Greetings from Florida, where I am living proof that the Mets' no-no-hit streak can resist absolutely anything, even the self-pity and self-absorption of bloggers.
My hotel is about a half-mile down the waterfront from a house I lived in as a teenager, and haven't particularly missed — if you've never been to St. Petersburg, it looks vaguely like L.A., except it's more humid and there's less to do. I'd just settled in at a beach bar (sounds great, but it was raining) and noted that the Mets were up 8-0 in the sixth when I suddenly realized I had a long-ago connection to this hotel. Twenty years ago I'd hop off my windsurfer to catch my breath on their beach, only to get shooed away lest I bother the vacationers. Huh. The things you forget.
Anyway, I called Emily and found her oddly guarded.
“If the Mets game is on, you ought to watch it,” she said.
Huh? Ohhhh. 8-0. In the sixth. I get it.
“I understand,” I said, thinking (and not for the first time), my wife is so much cooler than I deserve.
I asked the girl at the bar if they could get the Marlins game (I know, it's the Mets game, but think vaguely local) and she scowled. The beach bar didn't have a dish — it got the same channels as the hotel rooms. They couldn't even watch the Tampa Bay Lightning.
And that's when I knew the Mets would pitch their first no-hitter. Because really, from my perspective it was perfect: I was sitting in the rain in a vaguely moldy beach bar half a mile from a house where my only good Mets memory was Anthony Young somehow not losing a game, watching the Yankees pound the Indians because that was the only baseball I could see. Obviously the night would end with Lo Duca (bone bruise and all) hoisting John Maine high. Did Maine even know the Mets had a no-hit jinx? Probably not. He'd be vaguely amazed and bemused when told, but the knowledge of all those years and all those pitchers would roll right off of him, because — marvelously, finally — it wouldn't matter anymore.
Maybe I could take my burger back to my room, get the complimentary wireless access fired up, and get an MLB Gameday subscription in time. But that would surely jinx things. I'd get connected just in time to see Dan Uggla bloop one in. I sat back down. No, it was fate — I'd watch the Yankees and hope ESPN would break in with an in-game update. Emily would TiVo the ninth — hmm, no she wouldn't, she knows way better than that. SNY would show it 50 times before the week was out. I was fine, in the sense of “not actually fine, but not totally left out.” Greg and our ace commentors would make me feel like I was there, I'd watch the brand-new UltiMets Classic Sunday night, and it would all be fine. I shouldn't be disappointed, even if my role on our long-awaited date with history was to witness A-Rod and Giambi going back to back.
Of course the 7th lasted too long on the crawl and when ESPN cut in and Miguel Cabrera was standing at the plate I had a feeling they weren't spotlighting a particularly nifty strikeout. Then it was 8-2 and just another night of the world's longest streak.
Oh well. I'll leave the details to my better blogging half. In the meantime, to paraphrase Tom Terrific, whatcha crying for? We won the game, 9-2.
Update: And Mark Buehrle did what Maine couldn't? The 16th no-hitter in Chisox history? I swear, this game….