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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 14 April 2009 3:01 pm 
“There’s a kitty! There’s a kitty!” somebody watching far from Citi Field yelled with delight last night. No need to identify who it was (ahem).
As one who has herded cats and moved them into a new home, I can tell you they get even more disoriented than longtime fans trying to find their way around unfamiliar ballparks. But give everybody time and each species eventually finds its comfort zone.
In any event, good to see the Met tradition of running around cluelessly lives on. It’s just too bad Reyes overslid second.
by Jason Fry on 14 April 2009 3:28 am We sure know how to stage a circus, don’t we?
Everything was right about the inaugural game of Citi Field except whatever it was exactly that happened down there on the field. The Mets have done a bang-up job with the food and get higher-than-expected marks for the architecture, but now they need to do something about the scriptwriter.
It’s not just that the bad guys didn’t win, though obviously that’s the primary objection in these parts. It’s the head-scratching way they lost it. The big flag was cool and the return of Piazza and Seaver made for a fairly obvious but nonetheless satisfying bookend to the end of Shea (Tom Terrific threw a strike this time), but once the current players took the field this one was a farce. Sitting next to Joshua on our couch (Emily was representing us at the main event, up below the BOS-OAK section of the out-of-town scoreboard), I told him that Mike Pelfrey should throw a strike for the first pitch because there was no way Jody Gerut would swing at it amid the camera flashes and the sense of the moment. He didn’t, and the ball was carted off for posterity — but Gerut did club the third pitch in the history of Citi Field into the right-field stands. Joshua didn’t quite understand my astonishment — you can’t explain to a six-year-old that there’s no way the first home run is also the first hit and proceeds the first out, because he has no idea that violates all the generally agreed-upon rules of drama. (Jody Gerut ought to know better, damn him.) But that’s what happened nonetheless.
The Mets certainly didn’t look comfortable in their new home, not with Carlos Beltran skidding around on the grass and Ryan Church letting a fly ball clank off his normally sound glove and Mike Pelfrey, well, falling off the mound — though once he was OK the sight of the infielders sputtering with laughter behind their gloves was pretty funny. (As was the fans’ sarcastic applause for Daniel Murphy’s first put-out, a good-natured jab Murphy accepted with a grin. He’s going to do just fine in New York.)
Walter Silva didn’t like the script either — not after David Wright proved the new apple does indeed also rise, and road-tested how Citi Field does delirium. Sitting at home, I found myself fretting like a worried mother hen, wondering if the VIP crowd and smaller house and new configuration and obstructed views would combine to mute Citi’s first big moment. When Wright’s drive settled safely into the outstretched arms above Casey’s number, the place seemed properly loud and joyous — but I had to fire off a quick SMS to Emily for reassurance.
J: Seemed loud. Was it loud?
E: O yes
But let’s get back to screenwriting and how to properly build drama and weave a plot. How sadistic a writer do you have to be to follow Wright’s blast with a leadoff three-base error from the Heroic Right Fielder Who Should Never Be Replaced On Defense by Gary Sheffield? How much of a tease do you have to be to then follow that up with not one but two infield grounders that pin the runner on third and leave the Mets with their collective head all but out of the lion’s mouth? And then, after all that, for it all to come to naught on a balk? Where’s the drama? Where’s the justice? Where’s the Valium?
The West Kamchatka roster seems to consist entirely of players you never heard of, guys you thought had maybe retired, and disgruntled ex-Mets. Can we say for certain that Edward Mujica and Edwin Moreno aren’t the same person? David Eckstein and Brian Giles are still around? Someone’s really named Chase Headley? There’s a Nick Hundley? (I know — they’ve never heard of me either.) And then Duaner Sanchez, whom Carlos Beltran let off the hook by being too aggressive on 3-1, and Heath Bell, still just as funny-looking but a lot more effective. (By the way, I can’t say as I really blame Heath for being bitter, seeing how the Mets’ genius doctors once failed to discover that he had a broken bone in his forearm.)
Very well, vengeance is Heath’s. The park’s open. The mayor got a ball. One poor fan got to wear a Padre catcher for an unwanted hat. The feral cats have decamped from Shea’s ruins and snuck Felix Heredia into their new, more spacious catacombs. The Padres are 6-2 and we’re 3-4, and with Oliver Perez and Jake Peavy slotted in 8-2 and 3-6 doesn’t seem impossible.
It was the first night. We have to get comfortable with the new place. Even more importantly, so do the Mets.
Faith and Fear in Flushing: An Intense Personal History of the New York Mets is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble or a bookstore near you. Keep in touch and join the discussion on Facebook.
by Greg Prince on 13 April 2009 2:00 pm Jack Fisher throws one to Jesse Gonder
Forty-five seasons commence
Ryan Church hits one to Cameron Maybin
Forty-five seasons conclude
Mike Pelfrey throws one to Brian Schneider
We've only just begun
***
“I obviously have great memories of Shea on the field and in the clubhouse, but this is quite an upgrade,” David Wright told reporters before the first exhibition game at Citi Field on April 3. “And I think it’s good for us mentally, too, to get a clean slate. There’s a lot of energy and excitement surrounding the new field and with that comes a new attitude where we can put the last couple of years aside and focus on this year.”
This year is already in focus, but considering the home season is only now at hand, there's one last chance to reflect on there where we used to stand without any other structure obstructing our view. So many images from the final week in the life of Shea Stadium stay with me…
There's too many Cubs fans.
There's the threat of rain.
There's rain.
There's a broken bat that bats a ball after the ball has broken the bat of Johan Santana.
There's Johan Santana coming back three days later and missing bats altogether.
There's invigorating cameos from Robinson Cancel and Ramon Martinez.
There's quiet disappearance for Damion Easley.
There's Pedro Martinez dramatically exiting.
There's Jose Reyes scoring.
There's Daniel Murphy standing on third.
There's David Wright not doing anything about it.
There's an evening in the picnic area that goes from sublime to ant-covered.
There's a Carlos Delgado grand slam going to waste.
There's Marlins crawling under our skin.
There's Carlos Beltran homering.
There's Wes Helms and Dan Uggla doing the same.
There's that damn bullpen gate.
There's booing and shrieking and laughing and crying.
There's Shea Stadium, its final bows. A 3-4 week. A win shy of continuation. A benediction for the ages. A sweet-sorrow parting. Those images will fade but they will never fully dissolve. I'd say the same for the 36 seasons I went to Shea.
But now, the next place.
Bring on Citi Field. Bring on that clean slate David Wright has been talking up. Bring on the now. What's past is past. The past endures, but in a spot set a little further back from where it sat before. It's not first row center anymore. No point pretending that it is.
The single most undeniable fact of Met life in 2009 is, as of this evening, our team plays its home games at Citi Field. I like watching our team play. Hence, I now greet the opening of Citi Field with nothing but enthusiasm. I count the hours until it transforms from the subject of speculation to a matter of record. I can't wait for the list of all-time Mets home parks to total three because it means our team is playing ball and has last licks, just as it did at the Polo Grounds, just as it did at Shea Stadium. I'm psyched to be going to my first Citi Field game that counts this Thursday. I expect I'll be taking plenty of mental notes all season regarding what's great and what's not — but mostly, I'm going to be watching our team play baseball. Ultimately, that's what Citi Field is for.
I can't promise, given my tendencies, that I won't occasionally backslide into Shea nostalgia, but I'm otherwise turning in my well-worn sentimental-indignation card. I spent the past three seasons praising and preserving the memory of Shea Stadium so it wouldn't evaporate into dust without a proper bon voyage. I bemoaned the impending arrival of its successor for reasons both genuinely heartfelt and probably petty. I didn't want Shea to vanish without expressing my appreciation for what it meant to me, what it meant to all of us. Consider it expressed. There is nothing left for this Mets fan and Friday Night Lights viewer to do except embrace Citi Field in the most Metsian way possible — clear eyes, full heart, hope we don't lose.
C'mon Big Pelf. Let's Go Mets.
Faith and Fear in Flushing: An Intense Personal History of the New York Mets is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble or a bookstore near you. Keep in touch and join the discussion on Facebook.
by Greg Prince on 12 April 2009 9:59 pm No two words are any more Amazin' in the Met lexicon than Game Six. The '86 playoffs. The '86 World Series. The '99 NLCS. You can throw in the 2006 version while you're at it.
But there was another sixth game not that long ago, in 2005, to be precise. It wasn't in October. It was April — April 10. It was the 0-5 Mets taking on their archnemeses, the perennially defending Eastern Division champion Atlanta Braves. And it was a doozy. John Smoltz could not be touched in any meaningful fashion for seven innings: 103 pitches, 15 strikeouts, 6 scattered hits, no walks, no runs. His opponent was Pedro Martinez. Pedro Martinez was everything the Mets thought they were signing. His only troubling inning through seven was the fourth: a one-out walk to Chipper Jones, a two-out RBI double to Johnny Estrada. Smoltz led 1-0 heading to the eighth.
The eighth was Smoltz's undoing. Jose Reyes singled. Miguel Cairo sacrificed him to second. Carlos Beltran walloped a two-run homer to right. Pedro now led 2-1. Exit Smoltz. Enter Cliff Floyd, homering off Tom Martin. After a Doug Mientkiewicz double, David Wright homered off Ramon Colon. Suddenly Pedro had a 5-1 lead and he was a possessive dog with your shoe from there: a complete game, 9-strikeout 2-hitter. The Mets were in the win column and the first note of a hopeful new era was successfully struck.
That was the sixth game four years ago. It was a classic. And it might not have been as good as today's sixth game, even if we did lose this one.
Marlins 2 Mets 1 isn't what we wanted to pack up prior to the Super Home Opener (FYI, we didn't win our last game prior to entering the Polo Grounds or Shea Stadium either), but this isn't the sixth game of the World Series or the League Championship Series. It was the sixth game of a season, that has 156 remaining. We're 3-3. We can live with being on the wrong end of 2-1. It's not often you don't feel like a chump for saying that.
Today's sixth-game classic was brought to us by Johan Santana and Josh Johnson. Each was better than the other. Johnson got the win. Santana, who's done quite a bit of breath-taking versus the Marlins, took the loss that had to be assigned based on the score. But neither outshone either. They both sparkled in that way you want to show every baseball fan who has ever bemoaned the demise of starting pitching and every non-fan who wonders what's the big deal about a game in which almost nobody scores.
Santana hooked up in a perfectly respectable 2-1 game with Aaron Harang on Monday. It wasn't a duel, though. This was a duel. This was the best pitcher in baseball and one of his most talented counterparts. This was the master working change, slider and fastball versus the kid going away, away, away and hitting his spots hard. They made their opposing batters look clueless, yet somehow nobody (outside of the vapor-locking security guard who touched a live ball) seemed particularly foolish in this. These were good and occasionally great major league hitters being overmatched by unquestionably stupendous major league pitching. Isn't that how baseball at its purest is more or less supposed to work?
Sure, the decision rested in the hands — or off the glove — of Daniel Murphy, but that's just a break. The Marlins got the break the Mets didn't. Without it, maybe the Mets get the first break in the ninth when Carlos Beltran, who looked awful all day, finally got to Johnson for an RBI (driving in Delgado who'd had no luck prior…but got a bit of a break when Bob Davidson didn't call give Johnson strike three). But it happened. We've seen Murphy stumble a bit toward the left field fence and come down with the ball. This time we saw it bounce away. That's baseball.
You wish this was baseball every day. You wish a 2-1 double gem wasn't a diamond in the 162-game rough. You wish your guy could strike out 13 in seven innings more often. You wish your guy could go the distance the way their guy did, too. You wish you could watch both lineups hang tough against state-of-the-art pitching the way ours did in the ninth, running out everything and finding places to hit the ball toward the way Delgado and Beltran (and Wright and Church) did at the end. You wished, as a Mets fan, that Brett Carroll would have as much trouble with Ryan Church's sinking line drive as Daniel Murphy did with Cody Ross' deep fly. It wasn't to be. Santana and Parnell — it seemed an injustice to turn this afternoon over to a reliever, any reliever — combined on a 14-K 3-hitter and allowed no earned runs (a mere coincidence Doc Gooden was in the stands?). Johnson went all the way, giving up one run on five hits, yet quoting even that stellar line diminishes his accomplishment.
We lost the sixth game of the year. But if you watched it intently, consider yourself a winner for 2 hours and 4 minutes.
Faith and Fear in Flushing: An Intense Personal History of the New York Mets is available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble or a bookstore near you. Keep in touch and join the discussion on Facebook.
by Greg Prince on 12 April 2009 1:50 pm Face it, folks. It's not just in a parallel universe where the Marlins are the National League East's team of tradition. Consider the senior circuit's ballpark seniority rankings in the wake of the intertwined events of September 28, 2008 and April 13, 2009:
1) Wrigley Field, built 1914, home of the Cubs since 1916
2) Dodger Stadium, built 1962
3) Shea Stadium, built 1964
3) Dolphin Stadium, built 1987, home of the Marlins since 1993
Look Who's No. 3! Joe Robbie Pro Player Whatever It's Called This Week Stadium (and I should probably go easy on the name-calling since I wouldn't necessarily bank on Citi Field being Citi Field forever). While everybody else but the Cubs and Dodgers have bullrushed the modern, the Marlins stay with the staid, try only the tried and remain acquiescent to their aqua playpen, at least until their new place is ready in a few years. Everywhere else we go on a regular basis, including the steakhouse Lonn Trost built come June, is relatively brand spanking new and emits a certain degree of unsettledness to the home viewer.
Not the Traditional Three. You know you're gonna get that ivy at Wrigley, those mountains backdropping Chavez Ravine and revolving home plate signage that stays with you from the Fish tank. Perhaps because South Florida, even in reasonably flush times, doesn't turn out many sponsors for its ballclub, you tend to see the same advertisements over and over in the course of a game. For years, there was a Publix ad I couldn't get out of my head (there was always a deal on Tropicana). More recently there's one for a hospital that uses a pineapple in its logo. How it got to Miami from Honolulu, or why a pineapple denotes sound Floridian medical care, I'm not sure, but it sure says Marlins to me.
Dolphin Stadium is the only ballpark I've seen with ads for the Spanish-language Univision network, which is understandable given the area's Latin-American demographics, yet a little mystifying since from what I can tell Univision doesn't broadcast any Marlins games. In fact, no over-the-air outlet broadcasts any Marlins games if I've read the team's Web site correctly; a whole bunch of their games are not even cablecast in South Florida (yet we grow a tad cranky if we have to go forty minutes relying solely on evidence of things not seen, a.k.a. Howie and Wayne).
Univision has two billboards that rotate through Marlins games. One is for the Miami affiliate, Channel 23, which was English-language and showed hour upon hour of cartoons when I was a kid and my family would hightail it to a Collins Avenue motel for Christmas week every year. My mother would remind me “we're not paying good money for you to sit in the room and watch TV, go out and get some sun!” but I was steadfastly fascinated that Channel 23 had the bizarre Brutus brand of Popeye while we in New York received the Bluto or “normal” version, so I stayed inside and pale. Channel 23's current accent is emphasized in its Dolphin Stadium billboard: NOTICIAS 23. As we steered toward a potential whitewashing of the men in teal, I kept thinking…
NOTICIAS 23
Marlins 0
…though Mets 8 Marlins 4 will do just fine.
The other Univision advertisement seems designed to sell advertising to local businesses asking themselves about “A solution for growth today?” The answer provided: “It's right here in plain Spanish.”
Univision's message may be intended for the Greater Miami-Fort Lauderdale commerce community, but it describes pretty well how the Mets solved their challenges Saturday night. Simply, it was Livàn Hernandez, the Cuban pitcher you weren't necessarily expecting on the roster two months ago, and Luis Castillo, the Dominican second baseman you probably wanted no part of two seconds before he collected his fourth hit of the game. You might require a down payment of 400 hits before accepting you're saddled with Castillo, as unpopular as any regular in recent memory or any language, but he was nothing but a solution Saturday.
I watched Luis interviewed by Kevin Burkhardt after it was all over, following his reaching base five times, and I felt very good for he who has been despised and dismissed and probably will be again. He may not be much good in the long run, but he couldn't possibly be as bad as he's been almost every game he's played since becoming a Met in August 2007. He seems like a genuinely nice fellow lost in a horribly deep forest. His inner peace is not my responsibility, but I hope he gets a few more hits for his own good this afternoon so he can be greeted by nothing more virulent than silence Monday night. Boo the Padres, boo the prices, but don't boo Castillo on Citi Field's very first night of official existence. Wait 'til Wednesday, at any rate.
Hernandez, meanwhile, gave us the upside of Livàn. Like Luis, he's been around forever and is not a mystery. His jersey blouses out toward the belt, his pitches max out somewhere south of fast and he generally puts in a respectable night's work regardless of results. There will be Livàn starts when it seems possible the opposition might put up a tally in the low UHFs, but last night wasn't one of those nights, as he kept the Marlins on mute clear into the seventh. The bullpen could do with some tightening (it looked looser than Livàn's uniform top), but that's why big leads — thank you Jose, gracias Ryan — are such buenas noticias.
Ain't that good news? Hombre, ain't that news?
Available now, in English only for the time being: Faith and Fear in Flushing: An Intense Personal History of the New York Mets, from Amazon, Barnes & Noble or a bookstore near you. Keep in touch and join the discussion on Facebook.
by Greg Prince on 11 April 2009 11:26 pm In a parallel universe, I am a Marlins fan.
In a parallel universe, I moved back to Florida after graduating from college and grew detached from the Mets.
In a parallel universe, I was elated when we got an expansion franchise.
In a parallel universe, I fell in love with the Marlins in their very first year of existence, as soon as Charlie Hough threw our first pitch.
In a parallel universe, I took great pride in our finishing ahead of the Mets in our inaugural season of 1993.
In a parallel universe, I experienced conflicted feelings in 1997 when my old team, the Mets, put up a good fight for the Wild Card against my new team, the Marlins, but ultimately I was overjoyed when my Marlins went to the playoffs instead of the Mets.
In a parallel universe, one of the happiest moments of my life came October 26, 1997 when Edgar Renteria drove home Craig Counsell with the winning run in the seventh game of the World Series, making my Marlins champions of the world.
In a parallel universe, Bobby Bonilla maintains my undying gratitude for putting us on the board in the seventh inning of that seventh game versus the Indians.
In a parallel universe, I developed a love-hate feeling for Al Leiter and Dennis Cook, guys who helped my Marlins win that first championship after they moved on and thrived with my old team as our owner conducted an insidious fire sale.
In a parallel universe, I came to resent the Mets' whining about being overshadowed by the Yankees considering they still had a pretty immense payroll and my Marlins were always being stripped for parts.
In a parallel universe, I couldn't root for the Braves to beat the Mets in the '99 NLCS, but I couldn't quite get behind the Mets either because it annoyed me how many of their fans routinely showed up in our stadium for our games.
In a parallel universe, I never liked Mike Piazza because he could have insisted on staying a Marlin but left us cold.
In a parallel universe, I didn't watch the 2000 Subway Series because I always hated the Yankees but found it impossible to root for the Mets, lest their stupid ex-New Yorker fans be even more of a pain in the ass to me at Pro Player Stadium than they already were.
In a parallel universe, I love our stadium, even though I see its limitations.
In a parallel universe, I'm thrilled that with the demise of Shea Stadium, we have the only orange seats left in baseball.
In a parallel universe, I think teal is beautiful.
In a parallel universe, I see those sacks of Soilmaster in the dugout that the camera picks up on TV and find them kind of a charming throwback to simpler days when fans were allowed to stand behind a rope in the outfield.
In a parallel universe, I'm relieved we got the new downtown ballpark approved because it means my team won't be going anywhere, but I have to admit I've grown attached to where we were born.
In a parallel universe, I had a great big laugh at the Mets' expense when we clinched our Wild Card spot against them the last weekend of 2003.
In a parallel universe, I felt kind of bad that Moises Alou couldn't catch that foul pop in Wrigley Field during the '03 playoffs, since he was such a big part of our '97 championship, but otherwise I enjoyed the Bartman play almost as much I enjoyed the Buckner play, back when I was still a Mets fan.
In a parallel universe, Josh Beckett shutting out the Yankees to seal the 2003 World Series is as big a thrill as any I've experienced as a baseball fan.
In a parallel universe, I tell Mets fans I know that we had no problem winning in the Bronx in October when we had our shot — and that losing to my Marlins seems to have kept the Yankees out of any World Series since.
In a parallel universe, I'm not shy about mentioning that our two world championships — in the face of horrible ownership — in a span of seven seasons is as impressive as anything the Mets ever did.
In a parallel universe, I cackled when Carlos Delgado chose us over the Mets in 2005.
In a parallel universe, I loathed Delgado for being traded to the Mets in 2006.
In a parallel universe, I remember 2006 fondly for our confounding expectations and competing for a playoff spot well into summer.
In a parallel universe, I'm still convinced Joe Girardi got a raw deal.
In a parallel universe, I can't tell you what a big kick I got out of the way we eliminated the Mets on the final day of 2007.
In a parallel universe, I can't tell you what a second big kick I got out of the way we eliminated the Mets on the final day of 2008…as they closed Shea Stadium, no less.
In a parallel universe, I seethe that Hanley Ramirez and Dan Uggla don't get nearly the attention they deserve — and insist that they deserve a lot more than the overrated Jose Reyes and David Wright get.
In a parallel universe, I can't help but point out over and over that even with Johan Santana being paid more than any fistful of Marlins, we still have better starting pitching.
In a parallel universe, I'll take Fredi Gonzalez over Jerry Manuel.
In a parallel universe, I have mixed emotions watching the Mets with Luis Castillo, Gary Sheffield and now Livàn Hernandez, players who helped win me World Series in '97 and '03.
In a parallel universe, I eventually resent the way guys like those and Leiter and Cook and Bonilla and Alou and Mr. Marlin Jeff Conine all become Mets.
In a parallel universe, I root for whoever winds up in a Marlins uniform and against whoever the Marlins play, including the Mets, even if I grew up with the Mets.
In a parallel universe, I am a Marlins fan, no matter what anybody says about my type and my team.
In this universe, however, I am a Mets fan. And I can't fucking stand the Florida Marlins.
by Jason Fry on 11 April 2009 3:27 am We play at least two of these every year, the template as familiar as those sacks of fertilizer in the dugout:
1a. Up by a couple early, Marlins yank us back come the middle innings.
1b. Down by a couple early, yank Marlins back come the middle innings.
2. Long slow grind, possibly interrupted by a rain delay.
2b. Bad feeling breaks out. (Optional.)
3. Miscellaneous tomfoolery/strangeness puts one team or the other ahead.
4. Heroics make things even once again.
5. Extra innings loom, or begin in apparent innocence.
6. A seemingly unlikely Marlin rally results in them dogpiling while dispirited Mets leave field and I say terrible things.
Two different new Met relievers got rough initiations into the primal suck that is Soilmaster Stadium and the Florida Marlins, favorite team of around 8,000 souls provided the weather is perfect, which it never is. Both Bobby Parnell and Darren O'Day looked stunned; I was not. No, I was numb, waiting with the dull, sour expectation I imagine (though this is unconfirmable) is shared by veteran skydivers when the reserve chute doesn't open either. A two-out bunt, a bloop and a sharp single that went against the defense for starters; an infield single, walk and another sharp single for enders. Utterly and hideously familiar.
When Hanley Ramirez hit the home run for the early Marlin lead, I was possessed by a terrible thought and scooted over to the fridge to look at the schedule, where I exhaled in relief to find we finish up the 2009 regular season against our expansion brethren, the Houston Astros. But then I thought better of that: Like there isn't some way Hanley Ramirez will engineer a trade to the Stros for the final week, even if it means asking for his release and paying his own salary, or disguising himself as a Round Rock Expressman. And with our luck he'll bring Jorge Cantu with him — the oddly smash-faced Marlin first baseman was all that stood between Matt Lindstrom and ruin in the top of the ninth, as Cantu speared a Carlos Delgado ball that nearly went through him and smothered Alex Cora's bid for the go-ahead RBI. And then, of course, he finished us in the bottom of the frame.
John Maine had an encouraging start and Jeremy Reed a heroic moment consigned to a lower-case h by the outcome, but I can barely remember that now, because I'm seeing teal.
I'm normally an advocate of cities doing whatever shady deals are required for new baseball stadiums, in part because I assume governments will otherwise do something even stupider with all those civic dimes. But I was rooting hard against the Marlins ever getting a new park, for the exceedingly simple reason that I loathe the Marlins' very existence, from their ghastly colors to their claiming the state name for their own despite sharing that territory with another team to their succession of wretched owners to their vapid, no-show fans. (And they gave Jeff Torborg money to do something other than disappear.)
For years I've devoutly hoped that this hideous franchise would soon be forced to leave this awful city and its apathetic residents in their natural, thoroughly deserved state of baseball-lessness. Now, it looks like it's not to be, and oh how it steams me to think the Mets will now never escape. They'll forever be slogging down to a Miami stadium whose seats will be sprinkled with 15,000 fans, 7,000 of them New York expats who don't realize that they're putting their hand back on what we all know will wind up being a very hot stove.
It's not that I think we'd never have soul-killing displays of futility against the San Antonio Last Stand or the Portland Yoga or whatever the Marlins might have pulled up stakes to become. But somehow I always imagined those would bother me far less — if only because maybe they'd have a room somewhere reserved for the bags of fertilizer.
by Greg Prince on 10 April 2009 5:14 am Welcome to Flashback Friday: I Saw The Decade End, a milestone-anniversary salute to the New York Mets of 1969, 1979, 1989 and 1999. Each week, we immerse ourselves in or at least touch upon something that transpired within the Metsian realm 40, 30, 20 or 10 years ago. Amazin’ or not, here it comes.
The greatest moment in the history of Citi Field is yet to come. When the first pitch is thrown, that will be No. 1. When something of a substantive Met nature occurs, that will take its place. And then we’ll be off to the races.
You’ll recall there was a vote to determine the greatest moment in the history of Shea Stadium last year. Ten legitimately great moments were chosen from a flawed ballot of 75 and from there they were ranked ten to one, announced to relatively light fanfare the last week of last season. From No. 10 to No. 6, I thought the fans (I was one of them) did a fine job:
10. Todd Pratt’s homer to beat the Diamondbacks, 10/9/99
9. Tom Seaver’s Imperfect Game, 7/9/69
8. The Ten-Run Inning, 6/30/00
7. Beatles’ first concert, 8/15/65
6. Robin Ventura’s Grand Slam Single, 10/17/99
You could have tossed them into an empty coffee can, shaken them up and spilled them out and, in whatever order they fell, that would have been fine, too. It was from No. 5 to No. 2 where I was left a little stunned.
5. Mets win World Series, 10/27/86
4. Endy Chavez’s catch, 10/19/06
3. Mets win World Series, 10/16/69
2. Mike Piazza’s post-9/11 homer, 9/21/01
No. 1 was Mookie and Buckner, which was my choice, so I’ll just say I believe it was the right call. I’d rank it behind only The Shot Heard ‘Round the World in all of baseball history, actually.
But those other four make me wonder what kind of moment junkies Mets fans are.
Even as I rationalize away modernity, chronology, technology, demography and what have you to explain why more recent events that have been shown repeatedly in recent years get voted higher via online mechanisms that inevitably skew younger, I think it says something about how the Mets fan would opt for an unforgettable snapshot over a more rewarding big picture.
Endy over winning the 1986 World Series? Really? You do realize we lost that game in which the Chavez grab was made, don’t you? That that catch saved two runs in the sixth inning, two runs given back three innings later (the latter moment appearing on the cover of a book you might have seen lately)? The Endy Catch was two outs. Jesse Orosco striking out Marty Barrett was the championship of the world, the only one we’ve had since the end of the Age of Aquarius. The clinching wasn’t as seismic as the thing with Mookie and Buckner two nights earlier, but it did make the whole thing official. You’re good with that order, Endy over the championship of the world attained by the flat-out best team this franchise ever produced?
Just checking.
And Nos. 3 and 2…the first world championship, the most fabled world championship, the world championship used routinely by people outside the Met orbit as a touchstone for unlikely world championships, the world championship that represents the dot over the “i” of the signature season in the history of Shea Stadium and the New York Mets — not as great as that home run Piazza hit? That home run that was hit in the eighth inning of a regular-season game?
I don’t want to give up the Easter Bunny at this time of year, but really? Piazza’s homer, all its emotion and power notwithstanding, greater than the 1969 Mets completing their rise from the absolute depths of baseball to its pinnacle? Like I said, I voted for the ball going through Buckner’s legs, yet I did so feeling almost guilty about passing on 1969, because 1969 was the year of the Mets in every spiritual sense. The ’86 team was better all-around but ’69 should be considered the undisputed face of this franchise, what we stand for at our best. Other franchises have had 1986es. Nobody else has ever had a 1969.
One supposes Piazza’s home run, for which I was present in the Mezzanine, is without exact precedent and peer (and let’s be steadfast in our hope that its context will never befall any other people ever again), and one wishes to not detract from the dual rush of relief and adrenaline it gave an entire stadium and parts of its city…but the 1969 Mets are the 1969 Mets. They were kings of a world no one gave them any kind of shot in. They are the stuff of legend for forty years and I will bet that their broad strokes will live on another forty years at least.
But only the third-greatest moment in the just-departed stadium’s history? Really? If you say so. Just wanted to confirm that choice before pushing forward.
As for what lies ahead, may moments great, small and largely victorious bless this next home of ours starting Monday. No need to wait until my first game Thursday. Start winning and being memorable as soon as you can.
A fan’s lifetime of baseball moments add up to Faith and Fear in Flushing: An Intense Personal History of the New York Mets, available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble or a bookstore near you. Keep in touch and join the discussion on Facebook.
by Greg Prince on 9 April 2009 8:36 pm And to think I began the afternoon worried about jinxing a no-hitter.
Ollie wasn’t making history Thursday, at least not the kind you want. For a couple of innings there, I thought maybe. When he had four consecutive K’s, I thought back to another April afternoon, a mere 39 years ago. Tom Seaver struck out ten Padres in a row that once upon a time. Could Ollie incorporate himself as Franchise II? Could he make us all feel silly for doubting him based on his exhibition of abysmal control last Saturday? Could “Ollie being Ollie” come to be understood as a synonym for excellence?
No. No. No. None of that happened. It was just two good innings of Oliver Perez before “Ollie being Ollie” became “hello, I must be going in favor of Darren O’Day.”
Damn, that was quick.
One must always suck up the first loss of the year with the understanding that it was going to arrive sooner, not later. The Mets have never escaped the gate with more than five consecutive wins (1985). The first loss is always illusion-destroying painful. Will the Mets ever lose? No way! They never have, not this year. Now they have. Not many minutes have passed since it took place, but I think we’re all still upright and breathing, so the world goes on, all 159 games of it.
There was some fight in these Mets today until they ran into the better bullpen (did we and the Reds combine to set a series record for most games saved by different Franciscos?). They never seemed out of it, just not enough into it. That, I seem to recall from 2008 and before, happens in the course of a season. Sometimes it happens as early as the third game. It’s reality. And, as a dopey movie once clarified, reality tends to bite.
Still, damn that was quick.
One nugget from our last victory (most recent victory, not necessarily our final ever) still nettles me. It was that forceout not made on Edwin Encarnacion in the ninth when Carlos Delgado’s foot came off the bag at first as Brandon Phillips ran wild, free and rather senselessly to third. Our buddy Keith Hernandez practically choked on his Tootsie Pop when Bill Welke called Encarnacion safe. The replay clearly showed Delgado’s foot was not on the base as he caught the ball. I believe the rule says there’s a connection between the two vis-à-vis recording an out. It was a goof by Delgado. Unfortunate, but human.
Keith wasn’t having it — the call, that is. You get “leeway” there, Mex said. And he wasn’t being a homer, he swore. I didn’t think he was, at least not being a Mets homer. He was surely being a first baseman homer, however. Delgado not getting one of those lazy outs — Encarnacion was pointing up a storm and calling himself safe about 80% down the line — seemed to impinge on Keith’s sense of thieves’ honor. We (first basemen) always get that call, don’t we? Not last night, you didn’t. Thank the soul of Fred Merkle that Welke’s letter-of-the-lawfulness didn’t do undue harm our modern-day New York Nine, but, you know, next time step on the bag, Carlos. And Keith…you’re not a first baseman during these games. Get real.
The reality is you step on the bag with the ball in your mitt and Delgado didn’t properly multitask. The reality is Oliver Perez is 0-1. The reality is the Mets are 2-1. The reality is we get to try it again Friday night in Miami.
Sometimes reality is just fine.
Salve your wounds, such as they are, with Faith and Fear in Flushing: An Intense Personal History of the New York Mets, available from Amazon, Barnes & Noble or a bookstore near you. Keep in touch and join the discussion on Facebook.
by Jason Fry on 9 April 2009 4:07 am Closers blow saves.
It's what they do, all of them. (Even you, Lidge — regression to the mean is going to be a bitch.) They have bad games, bad luck, miserable stretches in which they lose their feel for their pitches and get pounded for the equivalent of a start or two, only for the closer “a start or two” means three or four wins gagged up over an agonizing week to 10 days. This information ought to be affixed to the closer's picture on the Diamondvision, like the label on a pack of cigarettes: WARNING THE SURGEON GENERAL HAS DETERMINED THAT WATCHING CLOSERS LEADS TO PERIODIC DISAPPOINTMENT AND DESPAIR AND HAS BEEN SHOWN TO CAUSE SECONDHAND DISAPPOINTMENT AND DESPAIR IN CHILDREN.
Everything came out all right, thank goodness, despite Frankie Rodriguez throwing ball after ball and slipping on the mound and repeatedly going to the curve on 2-0 and doing something to antagonize Bill Welke, who wasn't wrong but was sure awful picky, particularly since Brandon Phillips was doing the kind of assheaded thing that doesn't usually inspire umpires to check for dotted i's and crossed t's in the rulebook. (When baseball is played this stupidly this consistently by a team, you just know you'll find Dusty Baker somewhere on the premises.)
Stupid or not, it was all terrifying, down to Laynce Nix's cloudscraper (add the stray “y” for “yikes”) turning Ryan Church around and sending Carlos Beltran drifting slowly back to and then into the warning track, you weren't sure whether in confidence or dismay. Don't say I didn't warn you when one of those doesn't stay in, and K-Rod is ridden by the ghosts of Billy Wagner and Braden Looper and Armando Benitez and John Franco and everyone else initiated into the Brotherhood of Boo at one point or another, which is to say all of them.
Though perhaps there were other ghosts afoot. Certainly the mound was haunted. Mike Pelfrey was awful, Edinson Volquez wasn't much better, Mike Lincoln and Pedro Feliciano took aim at their own feet in a rather pathetic shootout at the Oy Vey Corral, J.J. Putz got cuffed about a bit, and then it was time for Frankie's drama. (Arthur Rhodes, of course, was serenely untouchable as usual. Please keep him out of the NL East come summertime.)
Yes, once upon a time this looked like a thoroughly encouraging Met performance, Pelfrey aside, what with Red fielders crumpling in the vague vicinity of balls, Luis Castillo and Brian Schneider saving Big Pelf's bacon with an awfully nice play by two generally derided players and Carlos Delgado launching a ball that might actually have landed in Kentucky. But by the time the four-hour mark loomed, this was one to close your eyes and endure, like the banshee shrieks of the Lady Fan from Hell. (Thanks for pointing her out, Keith — once you did that I would tense up every five seconds waiting for her to do it again.) Would it be a wipe-your-brow game that you could excuse as a win with some extra dramatic tension? Would it be a killer loss to cast an early-season pall over 2009? Turned out to be the former, but we all know in a lot of alternate universes it was the latter.
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