Friday, September 14, 2007

IF YOU DIDN’T LAUGH, YOU’D CRY. [09-14-07]

Coop via text: “Score, please”
MG: “Fhdjdjfyryreggd.”
Coop: “Do I want to know?”
MG: “F BRETT MYERS . 2-3 PHUCKING PHILLIES”
Coop: “Anyone but him”
MG: “Word”
Coop: “What happened”
MG: “Books never written: ‘In Game Strategy’ by Willie Randolph. ‘How To Use The Suicide Squeeze When Gomez and Reyes Are At The Corners.’ etc.”
Coop: “Story of our lives.”
MG: ”Yeees.”

Really, you know, it shouldn’t have ended that way. Starting the game with a home run by D. Wright in the first inning is a great way to inspire confidence and tell the Phillies to take an, um, hike. (What’s that you say? That you saw me in Section 12 giving gestures to Chase Utley that shouldn’t be repeated in a family setting? I don’t know what you’re talking about.) There was that great save by Moishe out in Endy-land. Or Luis Castillo stealing two bases in a gesture that had to have more than a little bit of hearty PHUCK U to Grampa Jamie. Even Lo Duca’s ejection (which was completely uncalled for) wouldn’t have killed us. Or a strike zone so large for Jamie Moyer my response was to yell, “HEY BLUE, IS THAT A CHEESE STEAK STICKING OUT OF YOUR BACK POCKET?”

We could have gotten through all of that. The problem was that David’s run sat alone on the scoreboard for far too long, which is the element that continues to be the Mets’ Achilles heel, and is the thing that WILL ABSOLUTELY MURDER US IN OCTOBER.

It will not be the pitching. It will not be Moises Alou in left field. It will not be Carlos Delgado at first base. It will be squandered opportunity after squandered opportunity, players swinging for the fences when a walk is as good as a hit, players bunting to get a hit instead of a sacrifice, players not taking the bat off their shoulder, and so many ducks left on the pond it will start to feel like one of those carnival games where you pick up a plastic duck-shaped object to see what prize you’ve won.

In this case, the prize was the Phillies beating us at home when they shouldn’t have. Period. End.

And then we got home, and I turned on the TV to see if the Red Sox game was still on, and came in just as Papelbon was up. “Good,” I say, “This will make me feel better.”

I guess it was supposed to be that kind of night.

[Flickr feed, such as it is. Reyes being held back by Rickey. Lo Duca being held back by Willie. Dogs on the warning track.]