Looking Down the Barrel of a Gun

Games 66 through 71 – Mets

Orioles 6, Mets 3
Orioles 4, Mets 2
Mets 9, Orioles 4
Reds 4, Mets 2
Mets 9, Reds 2
Reds 6, Mets 5
Record: 44-27

The Mets have stumbled through the last week of baseball after their virtual coronation as division winner by just about everyone. The Reds are overachieving, but really shouldn’t pose that much of a threat to a Mets team on a roll, while the Orioles franchise is beginning to resemble the bloated toad that owns it. That the Mets’ week of C-/D+ work arrived immediately following my post chastising the ubiquitous drivel announcing the division race as already over doesn’t really prove anything, but that won’t prevent an “I told you so” tone from seeping in here nonetheless.

The division is not won yet, even as the other contenders bottom out when the Mets hit a minor bump. That said, even if the competition is going to fade away from here on out, if the Mets have their eye on actually making some noise in October, there are plenty of question marks that don’t need leaving until Labor Day to address.

The spikes in the rotation are starting to flatten out, for better and for worse. Before, it seemed to be Pedro and Glavine surging and three nights of shrugging our shoulders with shaky results. Now, as Trachsel, Hernandez, and Soler throw sandbags on the back end of the rotation, Martinez and Glavine appear to be gassed from carrying the load for a couple of months. Fair enough, but it doesn’t take more than two or three pedestrian outings by this formerly high-flying duo before we start to fret.

The bullpen can commiserate. Everyone seems to be chipping in a feeble outing here and there, and Billy “Scally” Wagner took his turn last night. It’s not yet time to question whether something’s wrong with him/them. It’s time to take note but sit back, watch, and hope the other shoe remains impossibly hovering in mid-air like a size 13 Air Jordan circa 1986. There’s every chance it could.

Speaking of impossibly, the Met hitters remain implausibly sweltering. Even last night, when the inexplicable resurrection of the marginally competitive pitcher that was Joe Mays was held at Shea Stadium, you just knew that the Reds’ pen couldn’t hold the lead. And they didn’t, what with Jose Reyes hitting for the cycle, Jose Valentin baffling all doubters, and “clutch” starting to appear more in descriptions of David Wright than in those of the Porsche Boxster.

Despite the continued accumulation of hits, the Mets have dropped four of six; the run-scoring wasn’t as acutely opportune while the pitching suffered letdowns and the defense appeared on vacation at times. Small plays that speak larger, like nobody covering on a throw down to second, had me figuring the Mets were busy reading their own accolades and buying playoff tickets for their peeps. It hasn’t become rampant, and it’s certainly allowable to a certain degree after that masterpiece of a road trip, but it’s time now to refocus on the little things, a practice that had them delivering up to full potential just a week prior.

Why now? The immediate schedule – after this afternoon’s series closer versus Cincy – has granted the New York Mets a truer litmus test than they’ve had in recent memory. The Metmen have piled up on supposed contenders in the NL lately, but starting tomorrow night they travel to Toronto, Boston, and the Bronx for nine important games in the self-assessment process. Each of those three teams is a legitimate playoff threat, and each can hit like gangbusters, but each also has some dips in the rotation – the Met bats will need to keep up their sick pace, and we’ll soon see how they stack up.

Fans of American League teams have long touted their half of the baseball sphere as being a superior product; with the DH, high-scoring affairs, and several of the league’s highest payrolls, the fireworks fly for fans of sluggish intellect, and that’s the way they like it. They can’t be bothered to watch the eyesore that is a pitcher at the plate, and they figure managerial strategy is best saved for parlor games like Chess or Connect Four. If only the AL could allow aluminum bats, or at least adopt designated hitters for middle infielders, players under 6’, and guys in slumps, it’d be a more perfect creation.

Unfortunately for the purists, geeks, and fans of the “real” brand of baseball that’s played in the National League, the AL blockheads are dominating whatever rivalry might exist between supporters of the two leagues. The Junior Circuit has ruled where it matters most – head-to-head competitions. Though it’s not the best determiner of superiority, the All-Star Game hasn’t been won by the NL since 1996. (Though they did record a tie a few years ago. Score.)

Meanwhile, in the contest that actually matters, the National League hasn’t even won a single World Series game in going on two years. The last three NL winners of the Fall Classic sported media guides with less than 10 years of team history. It was hard to get too thrilled about those wins, except that it wasn’t the Yankees. Before those, of course, we had the Braves in ’95, only serving to deny long-suffering Indians fans true celebration and mar an otherwise pristine Atlanta Braves stretch of regular season champions/postseason tramplings. It’s been since the 1990 Reds shocked the A’s that NL rooters could be proud of their league’s performance. And 2006’s outlook offers little relief. When people eloquently remark that the National League . . . sucks, mutter something in a begrudging affirmative and move on, people.

The Mets, however, could shine a little light in the next week – both an enlightening look at how this team really stacks up against some of baseball’s heavyweights as well as a ray of hope for fans of the Senior Circuit as a whole. The AL smoked through last weekend’s interleague contests like they were facing AAA clubs. The Mets’ own division seems to be decaying in unison all of a sudden. (The upstart Marlins excepted, though they did lose last night to complete the NL East oh-fer.) Being Farmer Ted’s “king of the dipshits” and taking the East title would satisfy the Township residents to a high degree; knocking the Braves off the mountaintop and actually dripping some postseason sweat will be a sweet sensation for the boys in royal blue and blaze orange and will have us fans downright giddy. Taking aim at something greater than that isn’t greedy, though -- it’s the wiser move for a bliss more thorough and permanent. And there will be no stretch of the season more telling of how far off the mark the New York Mets are than over these next nine games. Shoot straight, you bastards, and don’t make a mess of it.

Space Between

Games 65 through 67 - Red Sox

Red Sox 4, Atlanta Braves 1
Red Sox 5, Braves 3
Red Sox 10, Braves 7
Record: 39-28

Just jumping in for a minute so I don't end up going a whole week without saying something. Ahem.

Between Father's Day, the World Cup, the U.S. Open and an unusual intermission for a spot of culture (if one calls Spamalot culture), I didn't see a whole lot of this weekend's resurrection. Helluva game, baseball. Lose 4 in a row and send your fans to the ledge, win 3 in a row and provide an entire Nation with Prozac for the baseball fan's soul.

Jon Lester got his first major league win on Friday. In a related note, Whitney Lester did not. Though the latter Lester might have a better shot at a victory than tonight's starter. The Sox' starting pitching woes have reached the point where the Old Towne Team is forced to send Kyle Snyder to the hill against the resurgent Nationals. That's the same Kyle Snyder who was released earlier in the week.

By the Royals.

The Kansas City Royals.

(pause)

That pause was brought to you by the letter 'Y', as in "Yikes", or, "Y can't we come up with anything better than Kyle Snyder?" With Matt Clement officially on the DL with an "arm injury" - sounds so much better than "post-traumatic stress disorder" or "creeping Derek Loweism" - the Sox are sounding the alarm for arms.

Maybe it's all a sop to the Nats, who helped the Sox immensely this weekend by stealing 2 victories from the Yankees in wrenching fashion. Whatever, here's hoping Theo and the gang figure something out before it becomes Lima Time in Fenway.

So Lonely

This post is brought to you by the sound of one man blogging.

Perspective

Games 64 & 65 - Mets

Mets 9, Phillies 3
Mets 5, Phillies 4
Record: 42-23

Yes, that about wraps up the regular season for the Mets, right? Everyone from folks in the mass media (Mike & Mike on ESPN) to denizens of the Township (Wheelhouse Jerry) have concluded that it's all over but the singing for the National League East. While I am relishing the recent dominance of this Met team -- and it has been nothing short of dominance -- I'll abstain for now from crooning along with the legions belting out Glenn Frey's victory song.

Perhaps it's the past few years of disappointment that have me tapping the brakes on this parade float. Perhaps it's the unhealthy amount of superstition that resides somewhere within me. Or perhaps it's the fact that just across the aisle here we have the benefit of painful example. Don't you all recall Rob's Red Sox and their 1978 season? You think you do, but do you?

Most baseball fans know one stat – the Sox were up 14 games on the Yankees in July, and the Sox were down one game to the Yankees after 163 were played. And the drama, high drama, and melodrama of the way it played out down the stretch has been beaten into the ground. But here’s the thing that needs emphasis: the ’78 Sox were playing even better baseball much later in the year than these Mets. (Okay, nobody’s played better than this past week of Metball, but on the season.) The Sox were 62-28 on July 19, a .689 winning percentage. That’s tip-top baseball beyond the Break, just about flawless for the sport. The Mets have posted a .646 pct and it’s still just June 16. It’s way, way, way too early.

June 16. Anyone remember who was in first place over in the AL East last year on June 16? The Orioles were. Up three games on the Sox, six on New York. They’d go on to finish 21 games out, skunking it up in fourth place.

Now, that’s an unfair comparison, because that division was ultra-competitive and the O’s just weren’t; nobody, even down in Fells Point, figured they’d stay there much longer. The ’78 Sox, a legitimate powerhouse of a team, remains the modern standard for regular-season choke jobs, with apologies to my little buddy. The ’78 Mets were also 13 games out on July 19, 1978; they’d finish 24 games out, looking up from last place. This season could still go a lot of directions for these Mets, and since one of those many directions is straight down, while I am living in la-la land at the moment, you’ll not hear me consider this race any thing but still being run.

The Mets are scoring early and often; their pitchers are doing enough to win with the benefit of the booming offense. I’m excited every time anyone even mentions the Mets. This is ground not walked upon in many moons for us Met fans, and it’s easy to take results for granted. I won’t, even as I revel in these high times. Like Buffett sang before he choked away his credibility, don't talk about tomorrow tonight, 'cause I love the now.

The Bridge

Games 63 & 64 - Red Sox

Twins 8, Red Sox 1
Twins 4, Red Sox 0 (6th - in progress)

All that warm and fuzzy, kiss-a-bunny, sunshine up my ass, how-great-is-baseball, blahdeefuckingblah bullshit from 2 days ago? I don't know who wrote that crap, but I'm gonna beat him with a rolled up newspaper when I find him.

Sorry Again

Games 59 through 63 – Mets

Mets 7, Diamondbacks 1
Mets 10, Diamondbacks 6
Mets 5, Diamondbacks 0
Mets 15, Diamondbacks 2
Mets 9, Phillies 7
Record: 40-23

Well'p, I'm too busy celebrating the Mets' recent success to spend any time analyzing it all. Not because they've achieved any end result yet, but because in this humbling game, good times like these are often fleeting. In truth, I sat down to offer my thoughts on the Mets' good fortune, steroids/HGH, and the state of the game today. Then I got a phone message and apparently I need to go take an Irish Conference Call. Damn my dedication.

More tomorrow. I promise.

Champagne Supernova

Game 62 – Red Sox

Minnesota Twins 5, Red Sox 2
Record: 36-26

The 162-game blur of baseball’s regular season doesn’t lend itself to the celebration of individual games or performances. Every once in a while, though, those that pay attention are rewarded with a singular effort that demonstrates baseball’s unique capacity to amaze and delight, to deliver tension, passion, and drama. Despite the result, and the fact that I had to stay up waaaay past my bedtime, last night was one of those occasions.

The sublime Johan Santana went toe to toe with Curt Schilling for 8 innings last night, and though they were never on the field at the same moment, it seemed obvious that each pitcher was influenced by the presence of the other. Santana struck out 5 of the first 6 Red Sox he faced, and 11 of the first 17. He was so brilliant that I forgot to be pissed at the Sox’ feeble bats. Schilling didn’t put up mind-boggling numbers like his counterpart, but he pitched with a competitive fire and efficiency that forced Santana to try to stay perfect.

When Jason Varitek lined a 2-out fastball into the seats in the top of the 7th inning, I was fairly well convinced that the game was over, given the way Schilling was dominating the Twins. The Baseball Gods had other ideas, though, deciding that neither Santana nor Schilling deserved to lose this game, and delivering their verdict in a masterfully symmetric fashion. Michael Cuddyer returned the favor to Schilling, driving a 2-out pitch over the centerfield baggie to tie the score at 1.

The tally stayed at singles through the 11th inning, with first Jon Papelbon and then Mike Timlin shutting down the Twins (Papelbon pitched around a leadoff double in the 9th, thanks to yet another gem of a defensive play by Kevin Youkilis on a poorly executed bunt by Lew Ford). Joe Nathan and Juan Rincon kept the Sox in check with the help of a sick defensive play by Torii Hunter, who ran straight back and torqued his upper body at an impossible angle to snag a Manny Ramirez liner in the top of the 11th.

Finally, both pitching staffs cracked in the 12th. The Sox loaded the bases with 1 out, plating the go-ahead run on Alex Gonzalez’ fielder’s choice. Minny shortstop Nick Punto made a spectacular dive and flip on the grounder up the middle, nearly turning 2 on Gonzalez. Punto’s effort saved at least 1 run and perhaps more, and may have meant the difference in the final outcome. Coco Crisp and his magic noodlebat flailed inconsequentially to end the inning. (One bitter note – time for Tito to move Youks back to the top of the order, at least until Crisp gets his stroke back. The sublimely named Coco is, at the moment, killing the offense.)

Timlin had been great in the 11th, but this was his first game back after a stint on the DL, and I reluctantly agreed with Tito’s decision to limit his outing to 1 inning. Enter Sandman, in the person of Julian Tavarez, once again putting the Sox’ chances to sleep. After barely avoiding a game-tying double by Justin Morneau (and only because the ball bounced over the “fence” for a ground-rule 2-bagger) Tavarez loaded the bases on an intentional walk to face Jason “Who?” Kubel. Predictably in this season of mediocrity for aged Hispanic relievers, Tavarez ran the count full and served up a flyball that barely found the seats in right for a walk-off grand slam.

Here’s the thing, though. As pissed as I was, and as batshit irrational as a game-ending homer against the Sox would normally make me, sometimes the game has a way of reminding you how damned good it is. And that’s the thought that went through my head as Kubel rounded the bases, not white-hot nail-spitting anger at Tavarez, but appreciation for a classic regular season contest. Man, do I love baseball.

(Oh, and Julian, that better not fucking happen again.)

Prime Mover

Games 58 through 61 – Red Sox

Red Sox 4, Rangers 3
Rangers 7, Red Sox 4
Red Sox 5, Rangers 4
Rangers 13, Red Sox 6
Record: 36-25

Generally, a home split against the Rangers wouldn’t inspire a great deal of optimism from this corner of MLC, but the volume of good vibrations coming from the Fens this weekend dramatically overshadowed any corresponding negatives. The Sox’ pitching woes and the weather-compressed schedule meant that 2 of the 4 games featured rookie starters with a combined total of 2 major league starts facing one of the AL’s top offenses, incessant rains delayed 2 games and cancelled 1, the Sox lost leads in both wins, and Jonathan Papelbon blew his first save – and the good guys still gained 2 games on the Yankees.

Of all the noteworthy events, Papelbon’s performance on Friday night has big ramifications. The Nation’s held its collective breath all season as the first-year closer ran off saves in 20 straight opportunities, knowing that the law of averages dictated that he’d blow one sooner of later and wondering how he’d handle the inevitable disappointment. I don’t think anyone expected Papelbon to pass the test as fully and emphatically as he did. After entering the game in the top of the 8th with 2 on and 2 out and giving up a game-tying single to Hank Blaylock, Papelbon got downright ornery. Mike Lowell got him the lead back in the bottom of the 8th and Papelbon blew the doors off the Ranger lineup in the 9th, striking out the side with a fearsome rage in his eyes. The lesson to AL hitters – don’t get him angry. You wouldn’t like him when he’s angry.

Jon Lester got his first big-league start on Saturday, and thanks to the magic of Fox Baseball’s monopoly I got to watch exactly none of it. He only last 4 2/3 innings, struggling with his command while walking 4 batters and allowing 3 runs, and left the game with the score tied at 3. The Sox web cognoscenti opined that he had good stuff and marginal command – a C+ outing in his big league debut. The bullpen didn’t help much, as first Julian Taverez and then Keith Foulke gave up 2-run frames to the Rangers to cost the Sox the game.

The Sunday doubleheader looked to be headed for a worst-case scenario as the Sox trailed, 4-2, entering the 9th in the first game with rookie David Pauley slated to start the nightcap. Ebby Calvin Beckett pitched better than he had in recent outings, but he only lasted 5 1/3 innings and he gave up yet another longball to a mediocre hitter, letting Kevin Mench take him over the Monster to stake the Rangers to a 2-run lead.

Trot Nixon and Coco Crisp reached base with 1 out in the bottom of the 9th, and my only advice to Mark Loretta was, “No double plays. No double plays.” Loretta dutifully obeyed, lifting a lazy fly to center to bring Papi to the plate.

Sox fans have been so spoiled by David Ortiz’ consistent late-game heroics that we now expect him to deliver us from evil every time he comes to the plate. It’s a measure of his talent and flair for the moment that he seems to always reward that expectation – and I’ll be damned if it doesn’t ever get old. Even down 0-2 to Ranger closer Akinori Otsuka, I felt nothing but confidence, and I knew the ball was gone before Ortiz even swung – Papi doesn’t miss the ball when the pitcher leaves it over the plate on the inside half. As the ball rocketed over the Ranger bullpen, I joined the Fenway crown in an arms-up victory salute, and then high-fived my youngest daughter as we danced around the living room.

With that victory feather in my cap, I took my daughter to a birthday party and didn’t get home until the Sox trailed, 5-0, in the nightcap. The blowout final score hides the fact that the Sox showed some stones, coming back from 6-0 down to get within 2 runs before being betrayed once again by the bullpen (and once again by Tavarez and Foulke, with a little Rudy Seanez thrown in just for fun). Mike Timlin threw a simulated game yesterday, and Manny Delcarmen and Craig Hansen showed flashes – boy, do the Sox need all 3 of those guys to pitch in, as it turns out Tavarez and Seanez not only respectively bear a physical resemblance to Freddy Krueger and Manual Noriega, they inflict similar amounts of terror. Terry Francona was admittedly constrained by the schedule, but it’s never any fun to see Willie Harris playing leftfield with Manny Ramirez on the bench. At least yesterday Tito had an excuse for his traditional Pawtucket Sunday lineup choice.

So we’ll take 2-2 for the weekend – could’ve been a lot worse. Just ask the people in the Bronx.

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"Editor's" Note: Just below, I noted that the legal aspect of baseball’s steroid scandal isn’t getting anywhere near as much play as it should. Looks like I’m not the only one who thinks that.

Flesh for Fantasy

Game 57 – Red Sox

Red Sox 9, Yankees 3
Record: 34-23

It’s been pointed out to me that my previous post was perhaps a bit premature in its timing and overly gloomy in its tone, and while I’ll cop to just a bit of dramatic license, my basic premise is unchanged even after the Sox’ relatively easy win last night. The fact that the Sox couldn’t make hay against the Yankees this week and over the past several bums me out.

That said, it’s a long season, and the recent announcement that Gary Sheffield will undergo wrist surgery and join Hideki Matsui on the sidelines until at least September clouds things for New York, at least until they go buy someone to take his place. As a fan who remembers Nomar Garciaparra’s travails with a wrist injury, I’d be more than surprised if Sheffield contributes in any meaningful way this year.

The elephant in the room (who, coincidentally, is slightly smaller than Jason Giambi) is tapping me on the shoulder and whispering something in my ear. The timing of Sheff’s injury and decision to undergo surgery is, shall we say, interesting in light of the Jason Grimsley investigation. That’s former New York Yankee Jason Grimsley, who appears to be the first of allegedly many major league baseball players prepared to drop HGH-laden dimes on their colleagues and indict the sport in general in an effort to save their own acne-pocked hides.

Deadspin.com’s Will Leitch, a professed and rabid Cardinal fan, posted a report yesterday, offering educated speculation that one of the redacted names mentioned in Grimsley’s affidavit is Chris Mihlfeld, a Kansas City-based strength training guru. Mihlfeld has worked with numerous big leaguers, but is most publicly associated with Cardinal star Albert Pujols, he of the (perhaps soon to be shed) reputation as baseball’s best clean player. Back to the bugaboo of coincidence – Pujols' recent oblique injury on the heels of his defense of Barry Bonds and right before the Grimsley allegations surfaced…well, that’s one of those things that make you go hmmmm.

We haven’t spent a lot of time on the performance enhancement issue in these pages, with the notable exception of Whit’s excellent rebuttal of a farcically absurd New Yorker piece (and my occasional sniping at Giambi). Having not spoken to Whit about this in great detail, I’ll speculate that we’ve stayed away from the issue because we’re both still idealists at heart – as people as well as baseball fans – and despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary, we still don’t want to believe that the game is fundamentally unfair at the moment.

It’s that fundamental sense of fairness that gets to the heart of the matter for me, and I think for Whit, as well. I’m easily offended by the callous and hypocritical kabuki dance in which the rich and powerful in our society preach fairness and opportunity on one hand and give each other tax breaks while bankrupting schools and entitlement programs on the other. Performance enhancing drugs in baseball are an extension of that hypocrisy, as players in pursuit of the life-altering benefits of extraordinary wealth are blinded to the ethical sinkhole into which they plunge. The ones who lose out aren’t the fans, really (because, as the commercial says, chicks dig the longball), but those who choose to play by the rules, the innocent in the midst of this jungle of avarice.

What’s the big deal, Pollyanna? I know that’s your question. The players who cheat aren’t really hurting anyone, except perhaps themselves, right? Left unsaid in the midst of nearly all of the Great Steroid Debates of the 21st Century is the fact that 99.9% of performance enhancing drugs used by professional athletes are used in direct contravention of the laws of this nation. Let me say that slowly and clearly for the benefit of Joe Morgan: the users of performance enhancing drugs are morally and ethically wrong because they are breaking the fucking law.

Bringing this back home, I’d be an idiot at best, and the most egregious sort of homeric hypocrite if I said the Sox were untarnished by the reach of this scandal. No current Sox players have been the subject of real scrutiny, but Jeremy Giambi used to play in Boston, and Trot Nixon’s physique has been an interesting study over the past few years. I could probably make a few more semi-informed speculations, but I’ll leave the distanced diagnoses to Dr. Frist. The unfortunate point is that they’re all tarnished by association until baseball and the union come to their senses and realize the extent of the reputational damage they’ve incurred.

I’m on a bit of a soapbox this morning, so forgive me my ranting. At net, baseball’s well and truly fucked. The first rule of crisis management is to control the message regarding a bad situation, get your story out on your own terms and make a full accounting of the issue so you can move on. Bud and the boys have been so afraid of their employees and the possible fallout of a full-blown scandal that they’ve cowered behind any artifice they could find to avoid coming clean. I think the next 6 months will see a landslide of bombshells (how do you like that mixing of metaphors? I considered “firestorm of earthquakes”, too.) that will rock the game back until it has no choice but to initiate sports’ most invasive, most punitive drug testing policy. And I think it’ll ultimately make baseball the cleanest and fairest of all major sports, for at least as long as it takes for the chemists to get ahead of the testers once again.

Oh, and you guys in the NFL’s front offices would be awfully wise to replace those knowing smirks with something approximating fearful grimaces, ‘cause this bell is tolling for you next.

New Sensation

Game 58 – Mets

Mets 9, Dodgers 7
Record: 35-23

These Mets – the new, new Mets – have demonstrated a noticeable difference from their predecessors, but the change is twofold: half of it is the conspicuous improvement in win-loss results, while the other is harder to articulate; it’s an intangible sort of divergence from recent years that, until two minutes ago, I’d been languishing at fully deciphering. It was only when I was beginning to type this recap that it hit me like a ton of bricks. Here’s how my post began:

Extend the Mets good will, and you shall be rewarded. After yesterday’s show of
support and faith in the New York nine, the boys went back to what they’ve been
doing all season: rescuing a win from the well-trod, downhill path towards loss.
The Mets seem to be responding to a little confidence in ways they never have .
. . [epiphany hits]

There were a handful of consistent occurrences in the Met seasons of 2003, 2004, and 2005, as chronicled here in a fashion more painful and awkward than in a thousand teenage blog-diaries/desperate pleas for help. There was commonality even between seasons with a 17-win differential (’03 & ’05), mostly in things like a fat losing streak that undoes all the progress, a sadly serious interpretation of “Who’s On First?”, and a bullpen sponsored by Maalox and the APA. More constant than any of these facets, the Old Faithful of aggravating aspects if you will, was an unfailing, sure-as-shit kind of law of the land that toed the line between uncanny and truly paranormal. Oh, and it was exasperating as all get-out. By now, you members of the devoted MLC readership know exactly what I’m about to type. Here was the rule:

If I support the Mets, they will lose. The more I believe in their ability, the
more they will lose. The more I follow their progress, meticulously examining,
analyzing, and expounding upon their play, the more they will lose and lose
badly. The more I dedicate myself to championing the Mets’ cause, the more they
will make me wish I had instead dedicated myself to punching myself in the face.

Conversely, as soon as I write the Mets off, they will become
resuscitated and win. If I declare them dead in the water, they will instantly
make me look the fool (late August and September games excepted). If I swear off
watching games, reading articles, and writing about the Mets, they will engage
in a winning streak of some stature. Just enough to lure me back into a state of
confidence and enthusiasm about the team, at which point paragraph one kicks in
like clockwork.

Rinse. Lather. Repeat.

Here were Exhibits A through C of evidence; E through JJJ will remain in the archives at right for the purpose of (relative) brevity:

6/2003
Did you ever have a girlfriend who played mind games with you? If you were affectionate and doting, she'd push away, but brush her off and she was all over you? I can’t stand those girls.

5/2004
This pattern was kind of funny for a while, but it's just excruciating now. When I step away, the Metropolitans thrive as if they were a real baseball team. After I'm sucked back into it, they wilt. It seems like this scenario could not possibly be reality. How could my optimism continually yield poor play while my pessimism and/or apathy renders drastic improvement?

Elaborated upon: http://nextyear.blogspot.com/2004/05/games-42-through-46-mets-new-era-old.html

6/2004
No. We've tried this before, and the evidence is mounting. When I follow the Mets' progress closely, they lose. When I hunker down and tune in for the duration, they lose badly. If I were to go to a game, they might fold the franchise. And the level of vitriol therein is directly proportional to the level of solid play soon thereafter. It's beyond uncanny. It's odder than The Odd Couple, it's weirder than Weird Science, it's stranger than L'Étranger. It's not just bizarre, though, it's painful.

More fully explained: http://nextyear.blogspot.com/2004/06/games-67-through-74-mets-not-quite.html

And on it went, forming into a full contagion that had Rob and his Red Sox in identical effect at times. This year, however, the unpleasant fog over my love of the franchise seems to have faded, giving way to a more symbiotic relationship. Yesterday I shook aside some of the more manic barbs aimed at the Metmen and saw the silver lining. The Mets rewarded my encouragement with a nice win – nicer than a cursory glance might indicate.

Okay, first off, let’s address the one downside of this contest: Tommy Glavine was putrid. It was his worst outing in recent memory, and the first time he didn’t go six innings in 27 starts. He gave up six runs in five-plus, and didn’t look comfortable from the outset, as evidenced by Rafael Furcal’s leadoff bomb. TG squandered the most run support he’s had in eons from the Metbats. A more worrisome kind of fan might fret mightily about consecutive shabby performances from the Mets’ #1 and #2 pitchers – on a staff where #1 and #2 stand above the rest like the Glimmer Twins tower above the remaining Stones. Not I. Just wasn’t his night, I repeat (hopefully for the last time in a while). And I might know why it wasn’t his night.

The confidence – and maybe that’s not the right word for it; perhaps it’s “zeal,” or possibly “positivity,” to borrow from my counterpart – of which I spoke has to remain tempered at all times for fear of cosmic retribution. [What, you read through the paragraphs above and you still don’t think that there are forces beyond our control impacting what goes on “inside the V” (a little used expression meaning “on the baseball field” for those unfamiliar with the vernacular)?] A man’s got to know his limitations, and avoiding any semblance of jinxing your guys takes precedence over expressing positive vibrations. Over at The Metropolitans (a more than worthy stop along the blogway) yesterday, Mike looked forward to last night’s rubber match with Glavine on the hill with a declaration that seemed to cross the line: “Money in the bank.” Toasty Joe, another fine author within the ‘sphere, admonished him in a comment: “Prepare to be called out for laying the jinx down if Glavine lays an egg.” The beauty of last night’s game is that Mike was able to take a valuable lesson in restrained hex avoidance, yet the Mets still won. It was like watching an episode of Fat Albert.

The minor miracle – and my inappropriate use of “miracle” reminds me of an obscure Richard Lewis (who was in the crowd Tuesday night, just to digress even further) television moment in which he challenged the casual use of “miracle” by explaining that miracles are things like the burning bush, or Moses parting the Red Sea, or the fact that “Benson” was on the air for seven seasons – of last night was that the Mets were able to pick up Glavine with one of the least threatening lineups they’ve used all year. Examine:

C. Woodward SS
P. Lo Duca C
C. Beltran CF
D. Wright 3B
J. Franco 1B
J. Valentin 2B
L. Milledge LF
E. Chavez RF
T. Glavine P

These are not your first-place New York Mets. But with Reyes still sore, Floyd still gimpy, Delgado getting a day off, and the team’s consistently solid second baseman still a figment of our imagination, this eyesore was what Willie drew up last evening. As Howie Rose and Ron Darling (the SNY booth was also missing a couple of pieces in this series) announced it, I winced, but clearly I had underestimated what a little show of faith could do to propel this makeshift squad into offensive overdrive.

After the first two Mets of the game were retired, Beltran and Wright singled. After they stole second and third, Julio Franco hit a crucial comebacker into center to begin the two-out scoring. A Valentin double and a Milledge triple (bad baserunning but great wheels to squeak into third) later, it was 4-0. It wouldn’t be enough for Glavine, who would go on to have hisself a little ac-cident, but it was a hugely opportunistic start against Odalis Perez.

After Furcal’s poke and another Met run in the second, Glavine continued to labor. A walk and a pair of singles plated one run for L.A., then Furcal (he of the 2 HR’s entering the game) smacked another one out to tie the score. In 2006, Tom Glavine does not blow 4-0 and 5-1 leads unless something of a higher authority is pulling strings.

The Metros would manufacture a couple more in the 4th, marking an end to Perez’s night. As if not to be one-upped, Tom Horrific allowed another gopher to the offensively anemic Jose Cruz Jr. He’d leave in the sixth, up 7-6 and struggling painfully. Just not his night.

Amazingly, considering Glavine’s track record of run support since coming to New York, not only would the bullpen machine of Bradford/Heilman/Sanchez/Wagner pick him up, but the hitters would continue to back him -- and the defense even stepped in to lend a hand. Lastings Milledge’s blast to left made it 9-7, and his rifling of an ill-advised stretch by Nomar gave Duaner Sanchez’s uneasy inning an out to start rather than a double. It all worked for the Mets at that point, and it all worked out.

All of this isn’t to say that there won’t be valleys in the Mets’ topography to come, despite our optimistic outlook amid the Township. Nor is it to say that I’ll be sporting the rose-colored specs throughout; there’s still a good deal of mockery to be made at the Mets’ expense if and when they tumble. For now, though, I'm locked in on the Mets and this doesn't seem to be singularly crippling their chances for success. In the world of the new, new Mets, this is the newest and most vastly different experience I've encountered yet.

* * *

A quick aside to wish my little buddy across the MLC aisle a happy 36th. This makes him as old as Jose Valentin, and despite Jose's prowess at the plate of late, I'd still rather have Rob at 2B on our softball squad. Pound for pound, he drinks Valentin under the table, for starters.

Fool to Cry

Game 57 – Mets

Dodgers 8, Mets 5
Record: 34-23

As I chide my collaborator for inching toward the ledge in early June, I should also note that according to my 6-4-3 through the Metblogs today, there are quite a few among Mets Township who’re sounding similarly distressed after but one loss. It happened to be a loss replete with ugliness – in actual play and signs for the future, but it wasn’t without its bright spots, and it shouldn’t cast too much of a pall on even tonight’s game. Take a breath, people.

Pedro Martinez versus Derek Lowe with Grady Little in the dugout, Nomar Garciaparra in the 3-spot, and Bill Mueller riding the pine – it’s as if we scrolled down a few hundred thousand words here and read some of Rob’s brilliance. Alas, it was New York versus Los Angeles, Bostonians’ least favorite markets. After one inning, it looked like the Mets hadn’t stocked up enough on ex-Sox; Lowe’s sinker was looking elusive as ever in the Mets’ at-bats, and Nomar’s two-run jack off Pedro in the latter half happened almost as quickly as Reyes’ tone-setter the night prior.

The Mets came back to tie the game at two, but this just wasn’t Pedro’s night, and the tie was later re-fractured. I guess it hasn’t been “his night” since April, when he last won, but this was one of the few times that he looked as susceptible as he gets. I’m sure the day will come, but we haven’t yet been exposed to a Pedro outing in which he’s truly been off; his game is more like a dining room dimmer, and last night his performance was as poorly lit as we’ve seen during a meal, yet still bright enough to see. In keeping with the theme, Mr. Matinez has also added a hearty helping of taters to his menu, including a pair of the Idaho variety last night. In addition to Nomar’s first-inning, two-run homer, rookie Matt Kemp turned on an inside fastball to morph 2-2 into 4-2 and usher in the scoring in a sixth inning that quickly became a tragicomedy in one act. Of note is that Kemp was fooled badly on a pair of breaking balls just before launching the “fastball” over the fence. Pedro’s heater looked pretty pedestrian most of the night.

Compiling the list of Things That Looked Like the Same Old Mets Last Night, we’ll start with the injuries. To begin with, Jose Reyes was scratched with a bad wrist last night, the product of a swing in his last at-bat Monday night. [Insert free-swinging Reyes joke here.] Then, amid the mini-rally to knot the game at two in the second, Cliff Floyd rolled his ankle . . . slowing up to reach third base standing. And for all of you Metbloggers who’d felt the recent need to point out ad infinitum that Floyd’s notoriety for fragility was no longer pertinent, I thank you and Cliff thanks you for the hex. Finally, Carlos Beltran made one of the best diving catches of the Mets’ season in center field, but seemed to hurt himself doing so. He stayed in the game – because he’s tough, because the team is extremely short-staffed in the outfield, and because he needs more charges of delicacy from the NY press like a hole in his sternum. This is the time of year when injuries seem to come in rashes, and a big enough outbreak can tank a season. (See the Great Beantown Disaster of 2006, RIP.) It’s another factor in the alarm sounding in some corners of the ‘sphere. (Geography never was my bag.)

Then we have the play of the regulars, and the panic/abuse/sound/fury of the masses took aim at the defense. Target #1 was Jose Valentin – just when we’d all phoned in his gubernatorial pardon and he began packing his things to leave death row, he’s back on the firing line. His not one but two errors in the aforementioned sixth inning debacle helped the Mets give the game away. Just when we thought Chris Woodward’s glove had left him behind, Valentin changed his theme music to Georges Bizet’s Carmen and sent a bevy of bloggers into bludgeon mode, with no holds barred and no moustaches unmocked. Before anyone knew it, L.A. had plated six in the sixth, and you couldn’t help feeling when the Mets (as they are keen to do) rallied late, even getting the tying run to the plate, that one fewer gaffe might’ve kept the game in true striking distance for the boys.

Or one fewer hit. Township fave Heath “Pack” Bell has likely kept most of his things in his suitcase, and yesterday’s display won’t get him any closer to finding some tri-state real estate. Everyone roots for this guy, but the widespread support seems to come from equal parts the notion that Willie and Omar have wrongly snubbed him and one quirky neo-stat (BABIP) in which he excels regularly. Watching him groove pitches to unheralded batsmen, however, you start to doubt his long-term usefulness in the Mets’ plans. He seemed all over the place last night, like you never knew if his pitches were headed to the meat, the heart, or the fat part of the plate. In truth, he wasn’t atrocious, but again, if he’d just been a little better, this game might not have gotten out of reach.

Another frequent victim of our underground press, one who's received suggestions for lineup-demotion, scrap-heap, and/or the tar and feather treatment, has been Paul LoDuca. Many among our gang still cling to the statistically supported hypothesis that Carlos Beltran is a “true number two hitter,” which warrants an ousting of LoDuca from that slot. While I do think that David Wright might better help the club upwards of his predominant 5-spot, I haven’t had too many complaints about the lineup – especially Paul LoDuca’s offensive contributions. The Mets’ not-so-prototypical lineup begins with a leadoff man with a puny OBP, so it’s not going to fit most molds from the get-go.

What I have cracked wise in the recent past about, however, has been The Duke’s errant fires toward second base in base-stealing situations. Someone needs to tell him that “coming down” need not also refer to his Caught Stealing Percentage. Yet for all of his struggles, and the gag-reflex clamoring for the days of Mike Piazza, he’s still a defensive upgrade from last year. Out in San Diego, Piazza has allowed just as many stolen bases (37) as LoDuca in far fewer innings with half the number of gun-downs (5 to Pauly’s 10). The new backstop wasn’t one of the more high-profile acquisitions, but he’s become one of my favorite Mets in a short time. By no means will it keep me from groaning as every hurl tails towards short while flat-footed clean-up hitters lumber into second, but I won't be begging for any replacements.

Anyway, what do the fans see on the surface of last night’s defeat? Pedro’s weakening and the pen just can’t do anything for him; Heath Bell just can’t cut it; Jose Valentin is not the solution for what we like to call The 2B Problem; the injuries are starting to tax the Mets; the Braves and Phillies both endured losing streaks and are still within five games; and did you see Lastings Milledge miss that pitch by three feet?; moan, groan, bitch, wail, spew piss and vinegar all over the New York Mets’ chances. In keeping with this theme, I've exaggerated my assessment of the Township’s ranting to a degree, but like in Rob’s last post, the posts and comments of too many among our loyal legion convey a palpable sense of something that registers between concern and dread, and anything close to the latter just can’t be justified at this juncture.

Heart-Shaped Box

Game 56 – Red Sox

Yankees 2, Red Sox 1
Record: 33-23

If ever a game transpired in perfect fashion to elicit muttering of the melancholy refrain, “that’s baseball”, it was last night’s contest from the Bronx. The Sox were long on ifs and buts, but their cousins candy and nuts were in short supply, and the seemingly irrepressible Yankees gobbled up whatever was around.

David Pauley pitched better than any Sox fan could have expected, and as he enticed Miguel Cairo to chop a little grounder to the right of the pitcher’s mound with 2 out and none on in the bottom of the 7th, it looked as though he’d get the Sox through 7 innings of 1-run baseball. Cairo’s bleeder, though, snuck under Pauley’s glove and then skittered away from Mark Loretta’s barehanded attempt. Jerry Remy gave voice to the fears of a Nation at that moment, saying “Boy, you hope that’s not the kind of break that costs the kid the game.”

From his mouth to the Yankees’ ears, as Cairo’s infield single was followed by Johnny Damon’s liner to left and Melky Cabrera’s 4-pitch walk. Terry Francona lifted Pauley at that point, and even as his teammates heartily congratulated the 22 year-old for giving the Sox far more than was expected of him, every person in the building knew that the Yankees were gonna take the lead. The shitty way they did so, with Rudy Seanez walking Jason (“HGH is the new Clear”) Giambi to plate Cairo, was fitting.

The final indignity, and “that’s baseball” stamp on the game was Manny Ramirez’ blast to left off Kyle Farnsworth with 2 out in the top of the 8th. The game-tying run was flying out of the park when Cabrera raced over from left to snag the ball just as it cleared the fence. It was the Yankees’ night by thismuch, but make no mistake – it was the Yankees’ night.

As the season’s story begins to take shape, I can’t help but think that the Yankees’ ability to more than make do – to prosper – in the face of really substantial adversity is telling. The Sox have now lost 4 straight to a New York roster missing numerous key elements, and have fallen 1 ½ games back during a stretch where that seemed all but impossible. The early returns show these Sox to be a paper contender – likely to win enough to keep things interesting into the late summer, but lacking the horsepower to be a viable postseason threat. If history is any guide, we witnessed last night the annual and inevitable ceremony of the Yankees nosing out in front and slowly but inexorably stretching their lead until they disappear from view.

Call me melodramatic, call me a pessimist, call me a naysayer – even as the last 3 years in this space should prove otherwise. There’s nothing about the way the Sox are playing right now that says they’re for real, especially given the recent injuries to key members of the bullpen.

The starting rotation consists of an aging stud, a knuckleballer, 2 seemingly talented massive question marks, and whatever green rookie the front office can find to patch a hole. The offense is stumbling after the manager decided that old-school tradition is more important than production and replaced one of baseball’s best leadoff men (Kevin Youkilis – he of the .430 OBP) with a fast guy with adequate on-base skills. The studs are doing their thing, though the effects of opposing shifts seem to be wearing on Papi (his .257 average, .364 OBP, and .552 SLG are all lower than his worst full-season numbers in a Boston uniform – that a .916 OPS is considered an off-year for him is a testament to how good he’s been since Theo stole him from Minnesota). Jason Varitek seems to be grinding to a halt right in front of our eyes, and while Mark Loretta, Trot Nixon and Mike Lowell are offsetting Alex Gonzalez’ limited offensive skills, the Sox remain a mediocre 8th in the American League in OPS with runners in scoring position.

It all points to a fine club, a decent club, a very professional club, but not one that strikes a whole lot of fear in the hearts of the opposition and not one that inspires the dreams of a Nation. I know it could be worse – this blog could be about the Kansas City Royals – so I’ll try to minimize the whining over the next several months.

Here & Now

Games 52 through 56 - Mets

Mets 1, Diamondbacks 0 (13 inn.)
Giants 6, Mets 4
Mets 3, Giants 2 (11 inn.)
Giants 7, Mets 6 (12 inn.)

Mets 4, Dodgers 1
Record: 34-22

Just getting settled in for tonight’s late Mets-Dodgers series opener. I didn’t have time to “recap” the previous slew of games, i.e., slap together some third-hand remarks about games I didn’t see nor lose sleep over while I was lounging about in North Carolina’s Outer Banks for a few days. Because of that, we’re just going to jump right in with a rare in-game live commentary from MLC HQ in Norfolk, VA. Enjoy.

I’m not sure my temperament is right for the ups and downs of nine innings (much less 162 games) when I just experienced the following bipolar symptoms:
[Game coming on] All right, Mets, let’s—
[Fox Sports West logo] No SNY?? Awww, crap, man, this is . . . oh, maybe Vin Scully?
[“Good evening everybody, wherever you may be . . .”] All right! Not a bad second choice!!

Mr. Scully is about the best in the business and has been for quite a while. Honestly, he jams more information – baseball-related and otherwise – about Jose Reyes into one at-bat than Baseball Tonight will in a season.

Wow. I’m serious, the emotional rollercoaster is already in the loop-de-loop. Follow along if you can…
1. Vin Scully announces that Jose Reyes’ boyhood idol is Roberto Alomar. Outrage on the sofa.
2. A split second later, Reyes drives the ball into the first row of the right-field bleachers. A one-man wave is created in my den.
3. The Dodgers fan who caught the ball throws the ball back, makes a crazy face, and hoists double-birds in the general direction of players and the television viewing audience, taking FSW by surprise. Hilarity ensues.

Damn. Three minutes in and it’s already a great game. Stay tuned.

* * *

After a Beltran flick into center, Carlos Delgado crushes one that . . . just makes it over the right-center fence. Hey, he's slumping and in Chavez Ravine against a usually solid pitcher. We'll take it. As Vin just quipped, "before the seats are even warm, it's three-nothing." In SoCal, though, aren't the seats always warm?

'Twould be very nice if this marked the beginning of the end of Delgado's terrrrible slump. (Guest crossover appearance by Bill Walton, thankyouverymuch.)

If this keeps up, I will in-game blog every game of the rest of the season. And if the Mets quickly blow this lead, I will punch myself in the groin for the obvious jinx.

* * *

The Dodgers go down in the first with just a Nomar single. As odd to see him at first base as it is to see him in Dodger blue, but that's a thought better left to the other side of the MLC aisle.

As the second inning comes and goes without a run scored, a few random thoughts:

-- The Dodgers have joined the ranks of those clubs forgoing the players' names on the backs of their jerseys. I'm not sure if the aesthetic -- and there is a palpable one -- of this look is just a less cluttered uniform or a subconscious appreciation for the eschewing of individual recognition, but it works.

-- L.A. currently sports a lineup that scares nobody -- well, nobody except Dodger rivals, fantasy baseball junkies, and box score buzzards like myself. Casual fans -- and by that I mean both those that exclusively watch ESPN for their baseball coverage as well asthose who are writing and anchoring at ESPN -- have never heard of Willy Aybar, Ramon Martinez, Andre Ethier, or Russell Martin, but these unsung guys are posting more-than-solid numbers and keeping the Dodgers in the thick of divisional contention.

-- Cliff Floyd has ownership of the only .232 batting average that has me pleased with where the hitter is headed.

-- Alay Soler is throwing tonight. He's gotten further without the big inning than he had in previous outings -- look out in the 3rd. I know what you're thinking, though -- so what the hell's his theme music? Yes, I failed to match my cohort's pitcher tunes last week. For Soler, I'll resist "Havana Daydreamin'" but stay relatively close in theme: "Immigrant Song" works for me, if only so I can mimic Robert Plant's high-pitched, siren-like wail when Soler gets himself into more trouble.

* * *

Soler has guided the Mets through five scoreless frames now. He even notched his first career hit, though his teammates could do nothing with it. Still 3-0. More thoughts:

-- Vin Scully has provided the height, weight, hometown, schooling, and multiple stories about just about every Mets player tonight. Die-hard Dodger fans must be the most league-wide knowledgeable fans in the game. Program vendors at Dodger Stadium, starving on the streets, have one man to blame. It's awesome to listen to -- my only (wee) complaint might be that sometimes the anecdotes supplant the play-by-play, which has to take precedence. A small knock.

-- The jury is no longer out. I'm pretty much never, ever going to like J.D. Drew.

-- For some reason, I think I'd feel significantly more comfortable if the Mets could plate one more run right now.

-- There were some who suggested that Soler be bumped for another starter , but word is that Willie Randolph said his gut instinct told him not to pass up on Alay.

Somewhere outside the range of this satellite dish, Keith Hernandez boos me loudly.

* * *

Wow, that was easy. Asked for one run, the very next three batters got hits and there it was. Why I didn't ask for more is what makes me so selfless/stupid.

But while I'm here . . .

For some reason, I think I'd feel significantly more comfortable if someone would ring my doorbell now and drop off 17 million dollars.

* * *

Okay, so obviously that didn't happen, but speaking of ding-dongs, Willy Aybar just ruined Soler's shutout night with a drive into the seats in right. Aybar's surname coughed up horrific nightmares of last April, when Manny Aybar was "pitching" for the Mets. I smile, though, both because he's long gone from the roster and because I remember the nickname Manny Aybar"f a little in my mouth every time he enters the game."

* * *

Bottom 8, Pedro Feliciano on in relief, and Willy Aybar at the plate as the tying run. Dinner: Part Deux is playing out as well as most sequels do.

* * *

Feliciano, then Chad Bradford get out of the mini-jam. In a move I've been beckoning for for weeks, Willie lets Bradford stay in the game, even in a save situation. The frequent work Sanchez, Wagner et al have been forced to endure lately, what with all of the extra-inning affairs, precipitated this strategy, but I'm still giving the skipper credit. As we've noted before, when the reliever looks to be on his game, don't yank him after four pitches just because the closer-save formula might call for it.

A 1-2-3 ninth for the Trolley Dodgers, and the Mets pick up a nifty, bullpen-resting, confidence building, reason-to-believe kind of win for Alay Soler. I can now happily retire to bed with a head full of Vinsight, a belly still full of food, and a heart with 108 pairs of stitches, a Rawlings trademark, and 25 sloppy signatures on it.

Much catching up still to do to approach the level of my peers in the Mets' 'sphere. I guess that can wait till tomorrow, but then some lines of Buffett stroll through my conscious...

It's one o'clock in the mornin'

Runnin' on adrenaline

What I'm tryin' to say is that tomorrow's today

And we got to do it over again

All That Glitters

Games 53 through 55 - Red Sox

Tigers 6, Red Sox 2
Red Sox 8, Tigers 3
Yankees 10, Red Sox 2 (in progress - bottom 3)
Record: About to be 33-22

I've been holding my breath over the past few weeks, thinking (hoping, maybe?) that Ebby Calvin Beckett's struggles were related to adjusting to a new league and not a sign that his bright, shiny million dollar arm was married to a 5-cent head. The jury came back tonight with an emphatic verdict. Gold? Gelded, maybe.

Beckett gave up 8 runs in 1 2/3 innings, allowing homers to Andy Phillips and Jason Giambi and running his ERA to 5.40 on the season. As I type this, Jermaine Van Buren just walked his 4th Yankee in relief of Beckett and won't make it out of the 3rd. With rookie David Pauley on the slate to be sacrificed to the Yankee offense tomorrow, it sure looks like we'll see a position player taking the mound at some point in this debacle. The Sox play 8 games in the next 7 days, which means that the starting staff has to take some of the burden off of the bullpen - this is a less than auspicious beginning to that stretch. (The Yanks just plated 3 more runs as I typed this paragraph - 13-2 after 3. Look for A-Rod to have a massive game - from this point on.)

On top of Matt Clement's well-documented headcase tendencies and David Wells' notorious instability, Beckett's mental midgetry puts the Sox in some jeopardy as the season progresses. Highly touted rookie Jon Lester makes his major league debut on Saturday - at this rate he's going to have to play a big role if the Sox want to be in the mix in September. And it's not like he's gonna have quality role models in the Fenway clubhouse. Doug Mirabelli's side job will be to keep Lester away from the twitchy guy wearing No. 30, the weird kid with the patchy beard, and the fat drunk dude. Then, Curt Schilling will get ahold of him and Lester won't be able to hear himself think for a week. It'll be up to Tim Wakefield to help the kid through his first start, which is fine so long as Wake's recent streak of snakebitten luck doesn't rub off on the lad.

Back to the issue at hand, Beckett's stuff is so, so good that it makes his inability to get outs baffling - or easily explained by his stubborn refusal to pitch instead of throw. I'll be sacrificing a live chicken in a few moments in hopes of reversing that trend. Until then, I'm just hoping that David Riske's got 6 innings in him.

(Random aside, as we're in the rambly part of this game and this blog - Jason Varitek has gone 0-2 with 2 double plays tonight, running his career record against Mike Mussina to 5-52 with 24 Ks. I'm not sure we're talking about small sample size anymore - mayhaps the Sox should consider resting 'Tek against Moose next time the righthander's turn falls against Boston.)

Oh, and in all the excitement, I completely spaced on the fact that the Columbus Clippers are the ones beating the Sox' brains in this evening. Miguel Cairo's playing short in Derek Jeter's absence, the aforementioned Andy Phillips is hitting bombs, Melky Cabrera and Bernie Williams are starting in the outfield in place of Gary Sheffield and Hideki Matsui - you get the point. I've got a sinking feeling that this may be the last morning I wake up to see the Sox in first place for quite some time.

Signs

Games 51 & 52 - Red Sox

Red Sox 8, Blue Jays 6
Red Sox 3, Detroit Tigers 2
Record: 32-20

I don't know where to begin the recitation of the Rod Sterling flavor that imbued my evening, so let's lead off with the thunderstorm.

The Sox trailed the Tigers, 2-1, entering the bottom of the 9th. I'd half-watched most of the game, distracted by assorted domestic duties (not the least of which was trying to make the perfect martini), but settled in on my couch with The Da Vinci Code in one hand and the aforementioned libation in the other. And yes, I realize that I might be the last sentient being on the planet to have read the book.

I was 40 pages from completing the book at the moment the Sox were 1 out from losing. The thunder rumbled distantly as Todd Jones retired Manny on a groundout. Jason Varitek popped meekly to 3rd when the rains began to fall, softly at first and then insistently against the windows in my living room. The DirectTV satellite struggled valiantly against the storm, but gave up the ghost just as Mike Lowell walked to the plate.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light was my first reaction, but the pull of the story's completion and the exaperation with the Sox' inability to solve Kenny Rogers compelled me to mute the television, turn on some live music and wait out the storm.

45 minutes, a martini and a beer later, I closed the book, done with the penultimate chapter in Dan Brown's best-selling story. At roughly that same moment, the TV flickered back on, showing fishing highlights on Fox Sports. Figuring the Sox had lost, I flipped a new page, but changed the channel to ESPNews just in case.

With the TV still muted, I thought for a moment that I saw a victory-signifying triangle next to the Sox' listing on the ESPNews ticker. As the line was obscured by the subtitles, I quickly turned to the mothership, hoping that ESPN could salve my curiousity. Alas, the Heat/Pistons postgame was in full bloom. Like Robert Langdon and Sophie Neveu, I sought the answer to my own personal riddle, flipping from ESPN to Fox to NESN in desparate pursuit of resolution.

Finally, Neil Everett's dulcet tones revealed the inspirational truth - Mike Lowell singled with 2 outs to keep the game going and Kevin Youkilis hit a 2-out bomb to left to give the Sox a 3-2 lead. Jonathan Papelbon throttled the Motor City Kitties in the bottom of the 9th to conclude the Sox quest.

While that was happening, I finished the book and the multiple drinks in the midst of a relatively epic light show, courtesy of the season's first really good thunderstorm. Signs, signs, everywhere signs - I can't help but think that this is a good, good omen for the Olde Towne Team. Or, at least, it makes for a good booze-addled blog theme.