The blog for Mets fans
who like to read


Greg Prince and Jason Fry
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.

Got something to say? Leave a comment, or email us at (Sorry, but we have no interest in ads, sponsored content or guest posts.)

Need our RSS feed? It's here.

Visit our Facebook page, or drop by the personal pages for Greg and Jason.

Or follow us on Twitter: Here's Greg, and here's Jason.

Let's Go Home

About a month ago (or so it seems), the Mets headed off for the West Coast, not knowing that what lay ahead was the baseball equivalent of the Donner Pass. Delgado. Reyes. Putz. K-Rod. Cora. Sheffield. Church. Beltran. All either went on the DL, missed games or had their contributions hindered by injuries. (And now Ramon Martinez — Plan C when it comes to finding someone to play shortstop — is hurt, too.)

Given all that, returning to Citi Field 5-5 isn't a bad accomplishment. But what a way to go 5-5! The Mets started off by taking three in a row from the Giants with apparent ease, leaving us all slavering with comparisons to the epic 9-1 road trip that served as formal notice that the 2006 squad was going to win the division in a walk. They then got edged in the San Francisco finale and got swept in L.A., including a slapstick affair that has to rank as one of the most appalling, humiliating losses in franchise history. So then, of course, they came in and took the first two from the mighty Red Sox, with Johan Santana willing them to win the first game and Omar Santos playing hero for the kind of once-in-a-blue-moon win that ensures you'll watch blowouts to the bitter end for the next two years — because, in the word of Joaquin Andujar, youneverknow.

A three-game sweep in Boston, with the lyric little bandbox hosting a substantial and vocal minority of Mets fans, was a lot to ask, and even with the Mets ahead in the middle innings, I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop: Tim Redding kept falling behind hitters and giving up loud fly balls, and you figured that the middle of the Red Sox order would see its luck even out before Redding could escape. The Bosox may have their problems, but that lineup is deadly, from the more-Eckstein-than-Eckstein Dustin Pedroia to the overcaffeinated Kevin Youkilis to the bland but deadly Jason Bay and J.D. Drew to the sad-eyed, wise Mike Lowell. All except David Ortiz — I felt for Big Papi, who looked absolutely helpless all series and was verbally scorched by fans who not so long ago would have sworn he had a lifetime pass for his past heroics. Ortiz hit exactly one ball hard, and it rocketed straight into Daniel Murphy's glove, leaving Papi to yowl and then offer a death's head grin at just how unfair the game can be.

(If you'll allow me a parental interlude, can I address whatever person at WPIX let an afternoon game be sponsored by “Drag Me to Hell?” I have nothing against horror movies and am a Sam Raimi fan, but that ad is way too intense for young kids, and anyone with a modicum of decency or common sense would understand that parents shouldn't be put in the position of shooing their children away from a baseball game every 40 minutes on a Sunday afternoon.)

The rest was enjoying the observations and memories and questions that any baseball game will yield if carefully attended to. Like wondering at how smooth Gary Sheffield looked in left field, and remembering how utterly discombobulated Lastings Milledge had been three years before. Or watching Murphy at first, still not entirely sure of himself but handling even the hard plays with a calm he's never exhibited in left on easy chances. Or (from the sublime to the ridiculous) wondering, in a particularly idle moment, where Murphy got his sunglasses. Ramon Castro was wearing the modern baseball standard Intergalactic Warrior iridescent shades, as was Sheffield, with Castillo opting for the classic flip-down glasses. But Murphy's sunglasses looked like he'd fetched them from a Dollar Store in Woburn. These are the things you wonder about when the game's out of hand and the only reason you keep watching is … well, because it's baseball, and how could you even ask that question?

We lost, and it seems like everybody's hurt, and who knows what that will mean. But we're right here in it, and tomorrow we start again. That's the whole point, ain't it?

The Mets will have to play the next two without me — I'm headed for Denver. (And yes, going to Coors Field. Like you had to ask.) Greg will keep you faithful or fearful, as the case may be. Speaking of which, Faith and Fear in Flushing: An Intense Personal History of the New York Mets, is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble or a bookstore near you. Keep in touch and join the discussion on Facebook.

7 comments to Let's Go Home

  • Anonymous

    hey..crazy, but I am in Denver….hook up?…i'm the yid from Baldwin Harbor who has been wid ya for years…!

  • Anonymous

    That would be awesome — I'm not sure how much time work commitments will leave, but email your cell #/email info? Will try to make something work; apologies if it doesn't….

  • Anonymous

    can I address whatever person at WPIX let an afternoon game be sponsored by “Drag Me to Hell?”

    Out here in Portland, OR, I had to watch the game on TBS with Chip Carey at the helm which of course is the equivalent of Drag Me to Hell.
    -Bill K

  • Anonymous

    Don't know who is more irresponsibile for airing that trailer – the Mets or PIX. And how often do we also see advertisements for Viagra during FOX afternoon games?
    Another blemish on PIX management — though a big fan of Family Guy, that adult cartoon should never be aired at 7:30 PM.

  • Anonymous

    Portland?? There's another Mets fan here?

  • Anonymous

    Another Mets game a week or so earlier also had Cohen & Co. do a promo for “Drag Me to Hell”. Cohen had that “What the hell am I doing” tenor to his voice, but Mex came right out and started bashing the movie without missing a beat. That's one more reason we love having these guys in the booth.

  • Anonymous

    Besides, are the commercials for “Drag Me to Hell” any more graphic than those ant-smoking promos they've been running over the past couple of years?