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Jason Fry and Greg Prince
Faith and Fear in Flushing made its debut on Feb. 16, 2005, the brainchild of two longtime friends and lifelong Met fans.

Greg Prince discovered the Mets when he was 6, during the magical summer of 1969. He is a Long Island-based writer, editor and communications consultant. Contact him here.

Jason Fry is a Brooklyn writer whose first memories include his mom leaping up and down cheering for Rusty Staub. Check out his other writing here.

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Zombie Baseball

I dunno, man, they look pretty undead to me.

Nothing like soothing a fan base that's not very forgiving in the first place by playing nine innings of pathetic, lead-ass baseball. The bottom of the 7th was particularly disgusting: terrible pitch selection by Jose Reyes, Jose Offerman managing to break back to first on a line-drive single up the middle and then jog to second to be forced out (leaving me making the Dallas Green face at the television), and then Carlos Beltran ensuring he'll continue to have “disappointing” surgically attached to him by once again trying to pull anything and everything. Then we had to prove we weren't one-suck ponies by putting together a ninth inning of typically wretched pitching by Braden Looper and a jaw-dropping error by usually reliable Ramon Castro. And if that's not enough, through in some typically strange/stubborn decisions by Willie: Why on earth was Reyes bunting? Why on earth would you throw Looper into a nest of lefties down only a run? (And by the way, I officially don't care if Looper's hurt. He wasn't that good when he was healthy.)

And why was Offerman even in the game? Why switch out Mike Jacobs for Chris Woodward? Enough of Offerman and Miguel Cairo — let the kids show us what they might have, instead of taking another look at useless veterans who should be released and spare parts for next year's bench. Where's Heath Bell? Royce Ring? Angel Pagan? Anderson Hernandez? Where's somebody you wouldn't be shocked to see as a 2007 Met? Omar, it's over. Willie, we're done. It sucks, but we've accepted it, so you can too. Please God, let's not have another Indian Summer of Ice Williams. Oh wait, we still have Ice Williams.

(Pause to bash forehead repeatedly against desk.)

I've seen enough Septembers unravel into playing out the string to be familiar with the emotional Stations of the Cross: anger, then disappointment, then a desperate clinging to what baseball there's left, because all too soon it's going to be bandwagon time and all too soon after that it's football and snow and other forms of depression. Please, you Mets, at least let me cling. I'm not asking for the wild card. I'm not even asking for .500. Just give me games it looks like you're interested in playing, and we'll call it even. Don't leave me seething during what little time we have left.

4 comments to Zombie Baseball

  • Anonymous

    Where's Jill from Resident Evil, when you need her.

  • Anonymous

    I've seen enough Septembers unravel into playing out the string to be familiar with the emotional Stations of the Cross: anger, then disappointment, then a desperate clinging to what baseball there's left,
    Scary.
    So like your partner “Fear,” your narrative kung fu grows stronger as our team's fortunes plummet.
    Should our plunge continue and thus transform you into a modern Victor Hugo, and I see “Les Metserables by Jason” at my local Barnes & Noble, I'm going to expect a shout-out in the acknowledement section, minimum.

  • Anonymous

    Another reader observed a while back that I'm Faith and Jace is Fear.
    The correct answer is we're both Fed Up.
    As for Cow-Bell Man vs. Mr. Met, Cow-Bell Man is back in his traditional No. 10 and is wearing a “More Cow Bell” t-shirt from the Will Ferrell/Blue Oyster Cult “Behind The Music” sketch. I wonder if he's aware of the connection. And, brace yourself, Mr. Met appeared in the Mezzanine last night. I think it was some kid's birthday and his time was reserved for half-an-inning. People truly went nuts for him.

  • Anonymous

    There's something vaguely mercenary about a mascot that will only ascend to the green seats when he gets paid specifically to do just that.
    Cow-Bellman is on every level, nearly every night. You know he's there whether you're there in person, watching on tv or listening to the radio.
    Cow-Bellman is much more the Mets mascot than Mr. Met is.
    Which is just f**ked up enough to seem entirely appropriate.