Tuesday, August 18, 2009

DOES ANYBODY REMEMBER LAUGHTER? [8-18-09]

Mets v Braves
8-18-09

The vagaries of our two ticket plans converged this week, and we had tickets for Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday night. Three games in one week is a little much, even for us; three games in one week is a little much when the Mets play like crap; three games in one week is a little much when The Last Met Standing is no longer at third base. As you might guess, there is negative resale value for Mets tickets right now, and it’s not like we’re going to sit home when we have valid tickets to a baseball game.

So we went back out to Flushing for the second night in a row, teeth gritted.

Please forgive me if after last night’s debacle, I went out to Citi Field with zero expectations. I cut it very close, arriving on the Promenade as the anthem was being shredded by some small Asian child on the electric guitar.

I was determined to try to spend the game taking color shots to amuse myself, and to distract myself from the train wreck that would no doubt be playing out on the field below me.

The first inning was decidedly workmanlike, and, typically, for a glimmer of a second I caught myself thinking, You know, Oliver might just get it together. Yes, I admit to thinking that… until at least the second inning. You know, the second inning, where Matt Diaz hit that three-run HR? No, I thought to myself, this really isn’t happening. I’m not going to sit here and watch them get shellacked again, am I? Is that’s what’s really going to happen, again?

Add to that bad calls. It’s going to make my head explode to even think about them again. We thought for a second there that either Jerry or Francoeur were going to get themselves tossed.

The third inning did nothing to dissuade me of this line of thinking. I stretched out in our otherwise empty row. I considered a walk to the Shake Shack; it was hot, I wanted ice cream, but I could see from the dishes carried by various folks in the section that the consistency of the nearby Carvel machine was more like ice cream soup than a frozen treat.
That’s when I said to TBF, “Hey, you forgot my hat.”
I had left my Cyclones hat next to the front door this morning, and he had gone home after work to get the car and park it near our 7 stop, making the commute home more bearable on a weeknight.
“No, I didn’t,” he said, taking it out and handing it to me. I put it on my head.

And that’s when the magic started.
Angel Pagan.
Luis Castillo.
Daniel Murphy moving Sheffield over. Me, sitting up: “Wait, there’s only one out.”
Jeff Francoeur doubles.
Fernando Tatis manages to not ground into a double play.

(I’m sorry this photograph isn’t in focus because what you can’t see here is the huge smile on Francoeur’s face as he crossed the plate. I stopped hating him at that moment, or at least agreed to temporarily cease hostilities.)

And the game is, miraculously, tied, and there is still only one out.
I take my feet down and sit straight up.
“You know,” TBF said, “This all started when you put on that hat.”
Omir Santos.
Anderson Hernandez.
Oliver Perez comes up. Help your own cause, Oliver… I post to Twitter.
OH MY GOD! the ball sails over the infield and lands nicely in right field.
And there was much rejoicing.

And after all of that - all of that - there is, still, only one out!
“Now what do I do?” TBF asks, brandishing the scorecard. “Keep going, or start another column?” He thinks. “I’m going to start another column, because I think this inning is going to go on for a while.”

Angel Pagan - again.
“What do you think?” TBF asks. “Steal second? On McCann?”
“Four Eyes has no arm,” I murmur.
*whoosh*
Luis Castillo - nice to see you again.

With that, Derek Lowe bid us adieu, but not before the crowd bid him a fond, affectionate farewell.

Gary Sheffield.
Daniel Murphy. Our Daniel being the only guy to not have joined the party earlier… decides not to jump in the pool this time, either.

But did it matter? No. The crowd roared its approval by getting to its feet and cheering louder than I’ve heard in months. No sarcasm. No resignation. Genuine, unprompted, un-“Citi Vision”-scripted, world-class cheering.

And believe it or not, despite the naysayers, the people insisting that Oliver would give up those 8 runs as fast as we’d gotten them on the board, he didn’t. We even tacked on an insurance run late in the game.

With the thunder rumbling in the distance, Brian Stokes comes in to the rattle of heavy metal, and the first raindrops start to fall literally the second after the last out was caught. We were perfectly happy to wait for a lull in the deluge to run for the 7 train and come home in fine spirits for a change. We were drowned rats but we were drowned rats whose team had just won.

It doesn’t change the season; it doesn’t really change anything, except that for one night the Mets showed up and hit.

Our reward for this week is what will probably be our last Johan Santana start for the year on Thursday. Fingers crossed.

—
To understand the title of this post, this might help.
(...And since that’s still not helping, perhaps this will offer additional insight. Or have you seen “Almost Famous”?)

photoset from the 8-18-09 game