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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 25 December 2006 9:29 pm I read this phrase somewhere when I was a kid:
If ifs and buts were candies and nuts, then every day would be Christmas.
I’ve seen it worded slightly differently over the years but I’ve always identified with it. As you can’t be a Mets fan for very long without invoking “if” or “but,” it’s good advice.
Especially as it pertains to nuts.
Let’s go back to when the world was young. It’s October 12, the first night of what will eventually prove an eight-night festival of lights. The National League Championship Series has just begun. It’s Tom Glavine versus Jeff Weaver in the early throes (and throws) of a duel producing nothing but zeroes.
And this, according to my co-blogger, is what happens next:
[T]he worst thing was actually poor Greg getting nailed in the face by a vendor’s bag-of-peanuts missile, but that was really just startling. He was fine and the guy behind us, for whom the peanuts were intended, felt so bad that he shared them.
So much happened in the hours and days afterward that I never really followed up on — if I may provide a straight line fit for Howard Stern — the nut sack that got me square in the face.
It hurt. It hurt plenty. It didn’t hurt for that long, but I was really pissed off about it. Not so pissed off for it to overwhelm the occasion (the same reason, I figure, that Piazza didn’t rush the mound in October 2000 despite dealing with his own missile issues), but I was definitely taken out of the NLCS moment.
Yes, the guy who ordered the peanuts, already one sheet to the wind and heading for second, did attempt a drunken makegood. He poured me two handfuls of nuts which I accepted because I felt I was entitled. I don’t like peanuts, not the kind you have to shell. The mindless shelling of peanuts by my neighbors is one of those baseball conventions I heartily despise. Every other game I go to, I look down at my feet and discover my shoes and my bag and perhaps my condensation-laden $4.50 soda cup is drowning in somebody else’s shells. I do not find it charming.
But I was damn sure accepting what was coming to me, maybe 10 nuts in all. I gave one to Jason. I clumsily opened another. I stuffed the other eight in my jacket pocket.
The night went on. Beltran went deep off Weaver. Glavine gave way to the bullpen. We won 2-0. By the time I got to my computer, I was giddily lost in the one-game lead we had taken on the Cardinals, lost enough to forget that there was an afterlife to the peanuts.
It was well after midnight when I walked in the front door and then into the kitchen. I reached into my left jacket pocket and found the handful of peanuts. I placed them on a paper towel on the counter, hung up my jacket and trotted upstairs to see if Stephanie could be at all stirred so I could tell her what a great time and great game it was. She could not. So I changed out of my remaining Mets gear, skipped downstairs and back to the kitchen for beverages to blog by.
That’s when I noticed there were only two peanuts on the counter. Didn’t take a village to figure out what happened to the remainder.
“AVERY!”
Yes, my adorable, playful, hellion of a kitten — just then learning and demonstrating the ability to leap onto high places with the greatest of ease — was attracted to the nuts. Like whatever Weaver tried to sneak past Beltran, they were eminently battable to him. That was Avery’s interest, turning them into toys. I worried for a moment that cats may have Bill Haverchuck-type allergies to peanuts, but I saw no evidence. Besides, if he was eating them, it would take him a while to claw the shell into submission (at which point he’d be chewing on the shell for a couple of hours). Avery, I surmised, batted them into AveryLand, the destination for everything that is tiny and left unattended.
I grabbed the extant nuts and hid them in a cabinet. Why I’m not sure. I didn’t want them. I didn’t think Stephanie would want them. The cats weren’t getting them. I threw ’em out the next day.
Fast-forward a bit. It’s Friday afternoon, October 27. The NLCS has come and gone, sadly. The World Series is in progress, St. Louis up three games to one. I’m in a weeklong funk, trying to take my and maybe your mind off what went wrong by conducting the final Flashback Friday quiz. I’m in my office sorting through the entries when I smell gas. It doesn’t seem to be coming from our apartment. I’m thinking the floor below. This is a co-op with some elderly residents and I’m concerned. I call the gas company.
Guy from Keyspan gets here. He pulls the oven out from the wall to check for a leak. There’s no leak. But you know what there are?
Peanuts. Three peanuts. (Also, a cadre of stuffed cat toys, the long-missing remote control for our XM radio, a pen and some paper clips.) That’s where those stupid nuts went. Didn’t have much time to dwell on it, though. We still didn’t know where the gas was coming from. It took a couple of hours of knocking on doors and gaining entry to apartments and other nonsense to turn off what needed to be turned off before I could get back to blogging and breathing easily.
Fast-forward again. It’s the week before last, somewhere around December 13, I think. I wander into the kitchen. And on the floor? Another peanut. No gas, no need to make emergency calls or anything. Just a nut. Avery has dragged another one to the fore.
It lies there. And it all comes rushing back.
The whap in the face comes back.
The Beltran homer comes back.
The feeling of invincibility at one-oh in the series comes back.
The orange Mr. Met jacket that I didn’t want to go anywhere without comes back.
The nightly ritual of parking at the station, boarding an LIRR train full of Mets fans and marching en masse with them to Shea comes back.
The hope that was more like certainty that we’d go up two-oh on Friday night comes back.
The early lead in Game Two comes back.
John Maine not holding the early lead in Game Two comes back.
Guillermo Mota’s inability to strike out Scott Spiezio and Shawn Green’s inability to catch a ball he got a glove on comes back.
Fucking So Taguchi comes back.
Trachsel comes back.
The momentarily reassuring offensive onslaught of Game Four comes back.
The icy shiv of Game Five comes back.
The faith vigil from the day of Game Six comes back.
The glow of Game Six — footstomping, rollicking, upbeat Game Six — comes back.
Billy Wagner’s near sky-high blow of Game Six comes back.
The relief of Billy Wagner not blowing Game Six comes back.
Game Seven’s restless preshow comes back.
Oliver comes back.
Endy comes back.
Suppan comes back.
Yadier Fucking Molina…
I don’t remember if Molina had finished rounding the bases or pumping his fists when the enormity of what had just transpired occurred to me. If it hadn’t, it couldn’t have been long after his teammates pounded him silly.
Tom Hanks as Jimmy Dugan famously admonished a weepy Evelyn Gardner that there’s no crying in baseball. Like fun there isn’t. I learned a long time ago that there’s loads of crying in baseball. There’s a certain respectability to it, provided you cry for the right reason.
When I was in fifth grade, I had a really bad day. First I couldn’t find my glove. Then I lost out on some classroom award for outstanding achievement in the field of excellence. I was bummed about the glove. I was really bummed about the award. A couple of the character cops in my class noticed I was a bit tearful over the whole megillah. Preparing to kick my ass for being the kind of kid who would cry over not winning an academic honor, I said, no, it’s not that. It’s my glove. I brought it in for gym and now it’s lost.
“It’s all right. He lost his glove.”
That was acceptable. A guy loses a piece of vital equipment, of course it’s a tragedy. But when the same guy’s glove is found a few minutes later and he’s still crying, we now rejoin the regularly scheduled ass-kicking, already in progress.
Anyway, I have cried over baseball. Gracefully. Poignantly. Appropriately. Afterwards.
That’s the key. It’s all well and good to reflect on a game or a season or a career and give yourself over to it. It may not be as manly as making bucks, getting exercise, working outside, but it’s in the ballpark of what men do.
Crying because you’re losing? I believe you get your ass kicked for doin’ something like that, man.
I find the Game One peanut that Avery has excavated from under the stove or microwave cart or wherever he hides the refrigerator magnets, and Yadier Fucking Molina comes back from Game Seven.
He’s thrilled. I’m not.
He’s joyful. I’m not.
He’s triumphant. I’m not.
They’re going to the World Series. We’re not.
As Rolen crossed the plate to make it 2-1 and Molina followed to make it 3-1, it was so goddamn over. This season, the one we’d waited six or seven or eighteen or twenty years for, depending on your count, was done. The superior Mets were second to someone at last. They hadn’t been the superior Mets since the night I brought the peanuts home, actually, having never held another series lead after Game One. And if you watched them religiously as I had, you sensed that the Mets had peaked in early September. They had been frighteningly ordinary as they went about whittling their magic number, attempting to clinch, running out the clock. Marvelous as the results may have been, they weren’t even all that crisp in sweeping the Dodgers. How many times had the Cardinals tied or passed the Mets in this series alone? The Mets of middle October were not nearly enough like the Mets of April and May and June and July and August. Not nearly enough.
Thus it shouldn’t have been shocking to realize it could all end at any moment. But it was. The numbers had been on our side, 97 regular-season wins versus 83. The aura had been on our side. The home-field advantage had been on our side. We had been on our side. The runup to Game Six was so faithful to the cause and it paid off. How could we not be rewarded? How could this end in defeat?
Our season, I was sure, had died. I commenced to beat the rush and started mourning immediately.
No sobbing. No wailing. These ninth inning tears were in a league of their own. I don’t think even Stephanie a few feet away noticed them. There were no accompanying noises coming out of me, save for maybe the furtive dab of a tissue. It had been mausoleum-silent since Molina left the yard. I didn’t want to make a big thing about my emotions, not to Stephanie, not to myself, not to the Mets. My conflict was multifaceted. I was dismayed and disgusted with myself as a grown-up fifth-grader for giving into this lachrymose instinct, dismayed and disgusted with myself for not waiting the inevitable five outs for ocular moisture, dismayed and disgusted that it was 3-1 Cardinals.
The whole night had left me puzzled about what to do. It was the only home playoff game for which I wasn’t at Shea. There it was easy to figure out my next move: when in doubt, stand and shout. In the living room, I felt stifled. I walked around most of the night inventing impromptu voodoo — solemnly rubbing the NY on whichever Mets cap was handy, for instance (the more Suppan pitched, the more I switched), or balancing a throw cushion behind my head between the insides of my elbows and the top sides of my shoulders. It was my very own yoke of offensive futility.
I don’t think the crying lasted all that long, probably for what remained of the top of the ninth. Ronnie Belliard and John Rodriguez went out. I dried up. There was still a bottom of the ninth to be played. I made it clear to my brain that these Mets were capable of two to tie, three to win.
My brain understood even if my heart wasn’t really listening.
Then Valentin and Chavez single and Wainwright is maybe Schiraldi and I lost faith approximately 19 years and 51 weeks earlier and boy was I delightedly wrong then and now…what was I crying about anyway? I wasn’t crying. I was yelling C’MON CLIFF!
It seemed too good to be true that we could turn this thing around like we did with Buckner. You can’t be thinking Buckner if you ever want to have anything like it again. I wasn’t thinking Buckner when Mookie stepped in against Stanley. I wasn’t thinking so much as just hoping. That was a long time ago. I’d seen too much in the intervening two decades to count on my brain acting enough the ingénue to allow me to be surprised by anything the Mets might do.
Cliff striking out comes back.
Jose lining not hard enough, not soft enough to Edmonds comes back.
Stephanie leaving the living room and barricading herself in the upstairs bathroom because she can’t take it anymore comes back.
Lo Duca walking to fill the bases comes back.
Hernandez pinch-running comes back.
Beltran comes up.
Nuts.
I suppose it’s fashionable to dwell on that called strike three, The Look Seen ‘Round The World. We were down two in the bottom of the ninth. All we wanted was a chance to score two runs. Could there have been a better chance? Even with the two wasted outs between Chavez’s single and Lo Duca’s walk, who wouldn’t have, in the parlance of afternoon sports talk radio, signed for Beltran up against some rookie with the postseason on the line? Carlos Beltran built a fortune by cleaning up in these situations, right in this month, October. He earned a good bit of it in Game One and Game Four. Beltran versus Wainwright, bases loaded, down two, two out? After Yadier Fucking Molina, I would have signed for it in blood.
Yet I don’t come back to Beltran. The pitch was too hellacious to do a lot about. Do you really ask a disciplined Major League hitter to abandon the eye that got him the mansion in which he lives today to swing at something that appears to him to be breaking inside? I mean you could and maybe you should, but it was not unreasonable for Beltran to take an unhittable pitch. By definition, unhittable pitches aren’t strikes. So he got it wrong. So we lost. It was the living, breathing embodiment of whaddayagonnado?
Ultimately, I don’t come back to Beltran because it was so surprising that it got to him. After Molina, how did the Mets manage to send up six batters anyway? They were dead! 2006 was dead! I’d already loosened the waterworks, called the funeral home and was picking out a black armband. They lived three batters longer than I would have imagined ten minutes earlier. I’m disappointed he didn’t connect but, I dunno, I’m not that mad that he didn’t swing.
Besides, what earthly business does a team that loads the bases right after a catch like Endy’s and doesn’t score have to believe they can save themselves at the very last turn? Like I said, these Mets of October had already shown themselves to be something less than the Mets of months prior. We asked them to turn back the clock. They didn’t. As a result, not a single one of us has ripped open a Christmas, Chanukah, Kwanzaa or Winter Solstice gift to find a WORLD CHAMPION METS sweatshirt or something else that would have fit oh so perfectly.
Ifs.
Buts.
We didn’t come back.
I’ve accepted it.
I’ll never be over it.
Not completely.
Not really.
If precedent (’73/’88/’99/’00) provides a template, not ever.
Whaddayagonnado?
All that came back courtesy of Avery and the rogue peanut. Stupid cat.
But don’t blame him for what he found underneath his own version of the hot stove league or me for revisiting this bitter end, because I come back to you with these as my definitive and, I suppose, final words on 2006 while it’s still this year:
Fuckin’ A. We had a great season.
I still wouldn’t trade it for anything short of something slightly better — and something slightly better than a divisional romp, a first-round knockout and a seventh-game staredown that winds up no more than feet, perhaps inches, from Detroit doesn’t come along very often.
Maybe I’m just a the-glass-is-3/7ths-full kind of fan, but when I saw that peanut, what really came back to stay was not the sorrow of a tepid final few innings, but the glow from a season in the sun. That peanut said Shea Stadium. It said orange Mr. Met jacket. It said excitement and gratification and faith by the busload. It said great times and great games and great friends, the kind of baseball memories you crave in the cold of a December night, the kind you don’t expect to discover amid the flotsam of what the cat dragged in.
It said 2006, a Mets year that — regardless of its finish — deserves to be remembered and remembered well by each and every one of us. I will surely remember it that way.
And I don’t even like peanuts, not the kind you have to shell.
by Greg Prince on 24 December 2006 11:36 pm It's not exactly the Christmas Eve news to suit anybody who said all they wanted under the tree was Barry Zito, but the Brewers have signed Jeff Suppan. Many years, insane money, OK pitcher who had a couple of good games when it counted.
This means for us, besides not having Jeff Suppan (and not having to contort myself to root for a guy I wanted no part of), that Barry Zito stands alone as the pitching prize on the market. Mark Mulder's still floating about, but word is he won't be ready for the season to start and he's not a New York or Rick Peterson guy.
So, what happens next? Do we throw our first five years of CitiBucks at Zito in hopes of luring him away from his lifelong dream of becoming a Texa$ Ranger? Or do we set a price, stand by it and let the chips fall where they may because even if he's twice the pitcher Suppan is, it will take more than twice Suppan's $42 mil over four years to secure him?
In Love Actually it was said that at Christmas you tell the truth. In that spirit, I have to be honest: I don't really want Barry Zito all that badly. Not for bankbreaking numbers and, in a touch of psychobabble, not on principle.
It has not so much to do with him as it does us and me. I don't really like us being the fans who expect our management to ante up above all others at this time of year just because we can. I don't want to sit in expectation that “we're the Mets, we buy who we want.” It was necessary to loosen the pursestrings in the previous two winters, necessary and wise given the players available and where we stood. But just paying and paying to outbid a joke like Tom Hicks because we're the big, bad team from New York? It doesn't rub me the right way. Maybe if I felt more confident in Zito's long-term prospects I'd jump on the “it's not my money” express, but that's secondary at the moment. I just don't like the Mets operating like…well, I'm not going to name names, but I'd just as soon we go after the guys we really and truly need.
I still trust our general manager to figure something out if we don't wind up with the main guy. I like the idea that Omar Minaya will think of something besides cash. And I like the New York Mets going with their young pitchers because that's what the New York Mets do. If we're sitting here in six months slapping our collective palms to our collective forehead because nobody can go five innings, well, I'm an idiot.
Besides, if he wanted to be here, he'd be here by now.
by Greg Prince on 24 December 2006 11:36 pm It's not exactly the Christmas Eve news to suit anybody who said all they wanted under the tree was Barry Zito, but the Brewers have signed Jeff Suppan. Many years, insane money, OK pitcher who had a couple of good games when it counted.
This means for us, besides not having Jeff Suppan (and not having to contort myself to root for a guy I wanted no part of), that Barry Zito stands alone as the pitching prize on the market. Mark Mulder's still floating about, but word is he won't be ready for the season to start and he's not a New York or Rick Peterson guy.
So, what happens next? Do we throw our first five years of CitiBucks at Zito in hopes of luring him away from his lifelong dream of becoming a Texa$ Ranger? Or do we set a price, stand by it and let the chips fall where they may because even if he's twice the pitcher Suppan is, it will take more than twice Suppan's $42 mil over four years to secure him?
In Love Actually it was said that at Christmas you tell the truth. In that spirit, I have to be honest: I don't really want Barry Zito all that badly. Not for bankbreaking numbers and, in a touch of psychobabble, not on principle.
It has not so much to do with him as it does us and me. I don't really like us being the fans who expect our management to ante up above all others at this time of year just because we can. I don't want to sit in expectation that “we're the Mets, we buy who we want.” It was necessary to loosen the pursestrings in the previous two winters, necessary and wise given the players available and where we stood. But just paying and paying to outbid a joke like Tom Hicks because we're the big, bad team from New York? It doesn't rub me the right way. Maybe if I felt more confident in Zito's long-term prospects I'd jump on the “it's not my money” express, but that's secondary at the moment. I just don't like the Mets operating like…well, I'm not going to name names, but I'd just as soon we go after the guys we really and truly need.
I still trust our general manager to figure something out if we don't wind up with the main guy. I like the idea that Omar Minaya will think of something besides cash. And I like the New York Mets going with their young pitchers because that's what the New York Mets do. If we're sitting here in six months slapping our collective palms to our collective forehead because nobody can go five innings, well, I'm an idiot.
Besides, if he wanted to be here, he'd be here by now.
by Greg Prince on 23 December 2006 11:22 pm And in the best sports news of any kind since October 18, the University of South Florida Bulls today captured their very first bowl victory, 24-7, over the East Carolina University Pirates in the inaugural PapaJohns.com Bowl in Birmingham, Alabama.
Like you hadn’t already planned your Saturday around that.
Wherever your collegiate loyalties lie, even if they lie nowhere (unless they lie with those ECU shinkickers), won’t you join the USF Alumni Association chapter of Stephanie and me in a hearty round of what we used to shout on alternate sides of the Sun Dome?
SOUTH!
FLORIDA!
SOUTH!
FLORIDA!
SOUTH!
FLORIDA!
YOU! ESS! EFF!
YOU! ESS! EFF!
YOU! ESS! EFF!
Ahhh…
For those of you somehow unfamiliar with this heretofore untapped bastion of scholar-athleticism, the University of South Florida — USF to us, if not the sports media community at large (screw you, University of San Francisco) — has been in business for 50 years and just completed its first decade of college football. The Bulls/Golden Brahmans entered the top tier of play in 2002 and have been quietly successful as a Division I program. There’s been more quiet than success in North Tampa if you measure your standing in the sport by, say, Ohio State standards, but it’s only been a few years of competing at this level. You needn’t be an Oracle to understand that this piping hot triumph in the PapaJohns.com Bowl, one year after a misfire in the equally prestigious Meineke Car Care Bowl, is a saucy milestone…a tangy topping on a 9-4 season…a crunchy, crusty bite of pigskin pizza for those of us who intermittently bleed green and gold.
If you find this audible self-indulgently off-topic, know that ESPN2 assigned Gary Thorne play-by-play duties. He’s as pompous and clueless at college football as he was as a latter-day Metscaster on WPIX. In the first couple of minutes, he referred to USF as “underlooked” and left the South out of Florida (thus giving the hated Gators an extra game). He may have even said a museum at a church that is an icon of the civil rights movement celebrates segregation. That’s Gary Thorne, talking without thinking, whatever the sport.
But he couldn’t ruin this. A molasses-slow crew of Sun Belt Conference officials that kept this thing trudging from 1 until past 4:30 couldn’t ruin this. The inept Pirates hairline-fracturing our redshirt freshman quarterback sensation Matt Grothewith a kick in the shin couldn’t ruin this. The rush of ESPN2 to dump out of the postgame so it could kiss that horse’s ass of horse’s asses Bobby Knight couldn’t ruin this. Even the knowledge that we remain the most obscure 42,000-student school on the planet — bigger by half than it was during my early ’80s studies — couldn’t ruin this.
To be fair, USF is pretty obscure to me since I turned north on I-275 on April 29, 1985. As a Big East member, we’re on TV now and then, but I usually seem to miss it ’cause I don’t go out of my way to find it. My ability to drop a name like Matt Grothe surprises even myself. Alma mater is alma mater, however. USF’s greatest college athletics tradition may be apathy (the cameras revealed plenty of good seats were available in Birmingham) and I may throw every single fundraising appeal straight into the trash, but gosh darn it, we just won a bowl game. Until it happened, I wasn’t sure what sports outfit I identified with most when there are no Mets around.
SOUTH! FLORIDA! indeed.
by Greg Prince on 23 December 2006 11:22 pm And in the best sports news of any kind since October 18, the University of South Florida Bulls today captured their very first bowl victory, 24-7, over the East Carolina University Pirates in the inaugural PapaJohns.com Bowl in Birmingham, Alabama.
Like you hadn’t already planned your Saturday around that.
Wherever your collegiate loyalties lie, even if they lie nowhere (unless they lie with those ECU shinkickers), won’t you join the USF Alumni Association chapter of Stephanie and me in a hearty round of what we used to shout on alternate sides of the Sun Dome?
SOUTH!
FLORIDA!
SOUTH!
FLORIDA!
SOUTH!
FLORIDA!
YOU! ESS! EFF!
YOU! ESS! EFF!
YOU! ESS! EFF!
Ahhh…
For those of you somehow unfamiliar with this heretofore untapped bastion of scholar-athleticism, the University of South Florida — USF to us, if not the sports media community at large (screw you, University of San Francisco) — has been in business for 50 years and just completed its first decade of college football. The Bulls/Golden Brahmans entered the top tier of play in 2002 and have been quietly successful as a Division I program. There’s been more quiet than success in North Tampa if you measure your standing in the sport by, say, Ohio State standards, but it’s only been a few years of competing at this level. You needn’t be an Oracle to understand that this piping hot triumph in the PapaJohns.com Bowl, one year after a misfire in the equally prestigious Meineke Car Care Bowl, is a saucy milestone…a tangy topping on a 9-4 season…a crunchy, crusty bite of pigskin pizza for those of us who intermittently bleed green and gold.
If you find this audible self-indulgently off-topic, know that ESPN2 assigned Gary Thorne play-by-play duties. He’s as pompous and clueless at college football as he was as a latter-day Metscaster on WPIX. In the first couple of minutes, he referred to USF as “underlooked” and left the South out of Florida (thus giving the hated Gators an extra game). He may have even said a museum at a church that is an icon of the civil rights movement celebrates segregation. That’s Gary Thorne, talking without thinking, whatever the sport.
But he couldn’t ruin this. A molasses-slow crew of Sun Belt Conference officials that kept this thing trudging from 1 until past 4:30 couldn’t ruin this. The inept Pirates hairline-fracturing our redshirt freshman quarterback sensation Matt Grothe with a kick in the shin couldn’t ruin this. The rush of ESPN2 to dump out of the postgame so it could kiss that horse’s ass of horse’s asses Bobby Knight couldn’t ruin this. Even the knowledge that we remain the most obscure 42,000-student school on the planet — bigger by half than it was during my early ’80s studies — couldn’t ruin this.
To be fair, USF is pretty obscure to me since I turned north on I-275 on April 29, 1985. As a Big East member, we’re on TV now and then, but I usually seem to miss it ’cause I don’t go out of my way to find it. My ability to drop a name like Matt Grothe surprises even myself. Alma mater is alma mater, however. USF’s greatest college athletics tradition may be apathy (the cameras revealed plenty of good seats were available in Birmingham) and I may throw every single fundraising appeal straight into the trash, but gosh darn it, we just won a bowl game. Until it happened, I wasn’t sure what sports outfit I identified with most when there are no Mets around.
SOUTH! FLORIDA! indeed.
by Jason Fry on 21 December 2006 10:43 pm So I'm looking at Deadspin's roundup of October, and I can't help re-reading the triumphant recap of Game 7. (Hey, Will's a Cardinals fan; while I wish I were the one being gallant in victory, I don't begrudge him his happiness.)
Anyway, in looking through the comments about the post I found this one:
At least we know that Beltran will never get eaten by a T-Rex.
And I laughed. And am still laughing.
Perhaps the healing has finally begun….
by Jason Fry on 21 December 2006 10:43 pm So I'm looking at Deadspin's roundup of October, and I can't help re-reading the triumphant recap of Game 7. (Hey, Will's a Cardinals fan; while I wish I were the one being gallant in victory, I don't begrudge him his happiness.)
Anyway, in looking through the comments about the post I found this one:
At least we know that Beltran will never get eaten by a T-Rex.
And I laughed. And am still laughing.
Perhaps the healing has finally begun….
by Greg Prince on 19 December 2006 8:30 pm The doorbell rang at Barry Zito’s Southern California beach house. He padded over to let in the visitors he was expecting.
“Dude,” he said. “Are you Omar?”
It wasn’t Omar.
“Mister Zito?”
“That’s my name, bro. Don’t wear it out.”
Barry Zito peeked out the door.
“Dude, where’s Omar?”
“There’s no Omar here, Barry.”
“Dude, you’re wearing it out! And where is everybody?”
Barry Zito, the most coveted pitcher on the free agent market had been told by his agent, the ravenous and skilled Scott Boras, that he would be called on by the general manager of the New York Mets, Omar Minaya as well as their chief operating officer Jeff Wilpon, vice president Tony Bernazard and assistant GM John Ricco. All Barry remembered was “Omar,” because he considered it an unusual name.
“There’s nobody else here, Barry. Just me. But I do represent others just like me.”
“Dude. You look weird.”
By contemporary standards, it is fair to say the visitor did stand out, for he was not dressed in the style of a man of the 21st, 20th or 19th century. One would have to return to the late 1700s to see his kind of garb and not think it unusual.
“Barry, I’m Benjamin Franklin.”
“Who?”
“Benjamin Franklin…one of the founding fathers of this country!”
“Don’t know, man.”
“Inventor of the stove!”
“Uh…”
“Diplomat nonpareil!”
“Dude, I can’t be smoking that. They got drug testing!”
“Barry, my face is on the hundred-dollar bill.”
With that, Barry Zito perked up.
“All right! A hundred-million-dollar bill! My agent came through. Gimme!”
“Barry, there is no hundred-million-dol…remove your hands from my person at once or I shall throttle you unmercifully with my cane!”
“Sorry dude. I thought you were my payday.”
Benjamin Franklin was dismayed.
“See here, Barry. You will have my likeness, as many as a million of them in short order. A penny saved is a penny earned.”
“Dude! I’m totally there!”
“But Barry, you need to act in your best interest.”
“The agent’s doing that, man. I’m gonna get interest and everything. You sure you’re not a hundred-million-dollar bill? I’ve been waiting since like October to get one.”
“No, Barry, I’m not. I’m something more valuable. If a man empties his purse into his head, no one can take it from him.”
“A zillion-dollar bill? ‘Cause, dude, that would be awesome!”
“Barry, I’m here to help you grasp the wisdom you need to advance your career. He that is of the opinion money will do everything may well be suspected of doing everything for money.”
“Huh?”
“I’m here to help you get the best deal.”
“Cool! Hey, I don’t have to pay you a commission, too, do I?”
“Barry, my advice is invaluable. An investment in knowledge pays the best interest.”
“Huh?”
“It’s free.”
“Awesome! Where’s my money?”
Benjamin Franklin hadn’t felt so dismayed since the Continental Congress hesitated in declaring independency.
“Barry, this is about more than money. He does not possess wealth; it possesses him.”
“Man, you’re sure not an agent. My agent says we’re gonna get paid and I mean paid!”
“Is that what this is all about, Barry? You’re a free agent. You have an opportunity few men will ever have to chart your destiny for better or for worse and your sole concern is monetary? Money has never made man happy, nor will it, there is nothing in its nature to produce happiness. The more of it one has the more one wants.”
“Dude, where’s my money?”
“Barry, there’s plenty of money in Texas.”
“Texas?”
“Yes, Barry. Tom Hicks, the owner of the Rangers, will give you a king’s ransom to play in Texas. He who falls in love with himself will have no rivals.”
“Sweet! Where do I sign?”
“Oh, right here. I brought a contract, notarized and everything. Six years, $96 million. Just as Mister Hicks offered you earlier this month.”
“Tubular! Got a pen?”
“Only a quill. May I avail myself of your inkwell?”
“Dude?”
“My goodness. It appears we can’t sign you up for the Texas Rangers just yet until we find a proper signature implement. At least that gives us a chance to chat a little longer.”
“Dude, I want my money!”
“Anything else?”
“Huh?”
“I asked you a question, Barry. A simple one. Is there anything besides money that would make you happy? Many a man thinks he is buying pleasure, when he is really selling himself to it.”
“Dude, I don’t understand. The agent said…”
“Barry, you need to forget about your agent for a moment.”
“I can do that?”
“Barry, all your agent wants is for you to sign the most lucrative contract you are offered. There’s more to life, more to even baseball than that. Even peace may be purchased at too high a price.”
“There is?”
“Barry, what do you like about baseball?”
“I dunno.”
“Think.”
“Well…I like to win.”
“Barry, do you think you’d win in Texas?”
“I dunno.”
“Put another way, Barry, you’ve been in the American League for several years now. Do you ever remember Texas winning anything? The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”
“Uh…no?”
“No is correct.”
“Yeah, but dude, I could help them win! I’m Barry Zito. I’m like really good.”
“Your abilities are not in question, Barry. But do you remember who else has tried to help the Texas Rangers win? If a man could have half of his wishes, he would double his troubles.”
“Uh…no?”
“Do you remember a gentleman by the name of Alex Rodriguez?”
“Who?”
“A-Rod.”
“A-Rod, yeah! That dude used to be good. Whatever happened to him?”
“That’s not important, Barry. What matters is that the same Tom Hicks who wants to throw money at you once threw money at A-Rod and it didn’t work. He throws money at everybody and it never works. Texas is a terrible place for baseball. It’s too hot and not enough people care. By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.”
“Really dude?”
“I’m Benjamin Franklin, the inventor of the stove. Would I proffer anything but top-notch bromides?”
“Uh…no?”
“Barry, if it is your fondest desire to toil in the heat of Arlington in front of people whose interest in baseball wanes as Cowboy two-a-days approach and where the team is almost never seriously competitive, then you should sign with the Texas Rangers. Our necessities never equal our wants.”
“Dude, that sounds so not awesome.”
“Hmmm…”
“Dude, what should I do?”
“There is another option, Barry. Another way. Do not squander time for that is the stuff life is made of.”
“Tell me oh great spirit!”
“I didn’t say anything about being a spirit. I’m Benjamin Franklin!”
“Uh, sorry man. It’s December and all…”
“Barry, the New York Mets want you.”
“Yeah, I heard about them. They’re like coming here with that Omar guy.”
“Barry, you don’t need a visit from Omar Minaya.”
“And I’m supposed to get a call from like Tom Glavine or something.”
“Barry, you need not be courted like a belle choosing among suitors for a colonial cotillion. A man wrapped up in himself makes a very small bundle.”
“Dude?”
“Barry, you’re an adult. I hear good things about you, things that indicate you’re far more than the greedy, one-dimensional surfer/stoner stereotype some Mets fans have come to think of you as during this free agent season.”
“Dude!”
“The point is, Barry, you control your own destiny. The riches that you will collect are so far beyond the dreams of anyone that after a fashion, you will not be able to tell the difference between a six-year contract for $96 million or a more reasonable version from the Mets. If you desire many things, many things will seem few.”
“Dude, are the Mets gonna lowball me?”
“That is not a healthy outlook, Barry. Consider all you will reap by becoming a New York Met. Who is rich? He that rejoices in his portion.”
“Like?”
“Like playing on a contender. Your net worth to the world is usually determined by what remains after your bad habits are subtracted from your good ones.”
“Yeah, the Mets were in the playoffs last year, weren’t they?”
“They came very close to the World Series, Barry. He who waits upon fortune is never sure of dinner.”
“Closer than we did.”
“You’ll be supported by several young superstars who are signed well into the next decade.”
“Yeah, I remember those guys! Um, right?”
“Yes, David Wright is one of them. And you’ll be playing in New York.”
“Dude, I do not like that place. Their ballpark is a toilet and their fans bum me out.”
“No, Barry, do not let what you’ve seen create a confusion. You’re thinking of the other stadium in New York. This is the Mets.”
“Oh yeah. They have a nice place?”
“They will. And their fans will love you.”
“Dude, that would be so sweet, because in Oakland most of the time we have like no fans.
“That won’t be a problem in Queens. If you would be loved, love and be lovable.”
“Queens?”
“New York. The Mets.”
“Dude!”
“What’s more, Barry, New York is the virtual capital of the world. In fact, in my day, it was the capital of the newly formed United States!”
“Dude?”
“What I’m saying, Barry, is your opportunities as one whose interests extend across the arts…”
“Arts? You mean like Howe?”
“I mean music.”
“Oh. I’m into that, totally!”
“Everything is going on in New York, Barry. Outstanding National League baseball, outstanding entertainment industry, just…outstanding! The United States Constitution doesn’t guarantee happiness, only the pursuit of it. You have to catch up with it yourself.”
“But I gotta take less money?”
“Barry, are you worth $16 million a year? A good conscience is a continual Christmas.”
“Dude, I’m worth whatever they pay me.”
“Did it occur to you that Mister Hicks wanted to pay you so much to make you forget you’d be stuck in Texas?Experience is a dear teacher, but fools will learn at no other.”
“Dude, that makes so much sense!”
“If the Mets offer you a little less, it’s only in the name of fiscal sanity and because pitching for them will pay off in so many other ways. If you know how to spend less than you get, you have the philosopher’s stone. ”
“But I gotta…”
“Gotta what, Barry? Gotta play one team off against another? Gotta drive up the price? Gotta string this out well into the new year? Never confuse motion with action.”
“Don’t I?”
“You don’t have to do anything of the sort. You’re Barry Zito. You can make the right move right away. You don’t need romancing and massaging. You need a Mets uniform shirt, a spot in their winter caravan and a plane ticket to Port St. Lucie. It is a grand mistake to think of being great without goodness and I pronounce it as certain that there was never a truly great man that was not at the same time truly virtuous.”
“Who’s Lucy?”
“Spring training.”
“Dude, it’s December.”
“February is practically anon. One today is worth two tomorrows.”
“Dude, that is so true!”
“How about it, Barry? Are you ready to do the wise thing? Never leave that till tomorrow which you can do today.”
“Dude, I am so stoked!”
Benjamin Franklin fished into his pockets.
“It appears I have discovered my inkwell and another contract, one from the Mets. We can take care of business right now if you like. I assure you this is a more than fair proposition. Time is money.”
“Dude!”
Barry Zito grabbed the quill and dipped it in ink. He was about to sign when the doorbell rang again.
“Dude,” Barry Zito told Benjamin Franklin. “I gotta get that. It’s my agent. Don’t worry, though. Scott’s totally cool that I don’t just sign for the most money. I’ll just let him in and I’m like sure we can sign the Mets’ deal even if it’s for way less than Texas’s.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Benjamin Franklin said to himself as he stuffed the quill, the well and the Mets contract back into his pockets and prepared to return to the 18th century. “In this world, nothing can be said to be certain, except death and Scott Boras.”
by Greg Prince on 19 December 2006 8:30 pm The doorbell rang at Barry Zito's Southern California beach house. He padded over to let in the visitors he was expecting.
“Dude,” he said. “Are you Omar?”
It wasn't Omar.
“Mister Zito?”
“That's my name, bro. Don't wear it out.”
Barry Zito peeked out the door.
“Dude, where's Omar?”
“There's no Omar here, Barry.”
“Dude, you're wearing it out! And where is everybody?”
Barry Zito, the most coveted pitcher on the free agent market had been told by his agent, the ravenous and skilled Scott Boras, that he would be called on by the general manager of the New York Mets, Omar Minaya as well as their chief operating officer Jeff Wilpon, vice president Tony Bernazard and assistant GM John Ricco. All Barry remembered was “Omar,” because he considered it an unusual name.
“There's nobody else here, Barry. Just me. But I do represent others just like me.”
“Dude. You look weird.”
By contemporary standards, it is fair to say the visitor did stand out, for he was not dressed in the style of a man of the 21st, 20th or 19th century. One would have to return to the late 1700s to see his kind of garb and not think it unusual.
“Barry, I'm Benjamin Franklin.”
“Who?”
“Benjamin Franklin…one of the founding fathers of this country!”
“Don't know, man.”
“Inventor of the stove!”
“Uh…”
“Diplomat nonpareil!”
“Dude, I can't be smoking that. They got drug testing!”
“Barry, my face is on the hundred-dollar bill.”
With that, Barry Zito perked up.
“All right! A hundred-million-dollar bill! My agent came through. Gimme!”
“Barry, there is no hundred-million-dol…remove your hands from my person at once or I shall throttle you unmercifully with my cane!”
“Sorry dude. I thought you were my payday.”
Benjamin Franklin was dismayed.
“See here, Barry. You will have my likeness, as many as a million of them in short order. A penny saved is a penny earned.”
“Dude! I'm totally there!”
“But Barry, you need to act in your best interest.”
“The agent's doing that, man. I'm gonna get interest and everything. You sure you're not a hundred-million-dollar bill? I've been waiting since like October to get one.”
“No, Barry, I'm not. I'm something more valuable. If a man empties his purse into his head, no one can take it from him.”
“A zillion-dollar bill? 'Cause, dude, that would be awesome!”
“Barry, I'm here to help you grasp the wisdom you need to advance your career. He that is of the opinion money will do everything may well be suspected of doing everything for money.”
“Huh?”
“I'm here to help you get the best deal.”
“Cool! Hey, I don't have to pay you a commission, too, do I?”
“Barry, my advice is invaluable. An investment in knowledge pays the best interest.”
“Huh?”
“It's free.”
“Awesome! Where's my money?”
Benjamin Franklin hadn't felt so dismayed since the Continental Congress hesitated in declaring independency.
“Barry, this is about more than money. He does not possess wealth; it possesses him.”
“Man, you're sure not an agent. My agent says we're gonna get paid and I mean paid!”
“Is that what this is all about, Barry? You're a free agent. You have an opportunity few men will ever have to chart your destiny for better or for worse and your sole concern is monetary? Money has never made man happy, nor will it, there is nothing in its nature to produce happiness. The more of it one has the more one wants.”
“Dude, where's my money?”
“Barry, there's plenty of money in Texas.”
“Texas?”
“Yes, Barry. Tom Hicks, the owner of the Rangers, will give you a king's ransom to play in Texas. He who falls in love with himself will have no rivals.”
“Sweet! Where do I sign?”
“Oh, right here. I brought a contract, notarized and everything. Six years, $96 million. Just as Mister Hicks offered you earlier this month.”
“Tubular! Got a pen?”
“Only a quill. May I avail myself of your inkwell?”
“Dude?”
“My goodness. It appears we can't sign you up for the Texas Rangers just yet until we find a proper signature implement. At least that gives us a chance to chat a little longer.”
“Dude, I want my money!”
“Anything else?”
“Huh?”
“I asked you a question, Barry. A simple one. Is there anything besides money that would make you happy? Many a man thinks he is buying pleasure, when he is really selling himself to it.”
“Dude, I don't understand. The agent said…”
“Barry, you need to forget about your agent for a moment.”
“I can do that?”
“Barry, all your agent wants is for you to sign the most lucrative contract you are offered. There's more to life, more to even baseball than that. Even peace may be purchased at too high a price.”
“There is?”
“Barry, what do you like about baseball?”
“I dunno.”
“Think.”
“Well…I like to win.”
“Barry, do you think you'd win in Texas?”
“I dunno.”
“Put another way, Barry, you've been in the American League for several years now. Do you ever remember Texas winning anything? The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results.”
“Uh…no?”
“No is correct.”
“Yeah, but dude, I could help them win! I'm Barry Zito. I'm like really good.”
“Your abilities are not in question, Barry. But do you remember who else has tried to help the Texas Rangers win? If a man could have half of his wishes, he would double his troubles.”
“Uh…no?”
“Do you remember a gentleman by the name of Alex Rodriguez?”
“Who?”
“A-Rod.”
“A-Rod, yeah! That dude used to be good. Whatever happened to him?”
“That's not important, Barry. What matters is that the same Tom Hicks who wants to throw money at you once threw money at A-Rod and it didn't work. He throws money at everybody and it never works. Texas is a terrible place for baseball. It's too hot and not enough people care. By failing to prepare, you are preparing to fail.”
“Really dude?”
“I'm Benjamin Franklin, the inventor of the stove. Would I proffer anything but top-notch bromides?”
“Uh…no?”
“Barry, if it is your fondest desire to toil in the heat of Arlington in front of people whose interest in baseball wanes as Cowboy two-a-days approach and where the team is almost never seriously competitive, then you should sign with the Texas Rangers. Our necessities never equal our wants.”
“Dude, that sounds so not awesome.”
“Hmmm…”
“Dude, what should I do?”
“There is another option, Barry. Another way. Do not squander time for that is the stuff life is made of.”
“Tell me oh great spirit!”
“I didn't say anything about being a spirit. I'm Benjamin Franklin!”
“Uh, sorry man. It's December and all…”
“Barry, the New York Mets want you.”
“Yeah, I heard about them. They're like coming here with that Omar guy.”
“Barry, you don't need a visit from Omar Minaya.”
“And I'm supposed to get a call from like Tom Glavine or something.”
“Barry, you need not be courted like a belle choosing among suitors for a colonial cotillion. A man wrapped up in himself makes a very small bundle.”
“Dude?”
“Barry, you're an adult. I hear good things about you, things that indicate you're far more than the greedy, one-dimensional surfer/stoner stereotype some Mets fans have come to think of you as during this free agent season.”
“Dude!”
“The point is, Barry, you control your own destiny. The riches that you will collect are so far beyond the dreams of anyone that after a fashion, you will not be able to tell the difference between a six-year contract for $96 million or a more reasonable version from the Mets. If you desire many things, many things will seem few.”
“Dude, are the Mets gonna lowball me?”
“That is not a healthy outlook, Barry. Consider all you will reap by becoming a New York Met. Who is rich? He that rejoices in his portion.”
“Like?”
“Like playing on a contender. Your net worth to the world is usually determined by what remains after your bad habits are subtracted from your good ones.”
“Yeah, the Mets were in the playoffs last year, weren't they?”
“They came very close to the World Series, Barry. He who waits upon fortune is never sure of dinner.”
“Closer than we did.”
“You'll be supported by several young superstars who are signed well into the next decade.”
“Yeah, I remember those guys! Um, right?”
“Yes, David Wright is one of them. And you'll be playing in New York.”
“Dude, I do not like that place. Their ballpark is a toilet and their fans bum me out.”
“No, Barry, do not let what you've seen create a confusion. You're thinking of the other stadium in New York. This is the Mets.”
“Oh yeah. They have a nice place?”
“They will. And their fans will love you.”
“Dude, that would be so sweet, because in Oakland most of the time we have like no fans.
“That won't be a problem in Queens. If you would be loved, love and be lovable.”
“Queens?”
“New York. The Mets.”
“Dude!”
“What's more, Barry, New York is the virtual capital of the world. In fact, in my day, it was the capital of the newly formed United States!”
“Dude?”
“What I'm saying, Barry, is your opportunities as one whose interests extend across the arts…”
“Arts? You mean like Howe?”
“I mean music.”
“Oh. I'm into that, totally!”
“Everything is going on in New York, Barry. Outstanding National League baseball, outstanding entertainment industry, just…outstanding! The United States Constitution doesn't guarantee happiness, only the pursuit of it. You have to catch up with it yourself.”
“But I gotta take less money?”
“Barry, are you worth $16 million a year? A good conscience is a continual Christmas.”
“Dude, I'm worth whatever they pay me.”
“Did it occur to you that Mister Hicks wanted to pay you so much to make you forget you'd be stuck in Texas? Experience is a dear teacher, but fools will learn at no other.”
“Dude, that makes so much sense!”
“If the Mets offer you a little less, it's only in the name of fiscal sanity and because pitching for them will pay off in so many other ways. If you know how to spend less than you get, you have the philosopher's stone. ”
“But I gotta…”
“Gotta what, Barry? Gotta play one team off against another? Gotta drive up the price? Gotta string this out well into the new year? Never confuse motion with action.”
“Don't I?”
“You don't have to do anything of the sort. You're Barry Zito. You can make the right move right away. You don't need romancing and massaging. You need a Mets uniform shirt, a spot in their winter caravan and a plane ticket to Port St. Lucie. It is a grand mistake to think of being great without goodness and I pronounce it as certain that there was never a truly great man that was not at the same time truly virtuous.”
“Who's Lucy?”
“Spring training.”
“Dude, it's December.”
“February is practically anon. One today is worth two tomorrows.”
“Dude, that is so true!”
“How about it, Barry? Are you ready to do the wise thing? Never leave that till tomorrow which you can do today.”
“Dude, I am so stoked!”
Benjamin Franklin fished into his pockets.
“It appears I have discovered my inkwell and another contract, one from the Mets. We can take care of business right now if you like. I assure you this is a more than fair proposition. Time is money.”
“Dude!”
Barry Zito grabbed the quill and dipped it in ink. He was about to sign when the doorbell rang again.
“Dude,” Barry Zito told Benjamin Franklin. “I gotta get that. It's my agent. Don't worry, though. Scott's totally cool that I don't just sign for the most money. I'll just let him in and I'm like sure we can sign the Mets' deal even if it's for way less than Texas's.”
“Sweet Jesus,” Benjamin Franklin said to himself as he stuffed the quill, the well and the Mets contract back into his pockets and prepared to return to the 18th century. “In this world, nothing can be said to be certain, except death and Scott Boras.”
by Greg Prince on 19 December 2006 8:09 pm 
Ross Chapman can skip arithmetic class with our blessing. He knows all the important numbers, as evidenced by his sharp FAFIF t-shirt. Ross attends elementary school in Central Jersey, where his mom reports he shows off his 37 14 41 and 42 every chance he gets.
Way to go, Ross. Keep it up and maybe they’ll make it the school uniform.
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