I realize that this is not exactly an unique viewpoint amongst Mets fans, but you have to understand that, at this juncture in my fandom, most of my hatred is learned or inherited: Roger Clemens. Chipper Jones. I wasn’t there when these individuals performed their infractions upon our team, so I need to learn to hate them. (I learn fast.)
But A-rod is another story, and much probably becomes obvious when I point out that I lived in Seattle for 9 years. It isn’t even what he did while he was a Mariner, because, apparently, being a Mariner turns one into an affable, friendly fellow. It must be the Moose, or something.
(Case in point: I used to LIKE Randy Johnson when he was on the Mariners. No, really. I even had a very amusing story I used to tell about him, which I no longer tell because he’s definitely not the same guy.)
No, A-rod I hate for a very different reason which has to do with his behavior AFTER he left the Mariners, and I have bored TBF with this story so often that I hesitate to repeat it here. He did something incredibly reprehensible towards the Puget Sound area when he first returned to Seattle to play with Texas at Safeco, and even though at the time I didn’t have a particular affinity towards baseball, I just thought it was tacky and in bad taste. In any other city, he would have been CRUCIFIED. But Seattle is the city in which you cannot boo (you are asked to stop because it’s not sportsmanlike) and they refuse to allow YANKEES SUCK shirts into the ballpark (they will ask you to change your shirt or turn it inside-out). Said refusal will make the evening news, interspersed with talking heads discussing how disgraceful those who wear the shirts are. Milquetoast.
Last night we took a gander at the Yankees-Mariners matchup (TBF: “We could watch a movie, or the Mariners...” Me: “Ichiro!") and A-rod’s recent tantrum. I have to say, again, maybe stating the obvious, but why does anyone feel sorry for him? I feel about as sorry for A-rod as I do for all the baristas, bartenders, waiters and pizza delivery guys in our neighborhood. Our neighborhood is immediately adjacent to Williamsburg, so 90% of our service employees are kids from Wisconsin or Idaho or Arizona or Texas who moved to NYC to make it big as an artist of some sort, and guess what? It’s TOUGH, but YOU CHOSE TO COME HERE. No one held a gun to your head and forced you to move to New York City. If you can’t take it, get out of Dodge - but if you’re going to stay here, grow a spine, fast, or we will chew you up and spit you out again - and then you’ll learn or you’ll crawl back home to Mom and Dad.
On a final note, how on earth do Yankees fans expect any sympathy for the players they have on their DL and offer it up as some kind of excuse? No, really. Um, even to a baseball moron like me, a lineup that has Derek Jeter and Alex Rodriguez and Johnny Damon and Randy Johnson and Mariano Rivera - I’m sorry, we’re supposed to feel SORRY for you? Jeez louise. It’s pathetic.
(I know, and in further news, Generalissimo Francisco Franco is still dead. But all this specific Yankees outrage is new and novel to me.)
It is appealing, in a childlike, black-and-white way, to know who to hate and who to cheer in at least one segment of your life. Because the shades of grey that shadow the rest of it can be exhausting to navigate.
I worked until after 9pm tonight and in order for it not to be until after midnight, I didn’t listen to the game or ask for repeated updates. But my one comment as TBF was driving me home, and we heard Beltran’s Grand Slam, was: “Is this BOGO month?” You know, buy-one-get-one-free, and I don’t mean Carloses. (Carlosi?)
“Whether or not this fits into Wright’s belief system, can you imagine the hell he’s going to get from Cliff Floyd? Somebody’s going to bring in snakes.”
Just when you think you might as well fall asleep on the couch, we’re toasted. Just when El Duque - EL DUQUE lets the Chicago heat and humidity toast him. Just when you think…
The first time Eddie Vedder sang “Take Me Out To The Ballgame” at Wrigley Field (July 4, 1998, for you completists), someone I knew insisted that Ed didn’t sing “peanuts and crackerjack,” that he sang “[something deleted because this is a family site] and crack”. After listening to the recording of that performance repeatedly, I had to come to the same conclusion, so I sing “peanuts and crack” during every 7th inning stretch I’m at—both in homage and because it drives TBF, that baseball purist, nuts. (For the record, I did hear Vedder’s performance from earlier this year and I swear he does the same thing again.)
So I think of this every time I hear about the Cubs, and of course it came up over the past few days with our current residency in the Windy City. Friday I was at work, and despite having a manager who is a fanatic and who IM’s me the score during day games, all I got to find out was that there was a rain delay, Floyd got HBP again, and then we won after the rain delay. When my manager IM’d me at the end of the game, telling me that we’d won, I replied, “Big surprise. You, me and 7 other people from this office could beat the Cubs.”
So that was kind of my attitude about the series: It’s the CUBS. Even *I* know that they SUCK. I didn’t really need to worry about paying that much attention to this series and I could catch up on all the usual weekend stuff I hadn’t been able to because baseball had been taking up much of our time. So, TBF and I went off to, well, buy a COUCH yesterday. Don’t get the idea that we are any kind of settled boring suburban couple whose idea of a good time on a weekend is shopping for furniture. We are the kind of couple who, when we walk into a furniture store, our appearance is enough that the manager promptly sends the store detective to watch us the entire time. But, you know, we needed a f’in couch and it was not something we could buy online.
Unfortunately, some random moron stole my car’s radio antenna AGAIN (it’s nothing fancy - it costs about $10) and we didn’t realize this until we were on the Hutchinson River Parkway somewhere. So we had to listen to bad radio signal while driving around Fairfield County. We could make out, just enough, that Jose Valentin is continuing to perform his best impression of Jose Reyes; we heard the first hit (just in time, because TBF was just starting to get worked up into his “We’re not going to get shut out by fucking Carlos fucking ZAMBRANO” rant).
“I think now Mr. Floyd should hit a ball out onto Sheffield Avenue,” TBF announced, showing off his knowledge of Chicago. I acted impressed because I didn’t have the heart to point out that my aunt (who we were about to have dinner with), a Chicago native, could ALSO tell us what streets bordered Wrigley Field.
Post-dinner, I managed to get slammed with a migraine, so TBF had to drive and he hates my car so the radio got turned off 10 minutes away from the next Flash. Thus, it was many, many hours later before I was able to log into my email and see: mets.com Postgame Alert - New York Mets Postgame Alert July 15, 2006 NY Mets 2, Chi. Cubs 9 at Wrigley Field
I read this to TBF.
“Don’t read it.”
“I just want to see how we lost to the Cubs.”
“No, you don’t.”
He was right.
===
MOST VALUABLE REYES
My headache was over in time to watch the 12:30 showing of Mets Weekly on SNY, where we had a spirited discussion amongst ourselves about the “Who is the first half of the season MVP?” award, with the choices being Glavine, Wright or Reyes. TBF said “Tom Glavine” before he even knew what the choices were. I was embarassed beyond belief at the dumb hussies who answered “David Wright” when you KNOW that is the only player whose name they are familiar with (I get like this about people who go see R.E.M. and only know Michael Stipe or Radiohead and only know—okay, hussies don’t know the names of anyone in Radiohead. Bad example.)
Anyway, my choice was Reyes (even though he is no short shakes in the good-looking department himself) because, while you can’t deny Glavine, he doesn’t play every game, and even though Wright does, whenever Jose Reyes is up there something happens and he changes the energy. He scrambles and fights and has a scrappy, take-no-prisoners approach that this team needs just as much as they need Delgado’s statesmanship or Franco’s seasoned advice or Pedro’s sense of humor. You can lecture me about his numbers as much as you want; shit just happens when that man comes to the plate. It may not be what HE does, it’s what he does around whatever else happens and whatever people do because they are inspired by him.
Which is why it is killing me now that he is still out. Willie can be Mr. Calm as much as he wants, I am fucking nervous.
METS GRRL CRAFT CORNER:
In Mets Grrl’s idea of being crafty (since I don’t knit, sew, crochet or do any of that crap). I made this for TBF:
TRIVIA CONTEST:
I have 2 extra Pedro mousepads from the giveaway night (everyone around us was saying, “You work with computers don’t you? Do you want this?"). I will hand them out randomly to people who can tell me where the following quote is from:
“Stop calling.
Strange man.
Go Mets.”
You must include who the speakers are, what this is from, and the CONTEXT.
To enter, please send your entries to metsgrrl at gmail dot com. Please provide a name and a mailing address or your entry will be disqualified. Winners only notified. Neatness counts. Don’t forget your manners. This contest is not authorized by Sterling Mets, Major League Baseball, or TBF. Do not taunt happy fun ball.
My main exposure to baseball began in Seattle, with the Mariners. I moved out there in 1995 (I know, good timing.) I had plenty of “baseball friends” out there who gladly shared their tickets with me - to the Kingdome, and later, to Safeco Field.
I loved the Mariner Moose the first time I saw him. “You mean—the mascot is a big, fuzzy, adorable moose?!” How could you not love that? Combined with the fact that I had a running joke for years about a stuffed moose companion called the Majestik Moose, it was true love.
The Mariner Moose danced.
He rode an ATV.
He popped up everywhere during the game.
He appeared in one of a great series of Mariner pre-season commercials, where he was the road roommate of the unfortunate Jamie Moyer, in which he clogged the bathtub with moose hair, partied too loudly, and then sat on the edge of the bed in his moose boxer shorts and watched moose porn (the wildlife channel) while Jamie tried to sleep.
So the Mariner Moose loomed large in my legend. I was a big fan.
While I definitely came to Shea years ago as a kid (a lot of trips with various Jewish youth organizations), I don’t remember Mr. Met. So I didn’t really have an opinion on his ability as a mascot until 2005, when I first started really going to games.
I ragged on Mr. Met senselessly last summer. “He’s never around. He only comes out for the 7th inning stretch. He’s way too staid and emotionless,” I said.
TBF, predictably, took great offense at these statements, affirming Mr. Met’s dignity and history as a mascot.
He spent way too much time in the Mr. Met section of mets.com, so he could educate me on the history of Mr. Met.
He emailed me photographs of Mr. Met’s birthday party to show me how the other Major League mascots --including the Mariner Moose—paid homage to Mr. Met.
I still maintained my position, that I liked a more active mascot, until I saw thecommercials.
Well.
How could I not love such a resourceful, witty fellow?
Slowly, I got used to the skinny guy with the BIG head. He was more elegant, more suave, more—Metropolitan—than a furry moose. His approach and attitude were more suited to the big city. I grew to appreciate his approach to the business of mascot-ing as more dignified: would Mr. Met would ride an ATV in the outfield so the bullpen could pour water on him?
Not on your life.
Now, once I was obsessed with Mr. Met, I wanted my picture taken with him. TBF would promise me we would get to the game in time to go to Fan Fest, but on Fridays that never happened with work, and last year I had to work weekends. So I would bemoan my inability to get a photograph with the big guy.
Earlier this year, I had a day off, and took myself to the Friday game in time to see BP. As I was packing up the camera, I heard an announcement:
“Mr. Met will be posing for photographs with fans in the Dream Seats in right field until 6:15!”
I couldn’t believe there wasn’t a line. I was almost, well, nervous. As I walked up to him, I somehow felt the need to confess: “Mr. Met, I used to love the Mariner Moose...”
Head shaking. Hands to his eyes. You know that look.
“But you have won my heart and you are now my favorite mascot.”
He takes my hand, kisses it, and gives me a big hug. I am smitten.
“He’s quite the charmer, isn’t he?” says the woman from Guest Services who was babysitting him.
Photographs are taken.
When I get home that night, I email my baseball friends back in Seattle the link to the photo, with the subject line: a milestone is achieved.
You could say I’m a big fan.
TBF keeps promising to take me to breakfast with Mr. Met. I think he’s not arranging it because he’s jealous.
THANK GOD THERE IS BASEBALL AGAIN THIS AFTERNOON.
TBF warned me before the All-Star break: “It’ll get really unbearable toward the end of the week.”
THE TOP 10 REASONS D. WRIGHT KICKED ASS ON LETTERMAN
10) He dressed up for the occasion, abandoning his usual pastels or funky-striped-untucked-button-down for an actual suit. (However, he might want to talk to Beltran, the Mets’ very own sharp dressed man, about a good tailor.)
9) He was delightfully nervous, instead of cocky, but it wasn’t awkward
8) He showed some personality, unlike the bland blog
7) He was a good sport about the earlier ‘betting on sports’ joke
6) He handled Dave’s joshing about The Tongue gracefully, even blushing just enough when Dave said, “I bet that comes in handy on the road.”
5) He came across as sincere - we like to bemoan how he talks in baseball cliches and soundbytes, but NYC is a brutal media town and a young kid can follow some structure or get eaten alive. He managed to not sound too much like a soundbyte machine last night.
4) The story about his brothers calling him after the bare-handed catch was awesome: “Good thing you didn’t use your glove.”
3) Good grooming: He managed to avoid LoDuca’s metrosexual eyebrow mistake even if there was a tiny bit too much hair product in evidence.
2) He managed to not say anything that would result in a phone call from either Jay Horwitz OR Cliff Floyd the minute he walked off that stage
And finally, the Number One Reason D.Wright Kicked Ass On Letterman:
1) He’s David fucking Wright, and he’s OURS, and god willing Omar isn’t going to let him go anywhere, ever, and he showed the world that a rising baseball star can be confident and a Nice Guy instead of being an arrogant dick. (No names, really, no names.)
That was the first time I’ve ever seen Trevor Hoffman in action.
.
.
.
.
I have all these notes but 1) it’s late and 2) I have no spirit to write the impassioned ode that I was composing in my head during the game—at least until the 9th inning.
I understand TBF taking it hard - although it was difficult to discern since he was keeping score, which kept him too busy to grump - but GOD I am pissed. Disappointed. Disheartened.
One comment on the ESPN morons:
“He’s chosen to use Mariano Rivera as his closer.”
Um, my CAT would choose to use Mariano Rivera as his closer.
My previous associations with gentlemen who were baseball fans gave the All-Star Game an uncertain status in my mind. These other individuals did not think much of it, and my only previous exposure was when it was in Seattle a few years ago (and even then, it only impacted me because Jack McDowell, longtime friend of Eddie Vedder, set up a benefit concert which was held in a tiny stifling club on the hottest day of the year and lasted about 9 hours).
TBF, on the other hand, thinks it’s all kind of neat, so we were all set to plan the beginning of this otherwise baseball-less week around tonight and tomorrow. As it turned out, we had to take a visiting friend to the airport tonight at 8pm, so TBF set up the VCR and we got back in time to see DWright’s second round in the Home Run Derby.
“SIXTEEN HOME RUNS?!” we said, in unison, as we sat down.
“I don’t know if I like that,” TBF said.
“I wanted him to follow Billy Wagner’s advice,” was my contribution.
Of course, that didn’t stop us from sitting there, glued to the screen, for the rest of the second round and then the third round. What a beautiful baseball stadium. It’s TBF’s #1 Stadium I Want To Visit (and was slated for a September visit until we made a decision to go to Seattle to visit friends, and see the Mariners play the A’s in a few weeks).
“I can’t believe it - he’s going to the second round,” TBF said.
“No one thought he would do that. I was betting on David Ortiz.”
“Hell, *I* was betting on David Ortiz!”
“You’ll have to buy me a glove when we go,” I nudged him.
Blank look.
“Is that not cool?” [There are Rules, you know. No one over the age of 10 is allowed to bring a glove to a game.]
“No, gloves are permitted for all ages at the Home Run Derby. The whole point of going is to catch the home runs.”
I loved watching the fielders, the little kids with the t-shirts too big for them, scattering over the outfield like a flock of sheep.
(Okay, fast-moving sheep. Sheep running away from a wolf.)
I appreciated the kayakers in the Allegheny, although you could not pay me to swim in that water. EVER. It doesn’t burn like Cleveland but that water ain’t clean.
I hope there is a better band playing the game tomorrow, unlike that “Big & Rich” that we unfortunately sat through before we left for the airport.
“‘Big & Rich’? That’s compensating for something,” TBF said.
“How about, ‘Lame & Moronic’?” I say. “Puerile &...”
“Going over their heads now.”
“Got it.”
Whatever. There are enough GOOD bands that are baseball FANATICS that would play this thing just for the tickets. Get one of them please. In fact, there are probably enough unsigned bands in Pittsburgh that are better than what was onstage tonight who would write you a rock opera for the occasion.
But, back to the Derby. We did sit and watch all 16 of the round one HR’s once it was over, and - dear Lord. I loved when the mic would cut out after an unfortunately aimed fly or foul ball - it took me a few minutes to realize it was the 7-second delay button in action. I loved DW saying that Cliff Floyd thought he’d hit two, loved LoDuca’s smile when he came up to shake David’s hand after the third round (is it just me or do his eyebrows look completely unnatural? Like he got them done just for the Derby. I’m not seeing LoDuca as the metrosexual type).
I was glad for David, but—well, I’ll quote TBF: “I-just-hope-this-doesn’t-fuck-anything-up!”
A-[BEEP]-men.
(WHY are the NL jerseys so UGLY?! That yellow! A color that MG would never see herself wearing.)
I’d like to write thoughtfully about my feelings about John Maine’s debut, but I thought that game was BORING. There was no spirited offense and the defense was the lackluster performance we have wearily grown used to over the past few weeks. Add to that the fact that it was a little warm (not too hot, though, and the sun went behind the stadium pretty fast) and the upper deck was crowded (okay, the whole ballpark was crowded, which is why we were in the upper deck) so maybe it was a terrific game if we would have been on the mezz as usual.
It’s not just the physical distance between the field and the red seats that made me feel removed from the action, it’s the fact that a large portion of the upper deck crowd isn’t there to watch baseball (which you *can* successfully do from the upper deck if you PAY ATTENTION - TBF has done it for years and we did it very productively last season), they’re there to eat hot dogs and drink beer and do the wave. The people who actually do care about what’s going on on the field are outnumbered between the bachelor parties and family reunions and groups of guys who bring their girlfriends who proceed to spend the game talking on the phone or getting up and down right in front of you every three seconds. You can’t get a “Let’s Go Mets” chant going to save your life.
Now, the almost-brawl (as illustrated above) was exciting. Am I a horrible person for actually wanting to see a nice, bench-clearing brawl? It’s not like I’m a big fan of violence, it’s just that a brawl would have brought some energy and life into the game, which Duaner successfully did a little bit by deliberately beaning Cabrera.
(Guys I would want on my side in a bar fight: Sanchez, Floyd, Delgado. Remember that game when someone charged Pedro? Who was the first person standing in front of the mound?)
We had sandwiches from Mama’s and enough water to get us through to the 6th inning of the second game, and once the first game was over and we moved down into the second row of the upper level boxes, right behind home plate, everything drastically improved: the crowd, our seats, the Mets. I like Endy in the lead-off position. I liked Cliff’s home run. And I sure liked Valentin’s grand slam. I liked everything about the game, except for the morons in right field who seemed to be confused as to which stadium they were in, and kept trying to do the roll call. They were even trying to do the roll call for Omar and LoDuca—I loved the comment from the guys behind me: ‘I just want him to call time, get up, and flip them off.’—and except for the fact that THIS WAS THE TYPE OF HUSTLE AND SPIRIT WE SHOULD HAVE BEEN SEEING FOR THE LAST FEW WEEKS. And the fact that it took an almost-brawl to raise this out of the Mets pisses me off just a little.
Oh, yeah, Mike Pelfrey: I just don’t know enough about this yet to make any kind of pronouncements. TBF didn’t seem impressed, although the rest of the blogosphere seems to be.
Other notes:
We don’t like Julio Franco as a starter. He seems to do much better as a pinch-hitter. And could someone help him with some walk-on music? He has some CCM thing.
me: “Oh, look, ‘People get ready, Jesus is coming’”
TBF: “How about, ‘people get ready, some RBI’s are coming,’ Julio?
During the second game, the played the ‘Volare’ bit while LoDuca was at bat. Even with the crowd as light as it was, there was a hearty “whoa-whoa” response.
TBF, appalled: “What was THAT?”
me: “It’s a LoDuca thing.”
TBF: “No, it’s a stupid thing.”
Julio at bat (again), someone nearby yells “USE YOUR CANE!”
TBF: “No, he’s still swinging at bad pitches.”
me: “Maybe they mean, ‘use your white cane’?”
So have you all seen the drinking photos yet? I only mention this because I was sharing this information with the two sisters who sit next to us, promising to send them the links, earlier in the evening.
By the second or third inning, one of them leans over and asks, “Were those photos from LAST NIGHT? Because they’re playing like they’re hungover!”
So there was some ENORMOUS group in front of us, that had a surplus of little pitchers with big ears, and since I’m usually the one yelling “CHILDREN!” at people’s inappropriate language—well, this is what I kept yelling all night when I wanted to scream various obscenities.
I could not have possibly conceived of how bad it was going to be. And we can’t blame Jose Lima, although he did get the boos he deserved—um, David Wright? um, Julio Franco? um, Ramon “Darth Vader” Castro? um, Chris Woodward? and - omg - JOSE REYES SLIDING INTO FIRST BASE, WHICH IS BAD ENOUGH, BUT THEN HE GOT A LACERATION ON HIS HAND FROM SPIKES!
Add to this freaking nightmare the fact that I am coming down with a summer cold, somewhere around the 4th inning, the thought of going back to the car, coming home, and getting into bed seemed like an awfully good idea. Of course I didn’t, but it didn’t get any better, now did it?
Where are my Mets? My Mets play with heart. There was no heart tonight. I don’t give a fuck if the All-Star break is next week or how far ahead we are. I come to the game to watch them play, not to watch them phoning it in.
Can I have a TRL minute here? Before the game, on the Diamondvision: The gorgeous photo of Reyes and Wright standing back to back, bats over their shoulders, lights ablaze behind them: FRIDAY NIGHT LIGHTS said the headline. Total heartthrob baseball pinups that both girls AND boys would put on their walls. That HAS to be a poster. I would buy one RIGHT NOW. :::end TRL:::
And the Todd McFarlane David Wright Shea Stadium Exclusive figurines are IN at the Team Store - we were at Shea early and ran in to try one more time to get my Cliff Floyd shirt (finally). Unfortunately I didn’t see the rack until after I paid, exclaiming, “Those were supposed to be available after the All-Star break!”
TBF: “Get one tomorrow.”
I pointed to the gentlemen stacking up 8 or 10 at a time and promptly went back to the register.
(But now I want another one. I hate to take it off the card - I went through this with McFarlane’s Yellow Submarine dolls, I was going to buy two sets, one to keep on the cards and one to display - but after I bought the first set I realized how ridiculous it was.)
(Um, yeah. Hint.)
We traded in the rained-out Giants game tickets for tomorrow’s double-header. It’s gotta be better tomorrow, right? It’s gotta be.
