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ABOUT US
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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by Greg Prince on 31 May 2017 3:01 pm I had hoped Tyler Pill might be Grover Powell. Grover Powell’s first major league start, for the Mets in 1963, was a complete game shutout, which didn’t happen for Mets rookies every day in 1963, nor, come to think of it, today. Before long, Tyler Pill 2017, who reacted well to the lights in Flushing for 5⅓ innings, appeared more to my eyes as a proximate ringer for Rick Anderson 1986. Do you remember Rick Anderson’s major league debut? Came up to the team you’d think least likely in need of a spot start and spot-started his heart out — 7 IP, 0 ER — before his bullpen blew both his and the team’s win.
There’d be no W next to Pill’s name mainly because Asdrubal Cabrera uncharacteristically chose Tuesday night to ever so briefly be the reluctant reincarnation of Luis Castillo. Luis Castillo recorded 337 base hits as a New York Met in three-and-a-third seasons, including 147 in 2009, a year when he hit .302 and played in 142 games, 141 of which you’ve all but forgotten about because on June 12 of that year…yeah, you know.
The circumstances that surrounded Cabrera on a foggy, misty night at home in front of curious onlookers versus Milwaukee were far different from those that bedeviled Castillo eight Junes ago in the hostile cauldron of the Subway Series one borough north, but the bottom line result, a dropped pop fly that allowed two runs to score, was close enough for massive discomfort. When Luis Castillo became Luis Castillo, he was done in not only by an inexplicable E-4 with two outs in the bottom of the ninth and the Mets clinging to a one-run lead, but the Van McCoy-like hustle of Mark Teixeira, for once Alex Rodriguez popped his seemingly harmless ball into the Bronx air, Teixeira commenced to gallop from first base, never breaking his gait. Thus, when brother Luis’s fortunes turned black as the night, Teixeira was able to trot across the finish line…I mean home plate, giving the Yankees a win, the Mets a loss and Castillo a reputation that, judging by the instantaneous social media reaction that accompanied Cabrera’s gaffe at shortstop, remains solid as the rocks each of them pulled.
Ah, but one difference: Domingo Santana, who was on first for the Brewers as Jett Bandy launched a pie-easy pop somewhere above Asdrubal’s head, stopped, stood and soaked in the proceedings like the spectator he had become. Perhaps he forgot there were two out. Perhaps he doesn’t have the same bloodlines as Teixeira, who likely would have cottoned to the muddy track. Though the Brewers on second and third scored on Cabrera’s drop to knot the score at four, Santana cantered only 180 feet from first, which is all that saved Asdrubal from total and enduring Castilloan infamy.
The Mets went from a relatively relaxed win to a burdensome tie. Their hitters — including Cabrera (whose three hits ceased to be his Tuesday calling card), Lucas Duda (who had hammered a homer in the sixth because suddenly he constantly makes noise) and Neil Walker (who reached a thousand career hits in the dinkiest, dunkiest fashion possible, but they’re all line drives in the next afternoon’s blog post) — stopped hitting. Their pitchers, however, did all right. Fernando Salas could have done better, but give the guy a break, he was still dizzy from having singled for the first time in his life. Jerry Blevins should have squirmed from trouble after Salas got the Mets into it, but Blevins presumably pitches in his sleep, so let him rest. Josh Edgin got through the eighth, Addison Reed the ninth.
Extras beckoned. Who were ya gonna call? Well, Josh Smoker hadn’t pitched in six days, which reads like a misprint because since when do Mets relievers go six days without pitching, but he was tanned, rested and ready. In the gloom of the shadows and fog that enveloped Citi Field, I wouldn’t swear he was tanned — it seemed like a good night for Joe Torre to send up Joel Youngblood and for the whole thing to be declared a tie — but Josh was definitely the other two things. He Smoked his way through a jam in the tenth, got the Brewers in order in the eleventh and pitched a scoreless twelfth. Hey, I thought, maybe we have another Shaun Marcum on our hands, someone who can absorb messy extra-extra-inning spills (but without issuing delusional media criticism).
By the bottom of the twelfth, the youthful Pill was showered, dressed and, by the looks of him, catching up on his social studies homework. Cabrera was still on the hook and hearing short-memoried boos, though who could blame the dozens who remained to serve in the Greek chorus? Crappy nights without resolution, accented by awful umpiring (with Manny Gonzalez tackling the evergreen role of Angel Hernandez), remind you how much baseball is played because it has to be played, not because it ought to be played. Perhaps Rob Manfred should look into a rule change that would reduce the schedule from 162 games to only the good ones.
Ah, but what makes a good one? Your team winning surely helps your point of view. What looked bad in the tenth as the Mets couldn’t touch Brewers closer Evil Knebel, and the eleventh when they were similarly distant from repurposed Milwaukee starter Wily Peralta, began to display attractive qualities in the twelfth. Pinch-hitter T.J. Rivera, who is almost as from the Bronx as Neil Walker is from Pittsburgh, singled to lead off. Michael Conforto, who will not be written into the All-Star starting lineup but don’t let that discourage you from writing him in, walked. Jose Reyes, whose Reyesnaissance has stalled again, inadvertently moved Rivera to third, which is where we wanted him to be. And Jay Bruce, who I sensed would win it on one swing two innings earlier, made me look like a prophet delayed with another swing, this for a line drive into center scoring Rivera.
The final was 5-4 in 12, which immediately made me think of Game Four of the 1988 NLCS, except then the Mets were the ones stuck on 4 and Mike Scioscia’s name still resonates so loud that it drowns out the worst of Luis Castillo. This time around, the Mets had the 5, the win and a new precedent for fans to be reminded of the next time a game goes on and on but not hopelessly off the rails.
***
Writing — sports and every other kind — is a diminished craft this week following the passing of Frank Deford, a talent for whom the word “great” is understatement.
I met Frank Deford once. It had to have been, in the world of Frank Deford, the Jose Santiago of encounters. It was no doubt inconsequential to him. It made me feel very good in the moment in took place. Mr. Deford came to a meeting of the New York Baseball Giants Nostalgia Society on 231st Avenue in the Kingsbridge section of the Bronx. There was no need for him to do this. True, he had written a book about the Giants, and I know from my comparatively scant experience as an author that you don’t say no to an invitation to talk about your book, but he was Frank Deford, the book was no longer new and he surely didn’t need to make every scene to which he was invited.
But he came. Our group leader, Bill Kent, probably didn’t grasp just how big a get Frank Deford was. He was Frank Deford, the writer from Sports Illustrated from when that meant everything, many-times honored for his sportswriting, the revered voice of NPR, founder of The National…Frank Deford! And he came, to the church in the Bronx where Bill arranged for us to every few months have meetings and pizza and Giants talk and the occasional guest speaker. Bill seemed to go through life not realizing all he was accomplishing to add to the happiness of those he touched.
Frank Deford talked Giants, specifically the early 20th century version that formed the basis of an evocative SI article that grew into his book. He didn’t act like a big get, just a guy who found a baseball subject that fascinated him and that he wanted to share. He shared without air. He shared even while Bill interrupted to ask if anybody wanted another slice (because Bill would do that). Later, Mr. Deford stood in the back amid the emptying pizza boxes and chatted with anybody who cared to chat. I had brought my copy of The Old Ball Game, which I figured could be only embellished by the author’s autograph. While asking him for it, I figured I could tell him how much I loved The National, the daily sports paper that should be presently in its twenty-eighth year of publication, except it went out of business in 1991, less than eighteen months after Mr. Deford founded it.
As he signed his book for me, I offered a vaguely coherent pleasantry, dropped a name (the wrong name, I’m pretty sure) of a friend of a friend who was involved in his old paper and drew from Mr. Deford a warm acknowledgement that yes, The National was indeed a pretty good thing. With that, I thanked him for his talk and his time, and he was as nice as could be in return. Soon he was gone. I don’t think he had any pizza.
by Jason Fry on 29 May 2017 11:53 pm Our blog pal Shannon Shark of MetsPolice has a running gag in which he imagines the Mets aren’t a ballclub but a TV show, with Greg as its fiendishly inventive show runner.
Confronted with games such as Monday afternoon’s, I wonder if Shannon might be on to something.
Last week, you’ll recall, Terry Collins caught hell from a fair-sized chunk of Mets nation (including this writer) for removing Robert Gsellman after 84 pitches, a decision he made a night after burning his least unreliable relievers despite a big lead. Spoiler alert: the shallow end of the bullpen failed Gsellman and Terry and the Mets lost.
Fast-forward to the sixth inning of Monday’s game. The Mets had a 3-2 lead, which with our bullpen is basically like being down two, and had loaded the bases with two out. Gsellman had thrown 89 pitches, showing off an effective sinker that generated ground balls and allowing just one run on three hits.
Due up to bat? Gsellman, of course.
I mean, you tell me what to do there. A base hit could give the Mets a 5-2 lead, which with our bullpen is basically like being tied. Gsellman’s not where you’d typically turn for a base hit. Yet he’d thrown only five more pitches than in the outing when his removal became a federal case. One more inning from Gsellman would mean one fewer inning from the bullpen. It would mean better-rested guys on Tuesday with unknown quantity Tyler Pill taking the hill. And so on.
It’s the kind of dilemma a mean-spirited show runner might throw at a manager and an increasingly high-strung fan base. (As well as yet another obvious reason the designated hitter is bullshit, but that’s a different post.)
That was the cruel part. Terry chose to let Gsellman bat, which led to the ridiculous part.
Facing reliever Rob Scahill, Gsellman worked the count to 2-2 and stared at a 94 MPH fastball on the inside corner. It was a good pitch, and strike three … except for the part where C. B. Bucknor called it a ball. Manny Pina‘s shoulders slumped slightly behind the plate. Scahill paused in front of the mound, restrained himself from hopping up and down in disbelief, and returned to his post. Gsellman took one step backwards, out of the batter’s box, and stood there looking faintly embarrassed.
The next pitch really was a ball. Gsellman walked and it was 4-2 Mets.
Gsellman cruised through the seventh and gave way to newly beloved Met Paul Sewald, who turned in a spotless eighth. Enter Addison Reed, a steely and reliable setup man turned nerve-rackingly shaky closer. Reed gave up singles to the first two guys, and oh lord it was happening again.
Even the most dispassionate fan will catch himself or herself squirming in agony on the couch and fuming that So-and-So needs to try harder. It’s dumb, but forgivable in low doses — from the comfort of the sofa it looks like it shouldn’t be that hard for a world-class athlete to throw a ball over the plate, hit the ball to the right side, or lift a pitch to the outfield. Just try harder, we urge athletes who’ve outworked thousands of competitors to attain their current position. Just focus, we implore guys whose workplace includes thousands of screaming onlookers and a guaranteed public dissection of failure.
In good times and bad, Reed looks vaguely perturbed on the mound — he always reminds me of the deputy in a Western who’s tried reason but now finds himself reluctantly sauntering out into the dusty street to settle things with sixguns. I know it isn’t true, and thinking otherwise is just dopey guy-on-the-couch projection, but Reed looked like he’d had enough of this self-inflicted shit. He nodded at Rene Rivera and went to work on Pina. Suddenly the fastball looked like it had a bit more bite, a little more wiggle. Reed fanned Pina on three fastballs cutting over the edges of the plate, struck out Jonathan Villar on the last of four fastballs, then threw a pair of sliders to Orlando Arcia, the second of which arced softly into Michael Conforto‘s glove.
And just like that, justice prevailed again in Metstown. That, unexpectedly, was the fun part.
by Jason Fry on 29 May 2017 12:29 am A couple of times in my life, I’ve witnessed someone forget to engage the parking brake while on a slight incline. (OK, once I was that person.) The car doesn’t move all that swiftly at first on its journey to where it’s not supposed to be, but its momentum builds steadily and pretty soon the slow-motion disaster has become inevitable, downgrading your status from potential hero to cringing bystander.
Saturday night’s Mets game was like that: the hitters stopped hitting and the nightly game of bullpen roulette ended like you feared it would. So Sunday night’s game in this same park against these same Pirates wearing these same odd green uniforms probably didn’t strike any of us as an ideal way to spend a holiday evening.
Between family commitments and a certain learned wariness, I got there a bit late, arriving to find Matt Harvey on the wrong side of a 1-0 deficit in the fourth. Not too bad, but this bunch has taught me a few things, such as the fourth inning coming before our starter tires and the hellmouth of the bullpen door yawns open to unleash its ghastly denizens upon the overconfident and inattentive.
But this night, decidedly un-Metsian things were to transpire.
Like Asdrubal Cabrera whacking a two-out double to turn that 1-0 deficit into a 2-1 lead, followed by a parade of innings featuring MORE RUNS. Three more in the fifth! One more in the sixth … that came after the Mets seemed bound and determined to short-circuit a scoring chance! One in the seventh thanks to a line-drive homer from Lucas Duda!
And that wasn’t all. In the fourth, Harvey was looking at second and third with one out — the kind of situation that has undone our defrocked superhero too often this year. This time, Harvey struck out Francisco Cervelli and Jordy Mercer with mid-90s fastballs to escape harm. An inning later, a two-out rally brought Gregory Polanco to the plate with a chance to cut Pittsburgh’s deficit to one. Harvey dropped a back-foot slider on the Pirates’ best player to hold the line. He only went six innings, but they were six effective innings in which he pitched with the closest thing we’ve seen to his old arsenal and, perhaps as importantly, looked like he trusted those pitches.
But could the Mets get nine outs before giving up six runs, exhausting the entire bullpen, or both? Never say never, at least not with this basket of destroyables.
But Paul Sewald — who’s steadily risen up the admittedly thin ranks from Oh Yeah That Guy to Just Possibly Not So Bad to Seems Pretty Reliable — turned in two decent innings, at which point Terry Collins turned to Neil Ramirez.
Ramirez hasn’t exactly buried us in evidence that he can get major-league hitters out. But a five-run lead in the ninth? This is your Montero Moment, Neil!
So Ramirez walked Mercer, struck out Saturday Night Massacre-er John Jaso, then walked Jose Osuna. That sent Jerry Blevins to the bullpen mound and hearts into the more-familiar lodgings of our throats. But Ramirez then retired not just the next hitter but the one after that. Yes, that really was Neil Ramirez leaving the mound to high-fives and attaboys, instead of departing because a frowning manager had decided it would be better for him to stop practicing his trade.
All these things happened. They happened in the same game. They led to a Mets win. I’m not sure exactly how that occurred, but replicating it 65 to 70 more times this year would be just fine with me.
by Greg Prince on 28 May 2017 3:08 pm Long before “happy birthday to all the fathers out there” became what we love to quote on the third Sunday every June, a Mets-savvy person was likely to reflexively link Ralph Kiner and Father’s Day via the most impressive thing Jim Bunning ever did for public consumption. Bunning threw a perfect game on Father’s Day 1964. He opened the first game of the doubleheader in a style no National League pitcher had started any bill, twin or other, since 1880. Jim’s immediate reward was to be interviewed by Ralph. No trip to the studio for this tête-à-tête between future Hall of Famers. The old Pirate and the star Phillie chatted it up right there on the field. With the Mets having succumbed similarly (if not exactly) to Sandy Koufax two years earlier — and the Mets of 1964 not having grown into a juggernaut since 1962 — those who ran the Kiner’s Korner ship weren’t exactly taken aback by the circumstances.
“We had a routine because no-hitters were not unusual to the Mets,” producer Joe Gallagher related in Mark Rosenman’s and Howie Karpin’s charming 2016 book, Down on the Korner. “Our routine was that we would get the camera in position and Ralph would get in position and I would go get the pitcher.” As Gallagher told it, the pitcher wasn’t all that anxious to be on TV, at least not until he knew “what you’re gonna pay me.” Once convinced he’d be taken care of (and assured that the WOR feed would be simulcast in Philadelphia), Bunning played ball. Good thing, too, because as Gallagher negotiated with Bunning, “the fans were calling for him.” That’s the fans at Shea, mind you, for the game of Jim’s life was pitched in New York. Lest you think somebody’s memory was playing tricks on him a half-century after the fact, note how the Times wrote up the perfect game scene in the next day’s paper:
When Bunning struck out a rookie, John Stephenson, the 27th and last Met hitter, he received a standing ovation that lasted for many minutes. He was mobbed by his teammates, and when he went to the dugout, the crowd began calling, “We want Bunning! We want Bunning!”
He returned to the field to be interviewed behind home plate by Ralph Kiner on a television show. The crowd, still standing, gave him one of the biggest ovations ever heard in the Mets’ new stadium.
To that point, Shea Stadium had hosted only 33 baseball games and the Mets had won just twelve of them. The opportunity to applaud Met triumphs were few and far between. Yet it wasn’t hard for a sizable portion of the 32,026 who paid their way into the sparkling jewel of Flushing Meadows to put their hands together for a fella in a jersey that didn’t say Mets. They saw Jim Bunning, whatever the lettering on his shirt, pitch a perfect game. It was the epitome of something you didn’t see every day.
Applause for a great performance or a great player, on the other hand, was standard practice. I’m not old enough to remember Bunning’s perfect game of June 21, 1964, but I am old enough to remember a little appreciation and a little applause directed to visitors when merited — and I vividly recall Ralph, Bob Murphy and Lindsey Nelson vividly recalling that third Sunday in June. The mastery of Bunning. The futility of the Mets, right down to Johnny Stephenson’s last attempt to stave off the final zero. The interview that followed. And the warm reception at Shea.
For one game, Bunning, who died Friday at the age of 85, was as good as any pitcher had ever been. He was perfect, which is something almost no pitcher let alone any person has been able to say. By the judgment of the Veterans Committee, he wound up residing in the neighborhood of immortality. They put him in the Hall of Fame in 1996. That day at Shea more than three decades before certainly didn’t impede his eventual election. Applause can echo for a long time.
Gary Cohen, Keith Hernandez and Ron Darling have mentioned wistfully a couple of times lately the now ancient custom of appreciative applause for an opponent who earned it, whether by established reputation or breathtaking feat. They noticed Mike Trout showed up at Citi Field last weekend and the reception for him wasn’t anything like it was for Willie Mays, Hank Aaron or Sandy Koufax at Shea or, for that matter, wherever they would alight for a few days while away from home. There aren’t too many players on that level in our modern midst, at least not too many we instinctively understand as on that level. Trout’s about as close as it gets on a going basis. He didn’t kill the Mets last Friday or Saturday, itself a cause for celebration. When he started clobbering Mets pitching in earnest on Sunday, he was just another dangerous Angel in a lineup packed Halo to Halo with them. If he got a particular rise out of the crowd, I couldn’t make it out from a distance.
The Mets haven’t been on the wrong end of a perfect game since 1964, though they did succumb to a couple of no-hitters at Citi Field in 2015. They elicited groans almost exclusively. Understandable in the age we live in, less so if you remember well an age or two before. Nobody wants to be the victim of perfection or near-perfection. Yet nine innings worth of perfection is pretty admirable. Had I been at Shea in June of 1964, I’d like to think I’d have applauded Bunning. I’d like to think I’d have applauded Chris Heston or Max Scherzer on their achievements had I been on hand for those games. I don’t know that I would have very heartily, but I’ve lived in this age for a while.
Ralph Kiner lived through many ages. We were blessed that several coincided with the birth, youth and maturation of our New York Mets. You didn’t grow up listening to Ralph without being reminded of his history with Pittsburgh, how he was the home run king of Forbes Field, that they had the first Kiner’s Korner and he was its sole attraction. Ralph talked regularly about Pittsburgh when the Mets were in Pittsburgh and he was in the broadcast booth. Saturday night at PNC Park, Howie Rose made sure to ease into some Ralph reminiscences: what Ralph thought about the surfeit of soot when he first got off the train there; how a sculpture of Ralph’s hands isn’t sufficient enough a tribute to him among the statues for other Pirate greats; what the dickens took the Bucs so long to retire Ralph’s No. 4. There were no great revelations within the reminiscing. It was enough that Ralph Kiner’s name came up during the course of a few pitches.
Sometimes we ask ourselves why we seek out game after game when the team we root is more a cause of angst than joy in a given season. An interlude like Howie talking Ralph is one of the better answers I’ve found.
by Greg Prince on 28 May 2017 11:43 am You so knew this was coming, you could’ve baked a cake. The Mets were leading, but they could’ve been leading by more. Five batters in, you realized the Mets were bracing you for what lied ahead three-plus hours later. With two out in the top of the first, Jay Bruce homered. Mets up, 1-0. Great. Then Neil Walker of Pittsburgh of New York singled. Fine. Lucas Duda, in full bloom as he will be for an explosive week or two across six months of the season, doubled to right. Fantastic. I looked for Walker to round third and make the score 2-0 and get the rout fully on versus Gerrit Cole. Except Walker stopped or was stopped at third, and I just knew that was that.
A homer, a single and a double, registered all in a row, and one run was in. There was no reason another hit couldn’t be forthcoming. But no hit came. Asdrubal Cabrera flied out and one run was all there was going to be from the first. The only batter you could count on as you looked ahead was the cake batter.
Perhaps, I thought by the second, I was too hasty in assuming not getting more runs home in the first was a surefire omen. Zack Wheeler had been perfect in the bottom of the first and Curtis Granderson led off the top of the next frame with a triple. Travis d’Arnaud drove him in ASAP, it was 2-0 and maybe it didn’t have to be one of those nights. But nuance would nag the Mets throughout. Zack couldn’t bunt Travis to second, yet an error moved him to third. One out, another runner standing ninety feet from home. Yet Jose Reyes struck out and Bruce flied out. In any language, that’s nada good thing. A few blinks later, Andrew McCutchen — whose demise as a threat to pitchers and opposition fans appears greatly exaggerated this weekend — homered with David Freese on and it was tied at two.
Get that cake in the oven. It’s coming.
Wheeler got back on track. D’Arnaud hit one out to recapture the lead, 3-2. A couple more Mets got on — Michael Conforto via single, Reyes on a double — but Bruce left them there. Right around then, the bridge between how much the Mets were ahead by and how much the Mets should have been ahead by was wider than the Roberto Clemente. Duda’s solo homer in the fifth helped, but not enough, for it, too, was followed by two more baserunners (Grandy walk, Td’A double) who didn’t cross home plate.
The Mets ousted Cole after five. Zack made it through six. He allowed a third run in his last inning after a double play wasn’t turned by Walker and McCutchen again refused to play dead. Andrew doubled past a diving Reyes to make it 4-3. Only some really horrible baserunning or basecoaching, augmented by some heady shortstop play on the part of Cabrera, kept it 4-3. Cutch attempted to go from second to home on an apparent Asdrubal misplay, but there was enough possum in that Cab to turn McCutchen into a dead duck. It was all folksy as hell, but the Mets weren’t leading by multiple runs anymore. They were fortunate to be leading by any runs whatsoever.
Zack’s night was over at 94 pitches. Knowing all we knew going in about Zack, you’d look at that total and understand he could go only so far. Watching Zack, you’d have enjoyed another inning of competition, because we also know about the Mets bullpen. We didn’t know there was a blister developing (the Mets really need to renew their subscription to the Gus Mauch Brine of the Month Club). Birthday boy Terry Collins — presumably in no mood for the cake that was heating up all around him — revealed that later. Zack said it wasn’t a biggie. Pitchers mostly do that when asked.
The Mets should have had more runs by now, but as long as we’re being wishful in our thinking, the Mets should also be able to approach nine outs as if not on a death march. If that were possible, though, we wouldn’t have been choosing our frosting and icing. The cake was baking for sure the second Neil Ramirez appeared on the mound. The first thing he does to start the seventh is give up a double to Jordy Mercer. The next thing he does is give up a grounder to get Mercer to third. The last thing he does is head for the dugout to the applause of a grateful nation. Overall, it would have to be judged an outstanding Neil Ramirez outing, for the roof had not yet caved in.
When you have roof problems, call Jerry Blevins. He may not answer at first because he’s usually busy. Blevins is on alert 24/7. Saturday he responded to an SOS from Collins. He does that a lot. Jerry got the Mets out of Neil’s mess. The roof held. You knew…I mean you knew it wouldn’t forever, but it was nice to make it to the eighth with the Mets ahead by a run. If doom is coming, enjoy those moments when it’s still circling the block looking for a space.
Say, the Pirate bullpen was nothing like the Mets bullpen. Once Cole was replaced, the Mets did nothing. Nothing. Nothing at all. They really should have driven in a few more runs when they were there for the driving in. Stuff like that really informs your cake expectations.
Blevins, Fernando Salas and defensive replacement Juan Lagares got through the eighth without a baserunner allowed. It could have signaled everything was gonna be OK. It didn’t, for once Juan Nicasio completed his second scoreless inning (after Wade LeBlanc had done the same), Addison Reed came on for the save. In 2016, Reed was one of those setup men who seemed to outshine the closer for whom he set up. When Jeurys Familia became utterly unavailable to close in 2017, the glamour role fell to Reed, which translates to another of those cakeworthy instances you can feel coming. It’s not that Addison hadn’t closed before in his life. It’s that it’s never that easy to move pieces around. Or maybe it is, but I watch the Mets and have no frame of reference for hypereffective bullpen management.
Based on what we saw Saturday, Lagares should close games for the Mets. He was all that stood between them and a regulation defeat, playing Gold Glove center on one of his infrequent assignments within his natural habitat. The newly named spokesperson for the Metropolitan Bacon Saving Council did amazing things 400 or so feet from home, which indicates Addison wasn’t having the best of times a mere 60 feet 6 inches away. But Juan couldn’t do it all. Addison did allow a double that Juan wasn’t tall enough to corral, and there was a wild pitch that put the tying run on third and, oh, look, a John Jaso single to left to knot the score at four.
Every Mets visit to beautiful PNC Park, give or take one or two, encompasses this kind of game. It can be lost in the ninth, it can be lost later, it rarely gets won. Addison Reed can be in there. Braden Looper can be in there. Anyone in between can take the ball. The Pirates will take the game. So even though the Mets evoked the early innings by getting two on with two out in the top of the tenth — only to have near-cycler d’Arnaud go down swinging — there was no reason to not start setting out the cake plates. Seriously, I checked in with five parallel universes: four had the Mets losing in horrible fashion, one said horrible fashion plus lengthy rain delay.
The bottom of the inning saw Tyler Pill make his major league debut. Maybe someday it will make a great story, like how Bob Apodaca was tabbed by Yogi Berra to pitch for the first time in the bigs in Pittsburgh in the midst of a pennant race and Dack walked two batters on eight pitches and was summarily removed, not to return to the rubber until the following season. Apodaca went on to a solid if injury-curtailed pitching career. Pill should be so lucky. He wasn’t on Saturday.
A long out facilitated by there but for the grace of Lagares.
A hit to Freese.
A hit by pitch to McCutchen.
A walk to Cervelli.
A second out, somehow.
Then Josh Edgin in to do what Jerry Blevins did earlier, except he was handed a far more daunting task.
The daunt was too much. Jaso singled again, this one to right, well out of the reach of Bruce to make it Pirates 5 Mets 4, meaning gametime was over, caketime was upon us and the 20-27 Mets were served their just desserts.
by Greg Prince on 27 May 2017 9:54 am “All right, time for bed.”
“Tell me a story!”
“You want a story, huh?”
“Yeah, but make it a good one this time.”
“What’s wrong with the stories I’ve been telling you?”
“They’re always so sad.”
“Not always.”
“Yes always. There’s always somebody getting hurt and somebody going on a list where they stay hurt and everybody winding up sad in the end.”
“That’s not always.”
“It is most of the time lately. And I don’t want to hear the one about the prospect who keeps getting another chance. That one got old a long time ago.”
“OK, you want a happier story…well, let’s see…there was once a prince.”
“What kind of prince?”
“He was a prince with very long hair.”
“Like Rapunzel?”
“Longer.”
“Does the prince let down his hair like Rapunzel?”
“Every five days.”
“Is that very often?”
“It’s as often as the rules let him. Also, the rules say he can let it down for only so long.”
“I thought you said it was very long.”
“This is a different kind of long. The man in charge of the prince’s hair doesn’t want the prince’s hair to get all tangled up in the prince’s right arm, so he keeps track very closely of how much he lets his arm and hair stay on the mound.”
“The mound? What’s the mound for?”
“The mound is where the prince is allowed to show off his arm and his hair and make all the people in the kingdom happy every five days.”
“That’s sounds good.”
“It does, but the man in charge of the prince’s hair and arm worries a great deal about leaving the prince on the mound for too long, so he has developed this habit of snatching the prince away before it’s necessarily time for him to go.”
“Oh no!”
“Yes, it’s a big problem for all the people in the kingdom, because once the prince and the hair and the right arm are gone, the mound becomes a very, very dangerous place.”
“What happens on the mound when the prince is gone?”
“All sorts of terrible arms take the prince’s place and the monsters the prince was keeping from attacking the kingdom…”
“There are monsters?”
“Yes, monsters with big wooden sticks, and the monsters can’t be stopped by the terrible arms that take the prince’s place.”
“Where do these terrible arms come from?”
“They’re dredged up from under rocks, mostly, and are usually kept in a pen. When they stay in the pen, they can’t do any damage, but when they get out…”
“What? What happens?”
“Oh, the monsters and their big wooden sticks get loose and they swing the sticks or, sometimes, they just stand there and are allowed to walk.”
“Walk? Walking doesn’t sound so scary.”
“Have you ever seen one monster after another go for a walk? They just keep walking around until one of the other monsters swings the big wooden stick and it hurts the kingdom very badly.”
“Oh no!”
“So what do you suppose the man in charge had to do?”
“Um, find a way to keep the prince on the mound?”
“That’s right, the prince had to be allowed to stay on the mound. And how do you suppose that happened?”
“I don’t know — how?”
“With help.”
“What kind of help?”
“He got help from a very powerful dude, someone whose powers are very strong, but they only appear in very short bursts a few times a year.”
“Where are they the rest of the time?”
“Nobody knows. He also got help from the hometown boy.”
“The hometown boy?”
“Yes, the hometown boy is usually far from home, but once a year he gets to go home and it is commented upon endlessly that he is back home and he grabs one of those big, wooden sticks and wields it mightily…twice!”
“And how does this help the prince with the long hair and the right arm?”
“Because the very powerful dude and the hometown boy and some of their friends do what they do with the sticks, they make a big cushion for the prince, and he can stay on the mound, all comfy with that cushion for longer than the man in charge usually lets him.”
“Is it a magic cushion?”
“It feels like it to the prince, and even the man in charge can see that, and he lets the prince stay and stay and stay some more, almost to the end.”
“Almost?”
“Yes. The prince can stay almost to the end, but never exactly to the end.”
“Why not?”
“It’s the rule.”
“What’s the rule say?”
“OK, it’s not actually a rule. More of an unwritten rule.”
“How is it a rule if it’s not written down?”
“It just is. The man in charge has to rescue the prince with the long hair and the right arm before the prince uses the arm too much.”
“How does he know when it’s too much?”
“He doesn’t. He just thinks he does.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Nobody does. But just before the end, the prince has to leave the mound.”
“Oh no!”
“No, it’s all right, because the prince leaves behind the magic cushion, magical enough to withstand the worst damage any of the terrible arms might accidentally inflict on the people of the kingdom.”
“So it’s a happy ending?”
“Yes, it’s a very happy ending.”
“I guess that’s good.”
“Of course it’s good. What’s better than a happy ending?”
“Nothing…but why not just leave the prince on the mound to get to the finish?”
“I told you, there are rules.”
“But you said they’re not written down anywhere.”
“They’re not. But the man in charge has to keep count anyway.”
“Count? Like a royal count?”
“No, more like the way you count your fingers and toes.”
“I have ten fingers and ten toes.”
“The prince has ten fingers and ten toes, but the man in charge counts how many times the prince uses his right arm.”
“Does that help the prince?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Nobody knows. But that’s the rule.”
“The rule is he has to count how much the prince uses his right arm?”
“The rule is the prince can’t use it to get to the end.”
“But it’s not written down anywhere.”
“That’s right.”
“But if the prince with the long hair makes everybody so happy, why would the man take him off the mound so close to the end?”
“Because the prince will be back on the mound in five days and nobody knows what his right arm will be like then, so you can’t be too careful.”
“Why not?”
“Because you can’t.”
“Does the man in charge have some kind of hard evidence that it matters one way or the other if the prince stays on the mound to the end or only almost to the end?”
“No. And that’s enough questions. You got your story. You got a happy ending. Now you have to get to sleep.”
“OK, I guess. Will you tell me another story tomorrow?”
“We’ll see. Maybe I’ll tell you about the special Pill.”
“The special Pill? What’s that?”
“Nobody knows yet. It could make everybody in the kingdom very happy or it could just unleash more monsters.”
“How come these stories don’t all just have happy endings?”
“It’s part of what happens when you decide you’re going to be one of the people in the kingdom.”
“Oh. Oh yeah. I forgot.”
by Jason Fry on 26 May 2017 1:59 am “Rock bottom” gets thrown around a lot in sports, and is invoked as a good thing. No, rock bottom isn’t a place you want to visit, but if you do find yourself there, at least you can’t go any lower. The only possible direction is up. Throw in a pinch of resilience, a sprinkle of rosy memories and a tincture of optimism and rock bottom starts to seem OK. The team that’s arrived there, you see, has Had Enough. It will pull together, rise up and do other hazy but dramatic-sounding things. Scarred but smarter, phoenix-like blaze and all that.
Thursday night’s Met loss wasn’t quite as rock-bottomish (bottomesque? bottomnal?) as Wednesday night’s, which I realize is praise that’s faint bordering on invisible. Rafael Montero pitched like a guy who throws 84 instead of 94, was horrifically inefficient and soon forced to depart, but you probably saw that one coming. (And Rafael really ought to be going.) The relievers acquitted themselves well enough, with Paul Sewald and Josh Edgin doing stalwart work, and there were no managerial maneuvers to get exercised about.
But that was about all that was passable. The Mets’ hitting was appalling, though some of that blame should fairly be reapportioned as praise for the debut of San Diego’s rather wonderfully named Dinelson Lamet. Still, the Mets put the leadoff man on in the third, fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth and converted that into exactly one run, largely because they were 1 for 10 with runners in scoring position. The Padres never had a lead larger than two runs, but it felt like 20.
If you actually went to Citi Field on this clammy night to witness the Mets play listless, deeply boring baseball in weather a Scotsman would consider deplorable, I’d like to simultaneously tip my cap and gently suggest you make better life choices. Honestly, the Mets should have paid you — and even then, my first question would be a skeptical, “How much?”
Granted, every team has stretches where you wonder how they’ll ever manage to play tolerable baseball again. Hell, the 2015 Mets looked ready for contraction and then rebounded all the way to a World Series. But the 2017 club sure has a lot of stretches like this — this year the fitful bouts of competence are islands in a trackless sea of ineptitude.
Which gets us back to the idea of rock bottom, and reminds me of the world’s most folksy cosmological argument. (Trust me — this is going somewhere.) You’ve heard the story: a scientist is explaining the solar system to an audience and a listener interrupts to tell him he’s wrong. The world doesn’t revolve around the sun, but rests on the back of a turtle. The scientist, amused, asks what the turtle rests on and is told that it rests on the back of a second turtle. The scientist smiles and goes in for the kill, only to be pre-emptively dismissed with the blithe assurance that it’s turtles all the way down.
In one form or another the anecdote goes back to the 16th century, but in this country its earliest appearance seems to have been an 1838 New York Mirror account of a schoolboy talking cosmology with an old woodswoman. (As one does.) That version is a bit different: the old woman rejects the schoolboy’s explanation that the Earth is round, because it’s obviously flat and sitting on a rock — and, as you may have surmised by this point, it’s rocks all the way down.
Rocks all the way down, hmm. That would mean there’s always another rock bottom.
I’m not a scientist, but my observations of the 2017 Mets suggest the old woman had it right.
by Jason Fry on 25 May 2017 12:50 am If there was a way to lose Wednesday night, the Mets were going to find it.
The bullpen was terrible. The bullpen was terribly managed. The hitters turned a gimme into a gag me. Just a complete and utter disaster.
Insult to injury: said meltdown came against the Padres, who sure don’t look like a team capable of winning 35% of their games. The Padres have turned in two days’ worth of horrific at-bats, bad baserunning, lousy pitching, klutzy defense, lazy play and inept tactics and will somehow still play a rubber game tomorrow. Tonight they balked twice, their supposed star player admired a long drive instead of running hard, they had some lousy luck and they still beat the Mets. It would be funny if it hadn’t been so disgusting to watch.
As for the Mets, well …
You know what? I’m going to need a moment.
[steps away from computer]
[walks around in circles muttering]
[rage-tweets for a few minutes]
[more pacing and muttering]
OK, I’m back. Let’s just say that … nope, not there yet.
[repeat most of the above]
Sigh. Buckle up y’all. This is going to hurt.
Terry Collins‘ bullpen is a band of arsonists, and all too often it doesn’t much matter whom you turn to. Fernando Salas got two outs without incident before disintegrating in a flurry of hits and walks. Neil Ramirez, already cut loose by the Giants and Blue Jays, threw two pitches, the second of which came within an inch of being a grand slam. Those misadventures turned what had been a 5-1 Met lead into a tie game. After a brief spell of competence, enter Josh Smoker — the same Josh Smoker who was recently sent down because he was incapable of getting major-league hitters out but then recalled because Hansel Robles was sent down for being incapable of getting major-league hitters out. Smoker went 3-1 on Hunter Renfroe before throwing a pitch that landed in Portugal, and would prove the game-winner for our West Coast guests.
Some of that was poor execution, which obviously gets pinned on the players. But some of it was poor planning, which ought to be in the flaming bags left on the doorsteps of the manager and the general manager.
Let’s ring Sandy’s bell first … y’all ready to run and film the hijinks from a safe distance? Smoker is a disaster right now, who replaced the guy who was a disaster before. Ramirez has thrown 36 pitches in a Met uniform and yielded two walks and three singles — if he’s the answer, the question is some kind of cruel joke. Collins, sensibly, doesn’t trust Rafael Montero any farther than he can throw him, which raises the question of why Montero is still on the roster. Even if you’re a master chef, good luck serving chicken salad when the second word of that dish seems to have been cruelly misspelled and the health department just came out of the kitchen frowning.
And yet, not for the first time in 2017, Terry proved he’s more graveyard-shift hash slinger than culinary maestro when given bullpen ingredients. On Tuesday the Mets took a six-run lead into the sixth inning after a day off. If any situation actually made you say “Rafael Montero ought to pitch here,” it was that one — but instead Terry used Smoker (who, wait for it … gave up a leadoff home run), Paul Sewald, Jerry Blevins and Salas in numbing succession. That led to him declaring Sewald and Blevins unavailable tonight, which is how he wound up using the soft white underbelly of the pen in a much tighter contest. Except he also pulled Robert Gsellman with just 84 pitches under his belt instead of letting him begin the seventh, in a season that’s seen Met starters tax the bullpen night after night.
Some nights the Mets can hit themselves out of their own way, and it looked like they might do so again tonight: they loaded the bases off Brad Hand with nobody out in the ninth. Almost anything would have tied the game — I’ll spare you a solid paragraph of outcomes that would have delivered that result — except for Curtis Granderson waving helplessly at a slider, which was of course what he did. Rene Rivera then struck out too, and I should have turned the TV off right then, instead of watching Juan Lagares fly meekly to right field.
Is there such a thing as exponential ineptitude? Because I can’t think of what else to call this game. As rough approximation, I’ll settle for saying it’s another jaw-droppingly awful, self-inflicted loss in a season that’s been thick with them.
Ballgame tomorrow. Tune in if you dare.
Word of warning: Management is in no mood for poor behavior. That shadow looming overhead is the ban hammer.
by Greg Prince on 24 May 2017 3:51 am Joe Posnanski, who writes lyrically and frequently about baseball, published a breezy piece last week titled “Ranking the Stadiums,” in which he identified Citi Field as one of the majors’ “Underrated Ballparks,” alongside Comerica Park and Angel Stadium. He elaborated, “I actually don’t know if Citi Field is underrated — I suspect most people who have been there think it’s a pretty great place. But there’s something about the whole Mets persona that screams UNDERRATED…Citi Field is a fun place to watch a baseball game; it is easily the best ballpark in New York.”
If a respected national scribe like Posnanski had been so kind to Citi Field in its infant or toddler phase, I would have scoffed. I probably would have rooted for it to rate as low as possible while still retaining the bit about being the best in town. For several years, I resented Citi Field’s existence and found the sum of its parts overpriced and underwhelming.
Now? Now I’m happy to see the ballpark where my ballclub plays its home games be recognized as a relatively solid architectural citizen. Posnanski implies it rates somewhere in the middle of all extant ballparks, definitely on the sunny side of the median. I think that’s fair and I think that’s fine. I’m well past the point of rooting against Citi Field, or at least the perception of Citi Field.
My grudge lapsed a couple of years ago, once Shea Stadium no longer seemed to have stood five short minutes before and once Citi Field showed it wasn’t necessarily incompatible with hosting winning baseball. Twenty Fifteen took Citi Field off the hook in my estimation. It could go about its business and I could go about enjoying it without toting across its center field bridge the emotional baggage the demise of Shea left behind.
Tuesday night, I enjoyed Citi Field as best I can, which is quite a bit. My dirty little secret is that under the right circumstances, I’ve always more or less enjoyed Citi Field. I was angry at it for existing and I critiqued it with an eye for what it was lacking rather than what it contained, but (in the spirit of improbably long-serving Mets managers) once I got used to it, I knew that if I was headed for a game there, I’d very likely have a swell time there…under the right circumstances.
A Tuesday night in May when it’s finally stopped freezing and raining is right. The Padres as unglamorous opponent when we could really use one is right; their lineup seemed to half-consist of visiting San Diego fans who custom-ordered personalized jerseys —MARGOT, SCHIMPF, RENFROE, SPANGEBERG, HEDGES — and wandered away from the tour group. A total attendance that is more gathering than crowd is right. The right field Promenade is right. Going with my wife, who literally lucked into a pair of right field Promenade tickets to see the Mets play the Padres on a warm Tuesday night in May, is rightest of all.
The eventual 9-3 win we saw ultimately ensured the rightness of our cause. Seven runs in the bottom of the first inoculates you from the wrongs that can ruin any ballpark outing. Michael Conforto led off with a home run and, nine batters later, Michael Conforto singled in two of his teammates. Michael Conforto may be the best leadoff hitter in Mets history, certainly on Tuesday nights against the Padres in first innings that graciously refuse to end.
Once New York’s effective ball control offense on its first drive of the game resulted in a 7-0 lead, all you wanted was for Matt Harvey to go into the baseball equivalent of the prevent defense. But what was it Warner Wolf said about the prevent defense when he was doing Giants football highlights, circa 1980? Oh yes, the only thing the prevent defense prevents is you from winning. So let’s not go to the videotape of Harvey’s five lumpy innings. Suffice it to say Tuesday’s Mets starter was not so terrible that he gave up more than two runs, yet he wasn’t anything close to good while delivering 103 mostly torpid pitches. Still, he won. Perhaps all those many outings in which he pitched brilliantly with scant support at last yielded him a karmic cashback bonus.
Harvey — whose trademark je ne sais quoi is apparently still on the suspended list — left leading by five and the Mets, in the care of four (!) relievers and a second Conforto homer, won by six. The Matt saga notwithstanding, the contest was stressless enough that Stephanie and I did something we haven’t done in a while at Citi Field. We took an impromptu walk in the middle innings, from 504 in right to roughly 531 in left and then back. It was literally the only walk Harvey didn’t give up.
What a lovely night for a stroll. The Promenade concourse really had a neighborhood feel to it, its town square chock full of spots to grab a bite or cocktail or something sweet if that’s what you craved. You could window-shop. You could people-watch. Once you got to left and turned left, you could admire the view off to the west. Best of all, you never had to lose track of what brought you to the neighborhood, because every few feet, from every stoop and every living room on the block, you could hear Gary Cohen tell you what was going on. This must have been what Flatbush in the heyday of Red Barber sounded like.
Never mind Ye Olde Brooklyn. Citi Field, established 2009, has been around long enough for me to pick up on its own organic nostalgic cues. Furthest right field Promenade encompasses a concession stand that’s almost never open. I saw it Tuesday night and remembered when it was open and attracting plenty of customers, during the 2015 postseason. Man, that was fun. When Harvey warmed to his U2/Jay-Z mashup of choice, I remembered the first time I noticed his music, the second game of the 2013 season, also against the Padres. Horribly freezing, but incredibly encouraging…and not in that “at least he got through five innings” way we’re thankful for now. I remember hearing Gary Cohen through the strategically arranged speakers in the top of the first that night as I hustled to my seat. Matt Harvey, he said, had thrown seven pitches for seven strikes. The heat outstripped the cold. Man, that was fun. I remembered less momentous moments at Citi Field on Tuesday night, too, games Stephanie and I have taken in together over these past eight-plus years, games whose details I spring on her with no warning and no expectation she’ll recall, but she plays along.
“If the score stays 8-3,” I share from my stream of consciousness, “this will be the first Mets’ 8-3 win since the last game of 2014, which we were at. But I don’t have to tell you.”
“Oh yeah,” she responds with as straight a voice as she can arrange, “I remember that.”
She doesn’t, but that doesn’t make it any less fun.
by Greg Prince on 23 May 2017 11:23 am When Dallas Green died, an AP photo of him from his Mets managing days circulated alongside obituaries and other remembrances. It was from the beginning of his final Spring Training running the club, taken in his office in Port St. Lucie. Dallas was in what baseball people call street clothes, but with a Mets windbreaker over his button-down shirt. He looked like the Dallas Green I remembered, which is to say he didn’t look at all like the manager of the Mets.
Some managers I never got used to as Mets manager. Dallas held the job for the lion’s share of four seasons, so I knew for a fact he was the guy in charge. His signature was on the lineup card and his quotes filled the articles that ran the next day. His background in the game, his bearing, his stature, his temperament — definitely managerial timber.
I just never got used to him as Mets manager. I always saw the manager of the 1980 world champion Phillies, no matter that he wore the Mets windbreaker. I never got past the shock that he was the choice to succeed Jeff Torborg, who definitely needed succeeding. I was vaguely aware that Green was a scout in the Mets organization just beforehand, but his appointment to the most visible post in a Mets fan’s existence may as well have descended from outer space. Dallas Green, four games pitched for the 1966 Mets notwithstanding, was an alien life form set down in our midst. Regardless of what he brought to the franchise in his time, both good and less good, I couldn’t easily link the name with the title. Dallas Green. Manager of the New York Mets.
Still can’t.
Buddy Harrelson couldn’t have been more of a Met. Couldn’t be more of a Met when he’s not being a Duck to this day. He was the shortstop on two of the most fabled teams the Mets will ever have, the two for whom “Miracle” and “Believe” were enshrined as Met buzzwords. It is accepted and likely accurate wisdom that the 1973 Mets don’t Lazarus themselves if Buddy doesn’t come back from injury when he does. He wore the Mets uniform as an All-Star twice, as a Gold Glover once, with grit and hustle and heart and every cliché you care to apply. It all fits.
What didn’t was Buddy in the manager’s role. That became easy to deduce once the 1991 season went down in flames and took Harrelson with it, but I would have said the same thing during the very good times a year before. Buddy, the narrative went, was exactly the tonic the 1990 Mets needed. He loosened them up, let them play, guided them from the middle of nowhere to the top of the division for a spell. It was one of the greatest stretches any Mets club produced — 27 wins in 32 games spanning June and July — and I was happy to nod along that Harrelson was the right man at the right juncture…but I never really bought it. I never bought Buddy Harrelson as manager of the New York Mets.
Coach? Yes. Announcer on a cable channel I rarely saw because we didn’t yet have cable? Sure. Manager of the Little Falls farm team where he nurtured one of his shortstop heirs, Kevin Elster? Sounded in character. When it was rumored that Toronto had its eyes on Buddy, I didn’t want to see him go, not so much because I didn’t think Davey Johnson couldn’t risk losing him as a lieutenant but because Buddy Harrelson should have never worn any uniform but ours. It was bad enough that he passed through Philadelphia and Texas to end his playing career. It was wonderful that he returned home. He was half of the first induction class of players in the Mets Hall of Fame, alongside Rusty Staub, and it was a perfect choice.
Making him manager never felt that way. I loved Buddy. Continue to do so. He’s Buddy Harrelson. No Mets fan who can envision him sprinting into shallow left field to reel in a pop fly or yukking it up on Kiner’s Korner or reciting the praises of his roommate Tom Seaver could ever not love him. Nevertheless, Bud Harrelson as manager of the New York Mets refused to make sense to me.
Some managers of the Mets always were and always will be the manager of the Mets in the mind’s eye. Casey Stengel invented the Mets before I was born; we wouldn’t be here without him. Gil Hodges was the first skipper I ever saw and he will define the position of manager to me and a whole lot of others into perpetuity. Davey Johnson strode right in and took over as if he and the Met renaissance of the middle 1980s were meant for each other. You can envision Bobby Valentine rubbing his hands in anticipation of running this team right up to the moment the reins were passed his way. Others I take on faith. I didn’t experience Wes Westrum or Salty Parker, but their names are embedded in my consciousness, so they get a pass. Mike Cubbage gave the Mets an honest week to finish out Harrelson’s term. Seemed like a good dude.
Figuring this out comes down to what Jimmy the Greek would have labeled an intangible. Sometimes I can say for sure why a grumbly other-league outlander like George Bamberger seemed all wrong, but I couldn’t tell you why Jeff Torborg, for all his glaring drawbacks, didn’t seem all that strange (nor did he seem all that suitable once 1992 got to unraveling, but that’s a different measurement). Yogi Berra being Mets manager made all the sense in the world to me. He was Yogi Berra! Joe Frazier never quite did. Who was Joe Frazier? Joe Torre as player-manager seemed like uncommonly clever destiny.
Roy McMillan’s short interim stint clicked in my perception. Frank Howard’s slightly longer term didn’t. I can’t stress enough that this isn’t about record or performance or progress. It’s not even about “looking the part,” which is no way to staff a baseball team’s brain trust let alone a presidential cabinet. I’d seen Art Howe manage for Houston and Oakland, yet he looked out of his element managing the Mets even before the first battle was lost. I’d never seen Willie Randolph manage anybody, but if I hadn’t known different, I would have assumed he came here with a résumé Dave Bristol deep. Jerry Manuel transitioned from coach to manager in five minutes. The rest of his tenure wasn’t so smooth, but I always connected his dots.
Once Manuel’s dots fell apart, we entered the age of the man of the ongoing hour, the man of the past six-and-a-quarter seasons’ worth of hours, Terry Collins.
Can you believe that at the conclusion of business Saturday night Terry became the longest-tenured of Mets managers? One more game than Davey Johnson, then two, then three as of tonight, which will be No. 1,015. If he and his players are successful in their directly upcoming mission, it will be Terry’s 500th win as manager. A losing record overall, but an impressive sum of victories.
You know what I find most impressive about Terry Collins, Mets manager? That when I look at him, I see Terry Collins, Mets manager. No question about it. It’s not weird. It hasn’t been weird for quite a while.
Maybe at first. When Terry was introduced to us, I thought he looked severely out of place. I hadn’t thought much about Terry Collins in my life up to then (to be fair, he hadn’t thought of me at all). His previous title in the Mets organization had been minor league field coordinator. I had never heard of that position before the spring of 2010. The Mets needed all the coordination they could get, and if a former manager could help them stand up straight, terrific. Before the calendar year was out, he was charged with coordinating the Mets at their highest level. They still didn’t seem terribly coordinated, but a change, per special advisor Sheryl Crow, could do us good.
Collins showed up for his offseason meet ‘n’ greet press conference, as all new managers do, in a suit and tie. Forced to talk about himself for an audience that knew him mostly for having been drummed out of his previous posting more than a decade before, he demonstrated enough edginess to cut aluminum sheeting. When the Mets’ holiday party for kids rolled around a few weeks later, I had the opportunity to shake his hand and make what amounted to awkward small talk. He was in a suit and tie that day, too, and came off as only a tad less edgy. I came to realize Terry Collins shouldn’t be asked to talk about anything except the last game he managed and the next game he’ll manage, and that he should never be dressed in anything but a baseball uniform. No suits. No ties. Get that man a Mets cap, a Mets jersey, a pair of Mets pants and let him be. Maybe give him a Mets windbreaker if he’s chilly.
It was weird to consider the guy whose overintensity imploded in Anaheim was going to discover his mojo in New York. It was a dozen years between major league dugouts. Old dogs, new tricks…ah, but TC isn’t a pooch. He’s a person and he learned to calibrate. He communicated with players. He communicated with the press. He channeled his energy, of which there was a nearly endless fount, into trying to make a bad team play better than it was poised to. When you think about the 2011 Mets, on the off chance that you do, you don’t think of a team that wound up a net total of four wins from .500. You instinctively assume they and their successors lost a hundred games over and over again.
They didn’t. Collins’s Mets of ’11 and ’12 and ’13 ran out of fuel across their Augusts and Septembers, but they showed up at the park and competed, which sounds like the least you can do, but exceeding minimal effort practically all of the time is its own kind of achievement by the late innings of a 162-game slog. They didn’t win enough to satisfy their hardy band of patrons, but they could have been worse. If you recall the composition of the Mets of those seasons, you understand that as high praise.
After a while, I was totally used to Terry Collins as manager. I didn’t approve of every move (still don’t). I didn’t nod along with every explanation (shake my head more often than not). But I saw it. I got it. It made even more sense when the talent level rose and Terry shepherded it to the outskirts of the promised land in consecutive seasons. He’s the manager of the Mets. I remember others maybe doing it better, but certainly nobody doing it longer or with more determination to do it as best as he could.
Somebody will someday succeed him, but after 1,014 going on 1,015 games, I have a hard time imagining it. That’s how much Terry Collins is the manager of the New York Mets.
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