Game 5 - Red Sox
No Sleep 'Til...Brookline
Toronto Blue Jays 10, Red Sox 5
Record: 2-3
The Sox played 13 on Thursday against the O's, then sat at the airport for 4 1/2 hours while their plane was being repaired (I have a mental picture of Tom Berenger and Wesley Snipes sitting on the tarmac in Major League), and didn't get home to Boston until 7:30 in the morning. Then, they went out and played like they were exhausted against the Jays, with the gassed bullpen (will the 2003 version of Mike Timlin please pick up a white courtesy phone, you're needed at Fenway Park) giving up 6 runs in the 8th and 9th to drop this one to the Jays. Dave McCarty, a backup firstbaseman and outfielder actually closed out the game for the Sox, a combination of a big deficit and an overtired relief corps leaving new manager Terry Francona no other option.
I might be tempted to head toward the ledge, but bad luck and bad timing are the real culprits in the Sox' early-season sluggishness. Yes, they're not playing well, but they're also undermanned and on the wrong end of some weird shit. Seriously, a plane breaking down following a 13-inning game followed by a 3:05 start? What the fuck is that? So, long story short: no worries, get through this month without completely imploding, trust in Pedro, Curt, Lowe, and Wake, and remember that the pennant's rarely won in April.
Thank God it's a long season.
Saturday, April 10, 2004
Friday, April 09, 2004
Game 3 - Mets
Amelia Earhart, Jimmy Hoffa, Pitching & Defense
Braves 10, Mets 8
Record: 1-2
Those of you who've been with us since the beginning of last year are probably familiar with an annoying trait of mine: I will invariably bring up every accurate prediction I've ever made. To wit, this will be the second time in the embryonic stage of this season that I've done it. But man, when I'm right, I'm right!
Monday, April 5: (a) "Scott Erickson, who was last seen pulling into his reserved parking spot at the Johns Hopkins hospital." (b) "Erickson (now shopping for real estate on the DL)"
Last night during warm-ups before his first game as a Met, Scott Erickson strained a hamstring and severely hamstrung the Mets' chances of taking this series. If I cease to make negative (albeit obvious) prognostications, will they stop coming true?
Art Howe looked like the man who brought a knife to a gunfight as he penciled Dan Wheeler in as a spot starter. If his name sounds familiar, it's because he's mentioned several inches south on your screen, pitching an inning and a third in the game the night before. Oh, this should go well, everyone in Metville collectively sniped.
Wheeler wasn't terrible, especially considering the circumstances, and he made it through the first three frames unscathed. Ty Wigginton, much more fearsome in this year's 7- or 8-spots than he was in the 5-spot last year, hit a two-run dinger off John Thomson to give the Mets a surprising lead. The Braves got to Wheeler for a pair in the 4th, tying it, but the Mets got two more the next inning. After a leadoff double, Art Howe pulled Wheeler and brought in David Weathers to stop the bleeding. Weathers proceeded to do his best Edward Scissorhands, though, and three runs scored.
Weathers was a steady workhorse middle reliever/set-up man last year, especially in the early going, but he just didn't get the job done here. Still, the Mets scratched across another in the 6th and it was knotted again. It has been nice to see some tenacity in coming back again and again during this initial series. And then John Franco entered and assured us that there would be no more comebacks.
I had a lot of trouble justifying the negative comments I wrote about Franco last year, and it's still painful to have to write such things, but it's no less necessary. This is a great pitcher who did great things for this club for a great number of years. This is also a team who can't afford to have close games rest in the hand of a guy, were it not for his great history, would be out of a job in this league. That may be overly critical, since there were more guys to point blame at in this game than I have fingers, but the index finger is aimed squarely at Generalissimo Franco.
Franco faced nine batters and retired two, which isn't terribly efficient. In truth, he made a few great pitches along the way that reminded us of how he used to con, swindle, and trick batters into pop-ups or bad swinging K's. But one or two good pitches to each batter will not get the job done. He ended up walking a run home on a ball that bounced before it reached the plate. Franco's fastball hasn't been one at which to marvel in a long time, but his speeds are so low these days that he needs top-shelf control to have any shot. The three walks he surrendered illustrate how poor that control was. When he loaded the bases down 6-5, I angrily made a bet with my television (aloud, to my house guests' bewilderment) that if he walked Julio (the better-aging) Franco home, I would guarantee the Braves would score 10 runs, presumably on a subsequent grand slam. After the walk, there was not the slam I had envisioned ruining things, but the Braves did end up tallying 10. The TV and I agreed to disagree and called it a push.
The previously heralded good D was abandoned after Game 2. The Mets had three errors and a passed ball in the loss. None of the runs were unearned, but there were several defensive miscues in the midst of what became big innings for Atlanta. As the pitching and defense vanished, it became clear this game would not be won, and that we might be in for the long season we thought we'd ducked after Game 1. And I'm not the only fan grimacing after these consecutive pathetic displays. My brother-in-law Patrick, quoted more than once (in a tone either hostile or doomed) last year, called and left me a message early this morning. It contained the following snippets:
"need to vent . . . are you kidding me . . . give up 30 runs in 3 games . . . long, LONG year . . . was so excited after Game 1 . . .watched all three games . . . already think I've had enough . . . need to vent"
I think Patrick needs to move down here to DC where we can only catch the Mets on TBS when they play the Braves or WGN when they play the Cubs. This season might cause him bodily harm. For me, though, I need another week or two before I can get a good bead on the season just yet. I'm just happy they're hitting the ball. So what if this resembles men's softball? I like softball.
Amelia Earhart, Jimmy Hoffa, Pitching & Defense
Braves 10, Mets 8
Record: 1-2
Those of you who've been with us since the beginning of last year are probably familiar with an annoying trait of mine: I will invariably bring up every accurate prediction I've ever made. To wit, this will be the second time in the embryonic stage of this season that I've done it. But man, when I'm right, I'm right!
Monday, April 5: (a) "Scott Erickson, who was last seen pulling into his reserved parking spot at the Johns Hopkins hospital." (b) "Erickson (now shopping for real estate on the DL)"
Last night during warm-ups before his first game as a Met, Scott Erickson strained a hamstring and severely hamstrung the Mets' chances of taking this series. If I cease to make negative (albeit obvious) prognostications, will they stop coming true?
Art Howe looked like the man who brought a knife to a gunfight as he penciled Dan Wheeler in as a spot starter. If his name sounds familiar, it's because he's mentioned several inches south on your screen, pitching an inning and a third in the game the night before. Oh, this should go well, everyone in Metville collectively sniped.
Wheeler wasn't terrible, especially considering the circumstances, and he made it through the first three frames unscathed. Ty Wigginton, much more fearsome in this year's 7- or 8-spots than he was in the 5-spot last year, hit a two-run dinger off John Thomson to give the Mets a surprising lead. The Braves got to Wheeler for a pair in the 4th, tying it, but the Mets got two more the next inning. After a leadoff double, Art Howe pulled Wheeler and brought in David Weathers to stop the bleeding. Weathers proceeded to do his best Edward Scissorhands, though, and three runs scored.
Weathers was a steady workhorse middle reliever/set-up man last year, especially in the early going, but he just didn't get the job done here. Still, the Mets scratched across another in the 6th and it was knotted again. It has been nice to see some tenacity in coming back again and again during this initial series. And then John Franco entered and assured us that there would be no more comebacks.
I had a lot of trouble justifying the negative comments I wrote about Franco last year, and it's still painful to have to write such things, but it's no less necessary. This is a great pitcher who did great things for this club for a great number of years. This is also a team who can't afford to have close games rest in the hand of a guy, were it not for his great history, would be out of a job in this league. That may be overly critical, since there were more guys to point blame at in this game than I have fingers, but the index finger is aimed squarely at Generalissimo Franco.
Franco faced nine batters and retired two, which isn't terribly efficient. In truth, he made a few great pitches along the way that reminded us of how he used to con, swindle, and trick batters into pop-ups or bad swinging K's. But one or two good pitches to each batter will not get the job done. He ended up walking a run home on a ball that bounced before it reached the plate. Franco's fastball hasn't been one at which to marvel in a long time, but his speeds are so low these days that he needs top-shelf control to have any shot. The three walks he surrendered illustrate how poor that control was. When he loaded the bases down 6-5, I angrily made a bet with my television (aloud, to my house guests' bewilderment) that if he walked Julio (the better-aging) Franco home, I would guarantee the Braves would score 10 runs, presumably on a subsequent grand slam. After the walk, there was not the slam I had envisioned ruining things, but the Braves did end up tallying 10. The TV and I agreed to disagree and called it a push.
The previously heralded good D was abandoned after Game 2. The Mets had three errors and a passed ball in the loss. None of the runs were unearned, but there were several defensive miscues in the midst of what became big innings for Atlanta. As the pitching and defense vanished, it became clear this game would not be won, and that we might be in for the long season we thought we'd ducked after Game 1. And I'm not the only fan grimacing after these consecutive pathetic displays. My brother-in-law Patrick, quoted more than once (in a tone either hostile or doomed) last year, called and left me a message early this morning. It contained the following snippets:
"need to vent . . . are you kidding me . . . give up 30 runs in 3 games . . . long, LONG year . . . was so excited after Game 1 . . .watched all three games . . . already think I've had enough . . . need to vent"
I think Patrick needs to move down here to DC where we can only catch the Mets on TBS when they play the Braves or WGN when they play the Cubs. This season might cause him bodily harm. For me, though, I need another week or two before I can get a good bead on the season just yet. I'm just happy they're hitting the ball. So what if this resembles men's softball? I like softball.
Game 2 - Mets
Well, That Didn't Take Long
Braves 18, Mets 10
Record: 1-1
The dream season for the Mets lasted exactly 12.5 innings. While the Detroit Tigers, last reported here sporting lineup cards featuring Tanner-Leak-Engelberg-Whurlitzer, are 4-0 en route to another 100-loss season, so their rem sleep is lasting far beyond the Mets' camp. Instead, we were gently roused from a 6-0 lead in the 3rd inning of Game 2 when Chipper Jones hit a tater to make it 3-0. An inning later, we were unceremoniously dumped from the bed into a vat of ice water when the Braves plated 11 runs off Steve Trachsel, Grant Roberts, and Dan Wheeler. Eleven runs. Wow.
And so, just 25 hours into the new season, we have our first embarrassment of the Mets season, the first time an opponent blue-pencils their team record book at our expense. This is more familiar territory for us fans, and it reeks vaguely of home. That the Mets gave up 18 runs is a punch in the nether regions, but in stark contrast to many of the 2003 football-score-deficits, there were a number of bright spots:
1. Scoring 10 runs on 15 hits against Atlanta is new ground, and even in wretched defeat good news. Seeing former Met and Rob Russell fave (a little too much so) Mike Hampton take a shellacking is never a bad thing.
2. Mike Piazza is tearing the cover off it these days. '03 was a lost season in many ways for Piazza. This season he is starting strong. Plus, after clearing the fences three times in two games, he's just one HR shy of the by-now dreaded catcher record, and it'd sure be nice to be rid of that chatter when discussing his inevitable move to first base. [He played a few innings at first during garbage time on this night.]
3. After two games, it's Braves 4, Mets 0 . . . in errors! By this time last year, Cedeno, Burnitz, Vaughn, and the rest of Team Hands Like Feet had more fumbles and punts than the Jets and Giants combined.
Two games is two games, to be certain, but let's go the silver lining route rather than the doom and gloom of, say, The Boston Globe.
Keep your heads up, lads, there is reason to believe. Or at least there isn't overwhelming reason to disbelieve.
Well, That Didn't Take Long
Braves 18, Mets 10
Record: 1-1
The dream season for the Mets lasted exactly 12.5 innings. While the Detroit Tigers, last reported here sporting lineup cards featuring Tanner-Leak-Engelberg-Whurlitzer, are 4-0 en route to another 100-loss season, so their rem sleep is lasting far beyond the Mets' camp. Instead, we were gently roused from a 6-0 lead in the 3rd inning of Game 2 when Chipper Jones hit a tater to make it 3-0. An inning later, we were unceremoniously dumped from the bed into a vat of ice water when the Braves plated 11 runs off Steve Trachsel, Grant Roberts, and Dan Wheeler. Eleven runs. Wow.
And so, just 25 hours into the new season, we have our first embarrassment of the Mets season, the first time an opponent blue-pencils their team record book at our expense. This is more familiar territory for us fans, and it reeks vaguely of home. That the Mets gave up 18 runs is a punch in the nether regions, but in stark contrast to many of the 2003 football-score-deficits, there were a number of bright spots:
1. Scoring 10 runs on 15 hits against Atlanta is new ground, and even in wretched defeat good news. Seeing former Met and Rob Russell fave (a little too much so) Mike Hampton take a shellacking is never a bad thing.
2. Mike Piazza is tearing the cover off it these days. '03 was a lost season in many ways for Piazza. This season he is starting strong. Plus, after clearing the fences three times in two games, he's just one HR shy of the by-now dreaded catcher record, and it'd sure be nice to be rid of that chatter when discussing his inevitable move to first base. [He played a few innings at first during garbage time on this night.]
3. After two games, it's Braves 4, Mets 0 . . . in errors! By this time last year, Cedeno, Burnitz, Vaughn, and the rest of Team Hands Like Feet had more fumbles and punts than the Jets and Giants combined.
Two games is two games, to be certain, but let's go the silver lining route rather than the doom and gloom of, say, The Boston Globe.
Keep your heads up, lads, there is reason to believe. Or at least there isn't overwhelming reason to disbelieve.
Game 4 - Red Sox
Mama Told Me There'd Be Days Like This (Especially without Nomar and Trot)
Orioles 3, Red Sox 2 (13)
Record: 2-2
I've got a hunch that Sox fans will be nervously sitting through more than our fair share of games like last night's for the first 4 or 5 weeks of the regular season. Very respectable pitching (not withstanding 13 walks) was undermined by anemic offense, and the O's won the war of attrition against the Sox bullpen, winning the game in the bottom of the 13th when Boston's Bobby Jones walked 4 men, including Larry Bigbie with the bases loaded. (Random historical aside: I would have thought that having Bobby Jones on the hill on the first day of the Masters would be a good omen.)
What a difference a year makes (with an assist from injuries). Here's the simple truth: Without Nomar Garciaparra and Trot Nixon in the lineup, the Sox' offense is only slightly better than ordinary. The 6-9 slots in last night's lineup were filled by David McCarty, Mark Bellhorn, Doug Mirabelli, and Pokey Reese. All decent ballplayers, but 3 of the 4 noted much more for their defense and versatility than for their bats. For the series, the 7-9 spots in the order were a robust 6 for 42. Last year, on any given night, 6-9 read Kevin Millar, Trot Nixon, Bill Mueller, and Jason Varitek, in some order. All four of those guys drove in more than 85 runs, and Mueller won the batting title. So rehab well, Nomie and Trot, we're all gnawing on our fingernails and hoping the pitching staff continues to shine.
The real bright spot here is that the aforementioned pitching staff looks like it will keep the Sox in nearly every game. Tim Wakefield wasn't brilliant last night, but he scrapped and gutted his way through 5 2/3 innings. Alan Embree was filthy for an inning, striking out three of the four O's he faced. Mike Timlin walked another guy, but got out of it with a nasty K of Rafael Palmeiro. Scott Williamson looked dominant, and Keith Foulke, while a little shaky, buckled down to get out of a runner on third, no-out jam in the 10th. The Sox are sporting a 2.49 team ERA through 4 games, a number that will cover a lot of offensive shortcomings.
For what it's worth, I love Tim Wakefield - if he's not my favorite Sox player, he's at least in the conversation - and respect the hell out of his team-first attitude and competitive nature. It's just that watching him pitch drives me batshit. Even when he's lights-out, it seems like he's one batter away from completely losing command of his knuckler and running off a streak 12 straight balls. Happened last night in the 4th inning, after Wake had battled through three innings of off-and-on control issues. He walked three in the 4th and paid for it when David Segui ripped a liner back through the box to score the O's first two runs. And then, just like that, he was back in control, getting out of the inning without further ado.
Home opener this afternoon in Fenway. Wonder if my boss is expecting me to get anything done after 3:05.
Mama Told Me There'd Be Days Like This (Especially without Nomar and Trot)
Orioles 3, Red Sox 2 (13)
Record: 2-2
I've got a hunch that Sox fans will be nervously sitting through more than our fair share of games like last night's for the first 4 or 5 weeks of the regular season. Very respectable pitching (not withstanding 13 walks) was undermined by anemic offense, and the O's won the war of attrition against the Sox bullpen, winning the game in the bottom of the 13th when Boston's Bobby Jones walked 4 men, including Larry Bigbie with the bases loaded. (Random historical aside: I would have thought that having Bobby Jones on the hill on the first day of the Masters would be a good omen.)
What a difference a year makes (with an assist from injuries). Here's the simple truth: Without Nomar Garciaparra and Trot Nixon in the lineup, the Sox' offense is only slightly better than ordinary. The 6-9 slots in last night's lineup were filled by David McCarty, Mark Bellhorn, Doug Mirabelli, and Pokey Reese. All decent ballplayers, but 3 of the 4 noted much more for their defense and versatility than for their bats. For the series, the 7-9 spots in the order were a robust 6 for 42. Last year, on any given night, 6-9 read Kevin Millar, Trot Nixon, Bill Mueller, and Jason Varitek, in some order. All four of those guys drove in more than 85 runs, and Mueller won the batting title. So rehab well, Nomie and Trot, we're all gnawing on our fingernails and hoping the pitching staff continues to shine.
The real bright spot here is that the aforementioned pitching staff looks like it will keep the Sox in nearly every game. Tim Wakefield wasn't brilliant last night, but he scrapped and gutted his way through 5 2/3 innings. Alan Embree was filthy for an inning, striking out three of the four O's he faced. Mike Timlin walked another guy, but got out of it with a nasty K of Rafael Palmeiro. Scott Williamson looked dominant, and Keith Foulke, while a little shaky, buckled down to get out of a runner on third, no-out jam in the 10th. The Sox are sporting a 2.49 team ERA through 4 games, a number that will cover a lot of offensive shortcomings.
For what it's worth, I love Tim Wakefield - if he's not my favorite Sox player, he's at least in the conversation - and respect the hell out of his team-first attitude and competitive nature. It's just that watching him pitch drives me batshit. Even when he's lights-out, it seems like he's one batter away from completely losing command of his knuckler and running off a streak 12 straight balls. Happened last night in the 4th inning, after Wake had battled through three innings of off-and-on control issues. He walked three in the 4th and paid for it when David Segui ripped a liner back through the box to score the O's first two runs. And then, just like that, he was back in control, getting out of the inning without further ado.
Home opener this afternoon in Fenway. Wonder if my boss is expecting me to get anything done after 3:05.
Thursday, April 08, 2004
Game 3 - Red Sox
The Kindness of Strangers
Red Sox 10, Orioles 3
Record: 2-1
The good news for Oriole fans is that Melvin Mora didn't kick any more groundballs last night. The bad news is that he still isn't a very instinctive thirdbaseman, and that fact opened the floodgates for the Red Sox in the 2nd inning of last night's game. The game was scoreless with two out and runners on 1st and 2nd when Pokey Reese chopped a harmless-looking grounder to deep short. Miguel Tejada played the ball cleanly and looked to flip it to Mora for the force at third. Mora was late covering the bag (probably assuming that Tejada would make the easy throw to first), and Tejada's hurried, double-clutched throw to first was too late to get the speedy Reese. Johnny Damon followed Reese by singling to left to plate two runs, and Bill Mueller ripped a single to center to score two more, and the train was rolling. The good guys tallied 7 in the inning and coasted the rest of the way.
To be sure, many of the O's were in a giving mood last night, even after Mora's thoughtful present. The Sox probably should have been held to 1 run, as Larry Bigbie had Mark Bellhorn dead to rights at home on Damon's single. Bigbie's throw short-hopped catcher Javy Lopez, allowing Bellhorn to sneak in safely, and causing third base coach Dale Sveum to breathe a huge sigh of relief. Then, with the score 4-0 and two more men on base, O's centerfielder Luis Matos lost Manny Ramirez' towering, but easily catchable fly in the lights, giving Manny a double and allowing two more runs to score.
Derek Lowe cruised for the Sox, allowing 2 runs in 6 innings. That makes 5 earned runs in 18 innings for Red Sox starting pitching - a tidy 2.50 ERA. Johnny Damon awoke from his cave-slumber to go 5 for 5, and Kevin Millar recovered from his collision with Damon to rope three hits. If game 1 was one of the 35 chalk-'em-up losses, this game was one of the 35 auto-wins.
This Oriole team is going to be fun to watch this season, especially on offense. They don't really have an easy out in their starting lineup, with Mora, Tejada, Lopez, and Rafael Palmeiro all quality sticks, and Jay Gibbons, Matos and Bigbie getting better and better with experience. Their starting pitching is really young, with only 10 career wins in the 2-5 slots after Sidney Ponson in the rotation, which will make for some trying moments for skipper Lee Mazzilli. Quick prediction after watching Mazzilli's early-season body language: he's gonna unleash some serious nutties as the season wears on, either at his youthful team or at the umpires. He seems to be wound really, really tight, which doesn't bode well for a guy with a fragile ballclub.
Still don't know a ton about the Sox, except that they seem to have picked up where they left off from last year in terms of looseness and unity. As an example, despite the best efforts of baseball's worst media corps, none of the Sox players seem to give a damn about Pedro's leaving the ballpark after being lifted from Sunday's start. Leading scumbag Dan Shaughnessy penned a poisonous screed about the diva pitcher's antics, failing to recall - or perhaps not caring - that he praised Roger Clemens' competitiveness and combativeness 6 years ago when the former Sox hurler did exactly the same thing as Pedro. Let's all sing along now, "The Pedro's black, the Rocket is white, together we learn that Danny's uptight". And by uptight, I mean borderline racist. This is the same guy who called David Ortiz a "sack of crap" in print last season, and has targeted Mo Vaughn, Carl Everett, and Pedro for his vitriol in seasons past. To paraphase liberally from Seinfeld's Babu, "He's a very bad man".
The Kindness of Strangers
Red Sox 10, Orioles 3
Record: 2-1
The good news for Oriole fans is that Melvin Mora didn't kick any more groundballs last night. The bad news is that he still isn't a very instinctive thirdbaseman, and that fact opened the floodgates for the Red Sox in the 2nd inning of last night's game. The game was scoreless with two out and runners on 1st and 2nd when Pokey Reese chopped a harmless-looking grounder to deep short. Miguel Tejada played the ball cleanly and looked to flip it to Mora for the force at third. Mora was late covering the bag (probably assuming that Tejada would make the easy throw to first), and Tejada's hurried, double-clutched throw to first was too late to get the speedy Reese. Johnny Damon followed Reese by singling to left to plate two runs, and Bill Mueller ripped a single to center to score two more, and the train was rolling. The good guys tallied 7 in the inning and coasted the rest of the way.
To be sure, many of the O's were in a giving mood last night, even after Mora's thoughtful present. The Sox probably should have been held to 1 run, as Larry Bigbie had Mark Bellhorn dead to rights at home on Damon's single. Bigbie's throw short-hopped catcher Javy Lopez, allowing Bellhorn to sneak in safely, and causing third base coach Dale Sveum to breathe a huge sigh of relief. Then, with the score 4-0 and two more men on base, O's centerfielder Luis Matos lost Manny Ramirez' towering, but easily catchable fly in the lights, giving Manny a double and allowing two more runs to score.
Derek Lowe cruised for the Sox, allowing 2 runs in 6 innings. That makes 5 earned runs in 18 innings for Red Sox starting pitching - a tidy 2.50 ERA. Johnny Damon awoke from his cave-slumber to go 5 for 5, and Kevin Millar recovered from his collision with Damon to rope three hits. If game 1 was one of the 35 chalk-'em-up losses, this game was one of the 35 auto-wins.
This Oriole team is going to be fun to watch this season, especially on offense. They don't really have an easy out in their starting lineup, with Mora, Tejada, Lopez, and Rafael Palmeiro all quality sticks, and Jay Gibbons, Matos and Bigbie getting better and better with experience. Their starting pitching is really young, with only 10 career wins in the 2-5 slots after Sidney Ponson in the rotation, which will make for some trying moments for skipper Lee Mazzilli. Quick prediction after watching Mazzilli's early-season body language: he's gonna unleash some serious nutties as the season wears on, either at his youthful team or at the umpires. He seems to be wound really, really tight, which doesn't bode well for a guy with a fragile ballclub.
Still don't know a ton about the Sox, except that they seem to have picked up where they left off from last year in terms of looseness and unity. As an example, despite the best efforts of baseball's worst media corps, none of the Sox players seem to give a damn about Pedro's leaving the ballpark after being lifted from Sunday's start. Leading scumbag Dan Shaughnessy penned a poisonous screed about the diva pitcher's antics, failing to recall - or perhaps not caring - that he praised Roger Clemens' competitiveness and combativeness 6 years ago when the former Sox hurler did exactly the same thing as Pedro. Let's all sing along now, "The Pedro's black, the Rocket is white, together we learn that Danny's uptight". And by uptight, I mean borderline racist. This is the same guy who called David Ortiz a "sack of crap" in print last season, and has targeted Mo Vaughn, Carl Everett, and Pedro for his vitriol in seasons past. To paraphase liberally from Seinfeld's Babu, "He's a very bad man".
Wednesday, April 07, 2004
Game 1 - Mets
Kaz-ynski Singlehandledy Bombs the Braves
Mets 7, Braves 2
Record: 1-0!
Kaz-aam! Rock the Kaz-bah! The Kaz-by Show! Or, more appropriate for the geographic region in which he starred, Mat-soooooey!
Okay, so for my '04 opener, I opted for something New York Post-ish instead of a "In the Beginning," We the People," or "Call me Ishmael." (The Post ran "Kaz to Celebrate.") We are covering the punkish Mets here, not the reverent Yankees. Sue me.
As my moronic tirade of Post-Its alluded to, Kaz Matsui was huge in his MLB debut, smashing the first pitch of the Mets season over the centerfield wall in Turner Field, then doubling twice and walking twice. His performance and that of the entire club this Opening Night are an incredibly positive tone-setter for the year; the only thing negative about the night is the negative image of Opening Day 2003 reflected here. Beating the Braves in Atlanta has been an elusive feat for years; doing so with Glavine on the hill (in impressive fashion), with strong performances from an ensemble of players kept me smiling throughout the last three innings.
That I only caught the last three innings was the result of a great day at the ballyard, as noted by my counterpart in a more timely manner. The weather was April-perfect, the seats were top-notch (this is a direct slag on O's fans; I bought 5th row, $27 tickets last week), and the baseball was . . . well, it was baseball, which was all it needed to be. The bits I'll add to the Millar homer episode:
1. Rob failed to mention that he was chiding me mercilessly for failing to haul in the ball until the petite young lady (that he mentioned) on the other side of me, presumably obscured from his vision by the curves of my fatbody, popped her head around and expressed gratitude for my hesitation. I don't know what was more disappointing at the time, the missed glory of a home run catch or that he actually couldn't see a woman who'd been sitting next to me for twenty minutes.
2. After the ball landed out of reach, I had a moment of Ugly Americana. I realized that we were definitely on TV and instinctively threw my long arms into the air in celebration, forgetting for the moment that I'd decided to root for the hometown Orioles. Oops. Repeated SportsCenter viewings allowed me to pick myself out of the highlight, then laugh at my own idiocy for piling on with the hordes of Sox fans just for the millisecond self-location.
3. The poor sap who was in the can when the ball landed in his vacated seat came back, got the bad news, and began drinking beer at a rate which accelerated his penchant for inane anti-Sox comments far more than it activated his bad comedy checkpoint. After serving as arbitrator when Mr. Russell began pointing out the error of his unfunny ways, I last spotted the chap lunging over a couple of rows of empty seats at game's end to instigate a mini-brawl with some equally sauced, equally unenlightened Soxers. Good day at the Yards for us - for him . . . not so much.
Anyway, back to the topic at hand. The New York Metropolitans start out with a convincing win over the poor Braves. (No need to add epithetical descriptors to "Braves" when we've just beaten them like this.) And after exactly nine innings of work, we are rolling! Isn't it way too early to think big? Of course! But does that matter right now? Hell, no!
The plummet down to earth could begin tonight at 7:30, but for now . . . life is good. There is little to no insight offered here today. Sorry about that; as discussed among many other philosphical discussions at the game yesterday, I am at my creative best when the Mets are dead-in-the-water losers with problems galore. Looks like it'll take at least one more game before I am back in my milieu.
Kaz-ynski Singlehandledy Bombs the Braves
Mets 7, Braves 2
Record: 1-0!
Kaz-aam! Rock the Kaz-bah! The Kaz-by Show! Or, more appropriate for the geographic region in which he starred, Mat-soooooey!
Okay, so for my '04 opener, I opted for something New York Post-ish instead of a "In the Beginning," We the People," or "Call me Ishmael." (The Post ran "Kaz to Celebrate.") We are covering the punkish Mets here, not the reverent Yankees. Sue me.
As my moronic tirade of Post-Its alluded to, Kaz Matsui was huge in his MLB debut, smashing the first pitch of the Mets season over the centerfield wall in Turner Field, then doubling twice and walking twice. His performance and that of the entire club this Opening Night are an incredibly positive tone-setter for the year; the only thing negative about the night is the negative image of Opening Day 2003 reflected here. Beating the Braves in Atlanta has been an elusive feat for years; doing so with Glavine on the hill (in impressive fashion), with strong performances from an ensemble of players kept me smiling throughout the last three innings.
That I only caught the last three innings was the result of a great day at the ballyard, as noted by my counterpart in a more timely manner. The weather was April-perfect, the seats were top-notch (this is a direct slag on O's fans; I bought 5th row, $27 tickets last week), and the baseball was . . . well, it was baseball, which was all it needed to be. The bits I'll add to the Millar homer episode:
1. Rob failed to mention that he was chiding me mercilessly for failing to haul in the ball until the petite young lady (that he mentioned) on the other side of me, presumably obscured from his vision by the curves of my fatbody, popped her head around and expressed gratitude for my hesitation. I don't know what was more disappointing at the time, the missed glory of a home run catch or that he actually couldn't see a woman who'd been sitting next to me for twenty minutes.
2. After the ball landed out of reach, I had a moment of Ugly Americana. I realized that we were definitely on TV and instinctively threw my long arms into the air in celebration, forgetting for the moment that I'd decided to root for the hometown Orioles. Oops. Repeated SportsCenter viewings allowed me to pick myself out of the highlight, then laugh at my own idiocy for piling on with the hordes of Sox fans just for the millisecond self-location.
3. The poor sap who was in the can when the ball landed in his vacated seat came back, got the bad news, and began drinking beer at a rate which accelerated his penchant for inane anti-Sox comments far more than it activated his bad comedy checkpoint. After serving as arbitrator when Mr. Russell began pointing out the error of his unfunny ways, I last spotted the chap lunging over a couple of rows of empty seats at game's end to instigate a mini-brawl with some equally sauced, equally unenlightened Soxers. Good day at the Yards for us - for him . . . not so much.
Anyway, back to the topic at hand. The New York Metropolitans start out with a convincing win over the poor Braves. (No need to add epithetical descriptors to "Braves" when we've just beaten them like this.) And after exactly nine innings of work, we are rolling! Isn't it way too early to think big? Of course! But does that matter right now? Hell, no!
The plummet down to earth could begin tonight at 7:30, but for now . . . life is good. There is little to no insight offered here today. Sorry about that; as discussed among many other philosphical discussions at the game yesterday, I am at my creative best when the Mets are dead-in-the-water losers with problems galore. Looks like it'll take at least one more game before I am back in my milieu.
Game 2 - Red Sox
From the Uninspired to the Sublime
Red Sox 4, Orioles 1
Record: 1-1
Days like yesterday are the inspiration for the legions of baseball poets who rhapsodize endlessly about baseball's perfect rhythms. Whit and I spent a long, leisurely beer- and sun-soaked afternoon in Charm City, carrying on a rambling conversation about everything from families to memories to the nature of Red Sox Nation. In the midst of our afternoon, a baseball game was played - and we were almost participants.
We sat four rows back from the leftfield fence at Camden Yards, close enough to see individual blades of grass in the outfield. Curt Schilling calmed Sox fans from Bangor to points south by dominating the Oriole bats, scattering 6 hits and allowing 1 run in 6 innings. He'll be expected to go longer into games as the season progresses, but his first outing in Sox togs was plenty good following Opening Day's mediocre effort. Alan Embree, Mike Timlin, and Keith Foulke were nearly flawless in the 7th, 8th, and 9th, respectively, with Foulke shaking off a messy Spring Training to close out a tidy, tight 4-1 win.
The Sox were helped by Oriole starter Eric Dubose's wildness (he walked 6 and unleashed a Nuke LaLooshian wild pitch to plate a run in the 2nd inning) and Birds' third-baseman Melvin Mora's inability to make easy plays to his left (Mora's second error of the game allowed Boston's final run to score). Of note for the Sox, beyond Schilling's performance and that of the bullpen, were Pokey Reese's defensive stylings (he's smooth like my baby daughter's butt - when Nomar gets back he and Pokey will form a sensational middle infield pair) and Kevin Millar's insistence on clanging his nugget off of Johnny Damon's jaw on a routine popup to center. Damon's gotta feel at least a little gunshy at this point, having collided with fellow Sox twice in the last 7 or 8 real games he's played. I feel certain that his newly hirsute personal style is prompted at least in part by a subconscious desire to have a little extra padding on his head.
In addition to his comical outfield effort, Millar did provide Whit and I with our own personal highlight. His 4th inning blast off of Dubose started right at us when it left the bat, prompting me to exclaim, "That's ours", and our entire section to stand in anticipation. The ball struck an empty chair three seats from us and clattered around for a moment before a woman reached down to snag it. Whit chose chivalry over glory, declining to trample the young lady next to us to get the souvenir. Personally, I think the trampling might have made a better story.
On the car ride back, Whit harangued me at length about the bandwagon nature of Red Sox Nation (the crowd at Oriole Park was at least one-third Boston rooters) and contended that a Sox world championship would permanently (and negatively) alter the nature of the relationship between the Sox and their fans. He argued that Sox fans (and to some extent, non-Yankee baseball fans at large) relish their hard-won identity as noble, long-suffering competitors, fighting the good fight year after year but falling just short. A championship, in Whit's mind, turns the Sox into just another big market bully beating up on the little guys.
A lot to think about, to be sure, but I think my grandfathers or my father or millions of others in their generations would laugh Whitney out of the room if he made the same argument to them. The first Sox championship will be such a cathartic moment for so many people, that I don't think it's possible to accurately weigh the longer-term implications. I disagree with Whit, at least in the sense that one singular title will really exorcise decades (nearly a century) of soul-crushing near-misses, but, frankly, I'd love to find out one way or another. We're not done with this topic by a mile.
From the Uninspired to the Sublime
Red Sox 4, Orioles 1
Record: 1-1
Days like yesterday are the inspiration for the legions of baseball poets who rhapsodize endlessly about baseball's perfect rhythms. Whit and I spent a long, leisurely beer- and sun-soaked afternoon in Charm City, carrying on a rambling conversation about everything from families to memories to the nature of Red Sox Nation. In the midst of our afternoon, a baseball game was played - and we were almost participants.
We sat four rows back from the leftfield fence at Camden Yards, close enough to see individual blades of grass in the outfield. Curt Schilling calmed Sox fans from Bangor to points south by dominating the Oriole bats, scattering 6 hits and allowing 1 run in 6 innings. He'll be expected to go longer into games as the season progresses, but his first outing in Sox togs was plenty good following Opening Day's mediocre effort. Alan Embree, Mike Timlin, and Keith Foulke were nearly flawless in the 7th, 8th, and 9th, respectively, with Foulke shaking off a messy Spring Training to close out a tidy, tight 4-1 win.
The Sox were helped by Oriole starter Eric Dubose's wildness (he walked 6 and unleashed a Nuke LaLooshian wild pitch to plate a run in the 2nd inning) and Birds' third-baseman Melvin Mora's inability to make easy plays to his left (Mora's second error of the game allowed Boston's final run to score). Of note for the Sox, beyond Schilling's performance and that of the bullpen, were Pokey Reese's defensive stylings (he's smooth like my baby daughter's butt - when Nomar gets back he and Pokey will form a sensational middle infield pair) and Kevin Millar's insistence on clanging his nugget off of Johnny Damon's jaw on a routine popup to center. Damon's gotta feel at least a little gunshy at this point, having collided with fellow Sox twice in the last 7 or 8 real games he's played. I feel certain that his newly hirsute personal style is prompted at least in part by a subconscious desire to have a little extra padding on his head.
In addition to his comical outfield effort, Millar did provide Whit and I with our own personal highlight. His 4th inning blast off of Dubose started right at us when it left the bat, prompting me to exclaim, "That's ours", and our entire section to stand in anticipation. The ball struck an empty chair three seats from us and clattered around for a moment before a woman reached down to snag it. Whit chose chivalry over glory, declining to trample the young lady next to us to get the souvenir. Personally, I think the trampling might have made a better story.
On the car ride back, Whit harangued me at length about the bandwagon nature of Red Sox Nation (the crowd at Oriole Park was at least one-third Boston rooters) and contended that a Sox world championship would permanently (and negatively) alter the nature of the relationship between the Sox and their fans. He argued that Sox fans (and to some extent, non-Yankee baseball fans at large) relish their hard-won identity as noble, long-suffering competitors, fighting the good fight year after year but falling just short. A championship, in Whit's mind, turns the Sox into just another big market bully beating up on the little guys.
A lot to think about, to be sure, but I think my grandfathers or my father or millions of others in their generations would laugh Whitney out of the room if he made the same argument to them. The first Sox championship will be such a cathartic moment for so many people, that I don't think it's possible to accurately weigh the longer-term implications. I disagree with Whit, at least in the sense that one singular title will really exorcise decades (nearly a century) of soul-crushing near-misses, but, frankly, I'd love to find out one way or another. We're not done with this topic by a mile.
Monday, April 05, 2004
2004 Outlook - Mets
If you squint, you can actually see third place
It's finally time to saddle up (here's hoping that "Cowboy Up," the once inspirational, now dated mantra of the '03 Sox, goes the way of "Ya Gotta Believe," "We Are Family," and "I'm Too Sexy for My Shirt") and begin the grueling process of closely chronicling a sure disappointment. Even more gloomy is the prospect of being disappointed by a team that went 66-95 last season. The New York Metropolitans definitely bettered themselves in the offseason, shucking some more dead weight and adding skilled players in areas of need. But they are by no means a playoff contender, meaning that we're shooting for .500, maybe 85 wins if all goes extremely well. And yet this club is capable of falling short of even those low-bar expectations.
What's new for the Mets in '04? Over the winter they added Mike Cameron, Braden Looper, and Kaz Matsui, the last of which could be a brilliant ray of light for the team. They also added a couple of mediocre ex-Yankee outfielders and a handful of guys past their prime, including Scott Erickson, who was last seen pulling into his reserved parking spot at the Johns Hopkins hospital. These additions are nothing to pump your fist in the air about, especially while I'm typing this here at work. But they aren't the scary, high-dollar contracts that will invariably go bust, weighing so heavily on all of us that they'll need to be carted out on a freight train a la Roger Cedeno. (His trade to St. Louis over the weekend is worth a fist pump, even if the boss wonders why I'm so fired up from technical documentation.) The Mets solidified their defense, which cannot be overstated. Last year's write-ups frequently had comparisons between the Mets' outfield and the Ringling Brothers, and the infield (pre-Reyes) wasn't a whole lot better. The hitting isn't noticeably improved, but you never know. And the pitching . . . yikes. Let's just wait and see how goes the rotation of Tom Glavine (who's 38), Al Leiter (who's 38 and took a line drive off his head last week), Steve Trachsel, Erickson (now shopping for real estate on the DL), and rookie Tyler Yates (whose upside might be huge).
The honest assessment I gave Mr. Russell for our yearly wager was that the Mets should be about 10 games better than last year, so I'm predicting 76 wins. He claims his Red Sox should tally 98 victories, even with the injury bug upon them at this early juncture. So anything fewer than 22 games between them nets me a case of Harpoon (in his face), and here's hoping the Mets aren't desperately staving off defeat by the All-Star Break like last year.
And so we kick off MLC II with a loss by the Sox last night and Opening Day coming tomorrow night for the mighty Mets in Atlanta. Glavine takes the hill against Russ Ortiz. We're looking for a performance from Glavine slightly better than last year's outings against his old team, ones which had coaches reminding him after every inning that he was no longer a Brave. 2003's Opening Debacle set a tone (15-1 drubbing by the Cubs) that lasted 161 games. We'll soon know the tone of '04.
And just because I'm tired of writing about the Mets' woes, please allow myself to quote . . . myself . . . from my penultimate posting of the past year. Are the futures of the teams in this column that easy to predict???
". . . this season has lived up to the Misery Loves Company title. The trouble has been that I have received no company from my friend Rob Russell. What's to be miserable about in a 95-win season? The Sox finished 28.5 games ahead of the Mets, when he only needed them to be 13 better to win beer. The only way that Mr. Russell could provide company at this point would be if the Red Sox managed to get ever-so-close to the World Series trophy, only to fall flat at the last second in some agonizing way. But that never happens."
If you squint, you can actually see third place
It's finally time to saddle up (here's hoping that "Cowboy Up," the once inspirational, now dated mantra of the '03 Sox, goes the way of "Ya Gotta Believe," "We Are Family," and "I'm Too Sexy for My Shirt") and begin the grueling process of closely chronicling a sure disappointment. Even more gloomy is the prospect of being disappointed by a team that went 66-95 last season. The New York Metropolitans definitely bettered themselves in the offseason, shucking some more dead weight and adding skilled players in areas of need. But they are by no means a playoff contender, meaning that we're shooting for .500, maybe 85 wins if all goes extremely well. And yet this club is capable of falling short of even those low-bar expectations.
What's new for the Mets in '04? Over the winter they added Mike Cameron, Braden Looper, and Kaz Matsui, the last of which could be a brilliant ray of light for the team. They also added a couple of mediocre ex-Yankee outfielders and a handful of guys past their prime, including Scott Erickson, who was last seen pulling into his reserved parking spot at the Johns Hopkins hospital. These additions are nothing to pump your fist in the air about, especially while I'm typing this here at work. But they aren't the scary, high-dollar contracts that will invariably go bust, weighing so heavily on all of us that they'll need to be carted out on a freight train a la Roger Cedeno. (His trade to St. Louis over the weekend is worth a fist pump, even if the boss wonders why I'm so fired up from technical documentation.) The Mets solidified their defense, which cannot be overstated. Last year's write-ups frequently had comparisons between the Mets' outfield and the Ringling Brothers, and the infield (pre-Reyes) wasn't a whole lot better. The hitting isn't noticeably improved, but you never know. And the pitching . . . yikes. Let's just wait and see how goes the rotation of Tom Glavine (who's 38), Al Leiter (who's 38 and took a line drive off his head last week), Steve Trachsel, Erickson (now shopping for real estate on the DL), and rookie Tyler Yates (whose upside might be huge).
The honest assessment I gave Mr. Russell for our yearly wager was that the Mets should be about 10 games better than last year, so I'm predicting 76 wins. He claims his Red Sox should tally 98 victories, even with the injury bug upon them at this early juncture. So anything fewer than 22 games between them nets me a case of Harpoon (in his face), and here's hoping the Mets aren't desperately staving off defeat by the All-Star Break like last year.
And so we kick off MLC II with a loss by the Sox last night and Opening Day coming tomorrow night for the mighty Mets in Atlanta. Glavine takes the hill against Russ Ortiz. We're looking for a performance from Glavine slightly better than last year's outings against his old team, ones which had coaches reminding him after every inning that he was no longer a Brave. 2003's Opening Debacle set a tone (15-1 drubbing by the Cubs) that lasted 161 games. We'll soon know the tone of '04.
And just because I'm tired of writing about the Mets' woes, please allow myself to quote . . . myself . . . from my penultimate posting of the past year. Are the futures of the teams in this column that easy to predict???
". . . this season has lived up to the Misery Loves Company title. The trouble has been that I have received no company from my friend Rob Russell. What's to be miserable about in a 95-win season? The Sox finished 28.5 games ahead of the Mets, when he only needed them to be 13 better to win beer. The only way that Mr. Russell could provide company at this point would be if the Red Sox managed to get ever-so-close to the World Series trophy, only to fall flat at the last second in some agonizing way. But that never happens."
20/20 Hindsight
One game into the season and I'm already in mid-season Sox-induced panic mode. In retrospect, I penned this morning's entry in a foul mood, a combination of late night, long kid-temper-tantrum filled weekend, and Sox loss. The truth is, one game does not a season make, and one game like yesterday's fluky, frigid, wind-addled contest is certainly not the harbinger of anything other than 25,000 cases of the flu. A wise baseball philosopher once noted that in every season each team will win 35 games and lose 35 games regardless of what they do - it's the other 90 that make the difference. Chalk last night up to 1 of 35 predestined losses and move on.
In other words, ignore the cranky bastard that wrote the previous post.
One game into the season and I'm already in mid-season Sox-induced panic mode. In retrospect, I penned this morning's entry in a foul mood, a combination of late night, long kid-temper-tantrum filled weekend, and Sox loss. The truth is, one game does not a season make, and one game like yesterday's fluky, frigid, wind-addled contest is certainly not the harbinger of anything other than 25,000 cases of the flu. A wise baseball philosopher once noted that in every season each team will win 35 games and lose 35 games regardless of what they do - it's the other 90 that make the difference. Chalk last night up to 1 of 35 predestined losses and move on.
In other words, ignore the cranky bastard that wrote the previous post.
Game 1 - Red Sox
I waited all winter for this?
Baltimore Orioles 7, Red Sox 2
Record: 0-1
Eh. Pretty indifferent performance by the Sox to open the 2004 campaign. 14 runners left on base, 2 errors, 1 extra-base hit, an average performance by Pedro, a miserable one by Mike Timlin all added up to a thumping at the hands of a much-improved Oriole club.
Part of me says that it's way too premature to project much from this game. It was cold, the Sox lineup is patchwork with Nomar Garciaparra and Trot Nixon sidelined with injuries, and the Orioles were playing in front of a pumped-up home crowd in a bit of a circus atmosphere. Another part of me, though, sees some fissures that might become full-on cracks in the armor if they're not sealed soon. The Sox were really ambivalent for much of this game, save for Pokey Reese's 1st-inning fist pump after tagging Melvin Mora at third to end the frame. It was almost as if they figure they'll win most games just by showing up. I know, by the way, that I'm making this judgment from the comfort of my living room and that it has not one scintilla of actual proof, and furthermore that it's waaay too early to really assess this. Nonetheless, I'm looking at a team that's got a) huge expectations, b) a huge payroll, and c) several major stars in the final year of their contracts. Could those ingredients prove to be a recipe for noxious team chemistry and season-long underperformance? Wouldn't shock me.
On the other hand, the Sox are hugely talented, those aforementioned stars in contract years have major incentive to perform, and guys like Kevin Millar and David Ortiz have proven to be terrific unifying forces in the clubhouse.
All of which is a really overlong way of me saying I have no idea what to expect from this team. I do know that I've got tickets to see Curt Shilling's Sox debut tomorrow in Baltimore, so one day at a time and damn the negativity.
And where the hell is Whitney?
I waited all winter for this?
Baltimore Orioles 7, Red Sox 2
Record: 0-1
Eh. Pretty indifferent performance by the Sox to open the 2004 campaign. 14 runners left on base, 2 errors, 1 extra-base hit, an average performance by Pedro, a miserable one by Mike Timlin all added up to a thumping at the hands of a much-improved Oriole club.
Part of me says that it's way too premature to project much from this game. It was cold, the Sox lineup is patchwork with Nomar Garciaparra and Trot Nixon sidelined with injuries, and the Orioles were playing in front of a pumped-up home crowd in a bit of a circus atmosphere. Another part of me, though, sees some fissures that might become full-on cracks in the armor if they're not sealed soon. The Sox were really ambivalent for much of this game, save for Pokey Reese's 1st-inning fist pump after tagging Melvin Mora at third to end the frame. It was almost as if they figure they'll win most games just by showing up. I know, by the way, that I'm making this judgment from the comfort of my living room and that it has not one scintilla of actual proof, and furthermore that it's waaay too early to really assess this. Nonetheless, I'm looking at a team that's got a) huge expectations, b) a huge payroll, and c) several major stars in the final year of their contracts. Could those ingredients prove to be a recipe for noxious team chemistry and season-long underperformance? Wouldn't shock me.
On the other hand, the Sox are hugely talented, those aforementioned stars in contract years have major incentive to perform, and guys like Kevin Millar and David Ortiz have proven to be terrific unifying forces in the clubhouse.
All of which is a really overlong way of me saying I have no idea what to expect from this team. I do know that I've got tickets to see Curt Shilling's Sox debut tomorrow in Baltimore, so one day at a time and damn the negativity.
And where the hell is Whitney?
Thursday, April 01, 2004
Every Journey Starts with the First Step
It's a cold, rainy April afternoon in the Nation's Capital - bleak, dismal, and dreary. And I'm as excited as a little girl at a Britney Spears concert because baseball season begins in 3 days. (Well, technically the season's already begun, but I'm ignoring Bud Lite's little Japanese vacation because baseball's Opening Day simply doesn't happen in the Pacific Rim.) The Sox play the Orioles in Baltimore on Sunday night in front of a national television audience. Pedro Martinez takes the hill against the once and future Oriole Sidney Ponson, and all of the hue and cry of one of the most remarkable Hot Stove League seasons in memory fades away, replaced by ballgames and night and box scores in the morning.
Last spring I was guardedly optimistic about the Sox, but didn't really know how high to set my expectations - and was rewarded by a rollicking season that kept me entertained, apprehensive, and exhilarated until the bitter (and I do mean bitter) end. The 2004 Red Sox enter the season with extremely lofty aspirations, boasting a re-tooled pitching staff with, arguably, the best front 3 starters in the American League, a rock-solid middle relief corps, and a stud closer. The offense is one year removed from one of the all-time great seasons, and while almost certain not to reach 2003's ridiculous peak, is still among the league's most potent and most balanced. On paper, the Sox and the Yankees are clearly - clearly - the two best teams in the AL. Which, to be honest, leaves me with a vaguely knotty feeling in my stomach.
I played a ton of golf before my daughter was born, at my best routinely scoring in the mid-80s. Not a great player, but good enough to expect reasonably good things every time I teed off. As a result (in combination with my limited ability to control my temper), when things went wrong, as they always do in a round of golf, I'd get frustrated, then pissed, then volcanic, nearly every time I played. I was cursed by my own expectations. Now, I might play 5 rounds a year, and never, ever go to the driving range to practice. When I do play, though, golf's a lot more fun, because every great shot is a revelation, and I can shrug off every miserable shank as a function of my lack of practice. I don't care about my score, and I enjoy myself a lot more. And the dirty little secret is that my average score hasn't got much worse because I'm a lot more relaxed on every swing.
In a nutshell, then, I worry that the Sox 2004 season winds up more like my pre-child golf game than my current game. Lots of promise, but lots of tension followed by gnashing of teeth and underperforming. Maybe they should go knock up some groupies.
It's a cold, rainy April afternoon in the Nation's Capital - bleak, dismal, and dreary. And I'm as excited as a little girl at a Britney Spears concert because baseball season begins in 3 days. (Well, technically the season's already begun, but I'm ignoring Bud Lite's little Japanese vacation because baseball's Opening Day simply doesn't happen in the Pacific Rim.) The Sox play the Orioles in Baltimore on Sunday night in front of a national television audience. Pedro Martinez takes the hill against the once and future Oriole Sidney Ponson, and all of the hue and cry of one of the most remarkable Hot Stove League seasons in memory fades away, replaced by ballgames and night and box scores in the morning.
Last spring I was guardedly optimistic about the Sox, but didn't really know how high to set my expectations - and was rewarded by a rollicking season that kept me entertained, apprehensive, and exhilarated until the bitter (and I do mean bitter) end. The 2004 Red Sox enter the season with extremely lofty aspirations, boasting a re-tooled pitching staff with, arguably, the best front 3 starters in the American League, a rock-solid middle relief corps, and a stud closer. The offense is one year removed from one of the all-time great seasons, and while almost certain not to reach 2003's ridiculous peak, is still among the league's most potent and most balanced. On paper, the Sox and the Yankees are clearly - clearly - the two best teams in the AL. Which, to be honest, leaves me with a vaguely knotty feeling in my stomach.
I played a ton of golf before my daughter was born, at my best routinely scoring in the mid-80s. Not a great player, but good enough to expect reasonably good things every time I teed off. As a result (in combination with my limited ability to control my temper), when things went wrong, as they always do in a round of golf, I'd get frustrated, then pissed, then volcanic, nearly every time I played. I was cursed by my own expectations. Now, I might play 5 rounds a year, and never, ever go to the driving range to practice. When I do play, though, golf's a lot more fun, because every great shot is a revelation, and I can shrug off every miserable shank as a function of my lack of practice. I don't care about my score, and I enjoy myself a lot more. And the dirty little secret is that my average score hasn't got much worse because I'm a lot more relaxed on every swing.
In a nutshell, then, I worry that the Sox 2004 season winds up more like my pre-child golf game than my current game. Lots of promise, but lots of tension followed by gnashing of teeth and underperforming. Maybe they should go knock up some groupies.
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
Pitchers and Catchers and Hardball, Oh My
Last year was perhaps the most enjoyable baseball season of my life. The Sox' success, and how they accomplished it - with heart-stopping victories, wall-banging offense, and superb team chemistry - certainly ranks high of the list of reasons why I'll remember 2003 fondly. I think, though, that this little blog and the focus it forced me to have on each day of the season played a significant role in my enjoyment of the season past. Actually thinking about baseball, and about the Sox gave me both an outlet for emotions and a reason to reflect more deeply on the team, and that led to some insights that probably wouldn't have been possible in other years. For example, I'd have never adopted my "stay on target" mantra in an otherwise normal year - I'd have given up on the team dozens of times. Instead, I knew and believed enough about the 2003 Red Sox to remain positive (indeed, to have ushered in an era of positivity), and was rewarded by a breathtaking late-season and playoff run - a run that was cut short only because of Grady Little's addle-brained management of the season's final game. (For the record, that's the last time we'll mention that man's name in these pages.)
Enough about last year, though. Baseball begins in earnest this week, and, in fact, Whitney's Mets are on television at this very moment in their first exhibition contest. The Sox and Yankees were engaged in one of the most spectacular offseasons in the history of the sport, playing a high-stakes and high-dollar game of one-upmanship that brought Curt Schilling and Keith Foulke to Boston, and Alex Rodriguez, Kevin Brown, and Javier Vazquez to the Bronx, and ratcheted the already boiling feud between the teams to Hatfield & McCoy levels. I cannot wait for this season to begin. Can not wait.
Season preview, such as it is, to follow in the next several days. Whole new target, and a whole lotta ball left. Applications for new slogans are being accepted at the ticket window out front.
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Last year was perhaps the most enjoyable baseball season of my life. The Sox' success, and how they accomplished it - with heart-stopping victories, wall-banging offense, and superb team chemistry - certainly ranks high of the list of reasons why I'll remember 2003 fondly. I think, though, that this little blog and the focus it forced me to have on each day of the season played a significant role in my enjoyment of the season past. Actually thinking about baseball, and about the Sox gave me both an outlet for emotions and a reason to reflect more deeply on the team, and that led to some insights that probably wouldn't have been possible in other years. For example, I'd have never adopted my "stay on target" mantra in an otherwise normal year - I'd have given up on the team dozens of times. Instead, I knew and believed enough about the 2003 Red Sox to remain positive (indeed, to have ushered in an era of positivity), and was rewarded by a breathtaking late-season and playoff run - a run that was cut short only because of Grady Little's addle-brained management of the season's final game. (For the record, that's the last time we'll mention that man's name in these pages.)
Enough about last year, though. Baseball begins in earnest this week, and, in fact, Whitney's Mets are on television at this very moment in their first exhibition contest. The Sox and Yankees were engaged in one of the most spectacular offseasons in the history of the sport, playing a high-stakes and high-dollar game of one-upmanship that brought Curt Schilling and Keith Foulke to Boston, and Alex Rodriguez, Kevin Brown, and Javier Vazquez to the Bronx, and ratcheted the already boiling feud between the teams to Hatfield & McCoy levels. I cannot wait for this season to begin. Can not wait.
Season preview, such as it is, to follow in the next several days. Whole new target, and a whole lotta ball left. Applications for new slogans are being accepted at the ticket window out front.
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Friday, January 09, 2004
Friday, November 14, 2003
2003 Wrap-Up
Well, the season has been over for a few weeks now (yes, I know, the Mets' season was over in June, that's just so cleverly funny), but it only required a few seconds of reflection to see that the fates of the New York Mets and Boston Red Sox unraveled just exactly the way they were predicted. Right here (scroll down about 500 screens) and in just about every other two-bit sports journalism medium, two things were forecast: a long, painful season for the Mets and a brilliant season with a quick, painful end for the Red Sox. Oh, sure, there were a few rose-colored "we'll see" outlooks that held out for a light at the end of the tunnel, either in the form of respectability for the Mets or a long-awaited title for the Sox, but we realists/cynics saw the season for what it would inevitably bring us: misery.
So, when we called this experiment "Misery Loves Company," was it a self-fulfilling prophecy, or were we just restating the obvious? Or did we perhaps doom our beloved franchises to more agony? Hard to say. All I know is that, along the way, hairlines, livers and furniture within kicking distance suffered along with Rob and me. Wives and kids were annoyed, brain cells were detroyed, but in truth, countless hours were enjoyed. It's still the best game going.
And it's no small smidgen of solace that neither the Braves nor Yankees won the World Series. Though it will likely trigger the most vulgar Yankee spending spree this winter (I think they nab Sheffield, Colon, and Palmeiro, plus Millwood if they don't retain Pettitte), it was very nice to see George Steinbrenner (I will not call him by Springsteen's nickname) suffer.
And thus ends the 2003 edition of this forum which has escalated my frustrating Mets from pests into pestilence, or at least personal pain. Predicting, then chronicling their futility, has been a self-levied torture I could never possibly repeat while still maintaining any reasonable level of sanity.
See you when pitchers and catchers report.
Well, the season has been over for a few weeks now (yes, I know, the Mets' season was over in June, that's just so cleverly funny), but it only required a few seconds of reflection to see that the fates of the New York Mets and Boston Red Sox unraveled just exactly the way they were predicted. Right here (scroll down about 500 screens) and in just about every other two-bit sports journalism medium, two things were forecast: a long, painful season for the Mets and a brilliant season with a quick, painful end for the Red Sox. Oh, sure, there were a few rose-colored "we'll see" outlooks that held out for a light at the end of the tunnel, either in the form of respectability for the Mets or a long-awaited title for the Sox, but we realists/cynics saw the season for what it would inevitably bring us: misery.
So, when we called this experiment "Misery Loves Company," was it a self-fulfilling prophecy, or were we just restating the obvious? Or did we perhaps doom our beloved franchises to more agony? Hard to say. All I know is that, along the way, hairlines, livers and furniture within kicking distance suffered along with Rob and me. Wives and kids were annoyed, brain cells were detroyed, but in truth, countless hours were enjoyed. It's still the best game going.
And it's no small smidgen of solace that neither the Braves nor Yankees won the World Series. Though it will likely trigger the most vulgar Yankee spending spree this winter (I think they nab Sheffield, Colon, and Palmeiro, plus Millwood if they don't retain Pettitte), it was very nice to see George Steinbrenner (I will not call him by Springsteen's nickname) suffer.
And thus ends the 2003 edition of this forum which has escalated my frustrating Mets from pests into pestilence, or at least personal pain. Predicting, then chronicling their futility, has been a self-levied torture I could never possibly repeat while still maintaining any reasonable level of sanity.
See you when pitchers and catchers report.
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