Scribbled on the back of a piece of paper at work for consultation later:
* Klesko not touching the bag, Beltran not going back. HOJO??!!!
* Maine's been Samson'ed!
* What a weird 1st inning. Mets + Giants conspiring to get nothing out of a lot. This has the look of a weird one.
* That sun's gonna play a role at some point. Carlos, get the glasses off your fucking bill!
* Eliezer Alfonzo — that's the guy who killed us.
* Spashdown! Get Elias on the phone — haven't we had tons of those? [editor's note — see below]
* The Reyes/Delgado dance is a wonderful thing.
* Catcher's interference. Tole ya.
* Gotay! Maine! Maine is really fucked up. And he looks stupid.
* Shawn Green looks ridiculous.
* Delgado! How did he do that?
* Bonds is back. I'm terrified.
* Heilman 1.0 is back. I'm terrified [editor's note — harsh and unjustified]
* Ha! Take that, Armando! And you too, Vizquel!
* I don't hate the Giants. I don't even dislike them. It's just such a long way from here and thus automatically taxing.
* Hmm. I'm gonna go out on a limb and say Gotay is bunting.
And then I left work. This should not have been a big deal — my plan was to walk home over the Brooklyn Bridge, listening to (I hoped) a go-ahead run or two and Wagner locking it down. Only I didn't have my radio — it was in my bag at home. OK, not fatal — it so happens I have two or three other portable radios at work due to prior bouts of disorganization. So I grabbed one backup radio and a pair of headphones, checked that I had battery power, and was on my way.
And the goddamn radio didn't work. I got the Mets for a moment, long enough to ascertain that Chavez was on, Reyes was up, Armando was wild and then that something good had happened. But that was it. It wasn't so much that the radio wouldn't get WFAN as it was that it got every conceivable station all at once — and some political douchebag's ranting was drowning out Howie and Tom. I looked at the radio in fury, trying to remember where I'd bought it. Canal Street, I thought, though judging from the way it was working, perhaps I'd bought it off an upside-down cardboard box from a vagrant whose other inventory consisted of loosies and stray buttons.
And of course the streets were suddenly choked with people moving at the speed of continental drift, blind as cave fish to the desperation of a Met fan who couldn't witness the wonderful, improbable fact that his team was finally giving both barrels to Armando Benitez — that infuriating, bloated prodigal man-child of so many Shea disappointments who'd somehow become invulnerable against us. When I hurled the radio into a trash can it snapped free of the headphones and its outside speaker crackled mockingly to life — over in lower Manhattan the batteries are probably running out about now.
Once I escaped the commuter jam I got home smoothly and easily, walked in and turned on the TV. Commercial. Then postgame. That was fast. Tell me there wasn't a walkoff against Wagner. Nope. Woo-hoo, We won! Damn, I missed it. Woo-hoo, there's Mets Encore!
And then I dozed off in the ninth inning of Mets Encore. Some nights it just ain't happening.
* Editor's note re splashdowns: I was right. There have been 42 splash hits into McCovey Cove by the Giants (34 by Bonds) and 14 by opposing players. Of those 14, four have been hit by Mets — two each for Delgado (4/26/06 and today, with one as a Marlin for lagniappe) and Cliff Floyd (8/21/04 and 4/25/06). Four of 14? Considering how few trips we make to San Francisco, what are the odds of that?
Next-day addendum: Given our record, this photo is perfectly timed. (Yes, I am a big geek.)