It seems amazing that our little blog can already have traditions, but here we are at the third annual edition of Spring Training Central Casting, in which players from the 2007 edition of Port St. Lucie are assigned to the unchaning roles that await players in every camp every year. (If you're feeling historically minded, here's the 2005 edition, and the 2006 one. Does anyone still remember who Joe Nelson was.)
I do note that I'm late this year — in our two previous campaigns, this feature made its appearance with plenty of February left to go. Interesting. One thing I've noticed about 2007 is my co-blogger and I seem to have switched spring roles. Normally around this time Greg would be going through his annual worry that this year's Met team doesn't grab him the way all the others have, which I would find amusing during whatever moments I wasn't spending scribbling incredibly detailed scenarios for the makeup of the middle-relief corps or trying to will April to arrive more quickly. This year I'm the one keeping a calm and sometimes slightly distracted eye on what everybody's doing down there in Florida, while Greg keeps the home fires blazing. That's where the turnabout ends, though — I know in three weeks I'm going to either be daydreaming about October because we're 5-2 or drinking antifreeze because we're 2-5, and any idea of being disengaged will be hilarious.
But that's still three weeks from now. Tonight I lay in bed watching Mets vs. Red Sox (though it was more like Mets vs. Alumni), except for the innings I snoozed through and the times I was checking on March Madness. (Which I could give a rat's ass about but find vaguely interesting for its value as a spectacle, like a big ethnic parade in New York City.) I woke up long enough to fret mechanically about Billy Wagner, chuckle at Keith discussing Wagner's spearing a liner as “purely reactionary” (as if Wags had caught the ball and screamed “MARRIAGE CAN ONLY BE BETWEEN A MAN AND A WOMAN!”) and pity poor Robert Paulk, pressed into warming up despite wearing 90 and apparently being 11 years old. Happily, he stayed over there on the sidelines and the game ended in relatively normal fashion. (Turns out Paulk turned 26 yesterday. There is no way this is possible.)
Anyhoo, your spring-training roles and the Mets bidding to fill them:
Guy Who's About to Burst Onto the Scene: Last year I wrote that Mike Pelfrey and Lastings Milledge would get a write-in vote and then get assigned to minor-league camp, which was more or less accurate. This year, it's those two in a rout, even though one or both will most likely have to wait in the wings in New Orleans.
Guy MIA Because of Visa Problems: Chan Ho Park. I did wonder if the rule against him performing in an exhibition for which attendance was charged meant you needed a work visa to be a Marlin. How could Jeff Loria miss this chance to save some more loose change?
Journeyman Who Just Might Stick: David Newhan. This slot is usually something of a left-handed compliment, as it generally goes to a lefty specialist or pinch-hitter who can't play defense and disappears by Memorial Day.
Minor Leaguer in Awe of It All: We don't seem to have one of these this year, which is for the best. You'd try to typecast Joe Smith in this role, but he doesn't seem particularly in awe of anything. (Though perhaps names that communicate something other than utter anonymity frighten him, or at least his parents.)
Minor Leaguer With an Interesting Story: It goes retroactively to Joe Hietpas, before now notable solely for being the beneficiary of the only in-game move made by Art Howe that I applauded with real feeling: After spending September glued to the dugout rail, Young Joe was sent out to catch for the final half-inning of 2004. Facing the distinct possibility of that being his entire big-league career, Hietpas will now become a pitcher. Good luck with that.
Guy in the Best Shape of His Career: The easy move would be to give it to Julio Franco, but even Captain Egg White has seemed fragile this spring, and for all his value as a wise old hand and unofficial coach, he can't really hit anymore and doesn't make a lot of sense as a backup first baseman, a job that should really go to Shawn Green. So I'm giving it to Lastings Milledge, who no longer seems to play with a life-size replica of the True Cross smacking him in the face, fall down in the outfield, or routinely piss off the veterans. Lastings is just shy of 22; it would be insane to give up on him.
Comeback Feel-Good Story: Juan Padilla, all but forgotten amid the glitter and roar of 2006. (I'd confused him with Jose Parra, which isn't right considering his contributions in 2005.) Padilla's huge smile coming off the mound after his first inning of work this spring left it a little dusty for a moment in the Fry house.
Guy Enjoying His Last Go-Round: Tom Glavine? He's been remarkably quiet this spring, maybe because he finally doesn't have to spend each day answering 44 variations on the question, “Do you ever regret leaving a perennial divison winner for a pathetic outfit like this one?”
Guy Who's Just Happy to Be Here: Carlos Beltran. And this is a Good Thing.
Guy Who Works Harder Than Anybody: Duaner Sanchez. Ha ha.
Guy in New Surroundings: Moises Alou.
Guy Going Back to His Roots: Shawn Green, what with all the talk of batting stances and timing mechanisms and hitches. Keep digging, Shawn.
Guy Who Doesn't Take It Too Seriously: Duan — oh, that's enough. Let's give it to El Duque, who seems to approach everything from a bases-loaded jam to a hurt neck with a placid countenance and a quiet faith that he'll figure something out.
Guy Who Knows He'll Be Elsewhere: Farewell, Alay Soler. You leave behind mental snapshots of some very good starts, some very bad starts, and one extremely expensive rookie card.
Guy Swearing You'll See Him in July: One word, two syllables, infinite hope. Pedro.
Guy Who's Making This Team, Dammit: Lastings, but he's wrong. Hello, Ben Johnson.
Guy Who's Buying a Suit Because He's Headed North: I'm betting on Mr. Smith Goes to Gotham.Though that picture's opening could be delayed until May or June while various re-releases fail to draw a crowd.
Guy Under the Microscope: Aaron Heilman, again. John Maine and Oliver Perez have largely escaped the casting agents for this one because so far they've pitched well. Heilman's been hurt (mildly, we hope) and remains uncomfortable in a role he clearly doesn't like.
Guy Who Is Just So Damn Selfless: Happily, we've got several candidates. I'll give it to Glavine, for trying to calm down Philip Humber.
Guy Who Doesn't Know Why the Hell He's Here, Either: I guess a few weeks in the sunshine with meal money to spend at Applebee's beat whatever else it was Ruben Sierra, Andy Tracy, Sandy Alomar and The Other Jose Reyes could have been doing with themselves.
Guy Who Would Like to Remind You He Is NOT, in Fact, Armando Benitez: This one was cooked up last year as a one-off joke at the expense of poor Jorge Julio, who got booed on Opening Day — before he ever threw an official Met pitch — for the crime of bearing an uncanny resemblance to our throughly unlamented ex-closer. But between Ambiorix Burgos' live arm and penchant for giving up grand slams, it's back. Ulp.
Guy Who Already Went to New York for an MRI: El Duque. Happily, it was of his neck.

It’s spring ahead, fall back tonight at 2 AM, so in honor of the clocks jerking forward three weeks earlier than necessary, I suppose it’s time to take Spring Training a little more seriously.

The Mets have just allowed their pretend record to dip to 3-8 with an irritating-sounding loss to the Nationals. It may have looked bad, too, but it was a WFAN-only affair (which, with Hockey Howie otherwise engaged in Uniondale, only made it sound worse). Once I get past the gee whiz, good golly, Donald Rumsfeld-type exclamations of awe that there is baseball being played somewhere, I’ve noticed that almost every game to date — eight of eleven, to be exact — has involved a shoddy display of Met defense, Met offense, Met fundamentals, Met relief and Met starting in roughly that order.

They don’t sound ready for spring or spring ahead or even Spring Training. Thankfully it matters not a whit in real time, but it gets late early around here, y’know?

Speaking of whom, what the fudge is up with Duaner Sanchez? Last year we discovered Duaner, Duaner discovered Queens and all was good with the world until Cecil Wiggins discovered his car keys. We enter these seasons taking several things for granted based on widely held assumptions. One of them was that Sanchez overcame the car wreck, the surgery, the winter and now he’d be ready for Opening Day. It appears very much that he won’t be. And that’s cool, because who the hell are we to tell a guy who’s been through that kind of trauma to get his body in gear exactly when we want it?

But Duaner, you can get to camp on time every morning. That’s big with managers and coaches. Even John Madden, the quintessential loosey-goosey head honcho who harbored the hijinks of John Matuszak and all those wacky Raiders, said he had but three rules:

• Be on time
• Pay attention
• Play like hell when I tell you to

The on-time part came first (which means I never would have made it with the Raiders; or the Randolphs). So wake up, Filthy. We need you eventually. And it’s your job.
As for everybody else, whatever percentage of life Woody Allen ascribed to showing up isn’t getting it done. Are we really going to war with the bench we have and not the bench we want? Jesus Alou, this is not encouraging. Castro is Castro. Fine. Franco’s a legacy. Whatever. Endy is awesome. No complaints. I don’t begrudge Easley or Newhan for that matter.

But we could use a guy who could hit one out now and then as a matter of course, not as a total surprise. Ruben Sierra probably won’t limp across the finish line, but he can pop. Ben Johnson has been mighty intriguing. Is there room? Do we have to carry 12 pitchers, thus making it untenable to have more than five role players, all of whom left the yard a grand total of 22 occasions last year?

Yeah, probably. We need to carry those seven relievers. But which seven?

Wagner and Heilman (you’re a reliever, learn to deal). Schoeneweis and Feliciano (yes, we have us some lefties). And? No Mota until at least June. No Sanchez until nobody knows. That leaves…

Ambiorix Burgos? I’d like to think so. The wolves will be out for his first mistake, no matter what cooler heads advise, yet he’s kind of my cause this spring. But those ninth-inning, Bo Diaz-style grand slams aren’t going to cut it (he pitched much better today…by the sound of it).

Joe Smith? Now there’s a baseball name for you. I get the sense, based on my two glimpses thus far, that he’s a novelty that will only go so far. But then again, I don’t wear a jacket all the time, so what could I possibly know about pitching?

Jason Vargas? We could use a long man.

Jorge Sosa? We could use a long man, but not him (he’s sort of the rule-proving exception for In Omar We Trust, at least until I’m presented compelling and overwhelming evidence to the contrary).

Alay Soler? Not after today. I could dig up the stats, but suffice it to say Tom McCarthy and Eddie Coleman weren’t impressed, and if you can’t impress Eddie Coleman, you’re coming up way short. (And if you want a terrific take on Mets broadcasters, take a gander at a terrific new blog, The Ballclub; gads, we so have to update our links.)

Jon Adkins? I’m too focused on Ben Johnson among the ex-Padres to have noticed much from him.

Chad Bradford? Crap. He’s not here anymore.

Some years this would be window dressing. This year it’s critical. Even with Maine and Perez in the rotation (I think they’re givens at this point), you know inning-eating is going to be at a premium among these five starters, whoever these five starters are. Almost nobody goes seven anymore. Hardly anybody goes six. Whether rookie Pelfrey or wily Park gets the fifth spot — it’s got to be one of those two, and in a chilly April, I wouldn’t mind it being Park — there will be work for the bullpen. It’s amazing how quickly a seven-man corps can deplete itself after a couple of quickie hooks.

My analytical skills are rusty. If any of this made sense, I’d be surprised as anyone. Either way, it doesn’t count. Clock ahead, clock back…it’s still spring. We may be 3-8, but we’re really still oh and oh.

Seriously, though. Duaner Sanchez, take your wakeup call.

Last night, after Varsity Letters, a few of us blogger types were sitting around drinking beer and talking baseball, and the conversation came around to baseball names. And the one that I found myself groping for was Stubby Clapp — not for anything fabulous he did (5 for 25 as a 2001 St. Louis Cardinal), but for having the greatest baseball name in at least a generation.
I remember Stubby Clapp (you have to say or type his entire name every time, just because you can) coming to bat at Shea and hearing the rather strange sound of half a stadium laughing. Not in derision, but in appreciation. You knew before you even looked that Stubby Clapp would be squat and not hugely talented but full of grit and fire, that he was one of those guys they'd have to tear the uniform off of, that 20 years from now he'd be a roving instructor or coaching first base in the Appy League. Stubby Clapp sounds like a guy who would have raised hell in a roadster barnstorming with Ty Cobb and Rabbit Maranville, or maybe won a batting title in Altoona before the war interrupted his career. After Class D ball and Dubya Dubya Two I did a stint in the merchant marine, kid, running cargoes from Java to Peking. Lemme tell ya, them port girls were wild, but they'd kill ya soon as look at ya. Woke up once in this flophouse in Formosa with this tattoo…don't tell the missus, but those were some times. Stubby Clapp. He'd have gnarled fingers and hate doctors and refuse to wear reading glasses and wait up all night for his grown children to arrive safe for Christmas but never tell them he loved them. (It's OK. They'd know.) Stubby Clapp. Close your eyes and you can see him clear as day, can't you? (He's actually Canadian, which is just so…disappointing. I say we all pretend he isn't.)
Baseball has always been a wonderful source of names, from American classics (Smokey Burgess) to primally minimalist (Ty Cobb) to gleefully silly (Hank “Bow Wow” Arft) to evocatively mysterious (Greg's recently mentioned Van Lingle Mungo) to not-so-evocatively mysterious (Sibby Sisti). As relatively recent arrivals, the Mets have missed out on some of the fun — sportswriters had abandoned much of the purple-prosed mythmaking that bred great nicknames by 1962. But there's still plenty to love in four and a half decades of Met names.
With some exceptions (Stubby Clapp), names inevitably pick up characteristics from the players who bore them. The pleasure of Nolan Ryan's name comes from its deceptive mildness, but take away 5,600 strikeouts and it would just be mild. Gary Carter and David Wright's gee-whiz, can-do spirits are perfectly reflected in their utterly ordinary names. Ron Darling's name sounds smart and a bit fancy, but has a certain “Boy Named Sue” quality that a fiery competitor could build upon — a not-bad description of Ron Darling. Edgardo Alfonzo's name is at once faintly exotic (at least to whitebread Americans), sensibly balanced and musical without being showy about it — which sure sounds like Fonzie to me. In hindsight, the name Gregg Jefferies is self-absorbed and too complicated (you can easily misspell both ends). That's a match.
A good name needs balance — it's the double repeated consonants that make Todd Pratt, Eddie Murray and Bobby Bonilla good baseball names. (Not to mention Stubby Clapp.) But too much balance and a name feels fussy. To switch to that other team in town, the repeated M makes Mickey Mantle a good baseball name, but it's the way the vowels and sounds keep changing that makes it a great one. Leaving aside his vaguely girly first name (which isn't his fault), Derek Jeter isn't a great baseball name for all kinds of reasons — it only has one vowel, that one vowel appears twice in each name in the same exact places, and the first and last name have the same number of letters and sound the same. It's the baseball-name equivalent of a matchy-matchy outfit.
Baseball names rely on nicknames — Danny Staub, Clarence Coleman and Steve Wendell are all crummy baseball names. (As is Richard Clapp.) Baseball names sometimes need middle names to pinch-hit, as Lynn Ryan, George Seaver and Cornelius Floyd could tell you. And then they need a certain, hard-to-pin down something — a certain quality that makes you want to tuck your chin and try for the timbre of a PA announcer. “Now batting….” I envy my co-blogger's perfectly respectable baseball name; I knew I was doomed as a big-league player because there was no way my name would ever sound cool echoing around a stadium. (Well, that and hitting .080 as a Little Leaguer.)
Without further ado, eight classifications of great baseball names (and interesting failures), as typified by New York Mets….
AMERICORN: These are those names that just sound like baseball names. Nicknames help, though they're not everything. Choo Choo Coleman and Vinegar Bend Mizell are obviously names thought up by wise old syndicate writers of 50s serials. Tug McGraw, Rico Brogna, Henry Owens and Mo Vaughn should have razzed each other from Omaha Beach to Berlin, smoking and shooting Germans and balling French girls along the way. Their names ensured Duffy Dyer and Mackey Sasser would be backup catchers the day they were born. You know immediately Turk Wendell is a character. And Buzz Capra gets not only a no-BS nickname (real name=Lee), but also the last name of the director who personifies Americorn.
FUSSY: These sounds like baseball names, but they're a bit complicated, with a whiff of the manor. And as such, they present the bearer with a stark choice: succeed or come in for an extra heaping of scorn. Marv Throneberry is a fussy name redeemed by that plain-as-mud first name. Darryl Strawberry is a fussy name redeemed by towering home runs. (And a well-chosen repeat consonant — Daryl Strawberry doesn't work.) Because Brock Pemberton didn't hit, he sounds like a product of inbreeding and English public schools. Skip Lockwood (real name=Claude) sounds like a guy wearing glasses, which he was. Joel Youngblood's usefulness didn't redeem his comic-book-hero name. The convoluted last names of Jason Isringhausen and Bill Pulsipher, in retrospect, spelled trouble. If Lastings Milledge hits .300, his name will be complicated and interesting. If he hits .240, it'll be vain and showy.
DIFFERENCES: OK, this isn't really a category, but it's worth noting that baseball names walk a knife edge between success and utter failure. Gerald Wayne Grote chose wisely in choosing a J instead of a G: Jerry Grote looks satisfyingly plain and direct, while Gerry Grote is effete. Tommie Agee has a grace and glide that Tommy Agee could never aspire to. The simplest subtraction turns run-of-the-mill Mike Hampton into pretty-cool Ike Hampton. Bobby Valentine is a bit too blandly all-American, but Ellis Valentine sounds slightly off and therefore interesting. Elliott Maddox has four vowels, triple repeated consonants and a final X. Very cool. Kelly Stinnett has triple repeated consonants, but weak vowels and a girly first name. Not so cool.
FUN TO SAY: Ron Swoboda's name just begs to be mispronounced Suh-boda. (On the other hand, you fear to mispronounce Philip Humber, and then fret that you added an extra L.) Carlos Delgado arcs off the tongue like a long double headed for the gap. Bartholome Fortunato is a name to be savored. Marco Scutaro's last name sounds like something an agitated third-base coach should yell.
NO-FRILLS KILLERS: These are my favorite baseball names — simple, short, and blunt to the point of brutishness. Names that'll get up out of the dirt after you put one under the chin, then crack a clean single to left. Ron Hunt. Cleon Jones. Amos Otis. Rusty Staub. Hank Webb. Cliff Floyd.
WONDERFUL: Donn Clendenon sounds like rolling drums. Felix Millan sounds brisk and athletic and flashy. Dave Kingman had to be a slugger. Lenny Randle sounds sneaky and speedy and vaguely illicit. Clint Hurdle's name alone should have been worth 200 home runs. You knew Butch Huskey was at least a XXL before he arrived. A great name is no guarantee of anything, as Royce Ring (real name=Roger) could tell you. But it sure doesn't hurt.
WHA?: There really is a Yogi Berra. Nolan Ryan. Bob Apodaca. (Imagine if he'd had a complicated first name. Ambiorix Apodaca? Now that would be something.) Mac Scarce sounds like an invisible private eye, but he existed. (Real name=Guerrant McCurdy Scarce. The nickname was a good choice.) Del Unser. Brent Gaff. Wally Whitehurst. Esix Snead, who sounds more like a Star Wars alien. Xavier Nady. Braden Looper, the closer with the least-threatening name ever.
And yes, someone really did name a child Orel Hershiser.