If the remnants of a tree are shaped into nine Louisville Sluggers and flail in the forest and make no sound, can those who flailed so miserably really be in first place?
“Our Team, Our Time” is beautiful music compared to what the Mets mixmasters have scratched out over the past 18 innings. When two of your MCs are not in full effect, y'all, whaddaya expect?
Something better than reviving the seasons of Kyle Davies and Tim Hudson? Guess not.
It was another day of the less said, the better (though I did let out my first “godmotherfuckingdamnit!” of the young season when the last out was made less than two hours after the first pitch was thrown). Not exactly the bon voyage one desires in the departure lounge for a West Coast trip, but not a killer. We won one scintillating game, got our ass kicked the next night and were on the short end of what was either an awesome pitchers' duel or an argument to bring back greenies. We should win all series at Shea, but taking only one of three to the Braves at home isn't alarming given the nice little cushion we built for ourselves. And taking two of three in Atlanta (assuming we don't deteriorate in California) will make what's just happened very distant very quickly.
One of the guys in my e-mail group (the more extreme elements of which spent the early hours of Wednesday gleefully TP'ing Zambrano's house) said we didn't get much out of our “vaunted offense”. I would argue there ain't much vaunt there when your Nos. 3 and 6 hitters are nursing their hammy and ribby-cagey, respectively. Valentin? Chavez? Suddenly, much in the way we're playing down to the level of our beloved new theme song, we also seem to have gone out of our way to even things up with the debilitated Braves. It's like some kind of desperate after-school pickup game.
“No fair! Chipper's home sick! And Edgar has a piano lesson! And Marcus got detention! We don't wanna play!”
“Wait! We won't use Cliff or Carlos.”
“Carlos B. And our best fielder won't come either.”
“Tell David to mess up like he's never messed up before and we'll do it.”
“That sounds like a lot to give up.”
“Well, you can have Tommy pitch another gem for you but you're not allowed to score for him.”
“Deal. You're up first.”
No more making fun of Anderson Hernandez's infinitesimal batting average or salivating over his goldening glove. He's out. Kaz is back. Maybe he'll hit a home run in San Diego on the very first pitch he sees.
First place is still first place, but I'm closing in on Earth once more. My brain no longer semi-seriously expects 130 wins, so maybe I can both relax and get back on more normal edge versus where I was Monday night. I still want more than to scramble for a Wild Card, but for some strange reason, fate generally doesn't ask my opinion. With Beltran and Floyd aching, I'm reminded again of those '72 Mets. They were so good so early and so injured so often thereafter. Let's hope this isn't that. Let's also hope we're not the '96 Orioles. I remembered the other day that my Baltimore correspondent, Dr. Fred Bunz, was amused at how when those O's got off to an 11-2 start, local radio was referring to them as “the Bulls of baseball.” The Bulls won the NBA championship that year. The Orioles didn't do the same in their sport.
Meanwhile, I'm off to another shaky start at Shea, 0-2, having attended Tuesday night (I was the one you didn’t hear booing), 0-4 going back to late 2005, 1-6 since the night Pedro gave up all those home runs to the Phillies and we commenced along on our slippery slope out of the playoff chase. Strangely, I continue to leave these games in a good mood. Saturday was just nice. Tuesday I was happy to make the in-person acquaintance of one of our 'sphere's outstanding out-of-town blolleagues. And you know that old saying…
When two Mets bloggers meet at Shea Stadium for the first time, an Agee gets his wings.
Rooting for the New York Mets is easy to do, at least from a technical standpoint. Rooting for the New York Giants is a different story since they're kind of out of business for almost 50 years. Find out how it's done at Gotham Baseball.