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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 7 April 2006 4:26 am Before we get to tonight's game, a few more words about the never-to-be-called-that Mets Ballpark. I know you and I pretty much agree on Shea at this point — it's crumbling, rusty, spills strange substances on you, the escalators don't work, the plumbing backs up, the batter's eye breaks between innings, fuses blow and knock TV networks off the air, key parts of home-run apples get lost, old children's parks molder behind the outfield fence…if something can go wrong at an old, ugly ballpark, it's probably going wrong at Shea this very instant. When those not fortunate enough to have enjoyed its charms ask me to describe Shea, I invariably say it's like a DMV with a ballgame in the middle of it.
So why are you offering valedictions while I'm offloading venom? I guess the difference is you can still find some sentiment for the old rattletrap, while I have none to spare. Mets memories? I have good ones by the bushelful, but for me they're bound up with the people (in player uniform and fan uniform), with precious little left over for the place. A parking lot? Sounds like a vast improvement.
Particularly considering where the people parking those cars will go. The new stadium is gorgeous, and not just because I've wanted me one of these for a long, long time. I've wanted one since I ascended a working, relatively speedy escalator and found a comfy seat in Camden Yards. Since I wandered Turner Field and found the concourses filled with monitors and the radio feed playing in the bathroom. Since Emily returned from a trip to Denver raving about Coors Field. Since I heard your hosannas for the Stadium Formerly Known as Pac Bell. Since I had to watch the Phillies — whose fans deserve nothing nice, whose old park had a freaking jail in it — get one. I never saw Ebbets Field, so I'm not going to get too choked up about the rotunda (that said, Fred Wilpon's emotional recollection of going there with his Dad was a nice moment), but I love that too. The wide concourses, the green seats, the lights, the nod to the bridges … I love it all.
And I want it now! Since I can't get that, I want to wallow in all the wonderfully silly stuff of a new ballpark coming to town. I want to see the pols holding silver shovels and making stupid baseball references. I want to see the new park rising beyond the bullpen, then watch long home runs bounce off of it in 2008, a la whatever they call Cincy's nice new ballpark. I want countdowns with old Met heroes unveiling each new lower number. I want to spend way too much money for bricks with my name and my wife's name and my kid's name. I'm ready. And if they let me at a sledgehammer, I'll help dispense with the old barn myself.
What's that? Oh, the game.
Every so often I've had the experience of introducing someone who's never seen baseball to the Grand Old Game. In these situations you pray for a barn-burner, something with twists and turns and hope and heartbreak and some rancor along the way. You want a 9-8 doozy, not some 5-1 snoozer that alternates between arcane vocabulary and batters wandering around the batters' box before grounding out. One of the best introductory games I remember came years ago, with a German visitor named Joachim as a guest at my parents' house in Florida — a Mets/Cardinals battle royal at Busch, with Tony Pena confiscating HoJo's bat after a home run. (Perhaps it was this 1987 game?) Joachim began sitting paralyzed on the couch, parsing all the bizarre rules and trying just to keep track of the action, and wound up yelling and screaming in wild joy along with my Mom and Dad and me.
Tonight would have been a perfect introduction. So, in honor of Joachim, here's a conversation that didn't take place but should have.
Joachim: This pitcher, this Pedro? Why did he hit the National in the back with a fastball?
Well, Joachim, officially that pitch slipped. Unofficially, Jose Guillen has been having his way with Pedro, and Pedro doesn't like that. One would think that would settle their accounts.
I hear Pedro is wearing some kind of special shoe. What's the story with that?
It's a long one, but watch — here. See the way he finishes his pitching motion? Imagine doing that 100+ times every fifth day, for years and years and years. We think it's finally fixed, but you'll excuse us if we're saying a few quiet prayers over here. And keep watching, Joachim, because Pedro hasn't thrown enough pitches this spring to keep from getting real tired before this one is over.
Now the other team's pitcher is trying to hit David Wright, the one all the fans like! This shouldn't be!
That's the code — you hit our guy, we're either going to hit you or hit your best player. And did you know Ramon Ortiz, the Nats' pitcher, grew up idolizing Pedro? You'll find baseball's full of ironies like that. Anyway, let's see what David does. Look at that! Lined a base hit! That's the way you deal with these things. Hey Joachim, did you know in the American League pitchers don't bat? It's true! Yes, it is ridiculous!
That ball the hawk-faced player with the odd name hit seemed to have bounced off the pitcher's foot and come right down in another fielder's glove! What a strange play! Wait, as I understand it he should be out, shouldn't he?
Frank Robinson seems to think so. Watch Frank, Joachim. He is a very angry man. I get very angry about once a month and then invariably sleep for about 10 hours. Frank gets very angry about once an hour.
My goodness, Pedro got a base hit! Is there anything he can't do?
That was incredible! Though actually, Joachim, when it comes to hitting, Pedro…no, never mind. You're absolutely right. There isn't anything Pedro can't do.
Why are all the fans cheering for that mistake the Nationals made? As I understand it, that was a foul ball. So it wouldn't matter, right?
No, Lo Duca would have been out. Now, because Schneider dropped the ball in foul territory, he gets to hit again.
Whoa! And he hit into what you call a double play! So…wait. He would have been better off being out the first time, wouldn't he?
Yes, he would have. That's pretty funny, actually. Poor Lo Duca. There's a lot of funny stuff that happens in baseball if you're paying attention.
Wait! Pedro has hit another National! It is the same one he hit before, Guillen! Are there going to be fisticuffs?
Hmm. Apparently not. Amazingly enough, the Mets haven't had an actual on-field brawl since May 11, 1996. Though hitting an extremely high-strung young player twice in one game generally leads to one.
Why are there players running in from behind the outfield fence? They seem to be huffing and puffing.
Those are the relief pitchers arriving too late to punch anybody. The fight's officially over if the bullpen catchers reach the infield, usually because everybody else has to stop and laugh at them.
Wait a minute, isn't that man calming down Guillen a Met?
Yes. That is Julio Franco. He is 169 years old, yet very wise.
Is it normal for players on enemy teams to talk reasonably like this during a fight?
No. But it's interesting, isn't it?
Oh my goodness! The round National with the terrible mustache hit that ball a long way! Now the score is close again.
Yes. Remember Pedro hit Nick Johnson earlier this game, too. That's the way you answer these things. Well done, Mr. Johnson.
Why has the game stopped? Where are the umpires?
Um…I'm not sure. This is very strange.
This Ryan Zimmerman is having a terrible game. He just hit that ball straight up, so he won't drive in a run, and Pedro kept throwing the ball by him earlier.
Yeah, but yesterday he helped beat us. He's just young. A year from now he won't have too many nights like this.
Wow! That was the other Carlos's first hit of the year! A home run! Why isn't he coming out to acknowledge the fans' cheers? He looks very angry.
You know, I don't really blame him. The fans have treated him horribly, Joachim. It's quite a story — he was injured most of last year and didn't tell anybody, and did his best, and the fans booed and booed. Then they gave him a pass after he was badly hurt in this terrifying head-to-head crash, but now they're on his case again for no reason. It's wrong and embarrassing, and I'm actually kind of glad to see that Beltran is finally letting us see that he's human, that he's good and pissed off at being treated this shabbily.
But shouldn't he come out? Won't this make things worse?
Yes. This is what passes for a peace offering in New York. He'd better take it.
The old wise player is talking to Carlos — and now he's coming out to wave. Does the old wise player ever actually play?
Yes, but not tonight. He's new here, but I'm beginning to appreciate him.
My goodness, that National tried to hit Lo Duca. And now he did hit him! What is the umpire doing?
He's throwing the pitcher out of the game. See, both benches were warned, earlier —
But the Met pitcher with the glasses hit the National with the strange mustache who hit the home run, and he didn't get thrown out. That seems strange.
Yes, it does.
You're right, this man Frank Robinson is VERY angry. I'm a little worried about him.
So are we.
That Met is extremely fast! He seems to really enjoy playing baseball!
Yep. That's Jose Reyes. And boy do we enjoy watching him play.
Wow, young Mister Zimmerman struck out AGAIN. Is that it? Is that the end?
Afraid so, Joachim. 10-5, Mets. We're 2-1. Pedro gets the win. And the Marlins come to town tomorrow.
You mean you get to watch something this dramatic and fun and strange and wonderful EVERY NIGHT?
Joachim, I think you're gonna like it here.
by Greg Prince on 6 April 2006 8:03 pm “Mr. Wilpon? You wanted to see me?”
“Yes, Shea. Come in. Have a seat.”
“Sure thing, Mr. Wilpon. Say, that was a tough break last night. Real tough game.”
“Well you know, Shea. Those things happen.”
“Yeah, but the kid pitched his heart out.”
“Sure did, Shea. Sure did.”
“Y’know, Mr. Wilpon, I was thinkin’.”
“Yes, Shea?”
“Well, the boys seem to have some real problems with fellas on the other team named Ryan.”
“They do?”
“Well, yeah. There’s that Ryan Langerhans on the Braves and Ryan Howard on the Phils and now this Ryan Zimmerman with the Washington club.”
“Hmm. I hadn’t noticed that before.”
“You know, Mr. Wilpon, it never worked the other way. We didn’t get nothin’ out of Ryan Thompson.”
“I suppose we didn’t, Shea.”
“And Nolan Ryan? We probably shouldn’ta traded him when we did.”
“No, Shea, I guess we shouldn’t have.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wilpon. I just get so excited about a new season and upset when we lose that I forget that it was you who called me to come to see you and that you’re a busy man. I almost thought we had a day game the way I saw so many people file in here this morning. But I checked my magnetic schedule and we don’t play ’til tonight. I’m relieved ’cause I gotta fix a few things. I don’t think my sound system was quite right last night, ’cause I blasted ‘Enter Sandman’ as loud as I could and it didn’t seem to help. Kinda chilly, though, for a night game this time’a year. I miss the April day games, but you know best, Mr. Wilpon.”
“No Shea, there was no day game today. We were having a press conference.”
“A press conference? Did we get another free agent? I read somewhere the other day that we might sign Roger Clemens, but then I remembered it was April Fools Day and I gotta tell ya, Mr. Wilpon, I was glad because I don’t really care for that fella.”
“No, Shea. We didn’t sign a free agent.”
“Yeah, I guess it’s not really the time’a year for that. I really do like those wintertime press conferences though. It’s nice to have some company after baseball season. Hasn’t been the same here since Mr. Hess took the Jets away. They were rough on my grass, but a ballpark like me is always happier with people in it. I like those holiday parties, too, though I suppose Mrs. Benson was kind of inappropriate at the last one. Say, that was too bad that the new fella in the bullpen, the one we got from Baltimore for Mrs. Benson’s husband didn’t work out neither last night.”
“Yes, Shea, too bad.”
“Aw, but it’s one game. That ain’t it, is it, Mr. Wilpon? You weren’t having one of those press conferences to announce you’re getting rid of somebody? Because Mr. Minaya and Mr. Randolph, they don’t always make the right moves, but they try awful hard, and…”
“No, Shea, no person in this organization is being replaced.”
“Oh that’s a relief. Those press conferences where you replace somebody are always the hardest. Doesn’t matter who. Mr. Valentine, Mr. Phillips, Mr. Howe. I hate to see anybody connected to the club go. So what was it all about if it wasn’t that?”
“Well, Shea. I guess it’s time you knew that we’re gonna go ahead and build a new ballpark.”
“Oh, ya mean like a new Keyspan Park? Hey, Mr. Wilpon, congratulations! I know how much you and your son love that place in Brooklyn and how successful it’s been. I’ve seen the pictures. I’d go myself but it’s, you know, tough for me to hop on the 7. Anyway, that’s great news for all of us! Where ya gonna build your new minor league ballpark? On the Island? That same league as the Ducks? Hey, maybe you could bring back Mr. Harrelson. I always liked him.”
“No, Shea, we’re not building it on Long Island.”
“Oh, I thought with all the people who were here today that it must be something that’s going on pretty close by.”
“It will be close by, Shea.”
“You’re gonna build another minor league ballpark near here? Closer than Coney Island? Say, you’re gonna bring back the Queens Kings, aren’tcha?”
“Shea, you’re not making this any easier.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wilpon. I know I’m always yammering on about this or that. It’s just that you and me, we’ve been together for going on 27 seasons now and I’ve never forgotten how good you and Mr. Doubleday were to me when you fellas came here in 1980. Not that I didn’t like Mrs. Payson’s daughters, but they didn’t really know what they were doing. But you and Mr. Doubleday gave me that great new paint job and you took off those strange shingles and gave me a real exterior and added that shiny DiamondVision and that big top hat out there over the fence…well, that made me feel like a real swell.”
“Please, Shea! Just stop talking already. I have to tell you something.”
“I will, Mr. Wilpon, I promise. But I just want to thank you again if I haven’t lately for taking such good care of me all these years. I know I’m not the newest or prettiest ballpark in the National League, but every year you and your marketing department are out there making a big deal over how great it is to come see a ballgame here and then everybody comes and, well, it just means a lot to me.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Now I’ll shut up. What did you want to tell me?”
“Shea, you’re being replaced.”
“Sorry? I didn’t catch that. Delta Flight 1986 was taking off for Fort Lauderdale. Say, 1986, that sure was a good year around here, Mr. Wilpon, wasn’t it?”
“I said, Shea, you’re being replaced.”
“Some routine maintenance, eh? Oh, well that’s always nice to hear. I could use it at my age. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it, but I actually have a list of some escalators that don’t always work the way they should…of course I’ll just let the guys from the Parks Department know about it, but it was real nice of you to tell me yourself, Mr. Wilpon, but you’re a busy man and you shouldn’t be wasting your time with such picayune details as replacing a few lightbulbs on the scoreboard, because after last night, you know that Mr. Delgado’s gonna be busting up more’n a few, huh?”
“Shea…”
“Yes, Mr. Wilpon?”
“This isn’t routine maintenance we’re talking about.”
“No?”
“No, Shea. We’re building a new ballpark that is going to replace you.”
“What do you mean replace me? I’m the home of the Mets.”
“Nothing is forever, Shea.”
“I don’t understand. I’m the home of the Mets.”
“Time marches on, Shea, and we have to keep in step with it.”
“I’m sure that’s all true, Mr. Wilpon, but I’m the home of the Mets.”
“Shea, sometimes we move to new homes.”
“The Mets are leaving New York?”
“No Shea, we’re staying. It’s just that you won’t be here anymore.”
“I’m leaving New York? Am I going to be the Jets’ new stadium? I haven’t done football since 1983 but I guess I could. We still have that old Jets locker room down here somewhere. Wait, do I have to go to Jersey? ‘Cause I don’t even have EZPass.”
“Shea, for the love of Pete Flynn, would you please be quiet and let me explain what’s going to happen.”
“OK…”
“Shea, the Mets this year will break ground on an innovative state-of-the-art facility designed specifically for baseball in the outfield parking lot between Shea Stadium and 126th Street. The Mets expect to complete construction of the new ballpark by Opening Day 2009, to usher in a new era of unprecedented sightlines, amenities, and comfort for Mets fans, sports fans and visitors to the New York Metropolitan area. Here, just click on this and you’ll see all the details.”
“I don’t understand, Mr. Wilpon.”
“What don’t you understand, Shea?”
“It looks very nice, but I don’t see me anywhere in 2009. Where will I be? And what will all the Mets fans be doing in that new place on Opening Day? We’re gonna have a ballgame on Opening Day 2009, right here like we do every year, right, Mr. Wilpon?”
“No, Shea. The new ballpark is going to be where the Mets play on Opening Day 2009 if all goes as planned.”
“Planned? You mean it could change?”
“At worst it could be delayed. This is New York.”
“So there’s a chance you won’t have a new ballpark?”
“No Shea, there’s no chance of that.”
“But what will you use it for?”
“Shea, don’t make this any harder than it has to be.”
“Sigh. I see.”
“I hoped you would.”
“You’re going to stage some exhibition games in that new ballpark for when the Mets are on the road because you don’t want any damage to happen to my field. I appreciate that, Mr. Wilpon, but I can handle a few high school championships and the like. I always have.”
“Shea, snap out of it. You’re in denial.”
“No, Mr. Wilpon. I’m in Flushing! Just like I’ve been ever since 1964. I’m right here where the Mets play. I’m the home of the Mets!”
“Stop saying that, Shea. You’re making this more difficult.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wilpon. But you haven’t told me what happens to me if you’re going to have this new ballpark. Am I going to be used for football? Soccer? Wrestling? Concerts? Conventions? Revival meetings? Are they going to put a roof over me like they said they would when I was born? That wouldn’t be too bad, actually, because between you and me, it can get kind of cold around here in April, though I wouldn’t mention that in the commercials or anything.”
“Shea, when I say we’re replacing you, I mean you’re not going to be around anymore.”
“Not around here?”
“Not around at all.”
“Not at all?”
“Shea, there’s going to be a parking lot where you are.”
“But we have plenty of parking already. Why, we were one of the first new ballparks to take into account the automobile! Remember, Mr. Wilpon, how when we came here from the Polo Grounds and how one of the reasons we set up shop was it was closer to Long Island and all those people who preferred to drive to games, so we had plenty of parking? But we also had the train and the subway and even the World’s Fair Marina. The World’s Fair…gosh, that was fun, wasn’t it? Remember how people from out of town came to the Fair but ended up crossing over the boardwalk to see the Mets and Mr. Stengel? We had the All-Star Game and Mr. Hunt started…those were good times, Mr. Wilpon, weren’t they?”
“I wasn’t here then, Shea.”
“No…no, I guess you weren’t. Just my memory playing tricks on me.”
“Now Shea, we’re going to have a nice severance package for you.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wilpon, I couldn’t hear you. US Airways Flight 1969 just came in for landing from Charlotte. Hey, 1969! Boy, that was a good year around here. I think I still have some shoe polish downstairs…”
“…a fair and generous severance package…”
“…remember how Mr. Hodges came out of the dugout with that ball with the shoe polish? Say, I’ll have to remember to mention that to Mr. Robinson when the Nationals come back tonight. He’s still a little bitter about that, but what do we care, huh, Mr. Wilpon?”
“…you’re going to get three more seasons, retroactive to Monday, which was Opening Day of the 2006 season, in which to serve as primary residence of the Metropolitan Baseball Club of New York Incorporated, Subsidiary of Sterling Equities…”
“…and then Mr. Jones caught that ball in left field off of Mr. Johnson and it was like a riot! A riot! But I didn’t mind. I didn’t even mind when everybody ran on my grass in 1986 when we clinched the division. Liked it better than the horses, truth be told. I used to kid Mr. Johnson that he made the last out of the 1969 Series. He was kind of bitter about that until we won in ’86. Boy, those were both good times, weren’t they, Mr. Wilpon?”
“Shea, I’m giving you your final notice.”
“Mr. Wilpon! What do you mean?”
“Shea, listen closely. The Mets are going to play here for the remainder of 2006 and 2007 and 2008. We are breaking ground on the new ballpark that will be where the parking lot is now and we have every intention of playing in it from 2009 forward.”
“And me?”
“You’ll be the new parking lot.”
“The parking lot? But I’m a ballpark. It’s in my job description. It actually says multipurpose stadium, but I’m really a ballpark.”
“Well, there will be a parking lot where you are.”
“I still don’t understand where I fit in.”
“You don’t. You won’t.”
“You mean…?”
“Shea, it’s been a satisfactory and productive 42 seasons to date, but as I tried to say earlier, time marches on.”
“What do you mean?”
“Take a look on DiamondVision some night when we do the National League highlights, Shea. Look where the footage is coming from. Coors Field, PNC Park, Citizens Bank Park, the one in San Francisco named after the phone company…”
“What does that have to do with me?”
“You’re not one of them, Shea.”
“I can try. Give me some bricks! I can wear bricks!”
“Shea…”
“So what if I’m not them?”
“You’re old, Shea. Old and outmoded.”
“OLD? OLD? I’M GOING TO BE 45 YEARS OLD WHEN YOU TEAR ME DOWN!”
“Shea, calm down. You don’t want me to have call an usher.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wilpon. I don’t mean to raise my voice, but I’m not that old. Wrigley Field is, what, more than 90 years old and nobody’s tearing it down. If anything, they’re copying it.”
“Shea, you’re not Wrigley Field.”
“I never said I was. I thought I didn’t have to be. The whole idea when they built me was I was modern.”
“You’re not modern anymore.”
“That’s not my fault. Nobody told me to be anything more than I was. You’re the one who painted me and said I was a great place to play.”
“Shea, we do what we can to sell tickets to an old place like this. You said yourself that you’re one of the oldest ballparks in the National League.”
“Respectfully, Mr. Wilpon, I never said that.”
“Well, you are. You’ve been around since 1964. Only Wrigley and Dodger Stadium have been in continuous use longer.”
“Wrigley is great! Dodger Stadium is great!”
“Shea, you’re not Dodger Stadium. Dodger Stadium is immaculate.”
“Mr. Wilpon, I can’t pick up after myself.”
“Shea, I’m not saying everything is your fault, but we do have to make business decisions and I’m afraid this is one of them.”
“That’s all it is, huh? Business…”
“I assure you, Shea, it’s nothing personal.”
“Nothing personal…”
“No, nothing personal.”
“Due respect, Mr. Wilpon, I don’t know how you can say you’re going to tear down a ballpark and say it’s nothing personal. More than 54,000 persons came in here on Monday because they love baseball and love the Mets and maybe some of them love me. Every one of them looked forward throughout the winter to Opening Day. They sat here in the cold under a threat of rain because it is personal. You wouldn’t have a business if it weren’t personal. More than 2.8 million persons attended Mets games here last year…”
“That’s tickets sold, Shea, and you know it.”
“Please, Mr. Wilpon, let me make my point.”
“Go ahead.”
“It doesn’t matter how many persons — how many people, how many men and women and boys and girls, moms and dad and their little kids who grow up to be moms and dads and their little kids — are here on any given day or night. No matter how many, it is personal for each and every one of them, whether it’s their first Mets game or their three-hundredth Mets game.”
“Are you through?”
“Maybe in 2009, but not yet. Look, I know I ain’t the prettiest ballpark on the block or in the division or in the whole league. I know I sometimes break down at the wrong time or I shake too much or I let it get cramped in my concourses and that my plumbing don’t always work so good. But you’ve had millions and millions and millions and millions of Mets fans come here and love it. Some of them say they’d rather have a new place, that they’ve been to Pittsburgh or San Francisco and how much better it is there, that they’re sick of walking up escalators that don’t move and standing in lines that don’t move and sitting behind some jerk who won’t move…”
“Shea, I have a meeting with my real estate company, so if you could wrap this up?”
“Mr. Wilpon, I’ve given the Mets every bit of myself since 1964. I was here for Tom Seaver and I was here for Tom Hausman and I’m here for Tom Glavine. I was where everybody wanted to be in ’69 and ’73 and ’86 and ’88 and ’99 and 2000. Were there some lean years? Sure there were. But I did my best. A kid who came here and bought a field box ticket with his paper route money in 1977 when we were 20 or 30 games out of first place is the same kid who came here 25 years later after a long day at work to sit through a doubleheader loss to the Braves at the end of a season when we were 20 or 30 games out of first place again. You can’t ask a guy like that to forget me, to act happy that you’re getting rid of me. And you can’t ask me to forget what I’ve seen. You can’t ask me to forget the shoe polish ball and the ground ball through the legs and the ball that was a grand slam before it was a single.”
“Shea…”
“You can’t ask me not to look at our kids and not think what it would be like to see David and Jose grow up here, really grow up here, and give us another bunch of Octobers, or at least one more. You can’t ask me to go through nights like last night — whether it was young Anderson flopping around on the ground and coming up with that incredible catch or young Brian making us all think we were gonna get that no-hitter at last or Mr. Lo Duca doing such an admirable job and filling such big shoes or even Mr. Wagner trying his damnedest and not coming up big — and tell me to be happy that I’ve only got so many nights left.”
“Shea, are you done?”
“I sure hope not, Mr. Wilpon. If all I’ve got left is three years, then I’m going to give you the three best years of my life. Now if you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ve got a game tonight.”
“I’m sorry, Shea. I couldn’t hear a thing you just said. American Flight 2009 just passed overhead.”
by Jason Fry on 6 April 2006 3:39 am I spent yesterday fuming that there was no baseball, and I was not to be comforted by sensible talk that these days teams build insurance for Opening Day into the schedule. Insurance, feh: After 180-odd off-days, it seemed cruel to the point of criminality to instantly hit us with another one. And then this morning New York City was turned into a mutant snow globe, with flakes the size of hanging sliders swirling outside the windows of my office building, and even though I knew that April snowstorms almost never stick, I still fought down panic: There had to be a game tonight. There had to be.
And so there was. Goody.
Once upon a time tonight, there was some marvelous baseball played by men wearing orange and blue and white and black and two-toned helmets with Ford Taurusian swoops and little fish gills. In fact, as Brian Bannister hit the pinch-yourself “12 men to go” point, I found myself wondering at the strange storyline unfolding: After nearly half a century of giving up a hit each and every night, it would be just like the Mets to finally enter the no-hit column thanks to a kid pitcher’s major-league debut. Then, compounding my insanity, I decided that no, it would be just like the Mets to finally enter the no-hit column with a combined no-no, leaving us grumbling that the jinx wasn’t really broken, that all Nolan Ryan had to do was rename his Clubhouse of Curses. Combined no-hitters are lamely spectacular and spectacularly lame — they’re like having the bus to the Promised Land break down in a mildly more upscale suburb than yours, where you take up residence in a slightly bigger house and find out that gosh, the property taxes here sure are high.
Having managed to look a gift horse in the mouth before the nag was even delivered, let alone unwrapped, I of course watched the usual answer emerge to that question forever to be asked by the Met faithful: “Why is tonight exactly like all other nights?” Bannister gave up a hit. Then he gave up a home run. Then he sat in the dugout as Duaner Sanchez and Aaron Heilman acquitted themselves ably, giving way to Billy Wagner. Who promptly gave up an enormous home run to Ryan Zimmerman, then yielded to Jorge Julio, who convinced no one that he is not, in fact, merely Armando Benitez in a half-assed disguise. By the time it was mercifully over, Floyd and Jana Bannister hadn’t been on TV in a good hour or so.
Perspective. It’s one game at a time of year when you’re still happy just to have a game to watch. With conditions what they were, every pitcher who toed the rubber deserved a mulligan — Bannister, Wagner, Julio, Patterson, Rauch, Cordero and Rodriguez all saw their command evaporate at various times in the cold. That was Ryan Zimmerman’s first home run and the first time he’s beaten us, but he’s going to be the kind of player who’ll hit a lot more of them, and beat us a fair number of times over the next decade or two.
And once upon a time, some very good things happened in this game. Bannister showed he’s got a truckload of guts — I’m eager to see what he can do when he can actually feel the ball. Jose Reyes had not one but two terrific at-bats that Rickey Henderson must have appreciated. Anderson Hernandez made up for whatever lumber deficiencies he may have with a catch that looked like a stuntman should have been involved. And Carlos Delgado launched a home run that I feared might knock SNY off the air again.
Good things. But by the time this one was over, they sure seemed like they happened an awfully long time ago.
by Greg Prince on 5 April 2006 4:02 pm On at least one meaningful count, I am not 100% well for the baseball season because I have not fully recovered the rhythms of the night. Yankees and Braves each finished their West Coast games long after I conked out on the couch. There was the satisfaction of snapping on WINS early this morning and learning both had been defeated, but I felt as if I'd lost valuable hours of gloating over their respective if temporary humblings. As Tony Soprano said about life Sunday night as he left the hospital, every new Yankee and Brave loss is a gift.
Though we are alone in first place (in the East and in the city), I also don't yet have the rhythms of rooting-against down pat. Sure I know who I want to lose, but I can't quite get it up to follow the necessary action and see it through. A couple of seconds of YES were a couple more than I could take (though I can't wait for another episode of Yankees BP — it comes on right after Yankees FU), while a glimpse of the Dodger-Brave game threatened more responsibility than I was willing to bear on April 4.
Die Yankees. Die Braves. But do it on your own time. I'll join your demise already in progress.
Wouldn't have been trawling for baseball had the Mets not left a winter-sized hole in their schedule on the second day of the new year, but that's regrettably necessary thinking. “Protecting the Opener,” Howie Rose calls it. “In case shit,” Chris Rock calls it (what he calls insurance, anyway). Of course I'm trying to imagine a scenario in which the Mets would turn away a crowd of 54,371 people holding bought-and-paid-for tickets.
It was a record crowd! It's almost always a record crowd! When did Shea start sprouting extra seats? And when did Opening Day, even the Home Opener, become an event of events attendancewise? I found two references made in the 'sphere to Opening Day 1975, which tickled me since it kicked off one of my favorite years. I was in sixth grade. Mr. Schneider turned the first inning on in class, and I raced home to watch the remainder to completion, skipping Hebrew School in the process (my Hebrew's for bupkis, but I speak fluent Del Unser). I'll bet a lot 12-year-olds and children of all ages were watching on Channel 9 because there were only 18,527 on hand.
This was more the norm than you'd imagine for Mets openers in the '70s, even in 1975 when there was a similar buzz about the reconstituted Mets being locked and loaded and when we still owned New York. The year before, the 1973 pennant running up the flagpole and all, drew 17,154. 1970, post-'69, didn't break 42,000. Attendance wouldn't top 30,000 again at a Shea Opener until 1982, when it edged past 40,000. Since then (which marked the debut of DiamondVision and George Foster, at least one of which might have affected flight patterns into and out of LaGuardia as the season ensued), the numbers have been what we're used to. But before then? It's a bit of a mystery to me. The Yankees, if you're wondering, did no better during the '60s and '70s until Yankee Stadium II opened in '76. Perhaps Opening Day, for all its romance, wasn't as big a deal in New York as it was in smaller Cincy and diminutive Detroit.
That's all behind us now. Opening Day is jam-packed and when the Mets win, people act so happy you'd think they lost.
I don't know if I have my rhythms in sync where reactions are concerned, either. I try to strike a balance between the Polyanna, my team right or wrong view and the sky is falling, anvils are dropping, we are doomed crowd. Particularly when I haven't had enough sleep (a couch conkout is never restful), neither of them is appealing.
Sorting through the litany I've picked up on here and there from both extremes since the last out Monday:
• The Mets didn't look good winning. Sure as hell beats looking great losing. When they issue style points, I'll worry. Until then, it's 1-0 with 161 chances to improve on the more worrisome facets of Monday's performance.
• Things went our way that we didn't deserve. What's the difference between selling a drop as a tag and injecting your ass full of hormones? I don't know, but the first one is fully acceptable, no matter our innate Met guilt at accepting it.
• There was no production from the Carloses. Good thing they have teammates who produced. Most days will feature some guys doing good things, others not. It's called a team for a reason.
• Booooooooo! It's stupid and self-defeating enough to get on Beltran, but Jorge Julio? He's what — 0-0, 0.00, 0.0 IP? Unless that was Juuuuuuuuulio, in which case never mind. But that doesn't explain Beltran. Does Carlos Beltran look like the kind of guy who's going to get all fired up if you abuse him? And if he doesn't, will you feel better that you were prescient enough to show your displeasure with his Opening Day ohfer come October when you're home watching others compete on TV? Then will it occur to you, gee, maybe I shouldn't have contributed to the mental breakdown of one of our most important regulars, but I sure showed some guy who makes a lot of money how displeased I was with him six months ago?
• Delgado wasn't seen during “God Bless America”. As long as he wasn't on the clubhouse phone giving away troop positions to the enemy (or signals to Frank Robinson), his whereabouts for those 75 or so seconds are none of my concern.
• Billy Wagner's song is the same as Marian… Sorry, I can't get through this sentence without breaking up into fits of hysterical laughter. It's pretty obvious, however, that the Yankees co-opted the whole idea of not winning the World Series after they saw us do it 2000 and you don't hear us complaining. Is not winning the World Series a Mets thing because we've been doing it longer or is it a Yankees thing because they seem to have trademarked it on a bigger stage more recently? Either way, it's made for a rousing chorus of Enter Also-Ran.
• This looks like the best-balanced lineup since 1986. The memory hole is a despicable place. Don't tell me 1999 — Rickey-Fonzie-Oly-Mike-Robin generating tons of runs — has tumbled down there already.
• Traffic was beyond the usual Opening Day horrible. Yeah, that'll happen when 54,370 of your close, personal friends join you at the game. Too bad there's not a mass transit line or two that run parallel to the ballpark.
• SNY struck out not looking. Hard to argue on behalf of a network that takes off the third inning; they would have helped their cause had they not kept running promos telling us how amazing (if not Amazin') they are while the contest they were supposed to be airing went on without them. A baseball telecast is not a Mars probe — just show us the whole game and don't insult our intelligence (not employing Fran Healy remains an excellent start) and you'll be fine. Subcomplaint that there wasn't enough post-game coverage is another growing-pains symptom. If you can remember the early WFAN, you'll recall it sounded more concerned with adhering to a format than reflecting the mission at hand. Now the FAN is an indispensable part of the New York sportscape, except between 1:00 and 6:30 p.m., Monday through Friday, when it's dumber than dirt and proud of it. (All apologies to dirt, which isn't dumb let alone pretentious enough to whine that “Yankee fans will have an issue” with which reliever uses which METallica song.)
No complaints for KingmanFan who alertly notes the strong shoutout in this week's Sopranos to his namesake. For those of you not immersed, Tony, Paulie Walnuts, the now-late Dick Barone and his then-tiny son Jason all attended the 1981 Home Opener.
That's at least the sixth Mets reference, direct or implied, that I can remember in six seasons of paying close attention. Previously on the The Sopranos…
• Tony (Tony Uncle Johnny) and cousin Tony (Tony Uncle Al) watch a Mets game on television (well before Tony Uncle Johnny takes out Tony Uncle Al, and not to the ballgame).
• Junior and Livia plot against Tony, with Junior arguing, “Yeah, and I'm playing shortstop for the Mets.”
• A.J. objects to being told by Grandpa Hugh that you're not Italian if you don't eat your vegetables: “Mike Piazza eats nothing but artichokes? I mean, that's dicked up.”
• Svetlana tells Tony that her boyfriend Bill is not around because he is in Port St. Lucie “watching his Mets”.
• Tony and Johnny Sack rendezvous in a deserted Shea parking lot, Tony joking that they could be “getting in line early for Opening Day.”
Which is certainly one way to get around the traffic, even if you're coming from Jersey.
The mention in this week's episode filled my heart since it would have had to have taken place in 1981 (“the year Kingman was back from the Cubs”), meaning it was the makeup of the rainout Joel and I experienced in high school. There's your reason they don't schedule anything the day after the Home Opener, as lame as it is to go without so soon after one stinkin' game.
Paid attendance for the 1981 Home Opener: 15,205. I doubt anybody needed Barone Sanitation-type connections to get a box seat.
Finally, in a dream sequence worthy of comatose Tony, I dreamt last night, sleeping with the television on, that I was dining in a Manhattan deli owned by Jon Stewart. Though I complained to him about the food and the service, he delighted in telling me the best part about running a restaurant is that he doesn't have to let Mike DeJean hit a double off the wall. “I just tell him to get out,” Jon said.
Good policy.
How did the New York Giants do in their opener Monday at the Polo Grounds? According to Gotham Baseball, things were quiet…again.
by Jason Fry on 4 April 2006 5:26 am As I get older, one of the things I’ve tried to take to heart is that the baseball gods are fickle deities, and as their playthings we have selective memories.
If an ump blows a call against us or our luck turns inexplicably rotten and costs us a game, it’s a tragedy never to be forgotten, a thing to be fumed over for the rest of the season and into the winter, a game that goes in the “We Shoulda Had That One” column for review in September, when you total those unfair losses up and announce that by all rights you should be rooting for a 90-win team. But there’s no column in our mental ledgers for “We Had No Business Winning That One” — should a crazed bounce go our way or an umpire be struck momentarily blind, it’s not injustice. It’s destiny.
Well, put Opening Day in the Column of Which We Do Not Speak, for we had no business winning it. This wasn’t a Met win so much as it was a Nationals loss, with our friends from Washington getting no breaks and commencing to play stupid whenever given a chance. Frank Robinson’s 2006 ulcer? He’ll tell the doctor he’s pretty sure it started today.
To review just some of the bullets that whizzed by our collective heads: Lo Duca ended a hair-raising second with an underhand toss to Delgado to get Brian Schneider out on a swinging bunt, and the ball didn’t go down the line or arrive a moment too late. (I didn’t see a replay, but I’d be amazed if Glavine was covering home.) Glavine kept getting squeezed on the inside pitch and losing his command. Nady, for all that his 4-for-4 looks keen in the box score, had some baserunning misadventures. Beltran made a horrible throw home in the fourth that didn’t cost us. In the fifth Glavine did everything but run wind sprints in a crazed trip three-quarters of the way around the bases. Heilman danced spastically through a downpour and somehow only came out damp. Wright made a nice stab in the ninth and then promptly fired the ball in the dirt — and Delgado picked it clean. And Vidro did the right thing with two out against Wagner by going for a double that would leave the Nats a hit away from tying it — only to just get nipped on a good throw from Beltran for the ballgame.
Oh, and there was that play at the plate, with Soriano getting a hand in ahead of Lo Duca’s tag and Tim Tschida hurrying down from first too late to get into position, leaving him blocked out and unable to see Lo Duca drop the ball and then pick it back up. Nice call on the presence of Royce Clayton summoning up that eerily similar play from Opening Day a decade ago. Would this be the wrong time to note that I’ve always been pretty sure Clayton was safe in 1996?
(While I’m grousing, the fans need to show a little decency and lay off Beltran, even Keith Hernandez couldn’t make that pimp coat look cool, SNY needs to stay on the air for the whole game, and those blue-and-black batting helmets are an atrocity.)
None of this is to say that Opening Day wasn’t thoroughly enjoyable, or there weren’t plenty of good things to see. Glavine looked like The Eventual Met of last year’s second half, refusing to give up on the inside of the plate even when the ump wasn’t cooperating and prevailing in a superb battle against Soriano in the fifth — that at-bat alone was more exciting than the entirety of spring training, with the gutsy inside fastball that sent Sori back out to left yielding a whoop from me on my couch. Anderson Hernandez celebrated 1986 by making like Rafael Santana — if he keeps turning plays like that airborne beauty behind second, no one will much care if he hits .220. Heilman’s struggles were character-building. That character Braden Looper wasn’t in the building. And as you noted, Lo Duca is in no position to get that critical call without nifty plays by Floyd and Reyes. Umpires are only human; they get caught up in the excitement of things, too.
As do bloggers. Today was (of course) a vacation day, and I spent the morning burning off my nervousness by wandering Brooklyn doing the world’s most pointless errands, then enjoyed the first Shake Shack outing of the year before heading home in time for the introduction of the starting lineups. Hmmm. Twenty-four hours that included the first evening of Daylight Savings Time, Shake Shack and a victory on Opening Day? Forget all the above — I have no complaints whatsoever.
by Greg Prince on 3 April 2006 8:57 pm Life never begins on Opening Day for Royce Clayton. It just keeps repeating itself in ways he must not care for.
The play of the game in the Mets’ first game, the Mets’ first win of 2006, unfolded with Mets up by one: Ryan Zimmerman’s eighth-inning double down the left field line, Alfonso Soriano on first and running all the way. Floyd gets to the ball. Good throw to Reyes. Reyes turns and fires to Lo Duca. Great relay. Lo Duca blocks the plate. Soriano slides. Maybe he gets a hand in there. Maybe Lo Duca tags him. Lo Duca doesn’t hold on but Soriano doesn’t reach back. Either way, he’s out, and either way, Soriano would have had an easier time of it had the on-deck batter cleared Zimmerman’s bat from the basepath.
The on-deck batter was Royce Clayton. The same Royce Clayton who ten years and two days ago on the same occasion, Opening Day, in the same weather, gray and chilly and damp, ran from first to home for the Cardinals with the Cardinals trying to expand a 6-3 lead by one with two out. Ray Lankford doubled. The left fielder — Bernard Gilkey, not Cliff Floyd — handled it and fired it to the shortstop — Rey Ordoñez, not Jose Reyes — who delivered it in a zip to the catcher — Todd Hundley, not Paul Lo Duca. Clayton was out. Then the Mets came up in the bottom of the seventh and completed a historic comeback, from 0-6 to 7-6.
Ordoñez’s 1996 bullet (launched from his knees, it must be recalled; we were there) was the star of that show, meaning, in a way, that Clayton’s role hasn’t changed in a decade. He’s still an unwitting and ineffectual bystander in Met Opening Day heroics at Shea Stadium.
It was a day of renewal and revival and all that “re-” stuff for our guys, the 3-2 winners. Tom Glavine turned 276. Savior Nady leads the world in batting (first Met with four hits in his first game since Richie Hebner, but never mind that, never mind that, never mind that, never mind that). David Wright earned another five magazine covers with another four bases. Aaron Heilman overcame his reluctance and relieved to no ill effect despite throwing like a demoted starter. Anderson Hernandez picked one clean. Carlos Beltran nailed Jose Vidro at second for the final out. Billy Wagner closed out all thoughts of Braden Whatshisname. And SNY, despite having to make an emergency trip to Home Depot for a surge protector (their telecast disappeared for an inning or two, though they were kind enough to entertain us once more with Dave Magadan’s youthful exploits), got through nine.
But I can’t get over Royce Clayton being again where Royce Clayton was ten years and two days ago: home plate, Shea Stadium, emptyhanded, his side’s futility expertly announced for all our enjoyment by Howie Rose (then in his first SportsChannel gig, now in his first official assignment alongside the inoffensive Tom McCarthy).
I didn’t even realize Royce Clayton was on the Nationals. Royce Clayton’s been one of everything: Giant, Cardinal, Ranger, White Sock, Brewer, Rockie, D’Back, now this. He was playing for Arizona when the Mets were scoring 14 and 18 runs on consecutive nights last August and I was surprised to find he was a Snake. He was struck out by Jim Morris in The Rookie. He bounces from one wan outfit to the next with no apparent hope of ever getting close to a World Series. He’s a Major League Baseball player, which is pretty damn cool, but at 36 and on his eighth team and in his sixteenth season, this must be getting old for him.
Life begins on Opening Day, though for some, it just continues.
by Greg Prince on 3 April 2006 5:21 am Starting at 1:10 PM, you have a job to do and you have a job to do and you have a job to do and I have a job to do. Our Commandments remain perennial, but it’s good to post a reminder every once in a while.
Opening Day is one of those onces.
Happy New Year, fellow Mets fans.
Let’s go get ’em.
√ Focus On The Mets.
√ Pay Attention.
√ Pace Yourself.
√ Be Loyal.
√ Hate The Yankees.
√ Dislike Your Opponents.
√ Choose A Second Team With Care.
√ Respect The Other Team’s Best.
√ Acknowledge Ex-Mets.
√ Don’t Boo Your Own.
√ Conceive Trades Realistically.
√ Record Judiciously.
√ Know Your History.
√ Absorb Details.
√ Keep Your Years Straight.
√ Believe In A Place Called Hope.
√ Go On The Road.
√ Bet Sparingly.
√ Collect Stuff.
√ Display Stuff.
√ Wear Stuff.
√ If You’re Wearing, You Should Be Watching.
√ Keep Up.
√ Sweat The Small Stuff.
√ Don’t Root For Injuries.
√ Abide By Karma.
√ Understand Luck.
√ Welcome Sincere Newcomers.
√ Manage Your Quirks.
√ Find The Game.
√ Carry A Walkman.
√ Read The Papers.
√ Acknowledge Your Sources.
√ Know The Score.
√ Prospect Lightly.
√ Moneyball Isn’t Everything.
√ Think Before You Think.
√ Curb Your Enthusiasm.
√ No Poormouthing.
√ No Apologies Necessary.
√ No Being Glad The Season’s Ending.
√ Shea Is Readily Reachable.
√ High-Five The Good Things.
√ Faith And Fear In Flushing: Read It, Recommend It, Retain It.
by Jason Fry on 2 April 2006 8:43 pm It's a crack, I'm back yeah
I'm standing on the rooftops shouting out
Baby I'm ready to go
Tonight two long-awaited things will finally happen:
1. It will be light for a respectable amount of time into the evening.
2. There will be a baseball game that means something.
The fact that these two marvels fall on the same day this year is so obviously right and fitting that it seems a bit dimwitted to have ever done it any other way. Granted, it's always nice to have Daylight Savings Time arrive — in fact, my longstanding position has been that the government should manipulate the clock in whatever fashion necessary so it's light until at least 7:30 year-round. (Who cares if in December the sun doesn't come up until 2? I'm in an office, kids are in school, and there's no baseball. Yeah yeah, farmers. Whatever.) On the other hand, getting Daylight Savings Time before baseball just means the extra sunlight illuminates a little more winter. And there's no amount of sunlight, warmth or other atmospheric phenomenon that can make a day without baseball, at its root, something to be enjoyed rather than endured.
Well, farewell endurance. Our long national nightmare is once more at an end. Summer is here. Youth is returning. Hope is escaping from its icy cage. Things are being put right.
I'm back and ready to go
From the rooftops shout it out
My blog brother's normal spring baseball rhythms are to fret from mid-March until mid-April that this is the year the boys in orange and blue don't seem to resonate with him, that this is the year he's somehow missed his berth on the S.S. Grand Old Game and it's gone sailing off without him. (Happily, by April 16 this is all just cobwebs of bad-dream stuff.) My normal spring baseball rhythms are wild excitement, followed by a lot of grousing about the endless pointlessness of spring training, followed by a Jekyll-and-Hyde transformation as camp breaks, one that sees me fling myself into mad activities like, well, watching two AL Central teams do battle.
This year's transformation was even more pronounced, because today found Emily and Joshua and me flying back from North Carolina. In the airport I caught sight of the Sports Illustrated Baseball Preview, with Albert Pujols looking gigantic and frightening on the cover. I devoured it quickly enough to leave finger smudges on each page, pausing only to carefully tear out all Yankee faces and logos, roll them into balls the approximate density of titanium, and discard them in the seatback pocket. David Wright dominates our preview, and we're picked to finish second but take the wild card. Vulnerable as the Braves look, I think I'd take SI's prediction. (Though they can keep the part about us losing in the NLDS to their cover boy and the rest of the Cardinals.)
It's a crack, I'm back yeah
I'm standing on the rooftops having it
Baby I'm ready to go
I was just finishing dutiful pondering of the dregs of the AL West (Ian Kinsler and Michael Young should switch positions? Sounds good to me!) when we came winging over the Gowanus and then Newtown Creek, and I did what any sensible Met fan on approach to La Guardia does: I peered out the window and hoped I was on the correct side to see Shea.
And I was.
And there were cars in the parking lot.
And people in the stands.
Wha? No! Shit! SHIT! Hey, wait a minute, the mound's covered….
No, I hadn't lost my mind, though that was a pretty bad moment. It was just a workout, albeit one with thousands in attendance. When the panic subsided, I realized it was the perfect thing for a crazed fan who'd just whipped through the baseball preview and was mildly worried he'd weep at the sight of Grady Sizemore in seven hours or so. Those little dots down there on the green part of the field? They were Mets, Mets where they were supposed to be, getting ready to do what they're supposed to do. Getting ready to make the world perfect again. Just in time, too.
I'm back and ready to go
From the rooftops shout it out
Shout it out
by Greg Prince on 2 April 2006 6:11 am What kind of sick mind hatches the idea that Roger Clemens might sign with the Mets, let alone pretends to approve of it?
Guilty. Hope the near-strokes and inner-mouth vomit reported in yesterday's comments section were not fatal and that the second annual Faith and Fear April Fools post was taken in the spirit it was intended.
Not by everybody, I can see:
Clemens? Excuse me? Who the hell wants the Mets to win if that's the Mets? Maybe your entry isn't entirely serious Greg, but I'm a little appalled.
Me too, Jacobs27. The holiday hoax wasn't so much the Mets getting Clemens but the possibility that a meta-Mets fan such as myself could embrace it. I'd like to be holier (or at least Tim Folier) than thou and say, “Me? Clemens? NEVER!” but as much as that would pass a polygraph right now, you stick a guy I can't stomach in a Mets uniform and if he strikes out the side…well, let's just say it's pretty unlikely we'll have to find out where Roger & Me are concerned. But cripes, I did hate Glavine and I root for him now. I hated post-Bonilla I and I rooted for Bonilla II. I hated Coleman and Herr as Cardinals, but when they alit here, I gave them the benefit of the clothes.
Never mind laundry. We root for teams and are sometimes compelled to root for fragments we find objectionable. Yet there do have to be limits.
No Clemens.
No Chipper.
No Jeter.
Ever.
But if Feliciano doesn't work out — and it wouldn't be the first time — I hear there's an experienced lefty reliever who's available and interested in coming to New York. You know, John Rocker has probably learned his lesson and if Rick Peterson could work with him…
KIDDING!
Didn't sit home on a warm Saturday afternoon to watch Mets Weekly? Don't worry, SNY will give you multiple chances to catch the latest installment, featuring the long-awaited Bloggers Roundtable in which yours truly and several blogger buddies exchange tales from the online front. It airs again Sunday night at 7 and 11:30, Monday night at 6:30 and…well, just leave it on SNY and eventually you'll see us.
by Greg Prince on 1 April 2006 11:27 am It’s not so much that the Mets are going to sign Roger Clemens that worries me. It’s how much I like the move that frightens me down to what I thought was my very soul. I dunno. Maybe as I age, I don’t have one anymore.
All I know for sure is I saw Victor Zambrano leave his final exhibition appearance with a strained left hamstring. No matter what Willie says, it’s a hamstring, a serious thing for a pitcher (even Zambrano). Suddenly we’re looking a Trachselian hole in the rotation again. Who ya gonna call?
Kaz Ishii? Let’s get serious.
Aaron Heilman? Sorry, we need him in the pen, one springing Jorge Julio-size leaks ahead of Billy Wags (good night Mrs. Benson, wherever you are).
If not Heilman, then it’s suddenly a choice of coping with Lima or Iriki or rushing Pelfrey. Instead, thanks to the miracle of free agency and the shortsightedness of Drayton McLane, the Mets have an option. And that option happens to be a legend.
Man, Roger Clemens a Met. Can you believe it? Isn’t this the opposite of You Gotta Believe? I mean, c’mon, Roger Clemens donning the same uniform as Tug. Then again, it’s the same uniform as Richie, Bobby, Robbie and Vinny, so maybe it’s not as sacred a garment as we like to think. Or am I making an argument against myself?
Let’s remove personalities for the moment and think about what Clemens becoming a Met means.
It means winning.
I know, we used to consider him the Antichrist and all, but didja see him pitch last year? He started with Doc and long after Gooden took a powder, Roger was having a Dwightlike season 20 years after Dwight’s last one. He’s been a little sore (hell, so have we where he’s concerned), but he showed he could still pitch in the WBC. If he can beat South Africa once, he can handle Florida five or six times.
It’s an old rotation with him in it, I grant you, but did you ever think you’d see three future Hall of Famers in our midst like this? Pedro, Glavine and Clemens? Whatever order you put it in, that’s a lot of wins and a lot of savvy. What’s age anymore? I say that not as a 43-year-old but as a fan who’s noticed (from afar) the great condition these guys keep themselves in. Forty’s the new thirty, though when I think of 40, I think of Pat Zachry and George Stone.
Prediction: Clemens will pitch better than Pat Zachry and George Stone. And Xavier Nady better start shopping for a new number.
Need I remind you that the Mets drafted Roger Clemens out of high school in 1981? Took him long enough to get here.
I don’t think anybody here is going to dispute the contribution Roger Clemens can make to the 2006 Mets, but I seem to be avoiding the elephant in the room.
Don’t we hate him? I mean don’t we despise him with every fiber of our souls (for those of who still have such quaint things)? Aren’t we still pissed off about the ball and the bat and the explanation?
All right, here goes…
That was 2000. This is 2006. Time heals wounds. It has to. Especially when there’s a sub-2.00 ERA on the table before Opening Day and nobody’s signed it (the post-pennant Houston hangover is officially underway). We didn’t like Pedro for hitting Mike either. Hell, there was a time I couldn’t stand to look at Tom Glavine and I’m fine with him now. Glavine beat the Mets a whole lot more than Clemens ever did.
Sure, there is a part of me that will never forgive Roger Clemens for a) beaning Mike Piazza; b) throwing a bat fragment at him; c) being what I suspect was less than frank in his recounting of the incident. But guess what?
Mike’s not a Met anymore. I liked him. I liked him a lot. But Mike Piazza’s a Padre. He’s not worried about who pitches for the Mets anymore, but I am. Not sure if he’ll be ready to go by the time we’re in San Diego in a few weeks, but we could be looking at Clemens-Piazza: The Rematch (Again) from a whole new perspective. It’ll be weird, but I’ve gotta root for the Met in that one.
Remove the Rocket’s objectionable years in pinstripes — though at least there’s no New York transition period to worry about (and he knows Willie and Willie knows him) — and what do you have? A great pitcher in the Tom Seaver mold. Come to think of it, Seaver and Clemens were teammates in 1986. It was almost a pre-emptive benediction, a laying on of hands that was derailed somewhere between Toronto and Houston. (Maybe the blister that removed Rocket from Game Six was a signal from Tom through Roger to Buddy Harrelson that we were going to win the World Series; just a conspiracy theory.) And where’s Roger from? Texas. Just like Nolan Ryan. Ryan won his only World Series with the Mets and then went out and pitched seven no-hitters. Roger’s got his rings. Maybe he’ll get his and our no-hitter here. We’ll look at him differently then than we have until now.
Oh, and did I mention the Subway Series? In addition to him potentially facing the ‘Stros, the Jays and the Sox in a Mets uniform, imagine Clemens taking aim once more at Jeter and Posada and whomever he threw at in 1998. No Shawn Estes nonsense here. We’ll remember why we might have admired Roger from afar to begin with and why they hated him which will make us like him that much more. If he’s not a Yankee, how bad can he be? Shoot, we know how good he can be. And best of all, you know he doesn’t walk many and he’ll never retire.
Could be worse. We could be getting Roger Cedeño.
Listen, my head is spinning right now. I’m as surprised as any of you at the notion of Roger Clemens as a Met. I couldn’t have imagined it yesterday and I can’t say I’ll feel the same way about it tomorrow. But on this particular day in very early April, I have to tell you I think it’s awesome.
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