Well, from MLC’s lips to God’s ears, apparently.
As hoped here just a few pixels below, The Police are officially getting back together to open the February 11 Grammy Awards. Not exactly a full tour (not yet, anyway), or even a concert, but beggars can’t be choosers. Given the format, Sting and the boys will likely get 10 minutes or so to kick things off, so let the speculation regarding song selection begin.
Because the Grammys, like the music industry they celebrate, are relentlessly commercial, I think the band will be obliged to play at least one megahit. Let’s stipulate that we’ll see 3 songs. The opening act needs to set a tone for the evening and get the crowd out of their seats, which means we’ll likely see an uptempo starter, or at least one with a beat. I’m thinking De Do Do Do De Da Da Da in a nod to contemporary politics – a nod that Sting will turn into a less than subtle dig.
Grammy loves medleys, and so do The Police. On top of that, the 2nd song is usually good for a mood shift, so I’m looking for Every Breath You Take to morph into Roxanne, which is effectively a requisite in this mini-concert.
So many choices to close it out, but I’ll go with Don’t Stand So Close to Me, which they’ll reclaim after the lame ’86 version. Gives them a chance to get back uptempo with a song that builds to a good finish and leaves the crowd happy.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Monday, January 29, 2007
Don't Dream It's Over
Members of a pair of my favorite bands have been channeling Peaches and Herb this winter, rejoining forces after lengthy hiatuses (hiatii?) in a sure-to-be successful effort to separate me from my hard-earned cash. The worn cliché reminds us that all things happen in threes, and fate would have it, a reunion of a different sort is percolating on Yawkey Way. I’m far less sanguine about the latter case of getting the band back together.
The Police, absent the rock scene since 1984’s Synchronicity tour, are rumoured to be patching things up in honour of the 30th anniversary of the release of ‘Roxanne’. (Pretentious British spellings in the previous sentence brought to you by Sting’s ego, the primary reason the world was deprived of 20 more years of The Police.) The day before I found out about the possibility of this tour, I told a colleague that I’d pay $500 for the chance to see The Police in concert – guess I’d better start saving some of that paycheck.
Less well known than The Police, though brilliant in their own way, Crowded House took their leave of the world music stage in late 1996 (and waited until just now to release the live recording of their final concert). After drummer Paul Hester’s suicide in 2005, the prospects for Neil Finn and bassist Nick Seymour to reprise their perfectly-crafted hooks in front of a live audience seemed bleak. Cut to January 2007, when the lads announced that they’ll be playing April’s Coachella festival as part of a larger reunion tour and color me ecstatic.
In the words of the legendary Meatloaf, 2 out of 3 ain’t bad, which is why I’m glad to have the previous reunion notices to balance the possibility that Roger Clemens hasn’t thrown his last splitter in a Red Sox uniform. My feelings for the Texas Con Man cut a well-worn path through this blog’s 900+ posts, so I’ll refrain from (another) long-winded dissertation on the subject. I’m old enough to know that we fans root for the laundry, but I’d have a difficult time separating that particular set of flannels from its wearer. Suffice it to say, in the words of Milan High’s Norman Dale, my team’s on the field.
Notwithstanding, of course, the recent news that the Sox are pursuing Colorado Rockies first baseman Todd Helton, he of the career 1.023 OPS. And, relevantly, of the far-below-career-average 2006 season and 3 consecutive years of declining OPS. I’ve always liked Helton, but he’s still owed $90.1m for the next 5 years, and even if last year was a bit of a fluke, 33 year-olds don’t typically have a lot of bounce left in their stat lines. I’d say I’m mildly opposed to this deal, unless Helton’s 2006 season was more influenced by injury that public reports indicated, and the Rockies are willing to cover a big portion of his salary.
Finally, the usually shy Curt Schilling made news today, telling Boston radio station WEEI that he’s changed his mind about retiring after the 2007 season, and now plans to pitch through at least 2008. As long as this isn’t Schilling’s way of foreshadowing his intent to embark upon his own version of Roger Clemens’ long goodbye, I’d be happy to have Schill back on the hill for one more year. Don’t dream it’s over, indeed.
The Police, absent the rock scene since 1984’s Synchronicity tour, are rumoured to be patching things up in honour of the 30th anniversary of the release of ‘Roxanne’. (Pretentious British spellings in the previous sentence brought to you by Sting’s ego, the primary reason the world was deprived of 20 more years of The Police.) The day before I found out about the possibility of this tour, I told a colleague that I’d pay $500 for the chance to see The Police in concert – guess I’d better start saving some of that paycheck.
Less well known than The Police, though brilliant in their own way, Crowded House took their leave of the world music stage in late 1996 (and waited until just now to release the live recording of their final concert). After drummer Paul Hester’s suicide in 2005, the prospects for Neil Finn and bassist Nick Seymour to reprise their perfectly-crafted hooks in front of a live audience seemed bleak. Cut to January 2007, when the lads announced that they’ll be playing April’s Coachella festival as part of a larger reunion tour and color me ecstatic.
In the words of the legendary Meatloaf, 2 out of 3 ain’t bad, which is why I’m glad to have the previous reunion notices to balance the possibility that Roger Clemens hasn’t thrown his last splitter in a Red Sox uniform. My feelings for the Texas Con Man cut a well-worn path through this blog’s 900+ posts, so I’ll refrain from (another) long-winded dissertation on the subject. I’m old enough to know that we fans root for the laundry, but I’d have a difficult time separating that particular set of flannels from its wearer. Suffice it to say, in the words of Milan High’s Norman Dale, my team’s on the field.
Notwithstanding, of course, the recent news that the Sox are pursuing Colorado Rockies first baseman Todd Helton, he of the career 1.023 OPS. And, relevantly, of the far-below-career-average 2006 season and 3 consecutive years of declining OPS. I’ve always liked Helton, but he’s still owed $90.1m for the next 5 years, and even if last year was a bit of a fluke, 33 year-olds don’t typically have a lot of bounce left in their stat lines. I’d say I’m mildly opposed to this deal, unless Helton’s 2006 season was more influenced by injury that public reports indicated, and the Rockies are willing to cover a big portion of his salary.
Finally, the usually shy Curt Schilling made news today, telling Boston radio station WEEI that he’s changed his mind about retiring after the 2007 season, and now plans to pitch through at least 2008. As long as this isn’t Schilling’s way of foreshadowing his intent to embark upon his own version of Roger Clemens’ long goodbye, I’d be happy to have Schill back on the hill for one more year. Don’t dream it’s over, indeed.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Winterlong
I’ve never much cared for January. It’s a dormant time of year, and life seems to slow to a halt in a number of ways. The weather keeps folks indoors more, and most people’s social calendars reside in some sort of nadir between New Year’s revelry and Super Bowl parties. After the often anticlimactic end to the college football season, we’re left with mid-season NHL & NBA, plus some early-season college hoops. This week’s Texas-OK State barn-burner aside, that’s not much. I suppose it is a decent month if you’re a fan of the English Premier League or the Heineken Cup, but you let’s face it, you’ll need to pay a bit extra and still be fortunate to see very much of the action.
And baseball is off the radar entirely. January bites.
The Hot Stove has even grown cold; we’re wandering on the desolate tundra between the flurry of free-agent inkings and the first sparks that come with pitchers and catchers. Mets fans are in a particular no-man’s land this winter. I guess we’ve been spoiled with off-season excitement the past couple of years; this year . . . not so much. The last two Januarys have seen Omar’s press conferences compete with, even outshine Steve Jobs’ Macworld unveilings. In ’07, though, the Mets are content – probably wisely, considering the circumstances – to rest upon the platform of the last couple of years and let the iPhone dominate the month’s buzz.
Not only has it been a drab off-season for Mets transactions, but it’s been a grin-and-bear-it scenario where we can’t even stir up some excitement with some justified hollering. Every big name – hell, every name whose mention didn’t induce an ugly scowl – got scooped up by a GM other than Omar Minaya, and yet I’m strangely grateful. Quite a number of this winter’s free agent contracts already loom like prison sentences for the team and its fans; everyone in town will be counting down the days until it comes off the books like a paroling, and in the meantime, a GM with a cash commitment or two like that is like a man with a prison record looking for work. Good luck with all that.
Every year I naïvely think that stability and sensibility will creep in and balance Major League Baseball’s fallible economic structure, and every year I look increasingly foolhardy. A small handful of teams skew the numbers and screw the system by displaying less fiscal responsibility than the dozen clowns in Rob’s and my rotisserie baseball league. Honestly, Rob, wouldn’t Brian Sabean and Tom Hicks get laughed out of the room in our league? It becomes farcical; you just get the sense that there’s more logic at work with the team intern playing Sudoku than in the execs working contract negotiations. Let the culpability be shared, though – Scott Boras, you are bad for the game and you will get what’s coming to you.
And so the best thing about this off-season is that the Mets did next to nothing. Hooray. Though the re-signings of Tom Glavine and El Duque should prove to be worthy ones (barring quadragenarian breakdowns), we’re left to celebrate one significant landing of Omar Minaya this winter, his landing into the world of discretion and prudence. It’s actually something worth lauding, but not today. It’s January 18, and it’s too damn cold to think positively.
In keeping with the new MLC triad of themes, we’re also amid the annual worst six weeks of the year for music. Around the holidays, it’s understandable that not much new music is released, what with most record companies eyeing Black Friday for the biggest new arrivals. Also understandably, bands take a break from the road to be at home with the families (or substance abuse habits) for the festivities. Somehow, though, there is a continued lull of record releases and touring resumptions that doesn’t break up until the last week or so of January. More reason to be “down on Jan.”
In the meantime, there’s plenty from 2006 to keep hearing. Been doing a lot of driving lately, not by choice, and a few albums have kept me cruising along. My Morning Jacket’s live double disc-er “Okonokos” gets me through a chunk of miles by itself. TV on the Radio is a uniquely funky operation, worth checking out if you want to stray from the straight-ahead. The Drive-By Truckers keep churning out kick-ass southern rock (with a modern edge), and I was recently introduced to the Band of Horses and their song “The Funeral”; the track hasn’t made its way out of my head, much less my car.
Speaking of funerals, Rob and I had to go to one this month, and that’s cast as large a rain cloud over this month as anything. When gauging the loss of our friend, it’s substantial in our three areas of discussion at MLC. Baseball players got sports therapy and the local teams got hearty support from him; he was a large enough force to be the biggest fan I knew of Pearl Jam, the Stones, the Black Crowes, U2, and Big Country; he also could put more beer away in one sitting than any individual with whom I’ve shared bar space. What a void there is now.
And how do we cope with these losses? By drinking, of course! It’s in this area alone that I enjoy this dreadful time of year. My most relished bar order is the McDLT – the age-old Irish pairing of hot-side-hot Irish coffee and a cold-side-cold Guinness. (I just made up that name, but I’ll be using it from here on out.) And the dead of winter is the ideal time to warm up with a mug of spiked java and a hearty stout. I found myself wishing for colder weather if only to order it; now that winter (in full effect) is here, the twin beverage order is not quite enough to justify the chill, but it’ll do, lad. It’ll do.
Here’s to sunnier days, newer music, and the submerging of sorrows sixteen ounces at a time until they float away harmlessly. Here’s to the Omar Show in ’06-’07, a show about nothing. And here’s to Dave Flynn, the original “Nutty Irishman.” God love you, kid.
And baseball is off the radar entirely. January bites.
The Hot Stove has even grown cold; we’re wandering on the desolate tundra between the flurry of free-agent inkings and the first sparks that come with pitchers and catchers. Mets fans are in a particular no-man’s land this winter. I guess we’ve been spoiled with off-season excitement the past couple of years; this year . . . not so much. The last two Januarys have seen Omar’s press conferences compete with, even outshine Steve Jobs’ Macworld unveilings. In ’07, though, the Mets are content – probably wisely, considering the circumstances – to rest upon the platform of the last couple of years and let the iPhone dominate the month’s buzz.
Not only has it been a drab off-season for Mets transactions, but it’s been a grin-and-bear-it scenario where we can’t even stir up some excitement with some justified hollering. Every big name – hell, every name whose mention didn’t induce an ugly scowl – got scooped up by a GM other than Omar Minaya, and yet I’m strangely grateful. Quite a number of this winter’s free agent contracts already loom like prison sentences for the team and its fans; everyone in town will be counting down the days until it comes off the books like a paroling, and in the meantime, a GM with a cash commitment or two like that is like a man with a prison record looking for work. Good luck with all that.
Every year I naïvely think that stability and sensibility will creep in and balance Major League Baseball’s fallible economic structure, and every year I look increasingly foolhardy. A small handful of teams skew the numbers and screw the system by displaying less fiscal responsibility than the dozen clowns in Rob’s and my rotisserie baseball league. Honestly, Rob, wouldn’t Brian Sabean and Tom Hicks get laughed out of the room in our league? It becomes farcical; you just get the sense that there’s more logic at work with the team intern playing Sudoku than in the execs working contract negotiations. Let the culpability be shared, though – Scott Boras, you are bad for the game and you will get what’s coming to you.
And so the best thing about this off-season is that the Mets did next to nothing. Hooray. Though the re-signings of Tom Glavine and El Duque should prove to be worthy ones (barring quadragenarian breakdowns), we’re left to celebrate one significant landing of Omar Minaya this winter, his landing into the world of discretion and prudence. It’s actually something worth lauding, but not today. It’s January 18, and it’s too damn cold to think positively.
In keeping with the new MLC triad of themes, we’re also amid the annual worst six weeks of the year for music. Around the holidays, it’s understandable that not much new music is released, what with most record companies eyeing Black Friday for the biggest new arrivals. Also understandably, bands take a break from the road to be at home with the families (or substance abuse habits) for the festivities. Somehow, though, there is a continued lull of record releases and touring resumptions that doesn’t break up until the last week or so of January. More reason to be “down on Jan.”
In the meantime, there’s plenty from 2006 to keep hearing. Been doing a lot of driving lately, not by choice, and a few albums have kept me cruising along. My Morning Jacket’s live double disc-er “Okonokos” gets me through a chunk of miles by itself. TV on the Radio is a uniquely funky operation, worth checking out if you want to stray from the straight-ahead. The Drive-By Truckers keep churning out kick-ass southern rock (with a modern edge), and I was recently introduced to the Band of Horses and their song “The Funeral”; the track hasn’t made its way out of my head, much less my car.
Speaking of funerals, Rob and I had to go to one this month, and that’s cast as large a rain cloud over this month as anything. When gauging the loss of our friend, it’s substantial in our three areas of discussion at MLC. Baseball players got sports therapy and the local teams got hearty support from him; he was a large enough force to be the biggest fan I knew of Pearl Jam, the Stones, the Black Crowes, U2, and Big Country; he also could put more beer away in one sitting than any individual with whom I’ve shared bar space. What a void there is now.
And how do we cope with these losses? By drinking, of course! It’s in this area alone that I enjoy this dreadful time of year. My most relished bar order is the McDLT – the age-old Irish pairing of hot-side-hot Irish coffee and a cold-side-cold Guinness. (I just made up that name, but I’ll be using it from here on out.) And the dead of winter is the ideal time to warm up with a mug of spiked java and a hearty stout. I found myself wishing for colder weather if only to order it; now that winter (in full effect) is here, the twin beverage order is not quite enough to justify the chill, but it’ll do, lad. It’ll do.
Here’s to sunnier days, newer music, and the submerging of sorrows sixteen ounces at a time until they float away harmlessly. Here’s to the Omar Show in ’06-’07, a show about nothing. And here’s to Dave Flynn, the original “Nutty Irishman.” God love you, kid.
Wednesday, January 10, 2007
Hazy Shade of Winter
Time for some long overdue updates here at MLC, now that the calendar’s turned over and the absurdly warm weather in the Mid-Atlantic region has awoken hibernating beasts of all sorts. I hate to push Whit’s sublime retelling of the Mets’ final 2006 efforts down the page, but if by doing so I can get him to post something else, then I’ve done a solid for humanity.
Sunday marked the 7th annual Hot Stove, Cool Music charity concert in Boston, where Peter Gammons has combined his love of baseball and rock and roll into a must-attend offseason event. The Globe’s brief recap mentions Theo Epstein and erstwhile Sox hurler Lenny Dinardo as members of Gammo’s band, and highlights the legendary scribe’s continuing recovery from last season’s aneurysm. We’ll add Cold Brews to the recipe and start long-tossing in advance of the 2007 season.
The Sox’ 2007 Spring Training roster looks just about complete with the addition of Joel Pineiro as the prospective closer. The bloom has certainly faded from the former buzz-baby’s reputation, as he’s put together a string of mediocre to dreadful seasons as a starter with the Mariners. Looks like the Sox see something in his delivery and makeup that lead them to believe they can reclaim Pineiro in Gagneian (Gagnesque?) fashion. Color me skeptical to terrified that the Sox are staking their 2007 hopes on this wing and prayer. Given that the only viable backup plan is to move Jonathan Papelbon from the rotation back to the end of the bullpen, the Sox are risking disruption to the entire staff should Pineiro not fill the bill.
The iTunes fairy was pretty good to Team MLC over the Christmas holiday, so we’re working our way through various additions to the song library. Pitchfork Media’s become a monumentally fun time-waster, and probably will lead to a significant dent in my checking account sooner rather than later. I’m digging The Hold Steady, which sounds like early Springsteen crossed with Marah (which is a little like saying Springsteen mixed with Springsteen). Robert Randolph & The Family Band’s ‘Ain’t Nothin’ Wrong with That’ is getting heavy rotation on the iPod, as well – funky, groovy and head-nodding fun.
This week brings news that Loudoun County’s own Old Dominion Brewing is on the verge of selling out to the man. The purveyors of top-notch microbrews (including personal fave Tupper’s Hop Pocket Ale) are rumored to be in acquisition discussions with Anheuser-Busch and other investors. One more thing for me to boycott in a feebly quixotic attempt to remain the champion of the little guy.
Sunday marked the 7th annual Hot Stove, Cool Music charity concert in Boston, where Peter Gammons has combined his love of baseball and rock and roll into a must-attend offseason event. The Globe’s brief recap mentions Theo Epstein and erstwhile Sox hurler Lenny Dinardo as members of Gammo’s band, and highlights the legendary scribe’s continuing recovery from last season’s aneurysm. We’ll add Cold Brews to the recipe and start long-tossing in advance of the 2007 season.
The Sox’ 2007 Spring Training roster looks just about complete with the addition of Joel Pineiro as the prospective closer. The bloom has certainly faded from the former buzz-baby’s reputation, as he’s put together a string of mediocre to dreadful seasons as a starter with the Mariners. Looks like the Sox see something in his delivery and makeup that lead them to believe they can reclaim Pineiro in Gagneian (Gagnesque?) fashion. Color me skeptical to terrified that the Sox are staking their 2007 hopes on this wing and prayer. Given that the only viable backup plan is to move Jonathan Papelbon from the rotation back to the end of the bullpen, the Sox are risking disruption to the entire staff should Pineiro not fill the bill.
The iTunes fairy was pretty good to Team MLC over the Christmas holiday, so we’re working our way through various additions to the song library. Pitchfork Media’s become a monumentally fun time-waster, and probably will lead to a significant dent in my checking account sooner rather than later. I’m digging The Hold Steady, which sounds like early Springsteen crossed with Marah (which is a little like saying Springsteen mixed with Springsteen). Robert Randolph & The Family Band’s ‘Ain’t Nothin’ Wrong with That’ is getting heavy rotation on the iPod, as well – funky, groovy and head-nodding fun.
This week brings news that Loudoun County’s own Old Dominion Brewing is on the verge of selling out to the man. The purveyors of top-notch microbrews (including personal fave Tupper’s Hop Pocket Ale) are rumored to be in acquisition discussions with Anheuser-Busch and other investors. One more thing for me to boycott in a feebly quixotic attempt to remain the champion of the little guy.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
Wicked Game
I was talking to my friend Jimmy Chitwood, and I’ve got something to say. I don't know if it'll make a difference, but I figured it's time for me to start blogging.I’ll start slowly, clearing out the cobwebs that have invaded my portal to Misery Loves Company and treating my just-scabbed-over wounds from the end of the Mets’ season gingerly.
It’s time. Jerry over at the Wheelhouse just addressed his agony over the Game 7 defeat last weekend, and he summed up a good bit of what I was thinking and feeling about the Mets. The Mets-fan waiter at my pub of choice finally got around to discussing the squad after two months of grumbling “not ready to talk about it yet” as he’d walk by my barstool. My little MLC cohort has been exhorting me on for weeks now. I suppose it’s time to address the season and move on.
Today I’ll simply talk about Game 7. In case you’ve shelved the memories of the game to make room for more current NFL, college football, NHL, NBA, college basketball, and competitive eating thoughts, it was a dandy.
I happened to be sitting in the mezzanine seats in right-field, up there in the night with the excitable beer swillers and frenzied Met lovers. Sure, I’d love to have seats behind home plate for such a contest, but the mayhem of the upper sections turns out to be equally exhilarating, maybe more so, if you’re up for it. (You have to watch yourself up there; the guy behind me took a first-inning finger in the eye from a badly straying high-five attempt. Mine, of course.) Up there the tickets are cheaper, but in most cases the buyer felt the financial sting a little more to see the big game. Worth every penny, and not just because my bro-in-law gave me my ticket as an awesome birthday gift.
He, my cousins and I rode the 7 train out to Shea after a few pregamers at an Irish joint in midtown Manhattan. The ride out was killer, with every rider decked out appropriately, and a palpable buzz coming from both the anticipation of the climactic evening and the tall boys of Murphy’s stout that were passed around communally. It’s really the only way to go to the stadium on a night like that.
Approaching Shea was just as stirring, but it couldn’t compare to the moment of finding your seat and turning to face the spectacle of Game 7 NLCS baseball in Metville. That I did so after dumping half a beer on the guy in front of me’s neck didn’t faze the guy in the least or detract from the awe, it just began a comedic sidelight of me as the spazzy fan that would accompany the drama and offer comic relief at night’s end.
Rob had suggested that moving Dee-Dub down in the order might do the Mets some good. I averred that Willie’s vote of confidence, similar to the effective one he’d given Jose Valentin earlier in the series, would pay off, and in the first inning it did. Wright finally returned to the form that serves him best (someone explained to him that the abuse Mike Piazza took in the press was for a different kind of going the other way), knocking one into right field for a ribbie. “And the crowd goes wild” was the cliché that fit the moment.
Somewhere in the early innings I had an epiphany inspired by the ghost of my old Phillie friend Evan, who was prone to such quirks: it occurred to me that since Budweiser products are brewed, or at least based in St. Louis, there’s no way in hell we Mets fans should be paying for and consuming them on this night. Instead, it was Miller Lite all night – the only alternative, and really, we’ve had little beef with the Brewers through the years. After showing my traveling companions the light, I took to rallying the entire beer-buying population of the right-field Level 3 corridor to do the same. My hoarse voice the next day was surely due in large part to the urging on the boys in blue and orange during the game, but in no small part to my “follow me to freedom” shouting tour of the beer stands in close proximity between frames 2 and 3. At the very least, later the amused beer man would consistently crack open a couple of Lites for me before I even said the words, and even let me walk away with four on one occasion. The little things, I tell you.
So what of the game? It stands as a blur of images in my memory at this point, with Oliver Perez being brilliantly elusive, the hitters being agonizingly unproductive, and the defense holding tight with flashes of . . . well, what can I write about that catch that hasn’t been written??
Endy’s grab was a sports moment that will remain tattooed in my brain for as long as said brain remains functional. From deep right, we had the picture-perfect vantage point. Just after the crack of the bat, a collective “ugh” emanated from our section as we were all sure it was a dinger. Then little Endy got higher than we’d have figured he could and seemed to make a play, and we were hopeful . . . but we really couldn’t tell if he caught the ball or not. We all completely froze, and I’d love to have the audio as much as the video of these few seconds:
a huge groan
a gasp
total silence
a thousand people in our section in unison
and then . . . utter chaos
a burst of gleeful screams followed by a second one after the double play was completed
I’ll echo what ol’ Jerry said – at that moment, we simply knew the Mets were going to win. We in the right-mezz screamed like sixteen year old girls seeing the Beatles in that same stadium in 1965, vainly took the Lord’s name in bellowing admiration, and hurled ourselves into each other void of consideration for the injuries that resulted. It was the kind of little-kid bliss not common to folks in their mid-thirties’ regular routine. It was fucking awesome. The best 10 seconds I’ve ever experienced at a sporting event, bar none.
The superlatives, I am tremendously saddened to say, ended there. The night was on the verge of being the best game I’ve ever attended, but as a personally brutalizing loss, it’ll simply remain in the Top 5. If the Mets had won, it might have approached one of the best nights of my life, since I feel sure the Powerball ticket in my pocket that night would have hit, Springsteen would have shown up in the bar and asked me to join him onstage, and my wife would have arrived at the end of the raucous celebration with a limo full of playmates and a head full of bad ideas.
Well, in case you don’t remember, Yadier Stinkin’ Molina bested Aaron Heilman, and the Mets did not, as it turned out, go on to the World Series. We were the last four people to leave the mezzanine, doing so only after hounded by security. And that subway ride back to Manhattan – it was like a rattly funeral procession, eerily silent and a depressing juxtaposition to the trip out, as well as to the thought of the roof-tearing ride back that could have been. All too many uses of “could have been” have been thrown around in our heads and chatter since, and each has kept me from wanting to focus on the night until now.
A final note on the night that was – well, it actually comes from the next day. We awoke in my cousin’s apartment to a horrible morning. It was bad enough to wake up and wish that I’d dreamt the night before, bad enough to feel a horrible hangover buying real estate in my head and belly. It was bad enough to know that I had a two-hour car ride, then a two-hour train ride, then a three-hour car ride to get home that day, with little to think about besides how the Mets had crushed my spirits the night prior. It was even bad enough to walk the six blocks to the car in a disgustingly rainy New York morning that we knew would lengthen our return trip.
What I did not need, what I really could have done without, was the 12-year-old twerp in the Yankee jacket who spotted Patrick’s and my Mets caps and proceeded to scream for seemingly all of the five boroughs to hear “Mets suck, Mets suck, Mets suck” over and over again for – without exaggeration – a city block. Patrick and I looked at each other, partly in mutual annoyance, partly in amusement at the kid’s persistence. I remarked that my team had fared better than his, to which the youngster replied that he wasn’t a Yankees fan – he was a Tigers fan. (This encapsulates perfectly my impression of the lesser 90% of the Yanks’ following.) Patrick more logically inquired whether the kid shouldn’t be at school, but by then he was back on the “Mets suck” tirade. A block later, with this little bastard’s hollering fading into the distance, we wondered if we should have shoved him in a trash can. Somehow, despite the instinct, we kept our dignity.
Perhaps the reason we didn’t react more to the insult was that in our minds and hearts, we knew that “Mets suck” was a pretty dumb thing to say. The Mets won 97 regular season games (most in the league), many of them in exciting fashion. They breezed through L.A. and came damn close against the eventual World Series champions (American League dominance be damned) – even with their #1 and #3 pitchers on the shelf. This was a great season, and this was a great team. And man, to be able to type that sentence after the frustration beyond belief of the first few years of this blogging endeavor . . . well, that’s a whole lot of reason not to wallow too long in the depression that Game 7 precipitated.
It has to be the journey as much as the destination, maybe more, or there would be 29 dissatisfied fan bases to just one satisfied one, which would make following baseball a mostly fruitless passion. It’s easy to get hung up on the disappointment of such a finish, but now we move on to appreciating the body of work the 2006 New York Mets delivered. In future posts I will get into that. For now, though, I will merely bask in the recollection of one fantastic evening in Queens amid 56,357 of my best friends, ignoring the way the night soured and fixating on the magnificence of the memory.
Good times.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Can't Buy Me Love
Hot Stove, Cold Beer, Cool Cash Money
My head is spinning a bit, but I can’t tell whether it’s related to the obscene amount of money being tossed at professional baseball players or last weekend’s liver-pickling extravaganza at Whitney’s house. While J.D. Drew was pocketing $70 million dollars over 5 years and Julio Lugo bringing down $36 million for 4 years’ work in Boston, Whit and I conducted a tasting of notable seasonal brews from Harpoon, Anchor Steam, Abita, and Troegs with a little Dogfish Head thrown in for, well, killing a few more brain cells.
Of note, we concluded that it’s far easier to taste beer with an eye towards the critical if you’re not working toward the concurrent goal of getting sloshed. Abita’s 20th Anniversary brew was by far the most appropriate for the latter goal, owing to its smooth palate and clean finish. Unfortunately, we figured that out fairly late in the game, after chewing through most of the other offerings first. Harpoon Winter Warmer has a distinctive nutmeg and cinnamon flavor, and would be perfect for sitting around a fire and sipping. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Anchor Steam’s Christmas Ale is a bit darker, nearly a porter in style, with some of the same wintry spice that livens up the Harpoon – again, good for enjoying with a meal, a bit filling if you aim to howl at the moon. The Troegs Mad Elf was simply a strange concoction, lively at 11% ABV, but aggressively unusual from a flavor perspective. If I could remember any details about that flavor, I’d surely share them – I’ve got 6 more in my fridge, so perhaps I’ll get into them this weekend in the interest of enlightening you. The Dogfish Head 90 Minute IPA lived up to its reputation as one of America’s best beers, hoppy and fruity with a sit-up-and-take-notice 9% ABV.
As for the Sox offseason exploits, there are certain amongst you who’ll not likely take my fiscal sanity harangues seriously anymore, and I suppose I’ve got that coming. I will say this – after seeing Ted Lilly get $10 million a year and Gil Meche (Gil Freaking Meche!) sign for $55 million guaranteed smackeroos, the Drew and Lugo contracts are market value at worst, and damn near steals. Drew’s a top-25 offensive talent with elite defensive skills. His career OPS is over .900, and he projects to be a plus-power on-base machine at Fenway if he stays healthy. Ahhh, but that’s a big if, no? Drew’s a risk, no question, but if healthy, he combines with Ortiz and Ramirez to create an imposing middle of the order.
Lugo slots immediately into the leadoff spot, dropping Kevin Youkilis into the 2-slot and creating a tantalizing combination of speed and patience in front of the big 3. Lugo’s presence allows Coco Crisp to drop down to the bottom of the order where he can get his stroke back under a lot less pressure than he faced in 2006. Lugo’s not gonna pick it as well as Alex Gonzalez did last year, but he’s also not likely to post a sub-.700 OPS.
The Daisuke Matsuzaka negotiations should be the subject of a Harvard Business School case study in game theory. Though Scott Boras is undeniably evil, he's also a brilliant motherfucker, having manufactured pressure on the Sox in a closed negotiation where it theoretically shouldn’t exist. On the other hand, Theo Epstein, Larry Lucchino, and John Henry weren’t born yesterday, and the Sox still do hold the best cards, so I expect a deal to get done before next week’s deadline.
After Matsusaka joins the fold, the Sox only hole will be at the back of the bullpen, empty because of Keith Foulke’s departure and Jonathan Papelbon’s transition to the rotation. I’ve heard everything from Eric Gagne to Chad Cordero to Derrick Turnbow (um, yeah, not so much), and I can’t say that I’m terribly thrilled by any of the options. Since I’m running short on time (it is 5:00 on a Friday, after all) and on original thought (as if that’s ever stopped us), we’ll leave the closer situation for another day. Lord knows we’re struggling for offseason content. Ahem.
Leaving on a bright note, Jon Lester appears to be cancer free, and even if he doesn’t make it back to Fenway in 2007, there’s no reason to believe that he won’t resume his ostensibly bright career.
And go listen to Neko Case’s Fox Confessor Brings the Flood, Jenny Lewis’ Rabbit Fur Coat, and the new Wreckers album if you want to hear some seriously killer chick-rock.
My head is spinning a bit, but I can’t tell whether it’s related to the obscene amount of money being tossed at professional baseball players or last weekend’s liver-pickling extravaganza at Whitney’s house. While J.D. Drew was pocketing $70 million dollars over 5 years and Julio Lugo bringing down $36 million for 4 years’ work in Boston, Whit and I conducted a tasting of notable seasonal brews from Harpoon, Anchor Steam, Abita, and Troegs with a little Dogfish Head thrown in for, well, killing a few more brain cells.
Of note, we concluded that it’s far easier to taste beer with an eye towards the critical if you’re not working toward the concurrent goal of getting sloshed. Abita’s 20th Anniversary brew was by far the most appropriate for the latter goal, owing to its smooth palate and clean finish. Unfortunately, we figured that out fairly late in the game, after chewing through most of the other offerings first. Harpoon Winter Warmer has a distinctive nutmeg and cinnamon flavor, and would be perfect for sitting around a fire and sipping. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Anchor Steam’s Christmas Ale is a bit darker, nearly a porter in style, with some of the same wintry spice that livens up the Harpoon – again, good for enjoying with a meal, a bit filling if you aim to howl at the moon. The Troegs Mad Elf was simply a strange concoction, lively at 11% ABV, but aggressively unusual from a flavor perspective. If I could remember any details about that flavor, I’d surely share them – I’ve got 6 more in my fridge, so perhaps I’ll get into them this weekend in the interest of enlightening you. The Dogfish Head 90 Minute IPA lived up to its reputation as one of America’s best beers, hoppy and fruity with a sit-up-and-take-notice 9% ABV.
As for the Sox offseason exploits, there are certain amongst you who’ll not likely take my fiscal sanity harangues seriously anymore, and I suppose I’ve got that coming. I will say this – after seeing Ted Lilly get $10 million a year and Gil Meche (Gil Freaking Meche!) sign for $55 million guaranteed smackeroos, the Drew and Lugo contracts are market value at worst, and damn near steals. Drew’s a top-25 offensive talent with elite defensive skills. His career OPS is over .900, and he projects to be a plus-power on-base machine at Fenway if he stays healthy. Ahhh, but that’s a big if, no? Drew’s a risk, no question, but if healthy, he combines with Ortiz and Ramirez to create an imposing middle of the order.
Lugo slots immediately into the leadoff spot, dropping Kevin Youkilis into the 2-slot and creating a tantalizing combination of speed and patience in front of the big 3. Lugo’s presence allows Coco Crisp to drop down to the bottom of the order where he can get his stroke back under a lot less pressure than he faced in 2006. Lugo’s not gonna pick it as well as Alex Gonzalez did last year, but he’s also not likely to post a sub-.700 OPS.
The Daisuke Matsuzaka negotiations should be the subject of a Harvard Business School case study in game theory. Though Scott Boras is undeniably evil, he's also a brilliant motherfucker, having manufactured pressure on the Sox in a closed negotiation where it theoretically shouldn’t exist. On the other hand, Theo Epstein, Larry Lucchino, and John Henry weren’t born yesterday, and the Sox still do hold the best cards, so I expect a deal to get done before next week’s deadline.
After Matsusaka joins the fold, the Sox only hole will be at the back of the bullpen, empty because of Keith Foulke’s departure and Jonathan Papelbon’s transition to the rotation. I’ve heard everything from Eric Gagne to Chad Cordero to Derrick Turnbow (um, yeah, not so much), and I can’t say that I’m terribly thrilled by any of the options. Since I’m running short on time (it is 5:00 on a Friday, after all) and on original thought (as if that’s ever stopped us), we’ll leave the closer situation for another day. Lord knows we’re struggling for offseason content. Ahem.
Leaving on a bright note, Jon Lester appears to be cancer free, and even if he doesn’t make it back to Fenway in 2007, there’s no reason to believe that he won’t resume his ostensibly bright career.
And go listen to Neko Case’s Fox Confessor Brings the Flood, Jenny Lewis’ Rabbit Fur Coat, and the new Wreckers album if you want to hear some seriously killer chick-rock.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Only Everything
Title above in homage to the research Whitney and I performed last night, catching Scott Miller solo at Iota in Arlington, VA and taste-testing several Shiner Bocks, Harpoon IPAs, and Guinness drafts. We probably talked about baseball, too, though I can't really recall. For what it's worth, Shiner's overrated - it's nearly indistinguishable from Bud Light.
Those of you not familiar with Miller should be - he's the former frontman of the V-Roys, and a proud product of the College of William and Mary, Class of '90. He appeared to be trying to go drink for drink with Whitney, which resulted in a laid-back, good-timey set of alt-country tunes. (The fact that Whitney tried to make out with him after the show was mostly entertaining, as well, though probably not for him.)
I'm refraining at the moment from buying into Friend of MLC Teejay Doyle's premise that Manny Ramirez is not long for Olde Towne Team. I know it's the popular media hook this week, but I can't see the Sox' front office particularly eager to part with the American League's most potent right-handed bat, especially given the way that contract values for mediocre outfielders have gone plaid this offseason. If Alfonso Soriano gets $17m per season, and Gary Matthews, Jr. gets $10m per, then Manny's an absolute steal at his current $20m or so per year. (Of course, you could argue that the "correction" in the value of Manny's contract makes him easier to trade, and you'd be right. Easier to trade, though, doesn't certify that the Sox would get equal value in return.)
Because Manny's contract is no longer the above-market albatross it once was, the Sox' incentive for trading the enigmatic one has diminished. Unless - and this is a big 'unless' - they can get what they perceive to be value for him. I just don't see that happening, certainly not in any of the deals that have been floated to date. The Sox' front office has been highly disciplined in its approach to the media since Theo's return from the wild, so I'm fairly sure that none of the 'Manny's gone' material is coming from Yawkey Way. More likely, to this uninformed opinionater, that the media is bored and Manny's departure is an easy story to write.
Says here that Manny's in leftfield for the Sox on Opening Day in April, nodding his goofy head in time to music that only he hears. I'd sure hate to have to write a farewell to one of the most entertaining players of my lifetime.
Those of you not familiar with Miller should be - he's the former frontman of the V-Roys, and a proud product of the College of William and Mary, Class of '90. He appeared to be trying to go drink for drink with Whitney, which resulted in a laid-back, good-timey set of alt-country tunes. (The fact that Whitney tried to make out with him after the show was mostly entertaining, as well, though probably not for him.)
I'm refraining at the moment from buying into Friend of MLC Teejay Doyle's premise that Manny Ramirez is not long for Olde Towne Team. I know it's the popular media hook this week, but I can't see the Sox' front office particularly eager to part with the American League's most potent right-handed bat, especially given the way that contract values for mediocre outfielders have gone plaid this offseason. If Alfonso Soriano gets $17m per season, and Gary Matthews, Jr. gets $10m per, then Manny's an absolute steal at his current $20m or so per year. (Of course, you could argue that the "correction" in the value of Manny's contract makes him easier to trade, and you'd be right. Easier to trade, though, doesn't certify that the Sox would get equal value in return.)
Because Manny's contract is no longer the above-market albatross it once was, the Sox' incentive for trading the enigmatic one has diminished. Unless - and this is a big 'unless' - they can get what they perceive to be value for him. I just don't see that happening, certainly not in any of the deals that have been floated to date. The Sox' front office has been highly disciplined in its approach to the media since Theo's return from the wild, so I'm fairly sure that none of the 'Manny's gone' material is coming from Yawkey Way. More likely, to this uninformed opinionater, that the media is bored and Manny's departure is an easy story to write.
Says here that Manny's in leftfield for the Sox on Opening Day in April, nodding his goofy head in time to music that only he hears. I'd sure hate to have to write a farewell to one of the most entertaining players of my lifetime.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Much Too Young to Feel This Damn Old
Whitney wanted me to pass along the following nursery rhyme that he wrote in honor of the Mets' newest acquisition. To the tune of Alouette:
Alou-Metta
Ancient Alou-Metta
Alou-Metta
At least he'd swing at strike 3
Thank you. Thank you very much.
Alou-Metta
Ancient Alou-Metta
Alou-Metta
At least he'd swing at strike 3
Thank you. Thank you very much.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
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.
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.
Saturday, October 21, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
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."
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."
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
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.)
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.)
Monday, October 16, 2006
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.
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.
Sunday, October 15, 2006
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.
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.
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