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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 19 October 2006 12:57 pm As we endeavor to complete our 62nd two-game winning streak — and execute our 104th one-game winning streak — of 2006, I think I’ve finally figured out the deal with this team, specifically why every win has us staking out prime viewing spots on Lower Broadway and every loss has us dissecting traffic patterns on the Whitestone Bridge (should I jump or just lie down in the center lane?).
When these Mets win, they look so damn unbeatable that you can’t imagine they’ll ever lose. And when these Mets lose, they look so hopeless, you can’t fathom that they’ll ever win.
For eight innings of Game Six, it seemed impossible that our lovable juggernaut of pitching, defense, timely hitting, crafty baserunning and leadoff homers could technically still be playing its final ball of the year. Of course we were going to win this sixth game. Of course there was going to be a seventh game. I stopped my of courses there out of respect for protocol, but I could connect the dots.
In the top of the ninth, I realized the season could very well be over in a matter of seconds — and no wonder.
We suck!
We can’t get anybody out!
Why didn’t we score more runs?
Why did we sign this guy for…how many MORE years are we STUCK with him?
COME ON BILLY!!!
I never stood eight innings at Shea Stadium only to end the ninth slumped in my seat as a Met win was secured. I couldn’t stand and I couldn’t cheer. After spending the preceding 24 hours doing my Metsian best to Believe, I couldn’t believe we actually won.
A hundred fifty dollars for that?
Good deal.
Prorated for each Cardinal out and Met run, each of our tickets cost $4.84 per definitively happy element, a bargain at any price if you consider only the contextual thrill of victory and ignore the agony of debit. I’m trying to overlook that earlier in this decade, I paid five bucks to sit in the very same upper deck for an entire game, but it’s hard to argue that that version of Met baseball and this version Met baseball are anything but distant relations.
Closer in resemblance across the pages of our family album are these Mets and my favorite Mets, those of 1999. I thought of them at Woodside around midnight as I awaited the Babylon train. The ’99 team took a more circuitous route to the postseason than this one but it got exactly as far entering last night. They fought their way to a Game Six of an NLCS, still the most incredible baseball game I ever watched, representing both the climax and denouement of the most intense month I’ve ever been a part of as a baseball fan. It took me more than five years to stop thinking about that season’s horrifyingly wonderful stretch drive and that postseason’s dips, climbs and ultimate drop, especially that Game Six, in a continually recurring loop. My life felt defined by the 1999 Mets until Omar and Willie gave me a present which to fully concern myself.
I never got over not so much Kenny Rogers and Ball Four to Andruw Jones, but the lack of a Game Seven in 1999 and what that would have wrought. Rick Reed was going to best Tom Glavine, and the Mets were going to stick it to the Yankees immediately thereafter…I can’t prove it but I know it. 2000 was finer and dandier in terms of bottom-line success, but it never eased the justmissiveness of ’99. Every grim Met thing that followed 2000 served to enlarge the shadow cast by the Game Seven that was never played.
Last night we won Game Six. It wasn’t an epic out of 1999. There was no comeback from 0-5 or 3-7 or a stunning laser to right-center by one future Hall of Famer off another future Hall of Famer (though I’m beginning to like Jose’s chances). This duel did not require a tenth or eleventh inning and it steered blessedly clear of Turner Field. It wasn’t nearly as awesome an NLCS Game Six as the last NLCS Game Six we were in. But oh boy was it better.
Seven years after we missed Game Seven, I came home after we finally made it there. The most recent message in my e-mail queue (filled otherwise with Wagnerian groans) was an invitation from an online wine seller to purchase a new release: Freemark Abbey Bosche Cabernet Sauvignon. I sent one friend one tiny bottle of champagne one time (to replace the one he had confiscated somewhere one month ago) and now I’m on their list. I delete these e-mails as a matter of course, but this time I did a double take.
The vintage they were selling was 1999.
Well, I’m not buying the wine (at $150 a playoff pop, I’m barely buying diet cola), but this morning I figuratively toast my Boys of another September and October, in many ways my Boys of Forever — my Fonzie, my Oly, my Mike, my Robin, my Melvin, my Benny, my Reeder, my stubbornly swinging Shawon, my unstoppable Tank, all of my 1999 Mets up to if not quite encompassing Mr. Rogers since I don’t want to get too cozy with him just in case we meet again in the very, very near future. I’m remembering the thrills you gave me and the Game Seven you tried so hard to include in that package but couldn’t.
We’ve got that Game Seven now. Exactly seven year later, I can finally move on. As can these Mets any hour now. And they can.
Here’s to us then. Here’s to us tonight.
As ever in Flushing, our Faith endures.
by Jason Fry on 19 October 2006 6:04 am Wow.
It's possible I've never been so tired.
The email came this morning: Two tickets for tonight's game. $150 each. By the time it got to me it was a decent-length chain of emails, no guarantee the tickets were even still around. And then there was that shocking price tag.
But still.
Emily said she thought I should go. (I love my wife.) So I emailed Greg. I'll go if you go, I waffled pathetically. Then I emailed my pal Bryan in Chicago, whose counsel is always wise. “If they lose,” he advised, “it's only money. If they win, and you're not there to see it, you'll regret it for a long, long time.”
Only a lot of money, but I found myself nodding as I read that. If they win, I want to be there to see it. If they lose, well, it'll hurt like hell. But the terror of losing already hurts pretty bad. And between this year and this crazy blog, don't I want to see this all the way through? Shouldn't I see them out, if that's what the baseball gods have decreed?
So Greg and I bullied each other into going without admitting that was what we were doing, and a midtown meeting and three Ben Franklins later, there we were around 7:45 at Gate E. Same familiar place of umpteen games over the years, except everything was different, from the arty tickets to the extra security to the hordes of baying fans to the fear and hope and bravado and defiance flying around the stadium.
I don't think I've had better neighbors at a big game. Everybody knew the lineups up and down, knew what to cheer for and paid attention throughout. Our seatmates were intense, funny and ready to high-five everyone in sight whenever called for. Which, happily, was a lot. John Maine pitched the game of his young life, with a huge crowd carrying him along whenever it looked like he might falter. Reyes' opening shot over the wall got the fans going, and they stayed high-decibel all the way to Lo Duca's two badly needed insurance runs. Which were just enough to survive Wagner's rather terrifying high-wire act. (Goddamn, Billy.)
The terror was never gone until Eckstein's grounder wound up safely in Delgado's glove. Between Wagner and the random assassins up and down the Cardinals' order and the sheer fickleness of postseason baseball, 1-0 and 2-0 and 4-0 felt like the decimal point needed to be slid over to the left. And when I wasn't chattering nervously at Greg, I found myself doing something rather strange for me: I joined in each and every silly Shea entertainment and scoreboard exhortation. I clap, clap, clapped my hands when ordered to do so. I changed to the scoreboard's “Jose Jose Jose” cadence even though we were doing just fine singing by ourselves. I went to the window, opened it, stuck my head out and yelled “LET'S GO METS!” I cheered for the Kiss Cam. I sang the anthem and “God Bless America” and “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” and “Meet the Mets” and “Sweet Caroline” and “Enter Sandman.” I even offered the Pepsi Party Patrol a golf clap. If they'd had the pizza-delivery race, I would have cheered for the red truck. (OK, I ignored “Lazy Mary.” Even I have my limits.) I usually pay no attention to whatever Diamondvision is doing between innings, but if this were the last night of baseball at Shea in 2006, I was going to soak up every fun, terrifying, triumphant, goofy bit of it.
But of course it wouldn't be the last night of baseball at Shea in 2006. Because half of the hard business has been done. Now, it's Oliver Perez and a cast of everybody else, against Jeff Suppan, for all the marbles. Game 7. Winner goes to Detroit. Loser goes home.
None of us knows what will happen, except all of us know this: It's another night of October baseball. Another day of tension, of worrying and waiting and wondering, followed by three or four hours of emotion blasting out of a fire hose, followed by being staggeringly exhausted but too keyed up to sleep. To be repeated as long as you're allowed to do so.
For two weeks I've stumbled through my job, through mornings getting the kid to school, doing everything on autopilot until 8:19 comes within view. My eyeballs hurt, I'm grinding my teeth, my ears are ringing, and my voice is completely shredded, reduced to something between a croak and a bark. And the second you catch yourself wondering if you can do it anymore is the same second you find yourself desperately hoping, pleading and beseeching to be allowed another day of it.
Well, we got the day. And now the thing we want most is to be given another week of stumbling and staggering and worrying and waiting.
Sleep? Being able to talk? Being a decent employee? Dude. C'mon. That's what November's for.
by Jason Fry on 19 October 2006 6:04 am Wow.
It’s possible I’ve never been so tired.
The email came this morning: Two tickets for tonight’s game. $150 each. By the time it got to me it was a decent-length chain of emails, no guarantee the tickets were even still around. And then there was that shocking price tag.
But still.
Emily said she thought I should go. (I love my wife.) So I emailed Greg. I’ll go if you go, I waffled pathetically. Then I emailed my pal Bryan in Chicago, whose counsel is always wise. “If they lose,” he advised, “it’s only money. If they win, and you’re not there to see it, you’ll regret it for a long, long time.”
Only a lot of money, but I found myself nodding as I read that. If they win, I want to be there to see it. If they lose, well, it’ll hurt like hell. But the terror of losing already hurts pretty bad. And between this year and this crazy blog, don’t I want to see this all the way through? Shouldn’t I see them out, if that’s what the baseball gods have decreed?
So Greg and I bullied each other into going without admitting that was what we were doing, and a midtown meeting and three Ben Franklins later, there we were around 7:45 at Gate E. Same familiar place of umpteen games over the years, except everything was different, from the arty tickets to the extra security to the hordes of baying fans to the fear and hope and bravado and defiance flying around the stadium.
I don’t think I’ve had better neighbors at a big game. Everybody knew the lineups up and down, knew what to cheer for and paid attention throughout. Our seatmates were intense, funny and ready to high-five everyone in sight whenever called for. Which, happily, was a lot. John Maine pitched the game of his young life, with a huge crowd carrying him along whenever it looked like he might falter. Reyes’ opening shot over the wall got the fans going, and they stayed high-decibel all the way to Lo Duca’s two badly needed insurance runs. Which were just enough to survive Wagner’s rather terrifying high-wire act. (Goddamn, Billy.)
The terror was never gone until Eckstein’s grounder wound up safely in Delgado’s glove. Between Wagner and the random assassins up and down the Cardinals’ order and the sheer fickleness of postseason baseball, 1-0 and 2-0 and 4-0 felt like the decimal point needed to be slid over to the left. And when I wasn’t chattering nervously at Greg, I found myself doing something rather strange for me: I joined in each and every silly Shea entertainment and scoreboard exhortation. I clap, clap, clapped my hands when ordered to do so. I changed to the scoreboard’s “Jose Jose Jose” cadence even though we were doing just fine singing by ourselves. I went to the window, opened it, stuck my head out and yelled “LET’S GO METS!” I cheered for the Kiss Cam. I sang the anthem and “God Bless America” and “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” and “Meet the Mets” and “Sweet Caroline” and “Enter Sandman.” I even offered the Pepsi Party Patrol a golf clap. If they’d had the pizza-delivery race, I would have cheered for the red truck. (OK, I ignored “Lazy Mary.” Even I have my limits.) I usually pay no attention to whatever Diamondvision is doing between innings, but if this were the last night of baseball at Shea in 2006, I was going to soak up every fun, terrifying, triumphant, goofy bit of it.
But of course it wouldn’t be the last night of baseball at Shea in 2006. Because half of the hard business has been done. Now, it’s Oliver Perez and a cast of everybody else, against Jeff Suppan, for all the marbles. Game 7. Winner goes to Detroit. Loser goes home.
None of us knows what will happen, except all of us know this: It’s another night of October baseball. Another day of tension, of worrying and waiting and wondering, followed by three or four hours of emotion blasting out of a fire hose, followed by being staggeringly exhausted but too keyed up to sleep. To be repeated as long as you’re allowed to do so.
For two weeks I’ve stumbled through my job, through mornings getting the kid to school, doing everything on autopilot until 8:19 comes within view. My eyeballs hurt, I’m grinding my teeth, my ears are ringing, and my voice is completely shredded, reduced to something between a croak and a bark. And the second you catch yourself wondering if you can do it anymore is the same second you find yourself desperately hoping, pleading and beseeching to be allowed another day of it.
Well, we got the day. And now the thing we want most is to be given another week of stumbling and staggering and worrying and waiting.
Sleep? Being able to talk? Being a decent employee? Dude. C’mon. That’s what November’s for.
by Greg Prince on 18 October 2006 9:43 pm The next time I look at this page, I'll know how much our collective faith this season and this day has paid off. Whatever happens at Shea Stadium tonight, it hasn't been for naught.
Until I see you again, Let's Go Mets.
Something has changed within me
Something is not the same
I'm through with playing by the rules
Of someone else's game
Too late for second-guessing
Too late to go back to sleep
It's time to trust my instincts
Close my eyes
And leap…
It's time to try
Defying gravity
I think I'll try
Defying gravity
And you can't pull me down
(Can't I make you understand?
You're having delusions of grandeur)
I'm through accepting limits
'Cuz someone says they're so
Some things I cannot change
But till I try, I'll never know!
Too long I've been afraid of
Losing love I guess I've lost
Well, if that's love
It comes at much too high a cost!
I'd sooner buy
Defying gravity
Kiss me goodbye
I'm defying gravity
And you can't pull me down
Come with me
Think of what we could do
Together
Unlimited
Together we're unlimited
Together we'll be the greatest team
There's ever been
Dreams, the way we planned 'em
If we work in tandem
There's no fight we cannot win
Just you and I
Defying gravity
With you and I
Defying gravity
They'll never bring us down!
by Greg Prince on 18 October 2006 9:43 pm The next time I look at this page, I’ll know how much our collective faith this season and this day has paid off. Whatever happens at Shea Stadium tonight, it hasn’t been for naught.
Until I see you again, Let’s Go Mets.
Something has changed within me
Something is not the same
I’m through with playing by the rules
Of someone else’s game
Too late for second-guessing
Too late to go back to sleep
It’s time to trust my instincts
Close my eyes
And leap…
It’s time to try
Defying gravity
I think I’ll try
Defying gravity
And you can’t pull me down
(Can’t I make you understand?
You’re having delusions of grandeur)
I’m through accepting limits
‘Cuz someone says they’re so
Some things I cannot change
But till I try, I’ll never know!
Too long I’ve been afraid of
Losing love I guess I’ve lost
Well, if that’s love
It comes at much too high a cost!
I’d sooner buy
Defying gravity
Kiss me goodbye
I’m defying gravity
And you can’t pull me down
Come with me
Think of what we could do
Together
Unlimited
Together we’re unlimited
Together we’ll be the greatest team
There’s ever been
Dreams, the way we planned ’em
If we work in tandem
There’s no fight we cannot win
Just you and I
Defying gravity
With you and I
Defying gravity
They’ll never bring us down!
by Greg Prince on 18 October 2006 4:32 pm Welcome to a special pre-Game Six edition of Flashback Friday, a weekly feature devoted to the 20th anniversary of the 1986 World Champion New York Mets.
Twenty years, 43 Fridays. This, because sometimes it's imperative that you go on short rest, is one of them.
Stupid Grape Nut Flakes. I'm never eating them again. What the hell was I thinking? Ten minutes ago, we were tied. We had momentum. It was 3-3, just like the Series was going to be. I followed my father into the kitchen. I couldn't believe how into it he is. A couple of years ago neither he or my mother cared about baseball at all. Not anymore. He started reading a Wall Street Journal from the other day with the TV in the background when the tenth started. He decided that by not paying attention, he was going to change the Mets' luck. He's the sanest person I know and now he's like the rest of us.
Me? I poured myself a bowl of Grape Nut Flakes. I don't even like cereal that much. It was just nervous eating. But there I am with my bowl and my spoon and there's Aguilera giving up a home run to Dave Henderson. Him again? We're down 4-3 and I blink and we're down 5-3.
Shit.
So this is it, huh? This is the way it ends. It has been such a great season. Such an unbelievable season and we're about to lose the fucking World Series to the fucking Boston Red Sox. Dad's still in the kitchen. Mom's in their bedroom. Me, I've come upstairs to watch the end of 1986 by myself in my office.
I can't take Vin Scully and Joe Garagiola anymore. It's like they're rooting for the Red Sox. I'm turning down the TV and blasting WHN. If I have to go down, it's going to be with Bob Murphy.
C'mon Mets! C'mon! You've got to have two runs in you. You definitely have the right guy coming up.
Wally Backman. I love Wally Backman. There's nobody I'd rather have come up in this spot than Wally Backman. Wally Backman never lets me down. He's the most dependable guy on this team. Who got on base in Game Three against Houston to set up Dykstra? Wally, that's who. Wally is not going to allow the Mets to go down. He's going to get on. We can still do this.
WALLY! Lousy fly ball to left field. Jim Rice catches it. One out.
Shit.
That's OK. It's just one out. We're not dead yet. Keith Hernandez is up. Keith is only the most clutch hitter in all of baseball. We've seen it all of this year and last year and the year before. Keith is the reason we're any good at all. God, I love Keith Hernandez. There is nobody I'd rather have up with everything on the line. Keith can get on. There's only one out. We can still do this.
Home run swing! Deep! But it's dying. Of course it is, it's Shea. That annoying Dave Henderson catches it. I hate that guy. Two out.
Shit.
Oh that's it. We are so fucking doomed. Fuck! We won 108 games! We were in first place all year! We won the greatest playoff series ever against the Astros! We came back from being down 2-0 at Fenway on Tuesday and Wednesday. And we came back from being down in this stupid game against Roger Clemens of all people. Maybe we should have won it in the ninth, but I didn't think we wouldn't win it eventually. It took 16 innings in Houston. I thought we'd win it here in the tenth. But Aguilera gives up those runs — the homer to Henderson and then Boggs doubles and Barrett singles him in — and now we're screwed. The two guys I wanted up, Backman and Hernandez, made out. That's it.
Schiraldi's unhittable. And the last out is gonna be Gary Carter.
This is not who I want up. I haven't been able to stop thinking about that caller to One On One on 'FUV, that really whiny Red Sox fan who predicted weeks ago that it was going to come down to Schiraldi versus Carter in the seventh game and Schiraldi was going to strike out Carter to end it. He was off by a game but he had everything else right.
Fucking Carter. He's the last guy I want up there. Who made the last out last year against the Cardinals? Carter. Who hit .255 this year? Carter. Who is not going to come through in a situation like this? Carter. Can you picture him actually getting a hit here?
Carter got a hit.
Oh why bother? Stop teasing me. I've lived through this too much as a Mets fan, all these false rallies, all this false hope in ninth innings and extra innings all my life. Carter gets a hit. Big deal. We're still losing by two and look who's coming up.
Kevin Mitchell. Damn it, I don't want him up there. Mitchell had a nice start this year when he was playing all those positions but has he done a damn thing since they went to Wrigley and he decided he was going to hit it onto Waveland Avenue every time up? I read his father was there and he wanted to impress him. Seems all he did was go into a seasonlong slump. Wasn't he hitting like .349 and what did he wind up at? .277, I think. Geez, he's a rookie who swings at everything now. This is no time for Kevin Mitchell.
Mitchell got a hit! Carter's on second!
Oh goddamn it. Now I have to take this seriously. Why can't they just get this over with? It's as good as done anyway, probably. I hope we win, but I can't believe we will.
Look who's up. Knight.
Fantastic. Ray Knight. Perfect ending to a perfect year. Ray Knight was the WORST player on the 1985 Mets. If he had been any good at all, or if Davey had benched him and put HoJo in like he should've, we would've beaten the fucking Cardinals last year. Instead he batted .218. I never booed a Met before but I couldn't help myself. Ray Knight was just so fucking awful! It was nothing personal. It was more directed at Davey for sticking with this stiff.
So this year Ray Knight makes us think everything is fine. He hits six homers in April and he hits that game-winner against the Astros on Fireworks Night and suddenly Ray Knight is a good player again. But y'know what? I don't believe it. This is all a setup. Ray Knight is going to revert to form right now. He's going to pop up or ground out or swing through one of Schiraldi's fastballs. We are so fucked and now it's worse because they're getting our fucking hopes up.
KNIGHT SINGLED! CARTER SCORED! 5-4! MITCHELL'S ON THIRD!
WE'RE ALIVE!
I can barely breathe.
Looks like Schiraldi's coming out. Who is McNamara bringing in? Bob Stanley…didn't he used to be their closer? Is he still any good? Don't Red Sox fans hate him? Didn't he have lots of saves at some point?
They've gone to commercial. What can I do? What can I do?
I know! Let me run into my room and put on “Let's Go All The Way”. Here we go, first track, side A. That's my song, that's my slogan, we're going all the way now. At least I hope so.
OK, song over, radio back on, I'm running back to the television. Bob Murphy's nice and loud. Mookie Wilson's up.
Oh this sucks.
Mookie. Of all fucking people, Mookie. Has Mookie EVER gotten a big hit for us? Mookie has been nothing but unfulfilled promise for us since 1980. Mookie has never been a good leadoff hitter or a good clutch hitter. Mookie doesn't know how to take a pitch. Mookie strikes out all the time. This is how it's gonna end, isn't it?
C'mon Mookie! Don't swing at everything.
Y'know what would be great right now? A wild pitch. I'm always saying that and it never happens. But man, a wild pitch would score Mitchell and tie the game.
Oh shit! Mookie's gonna get hit! Wait! He jumped out of the way! IT'S A WILD PITCH! OH MY GOD, THAT'S NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE! I ASKED FOR IT AND IT CAME!
WHERE'S MITCHELL? SCORE! SCORE!!!
He scored! He scored! Game tied! 5-5! We're not gonna lose! We're not gonna lose! Mitchell scored! And Knight's on second!
COME ON MOOKIE! COME ON!
Ground ball. That looks like three out but at least it's tied. Sisk is coming in, I guess. Better than nothing.
IT WENT THROUGH HIS LEGS!
IT WENT THROUGH HIS LEGS!
AAAGGGHHH!!!
AAAGGGHHH!!!
I DON'T FUCKING BELIEVE IT!
I DON'T FUCKING BELIEVE IT!
AAAGGGHHH!!!
AAAGGGHHH!!!
OH MY GOD! THE BALL WENT THROUGH BUCKNER'S LEGS! KNIGHT SCORED! WE WIN! WE WIN! IT'S 6-5! WE WIN! THE SERIES IS TIED! WE DIDN'T LOSE! WE WIN!
AAAGGGHHH!!!
IT WENT THROUGH HIS LEGS!!!
I DON'T FUCKING BELIEVE IT!!!
How did I get downstairs? I swear I don't remember running. It's like I took all 13 steps in one leap. My father's standing dumbfounded in the kitchen. My mother's telling me she videotaped the last half-inning, that she caught it all. I told her not to bother unless it looks like we're going to win the World Series and the only thing that could have happened was the Series was going to end the wrong way but she taped it. Wow!
The phone's ringing. It's Larry. He's calling me from his car again with his new “portable telephone,” whatever that is. Him and his gadgets. Said he was at a wedding and decided to leave so he could listen to the game. He wants to know what exactly happened. He wants me to explain. He knows we won but he's trying to grasp it. He's not even a Mets fan and he's going crazy. I'm going crazy. My parents are going crazy. Shea Stadium is going crazy. Larry's coming over. I can show him the tape. Hell, I've got to see it again for myself.
Oh my god, I can't believe it! We were about to lose. I mean it was over. Two outs. Nobody on. I had absolutely no faith that this team was going to come back. But just like that they did. They won. We won. Three hits, a wild pitch and Mookie's ball going through Buckner's legs. Just like that, the Mets won. There's going to be a seventh game tomorrow night. Oh my god.
I swear this has to be the best day of my life.
by Greg Prince on 18 October 2006 4:32 pm Welcome to a special pre-Game Six edition of Flashback Friday, a weekly feature devoted to the 20th anniversary of the 1986 World Champion New York Mets.
Twenty years, 43 Fridays. This, because sometimes it’s imperative that you go on short rest, is one of them.
Stupid Grape Nut Flakes. I’m never eating them again. What the hell was I thinking? Ten minutes ago, we were tied. We had momentum. It was 3-3, just like the Series was going to be. I followed my father into the kitchen. I couldn’t believe how into it he is. A couple of years ago neither he or my mother cared about baseball at all. Not anymore. He started reading a Wall Street Journal from the other day with the TV in the background when the tenth started. He decided that by not paying attention, he was going to change the Mets’ luck. He’s the sanest person I know and now he’s like the rest of us.
Me? I poured myself a bowl of Grape Nut Flakes. I don’t even like cereal that much. It was just nervous eating. But there I am with my bowl and my spoon and there’s Aguilera giving up a home run to Dave Henderson. Him again? We’re down 4-3 and I blink and we’re down 5-3.
Shit.
So this is it, huh? This is the way it ends. It has been such a great season. Such an unbelievable season and we’re about to lose the fucking World Series to the fucking Boston Red Sox. Dad’s still in the kitchen. Mom’s in their bedroom. Me, I’ve come upstairs to watch the end of 1986 by myself in my office.
I can’t take Vin Scully and Joe Garagiola anymore. It’s like they’re rooting for the Red Sox. I’m turning down the TV and blasting WHN. If I have to go down, it’s going to be with Bob Murphy.
C’mon Mets! C’mon! You’ve got to have two runs in you. You definitely have the right guy coming up.
Wally Backman. I love Wally Backman. There’s nobody I’d rather have come up in this spot than Wally Backman. Wally Backman never lets me down. He’s the most dependable guy on this team. Who got on base in Game Three against Houston to set up Dykstra? Wally, that’s who. Wally is not going to allow the Mets to go down. He’s going to get on. We can still do this.
WALLY! Lousy fly ball to left field. Jim Rice catches it. One out.
Shit.
That’s OK. It’s just one out. We’re not dead yet. Keith Hernandez is up. Keith is only the most clutch hitter in all of baseball. We’ve seen it all of this year and last year and the year before. Keith is the reason we’re any good at all. God, I love Keith Hernandez. There is nobody I’d rather have up with everything on the line. Keith can get on. There’s only one out. We can still do this.
Home run swing! Deep! But it’s dying. Of course it is, it’s Shea. That annoying Dave Henderson catches it. I hate that guy. Two out.
Shit.
Oh that’s it. We are so fucking doomed. Fuck! We won 108 games! We were in first place all year! We won the greatest playoff series ever against the Astros! We came back from being down 2-0 at Fenway on Tuesday and Wednesday. And we came back from being down in this stupid game against Roger Clemens of all people. Maybe we should have won it in the ninth, but I didn’t think we wouldn’t win it eventually. It took 16 innings in Houston. I thought we’d win it here in the tenth. But Aguilera gives up those runs — the homer to Henderson and then Boggs doubles and Barrett singles him in — and now we’re screwed. The two guys I wanted up, Backman and Hernandez, made out. That’s it.
Schiraldi’s unhittable. And the last out is gonna be Gary Carter.
This is not who I want up. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that caller to One On One on ‘FUV, that really whiny Red Sox fan who predicted weeks ago that it was going to come down to Schiraldi versus Carter in the seventh game and Schiraldi was going to strike out Carter to end it. He was off by a game but he had everything else right.
Fucking Carter. He’s the last guy I want up there. Who made the last out last year against the Cardinals? Carter. Who hit .255 this year? Carter. Who is not going to come through in a situation like this? Carter. Can you picture him actually getting a hit here?
Carter got a hit.
Oh why bother? Stop teasing me. I’ve lived through this too much as a Mets fan, all these false rallies, all this false hope in ninth innings and extra innings all my life. Carter gets a hit. Big deal. We’re still losing by two and look who’s coming up.
Kevin Mitchell. Damn it, I don’t want him up there. Mitchell had a nice start this year when he was playing all those positions but has he done a damn thing since they went to Wrigley and he decided he was going to hit it onto Waveland Avenue every time up? I read his father was there and he wanted to impress him. Seems all he did was go into a seasonlong slump. Wasn’t he hitting like .349 and what did he wind up at? .277, I think. Geez, he’s a rookie who swings at everything now. This is no time for Kevin Mitchell.
Mitchell got a hit! Carter’s on second!
Oh goddamn it. Now I have to take this seriously. Why can’t they just get this over with? It’s as good as done anyway, probably. I hope we win, but I can’t believe we will.
Look who’s up. Knight.
Fantastic. Ray Knight. Perfect ending to a perfect year. Ray Knight was the WORST player on the 1985 Mets. If he had been any good at all, or if Davey had benched him and put HoJo in like he should’ve, we would’ve beaten the fucking Cardinals last year. Instead he batted .218. I never booed a Met before but I couldn’t help myself. Ray Knight was just so fucking awful! It was nothing personal. It was more directed at Davey for sticking with this stiff.
So this year Ray Knight makes us think everything is fine. He hits six homers in April and he hits that game-winner against the Astros on Fireworks Night and suddenly Ray Knight is a good player again. But y’know what? I don’t believe it. This is all a setup. Ray Knight is going to revert to form right now. He’s going to pop up or ground out or swing through one of Schiraldi’s fastballs. We are so fucked and now it’s worse because they’re getting our fucking hopes up.
KNIGHT SINGLED! CARTER SCORED! 5-4! MITCHELL’S ON THIRD!
WE’RE ALIVE!
I can barely breathe.
Looks like Schiraldi’s coming out. Who is McNamara bringing in? Bob Stanley…didn’t he used to be their closer? Is he still any good? Don’t Red Sox fans hate him? Didn’t he have lots of saves at some point?
They’ve gone to commercial. What can I do? What can I do?
I know! Let me run into my room and put on “Let’s Go All The Way”. Here we go, first track, side A. That’s my song, that’s my slogan, we’re going all the way now. At least I hope so.
OK, song over, radio back on, I’m running back to the television. Bob Murphy’s nice and loud. Mookie Wilson’s up.
Oh this sucks.
Mookie. Of all fucking people, Mookie. Has Mookie EVER gotten a big hit for us? Mookie has been nothing but unfulfilled promise for us since 1980. Mookie has never been a good leadoff hitter or a good clutch hitter. Mookie doesn’t know how to take a pitch. Mookie strikes out all the time. This is how it’s gonna end, isn’t it?
C’mon Mookie! Don’t swing at everything.
Y’know what would be great right now? A wild pitch. I’m always saying that and it never happens. But man, a wild pitch would score Mitchell and tie the game.
Oh shit! Mookie’s gonna get hit! Wait! He jumped out of the way! IT’S A WILD PITCH! OH MY GOD, THAT’S NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE! I ASKED FOR IT AND IT CAME!
WHERE’S MITCHELL? SCORE! SCORE!!!
He scored! He scored! Game tied! 5-5! We’re not gonna lose! We’re not gonna lose! Mitchell scored! And Knight’s on second!
COME ON MOOKIE! COME ON!
Ground ball. That looks like three out but at least it’s tied. Sisk is coming in, I guess. Better than nothing.
IT WENT THROUGH HIS LEGS!
IT WENT THROUGH HIS LEGS!
AAAGGGHHH!!!
AAAGGGHHH!!!
I DON’T FUCKING BELIEVE IT!
I DON’T FUCKING BELIEVE IT!
AAAGGGHHH!!!
AAAGGGHHH!!!
OH MY GOD! THE BALL WENT THROUGH BUCKNER’S LEGS! KNIGHT SCORED! WE WIN! WE WIN! IT’S 6-5! WE WIN! THE SERIES IS TIED! WE DIDN’T LOSE! WE WIN!
AAAGGGHHH!!!
IT WENT THROUGH HIS LEGS!!!
I DON’T FUCKING BELIEVE IT!!!
How did I get downstairs? I swear I don’t remember running. It’s like I took all 13 steps in one leap. My father’s standing dumbfounded in the kitchen. My mother’s telling me she videotaped the last half-inning, that she caught it all. I told her not to bother unless it looks like we’re going to win the World Series and the only thing that could have happened was the Series was going to end the wrong way but she taped it. Wow!
The phone’s ringing. It’s Larry. He’s calling me from his car again with his new “portable telephone,” whatever that is. Him and his gadgets. Said he was at a wedding and decided to leave so he could listen to the game. He wants to know what exactly happened. He wants me to explain. He knows we won but he’s trying to grasp it. He’s not even a Mets fan and he’s going crazy. I’m going crazy. My parents are going crazy. Shea Stadium is going crazy. Larry’s coming over. I can show him the tape. Hell, I’ve got to see it again for myself.
Oh my god, I can’t believe it! We were about to lose. I mean it was over. Two outs. Nobody on. I had absolutely no faith that this team was going to come back. But just like that they did. They won. We won. Three hits, a wild pitch and Mookie’s ball going through Buckner’s legs. Just like that, the Mets won. There’s going to be a seventh game tomorrow night. Oh my god.
I swear this has to be the best day of my life.
by Greg Prince on 18 October 2006 6:30 am Great news! We've already done what we need to do tonight and tomorrow night 61* times in 2006.
1. April 6 and 7.
2. April 7 and 9.
3. April 9 and 11.
4. April 11 and 12.
5. April 12 and 13.
6. April 13 and 14.
7. April 16 and 17.
8. April 25 and 26.
9. April 26 and 28.
10. April 28 and 29.
11. May 3 and 4.
12. May 4 and 5.
13. May 5 and 6.
14. May 21 and 23.
15. May 23 and 24.
16. May 27 and 28.
17. May 28 and 29.
18. June 7 and 8.
19. June 8 and 9.
20. June 9 and 10.
21. June 10 and 11.
22. June 11 and 13.
23. June 13 and 14.
24. June 14 and 15.
25. June 22 and 23.
26. July 4 and 5.
27. July 5 and 6.
28. July 8 and 9.
29. July 9 and 14.
30. July 16 and 18.
31. July 20 and 21.
32. July 21 and 22.
33. July 26 and 28.
34. July 28 and 29.
35. July 29 and 30.
36. August 5 and 6.
37. August 6 and 8.
38. August 8 and 9.
39. August 9 and 10.
40. August 12 and 13.
41. August 17 and 18.
42. August 18 and 19.
43. August 19 and 20.
44. August 20 and 22.
45. August 22 and 23.
46. August 23 and 24.
47. August 26 and 28.
48. August 28 and 29.
49. August 29 and 30.
50. September 1 and 2.
51. September 6 (1) and 6 (2).
52. September 6 (2) and 7.
53. September 12 and 13.
54. September 18 and 19.
55. September 28 and 29.
56. September 29 and 30.
57. September 30 and October 1.
58. October 1 and 4.
59. October 4 and 5.
60. October 5 and 7.
61. October 7 and 12.
*We've won two games in a row 61 times. It's about to be
62. October 18 and 19.
Now, something to shout out loud from our friends at Bon Jovi:
Faith!
You know you're gonna live through the rain
Lord you got to keep the faith
Now you know is not too late
Oh you got to keep the faith
Faith!
Don't let your love turn to hate
Right now we got to
Keep the faith!
Keep the faith!
Keep the faith!
Lord we got to keep the faith
Fear is out of here for the duration.
Nothing but Faith in Flushing.
by Greg Prince on 18 October 2006 6:30 am Great news! We’ve already done what we need to do tonight and tomorrow night 61* times in 2006.
1. April 6 and 7.
2. April 7 and 9.
3. April 9 and 11.
4. April 11 and 12.
5. April 12 and 13.
6. April 13 and 14.
7. April 16 and 17.
8. April 25 and 26.
9. April 26 and 28.
10. April 28 and 29.
11. May 3 and 4.
12. May 4 and 5.
13. May 5 and 6.
14. May 21 and 23.
15. May 23 and 24.
16. May 27 and 28.
17. May 28 and 29.
18. June 7 and 8.
19. June 8 and 9.
20. June 9 and 10.
21. June 10 and 11.
22. June 11 and 13.
23. June 13 and 14.
24. June 14 and 15.
25. June 22 and 23.
26. July 4 and 5.
27. July 5 and 6.
28. July 8 and 9.
29. July 9 and 14.
30. July 16 and 18.
31. July 20 and 21.
32. July 21 and 22.
33. July 26 and 28.
34. July 28 and 29.
35. July 29 and 30.
36. August 5 and 6.
37. August 6 and 8.
38. August 8 and 9.
39. August 9 and 10.
40. August 12 and 13.
41. August 17 and 18.
42. August 18 and 19.
43. August 19 and 20.
44. August 20 and 22.
45. August 22 and 23.
46. August 23 and 24.
47. August 26 and 28.
48. August 28 and 29.
49. August 29 and 30.
50. September 1 and 2.
51. September 6 (1) and 6 (2).
52. September 6 (2) and 7.
53. September 12 and 13.
54. September 18 and 19.
55. September 28 and 29.
56. September 29 and 30.
57. September 30 and October 1.
58. October 1 and 4.
59. October 4 and 5.
60. October 5 and 7.
61. October 7 and 12.
*We’ve won two games in a row 61 times. It’s about to be
62. October 18 and 19.
Now, something to shout out loud from our friends at Bon Jovi:
Faith!
You know you’re gonna live through the rain
Lord you got to keep the faith
Now you know is not too late
Oh you got to keep the faith
Faith!
Don’t let your love turn to hate
Right now we got to
Keep the faith!
Keep the faith!
Keep the faith!
Lord we got to keep the faith
Fear is out of here for the duration.
Nothing but Faith in Flushing.
by Jason Fry on 18 October 2006 4:09 am There was a GM in Gotham who sent his manager to the Midwest to win two out of three, and in a little while the manager came back, pale and trembling, and said, “Omar, just now when I was in the Midwest I was jostled by a man wearing red in the stadium and when I turned I saw it was Death that jostled me. He looked at me and made a threatening gesture, now, lend me your horse, and I will ride away from this city and avoid my fate. I will go to Shea tamarra [sic, sorry] and there Death will not find me.”
The general manager lent him his horse, and the manager mounted it, and he dug his spurs in its flanks and as fast as the horse could gallop he went. Then the GM went down to the Midwest and found Death standing in the stadium and he came to him and said, “Why did you make a threatening gesture to my manager when you saw him tonight?”
“That was not a threatening gesture,” Death said. “It was only a start of surprise. I was astonished to see him in the Midwest, for I have an appointment with him in Shea tamarra.”
— With fervent apologies to Arab storytellers, W. Somerset Maugham, and all of you for whom faith still outweighs fear.
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