It's a long way from Brooklyn Heights to Keyspan Park. It's even longer when you decide that in order for the journey to count, you should really start from the “Welcome to Manhattan” sign 2/3 of the way across the Brooklyn Bridge. And it's longer still when you decide that, what the hey, it'd be quicker to get to that sign by walking across the bridge from Brooklyn, then turning around. And while 100% humidity doesn't make distance longer, it sure makes it feel that way.
Oh, and the Cyclones game? Started an hour late, then was suspended in the fourth inning. When the tarp came out for the second time, Pete and I had no debate over the proper course of action. “This ain't no playoff game,” I said, and we were gone as fast as our wet, swollen, possibly damaged feet could carry us. (Which wasn't very.)
There are some things that make distance seem shorter, though. Like beating the tar out of your personal tormentors, 8-1. Like Pedro Martinez authoring a low-speed masterpiece and hitting the shower early because this one was safe and we'll need him later. Like having Eddie Coleman and Gary Cohen for company in one ear as one Brooklyn neighborhood slowly turns into another. And better yet, there were Met fans in those neighborhoods. The guy on the northern edge of Midwood who took our picture was wearing a Met cap and beamed when I pointed at it and said we were up 4-0. (“Against the Braves?” he asked. I wondered why the heck he couldn't be sitting on a bench on Ocean Parkway with a radio, but hey, not everybody can be Superfan.) Later, pushing through Gravesend, a man went by on his bicycle, transistor radio strapped to the handlebars, giving me Eddie and Gary in momentary Doppler studio. It wasn't until we were at Keyspan that I heard about Leiter and his rejuvenation. (Which didn't bother me one bit: A Marlin got traded to the AL team in town, whoop-de-doo. Though I gotta say Al did look good in that uniform.)
An 8-1 win makes every glass of .500 seem half-full, but I was relieved to hear Gary Cohen — not one for sugarcoating things — pooh-pooh the idea that a split in July was something to fret about, and to include the Mets in his list of talented teams that could have a run in them. Gary didn't say this, but he seems to expect the Mets to put that run together. You keep waiting for it, too. And so does Willie Randolph.
That makes three smart guys expecting this franchise to clear the cobwebs and go on one of those 14-3 tears that makes a season look a whole lot different, while I — the perennial doubter, the thrower of towels, the wanna-be trader of Hall of Fame catchers — walk to Coney Island in the rain. Here's hoping there's an obvious lesson in that, even if it is at my expense.
And whaddya mean there's no game tomorrow?
Midwood, eh? If my family hadn't moved out of Brooklyn, I believe that's where I would've gone to high school. This means nothing at all, but it's certainly a way to superfluously inject myself into your anecdote and, at the same time, claim some street cred.
Yo, yo, born in Brooklyn. Then taken home in a blanky to Long Island within three days. I mean Strong Island. Yo.
While Gary was dismissing the Nationals, diminishing the Braves, doubting the Marlins and drawing the Mets into possible contention, he was leaving the Phillies out of the conversation altogether. That sort of omission makes me nervous. I doubt anybody was handing the Wild Card to Florida in 2003 or Houston last year at this juncture. Why Gary Cohen's idle thoughts will determine the course of karma, I'm not quite sure.
Just as we all knew there'd be a lot of “it's good to be back where it started” folderol, I'm sure we understood Leiter Comma Al (you lose first-name privileges when you go over to the Dark Side) would throw the kind of game he did for whom he did. Their whole thing is too predictable. To my surprise, I didn't spite him his moment. You're right, he went from Marlin to another league. Of course he's happy to be there. At his advanced age and ERA, he's happy to be anywhere. It remains to be seen what he has when he's given the ball again.
Not our problem. Once Sunday's fun was over, Kris Benson was the only pitcher whose next start was on my mind.
I spited him every second of his moment. Every fraction of a second. He didn't go from Marlin to “another league.” he went from Marlin to YANKEE, which is like going from regular killer to serial killer.
And his “moment” brought the Yankees to within half a game of first.
laurie, i would want you watching my back. you are a killer.
i rooted against leiter even as i knew the magic moment was predestined. (first saw the man in a yankee uniform in 1985 in albany, a member with his brother mark and doug drabek of the albany-colonie double-a yanks.)
but would the newyawktawk media take a breath? the ego and the idiot spoke 40 straight minutes today about leiter and his new team before even mentioning that yknow, pedro had a pretty good game yesterday.
Nah, I'm no killer. Yeah, you'd want me watching your back because I furiously defend my peeps to the death, but I'm also the biggest softie in the world. I even feel sorry for selected Yankees when people are mean to them. Ugh, I even make myself sick.
I forgot all about the other Leiter. And anyone who can listen to Ego and the Idiot for 40 minutes straight doesn't need my help… that's some stern stuff you're made of.