chris "Rainy Days & Mondays Move Up My Start" Carpenter and the rest of the Card staff fixated on Beltran while the other guys get their more than capable licks in. Cliff Floyd is out, and it hurts, but pitching & defense win these things, and without Endy Chavez's dazzling display of the latter, who's to say how last night turns out? The lineup has to pick it up for Clifford, just the way Tom Glavine did in unbelievable fashion for his fallen comrades.

Carpenter vs. Maine is one of the few match-ups in this series that seems overwhelmingly Redbird. Much has been made of the advantage garnered by the Cards because of the rainout-induced shift in the rotation, specifically how much better off they are with Carpenter going tonight. Here's a scenario I'm putting atop my wish list: Chris Carpenter, with one less day of rest and away from the friendly neo-Busch, takes a loss tonight against the revved up Met bats; St. Louis is then faced with opening up their home stint the next night without their ace and in a load of hot water. It could happen, and it would make my weekend just a tad less anxious.

John Maine, nobody wants to talk about what you bring to the Mets. Here's hoping that the next after-the-fact media story is a re-visit to the spring trade of Kris Benson, and the Mets laughing last.

For the record, how I have been feeling all week, especially late last night, is precisely why I got so cranky at the Mets for denying me the past few years. The energy is amazing.

Let's Go Mets. It's a mantra simple enough you could teach it to a three-year-old, and I did. Don't let her down.

What Difference Does It Make?

Suddenly, and sadly, we're at one of those momentum-halting breaks in the action where brutal reality wakes us from the dreamlike state of baseball fandom. The bizarre and tragic news of ex-Met pitcher Cory Lidle's fatal plane crash into the side of a Manhattan apartment building derailed all of the focused attention on the New York Mets and their playoff future. It's just a rotten development for baseball and a depressing day for the people who watch, coach, and play it.

Deep confession time - I'd be lying if I said I didn't consider how the tragedy might affect the Mets tonight and in this series. The weaker team in any match-up hopes for any sort of distraction to upset the odds. Not that the Cardinals could be glad for such a startlingly horrible distraction, but New York residents must be a little frazzled today, and the Mets may be no exceptions. Getting back to playing baseball was a nice salve for more globally horrific events of the past, so perhaps a Mets win tonight could have a similar effect on a smaller scale. That's about as much as I want to incorporate someone else's personal tragedy into thinking about my team's baseball games.

A more usual disturbance to the Met train could be the weather. There is always a ton of chatter as to if and how a rain-out affects the outcome of the series; Captain Kurkjian thinks it favors the Mets unless it means Chris Carpenter gets an earlier start. The latter appears to be a definite possibility, to the point where some supposed tide could turn the Cards' way from it. I actually am hoping to hear a whole lot about it, and then to see the Metbats thump the ace in another display of the sports press being a day late and a buck shy.

In truth, I am wishfully thinking that none of the above will make a difference on the result of this series, and that the better team -- by my calculations, anyway -- should prevail. It's been since Saturday since the Mets played, though, and I'm just itching to see them get out there again. Game on . . . finally.

Take a Walk on the Wild Side

A few posts below, you'll note my brilliant (and clearly obvious) plan to foster a false sense of security in the New York Yankees by denigrating the Detroit Tigers. (Little known fact: Johnny Damon is a huuuge MLC fan, stemming from that time we wrote about his haircut, or something.) In conjunction with Whitney's diabolical sabotage of the Minnesota Twins, anointing them (or their riverine doppelgangers) presumptive World Series champions, the events of the first round of the MLB playoffs have shaped up quite nicely for his Mets.

It goes without saying that I'm pleased as punch with the Yankee loss and the concomitant chaos in their organization. I think Big Stein will come to his senses, but I'd prefer if he fired Joe Torre and replaced him with Lou Piniella - not only will the pitching rotation be a wreck by next July, the resulting clubhouse tension would put to shame the Bronx Zoo-era Bombers. For entertainment value alone, the 2007 Yankees would be worth the price of admission.

I'd be pretty confident right about now if I were in Whitney's shoes, but my respect for the superstitions of the game means that I will understand completely when he responds in (probably mock) horror at the suggestion. Despite the Mets pitching woes, they match up fairly well with the threadbare Cardinal staff, Chris Carpenter notwithstanding. And the Metros' offense and bullpen are clearly better than those of their opponent. New York in 6, and only because Carpenter gets to pitch twice.

In the Junior Circuit, I'm torn. I'd like to see Detroit win because it'd be a great story, and I'm grateful to them for their systematic dismantling of the Yankees. On the other hand, an Oakland triumph would be a rich and overdue retort to the old-line sports media and their uninformed hatred of the Moneyball system. Listening to Joe Morgan have to congratulate Billy Beane (you know, the author of the book in question) would be sweet music, indeed. In the end, I think Le Tigres are just thismuch deeper in the rotation and bullpen, and the 2 offenses are a wash. With Mark Ellis' ALDS injury meaning that the A's have to start Marco Scutaro and DeAngleo Jiminez in the middle infield, the scale tips to the Motor City - something that would have been unfathomable to me 7 days ago. Detroit in a full 7 games.

Ahh, baseball, you magnificent bastard - many thanks for the early end to angst-filled autumn evenings and here's looking forward to some edge-of-the-seat action over the next 2 weeks.

Moving Right Along

Game 3 – NLDS

Mets 9, Dodgers 5
Mets win, 3-0

The quick and efficient dispatching of Los Angeles didn’t come without a price, as Cliff Floyd’s latest battle wound (a strained Achilles tendon) might keep him on the shelf for the duration of the Mets’ time in the playoffs. The irony of Floyd suffering that particular injury is fairly thick, what with that part of his body so obviously not his only weak spot. Still, it’s hard to be anything but pleased as punch with what went down in the NLDS for the Metros.

Losing Floyd should be neither under- nor overstated. His veteran (and fairly bad-assed) presence in the outfield and the lineup will be missed, though we’ll assume he’ll still be in the clubhouse. Clearly, he still has some pop, as Derek Lowe found out in Game 1, and despite the erratic year he had, I like the Mets’ chances better with him in the mix. That said, his year was erratic, with too many stints of ice cold in the batter’s box or icing down another body part instead of taking the field. I’d like to believe that it’s another case of the Mets withstanding a body blow in this quest for the title, and since these things usually come in threes that this marks the final segment of the injury bug. I can’t help but believe, however, that the team cannot endure many more losses like this.

Most important in the sweep, as my brother-in-law remarked wisely, was that it took an Oliver Perez Game 4 start out of the equation. He’s a question mark I’d rather leave on the keyboard for now. Now it’s time to get everything set up for St. Louis. Here come the Cards, left for dead a week ago but looking ominously Phoenix-like at the moment.

As with the Tigers, the Cardinals’ season-closing downward spiral had the pseudo-pundits of the sporting world writing them off entirely. (Meanwhile, somewhere below I had the St. Louis E Street Shuffle advancing to face the Mets. We won’t mention my miles-off predictions for the AL. I’m an NL guy, anyway.) It’s not really that surprising that they both rebounded splendidly in the NLDS; you might remember a team that backed into the playoffs in 2005; the South Siders needed a Cleveland collapse to get in, then blew through the postseason convincingly. Maybe this is the new design for October success? Here’s hoping the inane allusion I make a week from now won’t be a geographically pertinent Twain quote about the Cardinals’ demise being greatly exaggerated, but maybe something closer to Monty Python’s not-dead-yet old man being clubbed in the head by the Mets. Regardless of the absurdities typed in this space, the Mets will have their hands full with Phat Albert and the gang in this seven-gamer.

The Mets that my peers and I have written about for six months aren’t quite who we have poised to play the Cards right now. In addition to the trio of plan-altering injuries, Carlos Beltran is running at about 80% (which is about where he was last year, in case you don’t remember what all the booing was about). Reyes and Wright were excited but cool under pressure during the season, but in the early-going of the NLDS, they looked like a couple of does in the high-beams. They cooled down eventually – to a degree, and let’s hope that was as geeked-up as they’ll get. The way things change from the long slog of the season to the blink-and-you’re-gone immediacy of the postseason . . . well, the club managed to get past it somehow in round 1. Pulling together as a unit, that’s how it’s done.

I have 50+ more hours to pore over the match-ups of the next series, ones that seem to favor the Mets. It’s a fairly futile exercise, though, since so much of the statistical advantage is inevitably rendered moot come the first pitch. It would far more rewarding to sit back right easy and laugh after walking over L.A., but since when does that ever happen?

Coming Into Los Angeles

NLDS – Game 2

Mets 4, Dodgers 1
Mets lead, 2-0

This is, of course, what should be happening. All of the nervousness and anxiety I described below goes against the logic of a likely Game 2 result. The hitters did just enough hitting, Tom Glavine and his relief pitched brilliantly, and the Mets leave for the west coast with a comfortable 2-0 lead. Comfortable to a point, of course; let’s not pretend that the apprehension has dissipated that much at this point.

Steve Trachsel was fairly well disparaged in this space well before he took leave for family reasons last week. Who knows how his frame of mind is faring now? I’ve given Trax grief as much for his annoyingly “deliberate” approach to his starts as I have for his intermittently second-rate performance. I don’t have a wealth of confidence in the guy, but he’s a veteran more than capable of a playoff-worthy performance. My only plea to him is “throw strikes.” With Nomar injecting more steroid speculation into the rumor mill with yet another injury, and with the rest of the Dodger bats staying relatively mum, that torturous corner-picking may not be the best approach. We want seven innings and fewer than four walks out of Trachsel.

No letting up, dammit.

Listening to Grady Little’s press conferences, I kind of can’t believe he’s a two-time playoff manager. The Texas drawl as a first impression doesn’t exactly add IQ points, but he just sounds like he’s several boilermakers in and making illegal left turns every time I hear him. He’s not known for his in-game cunning, from what I read here a couple of autumns ago, and he doesn’t exude confidence with his demeanor. What’s the appeal? I guess I really don’t want to find out over the weekend.

With the way the geniuses in the sports media seem to be getting everything wrong in these playoffs, I’m not at ease with the momentum switching back to the Mets’ camp. Rob, can you give L.A. another shout-out just for good luck?

Nervous Guy

NLDS – Game 1

Mets 6, Dodgers 5
Mets lead, 1-0

Whew. That took some doing, and I don’t just mean the Mets’ ordeal in the opening game of the postseason. It took quite an effort for me to see bits and pieces of the contest, then more effort not to hear or see the final score until I could watch the end myself . . . which I ended up not quite able to do.

I hunkered down at the Dubliner in Washington to catch the opening frames. My bartender extraordinaire and drinking buddy there joined me in observing one of the most bizarre plays on a baseball field I’ve seen, as a double off the right-field wall resulted in bang-bang tag-outs at home (within a couple of seconds of each other) of Jeff Kent from second base and J.D. Drew from first. The quiet, dark, Irish pub doesn’t lend itself to vocal outbursts, but I couldn’t help myself as I yelped upon watching Paul LoDuca make the two quick tags. The play saved the Mets from a big inning, and likely saved the game.

That said, the Dubliner was not feeling like the right venue to bring the Mets luck, and they remained down, 1-0, for several innings. Enter the Irish Times. (I did.) As soon as I made the miniscule trek to the second bar (it was right nextdoor), Carlos Delgado and Cliff Floyd took Derek Lowe deep for a pair of solo shots. When the Mets tacked on another pair of runs, it was obvious I’d found a fortuitous viewing locale, but softball called, so I made the sacrifice and left. I’m so altruistic like that.

Bad idea. In the car, I heard the game go to 4-4 and quickly turned off the radio. At that point I didn’t want to hear any more until I could relax and catch the final few innings via Gheorghe blogmaster TJ’s DVR. A challenge, of course, because folks at the park and in the sports bar afterwards wanted to discuss the game, naturally. Oh, and the 100 TV’s felt the need to offer scores and highlights non-stop. Bastards.

I managed to make it through celebrating our softball win and drowning the sorrows of our loss with no knowledge of the Mets’ final score, and the DVR indeed had recorded . . . most of the rest of the game. It cut off in the ninth inning with the Mets up, 6-4. Painful. I now know that it got hairier before the happy conclusion, and it’s probably just as well that I didn’t see it.

I spent a great deal of yesterday anxious, and it’s not going away with the one win. When I was watching the Mets struggle in the early going, I had that white-knuckle, taut muscle ache that plagues us all in these moments. I’ve actually kind of missed this tension, and I welcome it a tad. The closest I’d come to it in recent years was when I signed on to support Rob and his Sox in ’04, as I described in a post then. It’s the greatest form of agony I know.

Maybe it shouldn’t feel this way, but yesterday’s win feels enormous. After an uncanny succession of calf tears not seen since Animal Farm, the Mets found themselves dropped from heavy favorites to major question marks. To rally, then rally again, then stave off the rally – well, that’s a redundancy I’d love to see repeated throughout these playoffs. Game 2 offers a match-up (Glavine vs. Kuo) more in the Metropolitans’ favor, but there can be no let-up. Show some patience at the plate, youngsters, and keep up the concentration in the field. (That means you, Mr. Valentin.) Keep doing what you’ve done all year, and more good results will find us.

Is it just me? Doesn’t it seem like decades since the Mets were in the postseason? I guess once you sink to the depths, it makes you forget recent successes. Let’s hope that this fall makes us forget those depths.

Superman

Derek Jeter had a massive game against the Tigers in Game 1 of the ALDS, going 5-for-5 with 2 singles, 2 doubles, and a homerun to pace the Yankees to an easy 8-4 win. Predictably, the sports media seized upon the moment to wax poetic about “The Captain” and his predilection for postseason heroics. And his calm, dreamy eyes. And his dirty uniform and spirited fist pumps. Can’t forget the fist pumps. Let’s let the Washington Post’s Dave Sheinin elaborate:

“The Yankees have not won a World Series championship now in six years -- a
long, awful lifetime by the standards of this franchise. Jeter, the Yankee
captain, was 26 then. He is 32 now, and perhaps can better appreciate the finite
nature of an athletic career. He certainly played with a controlled urgency that
suggested it was so. His jersey was the dirtiest on the field. His fist-pumps
were the most emphatic.”

I come here not to bury Derek Jeter – far from it. As much as it pains me to admit it, Jeter’s a real, live legitimate stud. He’s probably the American League’s Most Valuable Player for 2006. As a fan of the Yankees’ major rival, I state unequivocally that he scares me more than any other Yankee when he comes to the plate in crucial situations. Jeter doesn’t suck, even if A-Rod might swallow.

Here’s the thing, though. You’d think that the media who swoon for Jeter every year when the weather starts to turn could be convinced to do a modicum of research before the annual coronation. For all the legend-making, Jeter’s postseason numbers are a fairly consistent mirror of his regular season marks – he doesn’t “step it up a notch” in the clutch any more than anyone else does. Jeter’s got a career OPS of .851 and a career postseason OPS of .864. He performs extremely well in ALCS competition, posting a 1.023 OPS in the penultimate series, but he actually underperforms his career norms in both the ALDS (a very average .744, even with Tuesday’s explosion) and the World Series (.809 OPS).

As a point of fact, Jeter has the 4th best postseason OPS on the current Yankee roster, behind the much-maligned A-Rod (.923), HGH poster-boy Jason Giambi (.971), and Hideki Matsui (.908). Bernie Williams nearly matches Jeter with his .856 OPS and has outhomered his more-celebrated teammate (22 to 17) and driven in significantly more runs in a similar number of games (80 to 48).

The italics in the quote above are mine. Do you see at least a little bit why the non-Yankee portion of the baseball universe gets a mite tired of the hyperbole? For the record, I can understand why others might feel the same way about David Ortiz (except that his postseason numbers are even better than Jeter’s, and he’s way more fun to listen to. I digress.). Is it too much to ask the media to be creative, to avoid the easy way out for once?

Yeah, I already know the answer to that, too.

Get Off My Cloud

Since Rob publicly dedicated himself to the Metwagon, the Mets' starting rotation has lost its #1 and #3 pitchers to season-ending calf tears. Hmm.

Uh, dude . . . if you're carrying that wicked virus that decimated the Sox a couple of months ago . . . please hop off the wagon. Lickety split.

Oh, and here's a reason for Sox fans to root for the Mets -- now, if the Mets actually make some noise in the playoffs, I think we can safely say the transparent melodrama surrounding the Yankees' muddling through their bout with key injuries might fade away entirely. I'd like to think so.

Meeting Across the River

With the playoffs set to commence in a matter of minutes, it’s time to take a look at the field of playoff teams, and while my cohort’s club isn’t one of the eight for the first time since MLC was conceived, I do hope he’ll continue to weigh in throughout the postseason with commentary, asides and snides as play continues sans Sox of any color.

We’ve interwoven baseball and rock & roll for the entire season, so it’s only so much of a stretch to perform the following analogous exercise. Recently I’ve heard Bruce Springsteen songs used as the backdrop of montages for both the Yankees and Mets; while I think even the casual Bruce/baseball fan would clearly throw the lovably dingy Boss into the Mets’ camp rather than the white-collar Yanks’ (no bias here, natch), there’s more than enough Springsteen to go around. There’s a far better discussion to initiate, as least in my increasingly surrealistic brain. Trying to rank the playoff teams and their chances for success is a bit like trying to rank Bruce Springsteen records – they’re all good, but which stands out above the rest?

Let’s dive in, shall we? (For our purposes, we’ll stick to the first incarnation of Bruce and the E Streeters, before they busted up and he lost his musical way, only to be reborn to run some more. We’ll ignore the fact that The Rising is one of the best albums of the past decade and one of the greatest comeback albums in music history.)

* * *

The first major release by “the future of rock and roll” came in 1973 in the form of Greetings from Asbury Park, NJ. This album was solid – more than solid, though not the complete open-to-close masterpiece of later releases. One thing that surely strikes the unfamiliar listener is the tunes that they’ve heard elsewhere. Manfred Mann’s Earth Band had a huge hit with Bruce’s “Blinded By the Light” and lesser hits with “For You” and “Spirit In the Night” (for this I admire the band’s taste greatly and respect their creativity not at all). Greg Kihn also covered “For You” to some success; it’s likely only die-hards who have tracked down Bowie’s takes on “It’s Hard to Be a Saint in the City” and “Growin’ Up.” In much the same way, the Los Angeles Dodgers seem to be comprised of players you’re more familiar with on another team – not just any other team, for free agency makes most of the ballclubs fit that description, but Rob’s Red Sox. Nomar was the face of the Sox for so long, and Derek Lowe did so much to enable 2004 to end the way it did. Meanwhile, Rob’s old favorite Grady Little is perched at the helm. (Hell, Aaron Sele is even on the roster.) In addition to the ex-Sox haven, the Dodgers are also a team of youth. The team is young – a little green, perhaps, but they may build into something special in years to come. The same could be said for Greetings; a very fine album on its own, how it paved the way for some of Bruce’s classics is probably how it will be remembered.

Springsteen followed up Greetings with The Wild, The Innocent, & The E Street Shuffle, a more meandering collection of epic tracks. Even as we acknowledge that there are no duds in these eight great albums, very few folks outside the most impassioned would target Shuffle as their tops. Even as we acknowledge that there are eight mighty good baseball teams in the playoffs, very few folks outside of St. Louis are favoring the Cardinals this October. Even as we acknowledge that it’s arguable that the single greatest song/player in the library/league resides here (Albert “Rosalita” Pujols), that’s not enough to sway the conventional wisdom that this selection won’t be top dog at the end of the matter. Don’t get me wrong; leadoff dazzlers “The E Street Shuffle” and David Eckstein entertain me to no end. Don’t misunderstand – some of the more rabid fans on the planet cherish this record/club. But this is a fair assessment by any standards.

And then, in 1975, came true virtuosity . . . Born to Run. Appreciated by enthusiasts of the genre, not just the die-hards, it’s clearly among the finest around. Bruce’s characters evolved from the Shore’s Bohemian dirtbags into New Romantic heroes of the Tri-State area. The growing talent in Springsteen exploded to much fanfare (so said Time & Newsweek), very much in the same way the New York Mets have burst onto the scene as the pre-eminent contenders of the NL. Are the Mets an all-timer like Born to Run? Doesn’t seem likely at this point, but great teams aren’t crowned before the Fall Classic, anyway, so let’s wait on that judgment. Born to Run isn’t a perfect album by outside criteria – at eight songs and 39 minutes long, it could be deemed on the short side. The Mets have their shortcomings too, with a rotation and bench looking thin. Born to Run is certainly bombastic, with a tad of “Wall of Sound” style production and theatrics, just as the cheesy omni-coverage of the “The Team. The Time” Mets has been. But it’s also full of heart, and that’s an element artists and producers, players and managers all try to create – yet it’s less of a creation and more about things magically falling into place. I’m comfortable enough with the team Omar Minaya has assembled to throw the Born to Run link out there. Let’s see if the Mets will provide the runaway American dream for us New Romantic dirtbags in the Township.

An album that often gets lost in the mix is 1978’s Darkness on the Edge of Town. Springsteen’s legal battles with his label meant a three-year wait for the masses, and it only reinforced the notion of a what-have-you-done-for-me-lately public. Dedicated readers of Backstreets magazine and the like hailed the release of Darkness, but there was none of the same widespread reverence as with its predecessor. Not for a lack of brilliance, mind you. From Max Weinberg’s “Badlands”-opening drum pounds to Danny Federici’s final organ notes on the title track, it’s vintage Bruce and should be reckoned with. The Oakland Athletics are a similarly overlooked force in the American League. They seem to get little of their opponents’ press, yet they cruised through their division without the usual late-season challenges this year. Their rotation looks increasingly solid, and there’s a cohesion among the lesser-knowns that’s missing in other clubhouses, from Huston “Racing in the” Street to Adam “Raised a Cain” Melhuse to Nick “Candy’s Room” Swisher. (Okay, so they don’t all work.) The A’s are no slouches. You give me Barry Zito, Frank Thomas, “Prove It All Night,” and two bottles of Wild Irish Rose, and I’ll take my chances most any night.

The Minnesota Twins and the double-album The River are linked by more than a motif of duality; they are both thoroughly complete, filled with talent, and easy to get behind. Both have stars of some acclaim: Joe “Hungry Heart” Mauer, Torii “Cadillac Ranch” Hunter, Justin “The River” Morneau, and of course, Johan “You Can Look But You’d Better Not Touch” Santana. The Twinkies complement respected veterans with rookie talent (Radke & Bonser), while The River abuts bleak solemnity with theretofore unseen optimism (“Point Blank” & “I Wanna Marry You”). They each have killer closers in Joe Nathan and “Wreck on the Highway.” Both are undeniably strong entries in either rankings; there’s every chance that they won’t hold up with the more highly touted submissions here, but you’re hard-pressed to see exactly why.

And then you get to Nebraska, which brings as much hoop-la in this progression as it does on an itinerary. This record is enigmatic; the stripped-down, E Street-less Bruce sports a popularity directly proportional to the musical snobbery of its judge. The general public dismissed the guitar-and-harmonica affair lightly, while many a purist credits it as his or her favorite. It’s certainly in vogue to say you favor Nebraska, and I kind of feel that way about picking the Padres this year. It seems like a lot of folks in and out of the media who like the Pad Squad haven’t actually watched much Padre ball this year, which included some true moments of suck. (The next person who swoons over Jake Peavy is going to have to explain his 11-14, 4.09 year to me in terms better than “He was better than that in August and September.”) Granted, none of that matters now, as whoever gets hottest in October wins, but in the – far from expert, but better than oblivious – glance I got at San Diego through Extra Innings this year, I believe they’re only pretty good, with a couple of stand-outs. Peavy can be great at times, but how Brian Giles, Woody Williams, and Trevor Hoffman fare could better dictate how far the team goes. Meanwhile, “Atlantic City” and “Johnny 99” make my best-of compilation every time. Beyond this collection of players and tunes, however, I see good, not great. That’s just one man’s opinion, of course, and I always like to be the kid to yell “Naked emperor!” when I smell groupthink, perhaps to my own detriment. But it’s my post, and I’m not elevating these entries to the top.

Back in 1984, if you had a radio, you heard Born in the U.S.A. Boy, did you hear it, again and again and again, well beyond the unenforced limits of overplay. Even I grew sick of the record, despite its obvious merit. There is a bevy of people that to this day would claim to hate the album – and some who can’t stand Springsteen – because of the reckless spinning of some unadventurous DJ’s of the mid-eighties. Bruce became an international superstar, much to the dismay of his legion of faithful fans.

Fast-forward a decade, when the New York Yankees began to evolve into the ubiquitous blitzkrieg of ball-mashing and overspending that they are today. They have made fans around the globe; at the same time, they have made fans of baseball loathe the current system even more than BITUSA turned music fans off Bruce. Though the mere mention of the team or the album may dredge negative connotations within you, however, you cannot deny the incredible assemblage of superior performances on each. Jeter is the title track, the central symbol of the team/album and when watched or heard, impossible not to admire. ARod is “Dancing in the Dark,” the former worldwide smash with dazzling appeal that has lost all luster of late and now stands out like a sore thumb.

Damon, Sheffield, Matsui, Posada. “Glory Days,” “I’m On Fire,” “No Surrender,” “Cover Me.” Mussina, Unit, Rivera. “I’m Going Down,” “Working on the Highway,” “Bobby Jean.” All great. Even the unsung ones like Cano or Wang? If you haven’t lately, listen to “Downbound Train,” then “Darlington County.” Unbelievably good songs, never played. This team and this rock and roll album are solid beyond all comprehension, and yet they annoy the hell out of a good many people. Bruce moved to L.A., distanced himself from the band, married a Barbie doll, and got soft, even . . . dare I say . . . mediocre for a time after this album. There is plenty of reason to be irritated at what this record symbolized for the purest of fans. As for the Yankees – you don’t need me to spell it out for you why any baseball fan with a soul detests what the Bombers of today represent in the game. We appreciate the performances, to be sure, but we cannot get behind what it means in the long run. Fair enough.

Finally, the end of the E Street Band’s run came with Tunnel of Love in 1987. The full band had little to do with the record, and it was disappointing but not surprising to learn that Bruce would be touring without them afterwards. “Brilliant Disguise,” the first single from the album, gave fans a big reason to expect good things from Tunnel, but it quickly went downhill with the synthy title track. It was going to be difficult to generate widespread support in the album in BITUSA's wake, and some argued that it never stood a chance. So go the ’06 Detroit Tigers. We’d have loved for them to be the dominant Tigers of two decades prior, but at this stage of the game, it’s not happening. There are bright spots – the rotation is sharp, while Pudge, Magglio, and Casey still possess some of their league-topping skills of a few years back, just as “One Step Up” and “Tougher than the Rest” manage to shine on ToL. That said, I’ve not yet met the man who objectively picks the Tigers to win in 2006 or chooses Tunnel of Love as the best Springsteen album.

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So there you go. It seems pretty clear that my relative fondness for Springsteen albums mirrors my feelings on the 2006 playoff picture. How would it play out if seeded as the playoffs are?

ALDS:
Born In the USA over Tunnel of Love, 3-0
The River over Darkness on the Edge of Town, 3-2

NLDS:
Born to Run over Greetings from Asbury Park, NJ, 3-2
The Wild, the Innocent, & the E Street Shuffle over Nebraska, 3-2

ALCS:
The River over Born in the USA, 4-3

NLCS:
Born to Run over The Wild, the Innocent, & the E Street Shuffle, 4-2

World Series:
The River over Born to Run, 4-3

Hey, I’d love to pick the Mets, but The River is that good. Check it out.