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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 1 September 2006 8:55 pm In lieu of a pennant race, I've been taking this magic number thing pretty seriously. I was flipping madly between the Mets-Rockies and Phillies-Nationals games last night as if a lead, not a countdown, was in the balance. When Marlon Anderson dashed home for the winning run, I treated it as if it were 1973 or 1999, not 2006. (The Nationals treated it like any other day and traded Marlon to the Dodgers afterwards.)
So I'm looking in the paper to see who the Phillies are playing tonight, who becomes our second-favorite team for the weekend, who's going to help us roll toward our inevitable clinch.
The Phillies are being visited by the Braves.
THE BRAVES?
Oh yeech! I don't wanna root for the Braves except maybe to fall down a hole. Which I suppose they have this year. Yes, I will favor a victory by them in Interleague play against one particular opponent, but that's an issue of moral clarity. This is expediency. But it's also icky as all get out.
The Braves are still mildly alive for the Wild Card, so I wouldn't want to endorse anything that would aid them for a single, solitary extra second in their fight to remain on life support. Pull the plug! Pull the plug! But I want to clinch this baby as soon as possible and, quite frankly, I don't care for the Phillies one little bit. We just saw them 10 times in August. I have no need to see them four to seven times in October. I plain don't like them.
But I hate the Braves. We all do. Yet to root for them to lose to the Phillies would be self-defeating. While we may be inevitable, math is math and our job is to encourage subtraction. Ernesto may make my dithering moot, but they'll have to play sometime. (After seeing what tropical storms can lead to a year ago, I won't make any flip remarks about hoping both teams are blown away. But, uh, you know…)
What to do? What to do?
by Greg Prince on 1 September 2006 5:31 am Stop.
Listen.
What’s that sound?
BEEEEP! BEEEEP! BEEEEP!
That’s the unmistakable noise the Mets express makes as it backs into a magic number of 15. Unpleasant loss for us in Colorado but a crushing defeat for Philadelphia in Washington. The Nats’ hero was Marlon Anderson, tagging up from second to third and then practically stealing home on the passingest of passed balls. I guess all that experience Marlon Anderson received as we got our spoil on last September is paying off.
Thanks to him (and no thanks to Oliver Perez), I have 15 things to do right now.
15.01: Paging Mr. Warhol. How big will our roster be by next week? In the near future, everybody will be a Met for 15 minutes.
15.02: Give Us 22 Minutes. As long as WINS has been all-news, we’ve always been able to rely on sports at 15 after and 15 before the hour. The same could be said for WCBS, I suppose, except they air Yankee games, so WCBS isn’t listened to much here.
15.03: Grab Some Pine, Bench. No catcher was better at catching than our No. 15, Jerry Grote. Threw runners out, grabbed every popup, cultivated one of the Terrific staffs of the era. Didn’t hit on the level of The Great J.B., but that’s hitting, not catching.
15.04: Move Over Jerry Grote. Carlos Beltran is making 15 all his in the Met uniform pecking order. He’s making everything else his, too.
15.05: Stay Where You Are George Foster. Was there a bigger disappointment in Mets history? How the hell did that happen? He was so great wearing 15 in Cincinnati, then he was so awful wearing 15 in New York. Why, why, WHY does that ALWAYS happen to us? Oh, except with Carlos Beltran, I mean.
15.06: Why He’s Talking To Us Now. Ron Darling won 15 games in 1986, a year after he won 16. Ron Darling becoming a Mets announcer in 2006 still feels as weird as Jerry Koosman becoming one out of nowhere around 1989 would have. Out of sight, out of mind, suddenly on SNY. He’s getting better at it, though.
15.07: More Than Enough. The 1986 Mets carried 15 position players into the postseason, using only 14, with Ed Hearn lingering as god-forbid insurance for Carter. That means only 9 pitchers. There’s no telling how many we’ll carry this year. Seems we’ve never had less than 12 at any given moment.
15.08: A Little Cliqueish. Remember how in the spring of ’87, the Mets starters got together and decided it would be way cool if they all wore numbers in the teens? Doc, Ronnie and Bobby O were already there. El Sid went to 10 and Rick Aguilera wore 15. Alas, Fernandez couldn’t be anything but 50 once the season started. Would have you guessed Aggie would go on to have, arguably, the most successful long-term career of the five?
15.09: Positively Gumpy. Two baby boomer touchstones converged on October 15, 1969: Moratorium Day, dedicated to protesting the United States’ involvement in Vietnam, and the fourth game of the 1969 World Series. Tom Seaver started against the Orioles. He was also recruited by peace organizers to speak out against the war. Seaver stuck to pitching, going 10 and defeating the Orioles 2-1. The Mets won the Series the next day. America wouldn’t withdraw from Vietnam until January 1973.
15.10: New Sensations. By going 15-10, Jon Matlack earned the National League Rookie of the Year award in 1972. John Milner finished third. And if you knew Dave Rader finished between them, you’re a crazier motherfucker than I am, Gunga Din.
15.11: Whither the Moonmen? MTV’s headquarters is 1515 Broadway. The MTV Video Music Awards were Thursday night. I completely forgot they were on. I used to know stuff like that. I used to know who was nominated and who was presenting and who was doing the outrageous stunt. I used to be young.
15.12: Watching The Mets Wake Up From History. It was 15 years ago that Jesus Jones had a big hit celebrating how the world was changing for the better. Heard it the other night and was impressed how it was really a song anticipating the 2006 Mets: “I was alive and I waited, waited. I was alive and I waited for this. Right here, right now, there is no place I’d rather be.” Bob Dylan never blogged about this.
15.13: Let’s Never Party Like It Was 1991. At this moment 15 years ago, any combination of Pirate wins and Met losses adding to 20 would eliminate the fourth-place Mets from contention.
15.14: Except For One Thing. Our 15th wedding anniversary is this November. I wanted us to wait until November because, honey, the Mets could be in the World Series again in October.
15.15: Encore For Andy. Gotta go. Warhol says my 15 minutes are over.
by Greg Prince on 1 September 2006 4:25 am It's September 1, so you know what that means. It's the day blogs get to expand their rosters. In preparation for this day, I asked several prospective Faith and Fearers to send me a sample of what they could see themselves writing about the Mets at the beginning of September. I haven't looked at any of them since soliciting them before the season started, so the best way to go about this would be to print the first paragraph from each of them and see if any of them has the insight it takes to cover the daily ups and occasional downs of our powerhouse team on its way to the playoffs.
Here's the first one.
Well, it's September for the Mets and you know what that means. Another lousy season is nearing its end.
No, that's no good. Maybe the next one.
Whatever hopes the Mets had of calling this a good season are about to go down in flames as their annual September swoon takes hold.
That's not gonna do it. Maybe the one after that.
As September gets underway, the only thing there is to look forward to is which minor leaguers get an overdue shot from the Mets. It will be refreshing to see some youngsters play while the struggling veterans sit.
That doesn't apply at all. Fourth time's a charm?
I can't wait to see what deadwood the Mets clear out and who they'll target for acquisition in the offseason. That's what September is for around here, imagining who will be on board next spring and who will be gone after the 162nd game.
Fifth time?
With the Mets hopelessly playing out the string, let's examine what kind of progress we can expect from Eli Manning this fall.
Boy, that's totally inappropriate. Hopefully the next one…
We enter September wondering again where the annual game of managerial and GM musical chairs will take the Mets. Who will Fred Wilpon be introducing in the Diamond Club come October as the next 'savior'?
Or the one after that…
Circle those three dates in the last week of the season, the ones on your pocket schedule, the ones in the white boxes that read ATL. It's where the Mets will go to go down to their annual appointment with disappointment.
Wrong again. I have one more here. If this doesn't work, just forget the whole thing.
Is it just me, or is the race between the Yankees and Red Sox for American League prominence way more interesting than anything the Mets could possibly be involved in?
Wow. I really shouldn't have solicited September blog entries before the season started. Guess we won't be expanding our roster after all.
Preparation is overrated.
by Greg Prince on 31 August 2006 8:12 am The world’s our Rocky Mountain oyster.
Hits don’t lie. Neither does endlessly errorless fielding.
I particularly liked Valentin’s second homer. It smacked square off the CR on the Rockies cap billboard above the right field fence. That’s a message hit.
In handicapping the Wild Card race, don’t put your money on the Astros, the Braves, the Dodgers or the Marlins. Why not? They all still have to play us.
With our 82nd win, we secured a winning record for the second straight year, about as suspense-free a milestone as we’ll ever achieve. With nine more carefully chosen wins (one over Houston, one over Atlanta, two over Los Angeles, three over Florida, two over Washington), we’ll have managed to have won or split every season series with all our National League opponents.
Gotta stay motivated. Then again, I ain’t ‘fraida no coast. But if the Mets don’t do something well, it’s coast.
Phillies won, so we move magically by but one.
16.01: Present at the Creation. Faith and Fear in Flushing was founded on February 16, 2005. The very first words I wrote: When is Omar going to get off the stick and sign Jose Valentin, Endy Chavez, Darren Oliver, Guillermo Mota and Dave Williams? We’re never going to win until we have guys like those!
16.02: Doc. On July 30, 1985, Dwight Gooden, No. 16 in your programs and No. 1 in your hearts, raised his record to 16-3, shutting out the Expos, striking out 10. Joel and I heard the score on WINS driving back from Boston having watched Tom Seaver raise his lifetime win total to 299.
16.03: No Scrubs. Unlike the neglect he has piled on the Hernandez legacy, Charlie Samuels has protected Doc’s. Since Gooden left in ’94, 16 has been issued only to experienced players with a legit claim to it: Hideo Nomo, Derek Bell (Doc tribute), David Cone (Doc tribute), Doug Mientkiewicz, Paul Lo Duca. I’d like to think Charlie made up an ’86 model for its proper bearer a couple of weeks ago just in case.
16.04: Another Fallen Idol. For my high school graduation, I was given a baseball shirt with a Mets 16 insignia on the left breast. It was to honor the Mets’ only marketable player, Lee Mazzilli. I wore it in 1981 for Mazz. I wore it in 1982 and 1983 for nobody. In 1984 it became my Doc shirt.
16.05: It Still Adds Up, But Not For Us. Kaz Matsui wore 25 as a Met because 7 was taken and 2 plus 5 equals 7 in any language. As a Rockie, he’s No. 16. And we’re still better off without him.
16.06: Turn Around Now…Switch! Felix Millan wore 16 in 1973. Then he grabbed 17 from Teddy Martinez and Martinez took 23 in 1974, which Dave Schneck wore in ’73 before going with 16 in ’74. In 1976, John Stearns wore 16 and Lee Mazzilli wore 12. In 1977, John Stearns wore 12 and Lee Mazzilli wore 16. Names were added to the backs of Met uniforms in 1979 when everybody in one would have preferred anonymity.
16.07: Chuck Berry. Sweet Little 16. She’s just got to have. About half a million. Framed autographs. How much of her allowance did she spend on framing anyway?
16.08: Dream Date. I’ve never picked up an issue of 16 magazine, but 35 years ago in late August I will cop to a copy of Tiger Beat because David Cassidy was on the cover and the Partridge Family, briefly my favorite show, was inside. These days, I’m swooning over David Williams, who must think he won a contest. In 200 words or less, tell us why YOU deserve a promotion to the best team in baseball! If you win, you’ll get to pitch with AWESOME defense behind you and GROOVY offense supporting you! You even get to RUN THE BASES! The contest has expired, as Williams has been sent down, but he’ll be back next week. And speaking of Tiger Beat, isn’t that Craig Monroe dreamy?
16.09: Lucky Cat, Lucky Us. On September 16, 2005, we adopted a kitten and named him Avery. Before he showed up, the Mets had been dragging through their traditional August-September slide, 3-16 at that point. On the first night of Avery, Pedro beat the Braves, sparking a 12-4 finishing kick that clinched a winning season and augured better things for 2006. Since Avery made his debut, the Mets are 94-53. He hasn’t slowed down either.
16.10: Quickly Consistent. The first 32 victories of Tom Seaver’s career came in two sets of 16 — 16-13 in ’67, 16-12 in ’68. More than 10% of his lifetime victories (311) were earned on teams that finished a cumulative 56 games under .500.
16.11: Up The Dial. On Friday, Air America Radio moves to 1600 AM, WWRL. WWRL was my favorite station between 1997 and 2000 when it played soul classics. Then: Al Green. Now: Al Franken. Elusive: Al Schmelz.
16.12: Dr. Hook. She was only 16, only 16, but I loved that girl so. We were too young to fall in love and I was too young to know.
16.13: Where Was Jay Hook? When I was only 16, only 16, the Mets won only 63, only 63. The Mets’ deadline deals were for Dock Ellis and Andy Hassler, both more comfortable over the hill than on it. I ran into a Mets fan that hideous summer who told me he loved those trades and that in five years we were gonna be real good. It was 1979; he was half-right.
16.14: Where Was The Humidor When We Needed It? That infamous 26-7 rout at the Vet makes our nightly blowouts in Denver look like we’re in the Year of the Pitcher. On June 11, 1985, the Phillies ran up a 16-0 lead after two innings. I think I’m gonna call the FAN right now and fret that we haven’t done that yet.
16.15: Prove It All Night. Everybody remembers that on July 4 and 5, 1985, the Mets and Braves played 19 innings and until 3:55 AM in Atlanta. Does anybody recollect the final score? We won 16-13. The Braves were so embarrassed, they vowed to eventually build a new stadium and beat the Mets senseless for nearly a decade.
16.16: Ringo Starr. You walked out of a dream, peaches and cream, lips like strawberry wine. The Mets are 16 from clinching, they’re beautiful and they’re mine. And yours.
by Jason Fry on 31 August 2006 5:04 am I got an email today from an old pal and fellow dedicated Met fan in New Orleans, where I was once nearly assaulted for watching the Mets instead of porn. My old pal's question: “Has this whole season been one of the best goddamn things to happen to you in years or what?”
Better believe it. But it got me thinking. The closest thing to the dizzying 2006 season so far is 1986 — no pennant race to speak of after June, a suspense-free summer of jaw-dropping domination. But for me as a Met fan, this year really has no parallel. I'm old enough to remember 1986 — I was 17. But for me, 1986 didn't unfold on TV or the radio. I was away at school, and had to content myself most days with a paragraph and a box score in the newspaper, assuming the Mets weren't on the West Coast. Sure, I saw the team on WOR when I was home in Florida, caught whatever Games of the Week I could, and soaked up as much of the mythology of that swaggering band as I could hold. But that's not the same as seeing the team day-in and day-out. Until the postseason, I couldn't do that. By necessity, my fandom was secondhand.
As bloggers go, Greg and I are old men — as far as I can tell, most of our bloggy peers are in their early to mid-20s. Which means they didn't see 1986 either — they've absorbed it via books and rain-delay programming and videos. We've had other great seasons, but there wasn't a cakewalk in the bunch — 1969 required a lengthy, from-outta-nowhere chase of the Cubs, 1973 was stranger than fiction, 1988 wasn't a runaway until late (and even then the team felt vulnerable), 1999 demanded a 163rd game, 2000 was a wild-card berth. If you're a twentysomething blogger, or a 37-year-old who couldn't see most of the regular season, this is uncharted territory.
Uncharted territory filled with wonders. These days it feels like we play two kinds of games — ones in which we dominate from the starting gun, and ones in which we wait patiently for late-inning magic. (And every so often we somehow lose one.) Suffocating defense. An offense whose power, speed and patience makes it trebly deadly. Starting pitching that's serviceable to good, relief pitching that's lights-out. Limitless confidence. These days even our missteps are entertaining — if starting pitchers keep getting on base, I suppose it's logical that they'll eventually step over one. Games like tonight, in other words. We're fans of the best team in baseball, baby. You could look it up.
I can only imagine this is what 1986 felt like, as we pulled away like Secretariat at the Belmont. But the parallels with 1986 shouldn't just be the stuff of celebration. There's a warning in there, too.
A summer like this, whether or not it comes with a magical October, is a once-a-generation thing. Injuries wrecked the 1987 Mets, bad defense and bad luck and ghostwritten columns flushed 1988 down the toilet, and after that the team became more and more poorly constructed until finally imploding in the summer of 1991. The Mets didn't win anything in 1987 — or in 1970 or 1974 or 1989 or 2001. A young talented core is a marvelous thing to have, but it guarantees nothing. Hell, a regular season like this one guarantees nothing — the '86 Mets needed some hairsbreadth escapes to avoid being a historical footnote.
Don't get bored, complacent or jaded. Don't mutter about how long it's taking for October to arrive. Yeah, we've all thought it, and it's just human nature to want to get to the main event, to see how it all turns out. But fight it. Soak these days in. Carpe Met'm, boys and girls. Write down the details and promise to do your best to remember. You owe it to yourself. Because we'll forget. Because before you know it we'll be watching some Met hit into a double play during a meaningless late-season game. Because it might be 2026 before a summer like this comes along again.
by Greg Prince on 30 August 2006 8:15 pm The most appropriate way to honor the memory of the impact of the most significant Brooklyn Dodger of them all would be for Fred Wilpon to take the money and run…to the bottom line of any contract for stadium naming rights.
It is Walter O'Malley, not Jackie Robinson, who shaped the baseball world we live in today. Bless Jackie and his courage and his accomplishments, but there would be no Mets without O'Malley.
O'Malley left town. Took Stoneham with him. If that hadn't happened, there's no Faith and Fear in Flushing. I'm writing Hope and Hell in Harlem while Jason is blogging Bats and Balderdash on Bedford. On a personal note, we owe those who skipped out on New York a debt of gratitude.
Bigger picture, O'Malley not only saw California but knew it was a gold mine in waiting. Why let some puny expansion team put down stakes when he could establish the Dodger brand name in a burgeoning market? If selling naming rights to his new stadium there struck him as a good business opportunity, he would have come up with it. Selling the Dodgers to Southern California was a better investment.
Walter O'Malley made baseball a big-money game. He figured out that installing water fountains in the ballpark might keep people from buying soft drinks, so he held off on the fountains. He decided putting just enough games on free television was better than none or all, so he only aired a few. He built an operation that was the first to usher three million through the gates, the first to regularly top two million. He found his audience and he cultivated it.
If Walter O'Malley were still around and he was presented the chance to make money off the name of a new stadium, Walter O'Malley would set new records for windfalls.
The people noisily campaigning to name Shea Stadium's successor after Jackie Robinson are people who are not going to pay their way into the ballpark. They are well-meaning people, sentimental people, semi-informed-at-best people. As decent (as in human decency) a point as they make on behalf of the Robinson legacy, they are misguided both on how these things get done and why these things get done.
The National Tennis Center's salutes to Arthur Ashe and Billie Jean King, held up as our examples to follow, are outstanding. Ashe and King are synonymous with the best of American tennis. When we have a National Baseball Center, by all means name it for Jackie Robinson, synonymous with the best of American baseball. If I'm looking for the best of New York Mets baseball, however, a search for Jackie Robinson yields no matches.
The field is where baseball takes care of those we really care about. We're outside the park for a few minutes. We're inside the park for hours. Jackie's 42 gets more face time everywhere, not just in New York, the way it's set up now. The field is for players. 42 belonged to a great man who displayed his great qualities while being a great ballplayer.
Quick, how many Major League ballparks are named for ballplayers? Ebbets? Shibe? Comiskey? Jacobs?
Bueller? Anyone?
We may celebrate Willie, Mickey & The Duke, but our fathers and grandfathers didn't directly hand them six bits for a ticket. Those went to Horace, Del and Walter. The owners are the owners. The ballplayers are the employees. It's a very proletariat-paradise concept that their name should be on the factory gates, but it's a fantasy. The only player, besides Pro Player, who got a stadium was Bill Shea. And he wasn't a player. He was a Player.
If you're not honoring yourself — I'm guessing the Wilponarium isn't on the table — or somebody or some group (like Veterans) overwhelmingly deserving of a tribute, you're probably making a business decision. What will make people want to come here?
1970: Do we need to let people know it's by the Three Rivers? We do? Then I've got just the name for our new multipurpose stadium here in Pittsburgh.
1994: Is the ballpark in Arlington? Sure it's not Dallas or Fort Worth? Well, we better make sure everybody understands the ballpark's in Arlington.
1912: How are we going to get some pub for this Fenway section of Boston?
You don't get that reasoning much anymore, so the business angle is now a straight cash deal. You give us a lot of money and we'll plaster your name all over our building where tens of thousands of your potential customers come 81 times a year. Strikes me as a sucker arrangement. Did Phillies fans dig their savings (compiled from all those years of not having to buy playoff tickets) out from under their mattresses and put it in a Citizens Bank? Have all White Sox lovers dumped their Sprint plans in favor of U.S. Cellular? Is there a single Padre fan who won't buy cat food at the supermarket because “I gotta support my team”?
The Mets need to take the O'Malley tack and take the money. Find a reputable sponsor and hook up. Something that sounds right, something that will still be here in its present form in 10 or 20 years. Avoid Chico's Bail Bonds. Pass on GoDaddy.com. Think twice before signing with Azek Trimboards. This is New York. There's bound to be a company or two that will meet the requirement.
Then squeeze 'em for all it's worth, get every cent out of 'em and go buy us a good player with the pure profits. If there's anything left over, erect a statue outside of whoever those who don't pay their way into Mets games insist we must honor next.
by Greg Prince on 30 August 2006 9:23 am Did you know eight teams are tied for the National League Wild Card and none has a winning percentage of over .350?
OK, I’m lying, but close enough. I just got finished watching the Wild Card leaders, the Reds, give up their lofty perch after 16 grueling innings at Dodger Stadium. I don’t know if it was grueling for them, but the portion I caught — after the Mets disposed of the Rockies — was rather difficult to watch from here. From here at the top, I mean. Mets games involve only one mediocre team. Tune in any other NL contest and you’ll find two.
(Oh, and fuck the American League and its superiority complex. Nobody has fewer losses than us there and only the Tigers have one more win. Of course we’re huge Tigers fans for the next couple of days; Kenny Rogers, what a gentleman.)
The Reds’ loss and the Padres’ win means that if our season were to end today and everybody else kept playing, we’d still have more wins than the rest of the league, combined, by October. Seriously though…the Padres? They’re the Wild Card leaders? Didn’t we just sweep them three weeks ago? That’s who’d we play in the playoffs?
Yeah, yeah, I know, Mike Scioscia, Kirk Gibson, Orel Hershiser, the whole bunch of ’em. But c’mon. The Padres? Hey Mike! You and what army?
ANYWAY, the Wild Card race is tight and the Nationals were no help in loosening it, meaning the Phillies didn’t lose, meaning our magic number only dropped by one Tuesday. 18 minus 1 equals 17. And if it’s 17, it must be time for Metsopotamia’s favorite new game show, 17 Fascinating Faith and Fear in Flushing Free-Association Facts About 17.
17.01: Mex, Who Was Great But Also Is Nuts. Keith hasn’t worn 17 in New York, except ceremonially, in 17 years. What else is there to say about the number that stubbornly defies retirement despite evidence that would suggest the contrary? Whatever else there is to say, Keith will say it if the hour is late enough and he hasn’t eaten. And, by the way, what’s a “humididor”?
17.02: Rey Ordoñez Best Keep His Yap Shut. Back when it was still surprising that anybody but Keith Hernandez would be issued No. 17, scrappy utility infielder and amateur team bus boxer Luis Lopez wore it and homered for the only run in a 1-0 shutout over the Expos on Keith Hernandez Mets Hall of Fame Induction Day in 1997. Dave Mlicki threw a gem but the shutout was only preserved when Todd Pratt pulled an acting job worthy of Paul Lo Duca after dropping the ball on a tag play at home. Montreal’s dugout was so incensed that their trainer was ejected for arguing. (I don’t suppose the delusional Braves would send us Tank as Castro insurance.)
17.03: An Embarrassment of Bitches. What in the name of Wilson Delgado goes through the mind of an equipment manager who throws around the number of the Second Greatest Met of the First Forty Years like it once belonged to Gil Flores? Wilson Delgado was actually serviceable in 17. What to make of Satoru Komiyama, Dae-Sung Koo and Jose Lima wearing the Hernandez imprimataur? Keith really should have tipped Charlie Samuels more generously in 1989.
17.04: I’m Sorry, But Who’s Gil Flores? A spare outfielder on the eternally damned 1979 Mets. If I didn’t have Keith Hernandez as my automatic answer during my occasional “name a number and a name” mental gymnastic, it would be Gil Flores for 17. And Bob Myrick is my instinctive response to 44.
17.05: Doc’s Other Habit. Dwight Gooden won 17 games as a fabulous rookie in 1984, won 17 more games as a slightly disappointing third-year ace in 1986 and wore No. 17 the last time he pitched at Shea Stadium in 2000. But he wasn’t a Met in 2000…how could that be possib…oh. Never mind.
17.06: Need a Clubhouse Lawyer? No Met pitcher has represented the 17th district in the House of Victories since Senator Al Leiter (R-NYY) went 17-6 in 1998. Does anybody still think he’ll run for office? Shouldn’t he be collecting babies and kissing signatures? Is every jock who can string three sentences together that don’t involve the cut fastball considered a potential candidate for something?
17.07: I Still Don’t Get It. In 1970, Topps put out a nice set of Sporting News All-Star Cards reflecting the Bible of Baseball’s 1969 choices. Jerry Koosman got one as LHP for going 17-9. His face burst through a front page. Cool! But the RHP selection was not 25-7, Cy Young, Hitchcock Belt, Sportsman of the Year Tom Seaver, but somebody named Marichal, a name I mangled as a 7-year-old. That was probably the moment The Sporting News stopped being the Bible of Baseball.
17.08: I Finally Got It. That same summer, I was in day camp at the Sands Beach Club in Lido. When it came time to gather our group for a class picture, so to speak, we posed in front of a sign suddenly identifying us as the Sinister 17. There were 17 of us and alliteration’s always a winner (as for being sinister, I don’t remember if any of us were lefties like Kooz). But then another kid joined the group and we didn’t become the Sinister 18. We became the Sinister 70. What was that all about? Probably that it was 1970, I just figured out. Admittedly, I hadn’t given it any thought in 36 years from that summer until last night groping for 17 tidbits. Nevertheless, a surprisingly slow grope on my part.
17.09: Janis Ian. At 17, she learned the truth.
17.10: The Late Rick James. She was only 17, 17…but she was sexy. Was he referring to Ms. Ian? We’ll never know.
17.11: Resilient Fishies. The Mets beat the Marlins 17-3 in the month previous to this one. Afterwards, rational owner Jeffrey Loria told his trusted manager Joe Girardi to forget about it, we’ll go get ’em tomorrow. They haven’t lost since.
17.12: A September to Remember. Your 1986 World Champion Mets became your 1986 National League East Champion Mets on September 17. If we ask real nice, maybe SNY will show an edited version of that game a hundred more times.
17.13: A Broadcast to Forget. Carlos Beltran tied the Met record for scoring in most consecutive games, 11. But the National League record of 17 belongs to Ted Kluszewski, per Gary Cohen or whoever handed him the note in Denver. By the way, have you ever heard Gary as unhinged during a telecast as he was Tuesday? The travel, the thin air, the time change and Keith must have gotten to him. Forget about it, go get ’em tomorrow.
17.14: Ted Turner, All Class. When his superstation was merely UHF WTBS in Atlanta, the Braves’ owner thought it would be a great idea to have Andy Messersmith, No. 17 on his baseball team, take the mound as CHANNEL, as in CHANNEL 17. If he owned a state road, I suppose Phil Niekro would have been HIGHWAY 35. Less remembered is he ordered the public address announcer at Fulton County Stadium in 1995 to introduce the Braves’ rookie third baseman as Chipper Sucks.
17.15: Save Our Place, We’ll Be Back in 88 Years. The Chicago White Sox defeated the New York Giants in the 1917 World Series, four games to two. But nobody makes a movie about the 1917 White Sox, do they?
17.16: Happy St. Bernie’s Day. Every March 17 between 1993 and 2005, we would freak out our beloved first cat with a shrill HIIIII BERNIE! This year, on the day when the Ancient Order of Hibernians paraded without him in proximity, Stephanie and I poured shots of Bushmills Irish Cream and toasted heavenward. Bet we freaked him out again.
17.17: Magic Yes, But I Like It Too. My go-to number is 17. Any story I tell that requires exaggeration usually relies on 17, as in “I had to listen to him tell me 17 times” or “we must have gotten 17 phone calls today.” My mother liked 14. She wasn’t cooking 14 different meals, for example. I don’t know why 17 took hold with me. I didn’t even realize it until Stephanie pointed it out. I try to mix it up these days. Sometimes 8, sometimes 18. I probably have like 17 different numbers now.
by Jason Fry on 30 August 2006 6:18 am Hey! We're sexy and 17!
A puzzle for bloggers and beat writers alike: What do you say about a 10-5 demolition of the Rockies? Do you praise the continuing firepower of MVP In Waiting Carlos Beltran and resident whirlwind Jose Reyes? Wax hopeful about a good night for David Wright, one that didn't even need a conference of umpires? Marvel about another night in which Steve Trachsel trudged through raindrops, dumped a couple of buckets over his own head and still somehow emerged dry?
Maybe. Another tack would be to look at the Rockies and shake your head at the Peanuts-style pratfalls they staged all over the outfield. It's quite an accomplishment to play two balls into two-run triples with foolhardy dives, but Brad Hawpe managed it. After the second one, I would have been the least surprised to find poor Hawpe lying undressed in the outfield, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth and whirly lines above his head. (Maybe Snoopy would bring the ball back to Peppermint Patty in his teeth.) And what's with the Rockies' bullpen? It's a little disconcerting to have to peer through trees to see who's warming up. What if they turn the cameras that way just in time to see Manny Corpas get mauled by a cougar?
Ah well. You know what you do when 10-5 drubbings start seeming pedestrian, when magic numbers descending seems like a natural right, when the next month's suspense concerns dates for clinching? You enjoy it. You enjoy every last dribbler through the middle, every pitch that nicks the outside corner, every it put in the books, every giddy grin on Jose Reyes' face.
And you count down the magic numbers.
by Greg Prince on 29 August 2006 5:35 am With total props to tasty Toasty Joe (his next 6″ tuna sub is on me, especially if my Shea ticket stub really does entitle me to buy one, get one relatively free as it states on the back) and his inspirational, intermittent salute to the ever-burgeoning Met win total on his excellent blog, I’d like to share 18 facts about the Mets’ current magic number, 18.
18.01: Straw. 18 never looked better than two Saturday nights ago when it reappeared on the body it was born for. Could have you imagined it would not be withdrawn from circulation after Darryl spent his entire career with the Mets, hit those 600 homers and led the team to those eight World Series?
18.02: Howe. 18 never looked worse than on the manager two dark years ago. Art’s still cashing checks from his four-year deal. Maybe we should keep paying him to stay away.
18.03: Cheaper By The Dozen. That headscratcher of a trivia answer (to “who was the Mets manager between Bobby Valentine and Willie Randolph?—hint: he’s the only one of the three to not take the team to the playoffs”) is one of twelve Mets to wear 18 since Darryl Strawberry.
18.04: No, Not You Takashi. Though Bret Saberhagen put up a notably control-friendly 1994 and Marlon Anderson got his pinch-hit on in 2005, the best 18 since Darryl Strawberry is the current rights holder, Jose Valentin. The hardest 18? Finding 18 Mets fans who saw him becoming our everyday second baseman and us loving it.
18.05: The Franchise. Tom Seaver was 16-5 midway though 1970 and was put on a four-day regimen to give him a shot at 30 wins. It was only two years after Denny McLain won 31. Can you imagine? Anyway, Tom Terrific was a creature of the five-man rotation and it backfired in a big way. Still led the league in strikeouts and ERA, but finishing 18-12 cost him yet another Cy Young. Despite youthful exuberance in the pursuit of unlikely statistical milestones, here’s to Tom!
18.06: The Other Franchise. I marched down to the Board of Elections and registered as soon I was constitutionally permitted. Despite 18-year-olds’ failure to appreciate the right to cast a ballot, here’s to the 26th Amendment!
18.07: Here’s To Toasting! But with what? When I turned 18, you could drink in New York. When I got to college in Florida, the drinking age was 19. Soon it was 21 just about everywhere. Eighteen struck me as the right one, but I don’t remember any of those restrictions getting in anybody’s way when I was at those awkward ages (as opposed to my current awkward age).
18.08: Personal Numeric Palindrome. I was 18 in ’81.
18.09: Our Lone Star Then. Joel Youngblood wore 18 in ’81.
18.10: Good Thing It Was Split. If you combine the first and second halves of strike-sundered ’81, the Mets finished 18-1/2 games behind the Cardinals. But the joke’s on the Cardinals — they neglected to win either half and stayed home for the playoffs. So did the Mets, but the joke’s still on the Cardinals.
18.11: Played In Pain. Cliff Floyd ratcheted up his slugging right before leaving for right Achilles tendon surgery in August 2003. Finishing with 18 homers and 68 RBI, he received one ovation after another from a beaten down Shea crowd that had nothing else to cheer way back then.
18.12: Played In More Pain. Cliff’s 2004 ended shy of the finish line again after straining his right oblique. Managed another 18 dingers despite his dings. He could use more cheers real soon.
18.13: Pete Wingfield. On November 22, 1975, “Eighteen With A Bullet” actually climbed to No. 18 on Billboard‘s Hot 100. And his record indeed had a bullet. No truth to the rumor that Pete had his finger on the trigger…or was gonna pull it.
18.14: Sailcat. “Motorcycle Mama” was the one hit by this one-hit wonder in 1972. “You’re 18/You can do what you like” was a lyric that tickled my parents no end. I’m still not sure why. I was 9.
18.15: Alice Cooper. He’s a boy and he’s a man. He’s “Eighteen,” and he don’t know what he wants…except to be known by a girl’s name. That a fellow (Vincent Furnier by birth) called himself Alice and became a rock star even bigger than Sailcat in 1972 also amused Mom and Dad. Me too, I guess. I was half of 18.
18.16: Good Luck With That. In Jewish tradition, chai, the Hebrew letter expression of 18, is considered fortunate. Give $36 as a bar mitzvah present, and it will be translated as rockin’ the double chai. Depending on your relationship to the thirteen-year-old’s family, it will be seen as thoughtfully appropriate or a little on the cheap side. I once gave a Mets fan whose wedding I couldn’t make a gift of $69.86.
18.17: Very Good Luck With That. On January 8, 2005 — or 1/8 almost 1 year and 8 months ago — Drayton McLane failed to re-sign Carlos Beltran to the Houston Astros. Instead, the future should-be National League MVP decided to accept $118 million from the New York Mets. Plus $1 million for good measure.
18.18: An Eternity. It’s been 18 years since the Mets had a magic number countdown for a divisional title. Let’s not wait ’til 2024 to do this again.
by Greg Prince on 28 August 2006 8:09 pm During my adolescent afternoons playing one-on-one stickball in the East School playground, the dolphin served as our first base foul line. My favorite ground rule was if you hit it under the dolphin's snout, it was fair. If you hit it under the tail or over the dolphin altogether, foul. Hitting the dolphin created a matter open to interpretation.
Third base foul line was the staircase that led into the cafeteria. Single was a ball that you didn't pick up within the fair confines of the playground. Double went over the short chain link fence out onto Neptune Boulevard. Home run went into the front yard of the house across the street. Triples didn't seem to exist.
If there was festering uncertainty on what happened to a batted ball, there'd be lots of arguing. Me and my stickball cohort were such lousy hitters that if we actually got a piece of the fuzzy yellow sphere (we used tennis balls in Long Beach, not the Spaldeens of urban legend), we wanted credit for accomplishing something. If one of us was sure a ball should have been a double and the other thought it went foul, maybe, after exhausting our junior high debating skills and threatening to go home, we would have split the difference, called it a single and kept playing.
It's not like we had anything better to do.
The bottom of the third at Shea today was East School writ large. In front of a makeup crowd relatively comparable to the two second-graders who might linger at our flailings before opting for the see-saw, a Major League umpiring crew applied schoolyard logic to their own fair/foul dispute.
Beltran on third, Delgado on first, Wright up. He lines one in the vicinity of the third base bag. It takes a funny bounce. Obviously it hit the bag, obviously Beltran will score, obviously it's a two-base hit for Wright, second and third.
Is not.
Is so.
Is not!
Is so!
IS NOT.
IS SO.
IS NOT!
IS SO!
IS NOT!!
IS SO!!
IS NOT!!!
IS SO!!!
Given the umpiring acumen associated with Randy Marsh (the third base official who displayed such a creative strike zone Saturday night) and Angel Hernandez (behind home plate and generally a more reliable Met villain than Pat Burrell and Ryan Howard combined), anything could have happened and anything did.
Marsh called it foul.
Manny Acta pointed. The ball took a crazy hop right there at the bag. How could have it not hit third base? But Marsh wouldn't budge. The replay wasn't definitive. Gary and Ron thought maybe there was a rock or spike mark, because it didn't necessarily seem to make contact with the bag…nah, it had to, it was too close. Willie came out to have a word. Marsh consented to a conference with his fellow umps. The only man in blue who could have seen the ball was Hernandez. Another replay showed the third baseman, Abraham Nuñez, probably blocked Marsh's view.
The umps caucused. Willie waited. Charlie Manuel emerged. Much talmudic scholarship was swapped (Ron noticed the umps covered their mouths the way a pitcher would in going over signals with his catcher). White smoke was released into the sky. Marsh, likely relying on Hernandez's sudden bout of judgment, told Randolph something. Randolph hung around. He told Manuel something. Manuel chatted more than argued. Manuel kept chatting — chatting a little too much, apparently. Marsh rather lethargically raised his right arm in the ol' heave-ho. Manuel loped out of sight.
The decision: Beltran, you trot home from third. Delgado, you head to second. Wright, you're no longer in a slump, go stand at first. Carlos D was thoughtful enough to wait before advancing so he could give David a little fist knock of congratulations.
What the hell was that?
We've seen a jillion lousy fair/foul calls in our lives, but most of them are of the whaddayagonnado? variety. Balls that wrap the fair pole (of course it's the FAIR pole, it's a FAIR ball!) are occasionally challenged and once in a blue moon reversed. But a ball hit down the line that was obviously going for a double first called wrong and then called a single? There was no interference, there was just a mistake. It was then corrected with Solomonic wisdom, the kind you never see in the big leagues, the kind we often resorted to in order to keep from killing each other at East School.
Double? Foul?
Ah, call it a single and let's keep playing.
It didn't feel quite right but it wasn't all wrong. We did get a run and a runner out of it. Green and Woodward made sure everybody who deserved to score eventually scored. And we won, plugged the hole in the schedule, finished with the Phillies as far as we can tell, reached 31 games above .500 for the first time since Leiter two-hit the Reds on 10/4/99, extended our lead to 15-1/2 for the first time since '86 and whittled our Number of Numbers to a Magical 18.
It's been the kind of year when everything we hit rolls clean under the dolphin.
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