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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 Jason Fry on 27 September 2014 11:59 pm The Mets and Astros combined to throw 266 pitches tonight at Citi Field. For 265 of them — that’s 99.62% of the game if you’re mathematically inclined — the results were pretty much unbearable for Mets fans.
The preteen girls in the stands, most of whom were waiting to watch someone named Austin Mahone, unleashed 266,000 shrieks tonight at Citi Field. All 266,000 of them — that’s 100% if you’re mathematically inclined — were unbearable for everyone except besotted fans of Austin Mahone.
The original plan was for Emily, Joshua and I to go tonight. We didn’t for the usual bourgeois reasons — soccer game, looming deadlines, busy day tomorrow, plus not particularly wanting to be caught in a hormonal supervolcano. For 265 of the pitches thrown, it seemed like a good call. The Mets looked flat all night, unable to do anything — as seems to be so often true — with a 31-year-old roster-filler of a pitcher. Sam Deduno was great, I suppose, unless he was just pitching against a Mets team that looked ready for the far-from-the-bright-lights version of October.
Deduno’s teammates didn’t do much to support him except have luck on their side: In the sixth Dexter Fowler hit a ridiculous little roller up the third-base line, by which I mean that it rolled absurdly back and forth on the actual chalk, like some spheroid version of the CGI feather in Forrest Gump. Daniel Murphy — who looked amusingly disgusted all night — waved his hands halfheartedly at it, and the historically minded part of me desperately wanted Murph to hit the deck and try to blow the ball foul, a la Lenny Randle. He didn’t and the ball stayed fair — if untouched it would have somehow hopped up on the third-base bag and then rolled along the line to the outfield wall, possibly absorbing chalk like some kind of lunatic snowball until it threatened the life of Eric Young Jr.
Eight pitches later, inevitably, Jason Castro whacked a double to right and the Astros were up 1-0.
It sure looked like that would be it, and Rafael Montero would head into the offseason with his final memory a weird little game where nothing particularly bad happened except one thing that was enough to beat him. The shrieking escalated as the Mahomies — who are not, sad to say, a preteen tribe dedicated to searching out YouTube videos of former Met Pat Mahomes — got closer to their appointment with their idol.
I had despaired of seeing the Mets win, and the game was easily one of the most boring ones of the year, so I started rooting cruelly for the Mets to tie things up so the Mahomies would have to wait in the stands while the teams played four or five more hours of similarly wretched baseball.
Unless they decided the concert had to go on, which gave me an idea: A while back my friend Will and I went to a Brooklyn Cyclones game that went long enough so the postgame fireworks were going to bump up against Coney Island’s curfew. The rather amazing answer someone came up with was to begin the fireworks show during the game. Fireworks started exploding directly over the batter’s eye, sending clouds of smoke over the field, while the poor players tried to do something that’s difficult even when artillery isn’t bursting right behind the pitcher. I figured the Mets could do the same thing, wheeling Mahone’s stage into the outfield between the 13th and the 14th and then continuing the game, with music blasting and preteen girls screaming and outfielders doing their best to maneuver around or across a stage full of musicians. (“Sorry, Fowler — the bass player’s in play.”)
I did allow myself one happier fantasy, but it seemed like even more of a reach: Back in May 2001, Greg and I were in the stands at Shea for Merengue Night against the Marlins. Greg recently recalled this one for his own purposes — it featured Brad Penny hitting Tsuyoshi Shinjo, after which Todd Zeile hit a game-tying three-run homer and told Penny to “suck on that for Shinjo,” leading to a bunch of milling around and yelling. Timo Perez would then win the game in the 10th on a walkoff double.
It was fun eventually, but before that I mostly remember an unpleasant buzz in the stands all night. A large chunk of the boisterous crowd was interested in the music to come and not in the Mets, whom they regarded as an unwelcome warm-up act. An equally large chunk of the boisterous crowd was interested in the Mets, and regarded merengue as an unnecessary add-on, something between an annoyance and an alien invasion. There were partisans on either side of this divide who became less and less shy about broadcasting their opinions, and by the late innings too many of these folks were actively interested in finding someone to disagree with.
It was a tense scene, with nasty racial overtones threatening to boil over, and I was not excited about what might happen if the game went 14 or 15 innings. Timo’s hit made all the bad stuff vanish in an instant, like releasing a balloon. Timo was Dominican and he was a Met, so everyone was delighted. Someone in the crowd threw him a Dominican flag, which he ran around brandishing with an enormous grin. Dudes who’d been ready to slug each other a batter before were high-fiving thunderously, and as Greg and I headed for the ramps I screamed at everyone I passed that TIMO PEREZ IS THE KING OF MERENGUE!
Now, I doubt anyone at Citi Field tonight was worried about a massive brawl between Mahomies and Methomies. But as the Mets’ frustrations continued, I thought wistfully back to that night 13 years ago. Young tripled with one out in the ninth, but Murphy flied out to left and even the speedy EY had to hold. Up stepped Lucas Duda, who hasn’t hit much in September and was facing a lefty.
“Walk ’em off, Lucas,” I said, but it was rote — there was zero conviction behind it. Tony Sipp threw a slider for ball one, the Mahomies shrieked for the 265,999th time, and then Sipp missed badly with a fastball slider.
Most of Duda’s home runs are big majestic things, high arcs destined for the front of Pepsi Porch or that indeterminate Citi Field neighborhood between the right-field stands and the Shea Bridge. Not this one — it was a screaming liner bound either for Utleyville or the visibly vibrating uvula of a Mahomie in foul territory. Duda’s blast banged off the screen on the foul pole, causing Methomies and Mahomies to greet the shared victory with delirious shrieking unison. The man himself skipped happily around the bases like some kind of terrifying mutant fawn, flung off his helmet to reveal his oddly muffinlike hair and leapt on the plate to be engulfed by his jubilant teammates.
And of course then I wish we’d gone. Perhaps I could have seen Lucas circling the field holding up a massive Austin Mahone banner. Or, failing that, I could have medium-fived 40 or 50 13-year-old girls, greeting each of them with the news: LUCAS DUDA IS THE KING OF NUTRASWEET POP!
by Jason Fry on 27 September 2014 12:01 am Each year I find a page in a notebook and write the name of the year and METS at the top. If Opening Day is on TV, I sit there and write the players down in order of their appearance.
If the Mets hit first, the players go in the book in the order they bat, and it doesn’t count until you’ve come to the plate. If the Mets are in the field, said order (of everybody or the guys who didn’t bat already) goes like this: Pitcher first, since the game starts when he throws the ball. If the first pitch is put in play, the fielders go in the book in the order they touch the ball. If the first pitch isn’t put in play, the catcher is next, then the fielders in scorebook position order. (So shortstop after the third baseman.) One way or another, this process yields the first nine of the season. I put the date of the game to the left of the first Met of the year. Each Met gets an (N) if he’s new and a (D) if he’s a big-league debut. (If you’re keeping score, this year has yielded a relatively paltry 16 Ns and six Ds.)
That first game generally yields a few relievers, a pinch-hitter or two, and a defensive replacement. Five days or so into the season you’ve got a shrinking number of names per date and just a few players from the Opening Day slate of 25 yet to record. The backup catcher sometimes has to wait, along with a middle reliever or two. Sometimes the fifth starter has to twiddle his thumbs — or there’s a player being carried on the roster who’s not ready for duty but not on the DL. Sometimes there’s already been a roster juggle or two.
One way or another everyone gets recorded and pretty soon each new player has a date to himself. (This year’s book has an odd exception — May 15th saw the arrival of Jacob deGrom and the return of Juan Centeno and Josh Edgin.) The last Met on this year’s list is Dario Alvarez, who arrived on Sept. 3 and has logged a whole 1 1/3 innings since then. (Whatever happened to Wilfredo Tovar, anyway?)
It’s a fun ritual in April and dutiful recordkeeping after that. But in recent days I’ve been struck by the idea that there are goodbyes to go with all of these hellos.
This has been a September to dismember, with Met after Met hanging it up early because injuries became too much. David Wright is done. So is Vic Black. And Dana Eveland. And Juan Lagares. And Dilson Herrera, just when we were starting to fall in love with him. And deGrom, because he’s out of innings.
And now Travis d’Arnaud, because he needs elbow surgery.
Add in starting pitchers making their last appearances (barring, I suppose, some 28-inning catastrophe) and you’ve got fewer and fewer Mets with anything to add to their 2014 CVs. Opening Day starter Dillon Gee is done, disappointed in how things went. Zack Wheeler is done, with big steps forward to celebrate even as he knows he has stuff to work on. Jon Niese had to depart early tonight because of a racing heartbeat, which he says isn’t serious. I hope he’s correct. (I also hope he’s traded, but we’ve covered that.) Fill-in starter Rafael Montero will wrap up his year tomorrow, and then the starters will be down to Bartolo Colon.
And with Colon on the mound we’ll be down to other lasts. Middle relievers who come in and depart will be done not just for the day but for the year. Same for pinch-hitters, and guys subbed out for better defenders. Bobby Abreu‘s final act that day will be his final act as a big leaguer. Eventually, 2014 will have shrunk to a final nine. If the Mets are hitting, there will be a final batter. If the Mets are in the field, there will be a final play, a last ball thrown that matters. Maybe it will land in Matt den Dekker‘s glove. Or be secured by Lucas Duda. Or wind up nestled in Anthony Recker‘s mitt.
Whatever happens, the season will have shrunk to nothing. There will be no more records to keep. Until after the dark and the snow we find ourselves here again, to start anew.
by Jason Fry on 26 September 2014 12:22 am Enjoy that one. The nightcap saw the Mets do absolutely nothing against entitled annoyance Gio Gonzalez, a little Daniel Murphy parachute aside.
Enjoy that one. They finished the season 4-15 against the Nationals. Go a mediocre 9-10 and they would have been over .500.
Enjoy that one. Zack Wheeler‘s final start was a letdown — he was throwing 98, but melted down (with some help from bad defense and bad luck) in the fourth.
Enjoy that one. Matt Harvey ensured a new cycle of sports-talk annoyance by attending Jeterfest. Worse, he tweeted about #RE2PECT like a hyperventilating Belieber.
Enjoy that one. Oh’naud, the concern about Travis d’Arnaud is related to his el’baud.
Enjoy that one. Did you see what happened in the Bronx? It was simultaneously epic and annoying. No I’m not fucking linking to it. Go check any other site.
Enjoy that one. The dream of a .500 season went down the toilet tonight, leaving nothing left except the pursuit of a meaningless second place.
Enjoy that one. Second place would be neat, but fourth place is still very possible.
Enjoy that one. We’re down to three with the Astros, a concert by someone I’ve never heard of who looks 12 and a bobblehead that looks nothing like Casey Stengel.
Enjoy that one. Soon David I. Pankin, the paving-stones guy with his Armortec secret weapon, Cindy from Lee’s Toyota and Roscoe the bedbug-sniffing dog will be gone.
Enjoy that one. Kevin Burkhardt’s already gone. I already miss him.
Enjoy that one. On the plus side, Alexa can soon stop blinking SAVE ME FROM THIS HELL in Morse code on those painful Mets QVC ads.
Enjoy that one. Football will soon rule the land, offering nonstop concussions, abused children and unconscious fiancees, appalling coverups and lying commissioners.
Enjoy that one. We’re down to unexpected plans, previous engagements and the like wiping out not a tiny part of the season, but a third of it.
Enjoy as many of these as you can, as best you can. Because there aren’t enough of them left.
by Greg Prince on 25 September 2014 5:03 pm Enjoy this one. There isn’t much time in every sense of the concept.
Enjoy this one. There’s another game in a couple of hours.
Enjoy this one. There’s only four more overall.
Enjoy this one. Wright’s shoulder issue sounds vexing, to say the least. Let’s enjoy baseball news that isn’t solely injury news.
Enjoy this one. D’Arnaud’s absence is a bit of a concocted mystery (it doesn’t have to be so mysterious), but at least we got another look at the flexibly pronounceable Juan Centeno.
Enjoy this one. Maybe we’ll find something to say about Wilfredo Tovar and Erik Goeddel before this weekend is done.
Enjoy this one. Dillon Gee balked, the first Mets balk of the year, and there was no ultimate screwage from it.
Enjoy this one. Curtis Granderson is hot. It probably won’t carry over into April, but he seems like a swell guy.
Enjoy this one. We beat the Nationals. We almost never do that and not too many others do, either.
Enjoy this one. Gee faltered, but our bullpen picked him up.
Enjoy this one. Lots of hits, a decent amount of runs and a neat double play salvaged from a bad throw home.
Enjoy this one. Gary and Ron. Howie and Josh. It doesn’t get better.
Enjoy this one. Wilmer Flores looks kind of real. Try to not think what kind of license that gives the front office for not trying to find a legitimate shortstop.
Enjoy this one. It’s baseball on a chilly, rainy day en route to baseball on a chilly, rainy evening and we get to watch it on TV or listen to it on the radio without getting wet and cold.
Enjoy as many of these as you can. There aren’t enough of them left.
by Greg Prince on 25 September 2014 11:49 am Good news yesterday, even with the rainout: I heard the neighbors aren’t throwing their annual October party this year. Actually, this is the second consecutive year they’re skipping it, making those affairs no longer annual events, I suppose. I didn’t think they were gonna have their party. I know they ordered in a bunch of expensive supplies last winter like they always do, yet I hadn’t seen any sign lately they were preparing for anything to happen in October. Still, you can’t be too sure with these neighbors. Better to get it confirmed before kicking back and relaxing.
Remember those awful parties they used to throw with disgusting regularity every October? Geez, sometimes they’d go on till November. They’d make such a to-do over every little thing. (You should have heard them going on about their jewelry; it was “ring this” and “ring that”. It took me a couple of years to realize they weren’t talking about bells.) All their bleating made it impossible to think. I really prefer October without the neighbors making any noise.
Now and then somebody will ask me, “What do you care what the neighbors do? You have your own house to tend to. Just ignore them.” That sounds very reasonable and all, but it never works that way in October. They are impossible to ignore when they get going. It’s not just October, either. Always with the bombast. Always with the pompous self-regard. And the drama! I grant you we have our share of drama on this side of the fence, but we don’t bother everybody else with it.
Take this week. Even with the neighbors making it clear there’d be no party this October, they haven’t shut up about what they’ve been up to this month. This whole year, actually. What I thought was supposed to be a nice, simple going-away dinner for somebody has turned into a neverending extravaganza. That’s their business, but when they can’t stop going on and on about it, it becomes everybody’s business.
I can’t fault the neighbors for wanting to do this thing — in theory, it’s a nice idea — but ohmigod, they’re making it sound as if anybody who isn’t interested in it or doesn’t think it’s the greatest thing in the world is some kind of enemy of the state. The guy at the center of it certainly earned a bon voyage or whatever, but that’s not enough. First it was like “we’ll do one”; then it was “we’re gonna fit another one in”; then it was like “we have this big blowout planned, and it’s gonna be awesome, but oh no, what if we don’t have super special moments? How can we choreograph super special moments to make sure it’s super special because nothing can ever just ‘happen’ with us? And what if there’s another one after this and we can’t go? And what if it rains?”
If anybody who’s not into it dares to suggest it’s too much or they’re not up for swooning over the guest of honor…and believe me, the guest has been honored plenty…they act so offended! “Don’t you know how great this guy is? It’s history! History!” Or, get this: “HI2TORY”. It’s so over the top.
These neighbors of ours. I can’t wait for October when it’s completely quiet over there.
by Greg Prince on 23 September 2014 11:50 pm As a service to New York Mets fans who find themselves encountering an unfamiliar concept, Faith and Fear in Flushing provides the following helpful primer.
Welcome to the battle for second place!
Yeah, I thought I heard something about that. Can you explain what this is exactly?
With Monday night’s loss by the reeling Braves to the Pirates, the Mets moved into a second-place tie in the National League East. Though the Mets lost per usual in Washington Tuesday, the moribund Cobb Countyans continued to struggle versus playoff-bound Pittsburgh, so the tie remains in effect. The Marlins, it should be noted, have surged to within in a half-game of second place, so it could be any of these three also-rans grabbing runner-up honors.
I feel I should’ve heard of this “second place” before. Why does it seem so strange?
That’s because it is. Though the Mets have finished second eleven different times, they haven’t spent any appreciable time in second place for more than half a decade.
Is it good to be in second place? I’ve heard of “first place” and how teams try to finish there, but what’s the deal with second? It doesn’t seem to get as much publicity.
Second place can be great. Or it can be kind of a bummer. Sometimes it’s somewhere in between.
Whoa! Now you’re confusing me even more!
Let’s start with the first time the Mets saw second place. It was on June 3, 1969, when the Mets were in the midst of their historic eleven-game winning streak that marked their coming-out party as a franchise.
So they were trying to get into second place in 1969? That was the “miracle”?
Early on, they were just trying to win more games than they had lost, and as it happened, the Mets rose above .500 for the first time in their lives on the same night they moved into second. They would spend all but a few days there until September 10.
Then what happened?
Then they climbed into first place, where they stayed en route to winning the World Series.
Is that what’s going to happen now if the Mets stay in second place?
No. It’s too late for that.
Then what’s so great about second place?
Ideally, second place is a stepping stone to first. The first time the Mets finished second was 1984, allowing Mets fans who were used to finishing last or next-to-last to sincerely believe first place would come the following year. When the Mets finished second again in 1985, it was disappointing, but it also meant first place was getting even closer. 1986 and another world championship indeed came next.
You’re telling me that all the Mets have to do is finish second and wait a couple of years and their winning it all is a done deal?
Not exactly. Not every second-place finish is a cause for celebration.
Why the hell not? You’ve been making it sound so appealing.
The Mets finished second in 1987, which felt a lot different from 1984 and 1985 because instead of it representing another upward rung on the ladder, it was a letdown from 1986. Same thing could be said for the Mets’ next two second-place finishes in 1989 and 1990, when being a runner-up paled by comparison to finishing first in 1988.
Second place, then, can be a double-edged sword?
Hey, that’s pretty good! Some years, actually, second place can be a platform unto itself.
What do you mean?
All those years between 1984 and 1990, finishing second could have been interpreted as good or bad but ultimately it precluded the Mets from going to the playoffs. Yet when the Wild Card was inaugurated in the mid-1990s, finishing second didn’t necessarily mean your season was over.
It didn’t?
It didn’t. Although Major League Baseball never billed it this way, if you had the best second-place record in your league, you won a playoff spot.
Did the Mets ever accomplish that?
A couple of times, in 1999 and 2000.
The Mets finished second and it meant more than healthy self-esteem?
You’re catching on. By winning 97 games as a second-place team in 1999 — they needed a special “play-in” game to win the 97th — and 94 games in 2000, the Mets won the Wild Card, proceeded to the postseason and experienced some incredibly memorable success.
“Some incredibly memorable success” sounds like a euphemism for “could’ve done better”.
You’ve got me there. The 1999 Mets won one playoff series, versus Arizona, before succumbing to Atlanta just shy of the World Series. The 2000 Mets won two playoff series and a pennant before going to the World Series and losing to I forget who right now.
But finishing second was to their benefit?
Those years, yes.
So it was their goal?
I wouldn’t say that exactly, but it got them where they needed to be. Not every second-place Mets team could say that, not even in the Wild Card era.
No?
The Mets finished second in 1998, 2007 and 2008, each time very close to making the playoffs.
But they didn’t make it?
No. It was a case of “close, but no cigar.”
What do cigars have to do with anything? Does the team that finishes second have to smoke a cigar? Do I? Those things are disgusting.
The part about “no cigar” is an expression. The point is in 1998 the Mets had the inside track on the Wild Card as the National League East’s second-place team, but they kind of choked down the stretch…
Like choked on a cigar?
…and didn’t make it. In 2007 and 2008, they were in first place in September, but then slipped into second and eventually behind some other second-place team and missed the playoffs altogether.
They didn’t win a Wild Card then and they didn’t win a cigar — did they win anything?
It used to be the team finishing second, even when there was no playoff spot for it, would get a small piece of the postseason bonus pool. When player salaries weren’t so high, it could mean an extra thousand bucks a man, which those guys didn’t sneeze at.
Sneezing because of an allergy to cigar smoke?
Going into the final game of the 1970 season, the Mets and Cubs were tied for second and playing each other. The Mets had Tom Seaver, their best pitcher, in rotation to take the start, but his shoulder was stiff and they went with Jim McAndrew instead and lost. Hence, they had to settle for third-place money, which was measurably less.
No thousand bucks and no cigar then, huh?
In essence. There was also the nearish-miss in 1976 when the Mets were on a serious roll during the last two months and, despite being way out of the race, pulled to within two games of the Pirates in the last week only to lose their last five and settle for third.
Lining player pockets aside, why should I care how far the Mets finish out of the money? I mean they’re not going to the playoffs this year, correct?
Correct. The two best non-first place records in each league win a Wild Card these days but the Mets are mathematically eliminated from that contest. And they were never going to catch the Nationals for first.
So what’s the upside? Is this just about giving the Wilpons an excuse to not search for replacements for Sandy Alderson and Terry Collins? I see they were both confirmed as back next year. Is that because they’ve got the Mets competing for what seems like a fairly insignificant prize?
Alderson and Collins would probably be coming back regardless of where the Mets finish, though I think you’re right. This late move up in the standings makes them look pretty good even if their record isn’t that much better than last year’s.
Then what’s so great about the Mets maybe finishing in second place in 2014?
I suppose it’s a matter of what you make of it. In 1995, the Mets had wallowed in last place most of the season. They were stuck there as late as the final week. But then they got hot, swept their final six and, with a little help from the Marlins beating the Phillies, finished tied for second on Closing Day. Granted, it was with a sub-.500 record of 69-75 in a strike season and they wound up 21 games behind the Braves, but it was still second place, which felt so much better than any other place besides first, probably because they hadn’t finished as high as second since 1990.
Um, what does any of this have to do with anything at the moment?
You look at the Mets maybe finishing in second this year and you realize they’ve gone even longer — six years — since they finished that high. No, it’s not much in the scheme of things, but it’s something. Maybe it’s something to build on, maybe it’s just a better looking version of not going anywhere. But the season’s nearly over and the Mets are still sort of aspiring. It’s nice to go out that way if we have to go out before October.
You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself second place is a big deal.
Maybe. We’ll see if they get there and I’ll let you know if it is.
Well, good luck to our team, then! I hope if it’s still a race this weekend that Jacob deGrom is in rotation to pitch. He’s the Mets’ best pitcher, right? You’d want him in there one more time, especially if a little something is on the line, right?
Yeah, you’d think.
by Jason Fry on 21 September 2014 10:45 pm The Braves are out of the playoffs — and their cause of death was the Mets.
The Pirates beat the Brewers, and the Mets finished the deed with a 10-2 decimation that didn’t seem as close as that score suggests.
Let us therefore now observe a moment of silence … whoa, I seem to have badly misspelled “round of high-fiving while cackling with an unseemly glee.”
Seriously, fuck the Braves. Fuck them for all the horrible things they did to us in previous baseball generations, when they were the car and we were the dog barking and snapping uselessly at the bumper. Fuck them for their entitled fans who took a dynasty for granted and wouldn’t fill the stadium for a playoff game. Fuck them for holding up taxpayers for a new stadium when there was nothing particularly wrong with the old one except they could get a better deal elsewhere. Fuck them for Bobby Cox and Chipper and Andruw Jones and John Rocker and Michael Tucker and Steve Avery and Chief Noc-a-Homa and the cheating with the catcher’s batter’s box. Fuck them for those horrible red tops. Fuck them for everything I can think of and everything you can think of and then let’s ask some more people and come back and say fuck them for all of that too.
I’d add fuck Fredi Gonzalez, but I think he’s pretty fucked as it is. After a gag job like that, the question isn’t who should go but who, if anybody, deserves to stay.
The Braves played horribly yet again today, with no one looking more bored and limp while losing than B.J. Upton. They got eviscerated and embarrassed, and they didn’t seem either devastated or disappointed by it. (Oh yeah — fuck T@m Glav!ne, no matter what uniform you picture him in.) As we all know, the Mets have their problems. But there’s something hollow and broken about the Braves. Good luck fixing it, by which I mean I hope they never do.
On the winning side of the romp, here’s a potential last shake of the shaggy mop for Jacob deGrom. Ideally, deGrom’s season would end with a happy sendoff at Citi Field next weekend and a 10th win to cement his Rookie of the Year credentials. Ideally, but more likely that’s it for deGrom, felled by the dreaded innings limit. Whatever the case, in an odd way it was one of his more impressive outings in a most impressive season — he fanned eight of the first 11 Braves, then dialed his fastball down a few ticks to conserve energy for when he needed it. DeGrom’s thunderbolt arm is marvelous, of course, but he also has the head to go with it.
The Mets are now a skinny half-game behind those Braves. A rational person would say it’s mildly in the Mets’ interests not to finish ahead of them, because of draft picks and slot money. That rational person is undoubtedly correct. But I don’t want to be rational. I want my team to finish ahead of the Braves, and then I want to look back at them and laugh. And then next year I want it to happen again, but with a lot more distance between us.
by Jason Fry on 21 September 2014 12:06 am Your meaningful games in September update:
The Mets are officially better than they were the last two years — they won their 75th game of the year tonight.
For the moment at least they’re better than the Marlins, though tied in the lost column.
Can they finish with a winning record after the All-Star break? They’ll need to go 4-3, which seems possible. Taking the final game from Atlanta, winning one against Washington and then taking two of three from Houston would do it.
Can they finish at .500 or better? They’ll need to go 6-1, which seems unlikely.
But perhaps they can catch the Braves — Atlanta somehow is 76-78, just 1.5 games ahead of us.
Which is a useful bit of perspective. The Mets are mediocre and beset with payroll and legal issues, but nobody expected much of them. The Braves were supposed to be contenders, and just fleeced suburban taxpayers for a new baseball palace to replace the not obviously flawed one they already have. They were tied with the Nats for first on July 20, but have gone 22-34 since then, and tonight they played with all the ardor of a mall cop on the first smoke break of a hot day. The lone exception was Freddie Freeman, who laced a misplaced Josh Edgin slider up the middle, but then that’s what Freddie Freeman does.
On the Metsian side, kudos to Jon Niese, whose performance even I couldn’t criticize. A tip of the cap to Carlos Torres, continuing his run of terrific outings. A shrug and a grin for Lucas Duda, whose first-base play skirted disaster that never quite arrived: The final play saw Duda stumble over a ball he should have fielded cleanly, somehow boot it to Wilmer Flores, then reverse back to the bag in time for the final out. Jenrry Mejia‘s subdued, stompless celebration was probably the product of a managerial talking-to, but Jenrry might also have been wondering how the Mets had survived that one.
And a final tip of the cap to Dilson Herrera, probably done for the year after straining a quad legging out an infield hit, which followed a two-run homer early in the game. It’s a shame to see him go, but he’ll be back — probably by next June and for keeps.
So, tomorrow: A Met win would give them the season series over Atlanta, 10-9. It would get them a game closer to their admittedly less-than-lofty goals. It would inflict more pain on the Braves, who owe us several centuries of suffering to make up for what previous Atlanta incarnations did to us. And it could boost Jacob deGrom‘s chances at an out-of-nowhere Rookie of the Year award.
For a team whose postseason chances have shrunk to zero, that’s a fair amount to play for.
by Greg Prince on 20 September 2014 5:21 am You can now update the Mets’ slash line to reflect their currently accurate settings:
9 YRSWOPSA/15 YRSWOPNT/29 YRSWOWCH
GLOSSARY
YRSWOPSA: Years Without Postseason Appearance
YRSWOPNT: Years Without Pennant
YRSWOWCH: Years Without World Championship
The clock jumped ahead one year once the Pirates beat the Brewers in a game loaded with playoff race implications, which is to say it had nothing to do with the New York Mets, except that it officially removed the slightest scintilla of an iota of a shred of statistical doubt that the Mets would be going home after their 162nd game next Sunday.
There’s no doubt. They’re going home. When they return, it will be another year without any of the above achievements. It’s 2014 for eight more games, but for all practical projectable purposes, it’s 2015…thus the revised arithmetic regarding the respective distances from the hallowed accomplishments of 2006, 2000 and 1986.
There was never any genuine doubt they’d be going home on September 28 beyond perhaps a few minutes here and there in July when games were being won in clusters and an opening within the lenient five-team October matrix beckoned unclaimed. Then the Nationals pulled away in the division and the Mets fell inconveniently behind too many Wild Card competitors and it was over before it was over.
While Lucas Duda was belting the home run that provided Zack Wheeler and three relievers safe harbor from the traditionally treacherous undertow of Turner Field, Ike Davis’s Pirates (with a key pinch-ribby from our erstwhile first baseman of the future) moved a touch closer to grabbing that final playoff spot. Pittsburgh’s record is 83-70. There is nothing magisterial about 83-70. In days of yore and Yogiesque lore, maybe once a decade some unremarkable record would be good enough to rate a postseason invitation. The anointing of a second Wild Card guarantees so-so won-lost marks will be adequate more often. The fifth-best team in the National League will go to the playoffs, get to play a sudden-death game and possibly jump on a glide path to the World Series.
This isn’t about the Pirates at 83-70. It’s about the Mets at 74-80 who couldn’t find a way in 2014 to win two more games each month and be, at 86-68, in command of that second Wild Card spot. Or one game more a month and be, at 80-74, Pittsburgh’s primary challenger. They wouldn’t be on the verge of clinching anything in the latter scenario, but you would have known for sure they’d contended. They haven’t contended in six years.
Seven years, as of 2015.
It’s not unfair to view 2014 as more of the same because, at base, it was. No contending, which is the bare minimum you can ask your team to do for you. No postseason berth, let alone league or world championship. While a finish of two games over .500 is still mathematically possible, the Mets haven’t been fewer than four games under .500 since June 4. That was 95 games ago.
So, yes, it’s been more of the same, yet there is an emerging dissimilarity that potentially separates this latest serially crappy year from its immediate predecessors. Duda’s home run was his 28th; he’s slumped mightily but he’s picking it up a little again, and he’s quietly outshone most N.L. first basemen, Ike included, all season long. Wheeler’s win was his eleventh, which (however little stock you put into that stat) suggests an established starter of at least the second order. Zack’s catcher, Travis d’Arnaud, made a sensational grab on a foul pop on Friday night, a small thing in and of itself but another reminder that Td’A is behind the plate night after night when it looked for a while like he might fall off the face of the roster. Jeurys Familia had a horrible outing Monday night at Citi Field that served to sabotage Jacob deGrom. He had a sensational outing Friday night in Atlanta and made sure Wheeler’s six shutout innings didn’t go for naught.
Progress is in evidence through the prism of these players and several others whose toehold in the terrain of major league life grew firmer this season. It’s interior progress at this point. It doesn’t fully present itself in the standings and it won’t be on TV in the month ahead. That’s when it will feel like more of the same. That’s when you’ll look at the Nationals and the Cardinals and the Dodgers and the Giants and (probably) the Pirates and it will hit you how much better their half of the tournament would be if it encompassed the Mets.
Will the ninth year be the charm? Is the incremental momentum we’ve witnessed capable of extending itself into something more akin to the leaps-and-bounds variety? You can sense the Mets, like a cherished animated Log, are becoming better than bad; how soon can they be good? Will they ever be good enough so the number we’re tracking every September is less tragic and more magic?
This is the tenth season of Faith and Fear in Flushing and the ninth occasion calling for an elimination meditation. For what it’s worth — amazingly little, I believe — this one has come a little later than recently usual on the Metropolitan calendar.
GAME IN WHICH METS WERE ELIMINATED/2005-2014
2005: 157
2006: Never Eliminated! (Not in the regular season, at any rate.)
2007: 162
2008: 162
2009: 144
2010: 151
2011: 149
2012: 147
2013: 144
2014: 154
If the Mets didn’t quite hang in there, at least they hung on — albeit to zero effect on the race — longer than they have in any season since the collapse years. That’s mostly a symptom of the addition of that extra Wild Card plus the dismal September performances of Atlanta and Milwaukee, two teams that seemed comfortably on pace to outstrip Pittsburgh’s current 83-70. Really, everybody but Washington and Los Angeles has disappointed on some level in this year’s version of the National League. We could look at the tableau of mediocrity and mine annoyance that the Mets weren’t positioned to take proper advantage in 2014. Or we could view the very same vista and judge it a promising platform for a little leaping, maybe even a bit of bounding in 2015 if the right moves are made and the youngsters accelerate their learning curves.
We can process the 74-80 Mets both ways, actually. Eight days from now, we turn into Burgess Meredith in The Twilight Zone, wandering a baseball dystopia, favored with time enough at last to ponder all questions Metsian, yet deprived of the vision to see clearly what lies ahead of us.
by Greg Prince on 18 September 2014 2:38 pm When viewed from just a bit outside Metsopotamia, our obsessions must seem odd to the detached observer. I guess you could say that about how any community appears to anybody who’s not wholly immersed in it, but over the past couple of days, we have been uncommonly true to ourselves, our passions and our minutiae.
First, there was Logogate, the discovery that the sainted skyline emblem whose essential elements have remained virtually untouched for 53 years was tinkered with, perhaps nefariously. Only the most focused of Mets fans would immediately notice such an alteration. One of the most focused I’ve ever crossed paths with did. FAFIF reader and commenter Steve D. sent us (and others) an email over the weekend noting that the building on the far right of the skyline had been remodeled, at least on the Mets’ social media accounts. It was no longer the United Nations, but the Citigroup Center.
The switch would be a little curious on its own, but the “Citi” associaton set off alarm bells with Steve by Saturday and several more Mets fans blessed with detail detectors by Monday evening. My talented photographer friend David Whitham took the topic to Twitter as Jacob deGrom was striking out record numbers of Marlins, and by the next morning — as disseminated via Uni Watch and Mets Police, in particular — the observation was a story…or least a sidebar.
Somewhere between the dramatics of deGrom Monday night and the shriveling of Selig late Tuesday afternoon, several reporters who regularly patrol Citi Field covered the issue. The Mets told the accredited media, in so many words, we haven’t a clue how the UN became Citigroup. Which I believe, because if we’re gonna accuse the Mets hierarchy of being clueless, we have to stay consistent.
Several plausible theories have been floated, everything from “this was a typical corporate sellout conducted at the behest of the stadium’s naming-rights holders” (who, it deserves pointing out, are no longer headquartered at the no longer so-named Citigroup Center) to “somebody must have whipped up something for a PowerPoint presentation and it innocently seeped from hard drive to Facebook when a logo was called for.” The main thing was the Mets swore they weren’t modernizing/defiling the skyline that’s been their signature graphic since November of 1961, or before there technically were Mets.
Who cares? We care. We care a lot. It’s who we are, it’s what we do. Not everybody gets that, not necessarily even those who are the temporary custodians of our family crest. Jared Diamond of the Wall Street Journal tweeted this revealing nugget after investigating:
People I talked to today around the Mets were all pretty impressed you guys a) noticed and b) cared so much about the logo.
“That kind of passion,” Diamond concluded, “sure beats the alternative: apathy.”
So few matters we care about as Mets fans reside within our grasp that it felt wrong, whether you warm to the idea of contemporizing the skyline or see any adjustment as an affront against history — I’m in the latter camp — to be shown what appeared to be “the new logo” without any warning, let alone any request for input. Occasional gimmick notwithstanding, the Mets organization sets high prices for admission while preserving a low budget as a hedge against contention. Our only potential impact on those frustrating facts would be to turn away altogether from what the Mets are selling. September’s acres of empty seats would seem to indicate we’re doing a fine job of resisting their wares, but we’re still Mets fans, we still wear Mets stuff and, let’s face it, we’re not going anywhere.
Nor should we. This is our team. It was our team when a friendly society lady was listed as owner; it was our team when the frontman was a country club kind of chap who stood off to the side as he invested in rebuilding a winner; and it’s our team no matter how many Wilpons we have to endure. We don’t have a say about much. If we can sneak one in over something that kicks us right in the aesthetics, well, I’m glad we saw something and we said something.
From the looks of still photographs, amateur video and one or two live shots on television, plenty of Mets fans modeling plenty of apparel featuring the classic skyline logo clustered together at Citi Field Wednesday night and evinced a sense of enthusiasm rarely generated during the ballpark’s six seasons of existence. It had zero to do with the Mets’ latest loss to the Marlins. It had everything to do with something else — somebody else, actually — who qualifies as uniquely ours.
The Shea Bridge was jammed as if it was the on-ramp to the Triborough (RFK, if you’re a stickler) at rush hour. It wasn’t to cheer on Dillon Gee or curse out Marcell Ozuna. It was all about extending a reluctant goodbye laced with a hearty go-get-’em to favorite son Kevin Burkhardt. Burkhardt’s been SNY’s Met field reporter since 2007. If Gary Cohen, Keith Hernandez and Ron Darling are Original to the network in the Hot Rod Kanehl sense, let’s slot Kevin in as Ron Hunt. Hunt came along in the franchise’s second year and showed just how good an up-and-coming Met could be.
Burkhardt took on a frankly useless role and, via a voice that never wavered in its honesty, transformed it into essential. He was a co-star of the greatest show on nightly television; Mets telecasts are engaging, enlightening and entertaining, more so the miracle given that Mets baseball has been anything but. And (unlike Hunt), Kevin kept getting better. The man was already an ace, but not even Tom Seaver came out of the womb throwing first-pitch strikes.
Across eight seasons, Burkhardt learned to work his way seamlessly out of all but the most mandatory of superfluous action-interrupting interviews. He grew out of his dependence on “cool” and “neat” to describe people and places he deemed, well, cool and neat. For a few years, a friend and I mocked his tendency to start every sentence with “Guys…” I noticed he stopped doing that.
I love watching somebody get better at what he or she loves to do. Kevin Burkhardt was a joy to watch in that regard. He was a joy to watch in every regard, in every setting, in every stadium. The joy filtered through the television and it followed him around Citi Field. It’s no wonder that in advance of his final home game, once Darren Meenan of the 7 Line put out the word to gather along the Shea Bridge to celebrate Kevin’s elevation to a higher-profile position at Fox Sports and thank him for his contributions to our culture, Mets fans showed up and showed their appreciation.
Again, the outsider might wonder what all the fuss was about for a field reporter. He called no clinchers. He had to pause for pieings. He hopped in a kayak in San Francisco. He went marketing for meat in San Diego. He kibbitzed with construction workers and rookies’ parents. He wasn’t Jack Buck in St. Louis or Ernie Harwell in Detroit or Bob Murphy at Shea Stadium. Eight seasons is significant, but in the annals of broadcasting, it’s not normally the stuff of institutions.
Ah, but Kevin Burkhardt was ours. In Metsopotamia, we cherish that. We take it gloriously personally. He was one of us, which certainly helped, but his Mets fan roots didn’t conflict with his professionalism (just as they don’t for Gary Cohen and Howie Rose). Mostly he was a mensch, and he devoted his menschiness to giving us an even better broadcast. We appreciate the hell out of that sort of devotion to our cause, especially when it meshes with his kind of excellence at his craft. Of course he’d draw a crowd. Of course he’d find a way to embrace the sentiments while deflecting the praise. Of course he’d offer up a public letter of thanks to Mets fans everywhere. The guy I used to think of as “Guys” is just that kind of guy.
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