Friday, May 29, 2009

“THIS ONE GOES TO 11.” [5-29-09]

There was a moment during tonight’s game where I despaired over what on earth I was going to write when it was all done. There were no witty anecdotes, no in-game color from the crowd, and aside from an ode to Michael Pelfrey regarding yet another kickass outing, what was I going to say about a 1-1 game against the Marlins where, thus far, Omir Santos had hit the solo HR that got us on the board? Did I imagine that I would at some point later in the evening be wondering how the new world-class scoreboard was going to work with extra innings?

This was the kind of game that we should win, but yet, being the 2009 Mets, we could just as easily - even more so - lose, and lose in spectacular fashion. It is hard to get that expectation out of your head lately. I read on the way to the game that Dan Uggla, for example, was 1 HR away from 100. Wouldn’t you expect him to have teed off against someone at some point tonight - not because he’s any good right now, but because that is the kind of luck these Mets keep having?

I hate the Florida Marlins. When I say “I hate the Florida Marlins” I need you to understand that I hate them with Phillies-hatred intensity. I will never forgive them for their “WE’RE IN LAST PLACE!” victory dance on the mound at Shea Stadium on 9/28, will never ever forget the sight of those arrogant bastards running onto OUR field in their stocking feet to steal dirt and grass while thousands of storm troopers lined the field and the REPORT YOUR FELLOW FAN phone number kept flashing on the old scoreboard. Seriously, fuck them. A lower class outfit I do not think exists, and that is saying a lot these days.

There. It feels good to get that off my chest.

It is tough to relax at games these days, even when Johan pitches, even when Pelfrey pitches a gem, even when Carlos Beltran is back and navigating the outfield in the way that only Carlos Beltran can. Jeremy Reed and Angel Pagan did a fine job, but there is nothing like the warm and fuzzy feeling you get as a Mets fan when you see a ball hit out there and know with absolute certainty it is going to be caught because #15 is back on the job.

Omir Santos, miraculously, hits another home run.  You have to understand that I don’t feel that we can expect anything miraculous from this man ever again, and that we’re jinxing him to even consider the thought.

Perhaps we need to keep thinking.

There were some enthusiastic fellows a few rows in front of us who were wearing chef’s hats. I have taken back all the bad thoughts I have said about Gary Sheffield, he has been a fine asset, he has played the outfield ably, he has hit the motherfucking ball, he has drawn a walk from Jonathan Papelbon. However, their enthusiasm was a little misplaced when they all started chanting “REPLAY! REPLAY!” when that obviously foul ball went obviously foul. No seriously, people, even with the lights, that ball went nowhere near fair. And one of these days - especially when our dear friend Angel Hernandez was on duty - a replay call is not going to go our way.  People are still getting used to the trajectories and the angles, a ball that has us sitting back in our seats and filing our nails has people to the left or right of us OOOHing and AAHHHHing and getting up only to sit back down very quickly and hope no one noticed their gaffe.

Ah, Angel Hernandez. We get odd looks when the umpiring crew is announced for the night and either TBF or I have choice words to say about any of the umpires. Carlos Beltran was clearly not happy from all the way up in 514, and I was not happy that it took Razor and Jerry so long to get out there. I am screaming “JERRY! GET OUT THERE!” and the group of Harvard kids in front of us look at me strangely. These kids had managed to sneak in multiple cans of cheap-ass beer, a feat which I admired as much as it made me grit my teeth after the vodka water bottle incident from earlier this week.

Jose Reyes is bored. Jose Reyes is hanging out in the dugout, going back and forth, tossing balls back and forth to kids inbetween innings. I want to be down there as much as I want to be under 12 and doing the Dynamets Dash on Sunday (“No, honey, it’s for children under 12, not people who act like they’re 12,” TBF keeps telling me. I’m not sure they wouldn’t make an exception in my case.)

They loaded the bases. David Wright comes to bat.
David Wright whiffs.
The crowd boos.
You know, in Boston, think what you want of the fans, but no one is booing David Ortiz. They bring signs that say “I SUPPORT BIG PAPI”. I know we are in New York, but this is David Freaking Wright, people.

They start the wave. They boo the fact that people will not continue the wave, because they are watching a baseball game. I boo them.

As Frankie runs on the field, people start leaving. While normally I understand this, it was only 9:18pm.

JJ comes out, and we go to extra innings. Bonus baseball, as TBF calls it.
“Rock and Roll All Night” comes out of the PA, weakly. It killed me at Fenway last weekend, a ballpark exponentially older than Citi Field has beautiful, loud, crystal clear sound EVERYWHERE. In the upper deck, a song supposed to get us pumped up sounds like it’s coming out of an AM radio. “You know, I think these things go to 11,” I say to TBF, in my best Spinal Tap imitation. There was some eye rolling, but he, too, agrees that the sound is weak.

We go to 10.

And then we go to 11.

The Sheff/Chef guys are on their feet. We are all on our feet, because that is what you are supposed to do. I murmur something about being perfectly fine about Gary Sheffield getting a walk here.
Sheffield steals. Ronnie Paulino overthrows. Sheffield goes to third.
They bean Tatis.
“Someone better pay for that tomorrow,” TBF says.
And then, here we are again, Omir Santos. “Do it again,” someone in the crowd says. And I think about the law of averages, and as much as I like Santos, I mean, come on.
But then there was the ball, cutting up the infield between third and second and Sheff comes home and Santos is being mobbed at first. “Taking Care of Business” comes on and oh my god, WE WON! We actually won it!

I do not know what it will take for me to believe again for real, but after tonight, there’s more there than there has been for a while.

—

Photo set from tonight’s game
What about “Sweet Caroline” and “Meet The Mets” tonight? I’m glad you asked.