In the end, it was the year of the pitcher…one pitcher in particular. It was the year of Madison Bumgarner. The towering lefty won the 2014 World Series Wednesday night, accompanied by 24 San Francisco Giants, several of whom he couldn’t have done it without. The rest will likely stare down at their third shiny bauble in five years and count themselves fortunate to work at the same place as him.
Bumgarner owns the lowest World Series ERA ever recorded. He owns a World Series MVP award. He owns a brand new Chevy Colorado, which was easier for him to receive than it was for the dude from Chevrolet to present. He owns the month that henceforth deserves to be known as Bumtober. He owns just about every hitter he’s faced since baseball shed its 20 also-ran teams and winnowed itself down to just two pennant-winners. Then Madison found himself an antitrust loophole and took ownership of the Kansas City Royals early, midway and late. Especially late. The ace starter who won Games One and Five was dispatched to the bullpen to lurk and loom until summoned to end the Royals’ hopes of being any more marvelous than they’d already been.
It was the fifth inning when Bruce Bochy (without rending of garments in the dugout about the decision) ignored previously established contours, deployed his singular weapon and never bothered looking for backup. How long could Bumgarner, two nights removed from a complete game shutout, go in relief? For as long as it damn took, apparently. Bumgarner didn’t depart the Kauffman Stadium mound until every last out was collected. He recorded a five-inning save. Not a five-out save, but a five-inning save. He saved Game Seven; the World Series; and baseball’s best for last.
Through six games, the highest praise one could offer for the most recent iteration of the sport’s showcase was it wasn’t yet over. There had been a lot of baseball but not a lot of superb baseball, except for when Bumgarner pitched. Game Seven was supposed to be different, if only on principle. Game Sevens are the Elysian Fields of our minds. They’re Jack Morris and John Smoltz; Curt Schilling and Randy Johnson; Roberto Clemente and Steve Blass; Ralph Terry and Bill Mazeroski; Bob Gibson and Mickey Lolich; Johnny Podres and Sandy Amoros; Craig Counsell and Edgar Renteria; Ray Knight and Jesse Orosco and don’t forget El Sid. Sometimes they’re less than all that, but we gloss over those episodes which don’t prove legendary. Plus they already happened. This Game Seven didn’t have the luxury of being filed away. It had to fill in its blanks and use ballpoint.
Bumgarner was this Game Seven’s calligrapher, what with those five shutout innings on top of all those other shutout innings, never mind his straight-up presence. For six months, baseball is about matchups: lefties replacing righties to face lefties who are pinch-hit for by righties and nobody throwing too many pitches and everybody knowing their roles. In a seventh game, though, you delete that outline if it’s not pushing your plot toward its desired outcome.
The Royals and Giants weren’t getting anywhere with their starters, Jeremy Guthrie and Tim Hudson. Hudson was completely hittable and replaced in the second by Jeremy Affeldt, no mean October reliever himself. Guthrie had a moment during which he seemed to settle down but his staying power proved evanescent. San Francisco defense — particularly a 4-6-3 double play begun by a Joe Panik flip and ended by a Samsung review — and the usual dash of Pablo Sandoval offensive kung fu shoved the Giants out in front, 3-2, in the fourth. Kelvin Herrera was, like Affeldt, brought on many innings before he was accustomed. Like Affeldt, he was fine as a fish out of rigidly defined water. Hell, the four Royal pitchers used struck out a dozen Giants.
But nobody’s buzzing about anybody who doesn’t share a first name with the capital of Wisconsin. Bumgarner is the talk of the town for the way he took over in the fifth inning and wouldn’t let go of Game Seven. Madison gave up a hit to his first batter. He gave up a hit to his penultimate batter — an Alex Gordon single that Gregor Blanco misplayed into the tying run suddenly materializing on third with two out in the ninth. He gave up nothing in between or after. With a chance to break Bumgarner’s spell, Salvador Perez popped to the Panda in foul territory and the Giants were champions yet again, just as in 2010 and 2012, though differently and maybe more so.
By my accounting, the Giants disappeared three separate ghosts this postseason. Just by making it to October as the so-called second Wild Card, they made up for being left out in 1993 when they won 15 more games but made the mistake of playing in the same division as the Braves at the end of the era when there was no consolation prize for coming in a strong second. By going on the road with a three-two lead and taking one of the two games they needed, they put their bitter loss to the Angels in 2002 behind them. And by stranding the opposing tying run on third in the ninth, nobody need ever again reference Charlie Brown’s anguish regarding Willie McCovey’s liner not being hit three feet higher, over Bobby Richardson’s glove, at the finish line of the 1962 World Series. Matty Alou didn’t score then, Alex Gordon didn’t score now.
I’m not a San Francisco Giants fan, though I play one in October. I’m happy for them. I’m happy for the organization, which is an odd thing to say on the surface, but twice, because of my activity with fellow New York Giants preservationists/nostalgists and the San Francisco front office taking such transcontinental sentiments seriously, I’ve gotten to meet some people who run their ballclub. “Classy” is the word I keep coming back to. As mentioned at the outset of October, I’m friendly with my share of Giants diehards and I’m pleased for them. The pains in the ass who take up too many seats at Citi Field when the Giants come to town I could do without, but I could say that about anybody who comes to our park and doesn’t root for our team. I’m sure they’d consider not being beloved outside the Bay Area a fair tradeoff for three World Series championships won in the past half-decade.
At the same time, I’m not a Kansas City Royals fan and I technically wasn’t rooting for them to win this round, yet the 2014 World Series was one of those instances when you really wanted to buy into the line about how “there are no losers.” There are, but there shouldn’t be. The Royals rekindled a great passion this year in their neck of the woods. It wasn’t just 1985, you know. Kansas City was a baseball capital for more than a decade. They were a likable staple of October and their followers always showed up. As processed through the television, the Royals fans are total champs.
From their Wild Card games through their LCSes, the Royals and Giants each gave us a nice MLB Network retrospective’s worth of highlights, and after leaving us a little restless through six World Series contests, provided us with a Seventh Game good enough to burrow into our guts. Which starter would fold first? Which reliever would ride to the rescue next? Was that ball gonna fall in? Are they gonna call him safe or out? For nine innings, the championship of our sport hung on the line and you couldn’t watch without a small knot in your stomach. Bumgarner’s triumph may have been inevitable, but only fully in hindsight. This thing could have gone either way, and if that doesn’t make for a superb Game Seven, I don’t know what does.
And now these two objects of our fleeting concerns and affections recede from our consciousness, reverting solely to the agendas of Giants fans and Royals fans, which is how it’s supposed to be. We’re supposed to care for a little while — I wouldn’t think of not watching all of it and blogging most of it — and then we’re supposed to withdraw. The postseason is methadone to the regular Met season’s more addictive harder stuff. It’s designed to transition us from a state of intoxication to cold turkey. The first day will be the hardest, but the night sweats will eventually dissipate. Our bodies know we can’t live in a constant state of baseball. Our brains don’t, but sooner or later they get the message.
October was fun. April will be even better. The intervening months we’ll figure out as we go along. We always do.
Welcome to Cliché Stadium for the last Major League Baseball game of this year. It takes place tonight. When it is over, there will be no tomorrow.
Not one necessarily worth contemplating anyway.
Except for Giants partisans who would have preferred the opportunity to bubble-wrap the Commissioner’s Trophy, fasten its seatbelt and fly it home, nobody didn’t want a Game Seven, what with it containing all those marbles to say nothing of that whole ball of wax. Save your nuance for when there is a tomorrow. Tonight, the result will be stark: a winner, a loser, a conclusion.
Great that it ends this way. Too bad it must end, but as long as it does, make it definitive.
Game Six arrived with its own cultish credentials, though the fact that most of them are recited on demand whenever we have a Game Six dampens my expectation that anything Bucknerish will explode in our midst. Sometimes the legend is lived up to, but you can’t special-order the David Freese to go, y’know? Tuesday night’s Game Six blowout served its purpose of keeping the Royals going so there could be a Game Seven. My favorite part of the non-drama came while I listened to the early innings on the radio and heard K.C. fans robustly cheer everything remotely positive. That, I thought, is the way to be. My favorite part of the last Game Six the Mets played, besides the Mets winning it, was rising among 56,334 at Shea and not giving up on the 2006 NLCS. We made unceasing noise with little provocation from the start and raised the volume exponentially when Jose Reyes homered on the third pitch of the bottom of the first.
It worked. We got our Game Seven (which worked less well, but never mind that right now). We and the Mets kept going, which is all you can ask when you’re down three-two. It was all the Royals could ask for and they got it. As someone who’s been pulling for the Giants, I wasn’t too happy with the seven runs Big Game Jake Peavy and the previously impenetrable Yusmeiro Petit allowed in the second, but as the night dragged on in AfterGl@v!ne fashion — minus the angst, of course — I couldn’t come out against the end result being Game Seven.
I mean, c’mon, Game Seven! When we’re officially unaligned, Game Seven is our team. That’s our rooting interest. We’re all stakeholders in the National Pastime at a moment like this. We beseech the gods to give us first a Game Seven, then a good Game Seven, maybe, if we are so bold, a great Game Seven. The first six games have had their moments but never quite enough of them strung together to evangelize over. The 2014 World Series has been one of those shows you reflexively tell your apathetic friends who haven’t been watching, “ya gotta see this!” but when they tune in, it’s inevitably while one side is steamrolling the other side and you swear, no, really, it’s better than this usually.
A seven-game World Series is supposed to be the best World Series. I think back to 2005, though, which went the minimum four games. But they were four fantastic games. The only thing that was objectively wrong with them as a set was the White Sox won all of them and the Astros lost all of them. It, like its Nielsens, sank into oblivion, which is too bad. Aesthetically, you couldn’t get a fabber four. But few pay mind to a quartet come late October. Six games is the commonly accepted currency for what constitutes a good Series, seven games the universally agreed amount you must exchange to obtain greatness.
The quality of this World Series has thus far ebbed more than it’s flowed, but the quantity is perfect. Game Seven tonight. If the actual game matches the circumstances’ reputation, it will leave us a little something to enjoy remembering tomorrow.
(Spoiler alert: there will be a tomorrow.)
It’s a long way from Matty vanquishing Athletics in 1905 to MadBum mowing down Royals in 2014, though if you’ve pitched yourself into the same conversation, the gap grows short. In Game Five of the current World Series, Madison Bumgarner threw a shutout for the ages, certainly one that would have fit comfortably within the age of Christy Mathewson throwing three of them at the same opponent in the same week with the championship of the baseball world on the line.
Going nine and allowing nothing in a World Series game has always been impressive but you used to need to toss a trio of such games to really stand out historically. Today, a CG ShO is as rare as a fence that doesn’t eventually get moved in at Citi Field every couple of years. Whether the larger-than-his-competition Giant pitcher in question roams the earth in misty legend or high-definition living color, posting zeroes from beginning to end makes for an enormous World Series feat.
Tonight in Kansas City, mere mortals (performances pending) will take the mound for Game Six. When their and presumably their relievers’ work is done, either the Giants will have wrapped up their third title in five years or the Royals will stay alive with a chance to capture their second in thirty. When at last there’s no more baseball, come Wednesday or Thursday, then you’re talking about a really long way, the one that winds from the last out of the World Series to the first pitch some Brave throws to some Met on March 4 in games that won’t count but we’ll greet them as if nothing matters more.
Until then, after the Giants and Royals are done, there’s the opportunity to catch up on other things. I’ll recommend two.
If your DVR has been patiently waiting for the offseason to grab your attention, then go watch those installments of The Roosevelts you recorded in September. Or if you didn’t, go find the entire PBS series on iTunes. Deprived of any reason to turn to SNY at 7:10 every night (except for instinct), I just got around to knocking off all seven episodes of Ken Burns’s latest epic, which follows Teddy’s birth in 1858 to Eleanor’s death in 1962, the same year the Mets and I were born. In between, there’s a lot of Franklin, which is appropriate. Franklin Roosevelt of the Hyde Park Roosevelts was elected to four terms as president of these United States; transformed the executive branch; led his nation through the most dire of times; and visited Ebbets Field.
FDR also visited the Polo Grounds, for the 1936 World Series between two of his home state’s three teams, the Giants and the Yankees. That part wasn’t in The Roosevelts. I read about it in Richard Ben Cramer’s 2000 biography of Joe DiMaggio. It was the second game of the Series, a blowout in the wrong direction (Yankees 18 Giants 4). Late in the festivities, an announcement was made: the remaining crowd was instructed to “stay at their seats until one special fan, Franklin D. Roosevelt, could get to his open limousine and ride off the field through the center field gates.”
The Giants’ last licks ensued. Their final batter, Hank Leiber, sent one to very deep center field, which at the Polo Grounds meant very deep and very near the staircase to the clubhouse. DiMaggio, an incipient national phenomenon by the fall of ’36, raced back there, a good 475 feet from home plate, and nabbed Leiber’s ball in over-the-shoulder fashion. Running as he had and being as close to the exit as he was, Cramer wrote Joe “just kept running, through the notch in the fence, up the steep stairs that led to the players’ clubhouse, in deepest center field.
“Then he remembered — Roosevelt!”
DiMaggio had not only the last out in his glove but the presence of mind to halt his departure in deference to the fan-in-chief’s. Cramer describes the rookie center fielder “stiffen[ing] to attention” as FDR’s car rounded the warning track that would lead him to the Polo Grounds exit. All eyes in the house were on his vehicle, “save for Roosevelt’s eyes. He looked to the stands, then to the stairway, until he found Joe…and then FDR lifted a hand in a jaunty wave from the brim of his hat. And from the crowd there was a final, rippling cheer, as the Dago boy from Fisherman’s Wharf was saluted by the President of the United States.”
Eight years and two elections later, the president was still president, seeking to continue as such in the face of continuing world war and inevitable personal deterioration. As Burns’s documentary retells it, FDR was not a good bet to live through a fourth term, but nobody knew that for sure in the fall of 1944. What Roosevelt knew was he had to campaign yet again to win yet again, and for more than four hours on one terribly cold and rainy October day, the ailing 62-year-old incumbent submitted himself to a strenuous 51-mile, open-car motorcade through four of New York’s five boroughs. One of them was Brooklyn, where he entered, for the first time, Ebbets Field.
There was no World Series at Ebbets that fall, but there was a rally. Nobody knew how to reach out and touch voters prepared to rally to his cause — they were chanting “We Want Roosevelt!” — the way FDR did. Newsreel footage Burns features captured the president’s sentiments:
“I’ve got to make a terrible confession to you. I come from the State of New York and I practiced law in New York City, but I have never been to Ebbets Field before. I rooted for the Dodgers! And I hope to come back here someday and see ’em play. Thanks ever so much.”
There’s something about that desire to watch the Dodgers going unfulfilled and knowing with full hindsight it would go unfulfilled and knowing further Roosevelt likely knew it would go unfulfilled that made it more poignant than a politician pandering to local interests should have been. In that moment, I thought about an FDR who didn’t die in office the following April. I imagined that he lived to see the Allied victory to conclusion and, with the stress of his job eased, didn’t succumb to a cerebral hemorrhage. I think about him in the back half of his fourth term taking it relatively easy. Maybe, with World War II successfully concluded, he steps down and hands the keys to the White House to Harry Truman.
However it happens, an FDR who lives beyond 1945 perhaps visits Ebbets Field again and watches Jack Roosevelt Robinson — the infielder named up the middle for Franklin’s cousin Theodore — play ball for the team he said he wanted to see play a home game. I can see Franklin Roosevelt and Jackie Robinson smiling and shaking hands before a game in 1947, while Branch Rickey looks on approvingly in the background. I can see the photograph showing up in at least one Ken Burns film, probably several. It might be no more than a footnote, but I can see another paragraph or two added to the great interwoven American story of the 20th century.
None of that ever happened, but The Roosevelts documents what did, so watch it if you get a chance. And if you want to know more about what else happened at Ebbets Field, pick up the recently released Rickey & Robinson by Roger Kahn, the great author’s final volume showing what it was like to be a reporter at the epicenter of the shifting plates of culture, sport and life.
It’s rich material Kahn — who did his share of ghostwriting on Robinson’s behalf, as Grantland’s Bryan Curtis explores — has covered in previous books, but this one promises a particularly sharp focus on “the true, untold story of the integration of baseball.” As Kostya Kennedy noted in Sports Illustrated, “the broad strokes…may be familiar to readers, but Kahn spins the tale well and delivers, along with a knowing perspective, memorable scenes.”
I’m not looking forward to months without watching baseball, but I am looking forward to reading Roger Kahn writing about baseball. He gave us The Boys of Summer and now he gives us something to get us through the oncoming winter.
If we’re being fair to the primary participants and their loyal fans, this would be a good time to end the World Series. Each side has won twice, once at home, once on the road. Everybody’s had a chance to show their best selves. There’s something to feel good about from most every angle.
We’ve seen San Francisco and Kansas City trade decisive wins. We’ve seen K.C.’s bullpen totally stymie San Fran. We’ve seen the Giants storm from behind and continue to rain runs down on the Royals. We’ve seen bounces go every which way. We’ve seen Jarrod Dyson rob Hunter Pence of a short single in center. We’ve seen Yusmeiro Petit single into short center where Dyson couldn’t hope to make a catch. We’ve seen Petit record the first base hit of any World Series reliever since Al Leiter and total more career World Series base hits than Carlos Delgado. We’ve seen ephemeral 21st-century Mets Joaquin Arias and Jason Vargas in case we’d been missing them. We’ve seen the heart of the Giant order represent the target audience for those ubiquitous Viagra ads and we’ve seen their bats in action for hours at a time. We’ve seen — as if we needed to be reminded from a similar calendar confluence 28 years earlier — that World Series games played on Saturday night, October 25, are never to be assumed over before they’re over.
After four games, nobody’s a loser. After two or three more games, a team that doesn’t deserve to be thought of as one will have lost.
But that’s the Giants’ and Royals’ problem. For the rest of us, I hope this thing goes seven. No, actually, I hope this thing goes seventy-seven. What do I care if these teams wear themselves out for 2015? Give ’em Christmas off and arrange a Boxing Day doubleheader.
This Series, only the fourth since 2003 to go at least six games, has served as not just a wonderful baseball showcase but a terrific baseball laboratory. How long to go with the starter? When to pinch-hit? How does anybody refer to Big Game James Shields (postseason ERA: 7.11) with a straight face?
Actually, I think I’ve got that one figured out. It was explained in this exchange between Woody Allen and Jon Lovitz from Allen’s 2000 film, Small Time Crooks.
“Remember my nickname when we were in the joint?”
“The Brain. That’s what the guys used to call me, right?”
“But Ray! That was sarcastic!”
“That wasn’t sarcastic, that was real.”
“No, it was sarcastic.”
“There was nothing sarcastic about it!”
“No, really, it was.”
“It was real. I was The Brain.”
“No, it was sarcastic.”
Maybe Shields will be sincerely Big Game tonight. Maybe Madison Bumgarner somehow won’t be Enormous Game for a change. No matter what happens at Phone Company Park in Game Five, there will be a Game Six for ex-Met Bruce Bochy and ex-Met farmhand Ned Yost to manage on Tuesday. One of them will have earned or re-earned a place in World Series managing history in the same glorious Leaders Of Men procession that includes Gil Hodges and Davey Johnson. One of them will have to suck up less desirable results in the tradition of Yogi Berra and Bobby Valentine. Neither can have the pennants attached to their permanent records taken away from them.
Players play. Managers manage. Or manage to stay out of the way of their players. Or inspire their players to elevated heights. Or keep all keels even. Or, per Casey Stengel, keep the guys who hate you away from the guys who are undecided. Or tactically manipulate matchups. Or strategically configure outcomes. Or can’t do a thing once the ball is in the hand of the guys they sent on the field.
Few of us have played the game. All of us have watched the game and figured out what should be done to win the game. We all manage in our heads. I managed along with Yost for a while Saturday night, diverging from his decision to allow Vargas to bat with the bases loaded and two out in the third, even with his team already up by three. Stengel dared to pinch-hit, no matter how early, when the opponent’s throat was within his grasp. It would have been unconventional in 2014 (as it was unconventional in 1964 and 1954) but if you sent up Billy Butler or Nori Aoki to bring down the hammer, what would have you lost — three more theoretical innings of Jason Vargas?
As was, Vargas worked the count to 3-and-2 against a wild Jean Machi, thought he walked and then struck out. It was one of those moments when you — whether you’re thinking like a manager or a fan — are overcome by the sense that something has just gone very wrong for the team that scored four but could’ve scored more. Though, to be fair, it was during that same third inning that I began composing comparisons between the Royals and a certain 1969 team that lost its first World Series game and swept their next four.
Anyway, managers manage and none of us can say for sure all that entails and what all of it means. At the moment, there’s a universally acclaimed manager with a ledger of success suddenly on the open market. There’s a team near and dear to all of us that could use some success. Joe Maddon and the Mets could maybe make beautiful music together. They could maybe make us not be interested in teams from Kansas City and San Francisco in October because our season wouldn’t yet be over.
Or this team that Terry Collins has steered from 79 sullen wins when he took over four years ago to 79 uplifting wins lately is ready to soar under the guidance of his steady hand. Everybody who is in regular professional contact with him says nothing but nice things about Collins. Plus the Mets have already signed him for presumably less dollars and time than a commitment to a more glamorous alternative would require. Not long after Maddon emancipated himself from the front-office turmoil in Tampa Bay, Jeff Wilpon and Sandy Alderson each gave Terry Collins rare offseason votes of confidence just two months after confirming that the manager would continue to fulfill the terms of their agreement with him and manage in 2015. It brought to mind Jay Leno’s line after David Letterman left for CBS, causing rumors that he’d lose his tenuous hold on The Tonight Show to finally dissipate: “You know what NBC stands for? Never Believe Your Contract.”
Maddon might do better than Collins in Flushing. Or he might not be the right fit. The last big-name manager (depending on your view of the size of Art Howe’s name) who the Mets nabbed between seasons was Jeff Torborg in October 1991. The 1990 A.L. Manager of the Year seemed the greatest of gets. Then 1992 rolled around. Because something didn’t work 22 going on 23 years ago doesn’t mean it wouldn’t work now. But it does imply that not everything that sounds great when the Mets aren’t playing would work when they are.
That said, let me invoke the name Les Moss, onetime manager of the Detroit Tigers….literally onetime.
Les Moss, like Terry Collins, had worked in his team’s minor league system. Moss, like Collins, knew his personnel. Moss, like Collins, was generally well regarded. Unlike Collins, Moss managed his team to a winning record. In 1979, Moss’s Tigers were 27-26. That, however, was the extent of Les’s winning record, however. Although Detroit was off to a good start in his first year at the helm, upper management replaced him in June.
Sparky Anderson, you see, was suddenly available. He’d been let go by second-place Cincinnati the year before despite five division titles, four pennants, two world championships and eight winning records in his nine years running the Reds. He was going to take the next season off but then decided he wanted to manage again ASAP. Some other team had apparently put out feelers. Moss’s promising start notwithstanding, the Tigers pounced. They hired Anderson. Five years later (each of them carrying a winning mark), Anderson managed them to 104 victories and his third world championship, or as many as Bochy sits two wins away from claiming. Sparky stayed on the job through 1995 and was inducted into the Hall of Fame in 2000.
It is impossible to determine whether Les Moss would have accomplished for Detroit what Sparky Anderson did. It is certain that being replaced 53 games into his tenure — while holding that winning record — was a tough break. “Well,” Moss told Tiger GM Jim Campbell after absorbing the bad news, “that’s baseball.”
That’s as much baseball as Rod Kanehl batting for Bill Wakefield in the second inning in ’64 or Eddie Robinson hitting for Moose Skowron in the first almost exactly 10 years earlier. Both of those Stengelian moves, like Campbell throwing Moss overboard in order to swiftly scoop up Anderson, worked out just fine. Of course baseball is also “the best moves are the ones you don’t make.” One example in the managerial realm: quiet Walter Alston was allegedly on the verge of being fired in favor of his vocal coach (and voluble critic) Leo Durocher following the Dodgers’ 1962 collapse. Instead, Alston — with three league flags and two world championships already stuffed in his pocket — was retained. Los Angeles won three of the next four pennants, two of the next three World Series, kept Alston until 1976 and watched his induction into the Hall of Fame in 1983.
So you never know. But you’ll never find out unless you at least reach out to Joe Maddon, who transformed the historically sad Devil Rays into the perennially formidable Rays, and seriously consider whether he, rather than Terry Collins, is the manager who might accelerate the Mets’ journey to a Giant- or Royal-like October.
The Royals’ 7-2 victory in Wednesday night’s Game Two provided a healthy reminder that there are two league champions vying in this World Series. Or, more cynically, the Giants’ 7-2 defeat in Wednesday night’s Game Two provided a pointed reminder that an 89-win team is playing an 88-win team for the championship of the world. Either way — and despite Major League Baseball yet again ignoring my annual plea that it grant television rights to C-Span so we can be spared their godawful announcers and analysts — we know two things.
1) Baseball in 2014 goes on at least through Sunday night.
2) No Met from 2001 will be in uniform for any of it.
We were well into Kansas City’s dismantling of the American League elite when it occurred to me we hadn’t seen Bruce Chen, who, last I had noticed, had been pitching in the Royals’ rotation since the days of Dennis Leonard and Paul Splittorff. Or maybe it just felt that way. In fact, Chen had been a K.C. mainstay since 2009, when after nine major league stops since 1998 and a year spent recovering from Tommy John surgery, he signed with the Royals and pitched for them when nobody was bothering to count how many years they had gone without a World Series. Like Chen’s total of previous teams, it was understood to be a lot.
In Kansas City, Chen posted winning records for perennially losing teams. He relieved. He spot-started. In 2012, he led the American League in starts with 34. In 2013, he went 9-4 for a club that won more than it lost for the first time in a decade. Most importantly, for my tracking purposes, I knew where to find him, for as long as Bruce Chen pitched, I could identify the Longest Ago Met Still Active (LAMSA), not to mention the Last Met Standing from 2001.
Once his absence drifted into my mental airspace, I investigated the Kansas City postseason roster and discovered Bruce Chen wasn’t on it. Not only was he left off for October, he was released in September. Who releases a veteran lefty from a pennant contender in September? A veteran lefty who had appeared in 156 games for you over the past six years? Even if the veteran lefty in question is 37, had spent two months between April and June on the DL with a bad back and was saddled with an ERA of 7.45?
C’mon! He’s Bruce Chen! He was a 2001 Met!
That probably doesn’t cut a modicum of ice in Kansas City, but it meant something here, as Chen had succeeded Octavio Dotel as the reigning LAMSA of MLB. Dotel, who recently announced his retirement as official, hadn’t pitched since April 19, 2013. With Dotel — the final active player to have been a Met in the 20th century — stepping off the rubber for good, the honor of being the active player who had been a Met before any other active player had been a Met fell to Chen.
Chen, it might be recalled, made his major league debut as a hot-shot Brave prospect on September 7, 1998, at Shea Stadium. On the same day the world stood and applauded the feelgood sight of Mark McGwire tying Roger Maris’s single-season home run record of 61, the 21-year-old Panamanian southpaw threw three shaky innings in a Labor Day matinee that was interrupted by a monsoon so violent that manager Bobby Valentine and first base coach Mookie Wilson had to assist the grounds crew in keeping the tarp in place. The Wild Card-pursuing Mets teed off against Chen before and after the rains came, with homers from noted sluggers Luis Lopez and Tony Phillips and an RBI single via the bat of Brian McRae.
Need more names to convince you this was a long time ago? Masato Yoshii started for the Mets; Willie Blair came on for Yoshii after the nearly two-hour storm delay; Rigo Beltran replaced Blair when Willie found trouble; Dennis Martinez, who was a 1976 Baltimore Oriole alongside Brooks Robinson and Reggie Jackson, replaced Chen; and after blowing a 4-0 lead, the Mets prevailed, 8-7, when Edgardo Alfonzo blasted a two-run, eighth-inning homer off another lefthanded Brave rookie, John Rocker.
Out of all those players, Chen proved the ultimate big league survivor, making it all the way to August 28, 2014, when he gave up six runs in the tenth inning of the Royals’ 11-5 loss to the Twins. On September 5, two days shy of the 16th anniversary of his MLB debut, he was released, with no hard feelings apparent. Under similar circumstances in 1986, Ed Lynch, who had persevered as a Met from 1980 onward only to be traded away slightly before things got really good, came to view his involuntary departure as “living with a family the whole year and getting thrown out of the house on Christmas Eve”. No such tidings from Bruce. The last tweet sent forth by @ChenMusic, after they swept the Birds, extended “Congrats to the @Royals. The team, organization and most importantly the fans deserve this.”
No mention made by Chen of Chen perhaps deserving his only postseason action after such a long career without a shred of it. He never made a playoff appearance as a Brave, and once Atlanta traded him to Philadelphia for Andy Ashby in 2000, he would find himself pitching mostly for also-rans across a staggeringly itinerant major league journey.
He wasn’t yet “Bruce Chen” in the Suitcase Simpson (or Octavio Dotel) sense when he returned to Shea in July 2001 not as a visitor but as a Met. With his club buried far under .500 and the Wild Card deemed out of reach, Steve Phillips was selling off the defending 2000 N.L. champs for parts. Two pieces he was willing to detach from the Mets were erstwhile bullpen stalwarts Turk Wendell and Dennis Cook, sent to the Phillies in exchange for Chen and minor leaguer Adam Walker. Given that two-time All-Star Rick Reed had been shipped off days earlier as well, a spot was open in Valentine’s rotation and it was given to Chen for the duration of the season.
Bruce took it and mostly ran with it, keeping the Mets in every game he started. His modest success was no more than something to keep tabs on with an eye toward 2002 until something unexpected happened. The Mets began to win almost every game they played. Neither of Chen’s former teams could quite pull away from them. The Mets were making up ground like crazy on the Braves and Phillies. By early September, Bruce and the Mets had charged into an honest-to-goodness divisional race.
Then September 11 happened, which rendered the whole effort as irrelevant as could possibly be. But baseball did return. The Mets swept three in Pittsburgh. They closed to within 5½ of Atlanta with 18 to play, including six versus the Braves. They came home to Shea on September 21 to face Atlanta amid circumstances unlike any that had ever surrounded a home team in New York or baseball history.
And their starting pitcher was Bruce Chen.
The story of 9/21/01 at Shea was at first about everything but baseball and, nine innings later, about how baseball still meant something in the scheme of everything. In baseball terms, it instantly became all about Mike Piazza and the home run he hit in the eighth inning to put the Mets ahead, 3-2, the score by which the Mets would go on to win. Implicit in Piazza’s starring role that Friday night was he caught as well as hit. He caught Chen for seven innings when Bruce didn’t give up a single earned run to his original team. The only Brave to score scored when Mike committed an error.
Chen was pinch-hit for in the bottom of the seventh of a 1-1 game. He’d be no-decisioned and his contribution to an unforgettable event would be mostly forgotten. Eleven years later, when asked about his part in it, Bruce deflected any sense of self. What he remembered was “people were cheering for us when we got a base hit, and people were laughing and clapping. That was the first time since September 11 that I saw a bunch of people from New York laughing and having a good time — cheering for something and having their minds distracted from what happened.”
The Mets couldn’t ride their momentum much further beyond September 21. Chen made two more starts in 2001, one relief appearance early in 2002 and was sent to yet another N.L. East club, the Expos, in exchange for Scott Strickland (who was no great shakes as a Met but probably would have been a better bet than Hunter Strickland last night for the Giants). The tour was off and running in earnest for Chen, a lefty who would always get at least a look from somebody. Montreal; Cincinnati; Houston; Boston; Baltimore by way of Ottawa before Toronto gave up on him; Texas; then 2008 lost to Tommy John; then, at long last, a relatively permanent landing spot in Kansas City.
Then, barring the unforeseen, done. The Last Met Standing from 2001 — and perhaps 2002 — stands active no longer.
Let’s slot him in his place in the pantheon.
LONGEST AGO MET STILL ACTIVE: Chronology
• Felix Mantilla, debuted as a Met, 4/11/1962; last game in the major leagues, 10/2/1966
• Al Jackson, 4/14/1962; 9/26/1969
• Chris Cannizzaro, 4/14/1962*; 9/28/1974
• Ed Kranepool, 9/22/1962; 9/30/1979
• Tug McGraw, 4/18/1965; 9/25/1984
• Nolan Ryan, 9/11/1966; 9/22/1993
• Jesse Orosco, 4/5/1979; 9/27/2003
• John Franco, 4/11/1990; 7/1/2005
• Jeff Kent, 8/28/1992; 9/27/2008
• Jason Isringhausen**, 7/17/1995; 9/19/2012
• Octavio Dotel, 6/26/1999; 4/19/2013
• Bruce Chen, 8/1/2001; 8/28/2014
• Jose Reyes, 6/10/2003; still active***
*Cannizzaro was Jackson’s catcher on April 14, 1962, at the Polo Grounds, so for LAMSA purposes, he debuted as a Met after his pitcher.
**During Isringhausen’s extensive injury rehabilitation period, Paul Byrd (debuted as a Met on 7/28/1995); Jay Payton (9/1/1998); and Melvin Mora (5/30/1999) could each temporarily lay claim to LAMSA status, but Izzy ultimately outlasted them all.
***Marco Scutaro (debuted as a Met on 7/21/2002) is on the Giants’ 60-day DL, having last played on 7/24/2014.
LAST MET STANDING: 1962-2003
1962-1964: Ed Kranepool (final MLB game: 9/30/1979)
1965: Tug McGraw (9/25/1984)
1966: Nolan Ryan (9/22/1993)
1967: Tom Seaver (9/19/1986)
1968-1971: Nolan Ryan (9/22/1993)
1972-1975: Tom Seaver (9/19/1986)
1976-1977: Lee Mazzilli (10/7/1989)
1978: Alex Treviño (9/30/1990)
1979: Jesse Orosco (9/27/2003)
1980: Hubie Brooks (7/2/1994)
1981-1987: Jesse Orosco (9/27/2003)
1988-1989: David Cone (5/28/2003)
1990-1991: John Franco (7/1/2005)
1992-1994: Jeff Kent (9/27/2008)
1995-1997: Jason Isringhausen (9/19/2012)
1998: Jay Payton (10/3/2010)
1999: Octavio Dotel (4/19/2013)
2000: Melvin Mora (6/29/2011)
2001-2002: Bruce Chen (8/28/2014)
2003: Jose Reyes (still active)
If we can put a seal on 2001, 2002 is a little less certain. When last we scoured the Mets’ back catalogue for active players from the end of the Bobby Valentine era (though 2002 was more like pre-Art Howe), three former Mets were still suiting up in big league clubhouses: Chen, Marco Scutaro and Ty Wigginton — with Pedro Feliciano getting loose in the minors. Since then, before noticing Chen was no longer a Royal, we’ve seen the last of Wiggy (47 games a Cardinal in 2013, released by the Marlins this past spring) and probably the end of Perpetual Pedro, who gave Terry Collins the last of his 484 Met and nothing but Met major league appearances on September 28, 2013. Feliciano signed with St. Louis in 2014, but flew no further north than Memphis before being let go.
That leaves Scutaro, who remains a San Francisco Giant on paper. Marco currently sits on the Giants’ 60-day disabled list following a five-game 2014 stint that ended on July 24. On one hand, Scutaro is signed through 2015 and is owed a third of the three-year, $20 million deal he signed after helping San Francisco to the 2012 world championship. On the other hand, he’ll be 39 at month’s end and is out because of a bulging disc, giving him the kind of chronic pain that back surgery could ease, except such surgery would likely end any hopes of resuming a baseball-playing career. Sidelined teammate and fellow ex-Met Angel Pagan relayed word in September that Scutaro plans to “give this another try and see what happens,” but that might be asking a lot out of somebody who played on the same minor league team as Mike Glavine in 1996, never mind doing the same on the Mets of 2003.
If we set aside Scutaro, then the reigning LAMSA — the Longest Ago Met who is Still Active for sure as 2015 approaches — is Jose Reyes.
Yes, that’s how old we’ve all gotten. Jose Reyes, who was called up from the minors to replace Rey Sanchez on June 10, 2003, has been around longer than any other active player who has played for the New York Mets. Jose was 19 when he debuted. He turned 20 the next day. Mathematical sources indicate he is currently 31, though that figure should probably be vetted more thoroughly because how the hell is Jose Reyes any older than maybe 23?
We knew this day was coming. Even if Scutaro fights his way back, Jose has always loomed as the 2003 firewall in LAMSA Land. For all the folderol about his own injury-proneness, Reyes — the only player remaining who was a Met when Bob Murphy was calling games — isn’t going anywhere…except maybe from Toronto to Flushing in my dreams.
One more list to tide us over before we get back to aging. Here are the Mets — some current, some former, one who’s slated to start Game Four of the present World Series for the Royals — still active in the majors who played as Mets at dear, departed Shea Stadium:
This baker’s dozen doesn’t include Chen, Scutaro, Feliciano, Heath Bell, Mike Jacobs, Xavier Nady, Phil Humber or Luis Ayala, each of whom played affiliated professional baseball in 2014, but none of whom concluded the season as definitively active major leaguers. It also doesn’t include Anderson Hernandez, a Chunichi Dragon in the Japan Central League as recently as August, or ageless Julio Franco, who spent seven days in May as a United Baseball League Fort Worth Cat before his not-so-ageless 55-year-old right knee needed to stop. You can count ’em all if you want, though. There’s no game until Friday night, no Mets game until late February at the earliest and no real Mets game until April 6.
Time may fly as a rule, but you’ll be amazed by how much it’s about to drag.
It did not occur to me that an October might arrive when my two true teams would come face to face in a World Series, and that I would have to discover and then declare an ultimate loyalty. The odds against two particular teams’ meeting in a World Series in any given year are so extreme that I felt safe in moonily wishing for this dream date: when it came closer [...] I became hopeful and irritable, exalted and apprehensive, for I didn’t know — had no idea at all — which would break my heart. In dreams begin responsibilities, damn it.
—Roger Angell, “Not So, Boston,” 1986
I entered the current postseason relatively unencumbered by overriding loyalties. There were no Mets to root for, no Yankees to root against, no overly familiar Braves or Phillies to wish spited. Everything was gravy. Open a jar and pour it on.
The two Wild Card play-ins came first, exercises intended to inflict a handicap on the winners. Those poor non-division champion saps; they win a game, yes, but now they’ve used up an essential starting pitcher and absorbed wear and tear their next rivals have had precious time to mend. Serves them right for not finishing first!
Funny thing, though. Instead of moving on to the LDS round weighed down by the extra game, those winners — the Royals in the A.L. and the Giants in the N.L. — were buoyed by it. They had 2014 playoff experience nobody else had. They also had a leg up on the rest of the remaining field in one of those “intangibles” Jimmy the Greek used to tout on Sunday afternoons.
They immediately became my favorites for October. Though I could’ve lived with any number of hypothetical LDS and LCS outcomes, the ones I found myself wanting were the ones that had the Royals and Giants emerging as pennant-winners.
I got what I wanted, which meant I was tasked with an assignment for which I hadn’t bargained: choose between the teams I’d just spent two-plus weeks getting solidly behind. Not exactly Sophie’s Choice material, but still. As happens under the best of Metless postseason circumstances, I’d grown extremely (if fleetingly) fond of two wholly likable outfits. They were making October fun. It seemed cruel to acknowledge one of them has to lose. I suppose I could just root for “good games” and “a long Series,” but I don’t operate that way. I require a rooting interest.
With no baseball in sight on Saturday, I watched — on my iPad, for crissake — a hyperlocally telecast high school football game, the first high school football game I’ve ever watched that didn’t involve the Dillon Panthers or East Dillon Lions. It was the high school around the corner from me versus the high school from maybe a mile away. The key was I decided to have a rooting interest on behalf of the school around the corner. With it, I cared what happened. Without it, I would have been Creepy Rob Lowe keeping one eye on strange 17-year-olds slamming into one another.
Anyway, after one World Series game, the task of choosing a provisional favorite has grown marginally easier. Not too many pitches in, I realized can’t root for the Royals to lose. But I can’t root for the Giants to not win. The San Francisco pull, grounded in recent postseason experience and idealized ancestral loyalties, is edging the desire for an already great Kansas City story to grow into something historically spectacular.
The prior absence and the ongoing enthusiasm of the Royals makes them unquestionably worthy of contemporary affection. I’ll throw in two slight familial connections as well: 1) my Kansas-born wife was quite delighted to see the team that plays practically on Kansas’s doorstep ascend to prominence; and 2) Stephanie and I long ago named our then new kitten (now eldest cat) Hosmer, never dreaming that in some far off future month we’d be watching baseball games in which television announcers are constantly calling out to him. I swear Hosmer (the cat, not the first baseman) perked up at least once when Hosmer (the first baseman, not the cat) notched a big hit against the Orioles.
Then Hozzie went back to his nap and my Wichita gal became distracted by something on her tablet and, for all the Royals’ undeniable charms, the Giants were still my Giants. Maybe not “my Giants” the way Jim Mutrie allegedly meant it — though the 19th-century skipper might have happily mistaken massive Michael Morse for Coit Tower — but my Giants for the duration. They’re like an autumn timeshare I rent out now and then.
When the San Francisco Giants are successful, as they were resoundingly in Tuesday night’s Game One, it provides an excuse for ace statisticians to haul out New York Giants lore. Madison Bumgarner’s stretch of scoreless innings to start a World Series career was second only to Christy Mathewson’s; Joe Panik was the first Giant rookie to triple in a World Series since Bill Terry; by homering and doubling in a World Series game, Hunter Pence was elevated into the same conversation with Mel Ott. For years, nobody brought up old New York Giants. In one night, the three greatest who weren’t Willie Mays all took a Diamond Dust bow.
The orange NY with the familiar Metsian curls certainly factors into my recurring affinity for the SF successor as does my having come to know a passel of Giants loyalists hanging tough right here in the Metropolitan Area. I can’t read an e-mail like I did Monday from a fellow identifying himself as Bob in the Bronx…
“As a fan of the Giants my whole life — I am 65 — I can’t wait for Game One and a chance to win a third Series since 2010. Believe me, I am not greedy, but a truly tortured fan since the late ’50s, having been raised by a father who grew up in Yorkville, was a sandlot pitcher who threw a nasty knuckle curve, and spoke repeatedly of Carl Hubbell, Hal Schumacher and the great teams of the ’20s and ’30s.”
…and not want Bob — who proceeded to catalogue most every pre-2010 disappointment clear back to Willie McCovey’s line drive landing in Bobby Richardson’s glove — to bask in another hard-won round of glory. Then again, in 2002 I didn’t care where the Giants once called home or how many stubborn New Yorkers they let down, as I fell hard for the Angels in that postseason and rooted them home in the Series (Hosmer — the cat — figured into that, too).
As much as I revel in New York Giants lore, it’s the San Francisco version that appeals to me these nights, just as they did in ’12 and ’10. You can get sick of a team that wins every year. I somehow don’t get sick of a team that wins every other year.
I like renewing hostility-free acquaintances with Buster, Panda and Hunter, a trio that sounds and seems ready-made for its own Saturday morning cartoon if they still made Saturday morning cartoons (though I’d advise against calling it Buster: Panda Hunter unless you want to hear from the World Wildlife Fund).
I like that in Belt and Crawford they have true Brandon equity.
I like that during the 18-inning war of attrition against the Nationals, they had due up in one extra inning “Perez, Blanco and Panik,” and I thought those could serve as emergency instructions from a cut-rate Honduran airline.
I like that Tim Hudson is in the World Series and the Braves aren’t.
I like that nine years after he was part of the package that brought the Mets Carlos Delgado, Yusmeiro Petit is the world’s greatest long man. He’s pitched nine innings in two appearances and given up two hits. That’s essentially Roger McDowell against the Astros plus Sid Fernandez against the Red Sox plus a little more. I’d make the Delgado trade again, mind you, but while Carlos awaits his first Hall of Fame ballot this December, Yusmeiro the ex-Met prospect carries on. If nothing else, it reminds me we used to trade for power hitters and those hitters hit for power for us.
I like that if you stare at the back of Petit’s road jersey long enough, it will look like PET IT, which is a fine suggestion when you’re watching a ballgame in the company of a couple of cats.
I like that most of the core of the Giant bullpen is largely intact from 2010. How does that happen?
I like that Buster Posey, in whose name the act of sliding and attempting to score has been forever altered, has run into three outs at home plate this month and the Giants have won each of those games.
I like Bruce Bochy, the Met catcher for 17 games in 1982 who isn’t invoked as an all-time manager but is three wins from deserving a spot in the discussion.
I like Bumgarner becoming this great postseason pitcher without fanfare.
I like that the Giants eliminated the Nationals and the Cardinals, who aren’t the Yankees, Braves or Phillies but are surely the next-worst things.
I like the National League, even if the National League is apparently packed with teams I can’t stand.
I like that the 88-win Giants are in the World Series in 2014 more than two decades after the 103-win Giants of 1993 weren’t invited to the last playoff dance that didn’t include Wild Cards. Even though the Wild Card was supposedly designed to address such blatant omissions and not necessarily lower the standard for October admissions, the delayed cosmic makegood seems fair.
I like that Pablo Sandoval’s first-inning double looked awfully similar to the triple the Panda hit in the first inning of the 2012 All-Star Game at the very same Kauffman Stadium, though I still don’t like Sandoval usurping David Wright’s rightful starting nod at third base, or Matt Cain getting the ball over R.A. Dickey, or Cain reacting like a putz after hitting David in the head in 2009.
I like that Matt Cain is on the shelf, though I’m sorry Angel Pagan and Marco Scutaro are sitting there with him.
I like what Duane Kuiper is doing for his broadcast partner Mike Krukow, never mind that I didn’t care for Krukow being one of those lefties the Mets couldn’t touch when he was pitching.
I like the hell out of Hunter Pence, even if he was a Phillie. I’d be willing to commit that to posterboard.
I like that the Gotham Club exists at Phone Company Park. Nice to see somebody commemorating the rich tradition of New York National League baseball, even if it’s in San Francisco.
I like how the Giants took care of business four and two Octobers ago. I like how they’ve taken care of business to date this October. I don’t dislike the Royals one little bit. If the World Series turns and goes the Royals’ way, I can’t imagine I won’t be happy for Hosmer and the rest of the Kansas City litter. They haven’t stopped being that kind of story. But I haven’t stopped liking the Giants and probably won’t until June 9, when they and probably too many of their fans (who can really put the SF in insufferable) return to Citi Field.
I’ll like rooting against the Giants then. For now, I’m going to lean a little on their side.
I’m guessing the Kansas City Royals didn’t use their extended hiatus between clinching the ALCS and commencing the World Series to get to know our vast array of New York Mets blogs, which is to say I’m also guessing the Kansas City Royals are totally unfamiliar with us and our work. I put that out there because I always find it presumptuous when somebody congratulates a given entity on their well-known achievement when it is obvious that said entity will never encounter those congratulations. Yet I’ll put my reality-based reservations aside for a moment and offer my congratulations to the Kansas City Royals anyway.
Won’t they be thrilled?
The congratulations are not specifically for winning the American League pennant or for starting the postseason 8-0, though, yeah, sure, of course. The victories themselves have been monumental and my applause for them are implicit. Their spurt started by refusing to lose in sudden death and has morphed into a plaintive insistence on winning every time they take the field. As they methodically removed the A’s, the Angels and the Orioles from their path, their journey felt less filled with the angst we associate with our vaguely recalled postseason participation and more informed by a brisk joie de vivre. K.C. hasn’t made it look easy, but they have made it look simple. Perhaps if and when they drop a game or have to scuffle from behind again, it will get heavy at Kauffman Stadium. Thus far, the scene is as light as a puffy cumulus cloud.
All of the above is congratulations-worthy, but the achievement I admire most is that by their reaching this penultimate plateau, the Royals have ensured they are no longer that team.
What team? You know, that team. They’re no longer that team the rest of use as our default negative example to illustrate so many undesirable conditions. Without even thinking about it, somewhere between the mid-1990s and no more than a couple of years ago, you probably did it. I know I was prone to do it. It was a reflex reaction by the turn of the century.
• A bad team — like the Royals.
• A hopeless team — like the Royals.
• A perennially overmatched team — like the Royals.
• A team that can’t keep its young talent together — like the Royals.
• Why are they showing us Royals highlights?
• This is a big game, not some Tuesday night against the Royals.
• Look at how easy their remaining schedule is — six of their last nine games are against the Royals!
• It’s a shame about the Royals.
• I feel sorry for Royals fans.
• I wouldn’t want the Mets to wind up like the Royals.
You can certainly strike that last one. Every team’s fans but one at this instant should want their club to wind up exactly where the Royals are, and perhaps Giants fans will feel that way in four to seven games. You don’t have to have cared very much about the Royals over the bulk of the past three decades to appreciate what they’ve accomplished and to envy their current standing. You needn’t approve their every step up to this moment to celebrate their arrival. The team from next to nowhere now stands next to a championship. My goodness, that’s exhilarating.
There’s a reservoir of goodwill for these Royals. They don’t seem to have hacked off anybody during their years at competitive liberty. There’s no good reason to begrudge them their run to glory. When they won their pennant, Ernie Johnson on TBS framed it as having ended “29 years of frustration”. That didn’t sound quite right. Frustration is coming close and not getting there. That wasn’t the Royals. More like desolation. You never heard about them except when someone was groping around for a handy example of futility.
Most Octobers include an entrant that hasn’t been there before or in a great long while. Maybe that mystery team makes itself at home for the postseason haul. If your allegiances aren’t already spoken for (and if you don’t have a good reason to maintain stubborn enmity in their direction), you’re as likely as not to attach yourself to their cause. Call it bandwagoneering, if you insist. There’s only so many teams and so much baseball left. You wouldn’t be a baseball-loving human if you weren’t drawn to one of a dwindling few.
On the last night of September, the Royals charged into our consciousness with a plethora of rootable qualities and they’ve done nothing to discourage temporary acolytes from digging deep for additional emotional busfare. Theirs has been a fresh powder-blue breeze blowing across this nation, and as it brushes our extremities, it touches us as distinct from anything that’s wafted our autumnal way in ages. Granted, it’s probably a little like plenty of since-diminished winds that have rippled previous October skies. Teal breezes. Purple breezes. Breezes pushed into the atmosphere by unfortunate mascots and gestures. Of course the breeze off Flushing Bay that moved heaven and earth 45 years ago last week. I can still feel that one at my back.
This current meteorological pattern, though, feels just different enough to grab your attention and keep it a while. It’s Kansas City’s, first and foremost, but we can all revel in its invigorating properties.
And when it’s over, we can turn our attention to doing something about passages like this one from Adam Kilgore in the Washington Post on October 7…
After Harper’s blast pulled the Nats even in a do-or-die game, Williams stuck to the same plan he would have used in a July affair against the New York Mets.
…and this one from Tim Keown on ESPN.com ten days later…
But scripting doesn’t always work in baseball, and the script for the second game of a three-game series against the Mets in May is far different from the realities of a season-in the-balance playoff game in mid-October.
The subject in both cases was bullpen management. The subtext was when baseball gets real, don’t act like you’re just playing the Mets. In other words, we’re that team these days. Or one of them, at any rate.
Maybe someday soon we won’t be. If it can happen to the Royals, I’d like to believe it can happen to anybody. Even us.
Today is the fifteenth anniversary of perhaps the most iconic base hit in the history of the New York Mets. To commemorate the events of October 17, 1999, here is an excerpt from what I wrote the month the Grand Slam Single turned ten.
Four o’clock start Sunday. Too much down time to consider my credo or mantra or whatever you want to call it. No team has ever come back to win a postseason series when trailing three games to none, but several teams have come back to win a postseason series when trailing three games to one. And that’s us now. I’d think in those terms that afternoon, but it was too long an afternoon to sit around thinking about it.
So I left the house. I needed a distraction from my diversion. I drove to Tower Records in Carle Place to search out a CD I didn’t particularly need, but it was something to do. Of course I’m wearing a Mets shirt. On the way from my car to the store, I pass a mother and two children, both boys, one in Yankee gear.
Do I stare straight ahead? Do I exchange the slightest gesture indicating that we’re both in the playoffs and we all might be in the same Series if things go right for both of us? Do I gird for the kind of incivility to which I’ve grown accustomed from their kind since 1996?
The older kid, not even 12:
Mets! Ha! HA HA! METS! HA!
The mother laughs along. The whole bunch of them are laughing. We’re in an LCS against the Braves. They’re in an LCS against the Red Sox. Yet my team is somehow laughable.
I grumble at them. They continue to cackle.
How do we keep throwing Yoshii against Hall of Famers? He went up against Randy Johnson and we survived. He went up against Maddux and it wasn’t helpful. Here we are again, Game Five, and it’s Masato and the Mad Dog.
Masato is winning early. The skies are gray, but John Olerud isn’t gloomy. He takes Maddux deep in the first inning, with Rickey Henderson on. Mets lead the Braves 2-0. Yoshii leads Maddux 2-0.
Yeah, that’ll last.
Fourth inning: A Boone double, a Larry double, a Jordan single. Now it’s 2-2. Maddux has evened the score with Yoshii.
Hope you like pitching, defense and runners left on base. That’s all we’re going to have for quite a while.
The day game became a night game. The gray skies opened up. Somebody sitting between home and one of the dugouts covered himself with a popcorn bucket. Was it really that hard to remember to bring an umbrella?
Bobby Valentine works day or night, rain or shine. Bobby Valentine came to Shea to manage on October 17, 1999. If the Mets were going to die, it wasn’t going to be because a single button went unpushed. The evening became a blur of smartly deployed relievers and well-preserved pinch-hitters. Dennis Cook may not have enjoyed serving as little more than a scarecrow (brought in to complete an intentional walk), but the mere sight of his left arm shooed Ryan Klesko right out of the game. Bobby burned a useful pitcher between Turk Wendell and Pat Mahomes, but what he was gonna save them for — winter?
The bullpen went Hershiser to Wendell to Cook to Mahomes to Franco to Benitez to Rogers from the fourth through the twelfth. Seven relievers surrendered nothing of substance. All the Mets hitters combined to score just as much. It was a Flushing standoff. Seven relievers became eight when Octavio Dotel succeeded Kenny Rogers after The Gambler’s two scoreless frames. The Braves got to Octavio in the top of the thirteenth, but not to Melvin Mora. The man who threw out a Diamondback from left the week before and a Brave from center two nights before cut down Keith Lockhart when he tried to score from first on a Chipper Jones double with two out. Melvin’s throw beat Lockhart by a significant margin. An attempt to bowl over the aching Piazza was to no avail. The baseball game continued knotted at two.
The Mets didn’t score in their half of the thirteenth. Mike was done after that (thanks Keith). Todd Pratt nursed Dotel through the top of the fourteenth. John Rocker, who continued to suck even while pitching a perfect thirteenth, got Ventura to start the bottom of the fourteenth. Having retired Fonzie, Oly, Piazza and Robin as if they weren’t the heart of the order, he was removed in favor of rookie Kevin McGlinchy. He wasn’t scary like Rocker but he was similarly effective, giving up nothing of consequence.
Onto the fifteenth inning of October 17, 1999, the inning everybody remembers. Comparatively few remember the top of it, but it’s worth noting that it nearly killed the Mets’ season right then and there.
The Mets had had a postseason date with Walt Weiss, but they stood him up. That was in October 1988. Weiss was the pending American League Rookie of the Year on the powerhouse Oakland Athletics. He was their shortstop, playing alongside Jose Canseco, Mark McGwire and Rickey Henderson. The Suffern High School graduate was part of a team that was going to meet its literal match in the powerhouse New York Mets of 1988. It was going to be a clash of titans, the most hotly anticipated World Series of the 1980s. The only thing that could prevent the Mets and the A’s from meeting would be forgetfulness. Sure enough, the ’88 Mets forgot to win the National League Championship Series, letting it slip to the Dodgers instead. Walt Weiss’s first World Series, thus, would come against Los Angeles, not New York. Being there wouldn’t work out any better for the A’s than missing it had for the Mets.
Had Weiss held a grudge from 1988 to 1999 against the Mets for keeping family and friends from attending a convenient October affair? Was he still feeling a pinch from the airfare it must have cost to fly them out to the West Coast instead of telling them to drive down to Queens from Rockland? Was Walt Weiss planning on getting even one of these days with those inconsiderate Mets?
Or was he just incidentally screwing them by leading off the fifteenth by singling and then stealing second?
The Braves had left fifteen runners on base since the fourth. Had Mets relievers been any less successful, their season would have been over by now. The guy with the popcorn bucket on his head could have grabbed a towel or something. But nine pitchers conspired to keep him wet. It would be a shame for him to dry off now.
Keith Lockhart must have noticed the man and taken perverse pity. He lashed a two-out triple to center, scoring local boy Weiss and making it Braves 3 Mets 2. Dotel, an alternately brilliant and disastrous starter during the season, had proven the first Met reliever to crack. To his credit, he repaired his fissure, striking out Jordan after an intentional walk to Jones.
Nice recovery. And completely worthless if the bottom of the fifteenth didn’t hold something better in store.
Shawon Dunston, the centerfielder who had no prayer on Lockhart’s triple, had a couple of things in common with Walt Weiss. First, he was local. Shawon was from Brooklyn. Also, he was an old shortstop. Difference was Weiss was still a shortstop. Dunston had once gunned throws from the hole to first like nobody could. But that was a long time ago by 1999. Now he was mostly an outfielder when he played. Another thing he didn’t have in common with Walt Weiss was postseason experience. Walt Weiss was a rookie in 1988 and played on three World Series clubs his first three years, winning the one in the middle. Dunston came up to the Cubs in 1985 and had made only one playoff appearance, on the losing end of the ’89 NLCS.
It was ten years later. Dunston had been around, far from Brooklyn, far from his favorite childhood team, the Mets. He wasn’t particularly choked up when Steve Phillips acquired him from St. Louis in July. He liked St. Louis. He had just bought a house there. Every ballplayer likes St. Louis and every ballplayer who buys a house is soon traded. Or so it seems. Dunston found himself dabbling in more real estate than he wanted in the summer of ’99. Now, in the suddenly very late fall, he was trying to get something started at home.
The Mets made Walt Weiss wait eleven years and fourteen innings for a postseason moment near where he was from. Now Shawon Dunston would make everybody wait almost as long for same. He would not walk (he literally never did as a Met). He would not make out. He would just work Kevin McGlinchy until he could get the pitch he could convert into a single.
We could wait…
They don’t play doubleheaders in the postseason, but you couldn’t have told that from the talk entering the sixth game of the 1986 National League Championship Series. The Mets led the Astros three games to two, having won two dramatic games at Shea. They flew to Houston one win away from a pennant. Yet it was said the pressure was on the Mets. They lose Game Six, they lose Game Seven: it was a daily double. The Mets couldn’t win Game Seven because it would be started by the evil Mike Scott, he who scuffed baseballs and made them dip, dart and dance so Mets batters — not even 1986 Mets batters — could hope to touch them.
It doesn’t sound legal, but it was.
Scott’s warmup act, Bob Knepper, was exactly all the Astros needed. He shushed the Mets for eight excruciating innings, taking an early 3-0 lead and maintaining it clear to the top of the ninth. Knepper had been tough noogies on the Mets all year, long before Scott emerged as resourceful and suffocatingly effective. The Mets — even the 1986 Mets — had all kinds of problems against very good lefties.
To lead off the visitors’ ninth, Davey Johnson sent up Lenny Dykstra to pinch-hit for Rick Aguilera. It wasn’t a percentage move. It was a lefty versus a lefty. But it worked. Dykstra stroked one to center, over the head of Billy Hatcher. Lenny rolled into third with a leadoff triple. It was still 3-0 Houston and we were about to play eight more innings, but I knew…I mean I knew the Mets would never have to look at Mike Scott again in 1986. They were going to win this game.
Sometimes a leadoff hit tells you everything.
On the twelfth pitch of the first at-bat of the bottom of the fifteenth inning, Shawon Dunston matched Walt Weiss and singled. He became the tying run at first. It was the first time the entire game the Mets had needed one of those.
Three months before, I wasn’t nearly as confident about a Met victory. I wanted to be, because we were playing the Yankees. For a few minutes here and there that Saturday afternoon at Shea, I was supremely confident, never more so than when Mike Piazza just absolutely walloped the bejeesus out of a Ramiro Mendoza delivery, sending it far over the left field wall and on to the roof of the Picnic Area tent. That made the score Mets 7 Yankees 6 in the seventh, and I couldn’t resist.
“YEAH! THAT’S RIGHT! YEAH! YOU!”
I don’t know exactly what I was yelling or who specifically I was yelling it at, but I was telling off every obnoxious Yankees fan in my section of the upper Upper Deck. When one of them made eye contact, I only pumped up my volume.
“YEAH! I’M TALKING TO YOU! YEAH!”
And all I could think was oh no, what have I done? It wasn’t pissing off Yankees fans that worried me (it was quite cathartic, actually), it was pissing off the baseball gods. That wasn’t a walkoff home run. This was the seventh inning. There were two very long frames remaining and the Yankees had already hit five home runs. What were the chances they wouldn’t hit a sixth?
I didn’t have time to calculate the odds. With one on and one out in the top of the eighth, the other team’s catcher, Jorge Posada, hit his second home run of the day. Now it was the obnoxious Yankees fans (also known as the Yankees fans) who were braying, squawking, woofing, whatever animal noise they make. We were losing 8-7, and they still had Mariano Rivera waiting around.
They didn’t score any more in the eighth, but neither did we. Somehow, they were held at bay in the ninth, which was nice, but here came the bottom of the ninth and here came Rivera and the likelihood that this was going to be the worst day I’d ever experience inside Shea Stadium.
Brian McRae grounds out to start the inning. Big surprise. But then Rickey Henderson, on base four times already, walks. Fonzie, so often the man in ’99, hits a fly ball that those not in Row T of Section 36 are pretty sure will be caught by Gold Glove centerfielder Bernie Williams. Except that’s fool’s gold down there. We hear a roar and we see baserunners: Henderson’s on third, Alfonzo’s on second. Williams, it seems, couldn’t handle a fairly simple deep fly ball (my favorite WFAN call of the year: the Yankee fan that week who insisted Bernie was defenseless having to play such an unfamiliar outfield, what with its grass, warning track and fence).
Olerud was up next, and I assumed he’d win it the same way he won it against Curt Schilling seven weeks earlier at Shea. How odd that he didn’t. He grounded out. I was genuinely surprised. But then I was confident because Mike was up and…oh, right, they’ll walk him.
Bases loaded, two out, we’re down a run. Everybody is screaming. Everybody but some effete prig in Row S who’s quietly reading the Times. I’m yelling and disturbing him, apparently, because he turns around and gives me this “what’s wrong with you?” look that would be appropriate in a Christian Science reading room perhaps, but not here. I’m at an 8-7 Subway Series ballgame, you’re reading the Times and I’m crazy, mister? I divined he was there at the behest of his Yankee fan children.
Oh how I hate them.
Anyway, the bases are loaded and my confidence is brimming until I look at the scoreboard because in my hysteria I’ve actually forgotten. Benny Agbayani started in right and hit fifth, but Bobby took him out for defense once Mike hit the go-ahead homer. But now we’re behind and his replacement is Melvin Mora. This is not the awesome Melvin Mora of October. This is the .067-hitting Melvin Mora of July, going up against Mariano Fucking Rivera, who we already know is going to the Hall of Fame. We don’t know anything about Melvin Mora except that he makes this a very poor matchup and it’s going to suck so much leaving Section 36 among all these fucking Yankees fans who are just going to have their empty existences validated in a matter of moments.
That’s when Del DeMontreux announces batting for Melvin Mora, No. 15, Matt Franco.
Ohimigod! Bobby Valentine is an absolute freaking genius! How did we get to the bottom of the ninth of a game in which seventeen different Mets have participated and still have our best pinch-hitter available? How has Matt Franco not been used yet? What was Bobby saving him for?
For this, of course. For facing the best reliever on the planet. For a 1-2 count (ball one considered strike three in some cynical circles) at which point one of the great Rivera’s cutters is lined into right field, easily scoring Henderson and, by a hair or two on Paul O’Neill’s strong throw, plating Edgardo Alfonzo.
The signature contest of the 1999 season goes down as Mets 9 Yankees 8. Matt Franco is awesome. Bobby Valentine is no slouch himself. And all of us who deserve to feel wonderful are beyond happy.
Hey, whaddaya know? It’s the fifteenth inning of the literal do-or-die fifth game of the NLCS and look who Bobby Valentine has saved for just this moment: It’s Matt Franco, batting for Dotel.
Again, I’m surprised. I shouldn’t be, but I am.
Franco stepped in. Dunston took off. He stole second.
There. Just like that.
No Met baserunner had gotten as far as second since the sixth. Practically an entire regulation baseball game had passed since a Met was in scoring position. By my reckoning, however, Dunston was home. I got the same feeling from his leadoff single that I got from Dykstra’s leadoff triple thirteen years earlier. Now it was essentially a leadoff double and we had Matt Franco up. Bobby had saved him all these innings precisely because there had been no great reason to use him before. Don’t waste Matt if there’s no runner in scoring position. We finally have one.
Franco walked twenty times as a pinch-hitter in 1999. It was a record. He walks here. It’s not surprising, nor is it particularly bad news. Would have been neater had he driven in Dunston, but he took what McGlinchy gave him. Matt Franco was the master of taking.
Twenty-seven home runs. One-hundred eight runs batted in. A batting average of .304. And with two on and none out, he is asked to bunt.
So Edgardo Alfonzo bunts. He can do it all and do it well. Fonzie sacrifices himself for the greater good. As a result, Shawon Dunston is on third and Matt Franco is on second.
How I loved that man.
Bobby Cox attempts strategy. He orders Olerud walked. He sticks with McGlinchy, even though he can theoretically end this series if he can escape this inning unscathed. Cox used Smoltz to finish out Game Two even though Smoltz would be his Game Four starter. Kevin Millwood, the Game Two and potential Game Six starter, could have come in here. So could have Gl@v!ne, who pitched Friday night and wouldn’t see action again until Wednesday at the earliest, if at all. They weren’t relievers but they weren’t McGlinchy either. Pennant on the line, Kevin McGlinchy’s not necessarily your best option if you have others.
Bobby Valentine has none anymore, not where the bullpen is concerned. He is warming up his last two pitchers: Rick Reed and Al Leiter. They’re both starters. One went in the last game. One is going in the next game if such a thing exists. As if to emphasize the point, he replaces leadfooted Franco at second with normally speedy Cedeño. Roger’s been sitting with a bad back. It’s all Mets on deck now. He’s the last position player Valentine has. His last two pitchers are throwing.
Leave no Met behind.
McGlinchy stays in to face Pratt, who came in for Piazza when Mike could go on no further. There was a time when that would have seemed risky, but that was before Todd Pratt made himself a Met legend by ending the NLDS with a home run eight days ago. It was also before the fifteenth inning and its prevailing anything-goes ethic. If Bobby could have snuck a Mets uniform onto the popcorn bucket guy, he might have sent him up to hit.
And I would have had all the confidence in the world in him.
When Mookie Wilson dodged an inside pitch from Bob Stanley in Game Six in the 1986 World Series, millions of Mets fans exhaled. We couldn’t lose in the tenth inning as it appeared we would. Kevin Mitchell raced home and made it Mets 5 Red Sox 5. That was the burden lifted right there. We’d keep playing, at least a little longer. We were no longer down to our last out, our last strike.
It’s one of those facts that’s known but not widely acknowledged because of what happened next. What is remembered much better is how the Mets won Game Six. Of course it’s worth remembering, what with the ground ball trickling and the first baseman not fielding it and Ray Knight racing home and pandemonium overtaking Shea. But it was tied. All hope was not lost before the ball went through Bill Buckner’s legs.
Tying a game is important. What Todd Pratt did, drawing a walk, was important. By accepting ball four from Kevin McGlinchy, he ensured that the Mets season was not over in the fifteenth inning. We had inched back from the brink.
It’s one of those facts that’s known but not widely acknowledged because of what happened next.
Dean Palmer had a fine 1999 with the Detroit Tigers. Maybe he would have had a fine 1999 with the New York Mets. In the offseason between ’98 and ’99, there was a local baseball columnist — Tom Keegan in the Post — who insisted in that way tabloid columnists have of hammering points into submission that Palmer was exactly the free agent third baseman the Mets needed to get over the hump. Look at those numbers: 34 homers and 119 ribbies for Kansas City. Think of how perfectly that righthanded power would fit behind Mike Piazza. The Mets must get Dean Palmer!
The Mets had another idea, another free agent third baseman. Third base wasn’t actually a problem for them. Alfonzo did a more than representative job there for two seasons. It was second that was a mess. Carlos Baerga was nothing close to what he had been in Cleveland. He’d be gone after ’98. Fonzie was versatile. What the Mets decided to do was tap that versatility and shift him to second. It would make third base a hole again, however. That was an old Met story.
The new Met solution? Not Dean Palmer of the Royals, but Robin Ventura of the White Sox. His power numbers were lesser, but he was a lefty (allowing Bobby Valentine to mix up his batting order to confound opposing managers: Fonzie the righty preceding Oly the lefty, who was ahead of righty Mike who would then be followed by lefthanded Ventura). And he was a Gold Glove third baseman. The Mets had never had one of those. Fonzie deserved one in ’97, but Robin Ventura was supposed to be state-of-the-art.
I say “supposed to be,” because who the hell knew what went on in the American League? I didn’t. I knew Ventura was a hot prospect once, fought with Nolan Ryan once and was presumably a good hitter, though everybody in the American League had eye-popping stats. It didn’t seem like a bad idea bringing in Robin Ventura.
I had no conception, however, what a great idea it was.
Steve Phillips, reasonably maligned general manager of those Mets, made one indisputably awesome move as team architect when he signed Ventura. He transformed the infield, transformed the batting order and transformed the clubhouse with one stroke. Robin was everywhere in 1999. He was out front as no Met had been since Keith Hernandez. Not the same type of personality from what we could tell but he seemed to fit the mold of guy who came in and led the team by deed and example. Keith came over in 1983 and the Mets were much better by 1984. That Met hump from 1998 — just missing the Wild Card in exasperating fashion — suddenly got a lot more scalable with Robin Ventura at third, batting fifth, raising all kinds of Mojo.
Robin was having a lousy postseason. He hit .214 against Arizona. His final average against Atlanta would be .120. And nobody remembers any of that.
At first, it was a grand slam home run, right out of the Robin Ventura playbook. Robin hit grand slams like some guys take toothpicks when leaving a diner. He hit one in each end of a doubleheader in May. While it was certainly triumphant and dramatic — how’s that for understatement? — it was, to a certain extent, what you’d expect out of Robin Ventura.
What it turned out to be was something nobody would have ever expected.
Ventura against McGlinchy. Ventura swings. It’s a long fly ball. At that point, the game is over. The ball has gone to deep right. It’s a sac fly if nothing else. From its trajectory, it can’t be anything worse for the Mets or better for the Braves. If it can be caught by Brian Jordan, there’s no way he can throw out Roger Cedeño unless Roger Cedeño is literally paralyzed.
Keeping an eye on the ball, it’s becoming rapidly clear that the ball will not be caught by Brian Jordan. It’s too deep. It’s not going to the wall. It’s going over it. It is indeed a Robin Ventura grand slam.
It is triumphant. It is dramatic. It is incredible, actually. It is instantly the most Amazin’ thing any Met has done since Mookie put the right English on that ball he hit to Buckner. We’ve gone from a 3-3 tie to a 7-3 win. We are very much alive.
We are so happy.
I know I am. Mrs. Prince and I have positioned ourselves in front of our TV, right in front of it, I mean — on the floor. As Robin’s fly ball climbs higher, I stand up and watch. And once it’s out and it’s a grand slam, I’m overcome. I jump up and down, but that’s not enough. I have to launch myself as Robin has launched his four-run homer. I must make like a missile and head straight for my wife. We are going to do what teammates have been doing for years. We are going to dogpile on the mound.
She doesn’t know this. She’s seen celebrations on the field, but she forgets details. What’s more, she’s not on the field. She’s on the living room carpet. Now we both are. I have jumped on top of her. I am screaming and hugging and screaming. Stephanie does not have the capacity to raise her voice in any discernible fashion. Once we rode a roller coaster. She let out a sound like a car alarm laughing nervously. That’s what I heard here.
Nobody was injured in the celebration of this grand slam, I’m relieved to report.
I’ve got nothing on Todd Pratt when it comes to forging togetherness with teammates. Tank, who was on first when Ventura swung, is delirious that the Mets have won this game. First, he does the right thing. He runs to second. That’s what you do on a hit. You run forward, you take your base. Cedeño ran home from third, certainly. Olerud arrived at third from second. Robin, natch, ran to first. Everybody tagged the next base.
But that’s all that’s going to get tagged. Pratt turns around from second and heads toward first. Robin is distressed and waves him off. You can’t run in the wrong direction! You have to keep running to third! You…
“They’re mobbing him before he can get to second base!” the ever thorough Gary Cohen reports.
You can’t stop a Tank in its tracks. The Mets, who had been doing the unbelievable for weeks, defied credulity yet again. They turned a home run into a single. Because Pratt jubilantly tackled Ventura — and every other Met followed — Robin technically didn’t hit a homer. He didn’t drive in four runs. He drove in one. It wasn’t a 7-3 final. It was 4-3. The Mets still won, just not by as much. The ball cleared the fence, but it was a single.
It was a grand slam single.
Only the Mets.
Next day at work all I wanted to talk about was the Mets. And all anybody wanted to talk to me about was the Mets. There was this one very flinty woman from Oregon. We had never had a conversation that rose above cordial and businesslike. Yet on the elevator on the way out that Monday night, she said, “That was some game yesterday. I’m not a baseball fan, but I couldn’t stop watching. Fifteen innings…that was incredible.”
Yes, I said. Yes, it was.
October 16, 1969, 45 years ago today. I was watching. I was hooked.
How to build lifetime brand loyalty:
1) Find an impressionable six-year-old.
2) Put him in front of a television.
3) Show him the thing he recently discovered reaching its absolute peak.
4) Show him how happy everybody looks celebrating that ascension.
5) Hope the six-year-old is the type to remain stubbornly moored to that thing as he grows to be seven, seventeen, twenty-seven and so on into eternity…so stubbornly moored that even though repeat instances of that thing’s absolute peak ascension and corresponding celebration are exceedingly rare, he sticks with them forever probably because of what happened when he was six.
Complimentary consulting advice from a professional. Feel free to use it in Kansas City soon and Flushing again.
Thanks to @MetsPics for finding the above image. Thanks to the 1969 Mets for creating the scene.
What constitutes a trend? For our purposes, let’s say it’s when two people you know relay to you, independent of one another, the same piece of information accompanied by a similar slice of curiosity.
In her upcoming memoir, Not That Kind Of Girl, the reliably trendy Lena Dunham says her gynecologist used to pitch for the Mets. This is how she says it:
“Randy is my gynecologist. I have had a number of gynecologists over the years, all talented in their own ways, but Randy is the best. He is an older Jewish man who, before deciding to inspect ladies down there for a living, played for the Mets. He still has the can-do determination of a pitcher on an underdog team and, to my mind, that is exactly the kind of man you want delivering babies or rooting around in your vagina.”
Isn’t that a great story? Even it’s probably a story?
I don’t wish to cast aspersions upon the veracity of the creator and epicenter of Girls, a critically acclaimed (if periodically scorned) HBO series that a couple of seasons ago did include the rather random line, “Did ya hear that? The Mets are up, three-two.” When the Mets make an appearance on prestige cable, I am most definitely appreciative.
Still, even while respecting doctor-patient confidentiality, what the fudge? (On Girls, the phrasing wouldn’t be so PG-13.) Who among 984 Mets present and past could Lena Dunham be referring to?
My trend-generating friends have already saved me the trouble of doing the detective work regarding Mets named Randy. Thanks to them, I can tell you that there have been six, five of whom were pitchers, three on decidedly underdog teams.
• Randy Sterling, 1974
• Randy Tate, 1975
• Randy Jones, 1981-1982
• Randy Niemann, 1985-1986
• Randy Myers, 1985-1989
• Randy Milligan, 1987
We can eliminate Randy Niemann, for we know, from his stints as Met bullpen coach, he is a “baseball lifer” (unlike most coaches who apparently just dabble in baseball; what an odd term). Similarly, Randy Jones instructs Padres pitchers every spring and erstwhile first baseman Randy Milligan is an Orioles scout. Randy Sterling, according to an Ultimate Mets Database memory-leaver, went into parks and recreation (actual parks & rec, not the TV show). Randy Tate, a UMDB source assures, is not a doctor. Randy Myers returned to the Pacific Northwest after his playing days were over and no available evidence suggests he pursued medicine.
So let’s assume “Randy” is a pseudonym. Let’s take the other aspect of Lena Dunham’s description of her ex-Met doctor as “an older Jewish man”. There have been eleven Mets who, whether by faith, heritage or partial identity, could be referred to as Jewish.
Five of them — Shawn Green, David Newhan, Scott Schoeneweis, Ike Davis and Josh Satin — have been busy playing baseball during the past decade, which would make it difficult for them to have obtained the necessary degrees, set up a practice and attract a star-studded clientele. Also, although Lena seems impossibly young to have achieved as much as she has, I have to imagine even 41-year-old Green doesn’t strike 28-year-old Dunham as “older” in the classic sense. (If, somehow, it’s Scheoeneweis, I hope her insurance covers catastrophic events.)
Three of them — Joe Ginsberg, Greg Goossen and Dave Roberts — are no longer with us. If Ms. Dunham is referring to one of them, she might be overdue for a checkup.
That leaves Norm Sherry, Art Shamsky and Elliott Maddox. I’ve seen Shamsky and Maddox interviewed enough to discern that they don’t doctor for a living. Sherry is 81, which meets the general age requirement, but he stayed in baseball well after his playing days were over. (Sherry was a catcher, not a pitcher, though I suppose a well-worn mitt might come in handy for holding on to newborns.)
OK, so no former Met named Randy and no former Met who is or was Jewish seems to be Lena Dunham’s gynecologist. Why, then, would she say such a thing?
A few theories:
1) She’s a clever girl who makes up things. It’s gotten her this far.
2) The mystery doctor entertained her with a fun backstory and she bought it.
3) The mystery doctor perhaps tried out for the Mets or was drafted in a low round by the Mets and Lena misinterpreted those credentials as a genuine, The Holy Books-caliber Met career. (Every now and then I meet someone who, when they find out I’m a baseball fan, can’t wait to tell me about a relative who “was scouted” for the majors. What the hell, it’s closer than I’ll ever get.)
I could be wrong. I’m not a doctor to the stars and I don’t play one on TV, so maybe when Dunham’s book comes out, so will the OB/GYN who treats a famous patient, but first takes off his World Series ring before doing so.
It’s also possible, a fellow blogger points out, that she’s gullible as hell and is thus susceptible to terribly lame pickup lines in bars. And that would be fine, too, especially if she uses it in her show.
I’m thinking of the next season of Girls. It should be set in the summer of 2013, when Dunham as lead character Hannah Horvath and her sort of classy on-again, off-again pal Marnie decide to ditch their first-world problems in Brooklyn and jet to Las Vegas for a weekend of high jinks.
It’s about time. While I’ve been waiting for you here in the bar, I’ve had to fend off this rumpled little guy with a mustache who just reeks of Marlboros. Kept talking about how somebody owes him his big break and that he can’t stand being stuck “riding the buses,” whatever that means. I think he went out to buy more cigarettes. Uch.
Really? I just met this great guy in the casino. Sexy facial hair, lots of soul AND he’s from New York.
What’s his name?
Ike. Ike something.
You just broke up with Adam and you’ve found another one just like him.
No, he’s completely different. Ike is an athlete.
Yeah. He’s plays for the Mets!
The Mets, Hannah?
Yes. He told me he’s one of their best players. He hit 32 home runs last year, which sounds like A LOT. What?
Think about it, Hannah. If he really hit 32 home runs in the big leagues last year, then what’s he doing in Las Vegas? Wouldn’t he be in New York or somewhere with the Mets right now?
Maybe he’s attending a professional conclave. Like a convention of baseball players.
Don’t they play baseball in New York this time of year?
Well, my gynecologist told me…
The Jewish one who also “played for the Mets”?
Yes, kindly old Dr. Metsenbaum. Dr. Metsenbaum told me they take a little break every summer.
And you believe everything your gynecologist tells you.
I have to. I can’t maintain such an intimate relationship without a certain degree of mutual trust. He trusts me to keep my appointments, I trust him to have played for the Mets.
Hannah, I worry about you.
Don’t. It’s all very Zen. It’s like my doctor says, “you gotta believe.”
Your doctor said that?
He invented it. He said it was his thing.
It was very definitely a thing — a thing Tug McGraw came up with like forty years ago.
Tug McGraw. He was a Met and he invented that phrase. Even I know that.
Well, maybe that was my gynecologist’s stage name. Baseball players have those, don’t they?
How do you figure?
All that stuff about “performance-enhancing drugs” means athletes are performers, and performers have stage names. You know, like Lana Turner. Or The Rock.
You think he was born “The Rock”? I don’t think so. And don’t tell me he’s not a performer. We both laughed when he hosted SNL, remember?
Look, I just Googled Tug McGraw. Your gynecologist is definitely not Tug McGraw.
I didn’t say he was. Besides, I can’t keep arguing with you about this. I told Ike I’m gonna meet him for dinner.
Dinner and what else?
He says he wants me to help him with his stance.
His stance? Hannah, don’t you understand a euphemism when you hear one?
Ike says the only thing holding him back is his “stance” and he wants to hear my thoughts on it. He coincidentally also has a rumpled little guy with a mustache who reeks of Marlboros helping him out, but it doesn’t hurt to get a second opinion. I think Dr. Metsenbaum would approve.
Can’t promise everything said on this program will come true, but I try to offer an honest assessment of the Mets on The Happy Recap Radio Show. Listen in here.