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Game 162 - Mets

Marlins 8, Mets 1
Final Record: 88-74
2nd Place in NL East, 1 GB Philadelphia, 1 GB wild card

No postseason

Stunning. Staggering. Incomprehensible. There are several dozen other descriptors for what happened, but there's no point in trying to list them out. There's no good to come out of digging deep into our hearts and recording the agony of this day, this season. As fast as we can walk -- run -- away from this wreckage, the sooner we can clear our minds of it and simply leave a scar.

How bad is this? As it has since spring training, the truth lies somewhere between Willie Randolph's stoicism and the blogosphere's fanaticism. It's bad, but in January, I got a phone call telling me one of my best friends was dead. This isn't in the same conversation. In August, I got another informing me my dad's house had burned to the ground (fortunately empty of people). This isn't close to that. Between the months of October and March, I dealt with a ruinously horrible human being who happened to become my boss, a brutal saga only curtailed by my resignation. This approaches that feeling . . . but no.

All of that said, this is still more anguish than the non-Mets fan, non-sports fan can fathom. My wife tried -- somewhat, but clearly in vain -- to empathize, but truly all she could offer was "Sorry about the Mets." There is no sense in trying to explain. Ever since I wore a toddler-sized Mets cap I've placed all too much emotional freight on the Met train; it's the way I was groomed to be by the family elders I curse today. And the hardest part of it? I love the game of baseball, there are four more weeks of it, and any thought of the sport is a punch in the gut. Every sight, sound, newspaper article, commercial, promo, TV listing, magazine cover, or stranger wearing a ballcap is that fucking 12-year-old kid shouting at me on a rainy October morning, "Mets suck! Mets suck! Mets suck!"

There may be more to blog about, but this is about it for now. Right now, if I had to decide, I'd tell Rob I want to discontinue Misery Loves Company. Five seasons in, I feel like I'm getting the lion's share of the misery. I put too much effort, too much thought, and too much heart into this endeavor -- none of which I felt was matched this year by the team I supported. I want out of the whole thing.

Of course, six good months of licking wounds and fading memories will, as always, change my mind. (I hope.) Reasoned thought will replace what's passing for it now. Thoughts of having Minaya, Randolph, and just for the fuck of it, Wilpon & Wilpon, strapped to a wall next to Reyes, Glavine, Mota, Feliciano, and the entire 40-man roster for a public flogging will gradually evaporate. My demands for firings and unconditional releases will be rescinded. My Mets caps and shirts, quickly and decisively shelved this evening, will make their way back in the rotation. Mentions of anything Met-related by folks I encounter will elicit reactions that make their way from dismissive groans to "I don't wanna talk about it" to something approaching rational discourse to actual perspective.

It takes time, though, so you don't want to know from me on this day.

Back to "How bad is this?": I'd say what I'm feeling right now is akin to the time my long-time girlfriend broke up with me. The Mets, like myself, had a good thing going, totally blew it, and now there's a lot of pain for both them and us tonight. Just like then, I saw it coming for a while but dwelled in denial. And I'm getting a slew of similarly sheepish condolences from the guys I know. Like that episode, I'll get over this in time -- and like then, probably fairly quickly. It's building character, wisdom, and experience in me by the moment. And in the meantime, I'm forging an even closer relationship with friends. (Back then it was James B. Beam. Tonight it's Arthur Guinness.) Plus, my next few weeks just got totally freed up and I'll end up saving money in the long run! Huh . . . I guess everything happens for a reason, and something better is surely right around the next corner. (Wow, even the bullshit rationalization is the same.)

I don't feel too great right now, but in the immortal words of a former colleague of mine (for three weeks), "I just say FIDO . . . Fuck it. Drive on."

The Clash

Game 161 - Mets

Mets 13, Marlins 0
Record: 88-73

I generally don't "ask" for stuff for my birthday, much to my family's chagrin, but this year I did -- and when that day rolled around a week or so ago, I pretty much got everything I'd asked for and then some. Great birthday, for many more reasons than great gifts.

I generally ask for a million things during the course of a Mets season, and yesterday I pretty much got everything I'd asked for and then some. Great day, for a few reasons other than Mets-related gifts, but it was mostly about baseball results.

The problem is, there's one more day in the regular season (at least). Between the razor-sharp pitching of John Maine, no chance for the bullpen to blow it and not even a step in that direction, a massive attack of hits and runs, and the fisticuffs I half-heartedly suggested two months ago to light a fire under our guys . . . well, let's just hope they Mets didn't blow their wad in one glorious afternoon. Somehow we have to find a way to keep the adrenaline circulating for at least one more day.

The Marlins, as if paid off by the Wilpon trust, seem to be helping to do just that. Not only did they ignite a spark by throwing at, around, and behind Luis Castillo, and not only did Marlin catcher and Kevin Millar's batting instructor Miguel Olivo start a mini-mêlée with a misinformed exchange with Jose Reyes that led to him punching Sandy Sr., but the quotables they issued after the game are just the potables the Mets can slug back to keep the fire in their belly. Thanks, guys.

Olivo talked about having his manhood challenged (by a grinning, goofing Reyes); it's standard LaRussian fare, trite and almost laughable in this context, loosely translated as "I don't like the way this game or this season is going, so I'll blame someone else and lead with my fist." He's Ike Clanton in Tombstone. Well played. Meanwhile, Hanley Ramirez sent a few foul words the Mets' way as well, indicating that he plans to lead the charge to give our boys a beatdown. We'll see.

But thank you, Marlins. A million thank yous. I can only hope you've woken up a slumbering beast.

Meanwhile, down in Brother-Love town, Brett Myers and others have indicated a similar distaste for the Amazins. The '07 team of mild-mannered stars is a far, far cry from the moustaches, smirks, fist-pumps, and finger-points of the brash '86 team, and yet there's similar venom swelling in the others. Unlike the Marlins' misdirected pouting over an overblown occurrence, though, the Phils' hate is less about an incident or a player, it's that "I hate the Mets, their fans, their town, their organization, everything about them." God bless 'em. That's what rivalries are all about.

One of our cousin-blogs had a running commentary about football's NFC East and the rivalries and mutual loathings that bounce around the division. The fans feel the decades-old "hatred," if such a word is suitable for sports (and I think it is), and all we really want is for the players to sense it, tap into it, get a charge from it, and if we're really lucky, feel the hate, too. That's rare these days. It would be hard for the Mets and Phillies to have that mutual bitterness, if only because this is virtually the first time in their 46 years of divisional co-existence that they've grappled each other for the crown. Still, fans of both sides already have buckets full of the contempt that familiarity brings, largely fueled by other showdowns in other sports. That the players themselves might also be tiring quickly of the opponent's antics can't help but elevate the excitement.

It would be a real shame if yesterday's mild bench-clearer was the event to unite the guys on the New York Mets, but it was too late to make a difference. Highly-paid professionals certainly shouldn't need an extraneous circumstance to foster the drive and determination to excel when there's this much on the line this afternoon, but human beings are peculiar animals. The hari-kari of the last few weeks has eluded comprehension, so logic and rational points have no place here.

I'm frazzled and out of it and nervous and jittery and to be honest, I'm not sure what day it is. The opening chords and lines of the first song on Jane's Addiction's album Ritual de lo Habitual seem to be the quintessential rev-up to this game . . . "Here we go!" Problem is, the song is called "Stop." My head is spinning about just about everything right now.

I'm only focused on one thing today, and all I can ask is that the same can be said of a dugout full of guys wearing blue & orange as they strap it on for either the epilogue to a tragedy or the key scene in a multi-part heroic saga.

Stay tuned. I will. Here we go.

Queen

Game 160 - Red Sox

Red Sox 5, Twins 2
Record: 95-65
American League East Champions

So this is a bit awkward. I can't help but feeling a mite guilty about the gleeful ending to my evening, watching Jonathan Papelbon run around Fenway in his underwear, Mike Lowell and Mike Timlin cavorting like 5 year-olds, a bunch of grown men donning swim goggles and dousing each other and the fans in champagne and Bud Light. You'd be very hard-pressed to find another moment in the history of this blog when our respective outlooks were this polar.

And since we're sharing, let me get this off my chest: despite my measured protests to the contrary, I cared - really, really cared about winning the division. All that 'let the chips fall where they may' nonsense was pure psychological defense mechanism. Really glad I can admit that now in the soft afterglow of the Sox' first division title since 1995. Melvin Mora and his Tom Berenger imitation has set me free.

I didn't get to celebrate properly, as I'm one day away from an epically stupid attempt to run, mountain bike, and canoe 35 miles or so through the Northern Virginia woods. That, and even as I'm overjoyed by the division championship, I can't help but admit that the thrill will be diminished if the Sox don't put some post-season icing on the cake. I'll be away from the television for the better part of the rest of the weekend, so I'll leave the stage to the Mets and their comeback.

Late addition, just because Papelbon is my kind of moron:

The Dead Boys

Game 160 - Mets

Marlins 7, Mets 4
Record: 87-74
1 GB Philadelphia in NL East, 2 GB San Diego for Wild Card


Just a few thoughts - I'll spend more time on this game later. Ah, fuck it, no I won't. I'm too goddamned numb. All the troops in the Township are putting on brave faces, talking about making history, win one at a time, blah blah blah. And maybe that's what we're all supposed to say, but I can't bring myself to do it. The Mets have been so completely outclassed physically and mentally in this stretch, that even winning tomorrow night's game would rank as a massive upset, let alone making the playoffs.

I simply am not smart enough or talented enough to put adequate words to my utter disappointment with these Mets. It would be one thing if they'd played these games close and lost heartbreakers because of bad luck or quirky bounces. But they have simply not deserved to win any of the games they've lost. Stupid plays, indifferent fielding, and godawful pitching have overcome any spark provided by their prolific bats - and the fact that they've scored 34 runs in the last eight games is the lone bright spot, despite it being just two more than the Nats scored last fucking series. The Mets deserve to be eliminated, plain and simple. And that is just abjectly painful to admit.

Van Halen

Game 159 - Red Sox

Twins 5, Red Sox 4
Record: 94-65

It was Back to School Night in my little hamlet, so I caught exactly none of this game. Thornton Mellon, however, continues to slay me.

Since I have very little to say about the Sox, I come here then to offer some small succor to my colleague, for whom I am fairly lousy company at the moment. Back on September 25, 2004, I wrote the following about a stumbling group of idiots:

I said some months ago that this team would squeeze into the playoffs
on sheer talent, despite their poor play for a the majority of the season, and
that their relief in making the postseason in the midst of massive expectations
would be the jet fuel that propelled them headlong into immortality. I believe
it more now than I did then. They burned brightly in winning 25 of 30 games to
get into position to make the playoffs, and are now in the middle of a slow,
fading arc until the end of the regular season. They'll fire the engines one
more time, slingshot around the slower traffic in front of them, and scream
headlong into history. Pretty decent amount of ball left. Stay on target.

Things turned out okay for those guys, as I recall. And I do, so very often.

Not sure if that helps much, my friend, but here's to the Mets staying on target.

The Last Resort

Game 159 - Mets

Cardinals 3, Mets 0
Record: 87-72

It's all incredibly uncanny . . . in addition to being an emotional disemboweling for those of us who haven't fled the Township in terror. The Cardinals, as if wanting to keep the Mets fans' hate for them at a simmer, send Joel Pineiro to the hill and he blanks the Mets. Blanks 'em -- when they've been notching six a runs a game with ease lately. Pedro throws as well as could be expected, maybe better (no thanks to Luis Castillo, who set the tone nicely by creating an unearned run in the 1st), and yet it's not enough.

The friggin' Cardinals -- if anything, we owed you one, you sons of bitches. Unbelievable.

Meanwhile, down in Philthadelphia, the fucking Braves issued one of the most hapless, soulless, and blatantly gutless displays possible for the second night in a row. There was a playoff-like atmosphere in Philly tonight, which should have been a clear indication of the choke job the Atlanta Braves would cough up. How I didn't see that coming . . . It almost felt illegal -- had they tanked it intentionally, they would have invariably looked more into the game. Sure, they ended up making it sort of close, but more bumbling errors (Chipper's meager and game-changing attempt last night needs an investigation) plus Met-killer John Smoltz sticking it to Glavine yet again with his own pants-crapping just reeked of a hated rival screwing our guys over any way they could. Fuck the Braves. Could not despise you more. Fuck you, Braves.

And yet . . . how can we blame anyone at all except the miserable Mets? All they needed to do was limp down the stretch to the finish, beating horrible teams half the time, maybe less. Not only have they not done it, they've melted down in every which-a-way possible. It's lampoonish, but nobody 'round these parts is chuckling.

Memo to all players, coaches, and executives in the New York Mets organization: The Washington Nationals are not a good a baseball team. Maybe the .453 winning percentage should've told you. They made each and every one of your pitchers look like they should consider a new vocation. The St. Louis Cardinals are a pathetic shell of the team they were a year ago, with season-ending injuries, national controversies, death, and other mild maladies decimating the club. They just shut you out when they had zero to play for and you had it all on the line. What the fucking flapjack roller-skate piece of crap tin foil Florida Marlins will do to you butternut pilgrims over the weekend might border on the criminal -- except that the violence will be of the cartoon variety, what with you caricature Bugs Bunny assclowns tripping over your sloppy selves from innings 1 to 9.

I want to give up on you. I deserve to, and if I had a rational stitch in my lobotomized head, I damn well would. I'd spend tomorrow night with friends, yukking it up over crunchy crudités and crisp Colorado ales, or with my young children, laughing and playing as only carefree, naïve youths who don't know the Mets score can. What will I end up doing, though? Donning yet another wanna-be lucky cap, drinking myself into vague numbness, and shouting at you as you sleepwalk through another contest with emotionless visages in the New York night.

I know you need to keep an even keel from top to bottom, but it just feels like I care a hell of a lot more about this than you guys do. I want to say I know that's not true, but it's hard. It's a gut-twisting, week-ruining, stranger-kicking kind of anxious, mostly internalized ire that I'm walking around town with now. It's torturous, and the only reason I'm still clinging to the rope of hope -- you know, the one tied to the trailer hitch as you careen wildly across the gravelly parking lot and into the pricker bushes while the guy in the flatbed throws darts at my eyes, ears and mouth -- is that there is still every chance (and by every I mean more fleeting than a BetaMax tape of Pauly Shore's career paid for with Susan B. Anthony dollars) that you bastards might pull this out.

Make no mistake: if you do, it will be a drop-to-your-knees, utterly overwhelming kind of redemptive, glorious moment that we couldn't possibly have felt if you had played the past week with the tiniest of sparks. If you don't, it will be career-defining ignominy for some of you and a truly bitter eternal memory for the rest. It will be baseball history, and not the good kind. You'll be referenced and embarrassed every year at this time. You'll be one very big and very bad joke.

But for God's sake, don't think about that now. All I want to see between now and Sunday evening is a non-stop manner of play that will make us say, "Those guys left every ounce of it out on that field. Wow." If we can really feel like you went through it right next to us, giving as much of your mental energy, physical stamina, concentration, sweat, effort, hustle, prayers, and just the best you've got, we'll all die together and be proud to be buried alongside one another. Or maybe we'll all be part of something historically great. Either way.

If we can't feel that, then go fuck yourselves. You're the fucking Braves. But right now my money's going the other way, despite every sensible instinct shouting out vehemently against it. Motherfucker, I'm a Mets fan -- Township-variety, and we simply know no other way than to get on the goddamn bus, sign our lives away, grab a cup, and see where this fucking thing takes us. All aboard.

Faith No More (redux)

Game 158 - Mets

Nationals 9, Mets 6
Record: 87-71

Back and forth, I sway with the wind
Resolution slips away again
Right through my fingers, back into my heart
Where it's out of reach and it's in the dark
Sometimes I think I'm blind
Or I may be just paralyzed
Because the plot thickens every day
And the pieces of my puzzle keep crumblin' away
But I know, there's a picture beneath

Indecision clouds my vision
No one listens...
Because I'm somewhere in between
My love and my agony
You see, I'm somewhere in between
My life is falling to pieces
Somebody put me together

Layin' face down on the ground
My fingers in my ears to block the sound
My eyes shut tight to avoid the sight
Anticipating the end, losing the will to fight
Droplets of "yes" and "no"
In an ocean of "maybe"
From the bottom, it looks like a steep incline
From the top, another downhill slope of mine
But I know, the equilibrium's there

Indecision clouds my vision
No one listens
Because I'm somewhere in between
My love and my agony
You see, I'm somewhere in between
My life is falling to pieces
Somebody put me together

Frank Sinatra or AFI (reader's choice)

Game 158 – Red Sox

Red Sox 11, A’s 6
Record: 94-64

Love is a Manny-splendored thing, indeed. Or, in English, it sure is super-terrific to have #24 back in the lineup, even if in a limited capacity.

Yesterday’s 5:00 EST start meant that I only saw the final handful of innings, so I missed most of Manny’s 3-for-3, 2R, 1BI, 1BB performance. Regardless, the reappearance of his bat in the lineup augurs nothing but good things for the Sox’ postseason chances. There's something poetic in the way he drops the barrel of his bat and hammers a pitch on a line into right field.

The win over the A’s was a textbook example of how the Sox’ offense needs to operate to give the good guys a chance to win in October. Keep the game close early, chase the opposing starter, and feast on the soft underbelly of the opposing bullpen. All of the AL playoff teams (the Angels, Indians, and Evil Empire) have strong late relief (Joe Borowski notably excepted, but the Tribe’s got sick setup guys), but they’re all vulnerable in middle relief. Dustin Pedroia’s rocket homer in the 6th was the launch pad for the Sox’ 6 runs against the A’s bullpen, and a blueprint for next month.

Shifting gears now, and grinding metal against metal. An honest assessment of the quality of my efforts here over the past month leaves this observer with the feeling that something’s missing. That something is honesty, and I’m afraid to tell you that you won’t be getting it anytime soon. I may allude to it here, but some unseen force is rebuffing my efforts to come clean. If I were truly and fully open about my feelings regarding the Yankees and the Sox and the stretch run, you’d be forced to call my doctor and have me taken away for observation. Maybe when the season’s over I’ll let it out – the catharsis might be freeing.

For now, you’ll get that tease and like it.

Cream

Game 157 – Red Sox

Red Sox 7, A’s 3
Record: 93-64

In the words of Jerry Remy, “Don, this has been a weird game, hasn’t it?” I know your name probably isn’t Don, but the point is otherwise spot-on. Last night’s strange brew of a contest featured, among other things:

Manny Ramirez batting second in his return to the Sox’ lineup after an extended
injury-related absence.

J.D. Drew going 3-for-4 with a run-scoring walk and seemingly finally figuring out that the Green Monster could be his friend.

Oakland starter Chad Gaudin pitching 4 relatively strong innings before walking the first 4 batters in the bottom of the 5th.

A’s infielder Marco Scutaro striking out 3 consecutive times after only whiffing once in his previous 64 at-bats.

Eric Gagne struggling to protect a 3-run lead in the top of the 8th. Wait – that’s not weird in the least. The weird part was Tito using Jonathan Papelbon to bail him out and being willing to use Paps for a 4-out save in a game where every other move seemed geared towards getting the team focused on the postseason. Manny left the game after 3 at-bats, Curt Schilling was lifted after 86 pitches, and, well, Papelbon was in line for a 4-out save - until the Sox scored 3 in the bottom of the 8th to take a 6-run lead and let Tito off the hook…

Except that Brian Corey tried to light himself on fire in the top of the 9th, allowing the tying run to reach the on-deck circle with only 1 out…

Only to be bailed out when Dustin Pedroia’s nice running grab on a pop to shallow right turned into a baffling game-ending double-play.

On top of all that, the Yankees blew a 5-0 lead to the Devil Rays and lost in 10 innings. As I said, weird.

Little Feat

Game 157 - Mets

Nationals 10, Mets 9
Record: 87-70

Blast. That was close to being something. As it turned out, it was nothing.

Maybe six ninth-inning runs and a damn fine comeback that fell just short isn't quite nothing, but the time for moral victories expired long ago. If we're simply looking for signs of life amid losses to one of the league's doormats, I just registered for postseason tickets in utter vain.

It's a simple game. You throw the ball. You hit the ball. You catch the ball. Going 1-for-3 is great for a batting average, but where those three elements are concerned, it spells doom.

You got trouble
And it's tailor made
Well mama, lay your head down in the shade
'Cause your eyes are tired, and your feet are, too
And you wish the world was as tired as you
Well I'll write a blogpost, and I'll send it away
And put all the trouble in it you had today


. . . Oh, Atlanta -- thanks.

The Ohio Players

Games 153 through 156 - Mets

Mets 9, Marlins 6
Mets 7, Marlins 2
Mets 7, Marlins 6
Nationals 13, Mets 4
Record: 87-69

The Mets are sandbagging it. Gotta be. Nobody can look this bad against the Washington Nationals every time out. There's a master plan afoot, not as well documented or as much lamented as the one in the other half of the MLC camp, but some kind of a strategy wherein the Mets are going to limp into the playoffs under the radar, then rally like the cohesive unit they haven't been since two (calendar) seasons ago. Gotta be. Because if they're really this bad . . . lord have mercy.

Over the four-gamer against the Marlins, the Mets looked this dreadfully ordinary from time to time, but they did what it took to snag three of four. Ugly wins are still wins, and to rebound from the Thursday night ipecac they way they did was noteworthy.

Almost . . . too noteworthy. It was too comfortable, that little cushion between them and the Phillies -- and we're talking I-AA football game promotional local hardware store free giveaway seat padding "little cushion." Still too much easy breathing for the Met in royal blue and blaze orange, I guess. We've mentioned how the 2006 World Series teams stumbled down a flight of stairs at the end of the regular season en route to postseason success. Were the Mets so stunned by their NLCS defeat that they've taken to utmost emulation?

The Nationals. The Nats. The Gnats. The esrtwhile Expos. The team put together by MLB's executive office, a superstar crew that couldn't assemble a toddler Lego set, much less a baseball roster. Once again they looked like a dominant force, compared to our New York Mets. Staggeringly so.

Mike Pelfrey made quick work of the Nats early, then faltered as if to say, "I'm really more of a four-inning guy." Keith Hernandez has made his displeasure about the coddling of young pitchers well known; by keeping their pitch counts very low, managers ensure these guys'll have neither off-season surgery nor any capacity for throwing more than six innings on any given night. There's a happy medium somewhere, but Pelfrey and several others on this staff seem to tire at breakneck speed somewhere in the middle frames.

Which leads us to . . . the bullpen. Guillermo Mota is a guy whose 2007 Topps baseball card actually has crosshairs on it, and his allowance of three runs in an inning of work surprised no one; meanwhile, old friend Dave Williams threw a 15-pitch ninth in which he surrendered a three-run jack to Ryan Langerhans -- which, if I am reading the rulebook correctly, means he must sit out the next two years of organized baseball of any kind.

Moises Alou hit safely for the 28th game in a row and helped turn a first-and-third base hit to left-center into a man-on-second, two-runs-in situation with only a slight glove gaffe. That's veteran smooth.

Remember José A. Reyes? The other José Reyes in the organization? The guy who never gets on, never steals bases, is good but not great with the glove, and who hits AA-caliber pitching at a .214 clip? I'm tired of watching him lead off for the Mets over the last month. It's really getting annoying.

Speaking of annoying, the Nats' TV booth -- Bob Carpenter and Don Sutton -- is startlingly abrasive for fans of either the Mets or announcers with just enough impartiality to still dwell in the factual. Sutton's not terrible, he's mostly just . . . there, and it may be some lingering distaste for the former Braves color guy that makes me lump him in with Carpenter. But the latter is a play-by-play guy that somehow incorporates more skew into his fairly straightforward job than seems possible. Tonight we learned some valuable information:

1. Ryan Zimmerman's league-leading 23 errors would be in single digits if it weren't for his throwing errors. He has softer hands than David Wright, who has 21 of his own. (That they can say this definitively based on the 17 games they've watched Wright -- who seemingly makes every snare but delivers some wild throws -- is mind-numbing.)

2. The ball Austin Kearns misjudged badly and ran by as it fell in for a double? Well, he doesn't have the benefit of slow motion out there, folks. (You don't have to crucify a power-hitting corner outfielder for misplaying a ball, but at least let the viewing audience know it was actually a mistake. Is Kearns running for office?)

3. For the second time in a week, Bobby C called a deep Nats fly and let loose the "See! . . . You! . . ." but before the "Later!!" could make its way past his lips, the ball dropped onto the warning track, so he finished it with "At the wall!" Tonight he even led it all off with a "Popped to left," then inexplicably overcorrected with the premature tater call. Because for the second time Moises Alou made a less-than-dexterous play on said fly, I couldn't appreciate the broadcasting ineptitude with a chuckle. When the aged Phil Rizzuto used to do the same thing with regularity, I enjoyed it with the same levity that made me laugh when my kooky grandfather couldn't spit out my name until the fourth try. When Mr. Carpenter does it, I don't enjoy it at all; he just seems like an amateur.

And more than anything, it's the aversion to anything even slightly negative about the hometown nine that drives me nuts. The team is 17 games under .500, but you'd never know this team wasn't playoff-bound by listening to a broadcast; on the surface, that's admirable, keeping fans into it and extolling a truly overachieving team. What makes up the nightlines on MASN, however, is a series of exaggerations, embellishments, and outright incorrect statements about what's going on between the lines. All too many one-sided questions raised about the umpiring, official scoring, and every play made or not made.

What is it about Washington, DC play-by-play guys that they're babbling, bumbling homers? (Wizards caller) Steve Buckhantz and Bob Carpenter need to call our softball games sometime; we'll never feel so good about getting slaughter-ruled ever again. I enjoy quite a bit of hometown bias, don't get me wrong. Sonny & Sam never let there be any question whose side they're on as color guys, and I'm for that. But the ability to maintain objectivity about the quality of the team's performance is essential to maintaining credibility, and too many guys shelve that and don the rah-rah blinders.

Meanwhile, Riggo and I think this current Redskins team is closer to 6-10 than 10-6. Keith and I think there are some problems to be worked out with this by-many-accounts top-notch Met team before they even think about the playoffs. Rob and I call our teams' fortunes like we see them, neither pie-in-the-sky nor sky-is-falling. At times we are swayed towards either polar extreme, but we've usually got a little slab of the concrete to point to in our defense. Generally speaking, we try to issue blatantly biased realism. We don't always succeed, but with every game I watch that's called by the Prozac Pair in Washington, I feel better about what we do.

Anyway, tomorrow is yet another turn in this rollercoaster finish. I think we've possumed it enough for now, boys. Let's turn the jets back on.

The Kinks

Games 154 through 156 – Red Sox

Red Sox 8, Devil Rays 1
Red Sox 8, Devil Rays 6
Devil Rays 5, Red Sox 4
Record: 92-64

Quite frankly, I’m at a bit of a loss this morning. I haven’t quite muddled through my state of mind regarding the Sox. This weekend brought a gutsy performance by Josh Beckett in the clutch, a cardiac comeback in another game marred by managerial indecision, and a very predictable loss with a JV lineup on the day after the Sox clinched a playoff berth.

That last sentence is the key. Even as my irrational fanboy side desperately wants the Sox to win the AL East and break the Yankees’ decade-long stranglehold on the top spot in the standings, my rational mind knows that the Sox would be better prepared for October if any number of key players could take a few days off to rest and recuperate. With the Sox facing the A’s and Twins to the Yankees’ Rays and Orioles, that plan for relaxation is also a recipe for a Wild Card entry into the playoffs. What’s a girl to do?

It comes to this then: ultimately, I want to Sox to win the division mostly because I personally dread the landslide of poorly-written “choke” stories and endless McCarver/Buck references to 1978 and Bucky Dent and Aaron Boone, and…gack. I want the Sox to win the division so I don’t have to hear every mouthbreather pinstripe jerkoff fan proclaiming the Yankees’ superiority. I want the Sox to win the division for me, dammit – way more than I think they need to win it for strategic reasons.

And, at the end of the day, that’s pretty lame reasoning.

So I’m resolved to just watch these last 6 games for fun, let the chips fall where they may, and trust that the Sox’ management team knows a skosh more than me about how best to set up the roster for postseason success. And if, by some chance, the Yankees win the division, that smile you’ll see on my face is there to hide the burning desire to punch the next jackass wearing crossed NY gear in the neck. Serenity, now. At least for the next 10 days or so.

Let’s go Mets.

The Dead Milkmen

Game 152 - Mets

Marlins 8, Mets 7 (10 inn.)
Record: 84-68

How many times can we keep telling ourselves the Cardinals and Tigers reeked this bad down the stretch last year? I think I'm already to the point where I'm thinking, "Well, actually, they weren't this bad."

This just in: two NL West teams have better records than the Mets (and are playing 1000% better baseball). What does that mean? It means that at the current pace, there is no wild card to save the Metropolitans from themselves. "Collapse" will be synonymous with the 2007 New York Mets forever. Ask Jim Bunning. All those elections and he's still the guy that lost three starts in seven days (Gene Mauch, tactician) as the Phillies tattooed their notorious legacy on their own asses by leaving the pennant at Goodwill.

Once Marlon Anderson gave us the clutch heroics that, frankly, we've come to expect from him, we Townshippers all thought this would be the spark game -- the galvanization of this herd into a cohesive unit. You know, the scene towards the end of the screwball comedy where the band of misfits comes together to save the camp, or the house, or the world, or a Washington, D.C. taxicab company. Didn't happen, but it was a moment. And although it was quickly undone, I'll still take a memory from it: when Marlon Anderson is at the plate, it may not be prudent to shout in unison, "Let's Go Marlins!" (Or, just as possibly, when playing the Florida Marlins, it may not be prudent for Mets fans to yell, "Let's Go Marlon!")

At any rate, Marlon took some inspiration and (shouldv'e) won the game. Instead of a galvanization, though, it was more of a coagulation, one quickly melted into gelatinous muck by the humid Miami air and the sweaty pigdogs we call relievers.

Hey, Willie, I'll give you this: you are going against the grain and keeping the other team (and us) guessing. Jorge Sosa threw two splendid innings last night, and with Billy Wagner apparently unavailable to close a pivotal game in this damnable quest not to crap yourselves entirely, you went with (the evidently spent) Sosa in the 9th. Very clever. Can't wait till those rosters expand.

Oh, but you brought in Pedro Feliciano for one batter just so Sosa could start in the stretch. I like the way you "think," sir.

And not walking the bases loaded with one out and the tying run on 2nd base? Très avant-garde, monsieur.

Hey, Dave, I know it's hard to concentrate with all of the "MVP" shouters, but here's a tip I noticed on TV: after each brilliant snag that forces you to spin around, you chuck the ball at Delgado in the dugout. Meet Jeff Conine, former Marlin and your first baseman. I know, hard to argue with what Dee-Dub has been doing at the plate, but if he makes that throw in the 9th . . .

Speaking of Delgado, he was seen lacing up his cleats in the 10th as if he might hit . . . setting him back 7-10 more days in his rehab.

Lastings Milledge took it upon himself to throw the hissy-fit everyone in the New York media has been urging Willie to have. How to Avoid the Postseason Roster: Have your platoon-mate catch fire? Check. Spaz out in a misguided, mis-timed, Lou Piniella wanna-be, head-shakingly embarrassing fashion? Check. Help your team miss the playoffs? Ch-- . . . we'll see.

Whom do you want up with the game on the line in a pressure moment? In June, you'd have put Jose Reyes near the top. Now, he's right behind Mike DiFelice. And from what the guys on the team bus say, you do not want that.

Maybe I've been too busy fast-forwarding over TiVoed Mets disasters, but where's Omar been lately? Camp David? Sure, Willie is Nero, fiddling while Rome burns, but Omar's the council head who thought tiki torches on top of gas trucks would make this toga party rock. Show yourself, sir. You've got some 'splaining to do.

Wheelhouse Jerry noted well the other night that the Duaner Sanchez cab accident has had layered, lingering effects on the bullpen even more than a year after the fact. It's true. I told him that my own late-night quests for grease food have left me lamenting the unwise decision a day later, but never a year later.

People say every movie has a perfect ending, it's just a matter of when you stop the film. I wish someone could advise me in such a capacity on Mets games. Case in point, "September 20: watch 8.5 innings, turn it off. Ending is as you'd assume." My mornings would be so much brighter.

Det. Sipowicz, 15th Precinct, once quipped: "You know how I know I'm evolving towards a higher planetary consciousness?" His answer was that he didn't punch a skell's lights out, mine is that I didn't make a reprehensible joke that somehow equated a certain human tragedy of the early 1980's with a factor in the Mets' plight. Like Keith chides with tongue somewhat in cheek during the tensest moments of the tightest contests, "It's only a game . . ."

Joke woulda worked, though. Really woulda.

Speaking of jokes, I can recycle my ancient one about Willie and his bullpen, the man who brought a knife to a gunfight, blah blah blah, but at this point it's painfully unfunny -- and not in the way my wisecracks normally are. The Mets have surrendered 43 runs in five games; though way too many have been unearned, find me the Mets fan who has confidence in any pitcher on the team and I'll show you a raging dipsomaniac. Pass the hooch down this way, Red, I don't wanna see no more.

Help us, Pedro; you're our only hope.
Help us, Pedro; you're our only hope.
Help us, Pedro; you're our only hope.
Help us, Pedro; you're our only hope.
Help us, Pedro; you're our only hope.

Rebirth Brass Band

Game 151 - Mets

Mets 8, Nationals 4
Record: 84-67

A nation rises and falls on a nightly basis with every win or loss by a baseball team. As does a Township. These next two weeks may damn well put Rob and me in the hospital, sanitarium, drunk tank, rage counselor's classroom, or divorce court. God bless baseball.

Because the Mets won last night, and because the St. Louis [expletive removed] Cardinals finally pulled one out against the Phils thanks to Yadier [expletive still lingering] Molina, I can breathe this morning. Not breathe easy . . . hell, no. I just mean oxygen can actually make it to my lungs on a semi-regular basis, as opposed to the past few mornings. My cohort knows what I mean.

The Mets at last put together a victory over the vaunted Washington Nationals. I suppose I didn't help the Mets' plight by having mocked the Gnats early and often this season, but all I'm asking for now is that the Erstwhile-Expos continue this mad barrage on the baseball against the Phillies over the next week and a half. Please, don't pick and choose when to overachieve. (Like the Marlins, who gave the not-dead-yet Braves a game last night because they bumped Dontrelle Willis to pitch tonight against the Mets. That's crap.)

Mike Pelfrey got the job done last night. He wasn't stellar, but he got it done, and that's something that can't be said about a lot of arms on the Mets' staff lately. Just as importantly, and possibly overlooked (but not by Lee Mazzilli), Jorge Sosa came into the game in a jam and worked out of it unscathed. He's been victimized along with everyone in that bullpen lately, but I have more faith in Sosa than I do in a slew of others. (Not saying whom; in an unrelated story, Feliz Navidad, Now Batting for Pedro Borbon, Posture-pedic.)

Speaking of Mazzilli, the Metmen had be so mentally twisted up that I was taking solace in the most trifling of things Met-related; for example, I recently found satisfaction in realizing whom Maz reminds me of when he speaks, something that had been gnawing at me for a while. Doesn't mean much to you, but he is a dead ringer (vocally) for an old Long Island college crony of mine, "Pip" Pipia. I saw Pip after the Mets-Astros game a couple of weekends ago, and that must have crystallized it for me. Not sure how it eluded me for this long -- Pip's partner in crime (quite literally) during the frat guy days was a kid named Mazzoni, or Maz for short. Duh.

[A massive] Aaaaaanyway . . . The Mets now square off against the air-conditioned (no fans) Florida Marlins for four huge (okay, every game is now huge) contests. Glavine, Pedro, Ollie & Maine. That's as fearsome a foursome as we're going to throw at anyone right now. But in this crazy time of the season in this silly sport, we know that that somehow doesn't mean much.

To profane the classic line from one of the most widely underrated (or underviewed) films in all of cinema, "Throw straight, you bastards -- don't make a mess of it!"

Marilyn Manson

Game 153 - Red Sox

Blue Jays 6, Red Sox 1
Record: 90-63

This is like watching a slow-motion train wreck and not being able to look away.