Wednesday, October 18, 2006

IT’S LUCKY HAT TIME

Not long after we first started dating, TBF lost his lucky hat. Or rather, THE hat, one that had actually seen playoff action. He left it at a restaurant and despite the fact that it was, um, well, kind of icky (from a random person walking in off the street perspective), he never found it again, despite me encouraging him to call the establishment several times.

Even though I was not yet MG, he did not need to say more than: it was my Hat. And I understood completely.

Inspired by my lovely fashionista, non-baseball friend V., who is spending more time following professional sports these days than she has in her entire life (due to yours truly), I invite you to send in a photo of your lucky hat and I will display it here on metsgrrl.com!

Be sure to provide your name or an alias, and why it is a lucky hat for you. Email the photos to metsgrrl at gmail dot com (and substitute a @ sign and a . for the ‘at’ and ‘dot’ in that equation).

LUCKY HATS ONLY! If you want to talk about lucky shirts, Cerrone has a thread over at MetsBlog.

down to the wire

A SCENE FROM TONIGHT’S GAME:

MG: *hiding with hood over her head*
TBF: “Can we calm down? It’s only the fourth inning.”
MG: “I don’t like this.” *draws hood down further*
TBF:  “Their bullpen--”
MG: “Right, their bullpen is shit, that’s great. What about OUR BATS?”
TBF: “Can we come down off the ledge?”
MG: “Pot, meet kettle. Where did I learn this?”
TBF: “I don’t get loud.”
MG: “No, you get catatonic.”
TBF: *grump*
MG: *pout*
Rally Cat: “MEOW”

That was most of the night from about the time the Cardinals evened up the score. I got a headache, TBF was grumpy, I was cranky, and we sat on opposite ends of the couch glaring at each other, as though it was personally the other individual’s fault that D.Wright is only averaging .067 in the post-season and that Reyes is swinging at rubber ducks.

The cat would come over for attention or consolation, and one of us (okay, me) would yell at the TV, and he would go hide again. A few minutes later, he would emerge, and the process would reverse itself. Don’t worry, animal lovers: I gave him canned food earlier tonight (although that was from guilt that we will be gone the next two nights) and cat treats around the 6th inning. He’s doing just fine, but I imagine he is eagerly awaiting the offseason.

I do not wish to revel in someone else’s injuries, but I was ready to cheer that David Eckstein got hit on the hand by Mota. I am a terrible person.

I was going to write something profound, but the head hurts too much and it’s like typing through swamp fog.

You gotta believe? I’ll be there tomorrow night with bells on...and clenched teeth.  We need a real miracle now.

Monday, October 16, 2006

“your request is not available at this time”

”We should talk about Detroit.”
“MMMph.”
“No, we should talk about Detroit.”
“Fine.”
“Are we going?”
“It’s too much money. Flight, hotel, car, it’s $1000 before we’re done.”
“We have a place to stay.” I produce the text message from our Detroit friends with whom we have been trash-talking Tigers/Mets for the past few weeks, telling us that we are staying with them if we are coming.
“I have a plane ticket,” TBF now relents, “But it’s not that far.”
“It’s only 10 hours.”
“If we drive, it’s not that expensive. It’s just tickets and food and gas.”
We look at each other. Decision made.
“I’ll call you at 10am tomorrow morning.”

Alas, the Ticketmaster gods were not kind to us. I pulled GA tickets, and TBF made the executive decision that he didn’t want to drive 20 hours round trip and spend $90 each on standing room, and I was tired enough to agree - but then later started to regret it.

I went back to the browser window - I had clicked through all the way to the point just before confirmation - only to see “Your request is not available at this time. Please try again later.” Which is what I would have seen if we had decided we WERE going.

I’m still not sure I’m 100% on not going - but we were for certain only going if we could have bought them on the open market. The secondary market for the WS makes Rolling Stones scalpers look like rank amateurs.

happy sad

I didn’t get to start listening to the game until about 8:30. For those not paying attention, I was at CBGB’s for the closing night tonight.  As many of you may have seen on your local news broadcasts, it was a media circus outside that little club on the Bowery tonight, and getting into said club and finding a sweet spot in front of the stage took some time. I took off my sweatshirt and tied it around my waist, revealing my #30 Mets number shirt. (Hey - it was black, so it fit right in.)

Feeling a little silly, I took TBF’s little AM radio out of my bag and put an earphone into my ear. Surprisingly, I had good signal, and equally surprisingly, I could hear it over the pre-show music coming out of the PA. Despite a ticket time of 8pm, word was the the show wasn’t going to start until 9:30, so I had plenty of time.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see my friend George, fellow music and Mets fan, ensconced close to the wall. I wave frantically and signal 2-1 and point at my shirt. He leans forward and gestures at his headphones. I guess I was not the only one crazy enough to engage in both activities tonight.  Once the show was about to start, I send TBF a text message that I am turning off the radio and it is time for the text messages… except that I didn’t have to bother.

A few songs into the show, I feel a tap on my arm. I look over and it’s George’s girlfriend, who is in my line of sight. She holds up five fingers, and then two. “Us?” I ask, incredulous. Emphatic nodding. When it came time to tell me it was 11 to whatever it was, it required additional hands, and they were prepared to relay the score to me more than once - but I had already gotten the update from TBF so it wasn’t a shock. Otherwise, I would have surely been: “What??? No. What’s the score??”

At intermission, I am suddenly everyone’s beacon for score updates. Everyone, however, turns out to be Yankees fans, but they seem to be genuinely glad and I accept their congratulations. They have have bad taste in sports teams but they have excellent taste in music.

Now I am home watching the post-game show, and this is a good thing, because when I walked out of the club more than a few tears were shed.  It’s good to not think about the end of an era in one part of my life, and good to think about the beginning of a new one in another part.

As to the game: earlier today, TBF and I were discussing the Star-Ledger article referenced in the entry below this one, and how he liked their assertion that what was required right now was a miracle. Well, I’d say 12-5 in St. Louis after the massacre of the last two games rates miracle status for me.

Sunday, October 15, 2006

enough is enough

I realize we have larger problems on our hands right now, but a recent Hot Foot post reminded me how pissed off this made me, and I took this photo off Diamondvision at the last home game for precisely this purpose. Feel free to use it as you like.

Apropos the aformentioned Hot Foot, this post is required reading.

Let’s Go Mets!

-----

st. louis blues

I was going to write about this game. No, really. We went off to McFadden’s tonight to partake in the Metsblog-sponored revelry, and I brought my notepad (and TBF his scorecard) and we got there early, parked ourselves at the bar, and prepared for a rousing evening.

The evening ended with TBF smacking the scorecard against a planter outside the bar, and him almost ripping the head off of a guy wearing a Yankees hat who stopped us on the way to the train and simply inquired as to the score and actually offered polite condolences when we confirmed it.

I don’t like the Cardinals. I don’t like Pujols trash-talking Glavine, I don’t like Tony La Russa defending the trash talking, I don’t like Scott Spezio and his freaking plumage, I despise Ronnie Belliard and his “I.M.BAD” picture with his hat sideways. And if they really played “Taking Care of Business” tonight in St. Louis, I will tell them and their crimson tide of a fan base to take a long walk off a short pier right into the middle of the Mississippi.

*ahem*

Sorry. Anyway, aside from that, tonight was just swell. I finally got to meet homegirl Zoe in person, pink hat and all, along with Matt Cerrone from the aforementioned Metsblog and Anthony from Hot Foot, and MG reader Chauncey. I also got interviewed by SNY, and did a “This is Mets Grrl and you’re watching SNY, get your New York sports here” plug. I was chosen at random, simply because they needed something else besides a white boy in a Mets jersey, but I convinced them to let me plug the blog when I was done. I don’t remember what I said, but TBF was listening and he said I did fine.

It’s okay. We’ll get them tomorrow night. It’s a long series. We are going to do this. The Cardinals are not going to beat us. As I told SNY, we have the heart and the spirit.

As for tomorrow night, in an announcement that will gladden the aforementioned Anthony of Hot Foot (who affectionately berated me in a post on his site the other day), I will not be attending, nor watching, tomorrow night’s game. Tomorrow night is the closing night for CBGB, Patti Smith will be onstage, and short of a World Series game that I have tickets to, there is nothing that would take precedence over that - not even the Mets.

But don’t worry: I am taking TBF’s little transistor radio with me, and have entreated him to keep me informed via text message. :)

Saturday, October 14, 2006

say it ain’t so

Perhaps we were just a little too cocky tonight, after our recent run of victories. When we walked off the 7 train, TBF spied a guy wearing a Jeff Kent jersey, and proceeded to heckle him.
“Jeff Kent sucks! He doesn’t even bother to try!”
The wearer of the jersey proceeded to meekly agree with him. That, however, was not what TBF was in the mood for.
“Why would you wear a jersey for someone like that...!”
I gently prod him forward. “Honey. Less heckle, more walking into the stadium.”
I turn to the couple. “Welcome to Flushing.”

Tonight we were back on the mezzanine. My plan got us post-season seats in Section 14, Row A. TBF engineered some trade, game 1 for game 2, that landed us in Section 12, Row A. It felt kind of wistful being back in ‘our’ section, but any sentimentality I had was replaced by practicality: one of the great things about section 12 is that there is a very well-maintained ladies’ room right outside the entrance.

TBF went off to have a beer behind home plate with his fellow curmudgeons from the Crane Pool Forum; I was supposed to meet up with Zoe tonight, but the timing was wrong. Instead, I parked myself in my seat and got my camera out, start experimenting with angles. A few minutes later, I spy a lone uniform in the Mets dugout: #7, Mr. Reyes. He is sitting there, quietly, not moving, not fidgeting. I click away, and wonder why he is out there so early. I ponder if, perhaps, he was banned from the clubhouse for driving people crazy. I wonder if maybe he came out to try to settle down and get some breathing room. I am quite sure everyone else is going to stay inside and warm as long as possible.

Darth Maul from last night passes by. I am incorrect: he is really “Met Man” and his mask is a hand-painted, modified Batman mask. He also has a jersey that reads “METS MOBILE METMAN”. It was even scarier than it was last night.

Jon Stewart throws out the first pitch. As soon as the ball leaves his hands, he knows he sucked, and good-naturedly admits it. A nice hug between him and Sandy Alomar.

Our section seems fine, except we have people behind us yelling at us to stand up, and people right behind us yelling at us to sit down. My feeling is, it’s a playoff game, if people want to stand up, let them, get over it. But, if people want to sit down, please halt your true fan meter and get over yourself.

Reyes comes up to bat, and the nice girl next to us predicts that if Jose gets a hit, we’ll take this game. And I have to say, you know, that a few minutes later I was ready to regard her as the Oracle from fucking Delphi. It certainly felt that way, didn’t it? Especially when Mr. Delgado approached the plate.

In a way, this was the first game that felt TRULY electric, and not just default ‘it’s a playoff game’ - it was genuinely generated energy and excitement from what was actually happening on the field, not just the mere fact that we were in the post-season. We were playing like we were the best team in New York. We were showing everyone, especially the detractors, especially the people who want to insist that we win because of something our opponents did, why we got this far.  The cold didn’t matter, the rescheduled game didn’t matter, the morons at MLB taking their sweet time to decide what time this game was going to be didn’t matter.

That feeling, of course, evaporated shortly thereafter. In fact, I was apparently so bad that TBF finally turned to me and said, “Can we climb down off the ledge?” and gave me a lecture involving the phrase “you gotta believe”. I felt ashamed and skulked further back inside my hooded sweatshirt.

The Lo Duca thing is funny. Half the crowd is chanting “PAUL LO-DU-CA,” the other half are “duuuuucccc"-ing him. Think a Bruce Springsteen concert and the BROOOOCING: you would think #16 was being booed if you didn’t know any better. It’s funny. I like it. I like how we have embraced him *so much*.

Spezio is particularly hated in our section. It’s the facial hair, has to be the facial hair. Everyone is offering loud verbal opinions regarding the facial hair each time he comes to bat, many of which are not suitable for a family audience. They were, however, very amusing.

We hear a chant of “ASS-HOLE” and look over to see a group of Cardinals fans who have decided to parade their colors around the mezzanine. The taunting began, and it had gotten as far as one of them removing a shirt, when Mr. Delgado hit ANOTHER home run, which caused the Cardinals fans to vanish into a sea of orange and blue standing up and cheering their lungs out.

This is where my notes stop. Of course, you know why. I am not a strategist, I cannot tell you whether we should have left Maine in longer or not brought in Feliciano or explained various errors, or offer any suggestions on Willie’s in-game strategy. I just know that WE FUCKED UP BIG FUCKING TIME AND IT SHOULDN’T HAVE HAPPENED THAT WAY TONIGHT.

Jesus god. So Taguchi hit a home run. SO TAGUCHI. Everyone in our section, it seemed, reached their boiling point about that particular issue at different times, because for at least 15 minutes after it happened, someone would eject a statement to that effect, loudly.

The exodus from Shea starting at the 6th inning was shameful. IT’S A PLAYOFF GAME. As was the booing of Billy Wagner, as was the moron behind me who bellowed his suggestion for a hobby Mr. Wagner should take up regarding the operation of aircraft (I turned around and berated him with a surprising heat and volume. That was just wrong).

At least our egress from the mezz did not take three hours, and was aided by the earlier steady flow of people out of Shea and onto the 7 platform. There were no happy calls to friends elsewhere, there were no text messages, there was no joyful totalling of TBF’s scorecard. We couldn’t even get seats together so we sat apart for most of the ride, which is probably okay, because it’s not like we could have talked about it.

But once we reached Court Square and were waiting for the bus, me standing there with a blanket wrapped around me like an old woman, we gently started talking about strategy for trading one set of our World Series tickets.

You gotta believe.

The Flickr feed for tonight is here. It is definitely worth your while to click through to the full-size ones.

Friday, October 13, 2006

where the bright lights and the big city meet

So we ended up in our Game 2 seats tonight, upper level boxes. I didn’t lug the camera tonight because, to be honest, the pictures from the upper deck just aren’t going to be all that worthwhile. But this being Game 1, I was at the wrong angle for the player introductions as well as the wrong height and, of course, I didn’t have the f’ing camera ANYWAY. I start snapping with the cameraphone and then give up because it’s pointless.

Our neighbors to our left and right are the same from the NDLS: parent and son, and the other side full of rowdy beer-drinking Dominican/Latino families. By the end of tonight they are inviting us (well, me anyway; TBF is a curmudgeon at heart) over to their house tomorrow night to drink tequila and watch the game on their 42-inch TV. I think they are awesome.

The next box over houses a gentleman I start to refer to as “Darth Maul” because he is wearing a hideous, seemingly homemade mask (which he does not remove ONCE the entire night), batting gloves, and has a Mets flag. He is in the third row of the boxes, so he has zero chance in hell of getting on camera, and the fact that he does not remove the mask, combined with his need to hit everyone sitting around him on the head with his flag, does not make him any friends.

Funniest moment in the Cardinals lineup: they’re going down the row, when all of a sudden TBF interjects: “Wait for this” and the crowd boos Looper so loudly you can barely hear the introduction. Priceless.

Moment #2: at the end, Tony La Russa is introduced, and proceeds to walk down the lineup glad-handing the team. “You don’t see Willie doing that lame [expletive], now do you,” I say.

Aaron Neville, a musician who I am Supposed To Appreciate, and whose value to the New Orleans music scene I do not question - but yet, do not and cannot like - sings the Star Spangled Banner and does a passable job. Question: why do they put up the words to “God Bless America,” a short song whose words are easy to understand, but don’t for the National Anthem?

The scoreboard is dark for a moment of silence for both Buck Owens and Cory Lidle. Not too much; enough, just enough to remember, but not overshadow.

CELEBRITY WATCH: On the way into one of the NDLS games, I was POSITIVE I saw Matt Dillon walking into the ballpark, and was about to launch into my best Cliff Poncier imitation, but then thought better of it. Surely, it could not be him. As we are celebrity-gawking in the seats next to the dugout, there he is, two rows behind Tim Robbins, who in TBF’s estimation had THE best seat in the ballpark: front row of the special boxes, just off the on-deck circle, dead center. TBF wants to hate him, until I point out that we like Tim Robbins for many reasons (politics, taste in music, taste in baseball teams), and also note that he seems to have a scorecard in hand. He is also wearing an OLD Mets jersey, #4. Any ideas who this could be for?

I walked into Shea announcing that I felt GOOD about tonight. “Of course you feel good about tonight,” TBF counters, “We have Tommy G. pitching tonight.” And, yes, Tommy got us out of situation after situation and delivered enough 1-2-3 innings to assuage most of your indigestion.

“The Team, The Time, The Thanks.” This was ADORABLE. Clips of each Met saying “thank you” to the fans, in Spanish and English. Cliff was the best & had the most fun with things. “The MVP is *you*,” Mr. Reyes said, turning it around on us. They should put this up on the web site.

Speaking of Mr. Floyd, he has a new song, which I did not catch, but will be sure to run over to his blog tomorrow to beg the name of. He did not, however, have a new ankle, and although we know Cliff can exaggerate sometimes, Willie was not buying it and he came out after this particular at-bat, replaced by Mr. Chavez, who would be giving Mr. Beltran his money’s worth as MVP tonight. That diving catch - well, I’ll say it: Cliff wouldn’t have made it. Not because he didn’t want to, but because he probably couldn’t have. And what is this bs with pitching around DWright to get to Endy? People are going to start paying for that.

Shawn Green has now rated his own scoreboard graphic (along the lines of “The Glaviator” “Reyes of Light” etc.): “Green Day.”

(I know, I know.)

Nice to see Willie going out to argue with the umpire when Mr. Green got called out at second.

It rained in the upper deck, twice. Each time I got out my poncho, and each time it stopped before it was necessary to struggle into it. The weather got progressively windier as the night went on, but it didn’t get truly cold until the very end, and by then we’re standing up anyway so it doesn’t matter that much.

6th inning. Here’s Lo Duca, the guy who gets the upper deck—the people’s seats, as TBF refers to them—on their feet every time. I expect Lo Duca to get a hit; I expect Lo Duca to make something happen. When Beltran got to the plate, I was hoping, but then I thought I was just projecting because I was impatient and just wanted SOMETHING to happen already.

SOMETHING was a ball heading towards the Banco Popular sign, one of those balls that seem to suspend in mid-air and time seems to halt while it flies. Beautiful. I sigh, and then jump up and down and high five TBF and the Dominican girls next to us.

The en masse taunting of Weaver towards the end of his outing was classic New York and completely and utterly obnoxious, matching the “Cardinals: Taste Like Chicken” sign someone had behind the visiting team’s dugout. It was a spectacle and it was awesome to behold. I shouldn’t enjoy it, and other parts of the country would likely chastise us for our unsportsmanlike behavior, but it was beautiful.

I’ve really been enjoying the snarky intentional commentary offered through some of the music selections when the opposing pitchers get taken out. “Another One Bites The Dust,” “Should I Stay Or Should I Go,” and tonight’s selection, “Under Pressure.” I love this and wish there was more of this attitude allowed during the regular season. It calls to mind one of my favorite baseball stories from TBF, how an organist for one of the Chicago teams, who, after a series of questionable calls by the umpires, started playing “Three Blind Mice.”

The 7th inning video blaring “Desire” by U2 is one of our favorite parts of the playoffs. Tonight I goaded TBF into an impromptu singalong, except that I forgot (or rather didn’t bother to remember) some of the lyrics.
“Oh my god, what are you singing?!”
“Not sure. The spirit’s more important than the letter. At least the tune is right.”
I want one of those signs in the video, DESIRE with the Mets logo underneath it. (Hint, hint, hint.)

The 8th inning abomination known as “Sweet Caroline” has gotten worse, if you could possibly imagine that. They now put the lyrics up on Diamondvision, along with illustrative video footage - including Mr. Met. I’m sorry. Mr. Met would not be singing freaking “Sweet Caroline” anywhere but at Fenway.  GET RID OF THIS. People only like it because they are DRUNK at that point.

Wagner at the end was not as flawless as we wanted and needed him to be, but in the end he got the job done, and we all breathed a sigh of relief, stopping to watch the celebration on-field for a split second before leaping out of our seats and towards the nearest exit ramp, determined to not get caught in another human quagmire on the way to the 7.  Nice idea, but unless we’re going to become Those People who leave the ballpark during the 8th inning, it’s never going to happen.

We are back once again tomorrow night. I can’t wait.

Thursday, October 12, 2006

he’s one of all of us

In 2003, when I was still living in Seattle, a band from Portland lost three of its four members in a van accident on I-5. I didn’t know the band, I had never heard their music, but it didn’t matter - the event, the loss, the tragedy of it, still broke my heart.

Cliff, predictably, makes some good points about Cory Lidle’s passing:

“Whether I played with him or not, he’s one of us. And he’s a human. He’s one of all of us.”

Tuesday, October 10, 2006

the missing subtitles from cliff’s PSA

Have you ever seen Cliff’s kidney disease public service announcement? Well, I bet you’ve never seen the subtitles for it:

Cliff, let’s hope we see you in the NLCS lineup tomorrow. If not, I’ll look for you in the World Series.

[Thank you Zoe, co-president of the Cliff Floyd Fan Club, for the screen captures!]