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ABOUT US
Faith and Fear in Flushing made its debut on Feb. 16, 2005, the brainchild of two longtime friends and lifelong Met fans.
Greg Prince discovered the Mets when he was 6, during the magical summer of 1969. He is a Long Island-based writer, editor and communications consultant. Contact him here.
Jason Fry is a Brooklyn writer whose first memories include his mom leaping up and down cheering for Rusty Staub. Check out his other writing here.
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by Greg Prince on 29 June 2010 12:27 am I sincerely wish R.A. Dickey had continued his recent Rad ways against the Marlins in festive San Juan instead of throwing his first indisputably Icky start. Of course I do. Still, an infinitesimal bit of me is mildly relieved to discover R.A. Dickey is essentially like the rest of us.
Seriously, I was beginning to have my doubts. The man was not only unbeaten in six decisions prior to Monday night, but he seemed just a little too good to be true, moundwise and otherwise. R.A. Dickey was a walking human interest story everywhere he showed up. His lack of a ligament was interesting. His relationship to his catcher’s mitt was interesting. His comeback from obscurity was interesting. His choice of what he reads and doesn’t read — and the fact that he likes to read — was interesting. R.A. put me in mind of XX, a.k.a. those Dos Equis commercials featuring “the most interesting man in the world”.
His car arrives home before his pitches do.
Batters take two strikes from him and then tip their cap.
His knuckles throw a Dickeyball in tribute.
The final straw, so to speak, came Sunday when I watched Mets Weekly cover the club’s string of admirable “Teammates in the Community” events. One of the stops involved planting a garden in Harlem. Who should be calmly explaining the making of flower beds as if he had a degree in horticulture but Professor R.A. Dickey? I half-expected him to gently touch the dirt and instantly create foliage.
That’s when it hit me who R.A. Dickey really might be: not Phil Niekro or Wilbur Wood or Tim Wakefield but Chance the Gardener from Being There. Simple Chance the Gardener, commonly mistaken as erudite Chauncey Gardener, was the sheltered Peter Sellers character who spoke in nothing but mundane gardening terms, yet his every utterance — “There will be growth in the spring” — came to be taken as the sagest of wisdom. Chance unwittingly rides his obliviousness to Washington’s most powerful salons and, by the end of the movie, he’s considered presidential timber. Chance the Gardener can do no wrong.
Monday night we learned R.A. Dickey is no Chance. But we’ll take our chances with him another day.
As for Ricky Nolasco, who shut down every Met but Jason Bay, I must confess the one thing I always think of when he pitches is this exchange from The Sunshine Boys between cantankerous Willie Clark (Walter Matthau) and clueless Al Lewis (George Burns) upon their first stilted encounter after eleven years of estrangement:
WILLIE: You know Sol Burton died?
AL: Go on. [Pause] Who’s Sol Burton?
WILLIE: You don’t remember Sol Burton?
AL: Oh, yes — the manager from the Belasco.
WILLIE: That was Sol Bernstein.
AL: Not Sol Bernstein. Sol Burton was the manager from the Belasco.
WILLIE: Sol Bernstein was the manager from the Belasco and it wasn’t the Belasco, it was the Morosco.
AL: Sid Weinstein was the manager from the Morosco. Sol Burton was the manager from the Belasco. Sol Bernstein I don’t know who the hell was.
After Monday night, we definitely know who Ricky Nolasco is.
He’s that pitcher from the Mets who threw his glove in the air after he won those big games.
by Greg Prince on 28 June 2010 10:30 am Word is it was 99 in the shade at Citi Field Sunday, yet right here, it feels a bit like ’99 in the Shea: The Mets are hot on the Braves’ heels, Bobby Valentine is basking in the media’s glare and the Mets’ infield has been warming to its task with uncommon aplomb.
Highly uncommon, but wonderfully reminiscent of the way it used to be around first, second, short and third. Very wonderfully. So wonderfully, in fact, I’m going to sprint about a mile ahead of the starter’s pistol on an evaluation I don’t make lightly. Accuse me of jumping the gun. I don’t care. I’m too enraptured by what I’ve been seeing around the diamond lately. So here goes:
Ike Davis, Ruben Tejada, Jose Reyes and David Wright are fielding their positions in a manner comparable to that of John Olerud, Edgardo Alfonzo, Rey Ordoñez and Robin Ventura eleven years ago.
Is that giddy or what? Or is that even in the realm of possibility? Are we witnessing the larval stages of Best Infield Ever, Version 2.0? Or is it just a mirage from the heat?
 Then they were a work of art. Now they are a museum piece. Perhaps you remember the Sports Illustrated cover from that ever more distant steamy summer of 1999, the one that asked instead of flat out declaring the obvious. Yes, it was the Best Infield Ever. A few weeks of watching Oly, Fonzie, Rey O and Robin would convince anyone they were watching maestros at work. I was convinced long before the SI cover appeared. I clearly recall thinking weeks ahead of publication, “You know who should be on the cover together…?” That infield was perhaps my favorite element of what remains my favorite Met season.
Thus, it borders on sacrilege to hear myself now thinking, “THESE guys may someday be as good as THOSE guys…” But I am thinking it. I’m seeing signs. I’m seeing a shortstop who has raised his game from very good to routinely dynamic. I’m seeing a third baseman who has corrected all his bad habits and makes nothing but outstanding plays. I’m seeing a first baseman who was born to play first base. And — this is what’s truly revving my motor — I’m seeing a second baseman who’s smart, agile and fits in perfectly to create this dream infield.
I’m seeing something great developing, I swear I am. I know it’s early. I know this wasn’t the alignment projected even a month ago when some old dude with an onerous contract was dutifully gobbling up every ball hit six inches on either side of him. I know Ruben Tejada is a 20-year-old converted shortstop who’s just getting his feet wet. I know Ike Davis, natural to his position as he is, is also technically a neophyte. But I’m riding the edge of the wave here. I’m seeing this group turn double play after double play, scoop up troublesome ball after troublesome ball, defend like no Met infield has defended since the infield of sepia-toned 1999 memory sealed shut the border between the grass cutout and the outfield.
 C'mon, get happy with Ruben and the Mets. Even better, they’re all hitting. Wright and Reyes have track records on offense. Davis came advertised as heavy and so far there’s truth in advertising. Tejada was the unknown quantity when Luis Castillo entered the Disabled List, but he’s on a ten-game hitting streak and most of his hits during it seem to have been crucial. Ruben’s a cool customer, an ideal complement to his new keystone partner. Jose runs hot at all times. Ike’s shockingly professional, the closest thing I’ve ever seen to the quote I read about Tom Seaver when he was coming up through Jacksonville: a 21-year-old arm attached to a 35-year-old head (the diametric opposite of what the Mets were usually sending to the mound circa 1966). Ike is still learning how to hit everything he sees — it’s a thrilling process to watch — yet he seems to have quietly mastered the art of being The Man on his team already. Check out his dugout interaction with everybody else, including the vets. That’s no timid rookie. David, who never looked comfortable answering those “when are you going to be named captain?” questions, may be more relaxed than ever in response. He now outright owns the Citi Field career home run record and drives a Lincoln (which is what Met home run hitters drive, apparently…hey, it’s better than watching another Ford Edge commercial).
And of course, they’re all ours in a way the 1999 aggregate never could have been. They’re all ours from the beginning. Each has never been anything but a Met. I grant you I didn’t look at Robin Ventura (or Keith Hernandez or Doug Flynn in their Gold Glove heydays) and dismiss him for the crime of once having come from somewhere else. But there’s something exhilarating about an infield consisting of four players who were signed as Mets, developed as Mets, brought up as Mets and are thriving as Mets.
It’s also quite rare. How rare? Let’s put it this way: If you want to scale back my enthusiastic prognostications for this group’s potential greatness and tell me they should first prove they’re the best homegrown Met infield ever, I’d have to tell you they already are.
No kidding.
Here’s the thing about homegrown Met infields: There haven’t been any, not in the strictest sense, certainly not for the long term. Perhaps you heard a note or two from Elias on the subject when Tejada joined the cast at the beginning of this month. First it was reported this was the first all-homegrown Met infield since 1996 — Butch Huskey at first, Fonzie at second, Rey O at short, Tim Bogar at third. Then it was amended in deference to Ordoñez playing 13 games as a St. Paul Saint in 1993, as if an independent minor league stint might render the designation “homegrown” inoperative. I don’t agree, but if we play along with that argument, then the previous homegrown Met infield would have been from 1991 — Chris Donnels at first, Keith Miller at second, Jeff Gardner at short, Gregg Jefferies at third. Their last appearance was in support of David Cone’s National League record-tying 19-strikeout performance on the final day of the season (talk about an easy day at the infield office).
Whether it was 1996 or 1991, the point was it hadn’t happened in a mighty long time. Had it ever happened in any tangible way before then? Spurred by a discussion with a friend who wondered just how rare a homegrown Met infield is, I plunged into Baseball Reference and checked.
It is rare to the point of nearly nonexistent. The Mets have never maintained a homegrown infield for any length of time. Through Sunday, here is a comprehensive list of the homegrown Met infields with the most games started together, using 14 games as our not-so-arbitrary baseline:
1) Ed Kranepool, 1B; Ken Boswell, 2B; Bud Harreslon, SS; Tim Foli, 3B — 15 games started.
2) Ike Davis, 1B; Ruben Tejada, 2B; Jose Reyes, SS; David Wright, 3B — 14 games started.
That’s how rare it is for the Mets to deploy four homegrown infielders in the same starting lineup. It’s so rare, we’re seeing an infield that didn’t exist as such on June 1 on the verge of setting the standard before July 1. Even allowing for Jerry Manuel likely giving Alex Cora a sentimental start in Puerto Rico, Davis, Tejada, Reyes and Wright are on track to break the Most Starts By a Homegrown Met Infield record by Wednesday.
Geez, that was fast! But it’s not like there’s a Garvey, Lopes, Russell, Cey lurking in the Met annals.
Mind you, we’re using the standard definition of homegrown: signed by, developed by and brought up by one team, in this case the Mets. That disqualifies any of the many infields that included Wayne Garrett at third base. While we fondly remember Red as our underappreciated hot cornerman from his rookie season in 1969 through his unfortunate trade to the Expos in 1976 (for the overvalued Pepe Mangual), Garrett was neither signed by nor developed by the New York Mets. He was a Rule 5 draftee from the Braves organization in December 1968. That means he was not homegrown.
But for the hell of it, let’s include Wayne Garrett in our discussion since he debuted in the major leagues as a Met. Wayne played in 24 different infield combinations (lots of platooning, lots of injuries) that could be considered homegrown if we expand our definition to players who played their first MLB games as Mets. The most common of them was Kranepool at first, Boswell at second, Harrelson at short, Garrett at third. That was the starting infield in 50 games from ’69 to ’74. Kranepool, Boswell, Teddy Martinez and Garrett, meanwhile, started in 23 different games.
No other homegrown or quasi-homegrown combination is in the running.
Nothing with Ordoñez, Northern League background or not.
Nothing with Kazuo Matsui, either, who can’t really be thought of as homegrown given his All-Star shortstop status in Japan, but technically he never played with another MLB organization before the Mets. Kaz was part of five quasi-homegrown infields in 2004 and 2005, the most unlikely of which featured Craig Brazell at first, Reyes at second, Matsui at short and Wright at third.
Nothing with Kranepool even, despite his being around forever and being part of the first purebred Met homegrown infield on the night of September 13, 1967 when Wes Westrum’s alignment of choice in Atlanta was Krane at first, Bobby Heise at second, Buddy at short and Joe Moock at third. No double plays were turned, but Moock did double home the tying run to help Seaver secure a 2-1 win.
That first truly homegrown combo lasted three games. In the ensuing days, Boswell would replace Moock at third for three games and then Moock would come back for the final three starts of the year, with Boswell at second and Heise at short (Salty Parker: quite the interim innovator). For eleven games in 1968 and ’69, it would be Kranepool, Boswell, Harrelson and Kevin Collins before Kevin went to Montreal in the Donn Clendenon deal.
Teddy Martinez played third with Ed, Ken and Bud in 1971. Ted was also at second while Foli anchored third the same year. There was a single lineup card made out in September 1974 that listed John Milner at first, Rich Puig at second, Martinez at short and Boswell at third. Fourteen years later, there’d be a two-game cameo by Dave Magadan, Wally Backman, Kevin Elster and Jefferies. Huskey, Alfonzo, Ordoñez and Bogar got five starts from first to third in September 1996, though in one other game Bogar would play second while Alfonzo would start at third.
But that was it before Ike, Ruben, Jose and David. It’s taken 49 seasons to prospectively forge an infield of tenure consisting of nothing but homegrown, quasi-homegrown or even proto-homegrown players. By proto-homegrown, we mean four players who made their debuts as Mets but came along too early in the franchise’s life to have been developed in the team’s minor leagues. These are the infields who beat the 1967 bunch to the punch.
The first proto-homegrown Met infield trotted out to its positions on September 25, 1963, (tail ends of seasons were when many of these types of combos were given a shot, given that minor leaguers had been recalled and nothing was on the line…hence explaining names like Joe Moock, Rich Puig and Jeff Gardner). Casey Stengel started Dick Smith at first, Hot Rod Kanehl at second, Al Moran at short and Jim Hickman at third. Alas, the Mets lost 1-0 to Sandy Koufax and the Dodgers in L.A. that September 25, but don’t blame the proto-homegrown Met infield — Roger Craig threw away a pickoff attempt that was supposed to nail future Met Tommy Davis at first. On April 19, 1964, Al Jackson pitched the Mets’ first-ever shutout at Shea Stadium backed by the second proto-homegrown Met infield: Smith, Ron Hunt at second, Moran and Kanehl at third. They’d get one more start before being broken up for good.
In 1964, Charley Smith would be back in the lineup and Roy McMillan would be acquired from Milwaukee. In later years, there would be an Ed Charles, a Felix Millan, a Frank Taveras, a Howard Johnson, a Carlos Baerga, a Joe McEwing, clear up to the era of Carlos Delgado. Veteran infielders from other clubs, occasionally for better, often for worse, would preclude homegrown infields from blossoming. As long as the Mets were winning, it wasn’t a priority that their infielders or any of their players had blue and orange birth certificates
But who doesn’t love the notion of some baby Met coming of age right before our very eyes? Hunt may have been the first star Mets fans could call their own, but he, like his proto-homegrown compatriots, had been originally signed by another team (in his case, the Braves). Still, he came close to fulfilling Casey’s Youth of America pledge when he played second alongside genuinely homegrown Kranepool, Harrelson and Collins four times in 1965 (after Stengel stepped down). There would be others in the Hunt/Garrett category who helped comprise quasi-homegrown infields down the road:
Amos Otis (originally Red Sox property, he played third on an infield that included Cleon Jones at first); Bobby Pfeil; Gary Rajsich; Jason Hartdke; Shawn Gilbert; Marco Scutaro; Anderson Hernandez; and Argenis Reyes. They were mixed and matched alongside the likes of genuine homegrown infielders like Hubie Brooks, Ty Wigginton and a fellow I vaguely recall by the name of Nick Evans. All such combinations were on display for no more than a handful of games.
I enjoy wading into trivial waters, but the substantive takeaway from all of this is Ike Davis, Ruben Tejada, Jose Reyes and David Wright are doing something unprecedented in Mets history. They are, knock wood, about to commence on a fantastic journey. Two of them are already great players. Two of them have a chance to be, at the very least, good players. Together, the four of them are capable of maturing as a unit and creating a new infield standard. Their combined defensive efforts may never result in anything quite as breathtaking as the legacy John Olerud, Edgardo Alfonzo, Rey Ordoñez and Robin Ventura left behind, but based on the admittedly small sample size to date, I can see envision this infield enduring as no Met infield of any pedigree ever has.
Rationally, it’s too soon to evoke comparisons to the Best Infield Ever. I understand that. I also understand that if by some front office machination, second base were to become manned by, say, Brandon Phillips, it wouldn’t necessarily be a bad move. But this infield with which we’ve suddenly been gifted is exciting, y’know? These guys are here now and these guys are good now. With none of them older than 27, they’re all upside at this point. How often do we get to see something like this or envision it continuing and projecting it to evolve? The homegrown part imbues it with more than a little extra oomph, the kind these four kids are giving it between first and third every game they play.
Too soon? I say it’s never too soon to dare to dream.
by Jason Fry on 27 June 2010 11:54 pm If anyone hasn’t noticed, summer is here.
Oh boy, is it ever here.
Emily and I headed for Citi Field with our friends Erin and Marie on the first full day of our stay-home-and-work-vacation sans child (not to worry, he’s with grandparents having a fine time), and the blast furnace that was early-morning Brooklyn let us know what we were in for. So: Lather up the sunscreen, leave those extra layers at home, make a plan to hydrate and head for the game.
Though we were actually headed to the foot of Wall Street to catch the Delta Baseball Water Taxi. Which, for the uninitiated, is awesome: It’s free, cool on the top deck (and air-conditioned below), takes about as long as the subway, and you get a great tour of the New York waterways, including things seen fairly rarely, such as the Hell Gate Bridge and a unique view of La Guardia. Plus there’s an odd effect as you approach Citi Field: The tangle of roadways and parking lots between the park and Flushing Bay is foreshortened out of apparent existence, making it look like the park is right on the water — a slice of San Francisco. Flushing Bay isn’t the most gorgeous body of water I’ve ever seen, but on final approach I had a brief fantasy of knocking down all that stuff and making the illusion a reality. (Too bad there’s no water taxi back. And that they have one for the Yankees.)
I passed a companionable time on board with Saltzy, a Baseball Fever fixture, talking everything from David Wright striking out with tying runs on third (we were both against it) and what we’d be willing to trade for Cliff Lee to how excited we could be and how the Mets and/or HOK could have messed up so many sightlines. Then it was time to get our travel mugs and head for the Pepsi Porch, which felt about 93 million miles closer to the sun than I knew it actually was. It wasn’t a dry heat, either — should you be insane and want to achieve the same effect, you could lie out in the yard on a summer day covered with a comforter or a dog you’d soaked in hot water, except either comforter or dog would have to be made out of some transparent material that allowed the sun to beat down on any exposed flesh it could find. Lovely!
But what the heck. It was going to be hot no matter what you did, so why not be at the ballpark? We hydrated (I hydrated mostly with beer until Emily pointed out that I was becoming delirious and enforced a time-out), dumped ice on our heads, stalked the faintest evidence of breezes like bloodhounds, chatted with very nice Twins fans (I think there’s some kind of niceness test for getting to buy a TC hat) and cheered for what was going on down there on the field. Which for a while seemed like a continuation of yesterday, with Jeff Francoeur making dopey mistakes on the bases and Mets hitters unable to lay a finger on a Twins pitcher. (Which I’d witnessed at a bar Saturday via peeks at Gameday when I wasn’t staring at U.S.A.-Ghana waiting for something to happen, not counting 50,000 people making the most irritating noise possible. Sorry, soccer — I tried. If there’s a gene for appreciating you, I don’t have it.)
But then, things started to change. First was Francoeur’s laser beam down the left-field line and into the seats. Next was Wright’s arcing drive a bit to the right. And then Ike Davis … oh my goodness.
Both Francoeur and Wright’s drives were clearly gone off the bat, even from my still-unfamiliar vantage point in the Pepsi Porch. But the ball Davis hit was one of those shots that gets everybody on their feet before it clears the second baseman’s head. There was this crack, and then the ball rising like it had been hit by someone about 20 feet tall. It was Mike Piazza taking aim at a VIP tent, Mo Vaughn seeing how high up the Budweiser sign he could put one. Davis, Francoeur said later, has “got stupid pop. I told David mine went farther, David goes, ‘Mine went out faster,’ and then we both watched Ike hit and we said, ‘Well, we’ll shut up now.’ ”
After that it was a nice slow chug to victory, with Team Brooklyn making a strategic middle-innings retreat to the Promenade Club, then a seventh-inning return to the Pepsi Porch. By now the stadium was half-empty as fans crept up into the shade, wandered off in delirium or, perhaps, disappeared when their body fluids skipped boiling and sublimated into vapor. I’ll confess that in the top of the ninth inning I had no particular desire to see Jesus Feliciano do anything but pop up the first pitch, because enough. Three Bobby Parnell outs later we were racing (OK, walking slowly and sweatily) to a blissfully chilly, nearly empty car on the 7. The Mets, meanwhile, were headed for Puerto Rico and an encounter with the apparently still Bobby Valentineless Marlins. It’ll be hot down there. Let’s hope the Mets stay the same way.
by Greg Prince on 26 June 2010 10:16 pm In Johan Santana’s last four starts, he has thrown 25.2 innings and allowed 17 earned runs. That’s an ERA of 5.96. So Is Johan Santana not pitching like himself, or is this the way Johan Santana pitches now?
When Johan is smacked around early and digs his team a hole as was the case Saturday afternoon, what’s the root cause? After effects of elbow surgery? Well-publicized off-field issues we don’t want to think about but he has to? The distraction of facing his old teammates? A spirit frayed from pitching well so often with no run support (which, for what it’s worth, he didn’t get today either)? Or is it just one of those stretches when great pitchers subtly but decidedly shift into the phase of their careers mortality forces them to struggle through?
I don’t know. When it comes to Johan Santana, I tend to watch through the prism of September 28, 2008, the day when No. 57 carried the Mets on shoulders as broad as the Whitestone Bridge to the doorstep of the promised land. When he completed that instantly legendary three-hit, short-rest shutout on one good knee, I probably made some internal deal that would forgive his inevitable decline across the five years yet to come on the six-year, $137.5 million deal he signed when the Mets adopted him from that nice family in Minnesota that couldn’t afford to keep him.
Swell way for the Twins to pay us back.
Though if was just revenge/familiarity coming home to roost, you’d chalk it up to a silly string of coincidence — Pedro couldn’t beat the Red Sox in 2006, just as fellow Cy Youngsmen T#m Gl@v!ne, Randy Jones and Warren Spahn couldn’t rack up a W vs. their old teams in their first starts against them as Mets, according to the club’s helpful media relations department. It would be as good an explanation as any…of course, explanations are always at hand when Johan doesn’t quite have it.
• The Twins (6 IP, 5 ER) are a fine and patient offensive unit.
• So are the Yankees from last weekend’s Santana loss (6 IP, 4 ER), and that was mostly a matter of one inning culminating in Teixeira’s grand slam, which was reminiscent of that one bad inning against the Nationals in April (and that other grand slam, to Josh Willingham).
• The Indians from the week before (7 IP, 4 ER) aren’t any great shakes but they were known to be trouble for Johan in his American League Central days.
• The Padres on June 10 (6.2 IP, 4 ER)? Not a juggernaut, but a first-place team. And Johan was going on eight days rest.
Was he overly amped for the Twins? On the radio, Howie reported his velocity was fine, but his location wasn’t Johanesque. Do the repercussions from the Lee County Sheriff’s office have something to do with his pitching? That’s for Johan to know. The elbow? He himself said the post-surgery recovery is ongoing.
There are many reasons to decide Johan Santana is now a mere mortal, yet he’s also pitched some genuine gems in 2010. In his five starts spanning May 13 to June 2, he was almost spotless: 36.2 innings, 3 earned runs. That’s an ERA of 0.74. That’s the Johan we not just know and love, but had grown to rely on. When we he threw his final pitch on June 2 in San Diego, we felt, per those loathsome New York Life drop-ins, safe and secure anticipating his next start — the Mets might not score for him, but he would keep us in it on his own if he had to…just like he did that soggy Saturday at the end of 2008.
We’re now left to wonder what we’ve got on the one fifth day we thought was above reproach. When he starts again, Johan Santana will not have harvested a gem in nearly a month. On track record, you give Johan every benefit of the doubt, but as Met lefties go, he hasn’t been any more reliable of late than Jon Niese or Hisanori Takahashi. I sorely wish that spoke volumes on behalf of Niese and Takahashi and reflected not at all on any change in the season or career trajectory of Johan Santana.
It’s just four starts. And that aforementioned Nationals start (5 IP, 5 ER) . And the Saturday he felt his way through the Giants’ not-so-imposing batting order (7.2 IP, 4 ER). And that Sunday night disaster against the Phillies (3.2 IP, 10 ER). There have been sixteen Santana starts in all in 2010. Nine of them have approached vintage 2008-2009 Johan (0.73 ERA in 62 innings). Seven of them have been the stuff of pitching mortals (7.71 ERA in 42 innings).
Technically, we’re all mortals. I was just hoping Johan transcended such technicalities.
by Jason Fry on 25 June 2010 11:48 pm Well, we will do that, but not quite yet. (I think I just interrupted an interruption.) First, let’s go back to last night.
Bases loaded, one out in the sixth, Tigers up 6-5, David Wright at the plate, and I was sure the Mets were about to at least tie the game and likely take the lead. I wasn’t hopeful — I was certain. Yes, the specter of Daniel Murphy on third against the Cubs popped into my head, but I paid it no mind. Here came the tying run. We’d see this at-bat on the season-highlights DVD or watch it on Holographic TiVo years from now and recall that yes, that was one of those games that told you which way the universe was aligning.
Wright struck out. 6-5 was as close as the Mets got. First place — not counting a technical stretch of occupying it for a few hours — would have to wait.
And yet I wasn’t particularly bothered. I still felt like the universe was aligned, that good things would happen, that there would be magic in the summer nights to come. I just revised my feeling slightly to note that this magic couldn’t be flipped on and off like a light switch. There’d be plenty of it, but it needed to be rationed out a bit. And that was OK.
A night later, I can’t decide whether that’s the hard-won wisdom of a patient baseball fan, or shimmering heat mistaken for a desert lake by a desperate man.
But tonight lived up to my rather blithe self-assurances in the face of a frustrating loss. The Mets scuffled a bit early, then rose up against Kevin Slowey and pulled away to a comfortable distance without undue fuss, other than the last 90 feet of the journey home being repeatedly unorthodox: There was Wright scampering home after Denard Span’s throw to Joe Mauer bounced away, Ike Davis stutter-stepping through a red-light/green-light from Chip Hale and Ruben Tejada’s fingertips beating Mauer’s mitt to the side by an entire half-second at least. But it all worked out. Even the negatives called attention to positives: Nick Punto’s fifth-inning leadoff double clanked off the thumb of Jason Bay’s glove, prompting Emily and me to remark that for all his defense was maligned over the winter, that was the first misplay we could remember from Bay.
And then, with the Twins defeated, it was time to keep tabs on the Tigers doing nothing against Billy Wagner, and to see if Edwin Jackson could win his way past his own fatigue and the Tampa Bay Rays to gain entry to the formerly exclusive No-Hitters Club. Jackson walked eight. (!!!!) He threw 149 pitches. (!!!!!!!) The Diamondbacks’ bullpen was active after the sixth inning. He made it anyway. (And lest someone poring through the Faith and Fear archives a few years from now assume it was a fluke, Jackson was still alternating 96 MPH heat with 82 MPH change-ups in the ninth.)
It’s the fourth no-hitter of the still-young season, with Jackson joining the company of Dallas Braden, Ubaldo Jimenez and Roy Halladay, with Armando Galaragga offering a magnanimous, melancholy nod from just offstage. The Arizona Diamondbacks, a franchise that wouldn’t be old enough to get a learner’s permit if it were a person (and definitely shouldn’t be allowed to dress itself), have two no-hitters.
The Mets … sigh.
Jimenez’s no-hitter was the Rockies’ first, but they hadn’t been around long enough for the lack to become a defining characteristic. Ditto for the Rays, only in their 13th year as a franchise, and generous in allowing their fans to witness no-hitters by the opposition. That leaves the Padres — older than me by a month — and us. And the shared emptiness that has become our obsession.
I have always acted as if our no-hitter is coming soon. Each night I call “24 to go” if the Mets’ pitcher gets out of the first without a hit, then count down by threes after that. I’ve taught Joshua to do that too; we both mutter “another night…” after the first hit, with Emily sometimes joining us and always registering the fact that tonight is exactly like all other nights. I know to the word what the Faith and Fear post commemorating the apparently impossible will say. You’ll love it. I can’t wait to write it.
Besides, it’s not like I’ve never watched the apparently impossible come to pass. For years my fairly dedicated fandom came with an asterisk: I’d never seen a triple play, a curiosity I’d share with anyone who showed mild interest and plenty of people who didn’t. Then all of a sudden I was minding my own business in the Shea mezzanine on Aug. 5, 1998 and the Mets turned one against the Giants. SCREECH, end of that story. Now, I regard triple plays the way most people do — they’re the four-leaf clovers of baseball. I missed Angel Pagan turning his against the Nationals back in May, shook my head sadly when the Padres tripled up the Mets earlier this month during Jon Niese’s coming-out party. In both cases, I got on with it. Heck, I’ve even seen an unassisted triple play, something I never dreamed I’d get to witness. Cycles? Seen more than my share.
But a no-hitter? By a New York Met? It’s eluded Tom Seaver and Jerry Koosman and Jon Matlack and Nolan Ryan and Dwight Gooden and Ron Darling and Sid Fernandez and David Cone and Frank Viola and Bret Saberhagen and Rick Reed and Al Leiter and Mike Hampton and T@m Gl@v!ne and Pedro Martinez and Johan Santana and Mike Pelfrey, to throw out just some of the names offered incredulously by people who haven’t heard of the Mets’ epic run of imperfection. There’s no requirement that the man who breaks the streak has to be a top-flight pitcher such as Santana or Pelfrey, of course — it could be R.A. Dickey or Niese (he came close, as have others) or Dillon Gee or a just-acquired Jake Westbrook or Oliver Perez doing it while walking even more guys than Edwin Jackson.
Because you never know.
But as a Mets fan, in this respect you can guess pretty reliably.
by Greg Prince on 25 June 2010 11:30 am  "Say, I thought you people had a roof over your stadium." Oh joy, another American League opponent to whom we’ve given zero collective thought until now and to whom we’ll give just as much come Monday. Which one is it this time? The North Stars? Whatever. The important thing is Ross Chapman headed to Minnesota to get a look at them recently and give their fans a glance at the Faith and Fear t-shirt, which is the perfect garment for interleague, intraleague or any league play. You’ll find that out yourself when you order yours today…you betcha!
by Greg Prince on 25 June 2010 3:35 am From approximately 4:22 PM until 10:31 PM Eastern Daylight Time, I rooted for a first-place team, albeit one whose claim was staked temporarily and by a mere two percentage points. Still, what a wonderful six hours and nine minutes it was…particularly the part before 7:10.
Then the lights went out. The lights went out on the first-place Mets when those strangers from Detroit elbowed them back into second, and then the lights went out on our street about an hour and fifteen minutes later for two hours and fifteen minutes more. As I sat in the hot and the dark, I forgot what place what the Mets had been in from late afternoon to late evening. I was just trying to grope around our place.
The lights returned around 2:15 AM. The power is back, though the magic may have to wait. It would definitely be a more powerful statement to hail the FIRST PLACE METS at the official end of a baseball business day, but we can’t do that. The frustrating loss to the Tigers means a half-game separates us the wrong way from Atlanta once again. A half-game out on June 25, however, isn’t the worst problem one can have as a Mets fan.
It surely wasn’t a problem I was anticipating when this season began. The Mets have a lot of problems I wasn’t anticipating, actually.
I didn’t know theoretically squeezing Angel Pagan out of center field upon Carlos Beltran’s presumed eventual return would present a problem. For that matter, I wouldn’t have guessed not having Angel for a day or two would seem like a problem. Jesus Feliciano’s nice night notwithstanding, it’s not the same team without Angel. I didn’t think I’d ever mean that in a complimentary fashion, but live and learn. And what ever will we do when our latent phenom Pagan has to go stand in a corner when Carlos comes back? Well, I’ll believe it when I see Carlos Beltran come back. And given that we’re Paganless for just one or two days, I’ll wait until I know he’s 100% healthy to consider four outfielders for three slots is a long-term problem. Angel’s current malady is supposed to be a passing thing, but how many “day or two” situations did we witness in 2009 that became permanent disappearances? It’s a new year, but old problems have a habit of lurking in the recesses of one’s closet of Met anxieties.
I didn’t know that R.A. Dickey not getting to complete his shutouts, in deference to keeping the closer sharp, would be a problem. Who knew R.A. Dickey was going to be cruising Goose Egg Highway let alone a big league mound? If R.A. isn’t for some reason able to keep up his blistering pace, he’ll be the second-best Met pitcher of 2010 behind the 6-0 R.A. Dickey we all know and love. R.A. Dickey, where have you been all our lives? You don’t have to answer that, it doesn’t matter. You’re here now. I also notice you’re hanging around with our other best pitcher of 2010, Mike Pelfrey. I find that somewhat amusing in that the camera used to find Pelf in the constant company of John Maine the way it now finds R.A. and M.P. making like BFFs. When Jerry Manuel indelicately suggested Maine could expect a role not starting, not relieving, but pitching on “the off days,” it occurred to me that as much as Maine doesn’t deserve a ton of slack, his buddy Pelfrey might find the jibe a little harsh. Nobody likes to see his best friend cut down by the boss, and why screw with Pelfrey’s delicate psyche? But credit Pelf for finding, apparently, a new best friend — one who’s gonna get a start every fifth day, or until he grows an ulnar nerve. (And if Manuel had grown some nerve, he would have eschewed Frankie’s tuneup inning and let R.A. go the distance.)
I didn’t know David Wright’s status in the All-Star voting would be a problem. They gave us Wright Fingers on Wednesday night. Happy to use mine for its intended purpose, but how about a pair of Reyes Running Shoes so we could race to our ballots and click on the right circle at short? I don’t know which Met or Mets will make the National League team and how many of them will fall between the cracks, but it’s always a little strange when the club begins to promote one player excessively and all the others no more than nominally. I realize that’s a function of Wright being the only Met within conceivable striking distance of winning election, but this never works. They tried to promote Rey Ordoñez in 1999 (he was momentarily batting .300 and was forever fielding spectacularly) and it didn’t work. They tried to promote Paul Lo Duca in 2007 (mostly because he remained in contention toward the end) and it didn’t work. I’m all for David, but the problem here is we’re not Milwaukee. We don’t institutionally vote like our civic lives depend on it. It’s almost reassuring that we’re New York and we don’t really care. But it would be more reassuring if the unquestionable sparkplug of the hottest team in the league, Jose Reyes of the New York Mets, got as much love from his employers as his left-side teammate.
I didn’t know not having Jerry Seinfeld in the booth Thursday would be a problem. OK, not a real problem, but I missed having him around. I missed his live performance Wednesday but caught the replay of Jerry’s jubilee on SNY and he was brilliant. Yes! to subtly putting down SNY’s penchant for shows that feature idiots yelling at each other. Yes! to telling the affable Kevin Burkhardt to stop trying to be funny. Yes! to not knowing who’s on the Tigers because why the hell should any of us? The Mets made for his best material in years. These Mets are our best material in years, too. And when we’ve got material like that, one frustrating loss notwithstanding, we don’t have too many problems.
by Greg Prince on 24 June 2010 4:57 pm With the afternoon action on the South Side of Chicago complete, your baseball team is first among its peers.
 One small step for Mets... Let’s see if we can’t, as with our clothes to our skin, make this stick.
by Jason Fry on 23 June 2010 11:27 pm I got a story I really wanna tell
About R.A. Dickey at the O-K Corral
Now R.A. Dickey didn’t stand no mess
He wore a gun on his hip and a rose on his chest
R.A. Dickey’s a gunslinger (yeah, uh-huh, he must be)
R.A. Dickey’s a gunslinger (yeah, uh-huh, sho nuff)
Apologies to Bo Diddley, but too late: I repurposed that for our intrepid knuckleballer weeks ago, and have since expanded it to include any Met or related figure who does something worthwhile, to the (waning) amusement of my son and the (waxing) annoyance of my wife. David Wright is a GUNSLINGER. Jose Reyes is a GUNSLINGER. Ike Davis is a GUNSLINGER. Gary Cohen is a GUNSLINGER. Mr. Met is a GUNSLINGER. It’s fun the first time you do it, stupid the next nine or 10 times, and then fun again after that, so straight on to infinity.
These are the kind of goofball things you do when you’re in one of those marvelous I’m happy/My team is playing well virtuous circles, bits of doggerel you use to punctuate good moments and stick with because they seem to be working and who knows, maybe your doing them is adding to the luck. (Jason Fry is a GUNSLINGER! Hey, why not?) After that brief hiccup against the vile Yankees, it’s been back to business against the Tigers, who have looked mildly befuddled, and perhaps not just because they’re busy wondering what on earth they have to do with the New York Mets. There was poor Jay Sborz last night, brought into a second-and-third-with-nobody-out situation that could make anyone short of breath, only it was his major-league debut and it was a disaster. There was Phil Coke tonight, looking very 70s porn star with his orange facial hair, baffling Ike Davis for two strikes but then throwing one that got too much plate, allowing Ike to extend his long arms and whip it into right-center for breathing room. There were the rest of the Tigers watching Jose Reyes cause trouble all over the bases. Gunslingers everywhere!
And there was Dickey, spotless except for whatever he did to be denied a shot at the complete game. (A knuckleballer can’t throw more than 97 pitches with a five-run lead? Really, Jerry?) Dickey has climbed the optimal curve for journeyman acquisitions: He battled hard enough to get us to root for him, became a nice surprise, became a nicer surprise and got us intrigued, and now has us expecting good things from him as a matter of course. (Other Met hurlers to go 6-0 in their first seven starts? That would be nobody.) Now, it’s up to us to remember that not even the optimal journeyman curve proceeds in an unbroken arc to Cooperstown. Dickey will lose a game one of these days. (No! Really!) He’ll serve up knuckleballs that don’t knuckle, and they’ll get hit ungodly distances, and we’ll have to remember that baseball’s like that for everybody sometimes — and even more so for knuckleballers, who can only dispatch their pitches plateward and hope they wind up somewhere safe, like paratroopers leaping out into the night.
Those of us watching on TV instead of from the seats mostly missed whatever the Mets were doing to sort of but not really make fun of Lady Gaga, a promotion I’ll choose to call drily witty instead of kind of half-assed since we’re 11 games over .500. Instead we got Jerry Seinfeld spending the middle innings in the SNY booth with Gary and Keith. Seinfeld was genial and amusing, particularly while skewering the various commercials we’re all sick of, and gently but firmly steered the conversation away from his namesake show (save for Keith’s famous cameo) and back to the Mets whenever possible. His best line, in response to a jab from Keith for coming to about 30 games a year: “How often are you here?” He reminisced about Tommie Agee as the Mets’ Willie Mays (though points to Keith for risking sacrilege by observing that Agee must have had a bad read on his famous snow-cone catch), about Gil Hodges’s tip-toe walk from the dugout to the mound, about Endy Chavez’s catch, about how much he likes the 2010 team, and he got Keith and Gary to reveal their favorite Mets and favorite Mets moments. (Gary’s were Buddy Harrelson and Strawberry hitting the Busch Stadium clock in 1985.)
I’m always startled when celebrities turn out to be Mets fans. I assume they’re Yankee fans, which is probably a combination of seeing the entire Fox fall lineup scrunched into field level at Yankee Stadium every damn October in the late 1990s and some form of subconscious class envy. I don’t pay much attention to these things (because who gives a shit), but watching the Mets every night has taught me that there’s Seinfeld, and Chris Rock, and Matthew Broderick, and back in the day there was Glenn Close and Richard Nixon, which I found baffling not for political reasons but because he was from California and 49 when the Mets came into existence, and then there was Pearl Bailey on the old highlight tapes, who I wouldn’t know was a celebrity except I knew she was a Mets fan.
I’m pretty much an anti-magnet when it comes to New York celebrity sightings, but the two that stick in mind do so because they were celebrity Mets fans. Not long after the 2000 World Series, I was walking on 18th Street and passed by a dour-looking Tim Robbins, striding along with his head down. I resisted the urge to thank him for being a Mets fan, which I like to think would have at least been novel as such street encounters go. Then there was the day, when Joshua was one or two, when a man walking towards us down around the West Village tugged slightly at the bill of his cap and gave us a small smile. I realized after a puzzled moment that it was Jon Stewart, and figured the cap tug and smile was his way of acknowledging fans and short-circuiting potential conversations so he could get on with his life. That struck me as clever but also slightly calculating: After all, he’d done it before I’d noticed who he was.
Then I realized that wasn’t it at all, and felt like an asshole. Stewart was wearing a Mets cap. I was wearing a Mets cap. Joshua was wearing a (rather small) Mets cap. He’d saluted us as comrades in an underdog endeavor. Ever since that encounter, the Daily Show host can do no wrong in my book. Because (wait for it) Jon Stewart is a GUNSLINGER.
by Greg Prince on 23 June 2010 4:31 am FLIGHT ATTENDANT: More anything?
JERRY: More everything!
–Seinfeld, “The Airport”
I don’t get to sit anywhere I want and I don’t have access to everything there is, but otherwise I’ve been a first-class passenger at Citi Field for the past ten games I’ve attended. When it comes to baseball, I get just about anything I could possibly want.
• If I want a personal-best ten-game winning streak, I get that. I got that Tuesday night. I’m three games beyond my previous high and four over anything I ever achieved at Shea.
• If I want the Mets to score more runs than they ever have in a game I’ve attended, I get that. Three times — 1995 vs. the Rockies, 2000 vs. the Diamondbacks and 2008 vs. the Nationals — the home team at Shea put a big 13 on the board. Tuesday night, there were 14 scored on my behalf.
• If I want the biggest Met half-inning I’ve ever witnessed, I get that. As best as I can tell, my previous high came in the seven-run bottom of the eighth of the 2007 Home Opener. That mark became the old mark in the bottom of the third on June 22, 2010…which also had to be the longest half-inning of all time, considering it was well underway when a 58-minute rain delay interrupted it. But you’ll wait through a little (or a lot of) rain when it means the Mets will return in an hour and bat around after a run had scored and runners stood on second and third.
[Ed. Note: In the euphoria of Tuesday night, I somehow forgot I was on hand for a not altogether unmemorable TEN-RUN INNING on June 30, 2000, something I’ve written about extensively and rank as one of the TEN GREATEST GAMES I ever attended. So while the Mets scoring eight runs in the third was wonderful, it was not a personal record.]
It was that kind of night in this kind of season. It’s been an unbelievable stretch for The Log II, which has known the kind of success its predecessor could only have dreamed of and little of the frustration that marked The Log’s developmental years.
It’s not just the ten consecutive W’s that have made 2010 at Citi Field A+ territory. Just about every one of those wins has come from a game you can identify by shorthand, the kind of game I have a hunch the eternally aware Mets fan will understand a year or five from now: Ike Davis’s debut; Ike Davis’s first home run; the Sunday night when it rained so much that they had to call it in the sixth and offered ticketholders an exchange for one of six games in June…
Hey, that became this game! I was some nice person’s guest on April 25 and was ready to return my ticket his way so he could make the exchange but I was told, no, you go ahead and take both. The choices were San Diego and Detroit. For novelty’s sake, I went with the Tigers (American idiocy objections notwithstanding). I chose the Tuesday game because Stephanie is off Tuesdays, which means I don’t have to worry about not picking her up at the station because I’ve already taken off for Mets-Willets Point.
Funny thing is the tickets I exchanged from April, which were perfectly lovely Left Field Reserved seats, received a makeover in the mail and became brilliant Caesars Club seats, a few rows in front of the press box, a couple of sections to the third base side of home. When I mentioned this to Stephanie, she basically invited herself to join me…which is something I’ve been waiting for her to do for 23 or so years. The lure of the Logezzanine level is so strong that it transcended her longstanding aversion to being out past her bedtime on a work night She even arranged to go in a little later this morning because she wanted to see the Mets last night!
It’s been that kind of season at Citi Field for me. It would have been a pity to break a historic winning streak Tuesday, so the pity was held in abeyance. It would have been a pity to have tossed out a 3-0 lead on account of rain, so the rain, rain went away. It would have been a pity to have left those runners from the third on second and third, so the Mets brought them and a whole bunch more like them across the plate once the basepaths dried.
No pity at Citi for us. When precipitation occurs, I will readily admit the new joint kicks the ass of Beloved Shea, where not being drenched and not being crushed were mutually exclusive options. This was the first full-fledged rain delay I’d hung in for as a normal person, so to speak, at Citi Field. There was an endless delay the second-to-last game of last season, but I was part of the Gary, Keith and Ron event, and we were in the Bullpen Plaza/Citi Field Basement for the duration (plus, overcome by melancholy, I bolted before the tarp was removed). I didn’t wait out any of the Sunday night delay in April because by the looks of things, it was going to be a called game as soon as it could be (and it was).
Tuesday night, we put in our 58 minutes mainly by moving about. The Caesars level, particularly its club, was a little too busy to allow unfettered standing around. We tried our luck on Field Level, ducking into World’s Fare for a Mama’s cupcake and then seeking out a spot to split it in semi-solitude. After bulldozing through a Shea-ish pedestrian traffic slog, we settled along what I guess you could call the Rotunda Terrace, above Mr. Robinson’s grand staircase, leaning against a brick pillar and trading bites of our mint chocolate chip delight. It was surprisingly uncrowded considering the Rotunda is supposed to be the central gathering spot for Mets fans. Maybe it had been earlier.
The only truly sour note of the delay was when we decided to go to the main team store via the Museum. The thrill that there’s an actual Hall of Fame at the Mets’ ballpark has yet to dissipate but I’ve been in there four or five times, so I’m no longer in the wide-eyed gawking phase when I visit. I just wanted to take a quick glimpse to see if anything had changed since it opened (it hasn’t), which made the appearance of a partition between us and the door a little annoying when we attempted to enter. The annoyance factor ratcheted up when the burgundy-shirted guard told us we’d have to wait for the “crowd” to thin out before he could let us in.
“What crowd?” I asked incredulously (which is usually how one is compelled to ask anything of a Met employee). “There’s no crowd!”
There really wasn’t. There were fans to be seen through the glass, and I’m glad there were, but no fire marshal was going to have to be summoned. A couple of dozen people milling ain’t no crowd. Perhaps sensing my growing unease, the guard volunteered that the game would restart at 9:10 PM. That defused the brief but palpable sense of tension. “You didn’t come to the game to look at this,” he said of the museum. “You came for the game.”
Interesting sales tack. But it worked. We browsed the Hall and the store, met a swell FAFIF reader (but aren’t they all?) and were back in our seats for the rest of the third somewhere between Barajas being hit and Francoeur being hit. That was the last hitting any Tiger would be doing for many minutes.
Once the Mets are up 10-0, you know what I’m thinking? Besides “let’s not get overconfident here”? I’m thinking that if this isn’t blown, and I’m up to ten in a row, have the Mets used up all their immediate runs in advance of tomorrow when I’m due back here? Will the streak, only nine until this thing is an official ballgame, be stranded at ten because tonight was so delicious and I got greedy wanting more runs, more everything?
That’s the Mets fan mindset at work. That’s the experience of a man with a Log whose first page reflects 18 losses in 25 games between 1973 and 1982 and whose lifetime Shea record right up until that first 13-run outburst against Colorado on July 14, 1995, wallowed at a soggy 38-51. I’ve been on a fifteen-year roll ever since (227-147, encompassing all Shea, Citi and postseason that have counted), but I’ve never shaken the feeling that it can all end at any given second. It’s why I take no win for granted and why I continue to take my single 2010 loss — effing Willie Harris — rock-hard even if its memory should have been obliterated by now.
I have seen so much this year. I have seen the Mets sweep the first single-admission doubleheader in Citi Field history. I have seen the Mets celebrate their first extra-inning, walkoff home run. I have seen the Mets turn a 6-2 deficit in the middle of the eighth into an 8-6 triumph by the top of the ninth. I have seen a Goose Egg Sweep begin to take shape, a one-hitter trump a triple play, Angel Pagan bid for a cycle, Jose Reyes return from purgatory, Ike Davis land on his head, and some strangers from Detroit pound the baseball for two innings to no avail because when it got to 11-6 last night and it began to feel a little too close for comfort, the Mets stuffed an extra three runs in their already formidable cushion and shooed the Tigers off the furniture for the balance of the evening.
I have now seen 14 runs scored by the Mets against the Tigers at Citi Field. In 1997, I saw 14 runs scored against the Mets by the Tigers at Tiger Stadium, the memorable ballpark whose right field grandstand inspired the Pepsi Porch. It sure was good to return the favor and make a grand offensive stand of our own, lack of home team home runs costing us nothing but an apple-rise or two.
Fourteen runs. An eight-run inning. Ten consecutive wins. Sweet potato fries in the Caesars Club before the game. Kevin James gleefully throwing out the first pitch and not wearing an “I NOW PRONOUNCE YOU CHUCK AND LARRY” cap. Tom Seaver materializing in the fourth when our former Marine joined another former Marine during the always beautiful Veteran of the Game salute (we got a good look at Tom, but not as good as some people got). Rain that fell hard but ceased soon enough. As fine a Tuesday night as one could order if one could order Tuesday nights custom-made.
Wednesday night will be Promenade, much further from the press box, which is where an even bigger celebrity Mets fan than James, Jerry Seinfeld, will be special-guest analyzing alongside Keith Hernandez and Gary Cohen. We’ll get foam fingers and exhortations to vote David Wright onto the All-Star team and endless sales pitches about the cheap and fantastic tickets we can purchase via mets.com (while “convenience fees” go unmentioned) and another drive-by Tigers sighting. Stephanie’s 5-0 lifetime Citi Field record will be safe as she’ll be sitting this one out. My personal-best ten-game winning streak, however, will be squarely on the line.
But that’s OK, because that’s exactly where a winning streak belongs.
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