Sunday, September 10, 2006

hell, i still love you, new york

I have suffered through freezing cold, rain, wind, drunk morons two rows behind her who offered vividly and gratutiously obscene suggestions as to what couples featured on the Kiss Cam should be doing, Yankees fans in the section on a random Tuesday night taunting us between every at-bat, long subway rides, countless hauls through the long transfer from the 7 to the G, endless waits at Court Square for the aforementioned G, multiple 7 inning stretches, 15 innings, 16 innings, Merengue night security pat downs, and 11 games by herself (including one trip to Philly) before TBF moved back to NYC.  I have endured through multiple - at least half a dozen - Steve Trachsel starts this year.

Never. Not once. Did I leave the game early. Never did I consider leaving the game early, even as I put on another scarf or hat or pair of gloves or warm socks, or eyed the Armitron digital clock out in right field as the hours ticked away.

Today was the first day I broke that rule.

It didn’t help that I worked another 70 hour week, including Friday night post-game for a few hours and most of Saturday. It didn’t help that there had been two and a half weeks of this punishing pace. And, it didn’t help that TBF and I had a rock-and-roll related obligation last night that got us home at 4:50am, after mass consuption of different types of alcohol and assorted pre-, during, and post-show reveling.  We were so hungover this morning we called car service to get to Shea in time, since the MG mobile is in the shop, and we could not get ourselves out of the house until about noon.

The simple fact is this: none of this would have mattered if the Mets had kicked ass. I would have sat there with a blistering headache for six hours if the game had been decent.

Wait, check that.

None of this would have mattered IF THE GAME DIDN’T SUCK SO COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY THERE ARE NO WORDS TO DESCRIBE IT. Nevermind that the outfield was that nail-biting combination of Tucker and Milledge (note to #44: watch ENDY hustle and maybe you’ll learning something. Maybe you should be carrying HIS bags, rookie). Today was the day that not only did Trachsel suck in every possible way, throwing 57 pitches by the third inning, but it was also a day that the Mets did not bring the much-vaunted league record breaking run support behind him. Today was the day that the whole “The Mets do great when Trachsel pitches, what are you talking about” theory gets chucked off of the top deck. Seriously, bite me.

And I am still cranky that it was David Wright bobblehead day.  The freaking bobblehead box says “DANGEROUS - NOT A TOY - DO NOT GIVE TO CHILDREN UNDER 3” and “NOT RECOMMENDED FOR CHILDREN UNDER 8” but yet they were given out only to children under 12. I wanted to stand just inside the entrance with a $20 bill and wave it at kids, but the number thrown at me by their parents was $100.

Which is, I’m sure, the price some of those same parents are listing the bobblehead for on eBay right now.

We left at the end of the 7th inning and right now I do not feel bad about it at all. When I left I looked about as miserable as Mr. Carlos Beltran did, stuck on the bench in the dugout.

This being the closest home game to 9/11, the team sported baseball hats supporting the various emergency services, and pre-game music featured “The Rising” and “New York, New York” by Ryan Adams, both of which MG appreciated.

The whole reason TBF and I planned our roadtrip to Pittsburgh next weekend was because he wasn’t going with his best friend because the Mets were going to clinch well before then. Now I’m not even sure that they’ll clinch next weekend, at this rate.

feh.