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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.

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Here Come Da Judge

Maybe this kangaroo court thing is apropos after all. Justice Glavine ruled in favor of targeting and hitting the inside corner for once and then sentenced the Cardinals to an hour-and-a-half of futile flailing, with no time off for good behavior. It was gratifying to watch, even though I still find myself desperately rooting for 24 Mets and simply trying to not root against the one who held court Friday night. Old story, but he's still Glavine. He and us, though, we're in business together, so for the good of the corporation, way to go, your, uh, honor.

I get cranky when I have to go more than 48 hours without a game, especially if the last one was a loss; imagine what I'm like all winter. I was still in low-seethe from Derrek Lee, and it was just a matter of when before distaste for the Cubs morphed into detest for the Cards. No offense to Will who sounds like a stand-up (and get-pelted) guy, especially with the Ankiel homage. Warn me if you ever plan to introduce us and I'll dig out ROJAS 51.

For a game I love so much, I do spend a lot of time hating. Catch me on some stray afternoon when the Cardinals are two months away on the schedule and I'll be like, yeah, Stan Musial, what a history, et al. This wasn't one of those afternoons. I hate the Cardinals. I hate the Cubs. I hate the Braves (stop telling me they're not so bad). I stick up for the National League at every turn, yet I despise 15 of its 16 franchises. And there are days I'm not so crazy about us.

As for the Junior Circuit, Chokeland and Seattle are conspiring to ruin a good bit. The Collapse-O-Meter is rusting from disuse, but I have faith. And hate. Oh, lots of it where grumble, grumble is concerned.

I'll tell ya what I do like. I like a night like Friday night when not only do the Mets win in record time (I dozed off after the first Floydian rip and was shocked that it got so late so soon), but the rest of the National League East cooperates as well and technology allows me to enjoy it as it happens.

I began to watch the Braves and Dodgers on TBS when it occurred to me that I could turn on XM and instead indulge in Vin Scully for a few innings. Man, that guy can do baseball. I didn't love him on NBC in the '80s but on the radio he's everything he's cracked up to be. He works alone, you know. Seeing as how the other Dodger voice belongs to Charlie Steiner, you can hear why. Anyway, Vin told pleasant stories about Horacio Ramirez and Bobby Cox (which is tough to do), gave updates on Eric Gagne's rehab and made the early innings sail by all too quickly.

Then he left to work the TV side which left me to fiddle with the dials and skip among West Coast transmissions, settling eventually on the Padres and Marlins. The San Diego announcer — Jerry Coleman's homer of a partner — kept promising us Hell's Bells and Trevor Time, and Trevor didn't disappoint. Marlins lose!

Back on TBS, the Brave booth was bursting with self-congratulation for having suggested Adam LaRoche hit a grand slam right before he actually did it. This gave the Braves a 4-2 lead in the eighth which looked solid…until Milton Bradley, unofficial spokesperson for MLB's Mental Health Awareness Month, hit his own grand slam. The Bravescasters went quiet. Braves lose! Combined with the Nationals' loss, we picked up ground on everybody, moved into third, and sit only 2-1/2 from the lead.

That's what I like.

2 comments to Here Come Da Judge

  • Anonymous

    Scully is such a pleasure to listen to. With every passing season, I appreciate him more and more, wondering all the while if it will be his last. He's the kind of announcer that doesn't even need a game to make you believe you're watching one. I'm sure that people who have conversations with him are surprised when he doesn't interrupt himself every 30 seconds or so to tell them what the count is.
    In some alternate reality, I'm a Dodger fan and love him every bit as much as I love Cohen (just call him “Second to Scully”) here. It's crazy, but I wish I could carry their voices in a couple of little jars for the rest of my life so I could just open them any time of day, any season of the year, to find out the situation and who's up and whatnot. I'm probably a nut.

  • Anonymous

    Except for the Dodger fan delusion, nothing nutty about it. Are there any other voices in the world other than those of baseball announcers who automatically make us hopeful just by the sound of them? To the point that if they were reading DMV regulations we'd keep listening because we'd be pretty sure a ballgame was bound to be in there somewhere?
    Jar O' Baseball Voice is a wonderful idea. Of course if they sold it at Shea, it would come in a can whose lid couldn't be removed except for a very specific electric opener incompatible with North American outlets.
    What Vin Scully is to baseball-announcing (inherently perfect on contact) is what Will Ferrell is to “Saturday Night Live,” a show that's gone flat since his departure. Watching him host this past week's episode gave me almost the exact same feeling as listening to Vin on Friday night. There's just something about experiencing something you love delivered the way it should be that deserves portability and a very long-off expiration date. So yes, put it in a jar.