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.
You know, this was a LOVELY outing at the start. I worked all day and we caught up with the game via DVR around 8pm. We were impressed with Mr. Perez, TBF is waxing poetic about how this could open up some interesting possibilities in the post-season.
That was until Ryan Howard hit that grand slam, and I stalked off back into my office, muttering - wait, no, YELLING, various unprintable expletives. Understand that Mets Grrl is a fan of expletives, provided one has already demonstrated an excellent command of the english language. Sometimes these are exactly the words I wish to be using, and tonight was one of those times. Usually it is TBF stalking away, tonight it was yours truly. He sat there on the couch watching the rest of the game in fast forward.
I am typing away when TBF yells, “You need to come here and see this.”
Bottom of the 5th.
Beltran walks.
Delgado at the plate.
and - BOOM!
OPPOSITE FIELD HOME RUN!
“Put the shift on THAT, [expletives],” I said. “F you, Philadelphia!”
“WHat!?” TBF said. “You’re trash talking the opposite team’s strategy?!"
“What? I ask, perplexed. “I’ve only been listening to Keith bitching about where every team has their players stand for the entire season.”
“But you UNDERSTAND!” he says, this curious mixture of delight and disbelief.
At that I was happy enough to go back and finish working. Until the 7th inning, when TBF put it on pause until I finished what I was doing.
That 7th inning.
Shawn Green!
And there was much rejoicing.
(I could make jokes about “why is this night different from all other nights” or “let my people run,” but I am saving those for Jewish Heritage Day.)
David Wright stopping at third. And for once, Manny “Townshend” Acta actually didn’t wave a runner home who was going to be out.
Endy Chavez!
“Intentional walks don’t work. FUCK YOU!” says TBF.
Chris Woodward gets a hit!
“Pedro’s going to come out and get a home run next,” I say.
“No, let’s bring out DeFelice. Apparently anybody can get a hit off of this guy,” TBF says.
Let’s hope I get my work done in time tomorrow to make it to the game. It will be WEIRD to see Jamie Moyer in a Phillies uniform. Sentimentality aside, if I wasn’t worried we would jinx things I would be bringing a broom tomorrow. I may have to frisk TBF on the way out the door. Yes, whisk brooms DO count!
OOPS: TBF points out that “Although after a game like this, it feels like we won on Friday, remember that we actually didn’t.” Sorry about the broom comment.
Shea has this magic power which seems to magically eliminate all thoughts of work out of my head as long as I’m sitting inside its walls. I never, ever find myself thinking about work during a game. I am on crazy insane deadlines that are requiring me to work the weekend and miss Sunday’s game. For that reason, I was looking for My Mets to raise my spirits with a satisfying win tonight.
I was looking for my Mets to kick the Phillies’ ass tonight. Not just because I need trash talking rights with my friends from the City of Brotherly Love, but because THE METS NEEDED TO KICK THE PHILLIES’ ASS. Instead, I found the game to be simply uninspiring and decidedly lacklustre. We cannot let them sweep us again. We needed to sweep THEM. At the very least, we need to win this series. Maybe everyone is just tired or too relaxed, but goddamit something was just off tonight.
My favorite part of tonight (which was Hispanic Heritage Night) was the opening lineup introduced en espanol by the announcer for the Spanish radio station. “See, we can boo in Spanish!” was my observation as the Phillies were announced.
I am very happy about Shawn Green in RF. I know all the cool kids are getting all revisionist history about The Late Great Xavier Nady, but we had to do something. And hell yes I like that there’s a Jewish baseball player in New York City again. It would give me an excuse to buy my nephew a Mets shirt, but that is a whole other story (and some day my family is going to find out about this blog so I am going to exercise discretion here). I would be happier if he was representing my people with some stellar production, but for now, I will welcome Mr. Green with open arms, even if he is using a Dave Matthews song for one of his walk-on songs.
On that note, MAJOR props to Bannister for using “Where The Streets Have No Name” for his intro music. Really, really made our night - after all, that happened at the BEGINNING of the game. C’mon, BB.
Light crowd tonight; most of the regulars in our section weren’t around. Everyone who was there was talking about post-season invoices and where they hope we’ll end up sitting. I have sat with these people since April where the only people in the section were account holders, and we could leisurely sprawl across multiple rows and still have plenty of room. In an odd but irrational way, I am going to miss them when the season is over.
The Cardinals wear red shoes as part of their uniform. I found it striking, and stylish in the extreme. Speaking as the woman who wishes fervently that she could design her own Converse All-Stars in Mets colors, it was something I idly pondered during the early innings of tonight’s game.
I wasn’t going to tonight’s game. As of late last week, I had told TBF to look for someone to give my ticket to. I offered it to the sisters who sit next to us, but their parents were going tonight. I thought about offering it to the father with the gazillion adorable red headed sons of all ages who sit behind us (he has two seats and has to buy extras to accomodate the other offspring). In the end, TBF said, “It’s your ticket, you know,” so I decided I’d hold onto it and maybe I could still go to the game. I could overlook that I have to be in the office at 7 and ready for two mega-presentations to clients tomorrow, and go to the game.
...Which is pretty much what I did once I realized that missing the game wouldn’t really give me any kind of advantage whatsoever.
My god, if I had missed this game!!
The Cardinals fans. TBF and I were in St. Louis two years ago to see Pearl Jam on the Vote For Change tour, and our hotel overlooked the old stadium. I woke up in the morning, looked out the window and saw the streets flooded with red dots. I have not seen that many opposing team fans represent at Shea (Yankees excluded) since the last time the Phillies were in town. Despite sharing the same anchor color, Cardinals fans are not nearly as loud and obnoxious as Phillies fans, in case you were wondering.
Pujols. Um, ‘nuff said.
The crowd. Shea wasn’t rocking so much as charged. TBF said there was a little playoff flavor in the air. I’ve got nothing to compare it to, but it definitely had the kind of electricity I’d imagine would be present in that situation.
5th inning. Delgado at the plate. The hot dog guy is blocking the view at the tunnel entrance and you can’t blame him but you want to see and just when you can’t crick your head to the right any more he backs up and puts down the hot dog bin, supervisors be damned, we’re all on the edge of our seats and—BOOOOM!
“El Grande Kaboom-o,” TBF grins. (It’s a Crane Pool Forum thing.)
Remember I was talking about electricity? This was the real thing, goosebumps up and down my arms, clapping so hard my fingers swelled up, waiting for Delgado to come up and take a curtain call. 400!!
To our left tonight are two elderly curmudgeons who bear more than a passing resemblance to the usual owner of that seat. TBF was there earlier than I, and had struck up a rapport with them. They start to remind me of Statler and Waldorf, those two guys on The Muppet Show who sat up in the balcony and kibitzed the entire show. And in case you’re wondering, I’d put TBF in that category too, sometimes. He loves sitting next to old-school baseball guys. I overhear him earnestly discussing how the Molina brothers were the first set of three brothers in baseball since the Alou brothers, and decide I am better off discussing the morons doing the wave in the upper deck with the people next to me. I clearly am overmatched.
Ronnie Belliard has the worst “I am a BAD MF” hat tilt in his official photo since Hanley Ramirez. It makes me crazy since it just looks STUPID, not bad. And yes, I know Mike Cameron does the same thing. The difference is that Mike Cameron *is* a bad mf so he can rock that look without looking like a moron.
The return of Mr. Looper. What’s the opposite of a standing ovation? Or rather, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen people deliberately stand up to BOO someone with quite the frequency and intensity that he got tonight.
And then - and then - the 9th inning.
One out.
Lo Duca gets to first.
I’m watching the clock, calculating that maybe I can get home at a reasonable hour, maybe it’s going to be okay, maybe we can tie this one up, even with extra innings I’ll be okay, TBF ran home after work to get the car so we aren’t stuck in G train hell. Beltran to the plate. He stands, touches the base with the bat. I can barely remember it now and I need to go set the DVR because dear deity in heaven, I need to see it again.
And then it launches, and people are on their feet, except I have learned enough to not do that automatically any more, but people are on their feet with feeling, and I can’t find the ball, and then I see it at the same moment I rise to my feet, and I stop looking because I want to see what’s going on in the dugout, except the dugout is empty and every one is standing around first base, angled up the third base line, I’ve seen this happen on tv with other teams at other games and love that our love and our intensity and our passion is paralleled at that moment through the players.
And Beltran crosses home plate and bounces - yes, Beltran BOUNCED - into the joyous waiting huddle which immediately engulfed him in raucous celebration. “Taking Care of Business” plays, everyone is high-fiving everyone they possibly can, no one is running out just yet, wanting to watch the celebration on the field, wanting the moment to last just a little longer. I am beaming. TBF is glowing. The scoreboard reads:
BUY ONE CARLOS, GET ONE FREE.
We head out onto the concourse which is swarming and excited and people cheering and clapping and shouting, cries of “M-V-P” and the inevitable “YANKEES SUCK”. Every third person you walk by is on their cell phone, saying, “DID YOU SEE THE GAME? WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DIDN’T SEE THE GAME?! IT WAS AWESOME!” and all over the New York Metropolitan area baseball fans are cursing the fact that the kids or the girlfriend or the husband or the mother or the boss prevented them from going to the game or watching it tonight, fists banged on tables or steering wheels or desks, as they run to ESPN or SNY to try to catch some of the magic that clearly happened tonight at Shea.
“Is this what the playoffs feel like?” I asked, as we walked back to the car.
“Times 1.5,” TBF said.
We got home in about 15 minutes, hitting every light. Clean out the car, open the door, open the mailbox. Bill. Magazine. Bill. And--
Two envelopes with Mets logos.
“POST-SEASON INVOICES!” we both cry at the same time, balancing shoes and bottles of water right there in the vestibule, as we rip them open and examine them with glee.
I was beginning to feel like the only person in New York City who hadn’t seen one of these. Amusing was me sprinting after this bus down Broadway, trying to get this shot.
We got to Shea at the ungodly hour of 9:30am and made our way to the Diamond Club entrance. Today was the day: Breakfast with Mr. Met!
I saw this activity announced at Workout Day, and was fairly tiresome about it for a while. Even though TBF insists that he wasn’t putting it off, it wasn’t until I posted on here about it (or rather, until he read about it on here, because he didn’t know about this blog for a long time) that the phone call was made and the reservation set. As he would insist to friends, “*She’s* having breakfast with Mr. Met. I’m going to check out the Mets Hall of Fame and the World Series Trophies.”
Riiiight.
When we arrived, the waitress walked over with a toy - an edible cookie featuring Mr. Met that you can color with edible markers - “I’ll just leave this here,” she said, once she realized there were no children present. It wasn’t until we arrived and were seated that we realized that this was an activity aimed at families and children.
Oops.
That aside, the breakfast buffet was outstanding. And you definitely get your money’s worth from Mr. Met. He arrives about half an hour into breakfast, sits at tables, visits each group individually, definitely accomodates as many photos as you like. For the kids, he signed postcards. Once he’s done that, people finish eating, and he comes back one more time, this time with one of the mets.com Fan Photo photographers. They hand out t-shirts (the crappy t-shirt launch ones), and you also get to have your name on the scoreboard! The staff treated everyone warmly and with good attention.
I don’t know what it cost, since it was a treat, but TBF repeatedly assured me it was worth the money (and not just because I had a grin from ear to ear the entire time).
After breakfast, we had time to check out the World Series trophies. I noticed this last night: it’s a lot bigger than I thought it would be. I’m not sure exactly what I was expecting, but it’s certainly more impressive in person.
Today was our first game on our recently-acquired Sunday plan (having missed the first one because we were in Seattle). Since the object of this purchase was entirely post-season rights, we went for the cheapest option, which was upper deck boxes. We’re a little closer to home plate than we are on my tickets, but it’s a fine view and the stadium was not full so we had room to spread out. We got today’s rain last night, with the result that it was pretty hot upstairs today, to the point where we had to head up to get some shade at about the 6th inning. The lemon ice guys were not coming around enough, that’s for damn sure.
Thoughts on the game:
I have always been an El Duque advocate (okay. ‘always’ being a relative term here.), but I enjoyed his performance today. I would be happier seeing him third in the lineup in the post season than Trachsel.
The 86 uniforms: I have always kinda dug these aesthetically, in a retro way, and was pleased to see blank ones in the Clubhouse Shop - only to find out that there’s no way it was going to be attractive to anyone who might have hips and curves.
Seeing the 2006 Mets in those uniforms was a little odd. It didn’t seem strange on TV last night, but in person, the piping on the side (that Keith went on and on and on about last night) just seemed stupid.
Much of the beauty and the detail of today’s game was lost to me in the heat. Things I saw and thought, “Oh!” have faded away. Either we bring too much water, or not enough.
Finally, the news about Mr. Glavine is, well, unfortunate.
Wait, let me try that again:
When I walked out of the shower this morning and was greeted with this news, my first response was along the lines of “OH $#@!. We’re toast. That’s it. Poor Tommy.”
“No, we’re not toast.”
“Who is our starting rotation in the post-season?”
“Pedro--”
“Right, Pedro.” (We had a discussion with some random guy Friday night who avowed that we should just activate Pedro after the All-Star break. I’m seeing a lot of sense in that thesis.)
“Assume he’s healthy.”
“Again, right, Pedro.”
“Pedro, El Duque, Trachsel, we go to bullpen by committee.”
“We’re toast.”
I am worried. TBF is stoically insisting that we’ll be fine.
CONTEST WINNER
Kota Nozawa was the first one in with a correct response today. Congratulations and thank you for calling.
(The answer to the actual trivia question in that bunch , which obviously came from TBF: Randy Niemann and Ed Hearn.)
Truth: I have this detached fascination with the 1986 Mets - but no more than that. As part of my learning last summer I read Amazin’, and I tried to slog through The Bad Guys Won (good stories, terrible writing). I wasn’t a baseball fan then - quite the opposite - and I have some vague memories of people standing outside bars during the playoffs, but that’s about it. I absolutely salute the history, and what it means to the team, and what it means to other fans, but - well, I care about the 2006 Mets. I’m sure you’ll all lambast me now for - well, whatever - but I don’t care. I think it would be worse for me to come in as some kind of pretender and feign deep abiding emotion for 1986. It’s not like I’m completely uninterested - I certainly wanted to watch the introductions tonight (probably more than TBF, even), and obviously the emotion on the field and in the stands was undeniable.
Speaking of which…
METS GRRL 1986 DVD GIVEAWAY CONTEST
For some reason, people seem to think that enough of you read this blog that they’re willing to give me merchandise to give away. So, courtesy A&E Home Video/MLB Productions and with the collaboration of TBF, I have one box set to give away to the first reader who emails metsgrrl at gmail dot com with the answers to the following three trivia questions:
1. Who sang the National Anthem at the first game of the 1986 World Series?
2. Name one celebrity - who isn’t Joe Piscopo or Ed Koch - that appears in the “Let’s Go Mets Go” video.
3. Who were the only player(s) on the World Series roster who did not play in any World Series games?
I will post the name and answers tomorrow evening post-game.
It was a truly bucolic evening out at Shea tonight. I got out of work in time to meet TBF and travel to Shea in a leisurely fashion, the weather was perfect, and the Mets played a solid game that resulted in a victory. Steve Trachsel was decidedly peppy (well, for Steve Trachsel, anyway). D.Wright’s slump seems to be winding down and Our Endy delivered yet again.
We were fading into that 8th inning, “we’re probably going to win at this point so we’re going to relax” glow, when Diamondvision trumpted and the PA announced:
“It’s the XM Sing-A-Long! Stand up and sing along with...”
Just when I’m thinking that this could be cool, the bomb is dropped:
“‘Sweet Caroline’ by Neil Diamond.”
WHAT THE FUCK?
I’m sorry, I know I usually censor myself here. But this situation calls for drastic language.
WHAT THE FUCK?
I assumed that everyone else would share my outrage. I mean, this is not our tradition, this is BOSTON’s tradition. And while I’ll buy into the whole “the enemy of my enemy is my friend” thing to some point, this has nothing to do with it.
TBF exploded similarly. Or rather, identically. “NOOOO! This is NOT our song. This is THEIR song!” One of the things that irks him the most is when people at Shea can’t leave other ballparks’ traditions at those ballparks, especially Yankee traditions.
To our horror, people stood up. People sang. Lots of people sang.
To our continued horror, it wasn’t bad enough that they JUST played the song, but they cut it off AT THE EXACT SAME POINTS THEY CUT IT OFF IN BOSTON FOR AUDIENCE PARTICIPATION. Bad enough already that they were playing it in the 8th inning, which is (as you know), EXACTLY WHEN THEY PLAY IT AT FENWAY!
WHAT THE FUCK?
Is the Mets front office so devoid of creativity and imagination they can’t think of anything else to do except blatantly ripoff another ballpark’s and another team’s tradition? Is this another case of “We’re only the Mets and have only been around since 1962 and our ground isn’t sacred and we have no history” abashedness? Because you know, at some point you might want to see a shrink about your inferiority complex and GET OVER IT.
This is exactly the kind of thing we get ridiculed for uptown. We should be making our own traditions, our own customs, our own cool moments at the game. This is one of the top things I L-O-V-E about baseball, the individual traditions of each park and each team. For the love of all that is good and holy, pick different songs. Pick different promotions. If you have no ideas, go hire someone who can help, the team can certainly afford it, and we, as fans, deserve the best, not some other team’s reruns.
My nomination for an alternate would be “Rockaway Beach” by the Ramones (who are from QUEENS!), but I will concede TBF’s point that people might not know the words. His suggestion, “Glory Days” by Bruce Springsteen, makes perfect sense - everyone knows it, it’s upbeat, it’s about baseball, and if you want another contextual tie in, Bruce played three nights at Shea. I’ll take it.
I would rather hear “Centerfield” than “Sweet Caroline,” and I hate that song so goddamn much I cannot even begin to describe it to you. I would sing along with gusto and enthusiasm.
Get rid of “Sweet Caroline.” We’re entitled to more imagination than that, and so are the Mets. We got rid of “Our Team Our Time” because of shared fan outrage; don’t let them foist this travesty upon us now, especially as we head into the post-season and all eyes will be on Flushing. It’s embarassing.
TBF is sitting in the other room composing his letter to the front office as we speak.
===
We’re not going tomorrow, but we are going on Sunday, and having Breakfast With Mr. Met. No, seriously, TBF finally stepped up.
*There was a punk rock compilation in the 80s called THIS IS BOSTON NOT NEW YORK.
The conversation started a few weeks ago, when I confessed to one of my best friends, V., that I had been writing this blog.
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. You are seeing the same people you always see.
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...”
“You write about the experience.”
“Right. It’s not that much different than me writing about music.”
“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, andthere’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 she could understand and approve of.
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. The only thing she wanted to know is when I was going to get my merchandise line together.
As we roll into 1986 weekend, I notice that Mookie Wilson is signing DVD’s down the street from me today (Thursday) (Borders at 100 Broadway in Manhattan at 1pm) and also out on Lon Guyland (Best Buy in Westbury at 6:30pm).
:::end gratuitous plug:::
However there is only so far having a Mets fan manager can get you.
More to write about Metsgrrl and 1986, but it is late, we lost AGAIN, and I ended up drinking with friends in the East Village in an establishment that only had the Yankees game on.
