Friday, August 13, 2010

LOOK, MA, NO BULLPEN. [8-13-10]

Mets v Phillies
8-13-10

Tonight, I had expected the absolute worst. I rode out to Flushing in a subway car full of idiotic Phillies fans who refused to hang on and kept sliding into other passengers. I had security tell me that the water bottles I have purchased and brought to every single game this year were suddenly “too big”. I did not want to be at the game but it was Friday and I had a ticket so I was going. Worst case scenario, I thought, if it became too unbearable, if the suckitude was too great, if section 514 was teeming full of Phillies fans, I could simply go home.

Remarkably, it was not that kind of night after all.

I started to feel better about the game when Jose made that first great defensive play. We’ve all been on his case for him being seemingly inattentive lately, missing plays that the Jose Reyes of old could have easily gotten. Tonight he got them all. Idly I considered the thought that maybe they were tired of being a laughing stock and didn’t want to let Dickey down and knew there was no margin for error.

That was all well and good, except for the fact that we got no hits.
But the Phillies weren’t getting any either.

Dickey was masterful, striking them out, getting them to hit into pop ups and line drives straight to 3rd or 1st or shortstop (or “campocorto,” since it was Fiesta Latina night, and the Mets were announced en espanol during the game. I will learn Spanish some day). The guys behind us (not the usual dudes) would get super-excited and yell something like ‘THAT’S ALL UP IN HERE’ or something similar (I am sorry, they were barely intelligible). It was as though each at bat was a battle that we were winning. I’ve been at games like that, but this was not that game. It was quieter, more elegant than that.

On the quieter front, while there were a lot of Phillies fans there, the place wasn’t overloaded, and there were no fights, no altercations, not even any idiots standing up and preening. (Not that there was anything to preen at, but that generally doesn’t stop them.) The place was overloaded with security (I have never seen a security guard in the tunnels of the Promenade) and police officers. I assumed that it was the Phillies until TBF reminded me of the armed camp that Shea became during every Fiesta Latina night, back when they used to have the free concerts after the game. (It still bothers me as much as it did then.)  It was nice to be able to be at my home ballpark and not be running interference the entire time.

Nothing was going on anywhere - except the goddamn wave, which started in the second inning. I can understand that while a pitcher’s duel is thrilling to me, it probably bores the pants off the majority of attendees who are at a baseball game to drink beer and talk to their friends (with permission from Rob Dibble, of course) but if you’re so bored at the game that you start doing the wave in the second inning, maybe you should choose another type of entertainment for your weekend. (To their credit tonight, it did not get very far, and eventually stopped - except to restart again at the bottom of the 7th with 2 outs and a full count at the plate.)

I feared more for the well-being of the umpiring crew after they finally emerged from the tunnel with the call. If you’ve ever been there for one of those, it’s hysterical to me that the fans congregate along the barrier on either side of the tunnel, as though a first glimpse of the crew will reveal their decision. Of course, when they came onto the field and no one was making the home run sign above their head, we knew we were in trouble. When the ball was hit, we did not think it was a HR. Of course, we also couldn’t see the fan interfering* the way the rest of you could. We didn’t think it was a home run, so we weren’t surprised when the call didn’t go our way - but we were surprised we got the triple.

I do not understand why there is no policy of ejection for fan interference. All they have to do is do it a few times and this bullshit will stop. I do not understand how you cannot grasp that you should not reach onto the field of play and touch a baseball. Even when I knew nothing about baseball, nothing could have compelled me to do something like this. Here is my best example: in 2002, I went to Las Vegas to see Bruce Springsteen, and through random luck, ended up right on the edge of the stage - down at the very end, but still, elbows on the stage. Well, to my utter shock, at the end of the show, when Bruce played “Thunder Road,” he came walking down the edge of the stage and stopped right in front of me. Fans are mobbing him, but I am standing there staring because what am I going to do, grab something? He finally made eye contact and yelled, ‘C’mon!’ and smiled encouragingly, and only then did I reach up and start hitting the guitar strings. I was not going to interfere with the field of play. If I can figure this out, so can these rocket scientists.*

*I’m sure Rob Dibble doesn’t wonder why they’re at the game.

Other things we weren’t surprised at: that Jeff Francoeur remains completely useless. I do believe I yelled something to that effect, loudly.

0 0 0 0 went the scoreboard. Cole Hamels got hit by a ball. Brian Schneider got booed every time he came to bat. 0 again.

Dickey came back out to much applause, the applause growing with each inning, even though I was sure that very few people were actually paying attention. But with the crack of the ball off of Cole Hamels’ bat, there was a communal groan. The one neighbor we are on cordial speaking terms with (he also keeps score, so no wonder) finally sat back in his seat and exhaled, shaking his head. Not tonight, we murmured. Not tonight.

But another 0 at the end of that inning.

“JOSE, TRY HITTING THE BALL ON THE GROUND,” TBF yelled at the start of the 6th.

It is great how we have these conversations with the players from our perch up at the top of Mount Shea. Let me relate the conversation of the dudes behind us, to their friends sitting out next to the Apple. “Go to home plate… okay now go straight up. No, higher than that - no, above the SNY sign - no, keep going up…”
TBF began to drum his fingers on his scorecard in frustration.
“No, up more. No, not the guy standing up. Look at the top. Yes, the fence - you see the fence? Okay, we are three rows down from the fence. And we’re waving.”
More drumming of fingers.
“There, you see us! Yeah, we see you! Man, how did you hook yourself up with those sweet seats!”

Of course, Jose promptly hit a fly out to center field. Even Angel couldn’t get it all done all by himself tonight. Finally, finally, David managed to hit a double, and Beltran got the ball in the air long enough to get David home.
OH THANK THE FLYING SPAGHETTI MONSTER FINALLY
Mike Hessman manages a walk… only to be left stranded by none other than JEFF FRANCOEUR.

(I think I’m going to start saying his name the way that Fred Armisen says “NEW JERSSSEYYY” when he plays Govenor Patterson. JEFF FRANCOEURRRRRRRR At least it will make me laugh instead of screaming in frustration.)

0

More applause for Dickey. At this point the “R-A-DIC-KEY CLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAP” chants were echoing through the Promenade. I don’t know if they made it downstairs; I don’t know what they were doing down there. Up in the people’s seats, people were on their feet and cheering for Dickey. We needed something to cheer for. We needed something to be proud of, this week of all weeks.  The little kids who sit next to me were just happy to hell “DICKEY” with impunity, too.

R-A-DIC-KEY CLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAP

Dickey did not approach his at bats with frustration or with ennui. R.A. Dickey came up swinging. There was no bunting for this pitcher.

R-A-DIC-KEY CLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAP

He came back out for the 8th. I saw a conversation between him and one of the coaching staff, I could not make out who. But it was decisive and the result was Dickey walking out of the dugout with a bat in his hand. He was not coming out of this game.  I was a little worried when Greg Dobbs was put into the Phillies lineup, until TBF pointed at Mr. Dobbs’ statistics laid out on Citi Vision. “He’s not having a good year.”

0

He came back out for the 9th. We waited until the first out, and then we were on our feet upstairs, “R-A-DIC-KEY CLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAP” being chanted over and over and over again. I was hoping he could hear us. I was hoping that he knew we were behind him. I was hoping that he realized that the callous, vicious, demanding, bitter New York Mets fans were believing again tonight because of what he was doing on the hill.

R-A-DIC-KEY CLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAP

And then, that third out, Placido Polanco flying out to right field, and the minute the ball is in Francoeur’s glove the ballpark explodes, 40-thousand-something people exhaling in unison. We won. Our pitcher went 9. We beat the Phillies… and it was only a little after 9pm.

It wasn’t late, so people weren’t rushing out of the ballpark, but we grabbed our stuff and threaded our way down to the front of the Promenade boxes, hoping that security wasn’t going to try to enforce us not being there for the post-game interview. I love this so much, it is the best thing the Mets have ever done, I will wreak holy havoc if they ever stop it for some reason.  R.A. walked out with Kevin, spoke simply and plainly, and then Angel Pagan’s head popped out of the staircase. He was a little off center, but the intent was still there.  We cheered, we cheered some more, R.A. waved one more time and headed into the dugout.

As we headed down the stairs, the stairwells were already ringing:

R-A-DIC-KEY CLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAP
R-A-DIC-KEY CLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAP
R-A-DIC-KEY CLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAP

Some jerk tried to start a “Yankees suck” chant (which I always feel is stupid unless we have just beaten them at home) but was shouted down:

R-A-DIC-KEY CLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAP
R-A-DIC-KEY CLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAP
R-A-DIC-KEY CLAPCLAPCLAPCLAPCLAP

As we headed across the plaza to the 7 train, I turned to TBF and said, “I have it. No more closers. All the pitchers have to go 9 innings, and then we’ll win.”
“No bullpen at all,” he said.
“No relievers.”
“No set-up guys.”
“No ‘lefty specialists.’”
“‘Look ma, no bullpen.’”
“I’m stealing that.”

 

 

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