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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 10 June 2015 11:46 am I’ll admit it. I was rooting for it.
I was out on Seventh Avenue in front of Penn Station using the time before the 9:39 Babylon train was announced to hear Howie Rose call history in the making. It was too absorbing a broadcast to let go to waste on a late two-out single that would turn a potential night for the ages into another routinely depressing Met offensive performance.
Also, it was bound to happen, and not just because I basically never expect the depleted Mets to hit even a little. The Mets had gone 22 years without being on the wrong side of one of these babies. The night it happened in Houston, at the hands of Darryl Kile in 1993, it also felt bound to happen. That was the year when anything that could go wrong did go wrong. By September, there was no chance the Mets wouldn’t be no-hit. It had been 18 years since Ed Halicki. It felt strangely overdue then, too. When Halicki did it, I remember thinking, “Well, here we go again.” I remembered Bill Stoneman doing it three years before Halicki did it, three after Bob Moose did it. I have no personal recollection of Bob Moose doing it. I learned about his no-hitting the Mets in the Bob Moose biographical comic booklet that came in a pack of cards the year after he did it. I seem to recall Moose’s comic balloon emphasizing that the Mets went on to win the World Series. It was tough to look back in anger, given the context of 1969.
Before Kile, Halicki, Stoneman and Moose, the Mets were no-hit every ten minutes, or so it seemed. Actually, they were no-hit twice: Sandy Koufax in 1962, Jim Bunning with the perfect game in 1964. There was also Jim Maloney carrying a no-no into the eleventh in 1965. Thanks to Frank Lary, the Mets kept that one tied. Thanks to Johnny Lewis, the Mets got that one won. Maloney’s incredible effort from 50 years ago this Sunday used to be listed with the no-hitters thrown at the Mets, but was eventually expunged because the arbiters of such monumental acheivements aren’t much fun.
But this, Chris Heston throwing a no-hitter versus the Mets last night, was fun. Perverse fun. Historic fun. Broadcasting fun. I’m pretty sure I was rooting less for a pitcher I’d never heard of until the night before and more for the announcer I’d been listening to for close to three decades.
I wanted to hear Howie Rose call a no-hitter. Yes, I’m aware he already has a pretty significant one under his belt, but I was watching on television that night. I would’ve been watching on television last night, except I was out. I was listening on and off to the game because it was the game. I carry a radio around because that’s what I’ve always done when the Mets are in the air and I can’t be by a TV. I planted myself outside Penn because it was this game.
Briefly I reconsidered my stance. The Mets once upon a time trailed the Expos by six runs entering the ninth inning and tied it before winning in the eleventh. The Mets once upon a longer ago time trailed the Giants — the Giants — by four runs entering the ninth inning and won it with five Magical runs. Was there a Carl Everett or a Steve Henderson or an extraordinarily muscular Johnny Lewis who could provide a five-run blast last night? I’d throw this no-hitter overboard in a second if I thought the Mets could make something out of this game other than a nuisance of themselves.
No, I determined. They’re in first place, and they are to be lauded for it, but tonight they are not going to suddenly score five runs. There’s “never say die” and there’s acceptance that some cases are probably terminal. Go ahead, Chris Heston, take your best shot.
Go ahead, Howie Rose. Take us on Heston’s journey.
I listened to the eighth out on Seventh and I thought about sticking around for the ninth. But then I’d be missing the 9:39 and screw that. The next train out would probably include Yankees fans coming back from their team helpfully keeping our team in first place by beating the Nationals. I don’t need that kind of company. When the eighth is over, I reasoned, I’ll run downstairs, I’ll grab a window seat, I’ll finesse the wire that connects my earbuds to my radio and I’ll try to get as much of a signal as I can while sitting in then rolling through the tunnel.
There wasn’t much clear channel to be had. I got as far as learning Heston got Tejada to two-and-two with two out before everything blanked out. Radio was no help, phone was no help. I was the personification of that Flintstones episode in which Fred and Barney are fishing in the middle of the ocean and Mickey Marble has hit a ball that is going…going…and Barney accidentally knocks the stone age radio into the drink. Boy, was Fred angry.
Next thing I could decipher over WOR as my train poked its nose into Long Island City was a car commercial, so I assumed the bottom of the ninth ended as I’d come to want it, with the Mets not compiling a hit. And I was right.
I keep coming back to the word history, which can take the shape of HI57ORY if we’re lucky or Hest-ory when we’re not. Heston, No. 53 for the visitors, did his part. Howie did the rest. Howie invoked Bunning, remembering the support he garnered at Shea as he set down the Mets on Father’s Day 1964. Mets fans root for a Phillie? It was a different time, a different standard, a different set of expectations, Howie said, with just a little sadness infiltrating his voice, that fans take anything that doesn’t go their way maybe a little too “personally” today. His implied message was how often do you get to see a no-hitter?
Or hear one?
You gotta hear this one, as called by Howie Rose in the bottom of the ninth. I listened to some of it after I got home, I transcribed it this morning and I share it with you now in honor of a terrific broadcaster carrying on in the tradition of another terrific broadcaster, Bob Murphy, an announcer who wouldn’t let the wrong color uniform get in the way of painting a brilliant and detailed word picture.
Here’s Howie’s call. Murph would be proud.
***
Well, if San Francisco Giants righthander Chris Heston could responsibly be described before the game as a rather NON-descript pitcher, well, there’s been absolutely nothing ordinary about what he’s achieved tonight.
However it ends, it’s going to be one of the most memorable games of his life.
He has no-hit the New York Mets through eight innings.
We start the bottom of the ninth with the Giants leading five to nothing, ANTHONY Recker leads off for New York. He’s oh for two, grounded to second, grounded to third.
Heston DELIVERS his first pitch and he HITS Recker. And that answers any question you might have about whether there’s either a little extra ADRENALINE or perhaps just extra NERVOUSNESS…COURSING through Chris Heston right now.
His first pitch hits Anthony Recker, the THIRD batter that he’s hit tonight, so Recker the runner at first, and DANNY Muno will bat for Sean Gilmartin.
[Josh Lewin interjects: “He’s cast as the, uh, Jimmy Qualls I guess here, huh?”]
Well, Muno, a switch-hitter batting left…and Heston’s first pitch, a curveball in for a called strike, nothing and one, and if he was a little extra amped up, that should calm him down.
Muno two for nineteen. One for four as a pinch-hitter.
Infield at double play depth, the pitch, fastball lined FOUL off to the left of home plate downstairs, it’s oh and two.
The paid crowd tonight, twenty-three thousand one-hundred and fifty-five. If Heston pulls this off, there will be many MORE who insist that they were there as the years pass.
Oh and two to Muno. Heston to the belt, DEALS. Curveball in there, STRIKE THREE CALLED. One out in the ninth, Heston has no-hit the Mets for eight and one THIRD innings.
And with a runner at first and one out, consider that any pitch now could be the final one of the night should GRANDERSON hit a ground ball that the Giants turn into two.
For Heston, the strikeout, his ninth of the game.
Not a big strikeout pitcher, but tonight he’s had EVERYthing working.
They will overshift the infield, three on the right side against Granderson.
Heston’s first pitch…taken outside, a changeup, one and oh.
The Giants not at all concerned about Recker. They’re not holding against him, Brandon Belt pretty deep and WAY off the bag when that first pitch was delivered.
Belt a little CLOSER now, perhaps because they wanna keep that double play in order, but now he drops back.
The one-oh pitch, curveball OVER, strike one, it’s one and one, and that pitch has been absolutely DAZZLING by Heston tonight.
That a little bit more of the twelve-to-six type curve. He’s also had a rather slurvy looking one that’s been effective.
One and one the count. Here’s the pitch, fastball low outside, ball two.
Giants will start to get some action in their bullpen. The pitch count not an issue in and of itself. He’s thrown a hundred and three. He’s thrown one game of a hundred and twelve, another a hundred eleven.
Two and one to Granderson, now the pitch. Fastball, popped FOUL, into the seats downstairs behind third.
TWO and TWO to Curtis Granderson.
Well, Brandon Belt, the first baseman, reaches down, puts an errant HOT dog wrapper or piece of paper into his pocket, and you’d never know what Heston’s doin’. He’s all business, already waiting to go on the mound.
Two and two to Granderson, the pitch, FASTBALL IN THERE, STRIKE THREE CALLED! He got him on the inside corner at the knees, and CHRIS HESTON is ONE OUT AWAY from NO-HITTING the New York Mets.
It is his tenth strikeout of the game, the third time that he’s gotten Granderson.
And NOW it is up to Ruben TEJADA, who is oh for two and was hit by a pitch.
Remember, Heston has not walked a batter. The only THREE baserunners the Mets have had tonight have been hit batsmen: Tejada; the man on deck Duda — they came back to back in the fourth — and Recker to start the ninth.
Many in this crowd are standing, some taking pictures. Recker runs, first pitch, breaking ball, outside, ball one. Recker takes second on defensive indifference.
So Heston, one hundred and six pitches thrown, just rubs the ball up and goes right back to the rubber, he’s not WALKIN’ around, not sucking anything IN, or takin’ extra deep breaths, he’s just ready to pump. One and oh to Tejada.
Heston to the belt, now the pitch…fastball chopped towards third, foul ball, past coach Tim Teufel. It’s ONE and ONE.
Many in the Giant dugout getting as close a look as they can, draped over the railing. Eric Campbell is the lone Met in a similar posture on the first base side.
Many in this crowd, if not most of them, now on their feet.
One and one to Tejada.
Heston sets, now the pitch, breaking ball in the dirt, two and one.
FIVE to nothing, Giants. They scored a first-inning run. Noah Syndergaard went six, gave up ten hits and four runs. But the pitching line of the night belongs to Chris Heston. Turned twenty seven years of age two months ago. From PALM Bay, Florida.
Two and one to Tejada…here’s the pitch…fastball on the OUTSIDE CORNER, two and two, and now Heston a STRIKE away.
The LAST time the Mets were no-hit and SHUT out — a no-hit, no-run game — was by the GIANTS, Ed Halicki in San Francisco, in 1975.
Here, Heston with a two-and-two count to Tejada…comes set, Recker leads from second…here’s the pitch…
FASTBALL IN THERE, STRIKE THREE CALLED, HE’S DONE IT!
CHRIS HESTON has NO-HIT the New York Mets!
And the Giants come out of the dugout to mob their twenty-seven year-old righthander.
The Mets have been no-hit for the first time since Nineteen Ninety-THREE, when Darryl Kile of the Houston Astros did it, but the Mets scored a run in THAT game. It’s the first time in nearly forty years, since AUGUST of 1975, that a pitcher has pitched a no-hit, no-run game against the New York Mets, Chris Heston with an eleven-strikeout gem.
He did not WALK a batter, he hit three, and slowly Bruce Bochy and the coaching staff emerge from the Giant dugout. The pitchers in the Giants bullpen are taking a slow walk in, as one by one the Giants players hug Chris HESTON, who has pitched a NO-HITTER.
The San Francisco Giants have defeated the New York Mets, five to nothing, but it’s the SEVENTEENTH no-hit game in the history of the San Francisco Giants, who of course started their baseball life right here in New York as the New York Giants.
And now the paid crowd of twenty-three thousand one-hundred and fifty-five salute Heston with a standing ovation as he walks, perhaps in something of a daze, back towards the Giants dugout.
In the ninth inning, for New York, no runs…no hits…no errors, a hit batsman, one man left, Heston strikes out eleven and NO-HITS the Mets. The final score, the San Francisco Giants five and the New York Mets nothing. Back to talk about it in a moment on the WOR Mets radio network, driven by your TriHonda dealer.
by Jason Fry on 10 June 2015 1:21 am It seemed like a good idea. With our kid headed off to California with grandparents, I asked Emily if she wanted to go to the Mets game. Noah Syndergaard was pitching, and tickets were 66% off. She thought it was a capital idea. We snagged two seats in the front row of the Left Field landing, got tacos and were in our seats before the top of the first was over.
Why on earth was no one here, I wondered? The Mets, warts and all, were in first place, they had an exciting rookie on the mound and it was an absolutely perfect late-spring evening. I surveyed the empty acres of green seats grumpily — and got grumpier when I realized the seats that weren’t empty were disproportionally filled with visiting Giants fans. Gangs of them, in orange that was the right color yet the wrong allegiance, chanting and hooting and being entirely too conspicuous.
None of us, of course, had any idea that something special was coming.
The Giants contributed half the Mets’ National League birthright, including the small matter of that signature orange NY on the caps. And the Giants have done an admirable job of remembering their New York origins, bringing back old heroes and World Series trophies to the remaining Gotham fans. The Mets have responded by giving that half of their legacy mulishly short shrift: Citi Field’s rotunda is an homage to the home of the Brooklyn Dodgers and a tribute to Jackie Robinson. (Perhaps you’ve heard?) There’s nothing whatsoever wrong with that, but the absence of any gesture towards that other team is unfortunate. The Mets once made noises about the green seats being a nod to the Polo Grounds, but nobody believed that; the closest they come to admitting they owe the Giants anything is by keeping Willie Mays‘s No. 24 unofficially retired, and that has more to do with respecting original owner (and Giants diehard) Joan Payson than with the club that put the orange in the orange and blue.
Well, the Giants certainly pushed their historical narrative tonight.
You can’t call balls and strikes from the Left Field Landing, so I have nothing to say about whether Chris Heston was hitting his spots or home-plate ump Rob Drake was helping him. I’ll wait for the pitching charts, while throwing down an early warning about sour grapes. (Anybody want to celebrate the slightly belated anniversary of Johan Santana‘s one-hitter?)
From my distant vantage Heston’s stuff seemed pedestrian — high-80s fastballs mixed with curves. Later, looking at the highlights, I was more impressed: That curveball was a killer, and the sinker was perfect for pounding balls into the ground for an infielder to retrieve. I saw a couple of balls get called strikes, yes, but nothing screamed travesty to me.
Look, no-hitters are flukes; what makes them fun is that they come out of nowhere. Sometimes great pitchers throw them when they’re on top of their games and have smothering stuff, but great pitchers also throw them when they have lousy stuff. And sometimes lousy pitchers throw them when they have great stuff. Tom Seaver has been open about having nothing the day he threw a no-no for Cincinnati; the likes of Len Barker and Philip Humber have been perfect on the mound. Stuff happens.
Heston hit his spots, didn’t make mistakes, and pitched to his defense. (A defense that was a lot better than ours — in the early going Syndergaard kept getting double-play balls that Met infielders turned into fielder’s choices.) The Mets hit one ball hard all night — Eric Campbell‘s grounder to Brandon Crawford‘s backhand. Everything else they swung and missed at or patty-caked to an infielder.
Heston earned his accomplishment; he should savor it. And so should the Giants fans who were lucky enough to be there to see it. I’m not pleased right now, but I suspect in a week or so I’ll be thinking, “You know what? I saw a no-hitter in person. That’s pretty cool.”
Anyway, by the 7th inning I was experiencing the opposite of that jittery sense of expectation you get when your pitcher is creeping closer to a no-hitter. I figured Heston would do it and wasn’t particularly surprised as he got closer and the Giants fans got louder. I wasn’t rooting for him, but by that point I didn’t see sneaking a ball through the 5.5 hole as lipstick worth smearing on this particular pig.
I went to the bathroom in the top of the ninth and walked back through the nearly empty section to take my seat next to Emily. Heston hit Anthony Recker, struck out the next three Mets looking and that was it. I took a picture of the scoreboard for my brother-in-law and his family and waited for the Mets to acknowledge the second Citi Field no-hitter.
I wondered what they’d say. The stadium-operations folks had proved graceful hosts in the All-Star Game, so I figured they’d have some congratulatory note for Heston, along with some historical context. Something about how that was the 17th no-hitter in Giants history and their ninth since moving to San Francisco. Or how it was the fifth Giants no-hitter since 2009, or the franchise’s second against the Mets. Or perhaps the video board would note that Heston was the seventh pitcher to no-hit the Mets and the first since the late Darryl Kile.
Amazingly — shamefully — there was nothing. The Mets followed a night of doing nothing at the plate by doing nothing to honor an opponent for something of historic significance. It was negligent and crass and embarrassing.
I don’t know why it happened. Perhaps somebody in stadium operations was afraid they’d get in trouble. Perhaps someone thought it wasn’t right to do that at home. Perhaps it just didn’t occur to anybody. Whatever the case, here’s hoping the stadium-operations folks get together with the Met powers that be and talk it through and come up with an answer that has the proper grace and class.
Because with this lineup, the situation could arise again very soon.
by Jason Fry on 8 June 2015 11:33 am Welp, that first West Coast trip is out of the way, and the Mets went 3-4, but 2-87 if you adjust the results by Depressed Met Fan Black Cloud Overhead Factor.
2-87 is obviously horrible, and in our spiritual standings the Mets are now 10,462 games out of first place.
3-4, on the other hand, is not horrendous for a week of playing on the other side of the continent in the middle of the night, and fans who make do with primitive stats such as wins and losses opened the paper (an obsolete physical medium) this morning to find the Mets in first place in the NL East by an entire half-game over the Nationals.
So what happened? Jacob deGrom was great, and Josh Collmenter was very far from that. The Mets clubbed four homers off Collmenter: two by Curtis Granderson, one by Wilmer Flores (whose Shortstop-O-Meter is currently reading EH MAYBE NOT SO BAD AFTER ALL), and one by Eric Campbell.
Campbell had one of those redemption games: In the first inning he goosed a double-play throw into the dirt at second base, turning two out and none on into a mess that cost deGrom two runs and the lead and sent the Twitterati (including this representative) marching on Sandy Alderson’s house with virtual pitchforks. So in the second Campbell hit a long home run into the seats to give the Mets back the lead and restore his own karmic balance. SNY’s cameras then caught Campbell apparently apologizing to deGrom for the lapse, with Jake grinning and life-is-granding his way through the exchange like he was selling another Ford.
Another good note from SNY: The Mets and Diamondbacks could be some unfortunate mother’s bizarrely different siblings. The Mets can pitch but can’t hit or field while the Diamondbacks can hit and field (particularly their annoyingly gazelle-like outfielders) but can’t pitch. Which started me down the road of a post sagely explaining that starting pitching is the foundation of everything, until I started poking around the expanded standings.
The Mets are 31-27 and have scored five runs more than they’ve surrendered; the D-Backs are 27-29 and have scored seven more runs than they’ve surrendered. The Mets are a half-game up in a division that’s scuffling along, while Arizona’s 4 1/2 out in a tougher slate. The only real difference between these two clubs is the quality of their neighbors; subtract that and they are essentially the same team. They’ve just taken different routes to getting to that same place.
The interesting question for the Mets is whether they get to be a different team soon. Travis d’Arnaud should be back within a few days, displacing Kevin Plawecki, who’s shown enough to give you hopes about his future while thinking his present should still be in Las Vegas. Dilson Herrera also looks close to returning, which should put the aforementioned Campbell out of a job, followed in a couple of weeks by Ruben Tejada. Bobby Parnell is due to return Wednesday despite not looking ready for duty, while the slightly less-unready-looking Vic Black was activated and sent to Las Vegas, which struck some Mets fans smarter than me as a slightly shenanigansy prelude to a transaction that would do the opposite of what I just wrote. Whatever the case, one of them should soon replace someone, probably the not-yet-ready Jack Leathersich.
The point is that the Mets should look different in a week, and if d’Arnaud and Herrera are sound and Parnell/Black can improve on Leathersich’s body of work they should be better. That’s a lot of ifs, granted, but how many ifs were required to get us to being injured and profoundly weird and also in first place on June 9?
by Greg Prince on 7 June 2015 9:11 am Remember Arizona when Arizona was really Arizona? When Arizona was a welcoming oasis for Mets bats? Remember 14-1, 18-4 and 15-2? Those were scores by which the Mets pounded Diamondback pitching at Chase Field in 2005 and 2006. We didn’t always win by a ton but we always won when we visited the desert. We won thirteen consecutive games at one point. We won every series we played in Phoenix from 2004 through 2008. Hell, we swept in 2014 and took two out of three in 2013.
What happened, Mets? You used to love these trips. Now you act like your sinuses are too good for them.
Your bats aren’t, that’s for sure. Holy crap, it’s 1971 out there these nights. It’s great pitching and no hitting. It’s a bottom of the order whose worst hitter when Bartolo Colon is pitching isn’t necessarily Bartolo Colon. Bartolo Colon has learned how to hit. Ruben Tejada has remembered how to hit. Maybe somebody else puts lumber to horsehide in a meaningful manner once per evening — Cuddyer on Friday night, Lagares on Saturday — but that’s it.
Our fellas sometimes get on base but don’t come around. Nobody drives them home. Everybody hits into double plays. Everybody else lofts balls into the outfield. Don’t hit balls on the fly to Arizona outfielders. David Peralta, A.J. Pollock and Ender Inciarte cover three-thirds of the earth’s surface. Even water doesn’t seep through.
The Diamondbacks play good defense. Shall we use that as the excuse du jour? Chase Anderson and three relievers pitched pretty well. Shall we act as if they were impenetrable? The Mets suffer from multiple player injuries. Shall we pretend nobody informed those with personnel-procuring responsibility that major league teams should come equipped with a certain amount of depth? And while we’re making inquiries that ought to have obvious answers, can we ask the likes of Anthony Recker, Eric Campbell and latest mystery guest Danny Muno why they can’t maybe bust out once in a while considering they’re in the big leagues collecting big league meal money?
Colon pitched wonderfully. Colon hit professionally. Colon made one mistake. Colon lost. The Mets lost. Such outcomes seem to be recurring in the present, regardless of how wonderfully positioned we might be for the future.
Over the first sixteen games of 2015, the Mets’ winning percentage worked out to a full-season record of 131-31. Clearly, that was unsustainable. In the 41 games since, the Mets have played at a clip that would net them a full-season record of 67-95. It’s a larger sample and it’s more recent. It’s troubling. It’s not the stuff of good-pitch/no-hit 1971. It’s the stuff of no-chance 1980 (minus the Magic). It doesn’t have to represent the prevailing wind of the 64.8% of what remains of this year, but it sure does blow.
by Greg Prince on 6 June 2015 3:25 pm Friday night in Phoenix didn’t offer enough positive developments to encourage the pessimistic yet likely didn’t dampen the stubborn enthusiasm of the optimistic. Jon Niese pitched well enough to win until he fell behind. From there, the bullpen pitched poorly enough to ensure he’d lose. Oh, and once again nobody hit. Or “nobody” hit, as the Mets are fast running out of healthy somebodies with whom to fill their widening holes.
The Mets are still close to first place and still in the thick of ancillary playoff scraps, so optimistic your head off if that’s the tune to which you care to march. Also, the Mets are still rippling with injuries, still trying to nail down who and how many their starting rotation encompasses and still maintaining a low profile in the area of reserve players, so let that define your worldview if you must.
Me, I’m still fascinated by something I noticed the night before last in Phoenix. It has nothing to do with whether the Mets are reaching for the stars or are keeping their feet glued on the ground. It has to do with a series of numbers.
These were the numbers that caught my eye:
11
22
33
44
No need to decipher a secret code. Those are merely the uniform numbers of four of the Mets who composed Thursday’s starting lineup. Good Mets fan that you are, you recognize them as representing second baseman Ruben Tejada, catcher Kevin Plawecki, pitcher Matt Harvey and right fielder John Mayberry.
So?
So I was watching Thursday night, saw the lineup and thought, “11…22…33…44…that’s sure a lot of double-numbers.” My next thought was to wonder why that seemed so striking. They’re common enough uniform numbers. The Mets have had plenty of guys wear each of them.
But together? When, I pondered, was the last time a Mets starting lineup filled my eyes with such double vision?
It seemed a foreign enough phenomenon to dig a little. A person can do that in the Internet age, particularly if one is savvy enough to employ the essential services of Mets By The Numbers, Ultimate Mets Database and Baseball Reference. It’s a marvelous age we live in when we can follow up on our impulses and find the answers we seek.
The answer I sought turned out to be April 29, 1993, a Thursday afternoon at Candlestick Park. The Giants were off to a roaring start. The Mets were crumbling into a million little pieces. The final score reflected the respective directions each opponent was heading in: San Francisco 10 New York 5. The box score confirms that the starting left fielder and leadoff hitter for the visitors was Vince Coleman, No. 11. Batting in the three-hole, at first base, was Eddie Murray, No. 33. In center and hitting seventh, Ryan Thompson, No. 44. The catcher, batting eighth, Charlie O’Brien, No. 22.
11. 22. 33. 44. It wouldn’t happen again until June 4, 2015. It didn’t happen all that much before April 29, 1993.
The Mets have trotted out an 11, a 22, a 33 and a 44 to begin a game only sixteen times in their history. That’s despite having had many distinguished double-number players occupy their rosters through the years.
Al Leiter. Ray Knight. Wayne Garrett. Donn Clendenon. Ron Hunt. Jack Fisher. Jay Payton. Ray Sadecki. John Maine. They wore twin digits as Mets of tenure and a certain amount of distinction. And they weren’t alone in doing memorable things while modeling two identical numerals. Jason Isringhausen garnered Rookie of the Year consideration. Eric Young won a stolen base title. John Buck lit up an April. Alex Ochoa cycled. Lastings Milledge whetted appetites. Kelvin Chapman contributed to an unlikely run at first place. Jason Bay challenged walls with his head. Duke Snider, for whom 4 was initially unavailable in 1963, hit his 400th home run as No. 11.
That’s an eclectic group of 11s, 22s, 33s and 44s. They span the early days of the franchise to the recent days. They are featured players from some of the greatest days the Mets have ever had. Yet none was ever part of a Daily Double Superfecta, if I can mash up a couple of horse racing terms on this potential Triple Crown day.
Delve into the twin-digit data in hopes of having your search pay off with all of them in a starting lineup and you’ll be amazed at how little return you can cash in. How is it possible that Garrett, for example, never got in one of these? He was No. 11 from 1969 to 1976. He played with Clendenon, No. 22, through 1971. They played with Sadecki, No. 33, for a pair of years.
Ah, but where’s the 44 in all that? There’s always some uniform number that doesn’t fit between 1962 and 1986. In the early ’70s, 44 was lightly assigned. Jim Bibby had it but never got into let alone started a game. Leroy Stanton had it but saw little action. The pieces refused to fit.
It was always that way. Fisher, No. 22, and Hunt, No. 33, were teammates for three seasons, arguably the leading pitcher and hitter the Mets had from 1964 to 1966. The shortstop of record in those times was the esteemed Roy McMillan, who wore No. 11. And wearing No. 44 was…literally nobody. The Mets gave it to Harry Chiti for a spell in 1962 (before giving Chiti back to Cleveland) and stashed it until 1967, when it fell onto the backs of short-termers Bill Denehy (future compensation for Gil Hodges, you damn well know) and Al Schmelz, the notorious Topps ghost. By then, Hunt had been traded to L.A., so 33 was no longer on the back of an everyday player.
Eventually your 33s and 44s seemed to bounce among relief pitchers (Mac Scarce, Ken Sanders, Bob Rauch, Bob Myrick, to name a few). 22 grew obscure (Jack Aker, Bob Gallagher, Jay Kleven). 11 had its moments — Lenny Randle and Frank Taveras ran wild — but it couldn’t sync up with its “twin brothers,” shall we say.
Even in 1986, when the Mets could do it all, it couldn’t produce a lineup with 11, 22, 33 and 44 together. They would have to win a world championship and then find a reason to retool to make this particular dream work.
In the weeks after gloriously riding up Lower Broadway, the Mets made some changes. They let Ray Knight, the second No. 22 to earn World Series MVP honors for them, walk as a free agent. Knight was by many accounts the heart of the champs, but business was business and Knight was getting on. Kevin Mitchell was still young and also considered an intrinsic element of the Met chemistry. But business continued to be business, plus the future league MVP might be a bad influence on certain other young players. Thus, Kevin was traded in a multiplayer swap that brought to Shea another Kevin…and another 22.
Kevin McReynolds donned No. 22 for 1987, just as Tim Teufel continued to go to work in No. 11. As they played themselves into shape in St. Petersburg, the Mets made another deal, this one containing absolutely no recriminations for Mets fans. They sent likable but eminently replaceable backup catcher Ed Hearn to Kansas City for a kid pitcher who drew raves, David Cone. Cone was handed No. 44 and suited up for the Mets. Meanwhile, with Hearn gone, the club went back to its backup catcher who began 1986 in New York before being demoted to Tidewater. That was Barry Lyons. He wore No. 33.
The pieces were all in place. And they sat in place until the 35th game of the 1987 season, Sunday, May 17. On that afternoon, against the Giants at Shea, Davey Johnson wrote them all into the same starting lineup. Lyons caught. Teufel played second. McReynolds was in left. Cone pitched. The Mets won, 6-4.
They were 1-0 with 11, 22, 33 and 44 in their lineup. It was a combination that worked so well, it wouldn’t be deployed again for more than a year.
There’s a reason. There’s always a reason. In this case, it was Cone breaking a finger while attempting to bunt at Candlestick a little more than a week later. David went out for several months. When he was reactivated, in the midst of a division title struggle versus the Cardinals, there was no time for Gary Carter to rest, therefore no Lyons catching.
Stars would not align again until June 19, 1988. Same 11, 22, 33, 44. Same bottom-line result. More drama. Coney carried a no-hitter into the eighth. Lyons nursed him along. McReynolds homered. Teufel chipped in a couple of hits. The Mets blanked the Phillies, 6-0, on David’s complete game two-hitter. With that kind of magic, you’d expect Johnson to deploy his 11-22-33-44 weaponry more often.
You’d be disappointed. Lyons wound up ceding the primary backup role to Mackey Sasser. Teufel became less of a factor in Davey’s thinking, especially once he had new toy Gregg Jefferies in his grasp. There would be only two more starting lineups to bring the 11-22-33-44 noise in 1988. Both times the outcome was suitably loud. The Mets beat the Cubs on August 2 and the Phillies on September 20. In the latter game, Cone raised his record to 18-3 and McReynolds bopped his 24th and 25th homers. Unfortunately, Teufel was batting .228 and Lyons was at .215. The Mets were a couple of days from clinching the N.L. East, but also done with twin-digiting to the extreme for a while.
This same quartet would make one more appearance in a starting lineup together, on May 6, 1990, a Sunday at Shea against Houston. It was the opener of a contentious doubleheader. New Met closer John Franco exchanged heated words with home plate ump Doug Harvey over a balk call in the first game. The Mets went on to win in an appropriate number of innings — 11 — anyway. Teufel’s double tied the game and McReynolds’s homer won it. Cone, in the turn after his legendary ball-still-in-play blowup in Atlanta, was no-decisioned, while Lyons didn’t realize he at about to be victimized by a Met decision. Barry, who was miscast as the successor to Carter, would be sent down in mid-May, never to return. His absence signaled a procession of in-season catcher tryouts that resulted in the next wave of twin-digitmania.
It was September, the same season, but on the cusp of a different Met world. Buddy Harrelson was manager. Charlie O’Brien was catcher, the seventh the Mets would use in 1990. He wore Lyons’ old 33. He saw Cone through to a 10-6 victory over San Francisco at Shea. McReynolds homered. With Jefferies ensconced at second, Teufel filled in at first. The same four would man their positions in concert next at Chicago on September 21, a 4-3 loss that damaged the Mets in their chase of the Pirates and snapped their six-game 11-22-33-44 winning streak. Five days later, Teufel was back at second, McReynolds was still in left, Cone was on the mound and O’Brien was behind the plate. The Mets won in Montreal, 4-0. It was part of the 1990 Mets’ last gasp. They’d be eliminated from pennant contention in their next series. They wouldn’t contend for a mighty long time.
As for 11-22-33-44, we’d see its likes a lot in a concentrated span two years later. O’Brien was the stalwart. He had switched to 5 in 1991 before settling in as 22 through 1993. The other numbers, however, hosted a new set of players. Dick Schofield, the slick-fielding, light-hitting shortstop, inhabited 11 (Teufel had been traded to San Diego in 1991). Eddie Murray, the all-time Oriole, arrived in Flushing and put 33 on his back to complement the chip on his shoulder. No. 44 was something of a shock. Cone, who had shifted to 17 in ’91 as homage to Keith Hernandez, was shipped to Toronto in late August of 1992, just ahead of his contract’s expiration. The bounty he brought back consisted of two young players who were supposed to more than make up for his absence. One was the rookie infielder Jeff Kent. The other was prospect outfielder Ryan Thompson.
Thompson was given 44 and promoted in September. He joined a lineup that included Murray, Schofield and O’Brien on September 8 in Philadelphia. The Mets lost, 2-1. They’d play together four more times that month, losing the next three but succeeding at last on September 23 at St. Louis. By then, Schofield was batting .209, O’Brien .208, and the great Ryan hope .176. Murray was still driving in runs but wasn’t a happy man. The 1992 Mets had no reason to harbor much happiness. They certainly didn’t generate a ton of elation. They were on their way to an unsympathetic 72-90 finish.
Changes were afoot. Schofield would be gone, replaced at short by four-time (if never again) All-Star Tony Fernandez. Fernandez took No. 1, which had been on the uniform of Vince Coleman for two miserable years. Vince went for a change of number and maybe luck (if not mood) and switched to 11 for 1993. With O’Brien, Murray and Thompson, they made for the fourth different 11-22-33-44 combination in Mets history when Jeff Torborg penciled each of them into his starting lineup at Mile High Stadium on April 15. The Mets lost, 5-3, to the expansion Rockies. Two weeks later came that 10-6 loss in San Francisco.
And then, nothing of an 11-22-33-44 nature for 22 seasons.
Why the hell not?
Well, Thompson was off to a terrible start in 1993, so two days after the April 23 game, with his average languishing at .125, he was dispatched to Norfolk. His return in late July coincided with the banishment of Coleman following the firecracker event that made Vince infamous. So 11 and 44 missed each other. It was emblematic of how the next two-plus decades would go. The Mets would bring up one set of twin-digits but eliminate another set. The Aaron Ledesmas would just miss the Jason Isringhausens. The Jason Tyners would be traded for the Bubba Trammells in the shadow of the Al Leiters and Jay Paytons. The Lastings Milledges would be called up to take over for the disabled Xavier Nadys, and when the two of them managed to overlap, it wasn’t when the John Maines were pitching to the Ramon Castros. Paths would be crossed, but just barely. As late as 2013, when Harvey, Tejada, Buck and Young were in 40-man roster proximity, there was simply no grouping them in a single starting lineup.
It just kept happening this way until June 4, 2015, when Matt Harvey got sick of losing, John Mayberry woke the hell up, Kevin Plawecki broke out of a nasty slump and Ruben Tejada continued an unfathomable hot streak. 11, 22, 33 and 44 came together to defeat the Diamondbacks, 6-2, in Arizona, raising the Mets record when those four uniform numbers populated their starting lineup to 9-7 all-time and 1-0 in the current century.
I was curious to know and now you know.
by Jason Fry on 5 June 2015 2:10 am The Mets didn’t lose, though it kind of feels that way.
2015 isn’t a flaming disaster, though it kind of feels that way.
What’s going on here?
Reality check: The Mets beat the Diamondbacks, 6-2. It’s the early hours of June 5 and they are in first place.
So why doesn’t it feel that way? Why does it feel like we’re standing on our heads and all the numbers are backwards?
I’m not sure — it doesn’t make any sense. But I know I’m not alone. Mets Twitter is an echo chamber of disgust, shame and despair, and that’s with all of the above still true.
Some ideas:
1) Win or not, first place or not, the team is owned by people in dire financial straits, a situation about which they’re chronically dishonest. This financial anvil hovers above the fanbase’s collective head at all times, and it’s a little disconcerting to say the least.
2) The offense and defense are iffy — too iffy to put any trust in.
3) Oh my God, someone probably went on the DL while I read this sentence. Zack Wheeler, Travis d’Arnaud, David Wright, Buddy Carlyle, Jenrry Mejia, Jerry Blevins, Bobby Parnell, Vic Black, Dilson Herrera. What the heck, man? Sure enough, Daniel Murphy was pulled tonight and has a date with the MRI tube.
4) Terry Collins keeps being Terry Collins. Let’s have Kevin Plawecki bunt! Let’s blow out Jeurys Familia‘s arm! MAKE IT STOP!
5) Jon Niese is pitching tomorrow, so best not to get too familiar with the NL East penthouse. I’d recommend the sleeping bag and some takeout Chinese.
It’s true that the first three things are real problems, while the fourth one is more of an annoyance and the fifth point is just me being a dick. But these aren’t new problems and we’re in first place.
The Wilpons’ financial situation can’t be affected by anything we do, so there’s no sense letting it wreck a good thing. Wilmer Flores has kept hitting while looking less shaky in the field, Michael Cuddyer‘s been better, and tonight’s win was keyed by a breakout game for John Mayberry Jr., who was starting to get Chris Young‘s hate mail. Herrera and d’Arnaud played in rehab games tonight, Blevins and Mejia are getting closer, and Sean Gilmartin and Erik Goeddel have stepped up nicely with Black and Parnell slow to return.
I know optimism is an odd look for Mets fans, but my goodness, you could even make the case that the Mets have weathered a shit-ton of injuries, growing pains and buzzard’s luck and are in first place on June 5, an unlikely scenario that leaves them rather well positioned should renewed health, continued player development and better fortune be in the cards.
And, of course, you’re as good as tomorrow’s starting pitcher. That’s not great news given whatever’s wrong with Niese, but hey, first game of the rest of his season, and most days the Mets throw a pretty formidable starter out there. That’s the strength upon which most baseball success is built, and the Mets have an enviable amount of that strength. (With more on the way.)
So let’s try this again. The Mets rolled into Phoenix tonight to face the Diamondbacks, who score the most runs in the league. They looked shaky early, with Matt Harvey struggling with his slider and Diamondback outfielders running down Met drive after Met drive. But Harvey turned to his curveball and held Arizona in check, the Mets got big nights from Kevin Plawecki and Mayberry, and OH MY GOODNESS LOOK WHO’S NO. 1?
On June 5th, no less.
Now doesn’t that feel better?
by Greg Prince on 4 June 2015 10:52 am Dillon Gee didn’t look so hot, but neither did Craig Kimbrel, and Craig Kimbrel is a big deal. Plus Kimbrel only pitches ninth innings, usually. Gee pitches firsts, seconds, maybe a couple more…
Usually Gee pitches fifths and then some. Usually he’s in a five-man rotation. Usuallys are hard to gauge some nights.
Kimbrel, I hear, hasn’t been such a big deal kind of pitcher since going to San Diego. Nor did he appear to be one when I awoke in the middle of the ninth inning Wednesday to see him do his no longer automatically impressive thing. The game that was out of hand when I nodded off was creeping back into fingernail territory. Kimbrel wasn’t retiring the Mets with ease. There was a semblance of a rally unfurling. It didn’t seem worth stirring from the couch for, but before I knew it, I was up on my feet.
I had to go to the bathroom, which explains the feet part. But when I returned, I stood in front of the TV like something was about to happen. Maybe the Mets were going to pull one of their patented Kimbrel Klobberings out of their old kit bag. They stuck it to him in Atlanta that one time, I seem to recall.
Anyway, I stayed on my feet long enough to see the Mets scratch the surface of possibility. They had made a 7-0 game 7-3; they had loaded the bases with two out; they had made the former Brave relief ace squirm; and they had Lucas Duda — their threat — up to conceivably tie the game, or at least keep it going. Gary Cohen, probably intending to stoke hope, announced Duda was 1-for-11 in his career versus Kimbrel, but that one was a home run.
Yes, I thought, but those other ten were outs.
The twelfth at-bat was also. When it was, I got off my feet and back to the couch for the postgame coverage, which, in its Bobby Ojedaless state, put me out like a light.
Or a Met.
The game was long gone before the ninth. I was long gone before the fifth, despite my own insufficient last-minute rally. Gee, who you might remember from the pre-Syndergaard era, was a starting pitcher again because if five pitchers are good, six must be incredible.
Or not. Dillon was rusty or off his game or the victim of the gaping defensive void at third base. What he wasn’t was a spectacular endorsement of six-man rotations.
Maybe it’ll work eventually. Maybe it’ll be quickly shuffled into the deck of Met trivia Hideo Nomo disappeared into the last time the Mets tried this unorthodox maneuver. That was seventeen years ago. It was such a good idea, the Mets decided to keep it under wraps until now.
While we’re taking the measure of the easy targets — superfluous starters, out-of-position infielders — let’s not forget the Mets didn’t score until they were losing by seven. Nothing clicked. So what the hell, mark this one down as a team defeat, a systemic failure, a sleep-inducing effort whose end teased a little but satisfied not at all.
One third of the season is now over. The Mets are on pace to win 87 games. Do with that what you will. The 1962 Mets were on pace to win 48 games after a third of a season and won 40. The 1969 Mets were on pace to win 87 games after a third of a season and won 100. The 2005 Mets were on pace to win 84 games after a third of a season and won 83. I guesstimated the 2015 Mets would win 84 games this year. They are exceeding my guesstimations through a third of a season, so I should be ecstatic.
Instead, I’m still a little groggy.
by Greg Prince on 3 June 2015 9:34 am The good news: Nobody had to mention walking to describe Noah Syndergaard’s problems in San Diego Wednesday.
The less good news: David Wright had to mention walking to describe his own problems before the same game that quickly became the worst of Syndergaard’s career.
“Syndergaard’s career” is, to date, a five-start proposition, so except for denying us extreme wish-fulfillment (a steady diet of shutouts backed by constant 400-foot homers), Thor getting his hammer handed to him is only an issue if you were breathlessly waiting for the Mets to retake first from the Nats on June 2. Would’ve been nice, but it’s only June 3 and Noah is only up to five starts.
Complimenting Syndergaard after lasting only four innings and allowing seven runs on ten hits — but striking out ten and walking nobody — would probably leave him as baffled as young Henry Hill was when he was congratulated in Goodfellas for absorbing his first arrest like a pro. “Everybody gets pinched,” Robert DeNiro as Jimmy Conway told him. It’s true. He might even get pinched again. As Noah was sent to the proverbial showers early for the first time as a major leaguer, Ron Darling remembered his initial brutal whacking at the hands of a crew of opposing batters. Such a happenstance befell Dwight Gooden and Matt Harvey and, eventually, everybody.
We still don’t know if Syndergaard is on track to be one of the instant greats or will have to work toward a state of very good (which isn’t a bad floor to aim for). A callow pitcher, no matter how destined for potential glory, will encounter speed bumps — several of them. When I watched Zack Wheeler hit his share in 2013 and 2014, I found it helpful to recall Darling expanding the proportion of good starts to bad starts three decades earlier. First there’d be something promising, then something of a clunker, then more promise. Soon the encouraging starts outnumbered the discouraging efforts three to two. Then two-to-one. Then three-to-one. Then you stopped worrying about the kid pitcher because maturity was taking hold.
Since the Mets are in San Diego, Noah’s amazingly Cashnerian outing brought me back to the rookie campaign of Octavio Dotel. Dotel couldn’t have been more Jekyll and Hyde during his first go-around. On August 16, 1999, Octavio was Super Jekyll, flirting hard with a no-hitter at Jack Murphy Stadium. Two starts earlier he outdueled Chan Ho Park and propelled the Mets into first place. Two starts later, he rather easily dispatched the Diamondbacks. It was the starts in between that reminded you Dotel was a rookie. Before beating Park and the Dodgers, the Cubs lit him up. Before mowing down the Padres on the coast, the same team chased him off the mound at Shea. Prior to the Arizona masterpiece, the Cardinals smacked him around.
Octavio Dotel wound up pitching a very solid fourteen seasons, albeit in thirteen different uniforms and mostly in relief. The point is, to borrow from Jimmy the Gent, he took he first pinches “like a man” and he got better.
Getting better is all we can hope for where Wright is concerned. His Q&A session with the media at Petco Park indicates there has to be hope, because at the moment there’s nothing else. David can say he looks forward to playing again this year. Sandy Alderson can say he looks forward to David playing again this year. But when the man whose back is front and center explains, “We’re talking about walking and standing and being pain-free,” can you really envision O Captain! Our Captain! leading the charge onto the infield at any future point in 2015?
Maybe. Given that warmup-clad Wright was surrounded by a mob of reporters (group interviews with players wearing jackets or hoodies are so depressing, because you know there’s an injury somewhere under there), let’s stay with the mob motif and take vague comfort in what Paulie Walnuts had to say to Tony Soprano when nobody could quite nail down what was allegedly wrong with Big Pussy:
“When it comes to backs, nobody knows anything, really.”
Really. Dr. Wright agrees, noting the lack of a “timeline” that could tell him he’s on the road to recovery, or at least one of those hypothetical Mets recoveries, like the one Carlos Delgado is presumably still en route to, according to the recurring updates the Mets issued throughout 2009. He’s going to work hard and try his best, which are very David Wright things to do, and he’ll be here when he gets here. Let’s be optimistic in that regard. As someone who’s spent the past couple of weeks attempting to detect nuggets of good news in a pile of Benny Bell-style shaving cream, a little optimism when it comes to someone’s condition eventually improving immensely never hurts.
Even if David Wright’s back continues to.
In the interim, we’ve got our best-credentialed third base alternative stationed at second, our top defensive shortstop anchoring third and the guy who’s reasonably qualified to take second still feeling his way around short. Maybe somebody will shuffle those fellows into their optimal positions shortly. Or maybe, with things going marginally well in Wright’s absence, leaving well enough alone should be the goal. Daniel Murphy at second and Wilmer Flores at short continue to rake, while starting third baseman Ruben Tejada remains startlingly hot. Ride that painted pony as far as he will take you before letting the spinning wheel spin. What goes up must come down, but where Ruben’s recent hitting prowess is concerned, I’m trying not to hear that noise.
Acquiring outside talent might also help, but that’s not an easy task in-season. The period between 2014 and 2015 might have been an ideal interlude to ramp up Met depth, but that’s not how our GM rolls. Still, there have to be options. For example, Delgado’s rehab must be proceeding apace. Last I heard, he was due back in July 2009.
Also still not back from injury: Johan Santana. Phil Taylor of Sports Illustrated recently caught up with Johan and revisited that magical night of June 1, 2012. He also found out what his old manager thinks after three years, 134 pitches and the long stretch of inactivity that has followed. Required reading for Mets fans.
by Jason Fry on 2 June 2015 3:41 am Sunday afternoon found me driving a rental car through deteriorating weather from Boston to New York, listening to the Mets try to salvage a game from the Marlins and their recently-civilian manager. The Mets were trying to escape their Miami enemies and what the weather would do to departures at New York’s airports. Between these two perils, I didn’t have a lot of hope for how they’d acquit themselves when they reappeared the next night on the other side of the continent to play the Padres.
In fact, I was dreading it. The smart money would have predicted … oh, I don’t know, three hits and some sleepy defense?
Which goes to show there’s a reason they play ’em.
It was the Padres who looked like they were sleepwalking, letting down Andrew Cashner with a lazy first-inning misplay that let Daniel Murphy score to put the Mets up 2-0. Cashner looked disgusted on the mound — Jon Niese‘s head would have exploded after such an affront — and he did the smart thing by resolving that he’d just get all the outs himself. He caught Juan Lagares looking for the final out of the inning, racked up three more backwards Ks in the second and kept rolling, amassing 12 strikeouts before his duties were through.
Sounds impressive, but Cashner was also giving up hits: He stranded runners on third in the third and fourth innings before the roof caved in, with Murph homering in the fifth and Darrell Ceciliani and Lagares following with run-scoring singles that pushed the Mets’ lead to 6-0. Before it was all done, Murph would have a 4-for-5 night and Ruben Tejada would have a 3-for-5 next to his name.
(I don’t want to alarm anybody, but it appears someone has kidnapped Tejada and replaced him with a lookalike who can hit. I think we can all agree that this crime should not be solved any time soon.)
And Jacob deGrom? He was pitching like he wanted to remind us what happened three June 1sts ago. Jake struck out the side in the first and looked simply unhittable, retiring the first 15 Padres without particularly breaking a sweat. Clint Barmes ended the dream with a clean single to lead off the sixth, but the Mets kept playing like a no-hitter was in the cards, making the kind of Baxterian plays that would have made you go hmm if not for that vertical line already in the San Diego H column. In the end, it was no contest — the Padres made the most noise barking at umpires, and were drowned out by the large contingent of West Coast Mets fans.
(This is not a new phenomenon for Petco, BTW: Last time I went there the Phillies were in town, and the park and surrounding streets were easily a third Philadelphia rooters. I don’t know if San Diego is a great place to relocate while retaining one’s sports loyalties, or if Padres fans are just laid back to the point of invisibility, but the out-of-town contingent seems larger and louder here than in most other parks.)
As for the Padres, granted it’s only one game, but they look like a mess. DeGrom dismantled them, and tomorrow night they get Noah Syndergaard, whose pitching prowess is so amazing he can lower his ERA by 0.73 without even stepping onto a mound.
Which means they’ll undoubtedly shell Noah, because baseball.
Before the game, Shannon Shark of MetsPolice and I got together for our latest I’d Just as Soon Kiss a Mookiee show, which we can confidently say is the world’s best Star Wars/Mets podcast, and discussed the dread of plunging into a West Coast trip. As we noted, West Coast games can be a blast if your team erupts with a bushel of hits — when that happens, the middle-of-the-night delights feel like a gift, like you’re a kid given free rein to gobble down candy when you should be in bed. Unfortunately, such sleepy-time laughers are rare — and there are few things worse than enduring a West Coast beating in which the East Coasters can’t wait to finish losing and crawl back to the hotel already.
(Other things on the IJASKAM agenda: No-Han revisited, Mike Piazza‘s post-9/11 home run, Tim McCarver, proper accounting for the no-no-hitters streak, and more. Give us a listen!)
The Mets, bless them, delivered that rarest of things — a West Coast laugher. And so they begin June as one of the more confusing Mets squads of recent memory. They’re capable of thumping the tar out of any team on the planet, and then lying down and offering an excellent imitation of a baseball corpse. It feels like we’re in the middle of the pack, biting and clawing with the mediocre teams and yearning of unattainable glory, but the standings say something else, and despite the late hour it isn’t a dream: The standings say that the Mets are in a flat-footed tie for first with the Nationals.
My reaction to that is more or less a bemused shrug. You can react with gleeful cackles, dour premonitions, or alternate madly between the two. Because both extremes have fit this Mets team so far in 2015, and there’s no reason to predict the weirdness will pass any time soon. Certainly not in the middle of the night.
by Greg Prince on 1 June 2015 1:16 am Shocking as it may have been to behold, Bartolo Colon doubling in Anthony Recker was less surprising than Ruben Tejada emerging as the Mets’ full-time third baseman. Anthony Recker being on second for Colon to double in was rather stunning in and of itself — Recker was 0-for-13 at Citi Field before the bottom of the second Sunday, whereas Colon was 1-for-8 — but not as surprising as Tejada being anointed permanent as can be caretaker of the position that was supposed to be taken care of through 2020.
Anthony Recker played third base for the Mets before Ruben Tejada ever did and Anthony Recker is a backup catcher. No wonder Colon connecting for extra bases seems the least surprising aspect of Sunday’s win over the Marlins.
Will wonders ever cease? In Ruben’s case, we can only hope not. We can only hope that the six-year veteran who still looks and sometimes plays as if he was recalled last week maintains his latest brush with competence. Saturday he appeared alternately capable and overmatched at the hot corner. Sunday his defense didn’t directly result in any calamitous activity. As of Monday, he’s what Daniel Murphy, Eric Campbell and Danny Muno aren’t after their respective auditions. He’s David Wright’s long-term fill-in.
Until he isn’t.
Terry Collins saw enough hitting from the former occasional starting second baseman (2010-2011) and generally ensconced starting shortstop (2012-2014) to pronounce him the best possible if not his final answer to the million-dollar question of who wants to be the starting third baseman. If anything, Ruben’s a lifeline. He brought in the most runs on Saturday and he accounted for the winning run Sunday. His .724 OPS is outpointing both Curtis Granderson’s and Michael Cuddyer’s, which says more about them than it does about him. Either way, that’s his bat. When wearing his glove, Ruben never officially planted a foot significantly to the right of short until May 14, but that’s good enough for these Mets who are trying to get by and surge ahead simultaneously.
A team with obvious playoff aspirations would be shaking every tree, bush and shrub in hopes of landing an experienced third baseman to pick up the enormous slack left behind by Wright’s bout with spinal stenosis. Perhaps that process is occurring below radar as we speak. Maybe Sandy Alderson has another Kelly Shoppach or Eric Young up his sleeve. But he probably doesn’t. So I’m just going to assume Collins isn’t kidding when he says Tejada is it.
Sounds familiar. Tejada is both always and rarely it. Always refers to the fact that he sticks around and inevitably gets a chance to show his stuff, which is sometimes tantalizing, eventually limited. Rarely refers to, well, wasn’t Ruben Tejada going to make us stop grumbling that Jose Reyes wasn’t here anymore? Wasn’t he the reason Wilmer Flores was taking up Triple-A studies at second base? Wasn’t he theoretically reborn as a defensive replacement?
Now he’s been Ray-Knighted the starting third baseman for a team that holds a Wild Card spot through nearly a third of a season and somehow remains but a half-game behind the Nationals for first place. It’s a credit to Tejada that he finds ways to make himself convincingly useful. It’s less so to the Mets that when one day is done and the next is about to begin, they rely on Ruben Tejada to more than temporarily succeed David Wright.
I’m reminded of the summer of 1989 when the Mets struggled to make a legitimate playoff push, held back by (among other disappointments) the failure of Gregg Jefferies to ignite. Jefferies was handed second base after a great September in 1988. They gave him every conceivable shot to keep it. He lost it anyway. The position fell to perpetual utilityman — and future David Wright agent — Keith Miller. Keith seemed steady; the Mets got hot. Praise be, Keith Miller was the answer! Keith Miller was the starting second baseman!
That lasted a little over two weeks, or roughly the extent of the Mets’ active participation in the 1989 pennant race. Which isn’t to say Tejada won’t give the Mets a longer-lasting solution. It’s Tejada’s track record that indicates this is nothing but the most graspable straw within Collins’s reach. It’s not like they’ve given Terry all that many tall straws to grasp at.
Ruben Tejada, you’re our starting third baseman. Congratulations old friend/young man. You’re it. Good luck to you. Good luck to us.
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