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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The great Pete Hamill, whose death at the age of 85 was announced this morning, expressed a necessary baseball truism during Spring Training of 1987 within the essential profile of Keith Hernandez that he wrote for the Village Voice. After revisiting the instantly legendary mound summit among Hernandez, Gary Carter and Jesse Orosco from the sixteenth inning of NLCS Game Six (“if you call another fastball, I’ll fight you right here”), Hamill jerks us back into the then-present:
“That was last season. This is the new season […] When you are a champion, you have to defend what you’ve won.”
In the Spring of 1987, the Mets were indeed a champion, dating back to October 27, 1986. They would always be the World Champions of 1986. No, that couldn’t be taken away from them. Or us. But the concept of defending the championship, as the season approached, began to perplex me as I realized that once the flag was up the pole and the rings were distributed on Opening Day, they weren’t exactly defending what they’d won in 1986. They were out to win anew in 1987.
We haven’t had any relevant experience with that sensation since, but during baseball’s long March-July delay I found myself thinking about the concept from the other side. The Mets were supposed to play the Washington Nationals on Opening Day and the Nationals were the reigning world champs. We would have been reminded heavily that our division rivals had attained what we wanted, ripped the bandage of awareness off our thin skin and gotten on with the season. But with no season for so long, the Nationals’ championship lingered in the baseball atmosphere. Sooner or later, we’d confront their recent success and…
And what? If there wasn’t much utility to being a defending world champion once our team took the field in 1987, was there any in 2020? And as the team that isn’t defending anything, how would it matter to the Mets? Has it ever mattered?
So I looked it up. From 1962 through Tuesday night, the Mets have taken on the defending world champs 32 times. That is, they’ve played the team that won the year before for a first time the season after that team won it all. Obviously they would go on and play a series of games against that team and, usually, multiple series, but I figured there’s something to the first time you come face to face with the title holder. Or I wondered if there was.
Was there? Depends on the title holder, the time of the season, the relationship between us and them, how good a job the defending champion was doing defending its championship, if one can be said to be defending a championship.
The first time the Mets punched up at the reigning world champions in a regular-season game, the Mets lost. The year was 1964. The opponent was the Los Angeles Dodgers. The Mets lost a lot c. 1964 to everybody, but the Dodgers were a particular obstacle to progress. We’d gone 4-32 versus the erstwhile Brooklynites (the ballclub that abandoned Pete Hamill, among others). In the aftermath of their 1963 World Series sweep of the Yankees, the Mets wouldn’t project to present much of a challenge for L.A. And they didn’t. The Mets lost at Dodger Stadium on May 19, 1964, 6-4. They fell behind early and fell short late. It didn’t matter that the Dodgers weren’t en route to repeating (they came into the game 14-19 and would finish under .500). It didn’t matter that Koufax and Drysdale had the night off (Phil Ortega was the starting and winning pitcher). It didn’t matter that the Mets were facing the champs (the Mets wouldn’t win a season series from anybody in 1964).
The Mets lost their next initial encounter with a reigning world champ, on May 11, 1965, to the Cardinals. Future Hall of Famer Bob Gibson outlasted future Hall of Famer Warren Spahn en route to a 4-3 St. Louis win at Shea. Like the Dodgers the year before, the Cardinals were wallowing in eighth place, so there wasn’t much recent past glory propelling them to present success. Still, the Mets weren’t ready to take anything away from the defending title holders and, worse, it was the Cardinals who took something away from the Mets. It was in this game that Redbird baserunner Phil Gagliano ran into Ron Hunt and knocked the All-Star second baseman out of action for the next three months.
Overall, the Mets lost their first four matches with a defending world champion (including a second shot at the Dodgers, which resulted in a 4-0 defeat on May 27, 1966), though the fourth time they took their best shot, they were showing progress. It couldn’t have been known that the pitchers’ duel of May 6, 1968, was another Hall of Fame preview: Gibson versus Tom Seaver. The game went eleven innings. Both pitchers pitched complete games. When it was over — St. Louis persevering, 2-1 — both starters’ ERAs were microscopic. Gibson was down to 1.31, Seaver to 1.56. It wasn’t only the Year of the Pitcher, it was the year before the Mets’ pitchers would take the next step.
When the Mets finally beat a defending world champion in the next season’s first meeting, it was literally the season’s first meeting. Opening Day 1972 had the Pirates visiting Shea Stadium. A little (very little) like this year, Opening Day was delayed, to April 15, 1972. Then, it was a strike holding back baseball. Then, it was Seaver on the mound, blanking Dock Ellis and the Bucs, with three frames of relief help from Tug McGraw. It was the first time the Mets were challenging a world champion from their own division, divisional play not coming into existence until 1969 (the year that set the Mets up to be others’ world championship target in 1970).
Before Interleague play disturbed the rhythms of the schedule, you knew you weren’t going to play the defending world champions if the World Series trophy had fallen into American League hands, thus there wouldn’t be another regular-season matchup for the Mets with the reigning champs (the 1973 World Series notwithstanding) until 1976. It was the Mets and Reds, and a piece of franchise history was made by the Met who’d been making history longer than any Met. In the seventh inning of the Mets’ eventual 5-3 win over Cincy at Shea on May 4, 1976, Ed Kranepool recorded his 1,189th hit for the Mets. That put Ed one ahead of Cleon Jones on the all-time list. Ed would elevate his total to 1,418 over the next three-plus seasons and stay Mets hit champion until 2012.
Fans of foreshadowing had to admire the doings of May 20, 1977, even if they weren’t likely to admire what was foreshadowed. The Reds were again the defending champs. Unlike in ’76, they weren’t on their way to repeating. Sitting in second place in the NL West, four under .500 and a dozen behind the surging Dodgers, Cincinnati knew it had to make an enormous move. Perhaps it was on this particular Friday night at Riverfront that they were sold on the idea of trading for the opposing pitcher from New York. True, Gary Nolan beat Tom Seaver, 6-2, but if you could add the Franchise to your franchise, why wouldn’t you? Fewer than four weeks later, they did. (The Reds’ last run on the evening was driven in by Doug Flynn, maybe giving Joe McDonald an idea as well.)
The 1979 Pittsburgh Pirates were Fam-a-lee, per the Sister Sledge song they adopted as their theme en route to winning the World Series. The first time the Mets faced them in 1980, television viewers got to meet a new member of our family. He’s someone who’d endure on the level of Ed Kranepool. During a rain delay at Three Rivers Stadium on May 30, 1980, with the Mets ahead, 5-1, in the sixth, Ralph Kiner and Steve Albert invited the club’s recently hired PR director into the television booth. His name was Jay Horwitz and it is no exaggeration to say the man was a trip. Jay, formerly the sports information director at Fairleigh Dickinson University, burst through the screen with enthusiasm for the slate of players he wanted the world to know about. Craig Swan, I’m pretty sure he said, was big into gardening. Kiner and Albert were speechless but not laughless. Later in the season, Albert referred to this rainy night in Pittsburgh as “the night the earth stood still”. If it produced Jay Horwitz, still going strong as Mets director of alumni affairs and author of the memoir Mr. Met, it was certainly a momentous night. Meanwhile, the rain kept falling and the Mets were declared winners. Talk about good PR!
The world championship stayed in the NL East for a second consecutive year in the fall of 1980 (the only time that’s happened), meaning that in 1981, when the Mets took on the world champs from the year before, it would be a familiar foe in their line of sight. Enter Pete Rose’s Phillies, debuting on the schedule relatively late, on May 25, 1981. The Mets apparently had used the long lag time to prepare for them, for the Mets ambushed the world champions at Shea, 13-3. Every good thing the Mets could muster in the first half of 1981 was on display. Dave Kingman blasted a grand slam. Rookie sensations Mookie Wilson and Hubie Brooks chipped in four runs apiece. Ambidextrous Greg Harris put his arms to good use in pulling down his first major league win. Jeff Reardon pitched enough innings for a save. It would be his last as a Met. He’d be traded to Montreal later in the week and have a spectacular career ahead of him. The Phillies would recover from the shellacking and go back to the postseason because they were in first place on June 12, when a players’ strike hit, touching off the circumstances that gave us the split season that was, until 2020, the most bizarre setup in modern baseball history. Anyway, it was always fun to cream Pete Rose’s Phillies.
A golden age of National League World Series play was underway. The senior circuit would take care of business twice more, extending the NL streak to four (we haven’t had that spirit here since 1982). The Mets got a semblance of revenge for all those beatings they took in the 1960s by beating the defending champion Dodgers in Los Angeles on May 3, 1982. It took twelve innings to subdue the Angelenos, but it was worth it. Less worthwhile was the early-season revival of hostilities between the Mets and Cardinals on April 9, 1983. (Hadn’t we just seen these guys at Al Lang?) Between steady raindrops that postponed games at Shea on Friday and Sunday, the Mets and Cardinals got their Saturday game in, much to the detriment of Mike Torrez, who gave up five runs in the seventh inning. Joaquin Andujar went the distance for the 5-0 win. Little noticed was St. Louis first baseman Keith Hernandez singling as part of the winning rally. The next time the Redbirds alighted in Flushing, Keith would be on the scene, but he’d be in a different nest.
From 1983 through 1987, the World Series was either won by the American League or, most delightfully, the Mets. Therefore, the next time the Mets took on the champs, it was May 15, 1989, with the Dodgers again presenting the challenge at hand. That was a familiar sensation, not only because it had been Mets vs. Dodgers in this circumstance three times prior, but because it had been Mets vs. Dodgers in the NLCS the October before. It could be argued the only reason the Dodgers were the defending champs was because the favored Mets weren’t. In the first postseason rematch between the Mets and a team that had gone through them to win it all, the final result was a cruel reminder, with the Dodgers winning, 3-1. We would take the season series, seven games to five, but neither we nor they would make it back to October.
Come June 4, 1991, the momentum that spurred the Reds from wire to wire to win the 1990 World Series was a memory. When the Mets took on these defending champs for the first time, the Reds were a .500 club and the Mets had problems of their own. One of them shouldn’t have been David Cone. Coney went eight innings, struck out thirteen and lasted 147 pitches (there were five walks at the dawn of the pitch-counting era) en route to a 4-2 win. But manager Bud Harrelson wasn’t too crazy about Cone shaking off a pitchout call and Cone barking back in the dugout. As the Times captured it the morning after, “Televised replays showed Harrelson and Cone screaming at each other, and in the ensuing escalation, Harrelson was seen violently poking his finger into, and apparently even shoving, Cone in the chest more than once.”
With such emotion boiling to the surface, perhaps the Mets needed a few years before collecting themselves to face a defending world champion. They waited five seasons (the strike that cancelled the 1994 Series didn’t help) until they had another opportunity. It came on June 3, 1996 at Fulton County Stadium. Atlanta was preparing to host the Olympics. Before turning over what would become Turner Field, the Braves made predictable use of their almost-extinct ballpark to beat the Mets, 5-4. The Mets had taken a 4-1 lead over John Smoltz, but the Braves rallied in the seventh, with young Chipper Jones igniting the trouble with a single. Another name we’d come to know, albeit in a happier context, would appear in the box score as the winning pitcher. Or have you forgotten Brad Clontz?
Facing the defending world champions became a whole other task starting in 1997 when Interleague play materialized and, wouldn’t you know, it was the first year since 1979 that the defending world champion came out of the Bronx. Just in time for this unasked for wrinkle, too. Ah, but those who rooted the Mets on in so-called meaningless Spring Training victories and Mayor’s Trophy triumphs over the Yankees would be rewarded with something so tangible you could taste it. June 16, 1997, it was the Mets beating the defending world champion Yankees, 6-0, at Yankee Stadium. We know and cherish it as the Dave Mlicki Game (an eight-strikeout shutout). Though the outcome was treated as a surprise by the pinstripe-blinded press, it should have been remembered the Mets beat the Yankees in their very first Spring showdown in 1962 and that inaugural Mayor’s Trophy exhibition in 1963; both those times the Yankees were defending world champions, too. Having gone three-for-three in dispatching the Bronx Bombers as they occupied their laurels, we really should have refused any further intracity entanglements, for it was never gonna get any better.
When the Mets played the defending champion Yankees, the status of New York (A) was mentioned a time or two-thousand. When the Mets played the defending world champion Florida Marlins on May 26, 1998, the technical status of the Fish was for the birds. The Marlins had traded away practically ever player who carried them to the 1997 world championship, so the Mets were taking on a shell of the title holders at Pro Player Stadium. The most intriguing element of the matchup, won by the Mets, 10-5, was the presence of an ex-Marlin on the Mets: Mike Piazza, who hadn’t been part of the world champions but was essential to dumping several ring-bearing contracts. Piazza had been a Marlin for about a week. When the Mets visited Miami, he’d been a Met for a few days. But the Mets hadn’t lost since he’d arrived and, we’d learn, he wasn’t going anywhere soon.
No Marlinesque downturn in fortunes for the Yankees of the late ’90s. They returned to the World Series in 1998 and won it, meaning that when we were granted another Subway Series audience on June 4, 1999, it was another scuffling Mets vs. the reigning champs storyline. Damn thing played out that way, too, with the Metsies blowing a 2-1 lead, the Yankees going up, 4-3, and Mariano Rivera locking it down. Those with long, specific memories took note that the Yankees’ starting pitcher was the Mets’ starting pitcher eight years earlier when the Mets took on the champs. David Cone was no-decisioned, but didn’t get shoved by Joe Torre.
Bleeping Yankees were the defending champs on the Mets’ schedule on June 9, 2000. Bleeping Roger Clemens was their starting pitcher. As it happened, the Mets kicked the ever-loving bleep out of him and them at bleeping Yankee Stadium, 12-2, fueled by a Mike Piazza grand slam and assisted by three hits apiece from Derek Bell and Jay Payton. In the realm of what we were saying in the 1997 paragraph, we really should have stopped playing them in 2000 after the first encounter. It wasn’t gonna get any better.
It’s June 15, 2001. The Mets are not only taking on the defending champion Yankees again, they’re taking on the team that beat them in the World Series. It doesn’t go well, with the Mets losing, 5-4. Let’s get a new defending champion on the schedule already.
Hey, it’s Arizona Diamondbacks, favor-doer to the civilized world from the fall of 2001! Bless you, boys! But first, on April 30, 2002, you have to be on the wrong end of some history. Al Leiter will defeat you in Phoenix, 10-1, supremely noteworthy in that Leiter becomes the first pitcher to beat every one of the current thirty major league franchises. Piazza launches two homers. Roberto Alomar and Mo Vaughn each connect for three hits. The 2002 Mets are another endorsement for quitting while ahead.
In the pantheon of early-2000s American heroes, we should not overlook the Anaheim Angels, winners of the 2002 ALDS and, like their D’Backs predecessors, bouncers of notoriously unpleasant October guests. To thank the Angels in 2003 for knocking out the Yankees the fall before, we more or less repeated how we showed our gratitude the Arizonans in 2002. We beat them. The score on June 13, 2003, was 7-3. Jeromy Burnitz, Timo Perez and Mike Bacsik starred. No, really, they did.
Trivia question: what is the only National League East franchise to have captured two World Series titles over the past quarter-century? If you said “Florida Marlins,” you know your NL East history. If you assume the Marlins of 2004 pulled a 1998 after 2003 the way they did after winning it all in 1997, then you don’t know your NL East history as much as I gave you credit for. Contrary to popular myth, the Marlins remained a competitive entity for a couple of years following their second World Series championship. When the Mets took on these teal title holders on May 28, 2004, the Fish were still for real. They were in first place and everything, and they added to their bona fides by beating the Mets, 2-1, Dontrelle Willis outdueling a then-conventionally spelled Tom Glavine. Most notably, ex-Met Armando Benitez nailed down the win with a save. Before 2004 was over, Benitez recorded eleven saves versus his former team, compiling a tiny 0.68 ERA in 13.1 innings. Armando Benitez never got anybody out is another popular myth.
It was such a big deal that the Mets were to open the 2007 season against the defending world champion Cardinals that ESPN placed their game on the Sunday night before everybody else’s Openers. This, like the Mets and Dodgers in 1989, was another NLCS rematch, except ASAP. With the wounds still fresh from a certain bases-loaded situation in the ninth inning of a certain Game Seven, the Mets flex their muscles on April 1, 2007, hammering the Cardinals, 6-1. We couldn’t beat them as defending champs in 1965 or 1968 or 1983, and we couldn’t beat them for the pennant in 2006, but we beat them this time.
The cockiness that marked the beginning of 2007 would disappear over the way the succeeding two regular seasons would end. By May 1, 2009, not only had the Mets not been back to t he postseason since October 19, 2006, they had a new bête noire in their lives. The Phillies had overtaken the Mets for the NL East titles in ’07 and ’08 and, distastefully, won the World Series in 2008. When we took them and their championship on for the first time in 2009, we were ready to show them what was what, building a 5-0 lead by the third inning at Citizens Bank Park. What turned out to be what was a 7-4 Philadelphia win. They would also win another division and pennant in 2009 plus another couple of divisions directly after that. The Mets of this era, too, would play baseball.
The only good thing one can say about the 2009 world champion Yankees is they knocked off the 2009 National League champion Phillies in the World Series. That cut little ice on May 21, 2010, when the defending champion Yankees visited Citi Field to renew the Subway Series. It was a 2-1 loss for the Mets. I could provide additional details. I shan’t.
Instead, let’s shift our sights westward to a franchise that shifted westward in 1958 yet hadn’t been a defending champion since 1955. Enter the San Francisco Giants, bearing a banner on their return to New York on May 3, 2011. The Giants prevailed in a back-and-forth affair in ten innings, 7-6. The timing was notable in that this was the first game in New York since news of Osama Bin Laden’s death, at the hands of SEAL Team Six, was reported during the Mets-Phillies game of May 1. At Citi Field, the Mets attempted to rev up patriotic fervor reminiscent of the mood on September 21, 2001, when Mike Piazza hit that home runs was never to be forgotten. It didn’t really take.
On June 1, 2012, the Cardinals were back in their role as defending champions. Given that the season was nearly two months old and the Redbirds weren’t exactly roaring through the NL Central, their lofty status from the October before might not have been top of mind entering play this Friday night. By the time the game at Citi Field was over, it felt monumentally irrelevant, for on June 1, 2012, Johan Santana threw The First No-Hitter in New York Mets History. That he did it to the defending champs would have escaped my immediate notice had Ron Darling not added this factoid as a coda to Gary Cohen’s extremely recap at SNY. But, yeah, in addition to defeating five decades’ worth of Quallsian ghosts, Johan no-hit the defending champs. If you’re gonna obliterate a curse, might as well do it in style.
Until 2020, the Mets never waited as long as they did in 2013 to take on the defending champs. Yet the schedule didn’t have our boys playing the big boys, the Giants, until July 8, 2013, in San Francisco. And when we got there, waiting long was the watchword. During a stretch when seemingly every game the Mets played was either an extra-inning marathon or a contest encompassing endless rain delays, this one baked and took yet another cake. It went sixteen innings, outlasting a marquee duel between Matt Harvey and Tim Lincecum and enduring until the AT&T Park seagulls took over the outfield. The Mets used seven pitchers in all, the Giants eight. The seagulls were too numerous to count. The Mets won, 4-3, in sixteen. The gulls did not go hungry.
On June 9, 2015, the Giants were back in their role as defending champions. Given that the season was nearly two months old and the Jints weren’t exactly roaring through the NL West, their lofty status from the October before might not have been top of mind entering play this Tuesday night. By the time the game at Citi Field was over, it felt monumentally irrelevant, for on June 9, 2015, Chris Heston pulled a Johan Santana. Yes, another no-hitter as the Mets took on the defending champs, albeit at the expense of the Mets this time. We lost, 5-0. The lack of hits (our entire offense was three HBPs) seemed somehow predictable given this was the portion of 2015 when the Mets had zero attack, which is why they’d go on to trade for Yoenis Cespedes, who would eventually carry them to a division title and help them to a pennant.
That darn Yoenis Cespedes had the nerve to push the Mets toward a World Series they didn’t win (neither he nor his teammates were particularly sharp in the five-game set), which meant that the Mets all but guaranteed themselves another Sunday night Opener on ESPN to kick off 2016, facing the defending world champion Kansas City Royals. Boo! Hiss! The wound was still open on April 3, 2016, and the outcome — Royals 4 Mets 3 — didn’t help us heal. But a few days later we’d be home raising the NL flag, and that was pretty good.
The 2016 Mets got only as far as the NL Wild Card game, where we’d lose to the Giants, setting up the Giants to lose in the NLDS (it was an even year, after all) and clearing the stage for either a brand new or very old world champion, depending on how you viewed things. The Chicago Cubs won their first World Series since 1908, meaning that on June 12, 2017, the Mets were experiencing a first. They, like every other expansion franchise, had never faced the defending world champion Chicago Cubs. The Mets did so at Citi Field and they did it very well, defeating the champs (and their invading fans), 6-1. Going all the way that night was Jacob deGrom, whose five-hitter was also a sigh of relief. Jake had entered the night with an ERA of 4.75 following two uncharacteristically godawful outings versus non-champions. The stiff competition apparently straightened Jake out. Staring with the start against the Cubs, Jake would pitch to a 2.85 ERA over his final nineteen starts, offering a Cy preview of sorts for what was to come in 2018 and 2019.
The Cubs still haven’t won since 2016. But the Washington Nationals confounded mid-season expectations and took the whole ball of wax in 2019, stampeding the feisty Mets along the way. So finally, on August 4, 2020, for the 32nd time in franchise history, the Mets were taking on last year’s champs for the first time the next year.
The Mets lost, 5-3. Steven Matz, from the 2015 National League champions, got lit up. Jeurys Familia, from the 2015 National League champions, looked better than he had all this short season. Michael Conforto, another 2015 alum, homered. But it was the Nationals, with those obnoxious gold numbers on their backs, who played the part of defending world champions to a tee. Howie Kendrick, the 2019 World Series difference-maker, rapped out four hits, including the home run that gave Game Seven winner Patrick Corbin a lead the Nats would never relinquished. As at Three Rivers in 1980, it rained for a while and, as is custom in 2020, nobody was at Nationals Park (or any park), but it went in the books as the 32nd of these punch-up affairs. The Mets are now 16-16 in the first games of the next year against defending champions from the previous year.
And 0-for-33 at entering the succeeding season as defending champions since 1987.
Welcome to A Met for All Seasons, a series in which we consider a given Met who played in a given season and…well, we’ll see.
I’ve long had a soft spot for marginal Mets, the September call-ups and emergency starters you struggle to remember by season’s end, let alone years later. Part of that is because I love the nooks and crannies of team history. But it’s also because I suspect the gaps between 25th men, regulars and immortals aren’t as wide as we might think. Young players can get derailed by injuries, misfortune, bad timing, or any number of things, pinching off their chances to become what they might have been. What would have happened if Jacob deGrom had had an additional stumble or two as a converted shortstop in the low minors? If Mike Piazza hadn’t had Tommy Lasorda insisting he actually get a chance to prove he could play? Willie Mays started his career 0-for 12 and then 1-for 26 — what if that lone home run had been a long flyout instead?
The truly marginal Mets include the likes of Kenny Greer, whose only appearance came in the 17th inning of a Mets-Giants game at the end of the horrific 1993 season. Greer got the win, possibly the victory seen by the fewest people in team history. There’s Francisco Estrada, whose Mets career consisted of four innings in the first game of a September 1971 doubleheader against the Expos. Estrada is mildly famous for having been part of the Ryan-Fregosi trade, as an “and the Angeles also got these guys!” addendum to the punchline; he should be more famous for being a Mexican League legend whose career actually spanned more seasons than that of the Ryan Express. There’s Kevin Morgan, brought up from Double-A for a June 15, 1997 thank-you before taking a job with the team’s minor-league operations. Or Dave Liddell, called up to meet the Mets at Veterans Stadium on June 3, 1990 when Orlando Mercado went on the bereavement list. Liddell pinch-hit in the eighth, hit the only pitch he’d ever see up the middle for a single, scored nine pitches later on a wild pitch, caught the bottom of the eighth and that was it. If you went out to pick up a pizza, you missed his career.
But there are Mets even further out in the icy reaches of memory’s solar system, Mets who never even officially got to be Mets. I’ve long been obsessed with the “ghosts” in team history. A ghost, for the uninitiated, is a player who was on the Mets’ active roster and eligible to enter a game but never did. This melancholy fraternity numbers nine: Jim Bibby (a ghost in 1969 and then again in 1971), Randy Bobb (1970), Billy Cotton (1972), Jerry Moses (1975), Terrel Hansen (1992), Mac Suzuki (1999), Anderson Garcia (2006), Ruddy Lugo (2008) and Al Reyes (also 2008).
Seven of those guys played for other big-league teams, making their Met non-tenures curiosities instead of trageies. But Cotton and Hansen never did — their chance to be a big leaguer came and went in orange and blue. There’s a rumor that Cotton was on deck to pinch-hit and lost his chance when the batter hit into a double play, and I’ve gone so far as to scour play-by-play accounts of the ’72 season in search of situations that might support this story. The evidence is ambiguous; I hope that’s a tale that grew in the telling, because what happened to Cotton is cruel enough as it is.
Two spectral curiosities: Matt Reynolds began his career as a postseason ghost, activated after Ruben Tejada‘s mauling in 2015 but never getting into a game. If he had played in the postseason but never appeared in a regular-season game, he would have joined onetime Mets minor-leaguer Mark Kiger as the only player to do so. Reynolds made the point moot when he started at third in May 2016.
Then there was the curious case of George Charles Baumann IV, mercifully known as Buddy. The Padres designated Baumann for assignment in April 2018 after he lasted a third of an inning at Coors Field, giving up five runs and getting into a brawl, for which he was suspended. The Mets signed him and called him up for a Friday-night game in May, aware that they couldn’t use him that night because he had to serve his suspension. But then Saturday was a rainout, and Baumann was sent down before Sunday’s game. Ghost, or no? He was on the active roster, indicating ghost, but there was no way he could have played, indicating … well, I’m not sure what. I’m happy to say I never needed a ruling; Baumann got called back up a couple of days later and promptly gave up three runs in two innings against the Blue Jays.
Not sure it was really spXciting, but he is in the book.
Which brings us to the curious case of Joe Hietpas.
Hietpas was called up in mid-September 2004, which was a strange time in Mets history. Art Howe had been fired but agreed to finish the season, which seemed pointless from the perspective of employer and employee alike. Hietpas was a catcher known for his receiving skills and a rifle arm, though he’d never hit in the minors. Somehow Hietpas hurt himself despite having nothing to do; updates on his status were perhaps understandably scanty. All I knew was the remaining games on the schedule were dwindling with no sign of Hietpas in a box score. Howe might not have lit up a room as promised, but he was universally hailed as a genuinely nice man; surely he wouldn’t let Hietpas’s opportunity pass him by.
But the Mets’ season came down to one game, an Oct. 3 matinee at Shea against the Expos — who were themselves about to be extinct, snuffed out by the shameless Bud Selig and his contraction shenanigans. I was in the stands with Greg and two friends of his, and I remember that our neighbors included a surprising number of Expos rooters in tricolor hats. Without exception, they were treated with sympathy and kindness — they were seeing the curtain come down on their team, in the same ballpark and against the same opponent where that team had begun its life back in 1969. It was a vigil and a funeral and a protest all at once, and I couldn’t help wondering how I would have reacted, if our situations were reversed. I was pretty sure I would have gone wherever the Mets went, decked from head to toe in blue and orange and trying to memorize each and every pitch — and praying that somehow there’d never be a final out. That was possible, right? A team could keep getting hits and walks and getting on base and so keep annihilation at bay, playing on and on in defiance of its executioners, until common decency and an international outcry forced a different ending to be found.
(There was an odd coda to the Expos’ finale, by the way: Brad Wilkerson took part in an MLB tour of Japan after the 2004 season, making him the final man to wear a non-throwback Expos uniform in competition. Surely there was some diehard out there who figured out how to find those games in a dark corner of the Internet, refusing to abandon his or her post as the last Expo played on the other side of the world.)
The final game in Expos history unfolded as final games do — slowly at first and then too quickly. In the sixth, Todd Zeile — who was retiring, and had returned to his original position of catcher as a farewell — hit a three-run homer in what would be his final at-bat; in the eighth, John Franco faced two batters in what would be his final appearance as a Met. (The first batter singled, marking my last opportunity to grumble at Franco, but the next guy, future Met malpractice victim Ryan Church, fouled out to Zeile.)
I’d been mildly tickled by Zeile returning to catcher, but the novelty had worn off and I was now more concerned with a first than a last: The Mets were up 7-1, so Hietpas was rapidly running out of time. When forgettable catcher Wilson Delgado pinch-hit for Franco, I groaned. Seriously, Art? You’re a good man. Depart with a final good deed. Delgado singled home a run; I was annoyed anyway.
The top of the ninth, in all likelihood the final inning in Expos history, began with an announcement — Bartolome Fortunato was now pitching. And now catching … yes, it really was him. Joe Hietpas had arrived.
You couldn’t see him — the mask and the late-afternoon shadows took care of that. (Honestly, it could have been anyone back there.) But I took it on faith.
The inning began with an Expo reaching on an error and another Expo getting on base via a walk. But Fortunato struck out the next two guys, and Endy Chavez hit a 3-2 pitch — the 24th thrown to Joe Hietpas in the big leagues — to Jose Reyes at short. The season was over, and the Expos were no more.
Hietpas — the Mets’ own Moonlight Graham — would be back in Double-A for 2005, and hit .216. He was no more of an offensive force the next season, but he did discover a new skill, hitting 93 in a stint as pitcher of last resort. The next season, he sought to extend his career by becoming a pitcher full-time — one whose repertoire included a knuckleball, because at that point why not?
Hietpas logged a 2.47 ERA for St. Lucie in 2007, and I let myself imagine him becoming a star reliever, or maybe, slightly less unrealistically, a useful specialist. Perhaps he’d even finally get that first plate appearance somewhere along the way. Hietpas pitched in Double-A in 2008, but this time his ERA was 6.34. Thus ended the dream, and Hietpas’s career.
But he was no ghost — no ectoplasmic asterisk with an unhappy sequel. Hietpas may not have ever wielded a bat in big-league anger, but he’s in Baseball Reference — the 16,208th player in MLB history, no less. Sure, his big-league career was only eight or nine minutes, but it counted. On a day full of endings, Hietpas experienced his own ending. But he had a beginning too. And wherever he is, I hope it’s one he cherishes.
PREVIOUS METS FOR ALL SEASONS
1962: Richie Ashburn 1964: Rod Kanehl 1966: Shaun Fitzmaurice 1969: Donn Clendenon 1970: Tommie Agee 1972: Gary Gentry 1973: Willie Mays 1977: Lenny Randle 1978: Craig Swan 1981: Mookie Wilson 1982: Rusty Staub 1983: Darryl Strawberry 1990: Gregg Jefferies 1991: Rich Sauveur 1992: Todd Hundley 1994: Rico Brogna 1995: Jason Isringhausen 1996: Rey Ordoñez 1998: Todd Pratt 2000: Melvin Mora 2001: Mike Piazza 2002: Al Leiter 2003: David Cone 2005: Pedro Martinez 2008: Johan Santana 2009: Angel Pagan 2012: R.A. Dickey 2013: Wilmer Flores 2014: Jacob deGrom 2019: Dom Smith
The first win after one of those lengthy losing streaks always makes me feel a little sheepish.
The Mets won. A spot of bother aside, it wasn’t even all that tense. And this after you spent five days being snarly and surly. Wasn’t that silly?
Well, of course it was. But my goodness, it really looked like they were all drowning, didn’t it? No one could hit. The relief corps was reliably horrific. And then on Sunday they managed to step on their own collective dick again in dealing with a personnel matter —
Nope. We’re not going to go there. That was part of the losing streak. This is a new week. A new beginning, even!
Of course it’s easier to be optimistic when you can throw Jacob deGrom at a problem. DeGrom was even nastier than usual Monday night, throwing his usual 99 MPH gas complemented by a slider and change, but this time he also showed up for work with a solid curveball — his fourth-best pitch and a work in progress, and so usually limited to cameos. What must that have been like in the Braves dugout? Oh great, he’s figured out a curveball too. Well, this will be fun.
It wasn’t fun for them; it was fun — for a change — for the Mets, whose players hit, hit when it actually mattered (now there’s a concept) and ran the bases alertly and aggressively. Robinson Cano and Michael Conforto were your stars on offense, but Wilson Ramos also hit a home run and everyone seemed more on point than they had in recent days. Even Pete Alonso looked patient at the plate, at least, even if that patience yielded nothing.
By the way, kudos to Gary, Keith and Ron for breaking down a hitch that’s crept into Alonso’s swing. As always, my hope is that if the TV guys see something like that, someone’s communicating it to people in the actual clubhouse for scrutiny. Sticking with SNY, though, something that’s stuck in my craw for some time reared its head again Monday. Next time you watch the Mets, notice what happens with the shift. Keep track of how often Gary, Keith and Ron note balls hit against the shift that go for hits, and how much time is spent kvetching about those plays. And keep track of how often balls that would have been hits without the shift are corraled into outs, and how little attention they get. It’s an excellent example of confirmation bias, and a blind spot that the best booth in baseball is far too good to allow to persist.
Hopping off my soapbox, deGrom was superb except for the fifth, when he had trouble commanding his offspeed stuff and got hit around a bit, most notably by old friend Travis d’Arnaud, who homered. The last home run surrendered by deGrom was also to an old teammate — Wilmer Flores. When deGrom actually gets in trouble it’s sobering and lends a bit of perspective — rather than be mad at him or for him, I tend to wax philosophical, musing that pitching must be really, really hard if even Jacob deGrom sometimes has trouble with it.
(By the way, I never want bad things to happen to the Mets. But if they must happen, I don’t mind d’Arnaud being their agent. While d’Arnaud never managed to fulfill his promise as a Met, he deserved better to be cast aside in a Wilponian hissy fit last spring. His beating the tar out of his old team the last few days suggests that the arc of baseball’s moral universe really might bend toward justice.)
Anyway, the Mets bullpen came in and started by doing recent Mets bullpen things, which was not what any of us had in mind: Jeurys Familia was the culprit this time, allowing a one-out single, double and walk. Up came Ozzie Albies, who could bring the Braves within one and leave us all hiding behind the couch until someone whispered that Alonso is doing PSAs thanking all the vaccine researchers who helped us get back to work and we could come out now.
But Familia got Ozzie Albies and yielded the mound to Justin Wilson, who coaxed a groundball to Alonso from serial Mets killer Freddie Freeman, and the peril was largely past. Newest Met Jared Hughes, a tall smiley sinkerballer who likes to sprint in from the bullpen, finished up and the Mets were back in the win column.
Back in the win column with an asterisk, if you want to be a downer about it — Jeff McNeil was a late scratch with a back issue, while Amed Rosario and Cano both departed early with tightness in various things. We’ll see what that means — “tightness” is one of those diagnoses that can range the gamut from acute and precautionary to chronic and disastrous. (Atlanta’s Mike Soroka, on the other hand, tore his Achilles tendon on an awkward step off the mound — an awful thing to see and a blow to the sport when it needs every young star who’s fit for duty.)
For now, let’s hope that asterisk is written in pencil, and the Mets can stay in the win column for a while. And if not, well, every fifth day we get to watch a master at work. Which is a pleasure and a privilege, whatever the standings say.
I nodded off briefly during Sunday’s game. I debated going for a full-blown nap, but thought, nah, this is the first Sunday afternoon the Mets have played this season. I gotta sit up for this. Still, against the backdrop of the Mets playing as they are in what this season is, a nap was probably the better choice.
Therefore, I sort of salute Yoenis Cespedes for opting out while the opting is good. Sleep this season off. We’re all going to wish we had. Maybe next time virtually reach out and touch somebody who needs to know that you plan to proverbially grab some shuteye. Not all protocol comes out of a hastily compiled manual.
Yo isn’t taking a nap, exactly. He’s opted out of 2020, which is something numerous players have done. First, however, he opted out of Sunday’s game in Atlanta, which is something you just don’t do…unless you’re Yo and a different drummer has driven you to your dizzying professional heights in the first place. Either way, he wasn’t in the lineup and his unanticipated absence from active duty in these socially distant times — expanded roster; players spread responsibly through otherwise unoccupied stands; no reporters in the clubhouse — probably would have gone unnoticed up in New York unless a pinch-hitting opportunity cried out for his .161 bat. Yet the Mets were never seriously a single vintage Cespedes swing from getting back into what became their fifth consecutive loss, so if nobody had gone out of their way to inform us that Yoenis hadn’t joined his teammates for a sleepy afternoon defeat at Truist Park, I doubt our not knowing his Sunday status until later would have bothered many of us.
Ah, but the Mets wouldn’t be the Mets without remotely tapping their devoted acolytes on the collective shoulder when they want to let us know we should think less of somebody they pay. Their game against the Braves was barely underway when they released a statement laced with mystery and speckled with incomplete information.
“As of game time, Yoenis Cespedes has not reported to the ballpark today. He did not reach out to management with any explanation for his absence. Our attempts to contact him have been unsuccessful.”
If the Mets hadn’t planted the possibility of god knows what in our heads, their missive would have merely evoked the old George Carlin bit in which the sportscaster gives “a partial score from the West Coast: Los Angeles 6.” In this case, though, leaning in to tell us they didn’t know where one of their players was didn’t land as terribly amusing.
After the 4-0 loss was over (David Peterson pitched six credible innings; the Mets left thirteen runners on base), Brodie Van Wagenen took to Zoom, as a general manager does in a pandemic, and revealed that while Yo was OK, he was no longer among us. That is he was no longer with the Mets. His hotel room contained neither his stuff nor him. Yo eventually got around to having his agent tell the Mets he was opting out from this thin semblance of a baseball season due to COVID concerns, effectively ending his Met career less than two months before his contract expires. Enough baseball players have “opted out” that we use the phrase like we use “the Mets didn’t hit in the clutch” or “the Mets lost again” in casual conversation. Opting out is sadly ensconced in our 2020 baseball language. So are COVID concerns, which are hardly abstract. You saw less of the Marlins and Cardinals this weekend than you did Yoenis Cespedes.
This rather sudden if somehow not shocking parting of the ways could have been communicated better from every angle. Cespedes should have at least sent Luis Rojas a text or answered one his manager sent him. The Mets should have waited for definitive word before clearing their throats, and then simply wished their now former star player good health and happy trails once they were up to speed. Instead, Yo is left looking a mile shy of the conscientious co-worker, while the Mets are in the familiar position of appearing to attempt to poison the atmosphere surrounding an employee they wish to turn public sentiment against.
Whatever motivated the timing behind his actions and exit, I simply wish Yoenis Cespedes good health and happy trails. I thank him for the joy he generated starting right around this moment in 2015. It lasted nearly three months and will stay with me for whatever remains of my lifetime; five years later, it endures as the only sustained outstanding stretch of baseball this franchise has produced since moving into Citi Field. Failure to adequately relay his whereabouts to his employer on a given Sunday isn’t gonna change what I think of when I think of Yo.
I also wish the Mets would conduct a more thorough head count before departing the hotel for the ballpark and, if they’re not sure where somebody is, they find out before disseminating their uncertainty as breaking news.
The Mets, having played interminable games wrecked by terrible relief pitching, at least found a new formula for a loss Saturday night — bad starting pitching coupled with a lack of offense when desperately needed.
Michael Wacha gave up a two-run homer to the increasingly unbearable Marcell Ozuna in the first, then surrendered three straight two-out hits in the second, further hindered by yet another play not quite made in the Mets outfield. That made it 5-0 Braves, more than they would need on a frustrating night for Met hitters in general and Pete Alonso in particular.
In the third, the Mets had runners on first and second with one out; Alonso grounded into a double play. In the fourth, the Mets put runners on first and second with nobody out; Yoenis Cespedes struck out. Dominic Smith walked, potentially reviving the inning; Wilson Ramos struck out and Amed Rosario grounded out. In the fifth, the Mets put the first two runners on again; Alonso struck out, again. Michael Conforto singled to load the bases and bring up Robinson Cano, the only potent bat in the lineup so far this year. He hit a sharp liner, but that was good only for a sacrifice fly that proved the sum total of the offense. (I could go on, as there were other episodes of, well, bat-teasing, but honestly that’s enough to recall.)
The bright spot, if you squint, was that Franklyn Kilome logged four innings in his debut and looked pretty good, particularly once he settled in a bit and the nerves stopped jangling. Kilome came over from Philadelphia when the Mets traded away Asdrubal Cabrera and pretty much immediately needed Tommy John surgery, but on Saturday night his arm looked live and his motion easy. The Mets could certainly use someone like that, given that even the reliable members of the bullpen have turned arsonist.
But I dislike squinting. The Mets could also use better starting pitching, hitters shaking off the rust and guys who can actually play defense. It’s a long list.
The Mets have lost four in a row, which Twitter’s mathletes would like you to know is the equivalent of a 11-game losing streak in this compressed sprint of a season. That neither true nor helpful, but the reality is bad enough: It’s August 2, the Mets are a mess, and so far their only victory of note has come in COVID testing, which isn’t the kind of win to crow about given how quickly and dramatically things can change.
The author Don DeLillo once wrote that “nostalgia is a product of dissatisfaction and rage,” a line I love and think is a useful corrective for baseball, where syrupy sepia always threatens to drown the pleasures of the present day.
But if you’re a Met fan who isn’t dissatisfied and at least rage-adjacent, I’m not sure what you’ve been watching for the last few days. So go ahead and get nostalgic. Back when we weren’t sure there’d be a season at all, Greg and I started penning A Met for All Seasons, in which we picked a player for each year of Mets baseball, sifted through our memories of that player, maybe even did a little research, and started typing.
We’re now halfway through that journey, having just chronicled 2001 and Mike Piazza. Before Big Mike, the year and player in the spotlight was 1983 and Darryl Strawberry. We’ve discussed Hall of Famers and 25th men, guys whose uniform numbers will never be worn by a Met again and guys whose uniform numbers are recalled only by the hardest of hardcore fans. So if another key strikeout or another act of bullpen malpractice leaves you fuming — or if an unfortunate test should push the Mets into baseball’s increasingly crowded PPD column — put aside DeLillo’s warning and join us for a stroll through Mets history.
DeLillo followed his line puncturing of nostalgia with another pretty good one: “It’s a settling of grievances between the present and the past.” Fair enough, but I’ve got grievances a-plenty with this particular present, and if current Mets are incapable of settling them, I’ll look to their forebears to soothe me, at least a little.
Some unusual Met things you’re pretty sure you’ve lived through before. There’s a lot of that going around, actually. In the case of the Mets blowing a large lead when they’ve posted double-digit runs, that’s too familiar a sensation to count in the camp of “Gosh, I’m certain this has happened before, but I just can’t remember when.” Of course you’re certain. It happened the contemporary baseball equivalent of barely more than a month ago. On September 3, 2019, the Mets built a lead of 10-4 and lost to the Nationals, 11-10. Thus, when on July 31, 2020, the Mets built a lead of 10-5 and lost to the Braves, 11-10, it hardly qualified for placement under the heading of Déjà Vu All Over Again. When you follow roughly the same trajectory and lose by the exact same score for a second instance in the span of 33 regular-season games, it falls more in the category of what you do.
Two of the Mets’ fourteen most recent regular-season defeats have been inscribed into the Book of Life as Somebody Else 11 Us 10. I’d say, “think about that,” but don’t. You have enough problems.
Some Met things, however, you have a hunch you’ve never lived through before — and that’s putting aside every baked-in bizarro aspect of 2020. I know we’ve sat through some long-ass games, but something about the past three have been particularly unending and unsatisfying, so I turned to Baseball-Reference’s Stathead service (a spiffy update of their former Play Index); fed in a couple of data points; and confirmed my suspicion.
Until this week, the Mets had never lost three consecutive nine-inning games that lasted longer than three-and-a-half hours.
I know it seems like all we do is sit through interminable affairs that yield intolerable results, but what we’ve experienced from Citi Field versus the Red Sox Wednesday and Thursday and Financial Merger Facility versus the Braves Friday is unprecedented in a very specific and very dispiriting way.
Wednesday: 3:44 to play nine innings and lose to Boston, 6-5. Thursday: 3:49 to play nine innings and lose to Boston, 4-2. Friday: 3:35 to play nine innings and lose to Atlanta, 11-10.
The Mets are scheduled to play only sixty games, but they seem determined to cram 162 games’ worth of inaction into them.
We didn’t need extras and we didn’t have to struggle to stay awake for the sake of the West Coast. This was simply regulation long and regulation awful over and over and over. Their only saving grace was they started and somehow ended in prime time. If three nights like these don’t cure you of your giddiness to have baseball back, the next Mets game that refuses to cease or sate or both ought to inoculate you. Surely there’s another one right around the corner.
Remember when you missed baseball? Me neither.
Remember when you looked forward to baseball? I do. Right around seven o’clock Friday night. It felt good to have a baseball broadcast or two clear its throat the way a baseball broadcast does on a Friday night. Even amid a calendar whose days have blurred into one another for months, you can still pick out a Friday night in summertime. If you can’t, it’s the one with most likely a brand new series between the Mets and somebody you can’t wait to beat getting underway in a few minutes. It’s how weekends have been meant to commence since 1962.
It’s exciting. Then it’s assuring. Then, you notice, it’s gone on a while but not really getting very far. Then it’s nine o’clock and it’s only the fifth inning? Maybe it’s nine o’clock. Maybe it’s the fifth inning. Baseball likes to boast that it doesn’t run on a clock, but when you used to be able to go to ballparks, you saw clocks. When you looked at box scores, near where they kept the paid attendance, you saw time of game. Time doesn’t stand as still as we like to believe it does during a ballgame.
Unless you’ve been watching the Mets this week. These past three games, time has squirmed in its seat, never finding a position in which to feel remotely comfortable. Even when you have Jacob deGrom on the mound. Even when you’re loading the bases. Even when you’ve constructed a robust lead.
With these Mets, robust tends to go bust. On Friday, the Mets were not only ahead, 10-5, they’d been ahead, 8-2. A six-run lead. A five-run lead. Expansive by any measure, right? With matters so securely in hand, all you were left to ponder was which Mets pitcher would be credited with the Mets win, because a) the Mets — powered in particular by J.D. Davis and Robinson Cano — were obviously gonna win; and b) Rick Porcello didn’t last five innings, which, even in 2020’s wonderland of distorted and truncated rule revisions, you still need to go five innings to get a win as a starting pitcher. Porcello couldn’t get out of the fifth despite being staked to a six-run advantage.
That might have provided a clue that we’d have bigger issues than assigning W’s. The Braves scored three in the fifth off Porcello and Paul Sewald. They added another off Chasen Shreve, though Shreve was generally effective and the Mets were adding a couple more tallies of their own (Amed Rosario loves hitting in whatever the Braves call their park in whatever part of Atlanta it isn’t in). Wanna give Shreve the win? That would be fine.
Entering the bottom of the eighth, the Mets were leading, 10-6. No pitchers needed to be pinch-hit for because the National League no longer exists in such a natural state, yet the Mets were on their fourth pitcher of the night, Dellin Betances. In brief, it didn’t go well, and it went on extra long because two replay reviews ensued, neither of them amounting to a reversal of declining Met fortunes and both of them combining to eventually push the game into to its eighth half-hour.
Betances left with the Mets’ edge reduced to 10-8 and Braves occupying first and third. The mess was transferred to the normally reliable right hand of Seth Lugo. Like most relievers, Lugo conducts his business more cleanly when an inning isn’t already in horrifying progress. Like most pitchers, starting or relieving, Lugo is best served by a home plate umpire identifying strikes as strikes. Seth had to deal with Betances’s runners and getting squeezed by Mike Wegner. We don’t make excuses for Seth Lugo, but we do try to cut our best reliever of the past two years some slack.
Still, when he got to a bases-loaded, two-out situation and the opposing batter was Travis d’Arnaud, we had to know what was coming. I assumed d’Arnaud knew what was coming, given that he was Lugo’s catcher fairly often as a Met. Multiply the vengeful ex-Met factor (Adeiny Hechavarria had led off the inning with a single) by the battery-familiarity factor and, yup, Travis d’Arnaud, whom the Mets let go with not much more than a second thought last year, doubled home three runs. The third of those runs put the Braves ahead, 11-10, the official score of you’ve got to be kidding me.
Nope, no kidding. No victory. No good at all, really. An individual exploit here or there notwithstanding, it’s hard to get enthused over being 3-5 after eight games. We knew that back when we could only imagine what it would feel like to be 3-5 after eight games. Except we can, for the first time in the history of Metkind, say we saw three consecutive nine-inning Met losses that lasted more than three-and-a-half hours apiece.
I didn’t say we’d want to say it, I’m just saying we can.
Welcome to A Met for All Seasons, a series in which we consider a given Met who played in a given season and…well, we’ll see.
True confessions time: When the rumor surfaced in the spring of 1998 that the Mets were about to acquire Mike Piazza, I was against the idea. Vehemently against it, in fact. The Mets, I railed, already had a perfectly good catcher in Todd Hundley. Sure, his elbow was shot, but he’d be back soon. The Mets had holes, but they didn’t need Mike Piazza.
I could slip that one into the memory hole, but I’ll own it, and admit — as I did within a few weeks — that I was being ridiculous. Hundley had set a club record for home runs, finally taking the Mets into 40-homer single-season territory. He’d shown admirable toughness and supplied some much-needed star power during one of the Mets’ sadsack periods. But — for God’s sake, Jace — he wasn’t Mike Piazza.
Nobody was Mike Piazza.
Piazza arrived and immediately gave the Mets a jolt in New York City awareness and the standings. The idiot wing of our fanbase hazed him on his arrival, booing him for merely being very good instead of fantastic, but he and we got over it and he settled in to become the emblematic player of his Mets era. Thinking about “the Mets in black” is a great way to visit with some old friends — Robin Ventura, Al Leiter, Cliff Floyd, John Olerud, Edgardo Alfonzo, Bobby Jones, Benny Agbayani, Rey Ordonez — but if you think of one guy from that era, odds are you’re thinking of Piazza.
But let’s go back to May 1998. The 29-year-old player they were acquiring was coming off a season in which he’d hit .362, socked 40 home runs and driven in 124. Those were videogame numbers — and he’d put them up in a pitcher’s park while squatting for three hours a day.
They were also the latest chapter in a story that seemed too unlikely to be true.
If Horatio Alger had written Piazza’s tale, he would have tweaked a few things. Piazza didn’t learn baseball wearing a milk-carton glove or dealing with a rock-strewn field — his upbringing was pretty much the opposite of that. He was a rich kid, and one with enviable family connections.
His father had grown up in the Philadelphia suburbs with Tommy Lasorda, six years his senior. Lasorda was Norristown, Pa.’s golden boy, clearly destined for baseball glory; Vince Piazza was his loyal sidekick (and a distant cousin). Lasorda became Walter Alston‘s successor as Dodgers Skipper for Life, while Piazza, a born wheeler-dealer, became a wealthy selling used cars. Mike was the Dodgers’ batboy when Lasorda’s team came to Philadelphia, and honed his skills in a batting cage built in the Piazzas’ backyard — one that eventually had a roof and a heater for year-round use. When Mike was 16, his dad arranged for Ted Williams to come by and watch his son’s batting-practice sessions and offer a bit of advice.
Piazza, then a first baseman, broke his high school’s home-run record (once held by Andre Thornton), but scouts were unmoved. Some of them said he couldn’t hit; all of them said he couldn’t run. Lasorda pulled strings and got Piazza into the University of Miami, but his freshman year as a Hurricane backup was a disaster; then, at his insistence, the Dodgers drafted him in 1988.
But they drafted him in the 62nd round, after 1,389 other players had been chosen. (Their top pick in that draft, Bill Bene, walked 489 batters in 445 minor-league innings.) Piazza was a courtesy pick, whom the Dodgers had no intention of actually signing — or of having play pro ball if they did expend a pittance as an additional courtesy. By all appearances he was … and I’m sorry to put this in your head … Jeff Wilpon.
The courtesy pick would get to suit up for pro ball, but only because Lasorda was his bodyguard, strong-arming anybody who got in his buddy’s son’s way. Which was pretty everybody drawing a Dodgers paycheck who wasn’t named Tommy Lasorda. The Dodgers reluctantly signed Piazza (for all of $15,000) after a tryout in Dodger Stadium, during which Lasorda told the team’s skeptical scouting director that Piazza was now a catcher.
So far, if we’re being honest, it’s a story that probably makes you feel a little queasy. But here’s where it gets interesting.
The rich kid had family connections, but he was also willing to work his butt off. Yes, he’d had a backyard batting cage, but he’d spent hours and hours in it, winter and summer. Tommy or Teddy Ballgame couldn’t drive balls into the Dodger Stadium seats for him — that was all Mike. And he now harnessed that same work ethic to learn to catch.
His first stop was Salem, where the results were probably better than expected but nothing eye-opening: Piazza hit .268 and showed a little power, but struggled defensively. So he asked to attend the Dodgers’ baseball academy in the Dominican Republic, language barrier and tarantulas for bedmates notwithstanding. (For two great reads on Piazza, here’s Kelly Whiteside from Sports Illustrated’s archives, and this book by some fella named Greg Prince.) He came back from the D.R. much improved as a backstop, but his 1990 season wasn’t too different than 1989, and for once his resolve faltered. Fortunately for fans in both L.A. and New York, Reggie Smith convinced him not to quit.
1991, at Bakersfield, was when things started to turn around — Piazza hit .277 with power, and his defense improved. And 1992 was his breakout — a .377 curb-stomping of the Texas League with San Antonio, a .341 tear through the PCL as an Albuquerque Duke, and a September callup to L.A. In 1993 he slammed 35 homers for the Dodgers, was Rookie of the Year, and became a baseball sensation. Besides the on-field heroics, his Littlest Allman Brother facial hair, deep brown eyes and easy smile helped make him a TV pitchman and a household name. (Something I’ve never found on YouTube forays, to my sorrow, is a wonderful ESPN “My SportsCenter moment” ad in which Piazza dreams of stealing home, to the shock of everyone from Dan Patrick to a cartoon character on a popcorn box.)
And then, improbably, he became a Met.
Emily and I were in the stands on May 23, 1998, a Saturday matinee against the Brewers, and the pregame buzz around us felt borrowed from a pennant race. Everyone in the nearby seats was talking excited with his or her neighbor, and there were periodic outbursts of apparently random cheering. Out beyond right field, you could see wave after wave of Mets fans arriving, disgorged from the 7 train. Piazza was late getting to LaGuardia, but the Mets gave us Diamondvision updates on his progress like they were NORAD tracking Santa’s sleigh.
He got a standing ovation, grounded out in his first Met at-bat, struck out in his second one, and came to the plate in the fifth with a runner on first, two outs, and the Mets up 1-0. Jeff Juden, the Brewers’ gigantic hurler, left a fastball out over the plate. Piazza whacked it into right-center and the ball kicked up dust and grass blades, then seemed to accelerate as it shot up the gap. My thought, borrowed from a bit of Mets’ spring-training chatter: A grown man hit that ball.
And Piazza kept hitting that ball, over eight seasons with the Mets that generated a slew of memories. The blast off the Yankees’ Ramiro Mendoza in the summer of 1999, which came down atop a tent 482 feet from home plate. The shot he struck off John Smoltz in Game 6 of the 1999 NLCS — the best game the Mets didn’t win — that tied the score at 7-7 despite Piazza only having one working thumb at the time. The rage I felt when Roger Clemens — who seemingly could never retire Piazza in a big spot — hit him in the head with a fastball, and then threw the shard of a bat across his path in the World Series.
Or how about the first-pitch line drive Piazza struck off Terry Mulholland earlier that summer, the one that capped the Mets’ 10-run inning, and came punctuated with an uncharacteristic fist pump and yell as he hit first base? I was in the park for that one, one of those indelible escape-velocity baseball moments in which a very long, agonizing buildup culminates in a single, electric second, with the pent-up emotion of the windup exploding all at once, like the detonation of a massive, joyous thunderstorm. That home run was 20 years ago, but it’s still atop my pinnacle of personal highlights, rivaled only by the Grand Slam Single. Leaping and yelling and screaming in the stands, I was briefly worried that I was having a heart attack, and then decided I was so happy that I didn’t care.
We all loved the home runs, of course, but there was something endearing about Piazza even when he wasn’t doing great things on the field. No matter how many RBIs he had, there was an inherent awkwardness to him. Some ballplayers seem born to the game, with perfect swings and fluid strides, but Piazza never struck me that way — he looked like he’d wrested greatness out of improbability through sheer repetitions. He’d stand stock-still at the plate, followed by a violent eruption of a swing, and then chug around the bases like a kid had made a flip drawing of a T. rex — legs and arms pumping energetically but with no particular efficiency. (The scouts were right about that part — he really couldn’t run.) He worked his butt off to be a serviceable catcher, but was never a great thrower or pitch-framer — his career came before pitch framing was in vogue, but I remember dissections of how Piazza lost strikes for his pitcher because he was a “window washer,” moving the glove to excess instead of holding it still for the umpire’s consideration.
He was a little awkward off the field too. No athlete was more excited to meet rock musicians than Piazza, and when he made a cameo onstage, he looked like you and I do air-guitaring in the privacy of our rooms. He had a goofy predilection for experimental hairstyles — after one horrible loss to the Cubs, he arrived for the next game with his hair cut short and dyed platinum, sparking a Wrigley Field ovation after shedding his helmet to chase a foul ball. Or there was the game where he got hit by a pitch, wound up holding it, and disdainfully tossed it aside. In the postgame scrum, he eagerly asked the reporters, “Did it look cool?” (It did.) I’m reminded of Eddie Van Halen’s confession when asked about being the guy on a million teenagers’ rock-god posters: “I am so much geekier than all those kids who want to be me.”
But let’s part with an indelible Piazza moment. It came in 2001, the year that’s his in our Met for All Seasons series. I was there on Sept. 21, 2001, the first ballgame played in New York City after 9/11. There were long waits to get into the ballparks (the Mets, being fan-friendly for once, delayed the start to accommodate the security lines) and once we were inside, I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to be there. It wasn’t that I was scared about something bad happening, though that was of course in the back of my mind. It was more that we were all still flattened by shock and grief, and trying to figure out how to move forward, and I had no idea if I had any reservoir of emotion to draw on for something as seemingly inconsequential as a Mets-Braves game.
There was a 21-gun salute and cheers for cops, fighters and emergency responders — and even for the Braves, who exchanged handshakes and hugs with the Mets. And then the game started. At first it barely registered, but the Mets and Braves gave us a taut thriller, one you couldn’t help but pay attention to.
Liza Minnelli, of all people, broke the emotional ice with a seventh-inning-stretch performance of “New York, New York” that I greeted skeptically at first, particularly when she assembled an impromptu kick line with the cops and firefighters. But if they didn’t mind, who was I to object? And she sang the absolute hell out of that old chestnut, filling it with all the love and wistfulness and defiant triumph I’d never noticed it contained.
We felt all that, and were able to let some of it out, and then the bottom of the eighth came, and Piazza arrived at the plate with one out, a runner on first, and the Mets down 2-1. He connected on an 0-1 count, forever immortalized by Howie Rose’s ecstatic yelp that “this one has a chance!” That call is a bullseye emotionally even if a little wide of the mark for accuracy — from my vantage point in the mezzanine, there was no doubt that it was gone the second Piazza connected. Before it cleared the fence, we were all on our feet screaming and hugging and celebrating.
I’ve thought about that home run a lot, and what it meant. The Mets didn’t win in 2001 — their season sputtered to an inglorious conclusion when Brian Jordan connected off John Franco in Atlanta not long after Sept. 21. And, of course, that swing of the bat didn’t bring anyone back who’d been lost, or shorten the long, painful road ahead of us — a road we’re still traveling, in some ways. But it’s not like anyone thought it could, or imagined it should.
What it did do was make it OK for us to imagine devoting ourselves to small things. It gave us permission to lose our minds about a baseball game and who’d win it. Which is far from nothing, if you think about it. We rarely find ourselves in the grip of world-shaking events; usually, we’re connecting the dots hour to hour and day to day. And there’s no shame in that, because most of our lives are small things. Piazza’s home run showed us a way to get back across the chasm that had been cleaved between the two. We weren’t going to forget what had happened, but we would be able to move forward. Maybe we didn’t know how, not just yet, but we knew we had a chance.
PREVIOUS METS FOR ALL SEASONS
1962: Richie Ashburn 1964: Rod Kanehl 1966: Shaun Fitzmaurice 1969: Donn Clendenon 1970: Tommie Agee 1972: Gary Gentry 1973: Willie Mays 1977: Lenny Randle 1978: Craig Swan 1981: Mookie Wilson 1982: Rusty Staub 1983: Darryl Strawberry 1990: Gregg Jefferies 1991: Rich Sauveur 1992: Todd Hundley 1994: Rico Brogna 1995: Jason Isringhausen 1996: Rey Ordoñez 1998: Todd Pratt 2000: Melvin Mora 2002: Al Leiter 2003: David Cone 2005: Pedro Martinez 2008: Johan Santana 2009: Angel Pagan 2012: R.A. Dickey 2013: Wilmer Flores 2014: Jacob deGrom 2019: Dom Smith
In what I suppose one could say is a sign of relative normalcy, I’m disgusted by the Mets and want them to go away.
No! Not really go away! But … well, sort of. Because I was so happy to have three hours of solace a night, and instead the last two nights the Mets have brought me three-plus hours of angst, frustration and finally out-and-out anger.
Don’t Drink Out of a Glass Because You Might Bite Through It anger.
Don’t Touch the Remote Because It Will Be Tempting to Hurl It anger.
It’s all fairly familiar, and I could go for the easy COVID “Nature Is Healing” joke here. Except I feel variously blistered and chafed and thoroughly irritable.
Wednesday night’s sloggy mess was long enough without extending it further in memory, so let’s just say that it sucked, and if you really want to revisit exactly how it sucked, Greg can supply all the masochism you apparently need. Thursday night was different in some ways but agonizingly the same in every way that ultimately mattered. On Wednesday the Mets hit except when it mattered; on Thursday they barely hit at all. On Wednesday Jacob deGrom was blameless except for his choice of employers; on Thursday Steven Matz was betrayed by poor location on key pitches, particularly to Red Sox catcher Christian Vazquez, whom I’d like never to think about again after what he did to us in this series.
In the seventh the Mets had the tying run on second with nobody out; Wilson Ramos grounded out, Brandon Nimmo struck out and Amed Rosario grounded out. In the eighth the Mets had the tying run on third with one out; Michael Conforto struck out. In the ninth … except oh wait, the bottom of the ninth only theoretically mattered because in the top of the ninth Edwin Diaz came in. He gave up two walks and a single, fanned Rafael Devers, then hit Jose Peraza to force in an insurance run the Red Sox turned out not to need.
Except wait — Diaz actually hit Peraza twice in the at-bat. No, I’m not kidding, and no, this is not another absurd 2020 wrinkle Rob Manfred decided might be the thing to make the kids stop with the texting and the TikTok and watch baseball. The first time, Diaz hit Peraza in the thumb, except he swung through the pitch so it was merely a very painful strike. Not to worry — he managed to do it again. I’d ask how that’s possible, except if you’d spun that scenario for me and asked me what Met it had happened to, I’d have looked at you unhappily and guessed it was Diaz.
Diaz was arguably unlucky in failing to lock down the season’s second game against Atlanta, when Marcell Ozuna hit a pretty good pitch (albeit a carbon copy of one Diaz had used earlier) for an opposite-field home run. But this night was on him. If there was a silver lining — and it’s an awfully faint one — after the game Luis Rojas did not offer some earnestly dim-bulb Mickey Callaway horseshit about Proven Veterans™ and their knowing the game; instead, he said that wasn’t the Diaz the Mets had seen in summer camp and suggested his struggles were as much about controlling his emotions on the mound as command and mechanics. That’s not the usual baseball omerta, which is refreshing; so is the possibility that Diaz won’t get another scholarship year as closer based on what he did in some arriviste minor league two seasons ago.
(Oh wait, though. If you’d asked me the hit-a-guy-twice question, the other pitcher I would have picked would have been Paul Sewald. Sewald came in after Diaz was excused further duty, and if this were a regulation July I really think I might have turned off the TV and read about it in the morning. So of course, baseball being baseball, Sewald recorded a strikeout and a flyout to exit unscathed. Will wonders never cease?)
If I squint and try to reason with the foaming-at-the-mouth WFAN caller in my head, I can see that the Mets aren’t actually far off — some bad luck here, some pressing at the plate there, some rust, some roles that need to be sorted. A couple of at-bats go differently over the last two days, and they just swept the Red Sox and we’re talking about revenge against the Braves.
But they didn’t do any of that. The honeymoon’s over and the apartment’s too small and our significant other is doing That Thing We Hate again, and we keep looking into the sink filled with dishes someone else should have done and wondering, with a sinking feeling that suggests we already know the answer, if this is going to work.
“Everywhere I went,” Marvin Gaye and, later, James Taylor sang, “it seems I’d been there before.” In that spirit of history either repeating or rhyming, I’d have to say that on Wednesday night, I kind of got what they were getting at.
On October 25, 1986, though the result didn’t go final until the earliest hour of October 26, the Boston Red Sox were defeated by the New York Mets in the village of Flushing, 6-5, despite holding the Mets to only eight hits while registering thirteen hits themselves; the visitors left fourteen runners on base. This happened to be the sixth game of the World Series, a Series the Red Sox had been leading three games to two. Those Red Sox were managed by John McNamara. At several junctures during that game’s tenth inning, McNamara was no more than one swing away from forever being known as the manager of the 1986 world champions.
On July 29, 2020, though the game felt like it dragged until October 26 (it went 3:44), the Boston Red Sox defeated the New York Mets in the village of Flushing, 6-5. This also happened to be the same day John McNamara, forever known as the manager of the 1986 American League champions, died at the age of 88.
On June 10, 2003, well-regarded Mets prospect Jose Reyes, hours shy of his 20th birthday, made his first major league start at shortstop in an Interleague game. Young Jose produced a pair of hits, including one for extra bases, in a Met loss.
On July 29, 2020, well-regarded Mets prospect Andres Gimenez, all of 21 years old, made his first major league start at shortstop in an Interleague game. He produced a pair of hits, including one for extra bases, in a Met loss. This also happened to be the day Jose Reyes, now 37, officially announced his retirement from a baseball career that encompassed sixteen seasons and myriad accomplishments.
In the 1950s, when they were both writing for Sid Caesar, newcomer Woody Allen was introduced as “the young Larry Gelbart,” to which Larry Gelbart quickly responded, “I thought I was the young Larry Gelbart.”
On July 29, 2020, as Andres Gimenez made his case to be thought of as the next Jose Reyes, 24-year-old Mets shortstop Amed Rosario, described during the night’s broadcast as Reyes’s protégé, watched Gimenez play at Citi Field from a socially distanced seat in the stands.
On August 28, 2015, in a game between the Mets and Red Sox at Citi Field, Mets ace Matt Harvey allowed only two hits over six innings, but Red Sox catcher Blake Swihart (2-for-4) ultimately upstaged his brilliance with an inside-the-park home run off reliever Carlos Torres. The ball actually left the park, but was mysteriously ruled to have done otherwise. Either way, the Mets wound up losing a game it felt like they should have won.
On July 29, 2020, in a game between the Mets and Red Sox at Citi Field, Mets ace Jacob deGrom allowed only three hits over six innings, but Red Sox catcher Christian Vazquez ultimately upstaged his brilliance with a home run off reliever Seth Lugo. The ball was definitely out of the park, but earlier, deGrom had Mitch Moreland struck out, yet his pitch was mysteriously ruled a ball, and after that at-bat continued, Moreland snapped deGrom’s long-running scoreless streak. Either way, the Mets wound up losing a game it felt like they should have won.
On too many nights to mention, deGrom deserved better than a no-decision in a game the Mets went on to lose.
On July 29, 2020, deGrom deserved better than a no-decision, and the Mets went on to lose.
In too many games to fully enumerate, I looked up at the line score midway through and wondered how the Mets could have so many hits yet so few runs and was certain they would pay for leaving so many runners on base.
On July 29, 2020, at the end of the sixth inning, the inning when Andres Gimenez tripled in Robinson Cano with the go-ahead run, I looked at the line score, and instead of being thrilled that the Mets were up, 3-2, I noticed the Mets had 10 hits and was pretty certain they would pay for leaving so many runners on base.
On September 15, 2019, with the Mets clinging to a one-run lead over the Dodgers, their manager counted on the oft-used Justin Wilson and Seth Lugo to keep them ahead late, and I had the feeling Mickey Callaway was going to each generally dependable well once too often. Wilson gave up the tie, Lugo gave up the lead, and the Mets lost by one run.
On July 29, 2020, with the Mets clinging to a one-run lead over the Red Sox, their manager counted on the oft-used Seth Lugo and Justin Wilson to keep them ahead late, and I had the feeling Luis Rojas was going to each generally dependable well once too often. Lugo gave up the lead, Wilson gave up the tie, and the Mets lost by one run.
On October 19, 2006, with the Mets down two runs in the bottom of the ninth inning, the ballclub that we love in spite of how much it can frustrate us began to mount an improbable rally against Cardinals closer Adam Wainwright. With runners on first and second and one out, Jose Reyes stroked a line drive into center field that looked certain to score at least one run and drive the Mets toward tying and potentially winning the National League Championship Series. Except St. Louis center fielder Jim Edmonds caught the sinking liner, impeding the Mets’ momentum in what was about to become, two batters later, a 3-1 loss that ensured the National League pennant would fly somewhere other than Shea. Had the 2006 Mets gone to the World Series, perhaps their manager, Willie Randolph, would have gone on to a lengthier managing career instead of never getting another shot after the Mets let him go in June of 2008.
On July 29, 2020, with the Mets down two runs in the bottom of the ninth inning — not long after I listened to a fascinating interview between Howie Rose and Willie Randolph touching somewhat on the disappointment of the Mets losing the 2006 NLCS — the ballclub that we love in spite of how much it can frustrate us began to mount an improbable rally against Red Sox closer Brandon Workman. With their deficit cut from two runs to one and the bases loaded with two out, Robinson Cano stroked a line drive toward into center field. It was more like a humpback liner that looked like it might make it into center field. Still, it looked like it was gonna fall in, maybe, at least until Boston shortstop Jose Peraza picked it out of the air without much trouble, snuffing the Mets’ momentum in what had become, as mentioned above, a 6-5 loss. The Red Sox scored their six runs on eight hits. The Mets scored their five runs on fifteen hits while leaving eleven runners on base.
Just because you get the feeling you’ve seen everything before, it doesn’t mean you won’t keep coming back to watch some more.
Every day of Improv Season 2020 is another moment to cock your head, say “huh” and try and figure things out.
Most of that’s been a little anxious. I know Citi Field well enough that just seeing its geometry was enough for my sense of familiarity to kick in and make me think, “I can work with this.” But Fenway without people looks eerie and feels shorn of its charm. It’s still a little bandbox, but there’s no lyricism — that comes from the people crowding into the too small seats and making their way through the crowded concourses and peering around the poles from another century.
But it’s not completely anxious. At least in small doses, the experiments are interesting. I hope expanded playoffs, the National League designated hitter and extra-inning runners on second are one-offs we won’t see again. But picking up yet-to-be-official suspended games from the point of suspension, instead of replaying them from the jump? Let’s keep that. Why did we spend all those years doing something strange, wasteful and punitive in the first place? As for the rest of it? I don’t mind so far — this whole season’s an exhibition. Just go with it, even if the outcome turns out to be unfair, weird or both. Or if there’s no outcome at all.
I do wonder, however, if some of the sloppiness we’ve seen so far this season is about more than understandably discombobulated players and abbreviated training times. It has to be bizarre to try and play baseball in a sonic and emotional void. Ballplayers are adrenaline junkies, riding its spikes in ways I think a lot of us would find terrifying. Does playing without the sounds of a big crowd and the attendant emotions mean a loss of focus on a crucial pitch, a slightly tardier first step on a ball into the gap, a blurring of tunnel vision when focus is what’s needed? I don’t know — maybe the players themselves don’t know yet — but I’m curious.
I’m determined to make it a cliche five days in, but the saving grace of Improv Season 2020 has been that the game’s still the game, even if the announcers and the fans are somewhere else.
For example, pitchers making their big-league debuts still look like they can’t get enough air out there when they need to throw that first pitch. Once he got that out of the way, though, David Peterson was impressive — none of his pitches is of a quality that would make scouts drool, perhaps, but you can see him thinking out there, mixing speeds and changing eye levels and working to outmaneuver hitters. His sinker kept sailing, but he adjusted, using his slider and change-up to make up for their rebellious sibling. For a game at least, Peterson reminded me of Dillon Gee, which I absolutely mean as a compliment. His scouting report may never advance beyond qualified praise, but I had faith that he’d get as much out of what he had as possible. A few guys with that profile succeed consistently, some rarely do, most have to live with equal portions of success and failure, but all of them are easy to root for.
(Next day addition: If you subscribe to The Athletic, Tim Britton does a wonderful job breaking down how Peterson attacked J.D. Martinez in two key ABs. And if you don’t subscribe to the Athletic, you should. Britton’s the best guy on the Mets beat, worthy of comparisons to the great Adam Rubin.)
The rest of the Mets looked … well, similar to how they’ve looked so far. As with the Braves series, there were a lot of windmill swings and overaggressive approaches, and too much sloppiness in the field. But one’s always harder on one’s own team than the opposition, because you’re painfully aware of the gap between what your team is and what you think they ought to be. The Mets look like they still need some tinkering, but the Red Sox look like a complete mess, with tomato-can pitching and a general listlessness to every aspect of the proceedings.
But again, it’s improv. Everyone deserves to be graded on the curve, at least until baseball figures out how this works. Assuming that’s even possible, which it may not be. For now, it’s strange rules and empty stadiums and remembering not to do half the little teammate things you’ve done for a decade or more, with other teams’ mandated blanks in the schedule as a reminder of what can go wrong.
We absolutely have to keep our eyes on that — and be honest about the cost-benefit analysis — but we can also enjoy the familiar things and the entertainingly unfamiliar things too. Home runs off the Pesky pole, balls played surprisingly well off the Green Monster, goofy rundowns following blown double plays that were everyone’s and no one’s fault, guys adding their signatures to the inside of the Fenway Park scoreboard, a rookie with a W and a game ball he’ll treasure forever? We can be grateful for those little moments even as we wonder and worry about the larger story.
Piazza: Catcher, Slugger, Icon, Star by Greg Prince is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble and other online booksellers.
Amazin' Again: How the 2015 New York Mets Brought the Magic Back to Queens by Greg Prince is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble and other online booksellers.
Volume I of The Happiest Recap: 50+ Years of the New York Mets As Told in 500+ Amazin' Wins by Greg Prince is available in print and for Kindle on Amazon.
Faith and Fear in Flushing: An Intense Personal History by Greg Prince (foreword by Jason Fry), is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble and other online booksellers.