Games 80 through 82 – Mets
Mets 8, Yankees 3
Yankees 16, Mets 7
Pirates 11, Mets 1
Record: 48-34
Last night’s blowout in the Bronx had everyone mocking or bemoaning the state of the new, new Mets today, and the jeers/fears were somewhat justified. It wasn’t that they lost by a count of 16 to 7 to the universally loathed Bombers, it was how they lost. After knocking Jaret Wright out of the game early with a 4-spot, the Mets saw the Yankees come storming back against the woefully overmatched Alay Soler . . . with “Nero” Randolph fiddling with his moustache all the while, staring blankly at the spectacle as if it were some kind of bad dream he just needed to ride out. Towards the end, most of us were wishing that were the case, or at least wishing that we’d ventured off into dreamland instead of staying up to watch the carnage.
The Yanks piled it on, of course, led by the “Bride of the Yankees,” Alex Rodriguez. When Paul LoDuca barked at A-Rod for supposedly showing up his pitcher, it seemed to be a case of willful misdirection. Nobody saw Soler’s painful struggles more obviously than the Mets’ catcher, and the guy who showed up the young Cuban the most last night was the manager who wouldn’t spare him further humiliation. A wise choice by Paulie to single out the easiest target in the five boroughs rather than create dissent by placing the blame where it was most deserved.
When Willie was standing stoically in the dugout as if he were the warden overseeing Alay Soler’s death by firing squad, I screamed obscenities at him from 500 miles away and felt convinced he was the worst manager in all of baseball. When Joe Morgan began to come down on him, I was less sure of Randolph’s culpability for obvious reasons. When the Township's masses went ballistic on him in game threads, there was more reason to step back and reassess. While I love the pulse of MetLand as taken through the blogging quotient, their twist on Newton’s third law (“for every action there is a not-even-close-to-equal and off-base overreaction”) as a credo makes you take every consensus with a grain of salt. Despite these caveats and a day to apply perspective, all signs still point to Willie Randolph as the most deserving of our ill will.
For as much as Soler disappointed the club with an atrocious outing, he’s a rookie pitcher (sort of) who’s going to have tough nights along the way. A similar feeling goes for Heath Bell. Xavier Nady’s 1-2 punch of failing to notify Jose Valentin that he was getting tagged out at home plus a 4-run doink off his glove to usher in garbage time didn’t make us feel great about him, but it didn’t erode all remaining confidence we had in the guy. The same can’t be said for the Mets manager who appeared bewildered by the way the game unfolded. Willie Randolph seemed as helpless in his role as I was in mine, and that’s a problem. That he apparently had some misguided master plan that involved tonight’s outcome didn’t matter; by night’s end, he’d already lost most of our support.
It didn’t help him that just a few dozen yards away, a negative image of his inaction was on display. Joe Torre didn’t need to see any more of his starter after an inning-plus, and his quick hook shifted the Yank-train back onto the tracks. Meanwhile, Boxcar Willie, our Casey Jones at the lever, had our engine diverging out of control and rolling into a hayfield while he watched along indifferently. Hindsight is 20/20, but let’s not pretend it was sheer luck that led to those results. When the other guys got in trouble, their skipper rolled up his sleeves, made some changes, and did what he could to fix things. It sent a message. When our skipper sat by, letting Soler crumble before us miserably, it also sent a message. White flag waved, series surrendered, let’s slink back to the pathetic National League with our tails ‘tween our legs and try and limp to the division title.
Maybe that’s an overstatement, but when the manager is admittedly worried more about tomorrow’s game against the Pirates than tonight’s against the Yankees, the signal sent is one of “pick your battles” and some sort of strategic concession. The Met team that was finding creative ways to win any ballgame despite any deficit is now appearing to choose when to gut it out and when to simply go out there and take a ration of shame for the team. A few minor injuries – and if anyone doesn’t think the Mets have largely skated on the injury front, just ask the Yankees if they’d like to switch places – have the Mets playing timid.
That is if we’re to believe Willie actually had such a game plan Sunday night. His inability to manage his bullpen, and specifically to know when one of his guys is lacking the stuff or control to get anything done that doesn’t evoke images of the movie “Firestarter” has been shouted from the blogosphere rooftops for as long as he’s been doing it. Every pitcher on the staff is going to have games when they just can’t get it done; it’s not a mere footnote on the respective job descriptions of manager and pitching coach to be able to gauge the pitcher’s performance in real-time and get the most out of him before he catapults the team’s chances to win into the DMZ. I knew Soler was cooked early in that dreadful inning. LoDuca knew it, the other players on the field knew it. Hell, Soler knew it, and he kept shooting quick, darting glances into the dugout like “Really? You want me to stay in?”
I’m not ignoring the fact that there are only so many pitchers on a roster. I’m not ignoring the fact that there are 162 games in a year and that overextending your pen in one could inflict damage that impacts several others. You just have to live by a few simple guidelines.
Wave the proverbial white flag only if you must, but never:
1. In the first third of the game.
2. When you have the lead.
3. When you are losing by a run or two.
4. When you’ve already chased their starter in the second inning.
5. When it means you embarrass a young pitcher.
6. In the name of saving Darren Oliver to start the next day against Pittsburgh, and then not.
Willie claimed that the game got out of hand very quickly, as if in a split second it went from a 4-0 joyride to a 13-4 wreck. Granted, 13 runs in three innings is relatively rapid, but it was over a span of 20 to 25 minutes. Football coaches have 35 seconds to call, relay, and execute a play that will sink or save them – hoops coaches have a fraction of that at times. Baseball managers have a relative eternity to see a sweating, shaking starter heave 77 mph curveballs wide and wider of the zone and do something about it. Yes, four-pitch walks fly right by when the batter isn’t conveniently fouling off a few to give you time to crank those wheels in your head. Games can get away from you for a few runs, but a barrage during which the watching world is beckoning and bellowing for what by then seems incredibly obvious – that Alay Soler simply could not get it done – isn’t zipping by in an instant. I pray that was a bad excuse off the cuff and not the reality in his mind.
Speaking of hindsight, the Sunday night game looks that much worse after having watched tonight’s debacle. Hmm, I guess when you finish up interleague play on such a sour, sad, surrendering note and think that a return to playing the dregs of the Senior Circuit will magically cure what ails the team, you’ve got another think coming. The Mets went out and got some hits tonight but lacked that spark to knock them in with well-timed smacks. John Maine -- who, inexplicably, started despite all of the shrewd thinking ahead -- pitched well enough for a while, but then the bullpen collapsed like the house of cards it’s been set up to be lately. Being embarrassed by the Yankees is one thing, but to get clobbered by the Bucs is a disgrace of whole other depth. Yikes.
And here’s where we change gears, giving this schizo post a whole new outlook.
Hypocrisy #1: Despite a plea not to show signs of crying “uncle,” Pedro needs to be sat down. He should rest from now until the second half of the season. Pride and the fun of the All-Star game are swell until they get in the way of long-term plans. Whatever is ailing him in his hip (his toe probably isn’t feeling all that keen these days, either) need not be tweaked, inflamed, and aggravated in the next 10 days or so. We need a 100% – or as close as we can get – Pedro down the stretch.
Hypocrisy #2: Despite my feeling that Willie Randolph is sending his club signals of weakness and submission, there may be no better time during this season for him to demonstrate his skills as a leader than right now. This is the first real bump in the road for the Mets, and to deal with it by not dealing with it may let the team know that an even keel will see its way through the stormy seas . . . or it may let them know that Willie is in over his head. Take charge and make this team yours today, Mr. Skipper. Show us something.
Hypocrisy #3: Exaggerated words like “embarrassment” and “humiliation” made their way throughout Met-related news content everywhere today, and there will be more of the same tomorrow after the drubbing at the hands of the worst team in the worse league. (Truly, to watch Chad Bradford’s and Pedro Feliciano’s work tonight, maybe those words aren’t such an exaggeration.) With the right clubhouse talk from the right coaches, though, these can be shaken off and the order of most of the first half can quickly be restored. We’ve seen how the vibe and direction of the team can change at the drop of a hat. (It seems quick to us the way things can turn around, but you should see how fast it goes for Willie Randolph. Whoa.) Seven games left before the Break. That’s more than enough of an opportunity to have everything in command by the time we regroup for the rest of this slog.
Hypocrisy #4, and this is the doozy: I’ve been concerned for the Mets’ long-term plans for many lines here, and as recently as last week I assessed the Met rotation as being sorely lacking for the race to the pennant. And as much as I think that the Mets really need one or two new pitchers to arrive between now and July 31, I have a very bad feeling in my gut right now. I have this sense that the ass-kicking the Mets took in Boston and the Bronx, plus Pedro’s woes, plus Soler’s and El Duque’s struggles, have Omar closer to frantic than he’s projected. Immediate instinct says the time is now to go out and get someone, to deal Milledge, Pelfrey, Floyd, and whomever else he has to in order to get a starter. Please, Omar, don’t do anything rash. If the GM’s of the league’s doormats are worth their salt, they all placed calls to Mets HQ tonight to dangle an A- or B-tier starter out there in exchange for the rest of the Mets’ farm. Beware them, Omar, and beware your own frustrations and impatience. The one thought that should keep Omar out of any lopsided deal would be the thought of the current state of the Mets with Scott Kazmir in the 3-spot of the rotation. It’s the one time when such thoughts might be healthy.
So there you have it: Whitney’s lessons through his own self-contradictions. Learn them. Know them. Live them.
Monday, July 03, 2006
Summertime
Games 77 through 79 – Red Sox
Marlins 5, Red Sox 2
Red Sox 11, Marlins 5
Red Sox 4, Marlins 3
Record: 50-29
I’m gonna get my stuff out of the way early today to clear the decks for what promises to be a lollapalooza of teeth-gnashing from my compadre. While I only caught a few innings of last night’s Mets/Yanks contest, it was enough to make me turn away in disgust. I can only imagine the impact to the Orange and Blue faithful.
Despite the inevitable end of the Sox’ once-in-a-decade winning streak, the weekend was a positive one for the Olde Towne Team. Newly acquired Jason Johnson wasn’t given much hope against Dontrelle Willis on Friday night, and he certainly didn’t do much to give any hope back to the fans, giving up 3 in the first and setting the tone for a flat performance from the whole team. After 13 straight wins, they get a pass.
Fox Sports and MLB, however, do not get a pass for the inexplicable Fox Saturday Baseball blackout rules. Fox carried the Mets/Yanks Saturday tilt – a 1:00 start in the Bronx. As a rule, on Saturdays, Fox has broadcast rights to all afternoon games, which means that out-of-market games (which means Boston when you leave in Greater Washington D.C) that conflict with the national broadcast are generally blacked out. Okay, makes sense. Fox paid a bunch of money to those rights and wants to protect their franchise. I get it.
What I don’t get is the fact that the blackout extended to the Sox/Marlins game, which started at 6:05, almost 2 hours after the Mets/Yanks game had ended. In the highly unlikely event that the national broadcast extended into the 6:00 hour, I’d grumpily understand a blackout that continued until the original game ended. But my pea-brain can’t wrap itself around a blackout of a game that presents no conflict whatsoever. As a result, a whole evening of Sox/Marlins on the CBS Sportsline GameCenter. Pisser, as both Manny and Ortiz went deep twice, driving in 9 runs in long overdue support of Tim Wakefield.
Back to normal yesterday, sort of. The game was on, so I sandwiched the first 2 innings and the last 3 around a bout of self-punishing exercise (y’know, because of the excessive lifestyle). Though the Sox led, 2-1, as I headed out for a ride, I was fairly confident the lead wouldn’t last, as Jon Lester was in the midst of what appears to be a patented struggle with his command. Came back just in time to see Mike Timlin wriggle free of a bases loaded, 1-out jam with the score tied at 3 in the bottom of the 7th, then settled in as the Sox plated 1 in the 8th on a Loretta sac fly. Papelbon shut the door in the 9th, despite a 1-out walk to Wes Helms (which was actually a strikeout, though Joe West’s myopia missed it) and the Sox have embarked on another winning streak.
Another series win closes the books on interleague play with the Sox posting a record-tying 16-2 mark against the Pacific Coast League. Um, National League. I expect a sterner test beginning today when the Sox head to Tampa.
Marlins 5, Red Sox 2
Red Sox 11, Marlins 5
Red Sox 4, Marlins 3
Record: 50-29
I’m gonna get my stuff out of the way early today to clear the decks for what promises to be a lollapalooza of teeth-gnashing from my compadre. While I only caught a few innings of last night’s Mets/Yanks contest, it was enough to make me turn away in disgust. I can only imagine the impact to the Orange and Blue faithful.
Despite the inevitable end of the Sox’ once-in-a-decade winning streak, the weekend was a positive one for the Olde Towne Team. Newly acquired Jason Johnson wasn’t given much hope against Dontrelle Willis on Friday night, and he certainly didn’t do much to give any hope back to the fans, giving up 3 in the first and setting the tone for a flat performance from the whole team. After 13 straight wins, they get a pass.
Fox Sports and MLB, however, do not get a pass for the inexplicable Fox Saturday Baseball blackout rules. Fox carried the Mets/Yanks Saturday tilt – a 1:00 start in the Bronx. As a rule, on Saturdays, Fox has broadcast rights to all afternoon games, which means that out-of-market games (which means Boston when you leave in Greater Washington D.C) that conflict with the national broadcast are generally blacked out. Okay, makes sense. Fox paid a bunch of money to those rights and wants to protect their franchise. I get it.
What I don’t get is the fact that the blackout extended to the Sox/Marlins game, which started at 6:05, almost 2 hours after the Mets/Yanks game had ended. In the highly unlikely event that the national broadcast extended into the 6:00 hour, I’d grumpily understand a blackout that continued until the original game ended. But my pea-brain can’t wrap itself around a blackout of a game that presents no conflict whatsoever. As a result, a whole evening of Sox/Marlins on the CBS Sportsline GameCenter. Pisser, as both Manny and Ortiz went deep twice, driving in 9 runs in long overdue support of Tim Wakefield.
Back to normal yesterday, sort of. The game was on, so I sandwiched the first 2 innings and the last 3 around a bout of self-punishing exercise (y’know, because of the excessive lifestyle). Though the Sox led, 2-1, as I headed out for a ride, I was fairly confident the lead wouldn’t last, as Jon Lester was in the midst of what appears to be a patented struggle with his command. Came back just in time to see Mike Timlin wriggle free of a bases loaded, 1-out jam with the score tied at 3 in the bottom of the 7th, then settled in as the Sox plated 1 in the 8th on a Loretta sac fly. Papelbon shut the door in the 9th, despite a 1-out walk to Wes Helms (which was actually a strikeout, though Joe West’s myopia missed it) and the Sox have embarked on another winning streak.
Another series win closes the books on interleague play with the Sox posting a record-tying 16-2 mark against the Pacific Coast League. Um, National League. I expect a sterner test beginning today when the Sox head to Tampa.
Friday, June 30, 2006
Darkness On the Edge of Town
Game 79 - Mets
Yankees 2, Mets 0
Record: 47-32
On the streets of the Township tonight, people have begun to pass each other with their heads down or facing away, conceding only furtive glances towards their fellow citizens. Any stray eye contact elicits obligatory half-smiles that could otherwise pass as winces or smirks. These fleeting looks are cast only to read neighbors' eyes, scanning them for signs of what's already figured to lie beneath: Doubt, Dread, and Sheer Angst, the Pep Boys of the fan's psyche. Conversations in the thoroughfare won't exhume what's been interred by the Township residents; to fret openly is to show a lack of knowledge of the current situation and a lack of faith in the mission at hand. But every reconnaisance glimpse brings back to camp the unwanted confirmation that the formerly immaculate garden of hope has sprouted more than a few weeds in recent days. And so we walk on silently, going about our business rather than confiding in our kinsmen with the nagging, burning question that reaches out: Should we be worried?
Yankees 2, Mets 0
Record: 47-32
On the streets of the Township tonight, people have begun to pass each other with their heads down or facing away, conceding only furtive glances towards their fellow citizens. Any stray eye contact elicits obligatory half-smiles that could otherwise pass as winces or smirks. These fleeting looks are cast only to read neighbors' eyes, scanning them for signs of what's already figured to lie beneath: Doubt, Dread, and Sheer Angst, the Pep Boys of the fan's psyche. Conversations in the thoroughfare won't exhume what's been interred by the Township residents; to fret openly is to show a lack of knowledge of the current situation and a lack of faith in the mission at hand. But every reconnaisance glimpse brings back to camp the unwanted confirmation that the formerly immaculate garden of hope has sprouted more than a few weeds in recent days. And so we walk on silently, going about our business rather than confiding in our kinsmen with the nagging, burning question that reaches out: Should we be worried?
It's In the Way That You Use It
Game 78 – Mets
Red Sox 4, Mets 2
Record: 47-31
Give the Boston Red Sox a ton of credit. They did everything they needed to do to win – and lots more. They were patient in the box, steady on the hill, aggressive on the paths, and flawless in the field. That the series was essentially bookended by Carlos Beltran’s misread of a deep fly to center to get the Sox rolling and Coco Crisp’s ESPY last night to snuff out the Mets’ last viable flicker is rather telling. Boston played textbook baseball while New York played comic book baseball. Even last night, when the Metmen seemed altogether more poised than during their prior outings, they merely played pretty well while the Sox played to near perfection. You have to tip your cap, even as you gnash your teeth and shell out money for four (4) cases of suds.
The Red Sox mashed the ball when they wanted to, manufactured a run here and there when they needed to, hustled, dove, scooped, slid, leapt, froze, gunned, escaped, rallied, and held down the fort at precisely the right moments. For all of Rob’s gloomy resignations a month or so ago, the Sox are clicking as well as anyone right now, and if they can keep up this profile of stellar defense, sound pitching, and steady hitting, this team will be held up as the team to beat. That’s about all I have to say about the Red Sox. They were good.
That said, there’s little point in lamenting this stubbed toe for any longer if you’re the Mets. Being the last team in baseball to suffer a three-game sweep is naturally a good thing. Their division lead is still an overstuffed cushion. Glavine looked like his April/May razor-sharp last night for 5+. Reyes and Wright took the series off, but their cooldown was inevitable and there’s reason to believe they’ll provide plenty more fireworks for the team before long. I’m probably the guy most disappointed and frustrated by the Boston trip, for obvious reasons. (Did I mention that I owe four cases of beer?) And even I am shrugging it off. There’s not a moment to mope, since three games in the Bronx commence tonight, and stumble becomes swoon after two series. You could look it up.
Walk it off, lads. Peaking in June isn’t part of the master plan, anyway. The blueprint for the next three months calls for a slow and steady fade of the NL East foes into the rear view mirror, with a few minor tweaks and tinkerings in store so that this team finds its apex in late September. Doesn’t mean that’s going to happen, but at least we have a plan.
We all knew that this 10-day stretch was going to be a litmus test for the Mets. Over the last few years, when the results of such tests came back extremely acidic, there was a definite feeling of helplessness. Today we’ll chalk these three losses up to running into a buzz saw and apply it towards beating the Yankees this weekend. Just keep a faint taste of bitterness somewhere in the memory bank – so that when the Mets meet the Red Sox in late October, there will be that little extra iota of inspiration.
Red Sox 4, Mets 2
Record: 47-31
Give the Boston Red Sox a ton of credit. They did everything they needed to do to win – and lots more. They were patient in the box, steady on the hill, aggressive on the paths, and flawless in the field. That the series was essentially bookended by Carlos Beltran’s misread of a deep fly to center to get the Sox rolling and Coco Crisp’s ESPY last night to snuff out the Mets’ last viable flicker is rather telling. Boston played textbook baseball while New York played comic book baseball. Even last night, when the Metmen seemed altogether more poised than during their prior outings, they merely played pretty well while the Sox played to near perfection. You have to tip your cap, even as you gnash your teeth and shell out money for four (4) cases of suds.
The Red Sox mashed the ball when they wanted to, manufactured a run here and there when they needed to, hustled, dove, scooped, slid, leapt, froze, gunned, escaped, rallied, and held down the fort at precisely the right moments. For all of Rob’s gloomy resignations a month or so ago, the Sox are clicking as well as anyone right now, and if they can keep up this profile of stellar defense, sound pitching, and steady hitting, this team will be held up as the team to beat. That’s about all I have to say about the Red Sox. They were good.
That said, there’s little point in lamenting this stubbed toe for any longer if you’re the Mets. Being the last team in baseball to suffer a three-game sweep is naturally a good thing. Their division lead is still an overstuffed cushion. Glavine looked like his April/May razor-sharp last night for 5+. Reyes and Wright took the series off, but their cooldown was inevitable and there’s reason to believe they’ll provide plenty more fireworks for the team before long. I’m probably the guy most disappointed and frustrated by the Boston trip, for obvious reasons. (Did I mention that I owe four cases of beer?) And even I am shrugging it off. There’s not a moment to mope, since three games in the Bronx commence tonight, and stumble becomes swoon after two series. You could look it up.
Walk it off, lads. Peaking in June isn’t part of the master plan, anyway. The blueprint for the next three months calls for a slow and steady fade of the NL East foes into the rear view mirror, with a few minor tweaks and tinkerings in store so that this team finds its apex in late September. Doesn’t mean that’s going to happen, but at least we have a plan.
We all knew that this 10-day stretch was going to be a litmus test for the Mets. Over the last few years, when the results of such tests came back extremely acidic, there was a definite feeling of helplessness. Today we’ll chalk these three losses up to running into a buzz saw and apply it towards beating the Yankees this weekend. Just keep a faint taste of bitterness somewhere in the memory bank – so that when the Mets meet the Red Sox in late October, there will be that little extra iota of inspiration.
Murder (or a Heart Attack)
Game 76 – Red Sox
Red Sox 4, Mets 2
Record: 48-28
Whitney may not see things the same way, perhaps a bit jagged from the events of the past 3 days, or soggy from the region’s blinding sheets of rain, but last night’s game was a classic. Coco Crisp was the Sox’ four leaf clover, starring at the plate, on the basepaths, and in the field and perhaps finally winning his way into the Nation’s heart after a standoffish start for the new kid.
Curt Schilling and Tom Glavine both lived up to their reputations for 5 sublime innings, matching each other zero for zero. After Carlos Beltran finally solved Schilling in the top of the 6th (with an absolute timebomb to dead center), I was sort of resigned to the fact that the Sox couldn’t keep winning indefinitely – they’d have to lose at some point, so it might as well be to Whit’s team.
The cumulative impact of age and a lot of pitches got to Glavine in the 6th, with the other shoe dropping as he first gave up a homer to Loretta then a double to Papi. Though it’ll probably be lost in the boxscore agate, Papi’s hustle into 2nd on a ball that might normally have only yielded a single for the big man was a huge play. It was followed by his equally aggressive advance to third on Mike Lowell’s fly to medium centerfield, without which the game-tying run would not have scored on Jason Varitek’s subsequent sacrifice. The masses will demand curtain calls for Papi’s 8th inning blast to center, as well they should, but his command of the fundamental was more important to the outcome of last night’s game.
That same command of the fundamental led directly to the game-winning run in the bottom of the 7th, as Crisp led off with a bunt single, stole second, reached 3rd on Alex Gonzalez’ perfectly executed sacrifice bunt, and scored on Kevin Youkilis’ sacrifice fly to left. A singular sublimely manufactured run from a team that’s clicking on all cylinders. Match that offensive versatility with a defensive effort that now stands with the best of all time (last night was the Sox’ 16th consecutive errorless game, which ties the major league record) and the Sox are playing the best all-around baseball of my lifetime, and perhaps of the franchise’s history.
All of that terrific baseball might have been for naught if it weren’t for one of the amazing defensive plays in my memory. With 2 out in the top of the 8th and the speedy Beltran on first, David Wright lined a bullet to left-center off of Mike Timlin. Double, game tied, fuck were the thoughts that immediately went through the head of this nervous guy. Crisp had shaded Wright to right-center against the hard-throwing Timlin, and the NESN cameras showed him in a dead sprint toward the Monster at the crack of the bat. Just before the ball screamed past him for a game-altering extra-base hit, Coco laid out in full horizontal flight position, reaching his glove hand up and behind himself to snare Wright’s drive with the last bit of momentum left in his frantic gallop. Timlin’s reaction was priceless, moments away as he was from shedding some West Texas teardrops. “Ohhh! Wow! Yeah!”, roared the veteran reliever, who’s seen some stuff in his day and doesn’t strike this observer as a terribly emotional guy. “Holy Shit!” was my equally prosaic utterance. Whit’s was almost certainly something different, at least in tone.
Jonathan Papelbon resumed his ridiculous season, mowing the Mets – well on their way to a much-deserved cryin’ drunk – down in the 9th to preserve the win and the sweep. 12 in a row now for the Sox, and a 4-game lead in the division. It’s a bit early in the season to feel like king of all of the world, but I’m not gonna question the emotion now – the Sox are on an unbelievable roll. Whit might not believe the sincerity, but let the idiot speak: I do feel a little twinge of guilt that it had to come at the expense of his Metros. Only a little, as their 11-game advantage over the dreck in the NL East has been seriously aided by the Sox’ 14-1 run through the division. Nice league you got there. The good guys may need to up the devil’s pay to continue this run, but it’s a hell of a ride for the moment.
After a somewhat surreal 3 games that left me positively giddy about the Sox, and a bit (only a bit) bummed for my buddy and his lonely holiday, the final tally reads 3 wins for the Sox, 3 losses for the Mets, and 96 beers on the plus side of the ledger for me. Far be it for me to tell Whit what to do, but it’s clear that the appropriately literary thing to do would be to add one more something special to the haul, something aged, perhaps. An old 97, if you will.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Nowhere Fast
"Is this some kind of bust?"
"Very impressive, yes."
Well, that was a letdown of extreme proportions. Everything fell into place for my co-blogger and me to watch this game, and everything fell apart in Boston. For all of the hubbub in the sporting world, not to mention Rob's living room, that wasn't a game I want to see any part of ever again. Pedro was tense, Lastings was lost, and once again the whole club looked like they'd been throwing back shots over on Landsdowne Street for a few hours before the game. Dammit, boys, that's my job.
As Rob mentioned, it wasn't very long into the night until discussions strayed away from the game being played at Fenway. As noted, at first it was Mets/Sox trivia, but quickly enough it was Rob pointing out that there are more teams left in the World Cup who speak Portuguese than there are who speak either English or Spanish. Then it was me drawing a parallel between ESPNews's grating anchor Kirk Gimenez and the SNL skit with Jimmy Smits and Bob Costas where everyone is over-accentuating their Spanglish. Later, we held an extended discussion with late arrival Buck on decades-old country music. Readers, who's your pick -- the Gatlin Brothers or the Statler Brothers?
Milledge cost his team yet again with some hideous glove work. The Monster seemed to be in his head the whole time, unnerving him to the point where Carlos Beltran had to save him later with a Kelly Leak play. The kid helped turn the game into a joke, so he'll just have to endure the wisecracks at his expense. And remember, he who laughs at Lastings, laughs best. On the plus side, I was disappointed that I didn't get to see him play when he was down here in Norfolk, but I may well have a second chance. Not that a couple of errors -- even ones of this magnitude -- automatically signify a demotion, but between the return of Cliff Floyd, Willie's penchant for enacting the steady payment of dues among youngsters, and an obvious margin for improvement, I can see it happening.
Meanwhile, David Wright and Jose Reyes have made the Boston folks wonder what all the fuss was about. Garbage time solo shots appear to be the best the Mets hitters can muster. Carlos Delgado seems to have crept out of his slump and into a pattern of whiffing in key spots and homering to lead off an inning after the fact. But the offense isn't even the problem right now. As my brother-in-law called to groan, "Now is when we formerly confident fans start to really worry about this pitching staff."
We just need to get through the weekend until the Mets can start preying upon the hapless clubs in the National League again, I guess. The problem is that I very much need a win tonight for my own reasons, and losing in the Bronx is irritating as hell for all of us. So sack up, lads, it's time to give Schilling a shelling and induce Big Pop-Up all night.
"Very impressive, yes."
Well, that was a letdown of extreme proportions. Everything fell into place for my co-blogger and me to watch this game, and everything fell apart in Boston. For all of the hubbub in the sporting world, not to mention Rob's living room, that wasn't a game I want to see any part of ever again. Pedro was tense, Lastings was lost, and once again the whole club looked like they'd been throwing back shots over on Landsdowne Street for a few hours before the game. Dammit, boys, that's my job.
As Rob mentioned, it wasn't very long into the night until discussions strayed away from the game being played at Fenway. As noted, at first it was Mets/Sox trivia, but quickly enough it was Rob pointing out that there are more teams left in the World Cup who speak Portuguese than there are who speak either English or Spanish. Then it was me drawing a parallel between ESPNews's grating anchor Kirk Gimenez and the SNL skit with Jimmy Smits and Bob Costas where everyone is over-accentuating their Spanglish. Later, we held an extended discussion with late arrival Buck on decades-old country music. Readers, who's your pick -- the Gatlin Brothers or the Statler Brothers?
Milledge cost his team yet again with some hideous glove work. The Monster seemed to be in his head the whole time, unnerving him to the point where Carlos Beltran had to save him later with a Kelly Leak play. The kid helped turn the game into a joke, so he'll just have to endure the wisecracks at his expense. And remember, he who laughs at Lastings, laughs best. On the plus side, I was disappointed that I didn't get to see him play when he was down here in Norfolk, but I may well have a second chance. Not that a couple of errors -- even ones of this magnitude -- automatically signify a demotion, but between the return of Cliff Floyd, Willie's penchant for enacting the steady payment of dues among youngsters, and an obvious margin for improvement, I can see it happening.
Meanwhile, David Wright and Jose Reyes have made the Boston folks wonder what all the fuss was about. Garbage time solo shots appear to be the best the Mets hitters can muster. Carlos Delgado seems to have crept out of his slump and into a pattern of whiffing in key spots and homering to lead off an inning after the fact. But the offense isn't even the problem right now. As my brother-in-law called to groan, "Now is when we formerly confident fans start to really worry about this pitching staff."
We just need to get through the weekend until the Mets can start preying upon the hapless clubs in the National League again, I guess. The problem is that I very much need a win tonight for my own reasons, and losing in the Bronx is irritating as hell for all of us. So sack up, lads, it's time to give Schilling a shelling and induce Big Pop-Up all night.
Hate to Say I Told You So
Game 75 – Red Sox
Red Sox 10, Mets 2
Record: 47-28
Well, that was...anticlimactic. What started as the most highly anticipated regular season game in my memory quickly turned into a vaguely unsatisfying rout. In the words of the less-than-immortal Hives, I hate to say I told you so.
Whit and I were well into our stash of thematically selected domestic brews (Smuttynose Pale Ale for me, Brooklyn Pennant Ale for him) in the bottom of the 4th when he turned to me and said, “We need a game to play”. If you know Whit, you recognize that he has a pathological need to be entertained – and Pedro and his Mets failed miserably on that score last night.
Around that same time, yet another rainstorm blew through Northern Virginia, interrupting my DirectTV signal for the eleventeenth time this week. We quickly deemed it a mercy killing, and set to quizzing each other on Mets and Red Sox trivia. If you can name the Mets top 5 all-time homerun hitters without any help, you’re almost as smart as I am. We made calls to Wheelhouse Jerry, who was celebrating the Nets’ successful draft. We watched the American League continue its mastery of the so-called Senior Circuit – 50+ games over .500 now, for all you NL apologistas. Hell, we even watched a few minutes of a Food Network program about pancakes. Anything to avoid focusing on the carnage in Boston.
As I’d hoped, the Fenway crowd showed their appreciation for Pedro with a 55-second standing ovation as he walked to the mound before the bottom of the first. And as I’d predicted, he was way too amped up, costing himself at least 1 run (and maybe 4) by failing to start a double play on a David Ortiz comebacker. I’ve seen Pedro pitch worse, but not by much and certainly not often. To be honest, I was really pretty disappointed – not that he lost, but how he did.
Whit and I concurred on the fact that Lastings Milledge probably couldn’t play outfield for our softball team, and on the near certainty that Ron Darling and Keith Hernandez are celebrating their reunion in the Mets’ broadcast booth by doing lines from the small of a hooker’s back. And if I were to call him now and wake him, he’d likely also concur that drinking that much on a school night is a bad idea, despite our repeated tests of that theory.
Lots at stake tonight as Curt Schilling faces local boy Tom Glavine. The Sox are looking for their 12th straight win, while the Metros are trying to pick up some momentum in advance of their upcoming series with the Yankees. Far more importantly, Whit needs his boys to pick him up, or he faces the unhappy prospect of owing me 4 cases of the finest ale in the land to settle our bet on the series.
Red Sox 10, Mets 2
Record: 47-28
Well, that was...anticlimactic. What started as the most highly anticipated regular season game in my memory quickly turned into a vaguely unsatisfying rout. In the words of the less-than-immortal Hives, I hate to say I told you so.
Whit and I were well into our stash of thematically selected domestic brews (Smuttynose Pale Ale for me, Brooklyn Pennant Ale for him) in the bottom of the 4th when he turned to me and said, “We need a game to play”. If you know Whit, you recognize that he has a pathological need to be entertained – and Pedro and his Mets failed miserably on that score last night.
Around that same time, yet another rainstorm blew through Northern Virginia, interrupting my DirectTV signal for the eleventeenth time this week. We quickly deemed it a mercy killing, and set to quizzing each other on Mets and Red Sox trivia. If you can name the Mets top 5 all-time homerun hitters without any help, you’re almost as smart as I am. We made calls to Wheelhouse Jerry, who was celebrating the Nets’ successful draft. We watched the American League continue its mastery of the so-called Senior Circuit – 50+ games over .500 now, for all you NL apologistas. Hell, we even watched a few minutes of a Food Network program about pancakes. Anything to avoid focusing on the carnage in Boston.
As I’d hoped, the Fenway crowd showed their appreciation for Pedro with a 55-second standing ovation as he walked to the mound before the bottom of the first. And as I’d predicted, he was way too amped up, costing himself at least 1 run (and maybe 4) by failing to start a double play on a David Ortiz comebacker. I’ve seen Pedro pitch worse, but not by much and certainly not often. To be honest, I was really pretty disappointed – not that he lost, but how he did.
Whit and I concurred on the fact that Lastings Milledge probably couldn’t play outfield for our softball team, and on the near certainty that Ron Darling and Keith Hernandez are celebrating their reunion in the Mets’ broadcast booth by doing lines from the small of a hooker’s back. And if I were to call him now and wake him, he’d likely also concur that drinking that much on a school night is a bad idea, despite our repeated tests of that theory.
Lots at stake tonight as Curt Schilling faces local boy Tom Glavine. The Sox are looking for their 12th straight win, while the Metros are trying to pick up some momentum in advance of their upcoming series with the Yankees. Far more importantly, Whit needs his boys to pick him up, or he faces the unhappy prospect of owing me 4 cases of the finest ale in the land to settle our bet on the series.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Twilight Zone
Game 76 – Mets/Game 74 - Red Sox
Red Sox 9, Mets 4
Mets Record: 47-29
Red Sox Record: 46-28
I'm hijacking Whitney's well-executed recap of last night's contest, both because I'm lazy and because it's a preview of our attempt tonight to make MLC history. Whit and I will be ensconced in the comfortable environs of my living room this evening, accompanied by what promises to be more adult beverages than advisable on a school night. We'll be turning on the laptop and capturing our witty banter as Pedro takes the mound against Ebby Calvin - tune in here tomorrow (or whenever we figure out how to transpose the notes) for groundbreaking blogging.
I tried to call Whit last night right after Reyes got gunned at the plate. He didn't answer, probably because he thought I was going to rub it in. On the contrary, I called to express my stunned surprise at Manny Acta's decision-making. The Mets were down 1 run with 2 on with a chance to load the bases against a talented but struggling young pitcher who'd already walked in a run in the game. On top of that, Carlos Delgado - who'd already taken Jon Lester deep in the game - was coming to the plate, and the Sox had nobody warming in the bullpen. Acta's Sveumian effort was the single biggest play in the game, and damn near got the Mets' hottest player killed. Speaking on behalf of the Nation, my warmest regards to Mr. Acta and his family.
The "game of inches" cliche was fully realized last night, as the Reyes play, the Milledge misadventure, the Loretta catchdrop, and the seemingly dozens of Mets that fouled Lester's pitches straight back all had the chance to drastically change the outcome.
With 1 down and 2 to go, I'm really looking forward to seeing Pedro pitch tonight. He's said all the right things since coming to Boston - I like him even more than I already did. Unfortunately for my Metfan friend, it's been my experience with Pedro that he underperforms when he's emotionally charged up in the regular season. I figure he'll be as superpumped as he's ever been this evening, so my counterintuitive prediction is that he's less effective than normal. Oddly, I hope I'm wrong, because I'd love to him be electric through 8 innings before the Mets' pen blows the game in the 9th.
___________________________________________________________________
This is why it’s good to have some high-profile – if not high-pressure – contests along the route to “meaningful games” in the autumn. It’s good to get the little spaz that lurks within us all to make an appearance in mid-season; that way, when tension heightens later on in the year, we’re familiar with his antics and can pants, swirlie, and trash-can stuff him without delay.
This game was spaz city. (It should be noted that I, like Tiger Woods, mean to poke no fun at cerebral palsy victims or others who might take offense. I refer to a certain caliber of klutz that is best depicted via this common playground term. That I once again cave in to the language refs that consist of the planet’s most thin-skinned, hypersensitive grouches disappoints us all, I’m sure. And I mean no disrespect to people with a literal thin skin condition, nor people who prefer “sedentarily-challenged” to “hyper,” and . . . ah, forget it.)
Anyway, this ballgame might as well have been played on a hockey rink, what with the way the Mets seemed to react to Fenway Park. The New York nine seemed distracted, disoriented (no offense to Asians), and discombobulated from the first pitch. (Maybe it was the kinder, gentler, post-2004 Fenway faithful actually cheering the ceremonial return of Calvin Schiraldi. That sure had me weirded out.)
Memo to the Mets: Fenway is a quirky old stadium with equal parts endearing charm and annoying architecture, it’s not an alternate plane. Stephen King does frequent the place, but just as a fan. The Hitchcock who occasionally played here was Sterling, the Mulder was Mark, and the Palmer was not Laura but Jim. The “zone” Alay Soler tried desperately to reach was lorded over by Tim McClelland, not Rod Serling. For the first five or six innings, that inner doofus was running rampant in a most bizarre way.
In the first inning, “Screech” Beltran set the tone by getting picked off first in clumsy fashion. Minutes later, he misjudged/underestimated/lost/Screeched a deep fly by Kevin Youkilis that he usually catches without breaking a sweat. Youkilis would later score on a two-out, two-run single that might have been prevented. And no, Dustin Diamond, this paragraph isn’t going to get you any closer to having people who’ve never met you pay for your house.
In the second, “Horshack” LoDuca reacted slowly and effortlessly to a foul pop off the bat of Alex Gonzalez, one which the wind blew back to the first row of seats, where it caromed away without a play. Seconds later, Gonzalez ripped a double off the monster. He’d later score.
Sox starter Jon Lester induced some ineptitude on his own, making some good hitters look bad and some so-so hitters look so-bad. “Skippy” Woodward fit rather snugly into the latter category, whiffing in a key moment to end the Mets’ turn in the fourth. “Arvid” Wright would mimic Skippy’s performance quickly thereafter.
In the bottom of the inning, in a highlight that pretty much encapsulates this entire theme, Manny Ramirez skied a ball to left with two on and two out. “Urkel” Milledge began a series of jerky, reckless spins and twists that resulted in him flat on his back and the
ball plopping down on the warning track beside/behind him. It was surreal to watch; the wind played a part, but it was a mere cameo compared to the scene-stealing star turn by the Urk-meister. The 3-2 lead became 5-2, and the game just seemed to be floating away from the liferaft of misfits that was tonight’s Mets.
“Milhouse” Acta got the coaching staff into the act in the fifth, waving Jose Reyes into a collarbone-crunching (well, it looked that way) collision at home plate on a one-hop liner to left. The theretofore promising rally was a clean, new button down shirt; the base hit was a brand new fountain pen; Acta’s windmill was the foolhardy absence of a pocket protector, rendering both items worthless. That we had to hope that the single hottest-hitting Met of the moment suffered no serious injury on a game-spoiling blunder by the third base coach had me wishing a bevy of melvins on the highly-touted coach.
Sometime about the midpoint of the game, the jitters – or whatever was turning the National League’s first-place team into an AP Calculus field trip – subsided, and the Tri-Lams seemed to revert to old Met form. Unfortunately, they reverted to a series of exasperating traits as well as the ones we love. After “No Argument from” Willie Randolph failed to contest a force-out at second that was ruled a transfer drop but at least merited a conversation, he then demonstrated why he consistently beats out the sport’s knee-buckling curveball artists for Slowest Hook in the League. Willie let a struggling Alay Soler stick around just long enough to give up taters to Marlin cast-aways Mike Lowell and the aforementioned Alex Gonzalez, ending the must-see portion of the game. 8-2: it’s when solo shots by Beltran and new Met Eli Marrero don’t suck you back in. Honestly, a little more Randolph and a little less Nesman might have saved this one from the scrap heap.
This game looks ugly on paper, especially when you see the 15 Sox hits stacked up against the Mets’ six, but the Mets really did have their chances. Here’s the lesson as you take the stage for real after umpteen dress rehearsals against the NL East’s understudies: if you stumble over yourself and wet your pants even a dribble against these guys, you’re destined for a sprawl down the stairs. Come out with the grace and calm you know you can muster tomorrow night, and you won’t embarrass yourselves. Seriously guys, get your heads out of your Clavins. Be cool.
Red Sox 9, Mets 4
Mets Record: 47-29
Red Sox Record: 46-28
I'm hijacking Whitney's well-executed recap of last night's contest, both because I'm lazy and because it's a preview of our attempt tonight to make MLC history. Whit and I will be ensconced in the comfortable environs of my living room this evening, accompanied by what promises to be more adult beverages than advisable on a school night. We'll be turning on the laptop and capturing our witty banter as Pedro takes the mound against Ebby Calvin - tune in here tomorrow (or whenever we figure out how to transpose the notes) for groundbreaking blogging.
I tried to call Whit last night right after Reyes got gunned at the plate. He didn't answer, probably because he thought I was going to rub it in. On the contrary, I called to express my stunned surprise at Manny Acta's decision-making. The Mets were down 1 run with 2 on with a chance to load the bases against a talented but struggling young pitcher who'd already walked in a run in the game. On top of that, Carlos Delgado - who'd already taken Jon Lester deep in the game - was coming to the plate, and the Sox had nobody warming in the bullpen. Acta's Sveumian effort was the single biggest play in the game, and damn near got the Mets' hottest player killed. Speaking on behalf of the Nation, my warmest regards to Mr. Acta and his family.
The "game of inches" cliche was fully realized last night, as the Reyes play, the Milledge misadventure, the Loretta catchdrop, and the seemingly dozens of Mets that fouled Lester's pitches straight back all had the chance to drastically change the outcome.
With 1 down and 2 to go, I'm really looking forward to seeing Pedro pitch tonight. He's said all the right things since coming to Boston - I like him even more than I already did. Unfortunately for my Metfan friend, it's been my experience with Pedro that he underperforms when he's emotionally charged up in the regular season. I figure he'll be as superpumped as he's ever been this evening, so my counterintuitive prediction is that he's less effective than normal. Oddly, I hope I'm wrong, because I'd love to him be electric through 8 innings before the Mets' pen blows the game in the 9th.
___________________________________________________________________
This is why it’s good to have some high-profile – if not high-pressure – contests along the route to “meaningful games” in the autumn. It’s good to get the little spaz that lurks within us all to make an appearance in mid-season; that way, when tension heightens later on in the year, we’re familiar with his antics and can pants, swirlie, and trash-can stuff him without delay.
This game was spaz city. (It should be noted that I, like Tiger Woods, mean to poke no fun at cerebral palsy victims or others who might take offense. I refer to a certain caliber of klutz that is best depicted via this common playground term. That I once again cave in to the language refs that consist of the planet’s most thin-skinned, hypersensitive grouches disappoints us all, I’m sure. And I mean no disrespect to people with a literal thin skin condition, nor people who prefer “sedentarily-challenged” to “hyper,” and . . . ah, forget it.)
Anyway, this ballgame might as well have been played on a hockey rink, what with the way the Mets seemed to react to Fenway Park. The New York nine seemed distracted, disoriented (no offense to Asians), and discombobulated from the first pitch. (Maybe it was the kinder, gentler, post-2004 Fenway faithful actually cheering the ceremonial return of Calvin Schiraldi. That sure had me weirded out.)
Memo to the Mets: Fenway is a quirky old stadium with equal parts endearing charm and annoying architecture, it’s not an alternate plane. Stephen King does frequent the place, but just as a fan. The Hitchcock who occasionally played here was Sterling, the Mulder was Mark, and the Palmer was not Laura but Jim. The “zone” Alay Soler tried desperately to reach was lorded over by Tim McClelland, not Rod Serling. For the first five or six innings, that inner doofus was running rampant in a most bizarre way.
In the first inning, “Screech” Beltran set the tone by getting picked off first in clumsy fashion. Minutes later, he misjudged/underestimated/lost/Screeched a deep fly by Kevin Youkilis that he usually catches without breaking a sweat. Youkilis would later score on a two-out, two-run single that might have been prevented. And no, Dustin Diamond, this paragraph isn’t going to get you any closer to having people who’ve never met you pay for your house.
In the second, “Horshack” LoDuca reacted slowly and effortlessly to a foul pop off the bat of Alex Gonzalez, one which the wind blew back to the first row of seats, where it caromed away without a play. Seconds later, Gonzalez ripped a double off the monster. He’d later score.
Sox starter Jon Lester induced some ineptitude on his own, making some good hitters look bad and some so-so hitters look so-bad. “Skippy” Woodward fit rather snugly into the latter category, whiffing in a key moment to end the Mets’ turn in the fourth. “Arvid” Wright would mimic Skippy’s performance quickly thereafter.
In the bottom of the inning, in a highlight that pretty much encapsulates this entire theme, Manny Ramirez skied a ball to left with two on and two out. “Urkel” Milledge began a series of jerky, reckless spins and twists that resulted in him flat on his back and the
ball plopping down on the warning track beside/behind him. It was surreal to watch; the wind played a part, but it was a mere cameo compared to the scene-stealing star turn by the Urk-meister. The 3-2 lead became 5-2, and the game just seemed to be floating away from the liferaft of misfits that was tonight’s Mets.“Milhouse” Acta got the coaching staff into the act in the fifth, waving Jose Reyes into a collarbone-crunching (well, it looked that way) collision at home plate on a one-hop liner to left. The theretofore promising rally was a clean, new button down shirt; the base hit was a brand new fountain pen; Acta’s windmill was the foolhardy absence of a pocket protector, rendering both items worthless. That we had to hope that the single hottest-hitting Met of the moment suffered no serious injury on a game-spoiling blunder by the third base coach had me wishing a bevy of melvins on the highly-touted coach.
Sometime about the midpoint of the game, the jitters – or whatever was turning the National League’s first-place team into an AP Calculus field trip – subsided, and the Tri-Lams seemed to revert to old Met form. Unfortunately, they reverted to a series of exasperating traits as well as the ones we love. After “No Argument from” Willie Randolph failed to contest a force-out at second that was ruled a transfer drop but at least merited a conversation, he then demonstrated why he consistently beats out the sport’s knee-buckling curveball artists for Slowest Hook in the League. Willie let a struggling Alay Soler stick around just long enough to give up taters to Marlin cast-aways Mike Lowell and the aforementioned Alex Gonzalez, ending the must-see portion of the game. 8-2: it’s when solo shots by Beltran and new Met Eli Marrero don’t suck you back in. Honestly, a little more Randolph and a little less Nesman might have saved this one from the scrap heap.
This game looks ugly on paper, especially when you see the 15 Sox hits stacked up against the Mets’ six, but the Mets really did have their chances. Here’s the lesson as you take the stage for real after umpteen dress rehearsals against the NL East’s understudies: if you stumble over yourself and wet your pants even a dribble against these guys, you’re destined for a sprawl down the stairs. Come out with the grace and calm you know you can muster tomorrow night, and you won’t embarrass yourselves. Seriously guys, get your heads out of your Clavins. Be cool.
Start the Commotion
Games 73 through 75 - Mets
Mets 6, Blue Jays 1
Blue Jays 7, Mets 4
Mets 7, Blue Jays 4
Record: 47-28
The Mets jetted up to the cleanest major city in North America and made tidy work in two of the three games against the Jays. Although Tom Glavine presented a nice return to form on Friday night, the series was won with hitting, hitting, and more hitting. The hits won’t keep on coming forever, but they’re clearly carrying the Mets during this stretch.
After Glavine’s solid showing in the series opener, Orlando “Chuque & Duque” Hernandez issued a fireworks display not legal back in the States. That his stint was truncated by a bizarre mound-visit ruling that had both Willie Randolph and the umpiring crew under fire was merely a diversion from the fact that Hernandez was lit up. It was the first time he’d really been torched as a Met; while a potent Jays lineup deserves some credit, it underscores a growing nervousness about the rotation even as the Mets’ divisional buffer inflates.
What can you say about this offense that hasn’t already been noted by fans, bystanders, and casual glossers of the daily boxes? Even Toronto ace Roy Halladay got touched for more than his usual allotment, though his roughing up couldn’t measure up to the alley beating El Duque suffered. Jose Reyes is sporting a slow-pitch softball average over the past couple of weeks, Carlos Beltran has already jammed more into the first half of the season than he gave us all year in ’05, and Dee-Dub has men who usually sport more than a sliver of machismo gushing girly sentiment. Even Jose Valentin – well, I don’t know what’s gotten into him, but his rejuvenation has certainly been one of the HiGH points of the month.
Taking two of three from Toronto was a more than satisfying outcome; lately, everyone from Rob Russell on down to the SportGuy have been slagging the National League with little resistance. Losing the series might’ve been an acceptable loss, given the caliber of the opponent, but giving the NL-naysayers more fodder was avoided.
Taking two of three from Toronto without incurring serious injuries in the rapidly aging park formerly known as SkyDome was a coup. Seriously, did anyone see the condition of that turf? It makes the old Vet rug look seamless. Duaner Sanchez experienced some shooting pain in his arm that moved a township from its recliner to its knees in a millisecond, but knock on wood, it doesn’t appear to be the crisis we’d feared.
Phase 1 of the road trip against the “Group of Death” went well, but now we get to the main event. Subway Series Shmubway Shmeries, everything you want to watch is contained within the next three nights, weather permitting. Yes, that’s right, the New York Mets travel
to Fenway Park for three games. Let the inevitable chatter about 1986 commence; for once, I won’t cast such nostalgic but meaningless hype to the compost heap of media drivel.
The pitching match-ups are letter-perfect, considering the respective staffs. The undercard will be fought tonight, as newcomers Alay Soler and Jon Lester square off. Soler’s been solid, Lester’s been downright phenomenal in this early going. For once, I’d like to read “Lester got bombed last night” reported in the sports pages instead of the taunting e-mails I receive.
Tomorrow night’s game features the much-anticipated return of Pedro Martinez to the park that sheltered him as he rose from winning the Cy Young to being mentioned alongside Cy Young. Pedro’s a gamer, and I hope and expect him to give it all he’s got for seven strong (a tip of the cap to Grady Little) while treating the fans to a something special. With Josh Beckett on the hill for the Sox, we’ll need it.
The series finale on Thursday brings us no letdown of marquee names, with Glavine going for the Mets and Curt Schilling going for the Sox. Glavine’s had a tough month, but he seems to have weathered what I pray is the worst of it. Lester, Beckett, and Schilling will be the stiffest gauntlet the Mets have run through in some time. Meanwhile, Papi, Manny, and the rest of the mashers present no cakewalk for the Met arms. (Not to suggest that the Mets walk with their arms; this isn’t Cirque du Soleil, despite Orlando “El Cirque” Hernandez’s latest carnival.)
All of this is assuming the weather lets them play. The east coast is waist-deep in rainfall this week, with floods, mud slides, and power outages plaguing the area. Here's hoping this bild-up isn't all for naught, because it's time to get fired up.
We fans have to love pre-Break challenges; it’s excitement without serious repercussions (barring possible injury; you obviously know by now that jinx-breaking prefaces and addenda ride like remoras on every shark that we at MLC ever . . . jump). If the Mets blow up in Beantown, there’s an eternity to regroup, retool, and reevaluate, so all will not be lost. If the Mets slice through the Sox as they have many an adversary of late, it will be another affirmation of the new, new Mets. This series is a challenge, and I can’t wait to see if the Mets are up to it.
Of course, my crony and I are a million amperes more amped than anyone on Yawkey Way right about now. The convergence of the Mets and Red Sox in one stadium ushers a level of excitement into our respective systems that’s not often seen. There are mixed emotions a-plenty; for me to root against a Lester and for Rob to root against Pedro, for each of us to turn the turrets toward each other for three nights – well, you know it’s something big. It’s huge, and it means more than you even realize.
It’s about cheering on our teams, sure, and wanting the stellar success of our clubs to carry on. It’s about pride, bragging rights, and all that jazz, yeah yeah yeah. But’s about something more than that, something that goes deep into our very beings to bring us euphoria and an uninhibited desire to bellow joyful gibberish without termination. I’m talking, naturally, about beer. Cases of the stuff, exchanged on a game-by-game basis with the possibility of a sweep-case accouterment. Two teams will collide in the night somewhere not far from the site where, a long, long time ago, the Boston Pilgrims eradicated the Indians. And just as the consequence of that event has fostered bitterness even while providing the foundation of future history for the peoples who comprised each. . . ballclub (you thought I meant Plymouth Rock, didn’t you? Silly fools, I’m talking about baseball, duh.), the impending showdown at Fenway will deliver much heartache and liver damage to the participants in this lager wager for the ages.
Game on. And someone get me another beer.
Mets 6, Blue Jays 1
Blue Jays 7, Mets 4
Mets 7, Blue Jays 4
Record: 47-28
The Mets jetted up to the cleanest major city in North America and made tidy work in two of the three games against the Jays. Although Tom Glavine presented a nice return to form on Friday night, the series was won with hitting, hitting, and more hitting. The hits won’t keep on coming forever, but they’re clearly carrying the Mets during this stretch.
After Glavine’s solid showing in the series opener, Orlando “Chuque & Duque” Hernandez issued a fireworks display not legal back in the States. That his stint was truncated by a bizarre mound-visit ruling that had both Willie Randolph and the umpiring crew under fire was merely a diversion from the fact that Hernandez was lit up. It was the first time he’d really been torched as a Met; while a potent Jays lineup deserves some credit, it underscores a growing nervousness about the rotation even as the Mets’ divisional buffer inflates.
What can you say about this offense that hasn’t already been noted by fans, bystanders, and casual glossers of the daily boxes? Even Toronto ace Roy Halladay got touched for more than his usual allotment, though his roughing up couldn’t measure up to the alley beating El Duque suffered. Jose Reyes is sporting a slow-pitch softball average over the past couple of weeks, Carlos Beltran has already jammed more into the first half of the season than he gave us all year in ’05, and Dee-Dub has men who usually sport more than a sliver of machismo gushing girly sentiment. Even Jose Valentin – well, I don’t know what’s gotten into him, but his rejuvenation has certainly been one of the HiGH points of the month.
Taking two of three from Toronto was a more than satisfying outcome; lately, everyone from Rob Russell on down to the SportGuy have been slagging the National League with little resistance. Losing the series might’ve been an acceptable loss, given the caliber of the opponent, but giving the NL-naysayers more fodder was avoided.
Taking two of three from Toronto without incurring serious injuries in the rapidly aging park formerly known as SkyDome was a coup. Seriously, did anyone see the condition of that turf? It makes the old Vet rug look seamless. Duaner Sanchez experienced some shooting pain in his arm that moved a township from its recliner to its knees in a millisecond, but knock on wood, it doesn’t appear to be the crisis we’d feared.
Phase 1 of the road trip against the “Group of Death” went well, but now we get to the main event. Subway Series Shmubway Shmeries, everything you want to watch is contained within the next three nights, weather permitting. Yes, that’s right, the New York Mets travel
to Fenway Park for three games. Let the inevitable chatter about 1986 commence; for once, I won’t cast such nostalgic but meaningless hype to the compost heap of media drivel.The pitching match-ups are letter-perfect, considering the respective staffs. The undercard will be fought tonight, as newcomers Alay Soler and Jon Lester square off. Soler’s been solid, Lester’s been downright phenomenal in this early going. For once, I’d like to read “Lester got bombed last night” reported in the sports pages instead of the taunting e-mails I receive.
Tomorrow night’s game features the much-anticipated return of Pedro Martinez to the park that sheltered him as he rose from winning the Cy Young to being mentioned alongside Cy Young. Pedro’s a gamer, and I hope and expect him to give it all he’s got for seven strong (a tip of the cap to Grady Little) while treating the fans to a something special. With Josh Beckett on the hill for the Sox, we’ll need it.
The series finale on Thursday brings us no letdown of marquee names, with Glavine going for the Mets and Curt Schilling going for the Sox. Glavine’s had a tough month, but he seems to have weathered what I pray is the worst of it. Lester, Beckett, and Schilling will be the stiffest gauntlet the Mets have run through in some time. Meanwhile, Papi, Manny, and the rest of the mashers present no cakewalk for the Met arms. (Not to suggest that the Mets walk with their arms; this isn’t Cirque du Soleil, despite Orlando “El Cirque” Hernandez’s latest carnival.)
All of this is assuming the weather lets them play. The east coast is waist-deep in rainfall this week, with floods, mud slides, and power outages plaguing the area. Here's hoping this bild-up isn't all for naught, because it's time to get fired up.
We fans have to love pre-Break challenges; it’s excitement without serious repercussions (barring possible injury; you obviously know by now that jinx-breaking prefaces and addenda ride like remoras on every shark that we at MLC ever . . . jump). If the Mets blow up in Beantown, there’s an eternity to regroup, retool, and reevaluate, so all will not be lost. If the Mets slice through the Sox as they have many an adversary of late, it will be another affirmation of the new, new Mets. This series is a challenge, and I can’t wait to see if the Mets are up to it.
Of course, my crony and I are a million amperes more amped than anyone on Yawkey Way right about now. The convergence of the Mets and Red Sox in one stadium ushers a level of excitement into our respective systems that’s not often seen. There are mixed emotions a-plenty; for me to root against a Lester and for Rob to root against Pedro, for each of us to turn the turrets toward each other for three nights – well, you know it’s something big. It’s huge, and it means more than you even realize.
It’s about cheering on our teams, sure, and wanting the stellar success of our clubs to carry on. It’s about pride, bragging rights, and all that jazz, yeah yeah yeah. But’s about something more than that, something that goes deep into our very beings to bring us euphoria and an uninhibited desire to bellow joyful gibberish without termination. I’m talking, naturally, about beer. Cases of the stuff, exchanged on a game-by-game basis with the possibility of a sweep-case accouterment. Two teams will collide in the night somewhere not far from the site where, a long, long time ago, the Boston Pilgrims eradicated the Indians. And just as the consequence of that event has fostered bitterness even while providing the foundation of future history for the peoples who comprised each. . . ballclub (you thought I meant Plymouth Rock, didn’t you? Silly fools, I’m talking about baseball, duh.), the impending showdown at Fenway will deliver much heartache and liver damage to the participants in this lager wager for the ages.
Game on. And someone get me another beer.
Monday, June 26, 2006
More Human Than Human
Games 73 through 75 - Red Sox
Red Sox 10, Phillies 2
Red Sox 5, Phillies 3 (11)
Red Sox 8, Phillies 7
Record: 45-28
Jonathan Papelbon, as it turns out, is human - though perhaps just a tiny bit. David Ortiz, on the other hand, is most certainly a deity of some sort. And Kevin Youkilis remains the Greek God of Being a Goofy Looking On-Base Machine.
I had a whole bunch of other words to support these parallel theses, but the lords of Blogger decided to shred them into the ether. Whatever.
Oh, and the Mets come to town tomorrow. That might be interesting, though I'm traveling to Philly tomorrow and will be unlikely to see much of the series' first game. I bet someone will fill me in.
Red Sox 10, Phillies 2
Red Sox 5, Phillies 3 (11)
Red Sox 8, Phillies 7
Record: 45-28
Jonathan Papelbon, as it turns out, is human - though perhaps just a tiny bit. David Ortiz, on the other hand, is most certainly a deity of some sort. And Kevin Youkilis remains the Greek God of Being a Goofy Looking On-Base Machine.
I had a whole bunch of other words to support these parallel theses, but the lords of Blogger decided to shred them into the ether. Whatever.
Oh, and the Mets come to town tomorrow. That might be interesting, though I'm traveling to Philly tomorrow and will be unlikely to see much of the series' first game. I bet someone will fill me in.
Friday, June 23, 2006
Listen to What the Man Said
For the second time in a few weeks, Rob’s acted as MLC’s cultural watchpup, issuing his prudent take on the news (and/or media-created events) of the sporting world. And, for the second time in a few weeks, I’ve been poised to provide my own stance on the matter, only to produce the same rejoinder:
Yeah. What he said.
There’s little use in trying to elaborate much further on a point that’s already been made – effectively and succinctly. Anything further would be the reverberations of a man who loves the sound of his own voice. I’ll add a smidgen of Lesterism (because I do love that sound) as it pertains to the Ozzie Guillen debacle and move in a broader direction.
There’s still one thing that America does better than anyone else in the world, even after being lapped by our neighbors in productivity of all kinds. Yes, the American ingenuity is most often applied to our most prolific product of the new millennium: outrage. We can do outrage like nobody’s business, yes indeedy. “Shock and awe” isn’t just the most asinine moniker for a wartime junket yet, it’s also the mantra of the masses in this country. Cross that line and we’ll come down like 1,000 hammers on anyone at any time for any transgression, meting out equal fury for baseball managers with loose lips as we would capital murderers.
There are ironies abound in all of this, as Rob pointed out, not the least of which is the red-state media crying out to defend the very slice of society they work furiously to prevent from wedded bliss. Americans can see creatively comedic forms of the word “fag” seven times per episode of "Will & Grace," but much like the inflammatory n-word, context is everything, and inappropriate usage is an invitation to indignation by the most ignorant of this nation's inhabitants.
Just stop it. You’re not outraged. No, you aren’t. You people sweep the newsbytes on Reuters just for an opportunity to get off the couch and get on the soapbox. You’re sickened by the Duke lacrosse team, then betrayed by the false accuser, then just ashamed of the whole saga. Good Lord. You speak ill of the media, especially those types whose very existence is to batter athletes with loaded questions in hopes of a verbal misstep, then confirm their payday by excitedly diving into the wave of overreaction once it happens. That there are more microphones in the White Sox locker room every night than there are at the Radio Shack service center is stunning. Athletes stereotypically range as far from orators as we have in any profession; somehow, though, they take exponentially more interviews than our commander-in-chief, and even more sadly, what they spit forth undergoes a sterner critique.
If every individual who has wasted media time with its own shock and awe over Ozzie Guillen’s poor choice of words instead had dedicated that time to documenting the deeper, more serious, and more real problems of bigotry, race relations, and the de facto caste system of this country, we’d all have a menu of more enlightened fare to read, watch, and hear. As it is, however, frenzied blowhards spewing self-righteous ire all over the airwaves seems to be the blue plate special, so dig in, fat boy. Just don’t color me insensitive when I turn away and snicker at the whole lot of you.
Yeah. What he said.
There’s little use in trying to elaborate much further on a point that’s already been made – effectively and succinctly. Anything further would be the reverberations of a man who loves the sound of his own voice. I’ll add a smidgen of Lesterism (because I do love that sound) as it pertains to the Ozzie Guillen debacle and move in a broader direction.
There’s still one thing that America does better than anyone else in the world, even after being lapped by our neighbors in productivity of all kinds. Yes, the American ingenuity is most often applied to our most prolific product of the new millennium: outrage. We can do outrage like nobody’s business, yes indeedy. “Shock and awe” isn’t just the most asinine moniker for a wartime junket yet, it’s also the mantra of the masses in this country. Cross that line and we’ll come down like 1,000 hammers on anyone at any time for any transgression, meting out equal fury for baseball managers with loose lips as we would capital murderers.
There are ironies abound in all of this, as Rob pointed out, not the least of which is the red-state media crying out to defend the very slice of society they work furiously to prevent from wedded bliss. Americans can see creatively comedic forms of the word “fag” seven times per episode of "Will & Grace," but much like the inflammatory n-word, context is everything, and inappropriate usage is an invitation to indignation by the most ignorant of this nation's inhabitants.
Just stop it. You’re not outraged. No, you aren’t. You people sweep the newsbytes on Reuters just for an opportunity to get off the couch and get on the soapbox. You’re sickened by the Duke lacrosse team, then betrayed by the false accuser, then just ashamed of the whole saga. Good Lord. You speak ill of the media, especially those types whose very existence is to batter athletes with loaded questions in hopes of a verbal misstep, then confirm their payday by excitedly diving into the wave of overreaction once it happens. That there are more microphones in the White Sox locker room every night than there are at the Radio Shack service center is stunning. Athletes stereotypically range as far from orators as we have in any profession; somehow, though, they take exponentially more interviews than our commander-in-chief, and even more sadly, what they spit forth undergoes a sterner critique.
If every individual who has wasted media time with its own shock and awe over Ozzie Guillen’s poor choice of words instead had dedicated that time to documenting the deeper, more serious, and more real problems of bigotry, race relations, and the de facto caste system of this country, we’d all have a menu of more enlightened fare to read, watch, and hear. As it is, however, frenzied blowhards spewing self-righteous ire all over the airwaves seems to be the blue plate special, so dig in, fat boy. Just don’t color me insensitive when I turn away and snicker at the whole lot of you.
Glory Days (Fenway 6/28 Remix)
I was going to wait a few days to post this, but Whit's right-on entry below makes it more appropriate today.
Next Wednesday, good Lord willing and the creek don't rise (no small request in New England these days), Pedro Martinez will take the hill in Fenway Park wearing a Mets uniform. And 38,000 will stand as 1 and give him a richly deserved ovation. Somewhere, Johnny Damon will be scratching his caveman head and wondering why. (SoSH has dedicated an entire thread to it today after Peter Gammons publicly surmised that Pedro would be booed. I'd be knocked-on-my-ass stunned if that happened, and more than a little disappointed.)
Whit's exactly right in sussing out the fact that I'm not rubbing it in when I compare Boston Pedro with his New York alter-ego. Every fan should get to experience what the Nation did when Petey was on his game. Quite simply, we got to watch arguably the best 6-year stretch of pitching in the history of baseball - both in terms of stats and moments. No apologies to Sandy Koufax necessary, though he's probably the only other guy in the conversation.
I love Pedro Martinez, even today. I root for him every time he pitches, and I root for him to give Whit a taste of the magic he gave me. Like no player in any sport I've ever seen, Pedro has it - that sense of the moment, that bravado under the gun, that steel in his eyes that says, "I'm your huckleberry". Gammons calls it duende - a word that I'll always associate with Pedro. Even now, the aging gunslinger refuses to give in to time's inevitable march, and Whit's a luckier fan for it.
Even as he takes the mound in the bottom of the first instead of the top, I'll be rooting for him on Wednesday night, hoping for the elegant symmetry of another otheworldly Pedro performance. Rooting for sublime Pedro, to be sure, even while rooting for him to lose, 1-0, on a David Ortiz homerun, just so the Fenway crowd can chant, "Who's Your Papi?" With Whit joining me to watch the game, that would be some cool shit.
Next Wednesday, good Lord willing and the creek don't rise (no small request in New England these days), Pedro Martinez will take the hill in Fenway Park wearing a Mets uniform. And 38,000 will stand as 1 and give him a richly deserved ovation. Somewhere, Johnny Damon will be scratching his caveman head and wondering why. (SoSH has dedicated an entire thread to it today after Peter Gammons publicly surmised that Pedro would be booed. I'd be knocked-on-my-ass stunned if that happened, and more than a little disappointed.)
Whit's exactly right in sussing out the fact that I'm not rubbing it in when I compare Boston Pedro with his New York alter-ego. Every fan should get to experience what the Nation did when Petey was on his game. Quite simply, we got to watch arguably the best 6-year stretch of pitching in the history of baseball - both in terms of stats and moments. No apologies to Sandy Koufax necessary, though he's probably the only other guy in the conversation.
I love Pedro Martinez, even today. I root for him every time he pitches, and I root for him to give Whit a taste of the magic he gave me. Like no player in any sport I've ever seen, Pedro has it - that sense of the moment, that bravado under the gun, that steel in his eyes that says, "I'm your huckleberry". Gammons calls it duende - a word that I'll always associate with Pedro. Even now, the aging gunslinger refuses to give in to time's inevitable march, and Whit's a luckier fan for it.
Even as he takes the mound in the bottom of the first instead of the top, I'll be rooting for him on Wednesday night, hoping for the elegant symmetry of another otheworldly Pedro performance. Rooting for sublime Pedro, to be sure, even while rooting for him to lose, 1-0, on a David Ortiz homerun, just so the Fenway crowd can chant, "Who's Your Papi?" With Whit joining me to watch the game, that would be some cool shit.
Glory Days
Game 72 – Mets
Mets 6, Reds 2
Record: 45-27
The Mets bounced back to salvage a series split with the Redlegs, and Our Beloved Revolutionary Hero David Wright sent two bombs yard-ward to provide the lead and the cushion, but less comfortable was a Pedro Martinez best described as “laboring” for much of the day. Seeing Pedro like this is worrisome, tempered only slightly by the offense picking him up and his own evident summoning of the will to finish off his six innings decisively.
More than once over the past season and a half, Rob has commented to me that while the Pedro Martinez of 2005/6/? will be the dominant, fun-to-watch star of the Mets at times, it simply can’t compare to watching THE Pedro put on a weekly display of utter mastery
that consistently left Sox fans of the late 90’s and early 00’s in animated wonderment. Of course, it’s no fun for me to hear that. I don’t relish that we get a pale facsimile of the all-time great. It doesn’t thrill me to know the Mets have a colossal investment in a guy on the wane, or that the Mets’ ace is seemingly incapable of recapturing more than a little of the glory of the days that have passed him by. But I know Rob isn’t rubbing it in – I can tell when he says it that he’s simply waxing nostalgic over fond memories of rooting for the best pitcher he’s ever seen take the hill for the Olde Towne Team. (Typed right in the freshly reinstated Roger Clemens’ face.)
I know such a feeling of blessed opportunity. My grandparents – both the nature and nurture cause of my Met-mania – were in their early 50’s when I was born. My sister and I were treated to a childhood heartily enriched with time spent with them. Summer weeks lakeside in New York were among the greatest memories of my adolescence. Fruitless fishing escapades, nights around the piano, and an unhealthy fixation on the New York Mets – in an era of incompetence between Tug and Doc that the franchise wisely glosses over; it was everything a grandson could ask for, plus a tad more.
Meanwhile, my uncles had their kids a little later in life, so my six cousins range from 11 to 25 years younger than I am. The math and its inevitabilities are obvious; my cousins got grandparents who, while still a hoot, were septuagenarians and upward by the time the kids were old enough to recall. It wasn’t the same for them; I knew it, and my grandparents did, too. My grandmother is the first person to say so – discreetly and out of earshot of the others. “You really got us,” she’ll repeat, just as my grandfather used to do. “We love you all, but you truly got us in our prime.”
And so goes it with Pedro’s tenure as a Met. He still shows flashes of what he once was, he’s still the Mets’ #1 arm, and he is still an All-Star. It’s just that his transition from All-Timer to All-Star, despite being a gradual one, leaves us with an inkling of longing and an occasional contemplation about what folks like Rob got to enjoy not that long ago.
Mets 6, Reds 2
Record: 45-27
The Mets bounced back to salvage a series split with the Redlegs, and Our Beloved Revolutionary Hero David Wright sent two bombs yard-ward to provide the lead and the cushion, but less comfortable was a Pedro Martinez best described as “laboring” for much of the day. Seeing Pedro like this is worrisome, tempered only slightly by the offense picking him up and his own evident summoning of the will to finish off his six innings decisively.
More than once over the past season and a half, Rob has commented to me that while the Pedro Martinez of 2005/6/? will be the dominant, fun-to-watch star of the Mets at times, it simply can’t compare to watching THE Pedro put on a weekly display of utter mastery
that consistently left Sox fans of the late 90’s and early 00’s in animated wonderment. Of course, it’s no fun for me to hear that. I don’t relish that we get a pale facsimile of the all-time great. It doesn’t thrill me to know the Mets have a colossal investment in a guy on the wane, or that the Mets’ ace is seemingly incapable of recapturing more than a little of the glory of the days that have passed him by. But I know Rob isn’t rubbing it in – I can tell when he says it that he’s simply waxing nostalgic over fond memories of rooting for the best pitcher he’s ever seen take the hill for the Olde Towne Team. (Typed right in the freshly reinstated Roger Clemens’ face.)I know such a feeling of blessed opportunity. My grandparents – both the nature and nurture cause of my Met-mania – were in their early 50’s when I was born. My sister and I were treated to a childhood heartily enriched with time spent with them. Summer weeks lakeside in New York were among the greatest memories of my adolescence. Fruitless fishing escapades, nights around the piano, and an unhealthy fixation on the New York Mets – in an era of incompetence between Tug and Doc that the franchise wisely glosses over; it was everything a grandson could ask for, plus a tad more.
Meanwhile, my uncles had their kids a little later in life, so my six cousins range from 11 to 25 years younger than I am. The math and its inevitabilities are obvious; my cousins got grandparents who, while still a hoot, were septuagenarians and upward by the time the kids were old enough to recall. It wasn’t the same for them; I knew it, and my grandparents did, too. My grandmother is the first person to say so – discreetly and out of earshot of the others. “You really got us,” she’ll repeat, just as my grandfather used to do. “We love you all, but you truly got us in our prime.”
And so goes it with Pedro’s tenure as a Met. He still shows flashes of what he once was, he’s still the Mets’ #1 arm, and he is still an All-Star. It’s just that his transition from All-Timer to All-Star, despite being a gradual one, leaves us with an inkling of longing and an occasional contemplation about what folks like Rob got to enjoy not that long ago.
The Needle and the Damage Done
Somewhere, Jeff Spicoli is sitting through a 3-day sensitivity training seminar, stoned to his toes and wondering how he got there. Some time in the next few months, Ozzie Guillen will find himself in the same place, though probably without the same buzz.
Here at MLC, we’re taking a stand against the hypersensitivity of the masses – and in this case, the masses are generally represented by the media. Ozzie Guillen called Jay Mariotti a fag. Sorry if I’m not sent hurtling into paroxysms of white-hot guilt-laden anger. My reaction – big fucking deal. It’s a word, and it’s a word that in 2006 has so very little connection to real bigotry, worn down as it has been by decades of casual use in locker rooms, school buses, playgrounds, and even offices across the nation. ‘Fag’ is the new ‘jerk’.
Why, then is the media making such a fuss over one loudmouth’s choice of insult? Far be it for me to play armchair socio-psychologist, but I don’t think you have to stretch too far to find an intrinsic sense of collective guilt over our society’s long-time mistreatment of minority communities at the root of this hue and cry. We’re at the point societally where supposedly offended groups evince less actual offense than their reflexive defenders in the mainstream. Maybe I haven’t been paying attention (that’d be something new), but I don’t hear gay activists rushing to condemn Ozzie Guillen – probably because they’ve got bigger, and far more real, issues to tackle, like our bizarre national obsession with the partnership choices made by consenting adults. (Don’t worry, we’re not going any further down that road – this is, after all, a baseball blog.)
The media’s hypocrisy in Ozziegate is, once again, almost charming in its clumsiness. The assembled ink-stained wretches celebrate Guillen’s candor and spirit on one hand, then castigate him when those same qualities produce a mildly off-color result. This is the beast you created by dedicating those column-miles to the wacky skipper – can’t gasp in collective Pollyannaism when it turns on you. Sow, reap, repeat.
As in so many life situations, the advice of the immortal Sgt. Hulka is entirely relevant here: Lighten up, Francis. And by Francis, we mean you, America.
Here at MLC, we’re taking a stand against the hypersensitivity of the masses – and in this case, the masses are generally represented by the media. Ozzie Guillen called Jay Mariotti a fag. Sorry if I’m not sent hurtling into paroxysms of white-hot guilt-laden anger. My reaction – big fucking deal. It’s a word, and it’s a word that in 2006 has so very little connection to real bigotry, worn down as it has been by decades of casual use in locker rooms, school buses, playgrounds, and even offices across the nation. ‘Fag’ is the new ‘jerk’.
Why, then is the media making such a fuss over one loudmouth’s choice of insult? Far be it for me to play armchair socio-psychologist, but I don’t think you have to stretch too far to find an intrinsic sense of collective guilt over our society’s long-time mistreatment of minority communities at the root of this hue and cry. We’re at the point societally where supposedly offended groups evince less actual offense than their reflexive defenders in the mainstream. Maybe I haven’t been paying attention (that’d be something new), but I don’t hear gay activists rushing to condemn Ozzie Guillen – probably because they’ve got bigger, and far more real, issues to tackle, like our bizarre national obsession with the partnership choices made by consenting adults. (Don’t worry, we’re not going any further down that road – this is, after all, a baseball blog.)
The media’s hypocrisy in Ozziegate is, once again, almost charming in its clumsiness. The assembled ink-stained wretches celebrate Guillen’s candor and spirit on one hand, then castigate him when those same qualities produce a mildly off-color result. This is the beast you created by dedicating those column-miles to the wacky skipper – can’t gasp in collective Pollyannaism when it turns on you. Sow, reap, repeat.
As in so many life situations, the advice of the immortal Sgt. Hulka is entirely relevant here: Lighten up, Francis. And by Francis, we mean you, America.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Honeysuckle Blue
Games 68 through 70 – Red Sox
Red Sox 6, Nationals 3
Red Sox 11, Nationals 3
Red Sox 9, Nationals 3
Record: 42-28
The pesky real world has intruded upon both sides of the MLC family this week – at least Whit’s got an excuse. Me, just overworked, underpaid, and prone to drinking too much after softball games. I also haven’t seen more than a fragment of any of the games that have comprised the Sox’ recent run of success, which is all the excuse I can offer.
In years past, I’d trot out the pseudo-excuse that my bloginterregnum was clearly benefiting the Sox, winners of 6 straight against woeful NL East opponents. Now, hey, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Not that my delicate hands are capable of fixing anything, anyway. Though I did hook up a DVD player earlier in the week, and it works. Wait. Where the hell am I going with this?
Anywhere but towards too much focus on the Sox’ on-field play of late is where. The longest winning streak of the season has been a product of mediocre opposition and solid play from nearly all important contributors – with the massive caveat that Julian Tavarez and Rudy Seanez have pitched themselves right out of that category over the past several weeks.
Rookie stud-in-waiting Jon Lester “Bangs” struck out 10 Nats in 6 innings of 3-hit ball last night, and looks for all the world like he’s the Sox’ no. 4 starter for the rest of the year, regardless of whether the front office thinks he’s ready. Quietly, Theo’s mandate to build the farm system’s pitching depth is beginning to pay massive dividends, with first Jonathan Papelbon and now Lester showing early indications that they’ll be elite pitchers. Craig Hansen and Manny Delcarmen look for all the world like they’ll be called on to carry significant weight in the season’s second half, and even David Pauley held his own in 3 emergency starts in the last month. In a division with significantly flawed pitching staffs, the Sox kiddie corps may well make or break the season.
In sum for this short, rambly, pointless post: winning is good. Life is too busy, and too short to be so busy (that’s a thinly veiled message for a good friend of mine), and I should probably cut back on my alcohol intake.
Not gonna happen this week though, as the Sox and the New York Metropolitans tangle with one another in a few short days. If that won’t spur us to new blogheights, I don’t know what might.
---------
I composed this before viewing Whit's most recent, Willis Reed-esque offering. Suffice it to say that the slagging of the far superior Junior Circuit is noted and ascribed to the fevered imagination of painkiller-addled mind.
Red Sox 6, Nationals 3
Red Sox 11, Nationals 3
Red Sox 9, Nationals 3
Record: 42-28
The pesky real world has intruded upon both sides of the MLC family this week – at least Whit’s got an excuse. Me, just overworked, underpaid, and prone to drinking too much after softball games. I also haven’t seen more than a fragment of any of the games that have comprised the Sox’ recent run of success, which is all the excuse I can offer.
In years past, I’d trot out the pseudo-excuse that my bloginterregnum was clearly benefiting the Sox, winners of 6 straight against woeful NL East opponents. Now, hey, if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Not that my delicate hands are capable of fixing anything, anyway. Though I did hook up a DVD player earlier in the week, and it works. Wait. Where the hell am I going with this?
Anywhere but towards too much focus on the Sox’ on-field play of late is where. The longest winning streak of the season has been a product of mediocre opposition and solid play from nearly all important contributors – with the massive caveat that Julian Tavarez and Rudy Seanez have pitched themselves right out of that category over the past several weeks.
Rookie stud-in-waiting Jon Lester “Bangs” struck out 10 Nats in 6 innings of 3-hit ball last night, and looks for all the world like he’s the Sox’ no. 4 starter for the rest of the year, regardless of whether the front office thinks he’s ready. Quietly, Theo’s mandate to build the farm system’s pitching depth is beginning to pay massive dividends, with first Jonathan Papelbon and now Lester showing early indications that they’ll be elite pitchers. Craig Hansen and Manny Delcarmen look for all the world like they’ll be called on to carry significant weight in the season’s second half, and even David Pauley held his own in 3 emergency starts in the last month. In a division with significantly flawed pitching staffs, the Sox kiddie corps may well make or break the season.
In sum for this short, rambly, pointless post: winning is good. Life is too busy, and too short to be so busy (that’s a thinly veiled message for a good friend of mine), and I should probably cut back on my alcohol intake.
Not gonna happen this week though, as the Sox and the New York Metropolitans tangle with one another in a few short days. If that won’t spur us to new blogheights, I don’t know what might.
---------
I composed this before viewing Whit's most recent, Willis Reed-esque offering. Suffice it to say that the slagging of the far superior Junior Circuit is noted and ascribed to the fevered imagination of painkiller-addled mind.
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