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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 Jason Fry on 8 September 2006 3:22 am You know what? There's something perfectly apt about the Marlins and Phillies having gone into tonight tied for second, making a hash of magic-number calculations for the moment. Because, really, who cares which team is 16.5 or 165 or 16,500 games behind us in second place? It's easier to just count down our own wins, and that'll get us to October soon enough.
Arrogant, I know, but it's hard to resist feeling that way after watching the Mets dismantle the Dodgers tonight. The Dodgers were much improved, nothing like the team in disarray we saw earlier this year, possibly a better team than the Cardinals now, and Brad Penny had won 15 games. Um, yeah, whatever. Penny got waxed, with the biggest blow a Jose Reyes inside-the-parker that left anyone watching it with a Reyes-sized smile on their faces. 15 seconds home to home, first inside-the-parker I've ever seen where the hitter not only never slowed down but could have scored standing up.
So, another supposedly frightening NL team come to town, another supposedly frightening NL team spat out in chunks. It doesn't guarantee anything come October, but we had our likely playoff lineup on the field and they looked awfully formidable.
After watching the highlights, it was time to check the New York-Penn League scores. This was the final day of the Brooklyn Cyclones' season, which has been marked by insanely hot and ridiculously cold streaks. The Cyclones had a shot at the playoffs, if everything broke just so: For Brooklyn to claim the wild card, the Aberdeen Ironbirds had to lose and the Cyclones had to beat the Vermont Lake Monsters.
I don't get worked up about the Cyclones — I only have so much karma to spend on baseball teams, and each year's Cyclones spring brand-new from the high-school and college ranks, making this truly rooting for laundry. But hey, who can resist a final day of the season like that? I hunted up the scores and found that the Lowell Spinners had beat Aberdeen — and the Cyclones and Vermont were tied at 3-3 in the 10th. Win or go home.
Some quick Web-surfing revealed that the Cyclones stream their broadcasts online — a moment later there was Warner Fuselle booming out from the laptop, competing with a Keyspan Park crowd and the Cyclones' sound effects (Brick screaming “Loud noises!” from “Anchorman” is startling on the radio). And whaddya know? In the bottom of the 12th Vermont's second baseman threw a ball away, giving the Cyclones a 4-3 win. They'll play the Staten Island Yankees Saturday night.
Baseball on a warm summer night, by TV and radio (via the laptop), leisurely and frenetic, routine and crucial. And it all came out OK. I could grow to like this game.
by Greg Prince on 7 September 2006 3:41 am Every few hours, I like to check and see if our magic number has decreased…
…it has.
All day it’s been like this. We keep reducing our number every 3 hours and we have 8 left, therefore, at this rate, we’ll clinch by this time tomorrow.
Not really.
An alert to our affiliates along the Faith and Fear network: We cannot clinch this weekend. Repeat, we cannot clinch this weekend. Even an optimal quartet with the Dodgers, by no means a given, combined with a Phillies’ 4-game drop on top of what they lost tonight wouldn’t do it because, while you were flinging rocks and garbage at the Braves’ team bus, the Marlins were winning and pulling into a tie for second.
Boy were they ever.
8.01: Halfway There. In Miami, Anibal Sanchez threw the 4th no-hitter in Marlins’ history. He joins Al Leiter, Kevin Brown and A.J. Burnett in having turned the trick in the past decade and change. Keep it up and they’ll have 8 no-hitters by early 2017. And of course we’ll never have any.
8.02: Why Couldn’t Have McCovey Just Hit the Ball Two Feet Lower? On October 8, 2000, a line-drive double off the bat of Jeff Kent eluded Robin Ventura’s leap. Bobby Jones had to settle for a 1-hitter to clinch the National League Division Series for the Mets. Not a bad little consolation prize.
8.03: Do You Have a Nephew Named Anthony? On July 8, 1969, Cub centerfielder Don Young misplayed two balls at Shea, turning a 3-1 Chicago lead into a 4-3 Met win on the afternoon many point to as the day the home team became a legitimate contender. If it wasn’t that day, it was the next night when Tom Seaver no-hit Young’s teammates but not his replacement, Jimmy Qualls.
8.04: Eric Byrnes Looked Safe to Me. NBC chose to televise the Mets-Cubs game of September 7, 1984 and Doc Gooden did not disappoint. He no-hit the Cubs, with his biggest scare coming when Ray Knight couldn’t handle a fairly routine ball off the bat of Keith Moreland. What? They ruled that a HIT? YOU CAN’T BE SERIOUS! The next day, September 8, Flushing Meadow hosted a dramatic day and night of U.S. Open action, none of which mattered to me except that I called the Copper Top pub on Fowler Avenue and asked if they were showing the big Mets-Cubs game via satellite. “No,” the woman who answered the phone told me. “We’re watching tennis.” So was Walt Terrell: Rick Sutcliffe beat him 6-love and the Mets dropped 7 back. The next day, the Mets took the rubber game and native Chicagoan Brent Musberger smirkily played “Cubsbusters” during The NFL Today, because all our win got us was 6 back with 3 weeks to go.
8.05: Of Course He Would Debut in Spring. Preternaturally sunny Gary Carter, our greatest No. 8, was born on April 8, 1954. He would grow up to catch no no-hitters for the Mets.
8.06: Daddy, What’s an Expo? Montreal joined the league of Major cities on April 8, 1969, defeating the Mets in New York 11-10. The Montreal Expos would gain their 1st no-hitter a mere 8 games later when Bill Stoneman tossed one at Connie Mack Stadium. Their 2nd no-hitter came against the Mets on October 2, 1972 at Parc Jarry, also Stoneman’s. The Expos, Connie Mack Stadium and Parc Jarry no longer exist. But the defunct franchise has 2 additional no-hitters to tits credit, by Charlie Lea in 1981 (caught by Gary Carter) and Dennis Martinez (a perfecto against L.A. in which 5 past or future Mets — none of them then-Dodger Carter — accounted for 15 outs) in 1991. The Expos and Marlins, connected mainly by hellbound Jeffrey Loria, have combined for 8 no-hitters.
8.07: An Exclusive Club. When Sanchez retired Byrnes, the entire Marlins’ dugout emptied to congratulate him. So did the Dolphin Stadium stands. My bad — the Dolphin Stadium stands were empty. Paid attendance for the 4th no-hitter in Florida Marlin history on a night when the team was fiercely and miraculously competing for a playoff spot: 8. Check the highlights; I’m exaggerating only slightly.
8.08: It’s Complete. Growing up, I saw Yogi Berra wear No. 8 for the Mets. I saw him coach for the Mets. I saw him manage the Mets. I saw him withstand a torrent of criticism as he guided the Mets in the last-place summer of 1973. And I read all his allegedly nonsensical statements about when it’s over and when it’s not after he made them, as a Met in prelude to the magnificent pennant-winning autumn of 1973. Imagine my surprise to learn we were just a detour for him and that the most famous thing he ever did was jump into Don Larsen’s arms on October 8, 1956, wearing somebody else’s No. 8. No Met catcher embraced any Met pitcher for any similar reason during Yogi’s 11-season rest stop with us.
by Jason Fry on 7 September 2006 2:16 am What a difference a day makes.
The weather forecast for LBI today: rain. But around mid-morning, Emily and I realized there were shadows outside. The sun was out. And a couple of hours after that, the Mets started playing baseball. A whole lotta baseball.
Yes, a rainout is a gloomy thing, perfectly designed to make children (and some 37-year-olds) rail at the hostility of the cosmos. But lots of rainouts are followed by a decidedly ungloomy thing: a doubleheader. A whole day of ballgames. (OK, yeah, it's probably harder to win both ends of a doubleheader than it is to win two games in a row, making them a mixed blessing. Dude, don't be a bringdown.)
If you live at least vaguely near your team's hometown (or even far off, thanks to Extra Innings, MLB.com and XM), a doubleheader can become a pleasant companion for an entire day, following you from TV to portable radio to car radio to XM radio to laptop video to whatever you have. We caught the first few innings of Game 1 on the beach (portable radio that cost like $5 before some years-ago vacation), in the house (SNY) and then in the car (WFAN) on the way to pick up our friend Eddie in Long Branch. Game 2 tagged along with us on the car radio, on three overhead TVs at Barnicle Bill's in Rumson (some biiiiiiig houses in that town), and on the car radio again. With glad tidings all around.
Of course it's easy to enjoy having a doubleheader riding shotgun when the sun's shining, you win both games and your magic number drops into the single digits (with 8 a possibility pending the outcome of Houston/Philadelphia). But I'd like to imagine that it would have been a nice day even if we'd split or (perish the thought) dropped both games. Because this is the time of year when I start realizing that there's a lot more baseball behind us than there is ahead of us, and I begin to cling to what's left. I thought this year would be an exception, what with October back on the calendar and all, but it doesn't feel that way.
Ah well. The Nationals are eliminated. We cut the Braves' tragic number from 8 to 4. We've got pitching depth. Beltran is fine. Shawn Green looks like he's settling in. And the forecast? It's most definitely for sunny days.
by Greg Prince on 6 September 2006 11:49 pm So, what did you do today?
Oh, beat the Braves twice. Pretty much buried their fading Wild Card hopes. Stuck two tomahawks in their figurative head.
Anything else?
Lowered our magic number a couple of times. It’s 9 now. Got another huge game out of Shawn Green. Saw Beltran come back and look fine.
That it?
Pretty much…oh yeah, Oliver Perez. He threw a shutout rather handily.
You don’t seem that excited.
No, it’s all good…
But?
But it was only the Braves.
9.01: Also, They Sparkled. Catch the rising stars. Catch the rising stars. Mets, a part of you and me. Mets, for all the world to see. Watch them shine on Channel 9.
9.02: 21 Hours of Otherwise Dead Air. WOR-TV showed its respect to Lindsey, Ralph, Bob, Gil, Yogi and everybody else by putting absolutely nothing else worth watching on the Very High Frequency of 9. Joe Franklin? The Million Dollar Movie? Bowling For Dollars? Well, that was pretty good when Murph was hosting. Howie tells a great story which I’m sure I’ll screw up. Murph welcomes a contestant named Joe. Joe says something like, “Hi Bob. I’m Joe Bowl and I’m a mechanic from Paterson, New Jersey.” Bob replies, “Joe, why don’tcha tell us what you do and where you’re from?”
9.03: Will Lara Cohen Acknowledge Carlos Beltran’s 42nd Homer? Todd Hundley hit home runs at such a prodigious rate in 1996 and 1997 that No. 9 rated his own fan club. Tim McCarver and Gary Thorne interviewed the president, a 12-year-old girl who proclaimed that Todd was “more than just a handsome face.”
9.04: He’s On First? Todd Zeile played 1,498 games at third base in his career, but none when he wore No. 9 for the Mets.
9.05: Can’t Say He Didn’t Warn Us. Jose Vizcaino, who drove in the winning run in the same 2000 World Series game in which Todd Zeile blasted a double that resulted in an out, managed 9 hits in 9 consecutive at-bats as a Met, April 23-25, 1996.
9.06: But I’ll Miss Roger Grimsby! When I was in 1st grade, we had a health professional of some sort come talk to our class. She wanted to know what each of our bedtimes was. “Bedtime?” I thought. “You mean they really have those?” She started announcing bedtimes. “6:30.” Kids raised hands. “7:00” Kids raised hands. It went on like this to the health professional’s approval; those were healthy bedtimes. Uh-oh, I better come up with something plausible, something that doesn’t reveal that, in fact, I stay up for Tex Antoine’s weather and Johnny Carson’s monologue, something that won’t make me stand out like a freak. So when she got to “9:00,” I raised my hand. And she says, “Now that’s too late.” Right then, I knew I was screwed for the rest of my life.
9.07: It Didn’t Run Westbound. Does anybody miss the 9 train? Wasn’t it essentially a pretentious version of the 1?
9.08: How Splendid Could a Shutout Be If Alay Soler Has One? Oliver Perez throwing 9 scoreless innings against Atlanta was wonderful. It could make the trade that brought him here a smashing success on the order of the Dave Williams heist. But if the postseason ends with Chris Woodward or Julio Franco striking out, expect lots of moaning about Xavier Nady.
9.09: At Least. This cats-have-9-lives jazz is understating the case. I don’t know how many times I’ve seen my kitties get smacked in the head and just keep going. They are more resilient than the Atlanta Braves of 1991-2005.
by Greg Prince on 6 September 2006 8:55 pm Nothing like eating the Braves’ lunch for lunch. Dave Williams continues to make a compelling case for the postseason (I hope somebody’s paying attention). Carlos D went L Ong. Shawn Green stopped pressing and started hitting. Guillermo Mota has always been a great Met.
But most of all, winning the opener of the doubleheader means the magic is back.
10.01: Endless Love. The case has been made here for Carlos Beltran, but Endy Chavez has played like a most valuable player’s most valuable player. No. 10 has done everything right and nothing wrong since he returned from slugging in the World Baseball Classic. Maybe the WBC was a good idea after all.
10.02: Endless Rust. Chavez may change its image, but when I see No. 10, I think of Rusty Staub and that enormous billboard of a back of his. He could have been a 3-digit player.
10.03: It Felt Like He Was Here a Century. Rusty was the quintessential Met pinch-hitter, but the all-time leader in that category fell 10 short of 100 pinch-hits. Steady Eddie Kranepool’s first pinch-hitting appearance was for Jay Hook on April 27, 1963, his last for John Pacella on September 30, 1979. He grounded out to short the first time, doubled the last for his 90th hit in a pinch, proving Krane was nothing if not a learner.
10.04: A Saddened America Needed a Distraction. Less than a week after Eddie collected the last of his 1,418 Met hits, Bo Derek notched her 1st. Blake Edwards’ “10” opened October 5, 1979.
10.05: Cornrows Were No Excuse. For the last home opener Ed Kranepool would ever play, on April 10, 1979, 10,406 showed up at Shea.
10.06: Some Golden Boy. In 1980, when the Bo Derek hairstyle was so popular that its ubiquity rated a story in the Long Beach High School Tide, Mark Bomback led all Mets’ pitchers in victories with 10. Boom-Boom won his 9th game on August 10 and his 10th game on October 4. By then, I preferred Susan Anton over both Bo and Bomback.
10.07: Two Lousy Feet. Deepest centerfield in Pay Stadium will be 408 feet from home plate. I don’t know how I’ll adjust to staring out there and not seeing a big, white 410 on the fence. It’s the perfect Met distance: 41 times 10.
10.08: I’m Your Handyman. If he’s still with the organization in 2009 and something isn’t working in the new ballpark, ya think Rick Peterson will offer to fix it in 10 minutes?
10.09: Pow! Hawaiian Benny Agbayani punched 10 home runs in his first 73 at-bats of 1999. He socked 4 in his next 203.
10.10: What Else Would I Think Of Whenever I Buy Beer? Schaefer may have been the 1 beer to have when you were having more than 1, but Rheingold featured the 10-minute head. Advantage Rheingold.
by Greg Prince on 6 September 2006 8:50 am “Game's called.”
“No game.”
“Rainout.”
“They're not playing.”
“It's called.”
Mets fans are the most helpful people there are when they see you walking in the direction of their stadium and they're walking the other way soaked. It was just before 7 o'clock that I stepped off the 7 (and around various tennis detours…what a waste of good stickball balls) and got the official and unofficial word that the Mets would deny the Braves another night of therapy to treat their impending sense of loss. So while I appreciated total strangers providing the firsthand buzz from Shea, I was heading straight toward that deep blue something anyway.
That's 'cause this was to be a night for some serious blog-on-blog action. It was the night half of Faith and Fear was going to link to Mike of Mike's Mets and turn a virtual acquaintanceship actual.
And we did. Everything but the game.
Mike would be a total stranger to me in a blogless world. He's way the hell up there in Connecticut somewhere, that state I'm always missing in those Tri-State Area quizzes (New York, New Jersey and…wait…I wanna get this…is Inertia a state or do states of mind not count?). Connecticut clearly needs to shape up when it comes to baseball. Last month, when the Yankees and Red Sox played that series to end all series — which for once it did — the Times cited a survey of Connecticutians that indicated only 12 percent of their geographic ranks chose the Mets as their favorite team. The rest copped to being arrogant thugs or overly precious.
No wonder we're taking applications from Pennsylvania, Delaware and Quebec to fill that third seat on the Tri-State. But don't hold his neighbors' misguidedness against Mike. His blog provides the best straight-ahead analysis, pregame and postgame, of any I've come across. Mike's Mets has surged ahead of Stew Leonard's chocolate chip cookies on my list of excellent products to emanate from Connecticut.
Because of his blog, Mike wasn't a total stranger to me when the night began. Still, we were delighted at the chance for a face-to-face, all of which would have to take place outside the soggy confines of Shea Stadium. We met by the main subway entrance and — since Mets fans know enough to eventually come in from out of the rain — hopped another 7 to Grand Central and my favorite loitering spot in the city, the Grand Central dining concourse.
Over sesame chicken, we swapped tales from the cyberfront, deconstructed why virulent statheads tend to annoy us, recounted how Steve Phillips' tenure made us cringe and wondered when spelling became a lifestyle choice. As the food court began to clear and we became outnumbered by the reality-challenged (one of whom wore a Mets cap and offered to sell me an umbrella), we got up and consulted our train schedules. He headed to his ride home on the Metro-North and I across town to mine on the LIRR. We're going to try get a game in next homestand, weather literally permitting.
I'd have preferred we had done our live chat with Andruw Jones face down in a puddle, Jeff Francoeur tripping over him and Matt Diaz sprawled atop both of them while a baseball sat untouched six inches from their collective grasp. Come to think of it, visiting teams stay at the Grand Hyatt next door, so who knows how the Braves spent their rainout? (Their call; I'm no John Smoltz.) But even without a chance to boo the Braves back to fourth place, I enjoyed realizing again the kind of trackbacks this marvelous medium here yields. You meet some of the nicest folks from blogging. I found it amusing that Mike mentioned a couple of readers who probably “hate” him for things he's written. Nonsense, I thought. Get to know a good Mets blogger and there's nothing not to like.
by Jason Fry on 6 September 2006 3:41 am Rain at the beach is depressing.
Rain at the beach, followed by a rainout of the night's baseball game, is slightly more depressing.
Being depressed by a rainout in a city just two hours away when you've been watching it rain all day? I have no excuse.
I mean, really. I knew the Phillies were rained out. I'd rejiggered my fantasy-league team to get the non-Mets and non-Phillies into the lineup. I'd flipped over to SNY to see two die-nevers sitting by themselves in the field-level seats surrounded by water. Nonetheless, I felt my stomach sink when they called this one mercifully early. No game? Aw, crap.
Without a game, we could fall back on our newest Metropolitan pastime: fretting. The Phillies have found themselves. The Marlins are hotter than blazes. Those Astros pitchers would be a handful in a short series. The Dodgers are much better than last time we saw them. The Padres' pitching matches up well with ours. The Braves aren't dead yet. First of all, these are October problems. We haven't had those in some time. Second of all, turn it around and things sound different: mediocre to not-bad teams spinning scenarios in which they can somehow beat the one really great team in the NL. (Can they do it? Absolutely. Will they? I'll take my chances.) But that said, perspective doesn't come so easy when the game's been washed away and you're left with injury reports to pore over, black clouds to stare at, magic numbers that can't shrink and the memory of last night's refund-worthy sleepwalk.
So, enough. There are things to look forward to, even before bunting and banners and being annoyed by FOX announcers. Here are a few of mine, from the sublime to the ridiculous.
Our record books will be rewritten. Two current single-season record holders will probably wind up in third place before October comes. Todd Hundley's 41 HRs is a near-lock to be eclipsed by Beltran and quite possibly Delgado as well. Edgardo Alfonzo's 123 runs scored will likely be erased by both Reyes and Beltran. Mike Piazza's 124 RBI will be Beltran's mark. Roger Cedeno's 66 SBs will be Reyes's.
The Holy Books will be newly populated. By my count (which I trust my co-blogger to correct if it's wrong, as it often is), 798 men have played for the New York Mets. Tomorrow's incoming Tides will include just one new player: Philip Humber, being brought up for a taste of the Show and some clubhouse mentoring. (Kelly Stinnett has been here before.) Unless Willie gets ornery about his old-schoolness, I imagine Humber will get an inning in a blowout somewhere along the line, making him the 799th Met. But that's it — without another surprise, The Holy Books won't reach 800 until 2007. (And if Humber doesn't get a start? He'll join the less-illustrious cast of near-Mets, a gloomy fraternity populated by Jerry Moses, Mac Suzuki, Terrel Hansen, Justin Speier and Anderson Garcia.)
Our stadium will officially begin taking shape. I haven't heard of an official groundbreaking date for IRS Bond Tax Status Favorable Ruling Park, but it's coming sometime this month. Politicians will don very clean hard hats, move a few ounces of dirt with silver shovels, and make strained baseball metaphors. And I will bask in every doofy cliche and shameless bit of pandering.
We'll get a division title. Who knows when? It'll come when it comes. (Greg and I have tickets for Sept. 18, but if the Mets want to clinch on Sept. 17, that's just fine with me.) Despite the inevitability, we'll all be ludicrously happy. And we'll get to see it — or at least the first few innings of it — eight or nine rain delays running on SNY.
Rain delays…that reminds me. Presumably we'll get a game that isn't rained out. Tomorrow would be nice. Because whether you win a walkoff thriller or lose a Labor Day mail-in, whether a division title is clinched or a utility guy given a four-at-bat look-see, I still haven't found many better things to do with an evening than lose myself in three hours of baseball.
by Greg Prince on 5 September 2006 7:49 am Yes, perfect. Let's lull the Braves into a sense of vitality. Let Chuck James retire almost everybody he faces. Aim balls to fall just barely into the gloves of Matt Diaz, Andruw Jones and Jeff Francoeur. Allow bunts to become hits and mishandle anything around first base. Kudos all around, but save your heartiest “attaboy!” for Steve Trachsel.
What's that? You don't think Trax's game plan included walking seven Atlanta Braves? I beg to differ. Trachsel's been a Met longer than anybody else. He's been suffering at the hands of the Atlanta Braves since 2001. Most of the Mets have never suffered against this fourth-place fringe contender. Our first-place juggernauters generally chew up the Braves and use their bones as toothpicks. But for one nostalgic evening, Steve arranged for an informal Turn Back The Clock Night.
It wasn't sentiment that spurred Steve. He desired payback. He wanted the Braves to inch into September with a prayer of winning the Wild Card. He wanted to string them along. Hey, the Braves were thinking, as long as we're within shouting distance of the pack, we can still make the playoffs.
Steve's no dullard. He checked the out-of-town scoreboard. The Phillies won. The Marlins won. It was going to be tough to keep Atlanta's faint hope alive. He was going to have do it himself.
So he walked the ballpark. Inspirational figure that he is, he inspired his teammates to provide shoddy defense behind him and inept offense in support of him. Thanks to Steve's foresight, the Braves remain remotely plausible for the postseason, in seventh place for the Wild Card, five games behind the Padres while trailing the Phils, Fish, Giants, Reds and Astros.
They have no chance. But thanks to Steve Trachsel, they are deluding themselves that they do. When they discover they don't, it will be all the more disappointing to them and their dozens of loyal followers. It's up to the Mets to decide whether they want to create more twisted fantasy for Braves Nation tonight or if they want to start letting them down hard. Perhaps they'll turn to their sage ace for advice.
Steve Trachsel usually pitches just well enough to win. Monday night he did all he had to do lose. It's not for nothing that the man who leads the best team in baseball in victories also has one of his league's worst earned run averages.
Brilliant!
by Greg Prince on 4 September 2006 6:04 am Just enough magic to make Sunday worthwhile.
After the Phillies came back on the Braves after the Braves came back on the Phillies, and as Roy Oswalt earned his every penny, I thought we were going to be stuck on 12 as the day grew late. Then I discovered there was a second game to be played at Citizens Bank and listened as the Braves were kind to win for our betterment (not to be confused with what used to be their Betemit).
The subpar Braves sticking it to the mediocre Phillies means what was 12 is now 11 and we continue to spend each night in rapture. Beyond the dedigitizing of the magic number, we were rewarded in other ways.
• Carlos has a bruise, nothing more. Willie said he could play tomorrow. He won’t, but the point is he’s apparently close to OK.
• El Duque, the third lame and/or halting Met to return in three days, looked unhittable…often because he kept missing the strike zone but also because he’s El Duque. Maybe he was shaking off the rust or maybe that is El Duque at this point, finding what he has to find to retire as many as he needs to. Oswalt simply retired more at the right junctures (though we did record 300% more hits than Houston).
• Cliff is making a bid to be Cliff again. Got short-circuited on two nice Astro fielding plays but is hitting the ball well. I hope that somehow inspires the pressing Shawn Green.
• Oswalt suffocated a lineup that included Mike DeFelice catching and Chris Woodward playing third. He’s a very good pitcher, but should our paths cross next month (I kinda doubt it given the Houstons’ stubborn insistence on not hitting), the plan calls for Beltran, Lo Duca and Wright in the lineup. I’ll take my chances.
Even with our Sunday snooze, we almost pulled it out. I thought we might blow it Friday and came a Beltran heartbeat away from doing that Saturday. Two of three in enemy yahoo territory is sufficient. This 4-2 tour of time zones other than the normal one (nothing outside EDT on the schedule) is fine given our elevated state.
The lead is 16, better than every Mets team has ever had except for 1986. We entered 34 over .500, which was the 1999 team’s peak position. After reaching it 7 years ago, we lost 7 in a row. That’s not gonna happen now.
I’ll accept all comers, but I’d prefer not to play the Astros again. Though they’re nothing alike, Minute Maid’s vibe recalls the Astrodome 20 years ago. I’d also prefer not to play the Phillies or Marlins — tied in our magic rear view mirror with 68 losses, so watch ’em both. Either one would be on a ’99/’00 Wild Card roll like us if we were to see them in the NLCS. I can see the Reds being that way, too. They’re all scrappy. We were scrappy in ’99 and ’00. It worked to varying degrees. Then again, we didn’t play the 2006 us then. The Padres don’t scare me but they do have pitching and they must be doing something right. The Braves are behind six teams for a playoff spot, including the incomprehensible Giants. We play Atlanta this week and can get them started on their tee time right away.
‘Cause this is our time.
11.01: No, I Hadn’t Heard. Please, please, please stop making Gary read those insipid promos for the all-new CW 11 which is really the who-cares WB 11. Why does Channel 11 air a newscast anyway? And why does Jim Belushi have a sitcom on any channel?
11.02: I Swear, I Was Just Looking for The Magic Garden. All those years when Channel 11 was the home of that other New York-based ballclub, I always felt a touch disloyal watching it. Thank goodness Oscar Madison usually wore a Mets cap.
11.03: That Guy Blew. If not quite on the order of an ohmigod, we just traded for Willie Mays/George Foster/Gary Carter shock to the system, I was pleasantly surprised when the Mets picked up the discredited Lenny Randle and stuck him in No. 11. Randle instantly became the best everyday player on the 1977 Mets (a little like saying tater tots were the most excellent side dish in the school cafeteria) and carried none of the taint associated with his punchout of his Texas manager Frank Lucchesi. It just seemed odd the Mets of M. Donald Uptight would sanction that kind of acquisition. Maybe Grant was so busy slurring Nancy Seaver that Joe McDonald snuck it by him.
11.04: This Guy Stuck. The Mets never could rid themselves of Wayne Garrett, no matter how hard they tried. A little bit of Joe Foy in our lives, a little Aspromonte on the side, a trade for Fregosi we didn’t need… The Hot Corner Hasbeenery had a dependable client in Bob Scheffing, but every time you looked up in the early ’70s, an imported third baseman was failing and it was No. 11 standing tall.
11.05: Are They Still Loose? Second-string catchers should either be skilled or personable. In 2005, Ramon Castro was both. He practically platooned with a Hall of Fame-bound catcher, but what you heard mostly was what a cutup No. 11 was in the clubhouse. He’s off recovering from what I don’t remember. His teammates don’t seem all that morbid without him, though I imagine they will be should DiFelice be starting the third game of the National League Division Series.
11.06: But That Wouldn’t Happen. When the Mets played their first postseason series in 11 years, the 1999 NLDS, the 3rd game was started by their second-string catcher, someone who never platooned with a Hall of Fame-bound catcher. He started Game 4, too. How did that work out for Todd Pratt against Arizona? Regardless, get well Ramon. And stay strong Paul. I believe in you both.
11.07: And I Know You Believe in Me. On the very first American Top 40 countdown I ever heard, August 5, 1973, Chicago had the No. 11 record in the land with “Feelin’ Stronger Everyday”. Casey Kasem said it was knocking on the door to the Top 10.
11.08: Too Much Knowledge Was a Dangerous Thing. In 3rd grade, I taught myself to recite by rote the presidents of the United States, from Washington to Nixon. When I was a senior in college, I took a class in the presidency, one in which the professor, Dr. Levy, lumped together a bunch of first-half 19th-century chief executives as, essentially, losers: Van Buren (8th president), Harrison (9th), Tyler (10th), Taylor (12th). I smugly called out that he forgot the 11th president, James K. Polk. He shot back, “I didn’t forget Polk. I have more to say about him tomorrow.” Dr. Levy said, essentially, that Polk wasn’t a loser. His tone, however, implied that I was.
11.09: Couldn’t Get It Right. The Mets played their first game ever on April 11, 1962. They lost.
11.10: Couldn’t Get It Right Again. The Mets played their first World Series game ever on October 11, 1969. They lost.
11.11: And a Pattern Took Hold. The Mets played their first game in front of me at Shea Stadium on July 11, 1973. They lost. Dr. Levy would laugh if he remembered me at all.
by Jason Fry on 4 September 2006 1:25 am This year vacation's hardly a vacation, Metwise: LBI's cable system has SNY and the WB, the FAN is audible, and there's high-speed Internet access. Add that up and subtract Braden Looper, and you've got a recipe for the perfect vacation, at least in my book.
And you can't beat a 2:05 start for one's first day at the beach. Broil for long enough to get some color, get smashed around in the surf, dabble with sand castles, come in at the day's halfway point before you go from “some color” to “burned and regretful,” take a leisurely stroll to the deli for a sandwich and a Barq's and whaddya know — there's a ballgame on! If not for the whole having to work/Emily has to work/kid has to go to school thing, a fellow could get used to things down here.
Combine vacation and a whatever-it-was-this-morning-game lead, and today's game seemed more like a classic that one could appreciate than a missed chance to gnash teeth over. El Duque was good, but Roy Oswalt was at least flirting with Destiny. (Oswalt strikes me as one of those guys you dislike if he's on the other team but come to regard as gutty or gritty or some other baseball compliment if he's on your team.)
The whole game read like one of those improbable wins the '69 Mets achieved (I'm thinking in particular of Steve Carlton striking out 19 but losing on two Swoboda HRs), typified by that sixth-inning rally: Flyout, walk, walk, HBP, perfect suicide squeeze, intentional walk, groundout that should have been an infield hit. Not only did the Astros win despite getting one-hit, that lone hit (Aubrey Huff, leading off the second) had nothing to do with the scoring. Conjuring a run without a hit is tough enough; try doing it twice.
At the end, when Cliff had almost had a single and Delgado had a cosmetic home run and Green almost had a single, Joshua was aghast that we'd lost and began to cry. I explained that you couldn't win every day, and he countered by saying, “But I want them to win the game every day.” Sensible enough, and led me into a soliloquy about how it wouldn't be fun if you always knew you'd win and the Astros have fans and just think how happy they are and sometimes you just have to appreciate a really good game and other associated bullshit.
What the heck. When your magic number's hurtling toward the single digits before Labor Day, you can afford to be magnanimous.
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