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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.
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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. :)
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.
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.
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.”
Have you ever seen Cliff’s kidney disease public service announcement? Well, I bet you’ve never seen the subtitles for it:
”
Hi. I’m Cliff Floyd from the New York Mets, and I’m cooler than you could ever hope to be.”
“One of my kidneys is only functioning at 50%.
Do you see me whining or dragging my ass across the outfield?
That’s right, no you don’t.”
“If kidney disease runs in your family, don’t be a wuss.
Go get it checked out.
NOW.
Tell them Floyd sent you.”
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!]
Game 2 put us in the front row of the upper deck boxes, section 22, just a little out from third base. These came from the post-season rights to TBF’s Sunday plan; my plan’s mezz tickets were traded to get us in last night. I am tired and cold and definitely coming down with something, and have brought every article of clothing possible: Mets ski cap. Army surplus fingerless gloves. Brand new scarf I ran into the Gap to buy earlier today. Polar fleece hoodie. Long sleeve shirt. My vintage ‘86 jacket. I didn’t have to break out the handwarmers until about the 5th inning. I am just warm enough, although I wish we’d had room for a blanket.
My voice is fading and my throat is sore, and with a five hour job interview lined up for 10:00am the next morning, I have to conserve my voice. So we can’t talk much to fill up the time before the game, because I have to talk quietly and it is hard to hear over the crowd murmur. We have time to kill, and we are the only one in the boxes right now, and none of our friends are here yet. So we’re kind of sitting there, quietly observing, when TBF gestures at the scoreboard.
“One of the things I always liked about the Shea scoreboard is that it had places for Left Field and Right Field umpires - but the only time those are ever used are in the playoffs.”
I look at the scoreboard. No, of course I’d never noticed before.
“And I always wondered, for years, when I would be at Shea and see those boxes used.”
I look at his newly-revised scorecard (of course he only uses his own, evolved over years and now managed in Publisher and PDF), and he has slots for RF and LF umpires, even though the rest of the year those fields sit unused. And once again I am envious, and sad, because of all the years I missed, how it just can’t feel the same for me to sit here right now as it does for him, and I’ll never know what that’s like.
Before the game, they were showing some sponsored highlights, including one about my favorite between-inning feature from this past year: Learning Spanish With Professor Reyes. I would always grab the binoculars as soon as it started to watch the dugout, where the Spanish-speaking players would always congregate down near the end of the dugout and watch Diamondvision intently, laughing and poking fun at Jose. Pedro always cracked up when this was on especially.
I can peer through the upper level railing without having to get up and down, and this is good, because I need to conserve my energy. “Don’t let me yell,” I admonish TBF. “Not even if we’re winning? Not even if Cliff hits a grand slam?”
“Well, a little bit, then.”
I love this side of the ballpark because I can see into the dugout, and it still fascinates me: Endy and Cliff on one end of the bench, playing air percussion (or maybe it’s real percussion, it’s not like I can hear them from up here). Wright going down the bench to handshake and high five everyone, then hanging off of the roof of the dugout channelling nervous energy. And then, who congregates around the dugout steps as the clock draws closer to gametime; it’s about who you would expect, Reyes itching at the bit to be up the stairs and out onto the field.
The game: For some reason I had no doubt that we would win. This was probably because I didn’t have the energy to stress over not winning.
Lo Duca’s hit bouncing above the fence.
“Was that a ground-rule double?” I ask TBF, carefully.
“Why, yes, it was,” he confirms, marking his scorecard with a big smile on his face.
Yep, I finally get it.
The mezzanine below us is loud and raucous. Every time Cliff is at bat:
“Cliff….” “FLOYD”
“Cliff….” “FLOYD”
I try to get our section to join in but do not have the voice to propell it further.
A gentleman behind us is calling out to Mr. Pedro Feliciano in a sing-song manner. This then turns into a song we begin to call “The Ballad of Pedro Feliciano”.
“ooooh Pedro…Feliciano….”
Louder now.
“Feliciano…hey Peeedrooooo….”
I guess you had to be there, but it was funny at the time.
The bus moving into the hitter’s eye that you have all heard about by now was greeted by a hearty chant of “MOVE THE BUS” from all levels.
Heilman comes on and this time, there is “London Calling.” “Joe would have been a Mets fan,” I decide. This goes along with realizations made recently that Townshend would have been a Yankees fan, apropos of nothing except random contemplation. No, seriously, though, Strummer would so have been a Mets fan. Joe would have been there through the bad seasons and the good seasons and would have rooted just as hard every year. C’mon, you can see it, can’t you? (If you even care.)
I shot a few photos of the on-field celebration at the end, but not too many; I wanted to go home. Unfortunately, so did everyone on our level, and although we are upper level veterans, never has it taken this long to get downstairs, and then up to the 7 train. The people on the train were happy and rowdy, trying to get the “Jose” chant going, trying to get a “Tom-MY Gla-VINE” chant going, and then when that failed, a “Close the door” chant, which finally gathered some enthusiasm.
I am happy, but exhausted and cold, and just want to go home.
The photo gallery from tonight is here.
Sick and tired and sick and drinking apple juice and crammed into a corner of my couch, getting text messages from friends who don’t care about sports, much less live in New York and care about the Mets, rooting for us. The cat trying to climb into our laps, but I am curled up and TBF is keeping score and he is not happy.
But we won.
WE WON!
Fingers crossed for Cliff.
Yes, I still owe you a game 2 post and photos. But, the sick thing.
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Freezing, exhausted, fighting a cold, I’m home but I have a five hour job interview tomorrow morning, which has to take some precedence, so no update tonight.
The good news is I have the rest of the day off afterwards and I’ll be home to update and upload tonight’s photos.
Tonight we were front row of the upper deck boxes, a little past third base - what we gained from TBF’s Sunday plan. My god it was COLD, but worth every second.
More tomorrow I promise.
The title quote comes from Mr. Cornelius Clifford Floyd, #30, one of tonight’s heroes.
Then again, where wasn’t there a hero tonight? Okay, so Valentin had one of his worst plays all season. And he can’t lay down a bunt to save his life.
But everywhere I looked, someone was doing something exceptional. Someone was rising to not just meet the challenge, but kick the living s**t out of the challenge in a dark alley.
On the 7 train at 2:45. At Shea by 3:15. Strangely, I am not hungry, at all. My heart was pounding as I left work and walked to the train, but by the time we reach Willets Point I am calmer. Having TBF around helps, but of course we are both so nervous we are bickering pointlessly once we get off the train and into the cattle chute that is the 7 train exit.
Our seats - arranged in a trade, game 2 extras for game 1 - are on the first base line, level with the visitor’s bullpen. We never sit on this side of the stadium. Mostly we prefer the third base side so we can see into the dugout, but these tickets were as close to an even trade as we could get. A little nervewracking - just a touch - until that first ticket scanned.
No stops. No detours. No snacks. No shopping. Seats. Scorecards. Notebooks. Cameras. Deep breathing.
Our section had great people in it. The hearty “SUCKS!” after each Dodger name was announced, a novelty for us. Aside from some seat-kicking children behind us (whose parents did intervene after two dirty looks) it was a great crowd of people to watch the game with. A guy in front of us started yelling, “He’s a bum!” every time a Dodger was at bat. This produced amazing results. By the end of the game, entire rows in our section were chanting: “Bum! Bum! Bum!” “It’s family-friendly, *and* it’s historical!” someone observed.
I was strangely calm once the game started; I think it helped the juggling of the camera with the new lens, and the notebook, and the new vantage point. I got so used to our third-base view, it was easy for me to watch baseball that way, I was accustomed to the rhythm. Now it is playoffs and standing up and sitting down and standing up again, and high fives and clapping so hard my hands hurt, and yelling so loudly my voice is raw.
TBF spent the beginning of the game in that quiet space which disguises gnawing anxiety. He said to me at one point, “It’s like Pittsburgh again, you thought they were going to lose from the first out,” but the truth is I didn’t. It was eerily calm inside after first pitch. He, on the other hand, did not breathe until that Delgado home run, which I lost track of once it went over the fence - 470 feet? did it go out into the parking lot as a souvenir for the firefighters called in to deal with a burning car?
So much to remember. That first at-bat. Heaping hope after hope upon John Maine. That leaping catch by Reyes. And of course, THAT play, which I don’t even have to talk about. I saw Green pick it up, I saw him throw it, I never saw Valentin touch it, next thing I know it’s careening into home plate and there’s Lo Duca and WTF?
and - CLIFF!!! Cliff hitting that ball. Cliff hitting his fist to his heart and then to the crowd as he crossed home. And, later: Cliff on the smooch cam :)
Later, pitching around Cliff to get to Shawn Green.
Me: “That’s disrespectful to the Jews!”
Guy behind me looks up.
“Um, I can say that.”
“No, it’s okay, so can I.”
Willie taking out Maine just when everyone would have expected him to NOT take out Maine. However, it would have probably been good if he had taken out Mota when we expected him to take out Mota.
But did it matter, in the end? It didn’t matter, because we FOUGHT and we won. Delgado is going to be a POWERHOUSE. Reyes is going to settle down. Wright is going to find his groove. I can’t wait for Endy to find his, too.
But what was it like? I hear you ask. What was it like? Your first post-season game ever, in your first real baseball year ever.
The truth is that it was the usual blur of action and emotion and highs and lows, less of a rollercoaster than my first games were. I will confess that I somehow TOTALLY missed that Brad Penny was out there for a little while (although I pretended to be all-knowing when TBF pointed it out later. Hi, honey). I was jealous of Jessica’s nails - I could not get mine done in half blue half orange as I planned because I have client meetings this week - as it was I ruined the manicure I had.
I like the ritual but the ritual of these games isn’t familiar enough to me yet. (And I realize that most of you could spit back: Not for us EITHER, ya know.) I will not like having to sit through “God Bless America” at every damn game (before you flame me, it’s the forced faux patriotism I don’t like, and you know I’m right). I hope I am calmer enough tomorrow that it can sink in more - plus we can get there earlier.
This sucks. I hate it. It comes nowhere near to describing what it was really like. Maybe I will get this right tomorrow. But it is jarring and not lyrical or interesting.
Some random comments:
Don’t make Heilman go out there again without “London Calling” especially since the reason you omitted “London Calling” was because you were showing some puff piece on the new stadium.
I don’t like the new Budweiser sign. The design is too plain and monolithic and it overshadows the field.
The Lucas Prata song is just not good. End. Any song spliced over Mets highlights is automatically better, but that doesn’t change the fact that the song is insipid. You can display the words to the chorus on Diamondvision in the futile hope that we’ll sing along all you want. We aren’t going to sing it for the same reason we didn’t sing along to “Our Team, Our Time”: it’s terrible. The melody is bland and unispiring and it’s compressed within an inch of its life. How about some kind of song that’s relevant to the team and the fans? The Spanish Mets song that Reyes comes out to was a great song. THAT would be relevant, and musically it’s livelier and more inspiring.
I finally figured out why I have not been thrilled with the use of “Start Me Up” and “Eminence Front,” even though those are two of my all-time favorite bands, ever: the songs do not reflect the team. When David Wright was on the first Post-Season Live on Monday (I think it was here), someone asked him about “Meet The Mets” and if it was the team’s theme song. His answer was that it wasn’t the team’s theme song, it was the organization’s theme song.
The Who and the Stones are old white guys - old BRITISH white guys to boot - and I doubt anyone in the clubhouse, besides maybe Glavine and Heilman - listens to the Who or the Stones. Jose Reyes is not listening to Quadrophenia on his days off. David Wright is not listing Goat’s Head Soup as a Desert Island Disc. No one dances in the dugout before the game to either “Eminence Front” or “Start Me Up.” I don’t even care about hearing them; they’re not inspiring, and they’re certainly overused. Maybe they think those songs appeal to the average demographic of a ticketholder, but I’d challenge that assumption too.
The photo gallery is here, but here are some highlights:
