So I hope it was fun. It sure sounded fun.
What a difference a double shot of some payroll love makes. Thanks to Pedro and Carlos, I wasn't nervous as today's game unfolded over the radio. Not as Pettitte kept throwing zeroes. Not when we somehow turned a pickoff into a stolen base despite the presence of Mientkiewicz. (Who's as good as advertised. Keep glovin' it, Minky.) Not after Aybar let everything go to hell. Not when Jose Vizcaino continued his lifelong quest to kill us at every turn. (How old is the Viz, anyway? He'll be beating us in 2018, won't he?) Not when Willie was giving away outs by opting for the bunt. (It turned out OK, so I'll spare you the stats.) Not when Victor Diaz was doing silly things on the basepaths and in the outfield. Not when Jose hit a comebacker to Russ Springer and I knew he had Diaz dead to rights at the plate. Not even when the stadium, um, broke. Beautiful sunny day, let's get out the bats and balls.
If I'm permitted a moderately shameful confession, there was a bit of glee at seeing Floyd spoil Johnny Franco's homecoming. Because how many times did I have to suffer just such a game-killer? Defensive indifference, little bouncer, Franco doesn't quite glove it, it slithers through the infield, two runs score. I mean, everything was familiar except the uniform. But if I should be ashamed, from the sound of things so should at least 20,000 other Met fans. We'll remember that we love each other, Franco and Met Nation, but right now we need some time apart.
Last week I finally remembered to do some TiVo hunting and recorded the grand-slam-single game from ESPN Classic. (Or, more properly, the three-hour abridgement.) Emily and I started watching some of it a couple of days back, which in hindsight wasn't a good idea: This is the time of year one's always having trouble warming up to the new incarnation of the team, getting used to the new TV and radio ads, and subconsciously wondering if one can really handle another long campaign with all its attendant agonies, all of which made it far from the best time to relive the glory days of a vanished roster. Emily and I pointed out Edgardo Alfonzo to Joshua, watched Olerud's early home run off Maddux, and then settled into a quiet sadness. Where have you gone, Todd Pratt? A household turns its lonely eyes to you….
But life intervened and so I didn't resume playback until tonight. And with two wins under our belts, the sadness was just a faint note, and I started noticing things I hadn't noticed before. Eewww, Bonilla and Cedeno. Eewww, Glavine and Gerald Williams and Galarraga — thank God they're not on our team. We went to the sixth game of the NLCS with Chuck McElroy on our roster? Can't someone explain the intentional-walk rule to Gary Thorne?
I'm signing off to await the Shawon Dunston at-bat: If they abridge that one, I'm getting in a cab to Bristol with murder in my eye. As for 2005, whaddya mean there's no game tomorrow? Beautiful sunny day….