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If you ever needed a sign that the Mets are now in mainstream consciousness in NYC (aside from this week’s tabloid-fest [and no I am not linking to any of that trash]), this would be it.
This has been a hard thing for most people I know to understand. Unless they are already baseball people, they are bemused, confused, cynical, patronizing, condescending and a million other similar adjectives. It doesn’t compute. They don’t know how to respond to it. They leave voicemail messages like, “Well, it’s Sunday afternoon, so you’re probably at a baseball game...” And all I ever want to respond is, Yeah, asshole, I probably am. Where are you? Drinking in the latest hipster bar in LA or Brooklyn or wherever? That’s certainly new and unique and progressive.’
But it is hard. It is like I have announced that I’ve turned Republican or religious or something (and I don’t much care if you are one or the other or both, leave it). It’s just baseball.
This week V. is in New York, and we are out drinking on Avenue B. There is a game, but I have one night to hang out with her while she is here on business.
Shaking her head: “I don’t understand it.”
“Neither do I.”
“So you write every day?”
“Sometimes.”
“I think it’s great that you’re writing every day again. You’re excited about it.”
“I am, that’s why I started it.”
“What do you write about?”
“The games, the people, what it’s like to sit there, what I’m learning about, how much I hate Alex Rodriguez.”
“Didn’t he used to play for the Mariners?”
“Right. And now he plays for the Yankees.” I nod at the televisions over the bar. This place is Yankees territory. I come here because of the jukebox and the photos on the wall and the fact that it’s not ironic enough for hipsters. And I like the owner, even if he is a die-hard Yankees fan. Plus, my friend K. is behind the bar twice a week.
“You don’t write about numbers or statistics or anything like that--” She looks fearful, for a second, trying to figure out how I have turned into a person who likes sports.
“No, no, not at all. I can’t do numbers. I know more or less what they mean but I could stare at them for hours and they would never make sense to me.”
“And people read your blog? Still?”
“Yeah, still. Some people read me every day.”
Another incredulous look.
“With all the things you have written about...”
“Well, this is the next thing.”
“But this! Of all things.”
“You know, I never thought I would be the person who would go and choose to sit in a baseball stadium, and know who the players are, and follow the rivalries, or come home and say, ‘Honey, can’t we just watch Baseball Tonight? I don’t feel like I know what happened around the league today.’”
She shudders.
“And I listen to sports talk radio.”
Horror now. “You don’t!”
“And I get upset about what some of the callers say.”
“NOooooO!” She reaches for her cocktail. Gulps.
“I love it because it is new, and it’s different, and I’m outside, and there’s air, and there’s beer, and the green is just so soothing and peaceful, and I get to talk to people I would never ever in my daily life have any opportunity to have a conversation with. I’m not talking about the war or politics or gossip or what musician X did this week or what so-and-so wrote on the internet. I can have conversations with 9 year old Hispanic girls on the 7 train, a bank teller up on E. 82nd Street, the people who sit around me every Tuesday and Friday, the old drunk Polish guys who see me walking home from the game in a Mets shirt and want to know why we lost. It takes me out of myself and my world and my life and engages me in the rest of the planet.”
And that was something that even my former anarchist friend could understand.
This approximated the conversation Wednesday night. When I was out West I had come clean about this blog to her, my independent businesswoman, total leftist-feminist-progressive, former anarchist-punk-rocker, modern revolutionary pal. We talk about the ACLU and police brutality and fashion trends and life and love. Sports was so far away from anything we considered to be our orbit.
But V., unlike most of the rest of my friends, is fascinated and supportive and curious and asking a million questions, and, while flabbergasted at this turn of events, is thrilled for me.
“Where’s the Metsgrrl fashion line? Start the t-shirts now!” she said, hugging me goodbye at the end of the night.
I can’t pretend to Really Understand Mike Piazza’s impact on the Mets. Unlike 1/3 of the crowd at Shea tonight (including TBF) I don’t own a #31 t-shirt; to do so would be (in my opinion) fronting of the worst kind. I became a semi-fan in the last year he was on the team, I can’t claim much.
But I did make a point of coming to the last game of 2005, even though TBF was already gone for the year, sitting in the upper deck by myself and staying until the very last minute, half wanting to watch Mike wave goodbye to the crowd, half me not wanting to leave Shea behind for the last time that year.
The signs! They were everywhere, and I cursed leaving my camera behind tonight. Signs for Piazza, signs demanding the Mets retire his number, signs saying WE MISS YOU, signs saying WELCOME HOME. There was a two-sided sign on the field level - I never saw what the front of it said, but the back said MIKE CAMERON: THE BEST SMILE IN BASEBALL. And the signs for Wright, running alongside saying hello to our former friends, affirming the declaration that he’d like to be a lifetime Met.
it wasn’t until Piazza’s first at- bat that I finally got the chance to pay my respects, standing along with the rest of the crowd. (And of course, Mr. Cameron in the lineup before him.) I felt sad and a little left out, if that makes any sense; the salute was genuine on my part, but I can’t possibly appreciate him as much as the rest of you do. It’s kind of like never having seen the Who with Keith Moon: no matter how much of a freaking psycho Who fan I have been in my life, and as many times as I have seen them and written about them, in some ways I always felt like a pretender.
(And I think Mr. Piazza—he of the $50k stereo system and “Voodoo Chile” intro music—would appreciate that analogy.)
The game itself was fine, if a little too much on the nail-biting side for my liking; despite Trachsel’s presence on the mound, it moved quickly enough for me to be home in Brooklyn writing this well before midnight. Milledge is getting some disgruntled voices - not outright booing, but it’ll get close. And the ubiquitous “You’re making $55 million, try harder” types of heckles at Wright. Yeah, whatever.
As we were walking down the ramps after the game, TBF made the suggestion we think about going tomorrow night - we have yet to see #45 on the mound this season, and his original plans to go tomorrow night with his folks were scuttled at the last minute.
“Nah.” I said. “Let’s save that money for the post-season.”
We managed to keep up with Friday’s game via gamecast, Saturday’s game via the out of town scoreboard at Safeco, and Sunday we watched the game later that night - well, we fastforwarded through it - after being out all day and all evening. We saw two Mariners games, Saturday from the bleachers, Sunday from the first base line. We passed on seeing Zito start Friday night to have dinner with friends.
In terms of our recent joyous news, all I want to say is that TBF and I argued all day yesterday about which Reyes jersey the other is buying (I want road gray, he is a purist who really only likes the pinstripes).
I’ll post more about the Safeco trip later this week while the Mets are out of town. But, for now:
Our friends are charter seat holders at Safeco. Let me tell you, this vantage did not suck.
Gratuitous Ichiro action shot.
-----
This article from mets.com yesterday got me to sit down and think about this quandry, which has been rolling around in my head for a while.
I remember the Milwaukee series when Jose Valentin changed from the guy whose at-bats you’d watched behind split fingers, into the superhero, Grand Slam-slugging guy we have today. I remember sending a text message to TBF:
“where is jose valentin and what have they done with him”
“its someone else wearing a jose valentin suit” was his response.
And, to our continued amazement, it wasn’t a fluke. He kept producing. And producing. And his defense wasn’t half-bad either - he wasn’t going to win a Gold Glove any time soon, but he was no Kaz Matsui, either. He didn’t seem to have any attitude - none was exhibited - he accepted well-earned congratulations with equanimity, zero showboating. He even swept out a rain-filled dugout in Philly during that last day game.
I liked this story. I liked the fact that everyone had written him off and at the age of 36, he somehow found his groove again and became an active contributor, the regular second baseman (even if Willie never said as much). It warmed my heart to see this comeback - not just because it was good for the Mets, but because, damn, it must be a pretty amazing thing for Jose Valentin to have turned his performance around like that.
And, unbelieveably, he continues to amaze. TWO Grand Slams. TWO! From JOSE VALENTIN!
Which brings me to my point. The all-caps up there. When does it stop being all-caps? When do we start to believe?
Last night, watching the game, I asked TBF: “Why don’t I love Jose Valentin? Why aren’t I running to the Team Store to buy a shirt?”
TBF’s response was a very philosophical one about which players the Mets actively market, which, while fascinating (and obvious - he forgets about my MBA sometimes), didn’t answer my question.
I mean, why don’t I LOVE Jose Valentin? We cheer him and we are happy when he does what he does, but I am so not feeling the l-u-v for this guy. We applaud him and we cheer him on and we wish him well (genuinely), but I don’t see “Valentin’s Valentino’s” sitting out in the bleachers.
And I, as a fan, feel guilty about it.
At that moment, my answer would have been a resounding “no”.
I wish d.wright would pull out of his slump. And Cliff - well, you know, Cliff.
TBF: “Wow, is that the first ejection this year?”
MG: “No. Lo Duca - and Duaner, in Milwaukee.”
TBF: “Wow.”
MG: “Pretty good?”
TBF: “Um, yeah.”
Tomorrow I will be trying very hard to watch Pedro and Dontrelle Willis, while I frantically pack for a long weekend in Seattle. We’re back at Shea on Tuesday, for the return of the Mikes. This weekend, we’ll be watching Oakland play the Mariners (but no Barry Zito, two games on three days is all we can cram in amongst the other obligations).
TIEN MAO, YOU LIVE IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD, WATCH YOURSELF.
[kidding.]
[well, sort of.]
I quite liked X (and not just because he looked like Joaquin Phoenix), but as the season went on, I was more and more uncomfortable when he was out there - not quite Victor Diaz-level uncomfortable (I swear I had grey hair last summer brought on entirely by Victor Diaz’ presence in RF), but I was never 100% sure he was going to be able to generate the rubber arms and Roadrunner-like legs that an outfielder seems to need as part of his arsenal (except Carlos Beltran, who, while he will dive when the situation warrants, carries himself with elegance). I always breathed just a little easier when Endy was out there. Endy would get to that ball or die trying.
And maybe I don’t know anything about stats - although lord knows I try every day to learn a little bit more - it would seem that my gut instinct is supported by the numbers - acknowledging of course that Endy doesn’t quite have the hits yet either. But he is fast and furious and full of spirit.
Apropos learning about numbers, TBF and I set up a private wiki a while ago so I could ask my baseball questions and get my baseball answers and have everything aggregated in one place, and also so I could refer to it and not have to keep asking. This is important, because explaining the infield fly rule to me a year ago registered about [] that much, and maybe reading and re-reading it again right now gives me a whole other set of questions to ask. So I can add it into the wiki and TBF can see that I added something. While I love sitting down and asking questions while we’re driving or eating or watching a game, sometimes it makes more sense to write it down and get the answer written down, and I love that it is all tracked in one place.
It’s worked well for us, we’re just sorry we don’t have more time to spend on it now. We had included lists of games attended, and the promotion schedule, and pictures from the wire services that we liked.
One of TBF’s graces is that he never, ever, ever, ever grows tired of the questions, or the asking, or the explaining, or the re-explaining, or the, Oops, sorry, I know you explained all the trading deadlines last year, but I didn’t know enough then to care about them, so how about you go through them all again for me, honey? He will explain anything multiple times, in more detail than you could ever possibly want, with as much enthusiasm as he did the first time. “Can I ask a baseball question?” is always met with “Of course.”
(...something that those of you bemoaning the fact that your S.O.’s can’t stand baseball might wish to take under advisement. :-) )
“We just traded Xavier Nady for relief help.”
I look at the clock. 3:26pm.
“Wow, Omar has half an hour.”
“They said they knew about it last night, but kept it quiet so they didn’t get ripped off in the trade.”
“Shouldn’t you be impressed that I know that the trade deadline is 4pm?”
*pause*
“Wait a minute - how DID you know that?”
My head is spinning right now. Is it always this bad?
TBF is inconsolable. The title of this post was the subject line of the email that sent me this piece of information.
So this brings me to something I have been thinking about: acts of God (accidents), acts of stupidity (like sports players who engage in extreme sports during the season), and acts of bravery (think: the Beltran-Cameron Collision of ‘05). Everything can be rolling along fine and then disaster strikes.
This is something you cannot plan for. As a former manager of mine used to say, “Unfortunately, this work is being done by humans.” It’s the inexplicable force, brought by the human factor, that makes the sport and the performance of it such a joy, but it’s also the same thing that can make it an almost-tragedy (and realize that I am exaggerating in the case of Duaner for effect here, but also, it’s not like he was a trivial force in the bullpen).
It would drive me insane. A sports team is project management on the grandest scale.
TBF’s t-shirt (scroll down) hasn’t even gotten here yet. Glad we made a shirt instead of a jersey. =(
