Gee. A bit of hostility here!
I returned from the shortest game in recent memory (130 minutes — they hadn't even sent all the 7 trains home for the night yet), attended in the company of a visiting dignitary, my pal Will. (Who lives in Manhattan, but we're talking the heart here, not the mailing address.) Dedicated Redbird fan. He keeps score. You'd like him. After Matsui's (second) grotesque error, he stood up in his ANKIEL 66 Cardinals jersey and let out an escaped-the-jaws-of-death cheer of glee — and got pegged with a peanut, which landed in my lap.
“I've never had anyone throw anything at me before,” he said, sounding faintly amazed and a little pleased.
“Mmm-hmm,” I said, because I was busy eating the peanut.
Tom Glavine, well, he really was masterful. I'm operating with the usual actually-in-the-park information deficit, but he looked good from the get-go, and his body language was clearly different — working quickly, striding off the mound instead of trudging. And (again, information deficit) it certainly didn't seem like an oversized strike zone — Marquis was a mess in the early innings, with what seemed like very poor location. I'm surprised he gave up as few hits as he did, though maybe they all just got added together to make up Floyd's two dingers. Those were quite something — you knew they were gone from the sound alone, and even the casual observers who are always a few seconds behind each play were on their feet instantly.
By the way, Albert Pujols' bat speed is just sick. I don't think I'd ever seen him live, or if I had I sure hadn't appreciated him. I'm surprised there aren't whip cracks or little sonic booms when he makes contact. Pedro and Heilman better beware.
By the way, please tell me Pedro is just being dramatic, and wasn't really hesitant about telling Glavine he'd seen a glitch in his delivery. I mean, goodness me. We're all in this together, fellas. If I'm tipping my blogging and getting teed off on in the Comments field, I expect you to tell me posthaste, pal.
Oh you'd seen Pujols before (unless you were out along the concourse engaged in a prolonged death-stare with the DiGiorno ladies). We were at this abortion of a game, which I remember very bitterly (surprise, surprise). Appier spit up a 5-0 lead and snapped what was going to be a The Log record seven-game winning streak at six. You and Em left for Connecticut at the end of regulation. I moved down a few rows and derived no satisfaction from the improved view.
Pujols got three hits. But who could appreciate them?
Oh God, yes, that game. I was bitter at the Mets for blowing the lead, bitter at Emily for enforcing our departure time, bitter at the Mets again for coming back and coughing it up again, bitter at all the traffic heading north, bitter at….