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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 15 February 2006 10:42 pm Fifty-two weeks ago today, you said this and I said that, and we were rolling.
And Mettily, we roll along.
Tomorrow marks the one-year anniversary of the birth of Faith and Fear in Flushing, coinciding conveniently with the reportage of pitchers, catchers and various uniformed authority figures to right where they belong, on a baseball field; David Wright, apparently, arrived on October 3 and has been presumably playing catch with a wall ever since.
You can’t wait and neither can I. As soon as we hear the first ball hit the first glove — it will echo loudly enough to make its way up the eastern seaboard — we’ll start looking ahead as the rule rather than the exception. But right now, at the risk of indulging in the kind of self–memorialization that a living person shouldn’t do as often as I do, I’d like to reflect.
Has it been a year? I mean has it been only a year? Gosh, it feels longer. I’m surprised our February 2005 dispatches are available electronically (and not just because of the myblogsite conversion disaster of January 30). They seem from a primeval time, as if they should be fetched by a reference librarian’s assistant who has to sternly remind us to be very careful with these pages, they might crumble if we turn them too fast.
Too fast…everything happens too fast. Except winter. That’s glacial in every respect of the word. That’s why it was either brilliant or simply fortuitous that you jumpstarted this thing of ours when you did, on the first day of spring training 364 days ago. Life doesn’t so much begin anew with pitchers & catchers as it finds its purpose and its meaning and its reason to be. Slogging through the snow Sunday, I hated winter, but lousy weather was only the second-most pungent reason I could conjure.
Yet in the winter of 2005-06, it wasn’t that bad. Not the weather, but the lack of ball. We had this right here…our blog and the other blogs and the sites devoted to baseball percolating as if a series with the Cardinals were about to open Friday night. I never felt as immersed in darkness this winter as I did in all the ones that came before it. Just as the 2005 season was special beyond what 83 wins should yield because of the advent of the Metsosphere and our participation within, this winter was that much milder given the games we’ve been playing here the past 4-1/2 months.
Nobody ever does, but if somebody asked me what the biggest difference Faithing and Fearing on a daily basis has made to my existence, I’d answer that it has skewed my thinking about the Mets. Every move they make, every breath they take, all I can think is how I need to express it here. I’ve lost the ability to be apathetic.
The night I knew for sure this was the situation came in July. It was a Friday night, a very calm Friday night by all prevailing indicators. The Mets were winning and I was formulating a storyline as I watched. Hey, nice game, nice start by this particular pitcher, the other team doesn’t look so good…it had all the makings of a very positive, rather unremarkable post.
Then the Mets fell apart, followed closely by my storyline. With each revolting development, I could hear every thoughtful element of that night’s blog collapse. The starting pitcher’s performance? Irrelevant. The opposition’s lowly status? Not so low anymore. Our team’s building momentum? What momentum?
I was dealing with two realities, the one that seemed so sure five minutes ago and the one that was emerging right this very second. I was worried about the game but I was more worried about what I was going to say once it was over. When, in fact, the new, crueler reality rendered the previous benign reality inoperative, I felt I was living through the opposite of a radio commercial I’d heard umpteen times, one in which an ill person is doomed if he follows the wrong medical advice and is saved if he visits the sponsoring hospital. In the Mets’ case, they decided to go against the cure and immerse themselves in the disease.
Whereas in any other season, I would’ve confined my emotions to how awful this was from a baseball standpoint, I was instead overwhelmed by the voice bellowing from my inner editor:
GET ME REWRITE!
The new post that I was constructing in my head hinged both on the sickeningly quick turn of events that ruined the Mets and my tentative first-edition story as well as my decision to cast it in the context of that commercial. I figured following my muse on this was a bit of a risk because I didn’t know if I was the only Mets fan intensely familiar with the idiotic advertisement I was satirizing; it ran all over New York radio but not during Mets games. The headline I came up with referenced a commercial for a different hospital that Gary Cohen and Howie Rose read frequently during the year, and I hoped that wouldn’t confuse matters further.
But by July, I was a confident blogger. My instinct has always been to err on the side of slipping in the potentially obscure reference and minimizing the explanation around it. If you get it, you’ll really love it for having gotten it; if you don’t, it won’t stop you in your tracks…I hope.
The result was my single favorite post of the first year of Faith and Fear in Flushing. Nobody ever asks me that either, but there it is. It captured not just the events of the game in question, but encompassed what it was like for me to be a Mets fan and a Mets blogger in 2005.
I wished we had won instead of lost on July 8, but I can’t say I was unhappy that this was left behind in the wake of agonizing defeat.
So anyway, happy first birthday to us. My continual thanks to our readers, to our commenters, to our e-mailers, to our blolleagues, to my friends who directly and indirectly inspired me to keep writing long enough to find this higher calling, to my lovely wife who reads all of these entries except for those that are too “heavy on baseball” and to the team that makes this blog necessary.
Oh, and to the other half of this exercise: You make blogging fun, and after nearly a dozen years, you still make me laugh about the Mets like nobody else can…except maybe when Diaz goes after a fly ball. Seriously, the only thing I like as much as writing Faith and Fear is reading Faith and Fear when you write it.
Fifty-two weeks ago today, I mentioned that I saw a rainbow outside my window, which I took as an indisputable sign that a new season was at hand. I never would have guessed the rainbow would lead to where we are with this thing of ours, too.
by Greg Prince on 14 February 2006 5:01 pm On February 2, 2002, Stephanie and I visited Bobby V’s restaurant in Corona. Our hope was that by showing up on a sleepy Saturday before spring training, we would bump into the eatery’s star attraction. And we did. The man whose name was on the door and whose face was on the menu couldn’t have been more gracious, posing for photographs, dispensing autographs and indulging starstruck praise.
“Thanks for wearing your Mets stuff,” he said.
“Thanks for making us proud to wear it,” I said.
Did I really just say that?
I had never met a president but now I had met a Mets manager. The Mets manager, to my thinking. When I shook hands with Bill Clinton a year or so later, it was a rush, but not nearly as charged.
Two Valentines in this picture*, posted February 14, 2006. One used to manage our team. One I couldn’t manage without.
*Image currently missing following blog’s migration to WordPress.
by Greg Prince on 14 February 2006 4:48 pm Time's propensity to march on leaves so much in the dust. People and issues that we focus immense amounts of energy on matter less and less until they matter not at all. They become history. History's a blast, but it's not the same as being vital in the here and now.
Hence, it comes as a creeping surprise on February 14 that the subject of Bobby Valentine is not dripping with vitality. We almost never talk about him anymore.
Sure, the date is a rather obvious hook on which to hang a discussion of our old skipper, but with the slightest step back from the contemporary, it's amazing that he doesn't come up more often. Bobby Valentine was at the center of our thoughts and our lives as Mets fans for so long…and not all that long ago. We devoted who knows how many cubic yards of gray matter to figuring out what he meant, what he was doing, what his next move would be. He was as fascinating a character as we've ever had in our midst. Stengel-fascinating. Strawberry-fascinating. Hernandez-fascinating. Leiter-fascinating.
Say, when was the last time, outside the prism of nostalgia, that we gave those guys any deep thought either? Or Charlie Puleo? Exactly. Time does its number on everybody who's not connected to the 25-man roster, whether they're making it or managing it.
For my money, nobody ever managed one of those babies on our behalf like Bobby Valentine. When the Mets solicited our opinions in 2002 to create an All-Amazin' team, there were four legitimate candidates for manager. Casey Stengel all but created the Mets as we think of them. Gil Hodges is our eternal paterfamilias. Davey Johnson was simply the most successful of the bunch.
But I voted for Valentine. I knew Hodges would win (not altogether undeservedly by any means) and I always thought Johnson was criminally underrated, but I went with Bobby V. I'm not sure that he was the best manager we ever had, but I always felt he inhabited the job like nobody else.
Bobby Valentine loved being the manager of the Mets. He groomed himself for the role from the time he arrived via Kingman trade and once he got it, he ran with it.
I'm not sure what's more jarring, that he's been gone from the organization for nearly 3-1/2 years or that he became Mets manager a decade ago this August. He had one of those tenures during which you all but forgot who came before him and couldn't believe anybody would actually follow him.
Why such love for Valentine? I mean besides his late, lamented restaurant hard by the Grand Central? (Mets cards embedded into the tables, Tom Seaver book covers on display, a menu brimming with Toca Taco Salad and Ribant's Reuben Sandwich…I think I'm going to cry.)
Like I said, he wanted to be here. This wasn't Art Howe shocked out of his mind that somebody would hire him. As soon as Bobby was entrenched, he talked about a Mets way of doing things, about bringing back old Mets to instill a Mets spirit in new Mets. He wasn't close to Mookie, but he embraced having him as a first-base coach. He lured Keith to St. Lucie as an instructor. Rickey will be in camp this year in part, it is said, because Willie knew him from the Yankees. Davey Johnson was part of Cashen's Baltimore cabal. Gil Hodges and Rube Walker were Brooklyn Dodger heroes. Valentine got that we cared about a Mets connection. Maybe it was just lip service, but it made me happy.
Bobby V spoke his mind from the get-go. In Rey-Rey's first year, for example, the Mets had a coach, Rafael Landestoy, whose job was to serve as translator for the rookie shortstop. First spring under Bobby, no extra help. Ordoñez was told no more being an “independent contractor.” Learn English. Communicate with your teammates. Grow up. It's hard to swear that it took, but Bobby took a step.
There was little politic about how he expressed himself. He could have done the Howe thing when it came to the losing streak that greased the skids for his dismissal in '02. He could've said nothing (“we battled”) but he emoted. “It's killing me, it's killing my family, it's killing my dogs,” I believe was the litany of complaints. When asked to elaborate on why things were going so badly, he said he lost his disciples. What manager would admit to that? In happier times, he uttered stop-you-cold stuff as well. When he finally led a team into the playoffs in 1999, a reporter wanted to know if this was the most fun he'd ever had. Surely he'd say, “yes, this is the most fun I've ever had.” Not Bobby. His answer was along the lines of “no, it's not fun. Fun is skiing with my family.”
At least once a year, Bobby Valentine would put Mike & The Mad Dog in their place. He'd as much as tell them they were clueless idiots who couldn't manage a concession stand let alone a big league ballclub. Natch, they reciprocated by sniping at him and kissing Torre's ass that much more, but what savvy listener wouldn't tell Ego & The Idiot the same thing if given the chance?
I once heard Bobby rip into FAN management while on the FAN for not paying him nearly enough to do a manager's show, throwing out the figures that he was getting versus what Bruce Bochy was getting in San Diego, “San Diego” never sounding so contempt-filled as when he said it. That one outburst was more thrilling than anything Jeff Torborg ever said when he was in Jeff From Flushing mode.
Bobby V made enemies, as many on his own club as among the opposition and the media. I suppose that's not a desired attribute, but it was entertaining. Who didn't hate him by the time they were done being managed by him? When he identified one of his missing disciples as “Todd,” a gentleman named Zeile insisted he didn't mean me (no, Bobby said, I meant Pratt). Harnisch hated him immediately. Gilkey hated him eventually. Lance Johnson wasn't crazy about him. Todd Hundley famously feuded with him. And that was after one year! Franco — who with Hundley shoved his face into a heart-shaped cake as a “joke” around this date in 1997 — and Leiter almost certainly helped get him fired. I guess Mike liked him. And I would think those who owed their second chances to him didn't despise him.
That's another thing. Look at all the scrap heapsters Bobby Valentine revitalized. Rick Reed, Matt Franco, Todd Pratt, Benny Agbayani, Melvin Mora were the kinds of guys who were going opportunityless when Bobby decided to give them a shot. They all repaid him (and us) by contributing to the building of a contender. Bobby's the reason I stopped looking at names like Brian Bohanon with a smirk and a roll of the eyes. Bobby got a good year and change out of that guy. Every little bit helps.
And Bobby Valentine won here. He took a team that was demoralized by Dallas Green and turned it into something exciting. The Mets of '97 and early '98 were the eighth wonders. They were rarely out of a game and they were more dangerous than anybody when things got late. When he got some talent, he got to the playoffs. He steered a completely defeated bunch in '01 to a near miracle, all while expending himself to serve countless children of 9/11 victims.
That should be the best part, but to me the best part was that Steve Phillips hated him. Anybody Steve Phillips hates must have it goin' on.
Bobby V was, to invoke an overused invocation, larger than life. I was devastated when he was fired. It was as if he had been impeached by a hostile Congress. The combination of his and Alfonzo's dismissals (speaking of players maximized by the manager) left the worst taste I'd ever experienced in my Mets mouth. Art Howe was an insult to his memory.
Then time marched. It and life went on. Howe went off to wherever Howe went. Willie Randolph came in. He was OK. I don't love him, I don't hate him. When he was hired, it was reportedly instead of Valentine among others. By then, the fall of 2004, it had already seemed a mighty long time since it had been Valentine's day. It's only longer now. I don't miss him on a going basis anymore. He is history. Mets history, the best kind — but still history.
Funny how quickly that happens.
Some amateur psychology is applied to the New York baseball psyche at Gotham Baseball.
by Jason Fry on 13 February 2006 5:22 am Thanks for the silver lining, pal — it so happens I was already feeling sunny. There are Eddie Gaedel-sized drifts of snow in my backyard. Big whoop. Do your worst, Old Man Winter. Because you're going down.
Warm winter or no, this is the kind of storm that, had it arrived in early to mid-January, might have sent my usual mild case of seasonal-affective-disorder-induced grouchiness spiraling into something deeper and darker. But today? Ha. Pitchers and catchers report on Wednesday Thursday, and once that happens, any statistics winter should accumulate will go into the books with an asterisk.
Sure, there'll be another big storm in March — there always is. So what. A month from now, we'll be solidly into spring training and whatever additional delights/worries/novelties the WBC brings us. Mike Pelfrey will be looking good, Bret Boone will be in the best shape of his life, Kaz Matsui will have a new attitude, Billy Wagner will have found acceptance in a new clubhouse. Or maybe you'll see different names paired with those phrases, but we'll be repeating them nonetheless, seeking to wring whatever meaning we can out of them. (My Blog Brother, on the other hand, may be camped out in Eliot Spitzer's lobby by then, since this year, alas, looks like it'll be his turn to suffer the wickedness of the Dolans and Cablevision's flying monkeys.)
And two months from now? We'll have ridden spring training straight into the '06 schedule, eight games deep — deep enough to no longer quite be able to rattle off the outcome of every contest. The full roster will have taken the field, with the possible exceptions of a fifth starter, bullpen specialist or someone they can't decide to DL or not. Someone will look great, filling us with overconfidence. Someone will look decidedly less than great, filling us with agita. It'll be here before we know it.
Such predictions hardly make me Nostradamus (or his infinitely more entertaining descendent Metstradamus). These things happen every year, regular as clockwork, predictable as morning following night, which is simultaneously the delight of baseball for those who hear its call and the barrier to entry for those unfortunates who do not. It's just a roundabout way of saying winter is on the ropes, whatever tricks it's got left to throw at us. 26.9 inches in Central Park? Whatever — gimme 269 inches of slush and mess if you want, oh vilest and most useless of seasons. Because come the day after the day after tomorrow, we'll have won through your kingdom once more, to the place where real life begins again.
by Greg Prince on 12 February 2006 12:35 pm Well, at least your recurring gripe that it's warm enough to play ball so let's play ball is inoperable this morning.
Just looking for the silver lining inside the blizzard.
Snow on a Sunday morning, especially so close to moundsmen & receivers, takes me back to April 9, 2000. We were going to that game to get our Amazin' Again (amazingly bad, as it turned out) 1999 highlight cassettes. But it snowed big, wet, chunky flakes and we got snowed out. “Aw, it's not so bad out there,” I heard myself repeat again and again. In a rare fit of marketing acumen, the Mets actually put said tapes on sale in their Clubhouse Shops. Should you be driven to watch it again, note that the many and varied contributions of Darryl Hamilton and Kenny Rogers in an August game against the Brewers are spotlighted far more than anything John Olerud did in 1999. (Speaking of recurring gripes.)
Not a lot of snow-driven baseball memories otherwise. The '71 opener got cut short by a blizzard the Mets and Expos managed to play through…at Shea, not Parc Jarry. M. Donald clear wanted to hold on to his M. Oney. The doubleheader Tim Corcoran got to play in June '86 was made necessary by snow that wiped out the second game of the season in Pittsburgh; Doc said that was the first time he had seen snow. Gads, I wish it had been his last. When the Yankees opened their home schedule in flakes in April '96, I have a middling recollection that we got snowed out that night in Cincy. Or maybe it was just colded out.
Doesn't seem like they'll postpone a game for unbearable chill anymore. Nor would we have them do it.
Need something to look forward to besides the obvious. A piece of good news from Jon Heyman in Newsday. He reports that besides Ebbets Field, the Mets are modeling Shea's successor after my stadium crush, PNC Park. Jeff Wilpon says he'd take it whole if he could. Damn, it's not like the Pirates are doing anything with it anyway.
It's supposed to warm up late in the week when hurlers & backstops report. The temperature is predicted to rise as well.
by Greg Prince on 10 February 2006 10:46 am Welcome to Flashback Friday, a weekly feature devoted to the 20th anniversary of the 1986 World Champion New York Mets.
Twenty years, 43 Fridays. This is one of them.
Shame on me for listening to WFAN, particularly when it’s before 5 but after 4 in the morning. Shame on me for retaining anything any caller says, especially the guy last night who, while guaranteeing the Mets would win the N.L. East, predicted Cliff Floyd was ripe for an injury.
Putting aside the dual and departing tracks of those projections (2006 MVP Endy Chavez?), I’m suddenly besotted by visions of what could go wrong going wrong. Gosh, Cliff was awfully healthy last year…so was Jose…and that toe of Pedro’s…
Stop! There’s no sense delving into the miseries of the potentially awful. They’ll reveal themselves in due course if they are destined. It’s a good slap in the face for someone who’s spent this endless winter on the upbeat. I don’t believe much good comes from feeling too good. Didn’t last year, don’t now, doubt I’ll change (but it is comforting to know I’m getting my head in its proper precautionary space; play ball already yet).
This is unlike 1986. There was nothing but optimism then. Second thoughts were for second place. Perspective was for Pirates. I knew we were going to smack the living daylights out of the National League. Spring training was welcome as always, but why couldn’t we just get to the business of throttling all comers?
We were loaded.
We were healthy.
We were invincible.
What could go wrong?
Seriously — name one red flag that could have slowed us down.
How about hearing “batting third, the first baseman, No. 29, Tim Corcoran” on a regular basis?
When the possibility unexpectedly reared its mediocre head, the sound you might recall echoing up and down the eastern seaboard was my head meeting the nearest available wall. If you didn’t catch it, maybe it was because it was drowned out by your own mix of cabeza and concrete.
No offense to Tim Corcoran. No offense from Tim Corcoran either. His name was familiar from his two previous seasons in Philadelphia, one mildly impressive (.341 in 208 ABs, albeit with next to no power), one decidedly dismal (.214 and absolutely no power in 182 trips to the plate). It was after the latter that the Mets picked him up in February of ’86.
The Mets — all teams — make a habit of signing fringe 4-A players in advance of spring. So what if the Mets were giving this lefty first baseman, this 33-year-old veteran of eight big league campaigns a look-see?
Because Tim Corcoran represented something far worse than Tim Corcoran. Tim Corcoran was brought in to replace Keith Hernandez in the event that Keith Hernandez would require replacing.
Shudder.
There was a moment in spring training 1986 when the chance that Mex would not be playing in the season ahead appeared all too real.
Shudder. Shudder again.
On a team that won 98 games a year earlier and was a universal pick to win more than that in the coming year, there was one indispensable man. He swung lefty, he played first base, he batted third and he was most definitely not Tim Corcoran.
Tom Seaver’s the greatest Met that’s ever been, end of discussion. Given baseball’s tendency to view pitchers as something different from players, there’s never been quite the consensus on who is the greatest “position” or “everyday” player in Mets history…as a Met, that is.
• In the wash of sentimentality that greeted Mike Piazza’s bon voyage, he received not a few of those accolades. No doubt he was the headline player around here for a pretty long time.
• When Darryl Strawberry left the Mets after finally reaching his potential, it was not uncommon to refer to him in that manner. He was certainly the most talented player to develop as a Met and he owns the two glamour spots in the team record books, most HRs and most RBI.
• Among Mets non-pitchers (including Ashburn, Snider, Berra, Mays, Murray and throw in Rickey Henderson if you like) who have made the Hall of Fame, only Gary Carter truly burnished his Cooperstown credentials during his Met tenure. That makes him, technically, the only everyday player on the Mets to perform at Hall of Fame standards.
But if you were around to watch the Mets on a consistent basis while he put the full repertoire of his abilities and soul on display, you understand that this is Keith Hernandez’s gig. He’s the greatest Met position player that’s ever been.
End of discussion? No way. Considering Keith Hernandez was one of the privileges of having been a Mets fan from 1983 to 1989, particularly ’84, ’85 and ’86 when Keith was in full Mex, we could discuss Keith Hernandez all day and it wouldn’t do him nearly enough justice. Just a couple of thoughts from a couple of contemporary eyewitnesses to tide us over for now:
I have often written that Hernandez is the best everyday player the Mets ever had. Hernandez is also one of the most compelling athletes I have ever covered, a superb defensive player, a skillful hitter. It is like getting a master’s degree in baseball to stop by Hernandez’s locker after he has relaxed with a beer.
—George Vecsey
Keith Hernandez…is all edges and angles. He is a favorite topic of conversation and a source of fascination among the reporters who cover the team — at once prickly and cooperative, eloquent and saturnine, guarded about everything in his life except baseball, which he can discuss with rare insight.
—Joe Klein
I never played with anyone like Mex before. I mean, the guy’s been around the league a few times, he makes lots of money and all — you just don’t expect someone like him to be so fresh and exuberant and intense all the time, especially out on the field.
—Bobby Ojeda
Hernandez is dark, reflective, analytical, urban. Throughout the winter, you see him around the saloons of the city, sometimes with friends like Phil McConkey of the Giants, other times with beautiful women. His clothes are carefully cut. He reads books, loves history, buys art for his apartment on the East Side. Carter is the king of the triumphant high-fives; Hernandez seems embarrassed by them. In a crisis, Carter might get down on one knee and have a prayer meeting; Hernandez advocates a good drunk.
—Pete Hamill
It wasn’t his reluctance to be a holla back guy or his fondness for designer suits that made Keith Hernandez the best everyday player the Mets have ever had, but it added to the character and the legend that he created on the field. We could figure out from watching him hit .311 in ’84 and .309 in ’85 and drive in 94 and 91 in those respective years that he wasn’t one of those marquee types who misplaced his talent when he was traded to us. We could divine that he was clutch even without the meaningless Game Winning Run Batted In statistic (rendered meaningful when he led the world in it). We could see, even on the radio, that he defend field in a league of his own. And we couldn’t help but notice, especially in ’84 when the catcher was rookie Mike Fitzgerald, that he took it upon himself to nurse the kid pitching staff to maturity in the midst of a wholly unexpected pennant race.
His on-field persona was awesome. His postgame personality was brilliant. In an era when we were really beginning to be told what made athletes tick, nobody presented a more intricate or intriguing package to the beat writers day by day. Columnists like Mike Lupica built a cottage industry out of Hernandez envy. Tim McCarver, who was sold by St. Louis two days after Keith was first called up, spoke about him night after night with a reverence one reserves exclusively for a player you consider a true peer. The cumulative effect of the Keith coverage — not only could he play, but boy could he think — made those of us who were consumers of every word we could read about our team treasure him. Hernandez wasn’t the stud Darryl was, didn’t have quite the All-Star credentials Gary did and couldn’t match the phenomenon of Doc, but he was why those Mets were those Mets.
Keith Hernandez made us special, made us stand out, made us The Mets when that meant something entirely different from what it’s usually taken to mean. Other teams could have their superstars. Other teams could have Mike Schmidt and Dale Murphy and Andre Dawson. As long as we got to have Keith Hernandez, we’d win.
And without him?
Shudder. Shudder. Shudder.
Yet we were faced with at least the prospect of a Mexless 1986 at the end of that February when Commissioner Peter Ueberroth announced the penalties for a group of players who testified they had been drug users at the infamous Pittsburgh baseball drug trials the previous September.
Most significantly, a suspension of one year.
Shud…
But wait! There was an out! Ubie was no fool. Big names were involved in Pittsburgh. The commissioner, having assumed office during the “Just Say No” phase of this country’s ultrasuccessful War On Drugs (you can tell it’s successful by the way it’s gone on so long), needed to show he could be as tough as Nancy Reagan on the subject. Pete Hamill believed there was “something inherently unfair about punishing a man who came clean,” which is what the players in question — Keith Hernandez among them for his Cardinal sins — had done in ’85 in exchange for immunity, but the commish was lord of his own realm. He was going to make a statement and an example at the same time.
On the other hand, guys like Hernandez and the Reds’ Dave Parker were big players and star attractions. Had Ueberroth been serious, it would have been the one-year suspension he had meted out, good luck appealing, see you in court. Instead, it was a one-year suspended suspension with a hefty fine, a large dose of community service and mandatory, random drug testing. In other words, if you wanted to play ball, you’d have to play ball.
The Mets fan heard only this: “Keith Hernandez…suspended…one year…” The Mets fan then thought this: “Tim Corcoran…” And finally: “AAUUGGHH!!!!”
I’ve never used illegal drugs in my life. That’s not a boast, just a fact. I roomed with two guys in college, when I was a sophomore and when I was a senior, who smoked a little of this, snorted a little of that, maybe made a transaction or two on the side. It was around me, it just never appealed to me. I preferred liters of TaB over lines of coke. I mention this to indicate I had no tangible personal fallout from the evils of drugs except for the time the second roommate and his racist customer from down the hall woke me up with their high (on, uh, life) cackles and I responded by spraying something from an aerosol can that I thought was filled with Lysol but wasn’t, thus making the room stink worse than it had from just their smoke. I didn’t much care that Keith Hernandez had indulged a darker side as a Redbird. Hey, if it was drugs that moved Whitey Herzog to trade him to us for the paltry sum of Neil Allen and Rick Ownbey, then maybe drugs weren’t all bad.
I wasn’t at the game in September of ’85 that followed Keith’s testimony in Pittsburgh, but if I had been, I would’ve joined in the standing ovation he received. Not for his bearing witness, not for his personal rehabilitation but because he was the best player on my favorite team, one who by all indications had kicked the habit…and did I mention that he was the best player on my favorite team? Dick Young and others said those who thought like that were immoral. We were in the middle of a battle royale with the Cardinals. Nothing could have been more moral than wanting to defeat such evil.
When spring training rolled around and Ueberroth was pounding us over the head with Corc’d bats, I thought I might be hitting the pipe by the All-Star break. But there was more to this suspension. There was the out, and when we heard that, we breathed a Metropolitan sigh of relief.
Until we heard that Keith Hernandez was the one player offered the deal who wasn’t sure he was going to take it. Mex objected to being lumped in with the group of players saddled with this particular penalty. It was for those who “in some fashion facilitated the distribution of drugs in baseball”. That’s not me, Mex wrote in If At First: “I never sold or dealt drugs and didn’t want that incorrect label for the rest of my life.” He was willing to accept the punishment handed out to another group of players who had copped to drugs, players more lightly sentenced because Ueberroth couldn’t link them to dealing.
Hernandez didn’t like having to ante up $100,000 to pay the proscribed fine (1986 salary: $1.65 million), didn’t relish committing to 200 hours of community service — presumably anti-drug speeches — over two years on account of shyness, and wasn’t crazy about the invasion of his privacy when it came to peeing on demand; yes, Virginia, there was a time Americans objected to infringements on their civil liberties. But mostly, Keith said, he didn’t feel he warranted inclusion in the dealt-drugs bunch.
Ueberroth announced his decision on a Friday. Keith left the Mets complex in St. Pete to go home and think about what to do. On Saturday he issued a statement allowing he was “not pleased with the decision of the commissioner”. During the ensuing week, Hernandez continued to think and while he did, he was vilified in most corners. You mean they’ll lift the suspension as long as you pay a fine and talk to kids and whiz now and then? For the kinda money you make? Why you rotten druggie, what’s wrong with you? Go be our hero, ya bum.
I sort of admired Keith’s refusal to immediately give in, especially on the drug testing, It’s an accepted part of sports and other employment now, but then not everybody was on the side of invasiveness. If Keith Hernandez did anything else for a living or played for another team, I’d have urged him take that principled stand and sit out the year.
Especially if he played for another team
But my principles ran approximately the length of .095 points in batting average, the base difference between Keith Hernandez and Tim Corcoran in 1985.
On March 8, eight days after they were offered, Keith Hernandez accepted Peter Ueberroth’s terms. He publicly objected to his classification as a dealer, but acknowledged he had made a mistake when he took drugs and emphasized that he felt “an obligation to my team, the fans and to baseball to play this year”.
Keith Hernandez played 149 games in the 108-win season that followed, batting .310, finishing fourth in league MVP voting, starting the All-Star game in Houston and collecting his ninth consecutive Gold Glove.
Tim Corcoran was purchased from Tidewater right after the season opened. His first appearance came in the Mets’ eleventh game. He was announced as a pinch-hitter in St. Louis but then removed in favor of Kevin Mitchell when Whitey brought on a lefty. Five days later, he grounded out in Atlanta. Ten days after that, he was outrighted to the Tides. He returned more than three weeks later. Pinch-hit three times (no hits, one walk) and was given a start at first in the second game of a doubleheader in Pittsburgh. Went 0-for-4 with a walk and a run scored. Three days after that, he was put on waivers and never played in the Major Leagues again.
Final totals: 6 games, 7 at-bats, 0 hits, .000 batting average.
Tim Corcoran, sparest of 1986 spare parts?
Like, whatever.
Tim Corcoran, Plan B first baseman in lieu of Keith Hernandez?
Just say no.
Schedule advisory: Saturday night, August 19, Mets vs. Rockies. Wait! Don’t yawn! It’s Old Timers Night! Or whatever they’re calling it this year. Surprisingly, the Mets will be devoting it to the 20th anniversary of the 1986 Mets. Seemed too obvious for them to get it right, didn’t it? Club says everybody’s been invited back. Wanna bet they lost Tim Corcoran’s address?
by Jason Fry on 9 February 2006 4:02 pm On my bookshelves you'll find a fairly random assortment of Met media guides from various years. (I don't bother with them much anymore because all this stuff is now online.) The other night I was looking through an old one in search of biographical information about the immortal Brian Ostrosser (don't ask) and was surprised by how thoroughly the tone of these things has changed.
Sure, recent media guides still have some of the goofy features of media guides since time immemorial: And the Name Is…, Mets/Shea Stadium Firsts, Road Hotels, Last Time That X Happened, For the Cycle, Mets Triple Plays, Last Trade With, Mets Who Played for Yankees, etc. But the bios? Well, they're a bit different.
Here are some musings about Roger Cedeno, from the 2002 media guide: His wife is named Thais, his daughter is Michele. In 2001 he led the Tigers with 41 multi-hit games and registered a career-high 48 RBIs. In 1999 he led the Mets with nine outfield assists. In 1997 he hit in a then career-best 10 consecutive games. In 1994 his .321 average was the fifth-highest in the Dodger organization. In 1993 he was the youngest player to play in the Texas League since Bobby Tolan. His brother Nolys Solarte played in the Pirates' organization. He donated $10,000 to charity after 9/11.
Yawn. You get the idea — cherrypicked positives. The only hint of something less than ideal is a mysterious note from 2001: Did not play the final 19 games of the season (manager's decision).
Now, let's look at the much-thinner, not-so-glossy 1975 Press-Radio-TV Guide. It's impossible to miss the generational oddities, like the eight scheduled doubleheaders or the need to note on the schedule that certain games are televised (TV) and others are night games (N). But just wait.
There's the rather odd-sounding biography of Yogi Berra, described at various points as “the fire-pluggish open-faced son of Italian immigrants,” “the piano-legged paisan” and “the shy recruit whose face has been likened to a fallen souffle”. Oh, and that bio opens with this: “The fortunes of Yogi Berra represented a series of emotional peaks and valleys in fateful 1972. There was January's joy, generated by Destiny's touch of immortality, and April's anguish and appreciation, stoked alternately by the hands of tragedy and opportunity.” Whew! (Apparently that's the work of Harold Weissman and Matt Winick, who seem to have been paid by the eye-roll.)
Now, some tidbits that the media guide saw fit to include in scouting reports on the players who wanted to be Mets in 1975:
Bob Apodaca: “Completely ignored in 1968 draft following conversion from third baseman at Cerritos Junior College (where coach decided he 'couldn't hit or run good enough to be an infielder'); subsequently transferred to California State.”
Benny Ayala: “after hitting safely in first four games he steadily lost ground and confidence; and powerful, compact swing that fascinated Yogi Berra and Rube Walker during winter tour had vanished.”
Gene Clines: ” 'Super Sub' label failed to placate one-time Bay Area wunderkind who openly voiced displeasure over frustrating inability to win full time status … Brightest stat of 1974 campaign, dimmed by request to be traded, was 14 steals in 16 attempts”
Wayne Garrett: “One of few positives of negative 1970 that followed Met Miracle”
Bud Harrelson: “1974 wasn't a total loss. … One of few bright spots to penetrate gloom of 1970” (Jeez, you can't win every year!)
Felix Millan: “Soft-spoken Beau Brummel of Mets”
Rich Puig: “Personable youngster has yet to live up to billing as 'one of the organization's better hitting prospects,' or to develop in manner that attracted the attention of pro scouts when he was 14 … accompanied Mets to Japan, but limited to three pinch-hit appearances because of intestinal infection which was cleared up before tour's end.”
Rusty Staub: “Spent most disciplined culinary winter of career in determined effort to regain heralded form”
Joe Torre: “Swarthy local product”
Hank Webb: “Opportunity, afforded by fascination with 'one of organization's liveliest arms,' has been there for three years, but indifference last season continued to represent the distance separating free-spirited local product from predicted major league stardom; hopes are renewed now that responsibility of post-season marriage will help close tantalizing gap”
They don't make 'em like they used to. Sometimes that's not a bad thing.
by Greg Prince on 7 February 2006 12:52 pm It occurs to me that for all the references I make to the One Hundred Greatest Mets of the First Forty Years, they have never been presented all at once in one handy-dandy post.
So let’s do that today.
For those of you who weren’t with us last March and April when we counted ’em down, you can read up on what makes a Met one of the One Hundred Greatest here and you can check out the official assessment of each of them, ten at a time, by using the helpfully reinstated links down the sidebar.
In the meantime, look who’s No. 100-1.
100-91
100. Marv Throneberry
99. Lenny Harris
98. Rico Brogna
97. Duke Snider
96. Carl Everett
95. Joe McEwing
94. Jason Isringhausen
93. Rod Gaspar
92. Joel Youngblood
91. Bernard Gilkey
90-81
90. Ken Boswell
89. Jay Payton
88. Timo Perez
87. Shawon Dunston
86. Dave Mlicki
85. Matt Franco
84. Melvin Mora
83. Eddie Murray
82. J.C. Martin
81. Kevin Elster
80-71
80. Bret Saberhagen
79. Ron Hodges
78. Bobby Bonilla
77. Roger Cedeño
76. Frank Thomas
75. Gregg Jefferies
74. Terry Leach
73. Tim Teufel
72. Steve Henderson
71. Roger Craig
70-61
70. Dave Magadan
69. Rickey Henderson
68. Al Jackson
67. Ed Charles
66. Gary Gentry
65. Lance Johnson
64. Kevin Mitchell
63. Dennis Cook
62. Art Shamsky
61. Rafael Santana
60-51
60. Hubie Brooks
59. Todd Zeile
58. Nolan Ryan
57. Frank Viola
56. Richie Ashburn
55. Willie Mays
54. Ron Hunt
53. Craig Swan
52. Mike Hampton
51. Todd Pratt
50-41
50. John Milner
49. Al Weis
48. Kevin McReynolds
47. Doug Flynn
46. Bobby Ojeda
45. Benny Agbayani
44. Randy Myers
43. Donn Clendenon
42. John Stearns
41. Turk Wendell
40-31
40. Bobby Jones
39. Jon Matlack
38. Todd Hundley
37. Rick Reed
36. Rey Ordoñez
35. Lee Mazzilli
34. Armando Benitez
33. Ron Darling
32. Ron Swoboda
31. Sid Fernandez
30-21
30. Ray Knight
29. Wayne Garrett
28. Al Leiter
27. Dave Kingman
26. Roger McDowell
25. Lenny Dykstra
24. David Cone
23. Felix Millan
22. Robin Ventura
21. Wally Backman
20-11
20. John Olerud
19. Rusty Staub
18. Jesse Orosco
17. Howard Johnson
16. Tommie Agee
15. Cleon Jones
14. Jerry Grote
13. Jerry Koosman
12. John Franco
11. Mookie Wilson
10-1
10. Ed Kranepool
9. Edgardo Alfonzo
8. Bud Harrelson
7. Tug McGraw
6. Gary Carter
5. Dwight Gooden
4. Darryl Strawberry
3. Mike Piazza
2. Keith Hernandez
1. Tom Seaver
Can the ’06 Mets take a lesson from the — gasp! — ’96 Yankees? If it means winning, why the bleep not? Consider it further at Gotham Baseball.
by Greg Prince on 6 February 2006 12:13 pm This afternoon Minnesota beat Oakland ten to four, Scott Baker bested Joe Kennedy, Michael Cuddyer homered for Minnesota, Mark Ellis for Oakland, so at the moment, the A’s two games behind the Angels in the American League West. Angels play tonight at home against Texas with John Lackey against Kameron Loe after Bartolo Colon picked up his twentieth win last night.
First Angel since Nolan Ryan thirty-one years ago to win twenty games.
Now the three-two to Pierre, hit in the air to centerfield, back a few strides goes Beltran, he’s got it lined up, backpedaling, and he makes the catch and the inning is over.
So Pierre flies to center and Seo works around the one-out double by Andino.
No runs, one hit, one left. Middle of the second now at Shea, Mets one, Marlins one on the WFAN Mets radio network.
Would’ve finished the entire half-inning yesterday, but I was suffering from transcribing fatigue, to say nothing of every other kind of fatigue, and had to quit. Say what you will against trading Jae Seo, but he did not work quickly.
As has been noted several times (like here, here and by implication here), the broadcasting of Gary Cohen via radio will be sorely missed, but I’m going to put the torch away for now. I heard Tom McCarthy interviewed during the Caravan and he seems like a decent sort, so I’m going to focus my aural energies on getting to know him and wishing him well…for our sake as well as his.
And Mr. Cohen, well, maybe Snigh will surprise and show up on Cablevision sometime between now and the rapture. Someday we’ll be together.
by Greg Prince on 5 February 2006 2:23 pm I had planned to let you know to listen to Jonathan Schwartz’s show on WNYC-FM this afternoon. For 36 consecutive Super Bowl Sundays, Schwartz ran what he called a Salute to Baseball. Before there was sportstalk radio and downloadable files and Rhino Records, there was Schwartz spending one hour in the middle of football overload on broadcasting baseball.
If you’re not familiar with Jonathan Schwartz, he’s more or less a disc jockey, a Sinatra guy. He’s also written books and has been described as a raconteur. For our purposes, he’s a crazy (mellow voice, but crazy) Red Sox fan in New York and that mattered because he would salute baseball. He’d play old baseball songs and tell old baseball stories and, my favorite part, run random clips of play-by-play. It didn’t matter what game it was or who had played. It was the authentic sound of baseball in January or early February. It was always great.
And I was going to hype it for all of us to enjoy ahead of Super Bowl Sunday. I was so anxious to do it that I got in touch with XM Radio (where he spends most of his time programming the Frank’s Place channel) to confirm that he would be saluting baseball as he always did. I figured it was a formality.
I figured wrong.
Sorry, but Jonathan will not conduct his Salute To Baseball this year. His XM-73 program for Sunday, February 5, will be pre-recorded and not consist of the usual hour-long Salute.
The Daily News elaborated on Saturday. WNYC is in the midst of one of its fund drives and Schwartz won’t have the hour locally to do his baseball show. So he’s apparently not doing it all. He won’t be playing a random bit of baseball play-by-play to get us through the onslaught of football and the declining mercury and the miles to go before we sleep and eat spring training.
He won’t. But I will.
GARY: Mets baseball is brought to you by Re/Max. If you’re looking to buy or sell a home, call 800-REMAXNY or click remaxny.com. Nobody in the world sells more real estate than Re/Max.
Second inning in a one-one game, Mike Lowell leads off against Jae Seo. And Jae’s first pitch is a curveball, taken low, one ball, no strikes.
Seo gave up three hits in the first inning and then survived when Paul Lo Duca hit a long fly ball to left that Cliff Floyd was able to track down.
Lowell hitting just .233 in a lost season, and he pops it foul back and out of play, one ball, one strike.
Lowell with just seven home runs and fifty-six runs batted in. This is a guy you count on for thirty homers and a hundred RBIs or somewhere in that neighborhood, but he has been in a very different part of town.
Now Seo with the one-one to Lowell, taken outside two and one. And Lowell was only in the lineup tonight because the Marlins were in desperate need of a second baseman. And yet he never played one pitch at second base, moving to third when Cabrera left the game after fouling a ball off his knee.
Here’s the two-one to Lowell, changeup hit high into the air to left field, routine play for Floyd as he ambles in. Cliff is under it, makes the catch to retire Lowell, one away.
So one out and nobody on, Robert Andino the rookie shortstop will bat. The out-of-town scoreboard is brought to you by Foxwoods Resort Casino, the wonder of it all in Mystic Country, Connecticut.
In Pittsburgh tonight, the Astros scored four runs in the first inning off Kip Wells who is seven and sixteen this year, and the Astros lead the Pirates four-nothing in the second, Roy Oswalt trying for his eighteenth win, Lance Berkman a three-run homer, his twentieth.
Here’s Andino, a right-hand batter, and he takes a strike, nothing and one.
Andino went oh-for-five last night, starting his fourth game in the big leagues. Alex Gonzalez can’t throw because of a bad elbow, Damion Easley sprained an ankle, so Andino is the shortstop.
Swing and a miss at a changeup, nothing and two.
Andino not only went oh-for-five last night, but he also made a key error, uh, a ball hit by Jose Reyes, a terrible throw that led to the Mets’ first run.
Andino is considered a whiz with the glove. We’ve certainly seen that from him back during spring training.
Just three-for-eighteen at the plate in the big leagues. And Seo winds, the oh-two pitch, fastball hit sharply OVER the first base bag and down the line. He swung late and got it right down the line! Andino heads for second, Diaz tracks it down and Robert Andino stands at second base with a double.
Well, Andino swung late on a fastball and was just able to keep it fair over the first base bag and down the line.
That’s the kind of hit you see a pitcher get.
As he reached for a pitch up and away, and now the actual pitcher, Jason Vargas, is a pretty good hitter will come up.
Vargas was a two-way player in college, a first baseman and pitcher and he had a very good college career with the bat.
He’s a left-hand hitter, he has six-for-twenty-two, so he’s hitting .273 with a couple of RBIs.
And Seo’s pitch, golfed foul back into the crowd, and he had a good cut at that, nothing and one.
The Phillies got a two-run homer from David Bell off Horacio Ramirez in the second inning, and the Phillies lead the Braves three-nothing in the third.
Brett Myers pitching for the Phillies after Jorge Sosa threw another gem for the Braves against Philadelphia last night. Sosa’s now thirteen and three. He’s been one of the real unsung heroes of the Braves’ season.
HOWIE: When you look at the injuries they’ve had between Hampton and Thomson in particular, he’s been a lifesaver for that team.
GARY: And Sosa with that effort last night might well have nailed down a spot for himself in the Braves’ postseason rotation.
Here’s the oh-one to Vargas, swing and a miss at a changeup, nothing and two.
Braves go into the night with a magic number of six for clinching the National League East and winning their fourteenth straight division title.
The Giants lead the Nationals two to one, bottom of the second. Now they go to the top of third in that game, two-one San Francisco, Brad Hennessy against John Patterson, Barry Bonds a two-run homer.
And a changeup just outside to Vargas, one and two.
For Bonds, his second in two nights, it’s his fourth of the year and number seven oh seven a lifetime.
Cincinnati and St. Louis go to the third, Cardinals with a four-nothing lead. Jason Marquis against Ramon Ortiz, David Eckstein a two-run homer.
Now Seo looks back at second, the one-two to Vargas, swing and a miss, he got him with the changeup, second strikeout for Jae Seo as he fans his opposite number, now there are two away, Andino still at second and Juan Pierre coming up.
In Pittsburgh, Mike Lamb has just added a three-run homer for the Astros and they lead the Pirates eight to nothing in the second inning. So, the, uh, Marlins will know in short order as soon as that gets posted, and it just did on the right field scoreboard that they need to win tonight just to keep pace, with the Astros out to an early eight-nothing lead.
Here’s Pierre with a runner at second and two out. Pierre laid down a bunt single in the first, then stole second, took third on a sacrifice and scored on Carlos Delgado’s two-out hit.
One to one game, we’re in the second. Andino leads at second, the pitch, fastball taken outside, one ball, no strikes.
Pierre the fifteenth batter of the game and GEICO wants you to know that a fifteen-minute phone call could save you fifteen percent or more on your car insurance. Call 1-800-947-A-U-T-O.
Wright playing even with the bag at third this time against Pierre, not a bunting situation. The one-oh pitch, and a called strike on the outside corner, one and one.
This is one of those spots where even if you are one of the best in the world at bunting for basehits, you’re doing your team a disservice if you try it. With a runner at second and two out, your job is to drive in the run, not move the runner to third base, even if you’re successful in beating it out.
Because all you’re doing is leaving it up to the next guy.
Here’s the one-one to Pierre, fastball up and away, two balls and a strike.
Later games in the National League, Cubs and Brewers, actually they’re just underway, no score bottom of the first, Mark Prior against Tomo Ohka. San Diego at Colorado after the Rockies’ record-setting twenty-to-one win last night. Matt Holiday had eight RBIs in that game for the Rockies. Tonight they face Jake Peavey.
The two-one pitch and a changeup outside, and now Seo behind on Pierre three and one.
Mike Esposito will make his Major League debut for Colorado.
Dodgers at Diamondbacks tonight, Brad Penny against Brandon Webb.
In the American League, Matt Lawton a two-run homer off Rodrigo Lopez, the Yankees lead Baltimore two-nothing, bottom of the third. Randy Johnson pitching for the Yankees and, let’s see, he’s already pitched three innings and he’s still in the game, so he’s way ahead of it tonight.
HOWIE: Either that or he’s wearing some tape over his mouth…
GARY: [Laughs]
HOWIE: …or a muzzle.
GARY:: Whatever works.
Red Sox have three home in the second against Scott Kazmir and lead Tampa Bay three-nothing, Tim Wakefield going for Boston. The Red Sox a half-game ahead of the Yankees.
Here’s the three-one to Pierre, and it’s on the outside corner, a strike, three and two.
The Indians and White Sox conclude their series after the White Sox’ dramatic victory in ten innings last night on Joe Crede’s walkoff home run. The Indians a half-game up on the Yankees, three-and-a-half behind the White Sox. Scott Elarton against Jon Garland in Chicago tonight.
Andino leads at second, three-two to Pierre. Changeup fouled to the left side out of play, still three and two.
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