Friday, September 08, 2006

the brooklyn dodgers of los angeles

We were in very high spirits tonight. I actually had a night off from work. I got to ride out to the game with TBF. There was no rain in sight. It was a pleasant fall evening, the train was not packed with tennis fans, we got to Shea in enough time to cash in our rained-out game tickets, eat something, and have time to spare. I sat back in my seat, breathed in the green, and was ready to watch my Mets play another magnificent game, especially after last night’s wonderful performance.

Riiiiiight.

The only good thing about the night was
1) I wasn’t working
2) I was with TBF
3) It wasn’t raining
4) There was (something resembling) baseball.

To add insult to injury, there was a row of obnoxious Dodger fans representing in our section, the ones that have to applaud every play. Then again, I would have stood up and applauded three home runs (or however many there were, I stopped counting at one point and actually considered going home after, oh, the third).

There’s another game on Sunday, but it’s the mound dawdler, so we are not entirely buoyed by this thought. However, again, it is baseball, and it is the Mets. I am going to will myself to be cheered.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

A COMMENT ON TODAY’S DOUBLEHEADER.

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radio radio

In the past, Metsgrrl would have rather stuck a fork in her eye than listened to sports talk radio. I remember when WFAN first went on the air - didn’t it replace a country station? - and all I could think was: wow. Talking about SPORTS all the time? 24/7? How is that even possible?

Now, understand that I *like* talk radio for certain things. I used to stay up and listen to Art Bell back in the late 90’s (and still love turning it on to hear about what’s going on in Area 51 these days).  Back before I could afford a tape deck in my car, it was a tried-and-true method to stay awake by listening to right-wing talk radio in the middle of the night. I love the concept of radio, how it’s free, how it goes everywhere, how it brings together people who would never otherwise encounter each other.

But talking about SPORTS? All the time? How would that even be possible?

Last summer, TBF introduced me to the concept of the Fan. First it was, “Let’s see if we can hear Willie’s manager’s report on the way to the game.” It was fine with me, even if I didn’t understand much of what he was talking about. Then, I was treated to the post-game phone calls, which I enjoyed from the whole human-interest and personality angle, because I certainly couldn’t appreciate what they were talking about. I could, however, amuse myself at TBF’s rantings at morons.

This year, however, it all changed. My late night insomnia was now entertained with 66WFAN instead of Coast-to-Coast AM. And, mostly, it was entertainment, because as all of you of course know, maybe one caller out of TEN actually knows what the f they’re talking about. I learned to appreciate the difference between the likes of Steve Somers, Tony Paige and Richard Neer (the latter which gives me slight deja vu, having grown up listening to the old WNEW-FM back-in-the-day). I don’t develop the requisite hatred toward Mike and the Mad Dog, but instead nurture an ennui, if you will, because I decide I just can’t spare the energy to go there.

TBF, however, needs to declare 660 off-limits occasionally. He will yell over, “Don’t turn the Fan on tonight, Melky Cabrera just hit a walk-off home run.” One night, we were falling sleep; all is peaceful. The cat is curled up at the end of the bed. The radio is on TBF’s side of the bed, and all I can hear is “Jeter” “Yankees” and I’m not paying attention, until…

TBF sits upright in the dark.
Now I’m wide awake. “What’s wrong?”
“Hand me the phone.”
“What?”
“I’m calling the Fan.” He gets out of bed.
“No, you’re not.”
“They’re IDIOTS. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“Too small. Throw ‘em back. Not worth it.”
He grudgingly assents and gets back in bed.

But the real sign of the times was the night I was falling asleep and TBF comes to turn out the light and turn down the radio, and apparently in my sleep I mumbled something about the idiots calling to criticize Willie on a night he actually did a good job.
“They’re stupid.  You should call,” I mumble.
“Shhh. Go to sleep, Mets Grrl.”

Right now, I am sitting up writing this, because TBF is on hold in the bedroom, waiting to talk to Steve Sommers, about our favorite household subject, the pitching rotation for the playoffs. The pressing issue is, of course, is that Mr. Mound Dawdler has significant seniority on the Mets, but TBF feels that the manly thing to do would be for said turtle-pitcher to approach Mr. W. Randolph and tell him that he should not be part of the playoff rotation.

If any of my friends really knew that this is how we spent our evenings—no, wait. They’d NEVER believe me.

But you do, don’t you?

Tuesday, September 05, 2006

this week’s poll

What Mets-related item should Mets Grrl spend her money on next?
	Jose Reyes grey replica road jersey
	Bribe for a small child on David Wright bobblehead day
	Don’t buy anything, save your money for the post-season
Free polls from Pollhost.com

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rain delay theater

I’ve never been so glad to be late to a game. We found out the game was postponed as soon as the 7 came out of the tunnel, and could hop off at Court Square and still be near home.

But I’d still rather be sitting at Shea right now.

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Monday, September 04, 2006

i hate steve trachsel.

There, I said it.

I espoused this position earlier in the season, and recall distinctly a conversation with TBF where he ever-so-gently pointed out that while I might hate him, the Mets won - a lot - when he was pitching. But he still struck me, the girl who cannot figure out numbers (although tonight TBF told me about Win Shares, and I just ordered a book, because that actually seems like the kind of number I can understand ), as a really bad pitcher, and not just because he was a (to quote Roger Angell on another pitcher) a “notorious mound-dawdler.”

On Jessica’s blog the other week I noted that I am quite sure Trachsel has excellent run support because the entire team says, “Oh, fudge, *Trachsel*’s pitching tonight, better get busy.” TBF thinks they get busy because otherwise they would fall asleep while he was pitching.

Tonight, however, there was no getting busy on either side of the plate, and I need someone - anyone - to explain to me what is so great, exactly - about Julio Franco? I have NO recollection of this man being Mr. Clutch, ever. I can’t even make the jokes about his walk-on music any more (wait, that’s not true, right now they’re in the spirit of, “What would Jesus do, Julio? Jesus would get a home run here,” and they are made by TBF, because I never want to offend anyone sitting around us.)

So tonight, at the end of a long weekend, I am cranky and annoyed, and was looking forward to fighting visor-wearing US Open fans on my way out to Shea tomorrow. But I am informed there is a 70% chance of rain after 2pm tomorrow and if I do not get any baseball until Friday Mets Grrl is not going to be happy.

A METSGRRL NOTE RE: BALLS IN PLAY IN THE STANDS.

A note to the intern moron sitting in the photographer’s box sans camera: even before I knew one goddamn thing about baseball, it was clear to me from the NAME of the damn sport that the BALL was the important thing and even in my days of complete and utter ignorance of the rules, NOTHING WOULD HAVE EVER COMPELLED ME TO TOUCH A BALL THAT WAS COMING TOWARDS ME IF I WAS ANYWHERE NEAR THE FIELD. It’s just COMMON SENSE.

I hope whoever this idiot is (see photo) gets fired, or loses their credentials, or gets someone else fired.

Yes, I am cranky. Towards the end of the game I was threatening to drive out to Shea and wait for the idiots sitting behind home plate talking on their cell phones and waving. That’s exactly what I would be doing if I was sitting in $300 seats at a baseball game. Right.

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Anyone got photos of the bubblegum blowing contest to share with me? Anyone?

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no baseball on labor day?

MG is still working over Labor Day weekend, but luckily the way this project is going now it involves me doing four hours of work in the morning, and then some more work around dinnertime.

I finished up my morning’s work and emerged from the home office to find TBF on the couch with the cat.
“Okay, let’s watch some baseball!” I offered.
“No baseball today. They are playing tonight,” he said.
“I know the Mets aren’t playing this afternoon, but surely someone is - I mean, it’s Labor Day. Gotta be an afternoon game!”
“Not really.”
“But the entire country isn’t working today. Great day to take the family to an afternoon game.”
“Right, and I imagine you’ll say the same thing about Memorial Day.”

All I have to say is: WTF??! How moronic.

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Sunday, September 03, 2006

sunday interweb fun

Courtesy The Official Seal Generator.

Saturday, September 02, 2006

welcome back cornelius

At around 7:30 I realized that I was not going to keep working (yes, MG is working this weekend; I’m viewing it as paying my post-season invoice in one fell swoop) and I walked into the living room.

“You can watch the game,” TBF said. “Guess who’s back?”
“CLIFF?! Cliff is BACK?”

Yes, Mr. Floyd is back, and before I talk about his on-field performance, I just have to say: WTF was that on his FACE? Cliff, what are you DOING, ruining that magnificent visage with facial hair. I’m sure Zoe will have more than a few things to say about this issue of vital importance to *all* Mets fans.

At some point during the game, TBF initated a heated discussion about the post-season pitching rotation—with ME. Yes, me. Not his best friend, not his friend who works at ESPN, yours truly, MG. We were debating the merits of Darren Oliver over John Maine - my concern about Maine is how he will hold up in a playoff situation - and it wasn’t until we reached some kind of agreement that I pointed out the fact that we had been having this discussion and he didn’t blink once the entire time. He just got kind of quiet.

We were watching on a slight delay since at another point during the game, TBF started discussing when the Mets were going to Pittsburgh - probably during yet another recitation on the theme of “God, the Houston ballpark is so gorgeous but there is no way in hell I can ever see myself voluntarily going to Houston for any reason whatsoever” - when I said, “It’s the weekend of the 16th. You are going with [best friend].”
“But the Mets are going to clinch before that weekend. He only wanted to go if we were going to clinch.”
“Maybe we should go.” MG just got a paycheck that includes massive overtime hours.
So we put the game on pause while we looked at airfare, hotels, schedules, ticket prices, gas mileage and consider what we would have to do to the car before driving it any distance.

In short: we’re going to PNC Park in two weeks. It will be our first roadtrip game no matter what TBF says (he insists that Yankee Stadium was a roadtrip game, “They were wearing the grey uniforms.” I hit him with a pillow.)

Back to the game:
Cliff was wonderful.
Jose Valentin continues to amaze: “I wish he was more loveable,” I lamented. “I’m starting to love him,” insists TBF.
Mr. Delgado gets honorable mention for his assist with the Valentin play.
Walking D. Wright to get to Cliff has ALWAYS been a mistake, people. Did you not get that memo?

It’s the 9th inning and I’ve already messed things up for me because the post-game alert came into my mailbox (and I was still researching Pittsburgh options at the time) so I finally shut the laptop. It really doesn’t matter to me if I know the score most of the time; I still like watching the game. TBF hates if he knows what’s going to happen but if he knows I know it will drive him nuts.
“Do we win?”
“You just got done with shielding your eyes so you could avoid the MLB.com homepage while I was looking for Pirates tickets. You don’t want to know.”
“No, bad things could happen here, I want to know.”

In the 9th inning, though, it does bother me that I know, I discovered tonight. And that bothered me until #15, Carlos “MF” Beltran, engaged in a play so outstanding it will overshadow that David Wright barehanded catch in San Diego.
“CARLOS BELTRAN, YOU ARE MY HERO!” I yelled, and we were about to do the victory dance until he collapsed onto the field.
“NOOOOOoooooooooooooooooooooooooo!” yelled TBF. “Don’t get HURT! NO! Willie! Put him on the DL until after September 15th!”

But we watched that catch again, and again, and again, and again, and I can’t wait for Baseball Tonight so I can see it again.

Yes, I just said “I can’t wait for Baseball Tonight.” It still amazes me, somehow.

In the meantime, fingers crossed for Carlos. (No, the other Carlos.)

Tomorrow, MG tries to understand the whole Magic Number thing.

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Anybody got any tips for a PNC Park trip? Send them along to metsgrrl at gmail dot com. I know about Primati’s already. :)

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Thursday, August 31, 2006

get out of denver*

Mets Grrl is doing the deadline shuffle at work, which means I am at work late enough to be listening to the game up until the 7th inning (while I am sending text message updates to TBF, who was up at the House of Evil with his father, watching the Tigers beat the Yankees—Dad is from Detroit and this is their annual event), and then come home to watch Jose Valentin break some kind of record and David Wright BREAK OUT OF THE SLUMP on the post-game highlights.

Homeruns into waterfalls, Mets fans taking over Mile High Stadium, it’s been a good two nights. I’m just sorry I didn’t really get to enjoy most of it.

The funniest thing over the past two days has been the media. Tuesday night, Keith must have been hitting the red wine, because, towards the end of the game, it was decidedly free-association-city in the SNY booth. Last night, Howie and Ed were rambling about type sizes and other issues irrelevant to the non-broadcast audience. Forget a CNN anchor leaving her microphone on in the bathroom, this stuff is freaking HYSTERICAL. Even funnier is how Gary can still call the game while gently egging Keith on.

I posted about this over on Chicks Dig The Pitcher’s Duel, but it bears repeating: Why does Trachsel get such great run support? Because the entire team goes, “Oh, $#@%! Freaking *Trachsel* is pitching tonight! We gotta go out there and get some runs!” TBF’s theory is that they are extra-alive when at bat because they have to keep themselves from falling asleep while he’s on the mound.