The blog for Mets fans
who like to read
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 11 October 2005 4:54 am Congratulations, Angels. I hope you enjoy your flight to Chicago. You done good.
Those chants directed at Alex Rodriguez? Turns out they’re…
GIDP! GIDP! GIDP!
And who’s not paying off the umpires? Since when is Joe West an exemplar of integrity? Way to go, Country Joe. Somewhere J.C. Martin is howling with delight.
Hold on, there’s a call…
“Hello? Bernie? No, man, no gigs. No, nobody ever wants to hear you play the guitar again.”
Hold on, there’s another call…
“Hello? Moose? No, man, no rings. Check your contract. It was only implied.”
Geez, the phone keeps ringing…
“Hello? Bubba? Is that you? Bubba? Sheff? I can’t hear either one of you. Sorry, but you guys are going to have speak up if you want anyone to hear you.”
There’s a text here from the Unit.
Uh, can’t print it. This is a family blog.
Fax just came in from Howard Rubenstein’s office:
ANAHEIM — New York Yankees owner George Steinbrenner is very unhappy with the American League Championship Series schedule.
“Look at this,” said the general partner of the 26-time world champion New York Yankees. “First they expect us to play two games in Chicago and then we’re supposed to come back to California. This is an outrage to the good people of New York who deserve to see their team play in their ballpark…what?…we did?…you sure?…oh, Cashman is so FIRED.”
Somebody’s gotta proofread those hurry-up press releases before they go out. But I guess everything goes out in five where the Yankees are concerned.
Your table is ready, Mr. Torre. Mr. Randolph is already waiting.
No rush. You’ve both got all winter to finish that.
Need a bandwagon for the rest of October? Some helpful hints at Gotham Baseball.
by Greg Prince on 10 October 2005 7:16 pm Forgive me for trotting out this hoary chestnut where the classic NLDS Game 4 between Atlanta and Houston was concerned, but it was a shame either one of these teams had to win.
Atlanta deserved to lose for having neglected to build a reliable bullpen.
Houston deserved to lose because they have Roger Clemens.
Atlanta deserved to lose because they couldn't protect a five-run lead in the eighth.
Houston deserved to lose because they have Roger Clemens.
Atlanta deserved to lose because they couldn't retire Brad Ausmus with two outs in the ninth.
Houston deserved to lose because they have Roger Clemens.
Atlanta deserved to lose because they cannot find the wherewithal after so many division titles to assert themselves in post-season.
Houston deserved to lose because they have Roger Clemens.
Atlanta deserved to lose because they could muster no offense when it mattered.
Houston deserved to lose because they have Roger Clemens.
Atlanta deserved to lose because their brand of soulless, efficient baseball is now being passed down to a third generation of players.
Houston deserved to lose because they have Roger Clemens.
Atlanta deserved to lose because John Scheurholz, Bobby Cox and Leo Mazzone, for all their accomplishments, are missing that certain something when it comes to October.
Houston deserved to lose because they have Roger Clemens.
Yeah, it's a shame both teams couldn't be eliminated when it was all over, but unfortunately you can't have two losers. Surely each team deserved to go home after this series, yet only one gets to do so.
Pity.
by Greg Prince on 10 October 2005 10:06 am Good morning, Angels. I hope you had a pleasant flight.
I have an assignment for you. Bosley has the file on the deadly enemy I need to you to quell, so as I describe each member of this venomous force, he will show you the last known pictures we have on them.
Angels, I'm going to ask you to don your protective goggles for this first foe. He is called The Captain. Do not look too closely right now because I'm afraid you'll be so turned off that when you actually see him, he will be too gruesome to get a fix on. Attractiveness is not his game even if he does have at his disposal a well-oiled publicity machine to give off the impression of attractiveness. But that's a distraction. Angels, I don't want you to focus on what he looks like, but what he does. I will need swift, sharp slides into second and fastballs that are high and tight.
Our next vicious opponent is the one they call A-Rod. Angels, be wary of him. He's smooth. Very smooth. Much as I insist you don't look too closely at the Captain, I don't want you to listen to anything A-Rod has to say. He will talk all night but say absolutely nothing. After he lulls you to sleep, he becomes very dangerous. I will need swift, sharp slides into third and fastballs that are high and tight.
The next piece of your puzzle, Angels, is Mo. Mo is slippery. He gave authorities the idea that he was through, done-for a year ago. He cleverly executed a brilliant charade of appearing unable to come through when he was most needed. Alas, it was a charade. When guards were let down, Mo came back and was as brutal to face as ever. You may be led to believe that you will not see Mo, that you will be able to work your way through a string of lesser combatants, but ultimately, it comes down to taking out Mo. Angels, swift, sharp slides will only work on bunts down the first base line and you will have no objects to throw at him. Remember to lay off the high stuff and he will be in a lessened position of strength.
The leader of this notorious band of thugs, Angels, is this man: Joe. Joe is as lugubrious as he is discomfiting. He can't hurt you with a bat or a ball or even a glove. His method for murder is an endless series of whiny complaints. He will try to make you believe that only his notorious band of thugs is inconvenienced by rain, that only his notorious band of thugs has to travel from one end of the continent to the other, that only his notorious band of thugs finds the starting time to be a disadvantage. Your mission, Angels, will be to drown Joe out with very loud bats and very accurate strikes.
We have uncovered a ring of secret operatives that have been deployed to aid our enemies, Angels. They are known as The Men In Blue. The Men In Blue effect an air of neutrality, but do not be taken in. They are not neutral and they are certainly not on your side. You will have to be definitive in your maneuvers, Angels. Leave no doubt on any play. If you want to be called safe, beat the tag not by a step but by two. If you want to get an out call, get the throw to the bag in plenty of time. And by all means, do not let it come down to a question of who is right, you or Mo. You will lose that debate almost every time if The Men In Blue serve as the allegedly impartial arbiters.
Angels, a lot of people are counting on you to take out this treacherous corps of hooligans. The well-being of much of the nation and a significant portion of our largest metropolitan area depends upon it. This bunch is very cagey. They've been thought to represent a decreased threat for the past year, but the more they stick around, Angels, the more they stick around. And that can only be bad news.
Bosley will now hand you their remaining dossiers. Good luck tonight, Angels. You will need it.
by Greg Prince on 7 October 2005 9:24 am The year was 2005. I was 42 years old.
But you already knew that.
After these past eight months, I can’t imagine there’s much more that you don’t already know about me or the Mets, whether you wanted to or not. They were playing just a week ago and me, I haven’t shut up about it since. But given that you’ve been kind enough to ride the Flashback Friday express with me from 1970 to today, the last stop, I’ll go on just a little longer, far enough at least to pull us safely into the station marked OFFSEASON.
If somebody offered me a wishbone tonight, I swear I’d pull my end to get us a game tomorrow afternoon. But I don’t think Nathan’s still sells fried chicken and offseasons are, sadly, as necessary as any time passages.
As September and the Mets faded, I couldn’t get over how it seemed like just a week ago that the season started, that I had made a big point of walking down Grand Avenue to buy an Opening Day sandwich (not from Subway; sorry Willie), bringing it home, eating it for lunch and then nearly losing it when Joe Randa, that human pitchfork, filleted Braden Looper. But with a couple of weeks to go in the season, I realized it wasn’t anything like a week ago, that it was indeed almost six months ago. Baseball seasons have that way of being just long enough, no matter how badly you pine for them to go on just a little bit longer. By early September, I was pleading, let me up, I’ve had enough. And by late September, I recanted. I always do. But I know better, no matter how stark the months up the tracks loom.
We’ve arrived in a cold, cruel terminal, but ultimately, it’s where we all wind up. The good news is terminals are also places where we can wait in warmth until we climb aboard the next train out. The 2006 local is set to depart in a mere 178 days. We’ll keep each other company until then, just as we have since February 16 when the golden spike was driven into the ground and Faith and Fear in Flushing linked two fans’ love of the Mets with a surprisingly large number of likeminded individuals whose own faith and fear synced up to ours.
What a year it has been.
I learned a lot this year. I learned that next year isn’t now, it’s next year. I learned that this year would have to do, and that was fine. I learned that what was gripping to me at the ages of 7 and 12 and so forth was still capable of grasping me and squeezing me here in my early 40s and that I was tickled to be grasped and squeezed anew.
And I learned, at last, to listen to what they were saying.
They? I’m referring to the “they” who told me I should write about baseball. They’ve been telling me that for years. They who read my e-mails or the articles I wrote about other things. They who knew where my passion was and they who saw fit to helpfully suggest that, gee, you have a way with words and you obviously love the game. You should really write about baseball.
I forced a smile, nodded and thanked them for their kind endorsement. And then I went back to work on other things.
Write about baseball? Me? Yeah, sure, I could see why you’d say that. I’m not deaf, dumb and blind to what I can do or to what I like, but…
…and it always trailed off there. If the well-intentioned inquisitor hadn’t moved on to other topics, I’d explain that I never wanted to be a sportswriter, that I’d made a semi-conscious decision years ago that I didn’t want to stand in sweaty locker rooms and beg young millionaires to “tell us about your career, slugger.” I had wanted to maintain the distance and innocence that so many baseball beat writers said they lost when the game they loved became the job they hated.
Of course there’s more than one way to write about baseball as I think I’d been proving since 1994 when I began composing long and thoughtful e-mails, first for a few and then for a few more. I’d been amusing and enchanting a circle of friends and acquaintances and their friends and acquaintances for a decade, but only for the hell of it. It was something to do while at work so I could avoid my work…the job I hated.
I was an editor with a beverage magazine for almost 14 years, from the beginning of 1989 to the end of 2002. It wasn’t a bad experience but I was there too long. About four years after I couldn’t stand it any longer, I got out. And what did I do?
I joined another beverage magazine. Actually, I started another beverage magazine. I was hired to be the first editor of a trade publication that was owned by, get this, the same man who owned a Major League baseball team. He owned a lot of businesses. These were two of them, baseball and beverages. Those of us charged with launching this new magazine were told he loved both.
You’d think working for a man who owns a baseball team, especially if you love baseball, would be the bee’s knees. And it was, briefly. When his team came to Shea, my staff and I (we were all Mets fans) got fantastic seats. And later in the season, we held a conference in which the attraction was a chance to romp around the field where the team he owned played. I can’t say it was all in vain.
But it didn’t last much more than a year. A situation that sounded too good to be true turned out to be exactly that. And like the men who are enlisted to manage baseball teams, perhaps I was hired to be fired. It was the first job I was ever dismissed from. A few months later, the man who owned the baseball team sold that magazine altogether. Guess he didn’t love beverages quite as much we’d been told. He still has the team. It’s doing quite well.
By then, I was inside my fifth decade of trying to figure out what to do with myself. My beverage background had given me enough credibility and contacts to try my hand at…something in it. I didn’t know what, but I couldn’t go back to trade magazines full-time. It’s an honorable profession but it had worn on me. I was only taking the first beverage job for six months. I’d overstayed my welcome.
Having had that decision made for me in April 2004, I freelanced a little here, consulted a little there. I don’t even know what that means, consulting, but it was just enough of a living to keep me from being unemployed (not an incidental concern as the baseball team owner gave me my unconditional release just as Stephanie and I were buying our first home).
Why does any of this matter to you? Only because in February 2005, a week before pitchers and catchers were to report to Port St. Lucie, I got a phone call from one of the people I’d been doing some work for at what I shall refer to as a real company. He said he asked the person he worked for about putting me on retainer. That person thought that was a capital idea. I was offered a figure. It was a sustaining figure. It wasn’t going to make me rich but it would keep me from being washed away.
In other words, I was in business. I had work, something like a steady income and, best of all, flexibility in my hours. My projects and deadlines were the kind I could tend to from home and, if an opportunity arose to do something I really wanted to do, I could probably take it on full-force.
As it happened, I got another phone call. It came with an intriguing and compelling proposition.
“Hey man, you wanna do that blog we were talking about?”
It was Jason, my favorite baseball correspondent. We’d been through the wars together for bad seasons and good seasons and bad seasons again. Through it all, we had entertained each other with what I have to say were probably the sharpest, funniest, occasionally poignantest e-mails going about the Mets. Every couple of years, one or the other of us would say something to the effect of, hey, we should like do a book or something. And then we’d forget it. But somewhere in late ’04, early ’05, one or both of us had noticed that this blog thing was taking off. I’d read a bunch of political blogs during the presidential campaign — even the ones I agreed with came off as twitchy and hypercaffeinated — but I didn’t know they had them for sports.
“Sure. Let’s do it.”
And like that, the grand distraction of 2005, the reason I have not written a book, the reason I have not grown my beverage consultancy, the reason I have not gotten nearly enough sun on my psoriatic hands, was born.
That was it. No meetings. No asking anybody for their permission. I found an obscure blog host that my browser could handle. Jason came up with a name. I wrote the copy that explained what it was. And after thinking about doing something like this forever, I was suddenly doing what I’d been told I should be doing. I was writing about baseball.
You hath borne witness to the rest.
Jason and I jumped in without knowing what we were doing, though what was to know? We knew how to write and we knew the Mets. If there’s any other qualification, it wasn’t made apparent.
It’s only a blog, but it was, for the first time in my adult life, something that somebody was going to read that I actually wanted to write every single day. I may have been the best beverage magazine writer in America for 15 years, but there’s a real point of diminishing returns there in terms of professional gratification. The premier soft drink and beer purveyors of our great nation were there before me and they’re there after me.
This was different. This was baseball. This was the Mets. I was writing about it and them, and somebody — somebody I didn’t know — was reading me. Somebody else was reading me the next day and by the week after that, a few more somebodies were reading me.
They were reading me writing about the one thing that I cared about. The one thing that had been a part of me since I was old enough to have discerned that I was made up of parts. Baseball. The Mets.
From the time I was 4 and enrolled at the TLC Nursery School of Island Park until I was 22 and earned a diploma from the University of South Florida, I went to school. Otherwise, I haven’t really known where to go or what to do with myself. We’re talking about almost half of my life being navigated without so much as a compass. I’ve gotten lucky in that I met a woman long ago who became my wife, my best friend and my true companion. If I didn’t need to pay bills and stuff, she (and the cats) would be all I’d ever really need. That I’ve been sure of. Everything else in life has just kind of happened while I’ve been looking at my watch.
But the Mets have been different. The Mets I sought out. I came looking for Tom Seaver in 1969 and Ray Sadecki in 1970, just as I stayed up late last winter seeking word that Carlos Beltran would spurn Drayton McLane (he owns the Houston Astros; he owns a lot of businesses) in favor of us in 2005. If I couldn’t write about that with some emotion and some logic on a daily basis, then I had no business calling myself a writer, let alone a blogger.
It was a rush, one that recharged itself over and over again as February became March and March became the season and the season became more interesting than a season had been in a good long while, both because I felt it was my obligation to be interested in it and, gosh darn it, because the 2005 Mets were the kind of team with whom a blogger could have a blast.
Truth be told, I never really thought we would win anything. There were moments of belief. I’m a Mets fan, there have to be. But moments were all. This seemed like a team that might, not a team that would.
Might makes right, though, when your stake in the outcome becomes having something to write about night after night after night. I’ll let you in on a little secret: It’s easier to write about your team playing badly than your team playing well. The prospective solutions are myriad and the shots are prohibitively cheaper — and who doesn’t want to save money? But lose too much, then who wants to read about them at all? I guess a team that wins just enough so as to be tantalizing but loses just enough so as to be aggravating is a blogger’s dream.
But we’re fans first, bloggers second. We’d have accepted the challenge of energizing painfully dull success, I guarantee we would have.
It was enough that the 2005 Mets weren’t their immediate predecessors. They assured us of that in December when they signed Pedro Martinez, the actual Pedro J. Martinez. We were used to rooting for a club that signed Pedro A. Martinez, the reliever who came and went very quickly in the mid-’90s. It was the same way we ran out and grabbed Mike Maddux the winter the Braves inked his younger brother Greg. It was always like that. But not anymore.
Pedro Martinez made us all look like winners. There were people who thought he was a bad idea. Too flaky, too much the prima donna, too fragile, too late. Their theories weren’t without merit, but they were all wrong. Pedro was all right. In his wake, he brought in the other Met who assured 2005 would resemble only accidentally 2004 and 2003 and 2002.
He paved the way for Carlos Beltran. Now there was a mammoth signing with which nobody could argue. Beltran was the kind of player we were incapable of cultivating on our own. He was fast, he could hit, he could field, he wasn’t on his way to prison. He had shown himself to be a full-fledged superstar the previous October and there was no way we were supposed to get him. Surely Carlos Beltran would sign with the Yankees or, failing that, stay with the Houston Astros. Neither happened and I was thrilled to pieces the January night it was reported he’d chosen the Mets.
Those were our two beacons of light for 2005, our biggest ones. We also had a dashing young third baseman and an intermittently galloping young shortstop when he wasn’t limping. David Wright and Jose Reyes were our kids, two baby Mets we’d actually managed to raise on our own. That’s a centerfielder in Beltran, a left side of the infield and an ace pitcher, Pedro. There was just enough there to believe in.
On Opening Day, which I was home to watch without having to take a vacation day for the first time since 1988, everything went to plan. Pedro Martinez was brilliant. Carlos Beltran homered. And the Mets carried a two-run lead into the ninth. We were about to be…
Oh and one. Braden Looper gave up home runs to Adam Dunn and Joe Randa in Cincinnati and just like that the Mets weren’t as new as their ads promised they’d be. Four games later they were 0-5. Six games after that, however, they were 6-5. Then they were 6-6.
The pattern for the season was set. Win one, lose two. Win two, lose one. The 2005 Mets set a franchise record for most instances of being at .500. They excelled at mediocrity. They offered hope in equal proportion to frustration. They were pretty good. They were kind of bad. Martinez was brilliant. Beltran was disappointing. Wright was on his way. Reyes was healthy.
Some guys I’d written off, like Cliff Floyd, starred. Some who had previously starred, specifically Piazza, began to dim. And a couple I’d barely known — Marlon Anderson, Chris Woodward — ingratiated themselves to me in small doses. I enjoyed them all more than I disliked any Mets who drove me nuts, the ones like Kaz Matsui who, nice guy though he may have been, could not get the hang of American baseball, and Looper, the closer who couldn’t shut the door on Opening Day and left it ajar with disturbing regularity.
But they were all Mets, so I liked them all. One thing I noticed in the blogosphere, just as in every other iteration of Metsiness, was the desire by so many fans to throw overboard so many Mets. Maybe I’d just seen too much to instantly demand that heads roll. Maybe at 42 I have natural simpatico with the veterans who are barely hanging on to their dreams.
Except for Jose Offerman. Geez — even a geezer like me can have standards.
The best part about our .500ish team was that we were appreciably no worse, if no better, than our competitors in the N.L. East for the first few months. The Braves were playing their usual possum, giving us the impression that they wouldn’t win their fourteenth straight division title. The Phillies, the Marlins and the transplanted Expos — the Nationals — were fairly Metsish in their approach to wins and losses. They all had plenty of both.
The Braves pulled away as the Braves tend to do and the Mets clawed their way into the Wild Card muck with those other Eastern juggernauts plus my pals the Astros. The season was thus imbued with more meaning than the previous seasons, and that was good for Faith and Fear. Good for me, too. A pennant race, even erratic participation in a five-team scrum for a runner-up spot, is all a fan can ask for.
It was fun while it lasted but it didn’t last nearly long enough for it to translate to October. Martinez kept doing his job; Beltran never quite did his; the kids got better (that’s what I love about these young ballplayers, man — I get older, they stay the same age); Piazza enjoyed a brief renaissance as prelude to a bittersweet and slightly confusing adieu; and I even found room in my heart for an old enemy named Tom Glavine. But the 2005 Mets didn’t have nearly enough to rise much above that irritating .500 mark. McLane’s Beltranless, beverageless Astros won the Wild Card; live and be well.
Every year there are one or two teams that slip precipitously from contention when the rest of the world is otherwise occupied. One day they’re in the Wild Card standings box and a week later they’re not. In 2005, we were one of those teams. It happened so fast that it was easy to forget that we were — were, not coulda been — a contender. That’s how I’d like to remember us.
About the time the competitive contours of 2005 revealed themselves in agate type, I realized I’d been here before. Never mind watching enough baseball and seeing something you’ve never seen before. I’d lived this season or portions thereof ever since I began taking baseball seriously. I’d been here every five years leading up to this year all so I could learn one more thing: that we are the sums of all the seasons that came before the one that we are in.
In 1970, I discovered the best pastimes consume you whole.
In 1975, I discovered plateaus can reveal themselves as peaks.
In 1980, I discovered transcendent satisfaction in fleeting triumph.
In 1985, I discovered the journey can outpoint the destination.
In 1990, I discovered what it means to maintain hold of a constant.
In 1995, I discovered progress isn’t always quickly discerned.
In 2000, I discovered fellowship in its finest and most urgent form.
In 2005, I rediscovered all of that. It never hurts to take a refresher course.
So we didn’t win anything — but we had the briefest of junctures in late August when it appeared we would, just like in 1975.
The best game of the year was surrounded on either side by three losses, but when Marlon Anderson roared around third with that inside-the-parker in June, setting up Cliff Floyd to poke an immense walkoff shot two innings later, they combined to call to mind what Steve Henderson did in the same stadium almost exactly 25 years earlier in the Magical summer of 1980.
Living and dying with my team is a craft I practiced the way I honed it in 1985.
While my career hurtled through its uncertainties, I knew I had my Mets just as I had my Mets when my mother was dying and my fiancée was moving in with me in 1990.
I would catch the LIRR and the 7 and go to as many games as I could, watching Reyes and Wright bloom before my eyes the way I went to see the likes of Edgardo Alfonzo do the same in 1995.
Being part of a tribe of dedicated and eloquent true believers proved as essential to my existence as it did when we won the National League pennant in 2000.
The 2005 Mets finished in third place, six victories shy of a post-season berth, with a record of 83-79.
The 1970 Mets finished in third place, six victories shy of a post-season berth, with a record of 83-79.
Maybe good does go around, and maybe we really are the sums of all the seasons that came before the one we were just in.
When it comes to the Mets, maybe I have seen it all already. But I found extraordinary comfort in Shéajà Vu this year. There was a stretch in July and August when the Mets were winning most of the games I was attending and I was just as excited at 42 as I was at 7. After every win, my pace down the ramp would get brisker and brisker as the mezzanine turned into the loge and the loge turned into the field level. My walk became a skip, an honest-to-goodness skip. I would seek out the EXIT sign, the one with the picture of Mr. Met and, if it wasn’t too terribly high, I’d skip until I could leap and I would high-five that picture of Mr. Met. Maybe with my hand, maybe with my cap. The important thing was I never lost contact with our mascot or my inner Mets fan.
Y’know, I was too mature for my own good when I was a kid and I’ve yet to really nail this adult thing. Maybe baseball’s the only place I’ll ever really feel safe at home. It’s a game you understand better and better as you age, but if you ever completely lose your childish take on it — that it’s my team and my team is the best team no matter what anybody tries to tell me — then you can never really be more than a visitor here.
Me, I’m a fulltime resident. I’ve got the blog and the bags under my eyes to prove it.
From April 1 to October 7, my partner and I posted on Faith and Fear in Flushing for 190 consecutive days. That encompassed the entire Mets’ season, one in which I watched, listened to or attended at least some of (usually all of) every single game. I don’t think I ever did that before. I don’t know if I was doing it for the blog or the blog just made my screwing around seem more necessary. Once I made it a point to write about the Mets, I felt it was my responsibility to sit on the living room couch from first pitch until the last West Coast out was recorded. Then it was off to the computer to tell you what I thought about it. (I’m up ’til all hours blogging and I’m supposed to criticize Reyes for a lack of discipline?)
It helped that in practical terms, I took up the life of a veritable shut-in. I mean as a consultant, but one who didn’t get out much. Most of my paying work flew back and forth over a cable modem. It allowed me to set up shop in proximity to the TV, the radio, the Internet and all the baseball those vehicles could carry. Don’t know if I’ll always be so lucky or nearly as insular but it worked this season.
I giggled when I watched the telecast of the final Milwaukee Brewers home game of 2005 (and not just because I was watching the telecast of the final Milwaukee Brewers home game of 2005). Their announcers were slathering praise all over their regular viewers with “Brewers fans are the best fans in baseball!” Most patient? Most tolerant of ineptitude? Top tailgaters? Maybe. But Brewers fans as the best in baseball? That seemed a tad excessive.
Nevertheless, it doesn’t hurt to tell your patrons that you think the world of them and, well, we do all of you. Jason and I conceived Faith and Fear as a way to talk to each other and, frankly, that’s all who we thought would be reading along. But this Web is a funny thing. During the half of February when we were on the air, this blog attracted 106.4 page views per day. Come September, our numbers had risen to 1,035.5 page views per day. By then, I knew it wasn’t just me clicking on my own posts to make sure they were still there.
Is that a lot? I’d like to think so, but I also know the Mets drew better than 35,000 to Shea Stadium for an average date in 2005. That means if everybody who clicked on Faith and Fear in Flushing in any given 24-hour period actually chartered a few railroad cars to Flushing, they would make up, at most, 3% of the paid attendance. About 97% of the house would have no idea who we are.
But that’s all right. A year ago I had never seen a Mets blog either. Since then, I’ve run across all kinds of kindred spirits churning out their own efforts on a near-daily basis. I admire them all because I know what it takes: time, passion and, sooner or later, an extended aural encounter with Fran Healy. We’re all happier bloggers when we have readers and that’s where you guys come in.
For all the sporadic delight I’ve derived from the Mets since 1969, I don’t think I’ve ever been quite as personally gratified by a season as I’ve been by 2005. It was the first year that I dared to stick my head out the virtual window and shout to you the last ten things that popped into it. You not only listened but you came back to the curb the next night to hear what else I had to say. So screw the Brewers. You are the best fans in baseball.
I’ve lived through two world championships, two league championships and two other playoff appearances. I’ve seen fire and I’ve seen rain and I’ve seen pennant races that I thought would never end. The Mets have seen better years than 2005, but I’m not sure that I’ve ever had a better Mets year than this one. It was a season that, because of this, felt like it was mine.
Thank you for letting me share it with you.
“You should really write about baseball,” they told me.
I think I just did.
The year was 2005.
Buy me a ticket on the last train home tonight.
Flashback Friday is a weekly tour through the years, every half-decade on the half-decade, wherein a younger Mets fan develops into the Mets fan he is today. Previous stops: 1970, 1975, 1980, 1985 (Part I), 1985 (The Exciting Conclusion), 1990 (Part I), 1990 (The Exciting Conclusion), 1995 (Part I), 1995 (The Exciting Conclusion), 2000 (Part I), 2000 (Part II) and 2000 (The Exciting Conclusion).
by Greg Prince on 6 October 2005 7:00 am …another season of faith and fear in Flushing.
It has to mean something that up here in the grimopolis that is February in New York, a nasty afternoon shower has given way to a rainbow outside my office window.
Though it wouldn't be Port St. Lucie without some of the usual Met weirdness.
Why didn't Reyes ever finish his leg rehab with Shilstone?
The fairly anonymous Chris Woodward somehow already has a Met card. One wonders if that will be the highlight of Mr. Woodward's Met career.
We're all putting too much on Beltran probably.
There can't be a historically minded person in Metland who didn't at least cringe a little bit after reading Willie Randolph's rules for the team.
I'm counting on Zambrano making everybody forget a little about Scott Kazmir.
If Mike Cameron is human, he's going to be an unhappy camper.
We are at the first stir-crazy point of spring training, the first afternoon that 1:30 rolls around and you think, “Can't they televise a split-squad game or something?”
After months of seeing ballplayers as businessmen and bounty and celebrities and vessels for our unfulfilled, unreasonable dreams, we are now seeing them as ballplayers.
Yes, this is the time of year when every team's a contender, every rookie's a keeper, every McEwing's a McCovey.
Needless to say, I don't pencil in World Series appearances or angle eight months out for playoff tickets.
Diaz I'm looking forward to when the exhibitions start. A couple homers and it could start a Huskey-type tease and they'll have to take him north.
I can't find a smoking gun in Delgadogate, and I've looked.
To paraphrase Chris Rock at the Oscars, if Al Leiter got fired from The Gap, don't expect him to take a job at the Banana Republic across the mall and tell all the shoppers how great it is at The Gap.
Someday must teach Reyes to draw a walk — he's on pace for Bonds to outwalk him in a week, off-day included.
In case any other lunatic out there has spent years looking for a decent photo of Al Schmelz, this is probably as close as you can get.
I get the feeling that after a while, being Matt Hoey supercedes watching the game or following the team for Matt Hoey.
Of course, spring training being spring training, I know my anticipation will soon give way to somewhat-lackadaisical interest, and then to occasional glances.
Every exhibition should be covered to death.
The first day of spring training went pretty much as I thought it would: After an inning I paid almost no attention
When you get right down to it, baseball coverage and political coverage are pretty much on a par.
The actual Pedro Martinez pitches for the New York Mets. Son of a gun.
With Jeff Gannon gone, doesn't Talon News have a spot available for Fran? The man can spin anything.
Did I hear Ted Robinson right at the end of the cablecast, that in 2005, for the first time since 1964, the Mets will play no games on artificial turf?
But how much do you want to bet some retread like Roberto Hernandez (2004 INR -3.8) or Scott Stewart (-4.5) makes the team instead?
After I am elevated to the position of Maximum Leader Regarding All Things Baseball Or At Least Those That Interest Me, my first act will be to decree Gil Hodges inducted into the Hall of Fame.
Todd Van Poppel retired. Or at least the consensus is that he retired — he left camp, at any rate.
Split-squad games are unique to spring training. Too bad. Wouldn't it be great to keep an extra contingent of Mets on hand for those occasions when they could be helpful?
In some parallel universe we're arguing about whether or not the decision to let Doc and Darryl go after the '99 campaign was right.
It's always the season of the New Mets. Go through your Books and you should find there were 29 New Mets last year. That's more than a whole roster.
Not to ride this pony too hard or too often, but our Diamond Dave sparkles too brightly to be believed.
Y'know, every spring training is like past-life regression, if one had lived the same life over and over again.
After Opening Day, does anybody truly attribute anybody's performance to what happened in spring training?
Speaking of barely remembering, I confess I had completely forgotten our loathing of Manny Aybar.
I was disappointed to conclude that Eric Valent was not guaranteed a place on the 2005 Mets.
He's never been Glavo or Tommy or, God forbid, Tom since he's been here.
Chris Woodward probably just made the team. Time for the McEwings to start scouring the St. Louis real-estate listings.
I got a fortune cookie today, ate it and the fortune said this: HEY STUPID — IF YOU THOUGHT TRACHSEL WAS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE PLAYOFFS AND NOTHING, YOU WEREN'T MAKING THE PLAYOFFS ANYWAY.
Jason Phillips for Kaz Ishii? I like it and I don't like it.
If Piazza's [insert body part here] explodes on Memorial Day, Ramon Castro or Joe Hietpas are not names you want to see in the lineup for months at a stretch.
Only Mets fans would get a touch misty for a guy who had to rev it up in September to hit .218. But that's why we're Mets fans.
To my amazement, I've let myself get sucked back into fantasy baseball after 14 years on the wagon.
Cripes, the real thing is a week away and panic is simmering in this corner of Metsopotamia.
David Wright hit eighth. That seems insane to me.
After battering us as an Expo, a Cardinal, a Rockie, a Brave (if not a Pirate, a poet, a pawn and a king), I was looking forward to Andres blasting at least one into the visitors' bullpen, preferably on Home Opening Day. He'd tip his cap, take a bow and skedaddle. The man is 87.
The end of the Matt Ginter era proves, for the 44th year in a row, that figuring out rosters before the last hours of spring training is pointless.
I can't quibble with the bench: Cairo and Woodward in particular seem like very valuable hands.
It seems unnecessary and insecure to call attention in that fashion to how much one has immersed oneself in Mets history. Or as Tommy Moore told Lute Barnes after Bob Rauch ordered a particularly well-done steak one night in Pittsburgh, it's certainly something I would never do.
What makes somebody one of The One Hundred Greatest Mets Of The First Forty Years? Well first we take all the players who spent the defining balance of their careers in a Mets uniform and, while wearing those sacred garments, towered over the game like few others — men recognized by one and all as immortal in their time and for the ages. And then we find 99 more guys.
Every vodka gimlet Matt Franco ever craves, his money's no good here, pal.
By not being Kelvin Chapman, Tim Teufel achieved his purpose
John Stearns deserved better. No Met who played on so many bad teams — he showed up a bit too late for '73 and was forced to leave a little shy of '86 — ever looked like he ached to win so badly.
Do we have truly great players, not just Great Mets?
Here are primary picks, yet absolute portions really inspired legendary fact observation, outlining lengthy stats delved across years.
In the end, Frank Tanana was a portal to the perfection that was the 1993 New York Mets. Only a fool couldn't figure that out.
Today is the day we become who we are in earnest.
Today is the day we are Mets fans in our natural habitat, the baseball season.
Today is the day that past stays past and future runs far off because, at long last, we have a present with which to concern ourselves.
AUUUUGGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!
BRADEN LOOPER?
Who is he really?
BA! PEN DROOLER
All hail the unanticipated kingdom of Joe Randa — at least Howie's not around to point out once again that he was a paper Met. And hey, we got Juan LeBron for him.
“Wow, this is a really good sandwich. Who wants to ask me about it?”
Tonight I did the first thing I do when I panic — I listened to the FAN postgame.
Where does the AP get off invoking Jack Fisher and George Altman and the Class of '64? I thought that was our gig.
Oh, it ain't 1964. Dubya's no LBJ. 50 Cent's no Beatles. And Carlos Beltran could buy, sell and outhit the third-year Mets all by his lonesome.
To be right and technical about it, I am dead at the present time, a state I commenced to being in 1975 when I collected my final annuity from my job as a vice president of the New York Mets, the amazing, amazing, amazing Mets who brought me out of involuntary retirement in 1962 soon after the other ball club in New York saw fit to put me there.
Felix Heredia pitched a perfect inning. Didn't think we'd see that.
We're 0-5. Oh and five. I mean, for fuck's sake.
Wow, I'd forgotten how much I hated the Braves. Wow, I hate them.
Pedro? We'd need a whole lot of new words in a whole lot of languages to sum up Pedro today.
We're the best 1-5 team in baseball.
But I can't get past the idea that 190 days since the place was last needed for anything remotely public, the escalators weren't working.
The description of Shea I offer curious baseball fans who've never been there is that it's like a DMV with a ballgame somewhere inside it.
I'll freely admit I didn't think to diagram Reyes refusing to be walked and punching a little nubber up the middle, Manny Acta waving Diaz around third, and poor Chris Burke's throw home barely clearing the mound.
Was that vintage John Franco, or what?
I blame Clemens. Just out of habit.
They are a finely honed unit of sharpshooters that needs a nickname. Rando's Commandoes? Willie's Whipsaws? Desperation Dynamos? We're taking nominations.
“Something tells me it's going to take a bit more than this to beat Florida, particularly with Heilman vs. Beckett looming as the biggest mismatch since Bambi and Godzilla squared off. (If young Aaron cares to make me look like an idiot, I'm all for that.)”
Hi, my name is Jason, and I'm an idiot.
This was the fourth time that a Met pitcher has flirted with The Great Unmentionable while Stephanie and I have been off doing something classy. We should really get out more often.
HEY TRAIN!
WE WON AGAIN!
WE BEAT THE MARLINS!
WHAT A GAME!
“Enough is enough,” Steinbrenner declared in a statement delivered through publicist Howard Rubenstein. “I am bitterly disappointed, as I am sure all Met fans are, by the lack of performance by our team. It is unbelievable to me that the third-highest-paid team in baseball would start the season in such a deep funk.”
I'm not dead. My thumb hurts is all.
Don't sugar-coat it, doc, I know he's dead. I can take it.
King Felix, please come back to live with us under the stands. We will bring you the largest, most succulent rats and build a bed for you out of shredded old Alomar t-shirts.
RANDOLPH rummages in a medical cabinet and emerges with a body bag, into which he begins trying to shove HEREDIA, who flails his arms in protest.
Yes, let's get Heath Bell up here immediately. That will solve all our problems
You know the old saying: “There'll be another pope from Germany before the Mets hit seven home runs in one game.”
At my two well-attended games this year, my informal survey by sight of uniform tops and t-shirts bearing players' identities has revealed a seismic shift in loyalties. Most noticeably, PIAZZA 31 has taken a dive.
Pedro returned us to the back pages? I didn't care so much about that — the Mets occupy my personal front pages 365 days a year.
It's wrong that the Washington Nationals and not the Montreal Expos are coming to Shea Friday night.
Sometime this spring I had an unhappy realization: Every time something bad befalls Glavine on the mound, I feel ashamed, almost like I should be apologizing to him.
“METS!” they said. “METS!” I answered. We slapped palms. We knocked fists. We went public with our bliss. A Yankees fan standing nearby had nothing to say and nobody to knock. We won. They lost.
Mike's hitting .200. I hope I'm wrong, but he doesn't look like he's in a slump. He looks old.
One advantage of being head-ridden was the opportunity to recline on the couch and push the delightful LAST button on the remote, the one that sent me from Channel 11 to YES. Hey, the LAST button is appropriate for that network's house underachievers since that's where they are, all by their lonesome. LAST. My head still hurt, but I felt little pain.
I got the very strong sense that Carlos was saying to his cleanup hitter, “Yo, Mike: you got this…you the man.”
Funny thing: Early on, I found it odd that the usual Met-Brave nerves weren't firing.
Just like that, it's adios Matthews and hello, hello (¡hola!) Royce Ring.
The game wasn't lost on us and the irony wasn't lost on me. Like I said, maybe I'm not so crazy after all.
Grape. Valent doubles. Grape. Reyes doubles. Grape. Piazza singles. Grape. Beltran singles. Grape, just grape! Bobby Cox, however, turns the whole thing to sour grapes by doing something almost no other manager would have the “guts” to do in this day and age. He plucks his seedless closer from the mound and replaces him with somebody nobody's ever heard of (apologies to anybody who was previously familiar with the collected works of John Foster).
They are devils and we are dust. It has been ever thus.
Surely, you remember Jason Jacome. Jason Jacome was the Heath Bell of 1994.
“So how much do you want for the card?”
“Oh, it's not for sale,” the man says.
“What do you mean, it's not for sale?”
I'd love to tell you and all our friends among the academics and Pentagon types who are joining us here on the Arpanet that I saw the Mets beat the Pirates in eighteen innings Sunday afternoon.
The most-oft-heard sentence in our house during the last hour has been, “I hope to God poor Stephanie isn't out in this.”
Your good wishes for my wife's well-being (and your total lack of concern for mine) notwithstanding, RFK Stadium ain't much when it's dry either.
The Museum of American History had just put Victor Diaz's last hit on display. Tourists from all over the world oohed and aahed.
OK, I've officially had it with the cable blackout.
Speaking of Cristian Guzman, he plays this game like the drunk guy on the company softball team.
It's ninety feet between bases. All of you, pretend you're getting paid to run the full distance.
It barely took four minutes to check for doneness where Tom Glavine serving up meatballs was concerned.
In my baseball universe, all these zingers would be worth at least a game in the standings.
Seo sure has pitched well in spurts since 2003. He could be on the cover of Spurts Illustrated.
As a public service, we will present from time to time as schadenfreude permits the New York Yankee Collapse-O-Meter, tracking 2005 vis-à-vis two other Yankee campaigns that followed crushing post-season defeats.
We Yankee haters are like sleepaway-camp counselors in a slasher movie — we see the escaped lunatic plunge into the old well with a pitchfork bisecting him and we head back to our cabins for a night of hard-earned rest. And then…NOOOOOO!!!!!! Will we never learn?
Does Cliff Floyd have a nickname? A real one?
Reyes Walks/Willie show him the way/Because his hamstring's/Tryin' ta break him down.
Good day. And it is a good day. We are here to join Heather Ann Roettinger and Matthew Wren Enis in holy metrimony. I mean matrimony. Holy matrimony.
I wanted to be happy for him. But I wound up thinking, save it, Roberto. That goes for all of you closers, used-to-be closers and would-be closers.
He was considered one of the best infielders in Japan. Turns out infielder is a very unimportant position in Japan.
Tom Glavine is The Manchurian Brave.
Bloodless, aloof, subtly uninvolved.
I'm in the East School library with Jon Hymes, one of the first Yankee fans I ever knew. He was arrogant, argumentative and generally didn't know what he was talking about. Jon Hymes was the first of many to come.
Clearly, I knew more baseball at 9 years old than you know now. Since that day in May 1972, the Yanks have won 5 World Series, each more glorious and filled with heroics than the one that preceded it.
Jon Hymes
Washington, DC
The Cablevision/Time Warner war is over. At least until next year, when it's coming to your neck of the used-to-be-woods. (Sorry pal. Get a dish. Now.)
Barely believing the news, I flipped over to 26 and found Fran Healy. I've never, ever been so glad to see Fran Healy in my life, first spring-training telecasts included.
Mets fans hate losing to Greg Maddux. All of us, right?
It's Wrigley. It's part of the third of the season that's condemned to L. You're gonna lose one third of your games, and one of them was this one.
Opponent: St. Louis Cardinals
Annoyance Level: High
Gee. A bit of hostility here!
I get cranky when I have to go more than 48 hours without a game, especially if the last one was a loss; imagine what I'm like all winter.
We're 19 and 19. That's mediocre, buddy. That's .500 on the nose. That's winning some and losing some over and over and over again.
Thus the recurring theme of Bring Up Schmendrick! — or Keppinger or Bell or Wright or whoever the Norfolk flavor of the month is at any given moment.
Oh, and the Mike DiFelice era began.
Who pitched in the ninth?
Koo.
I'm asking you as nicely as I can.
Koo.
I'll whisper softly: Who pitched in the ninth?
And I'm telling you who!
Who?
Koo.
You sure?
Yeah. Koo.
OK, I'll try to be a little more breathy. Mmmmm, baby, who pitched in the ninth? Ooooh, you're so sexy.
What the hell are you talking about?
I once sat in my living room during a playoff game against the Braves telling my wife in extremely grave tones that Chipper Jones was a splendid humanitarian because I knew saying anything remotely unkind about him would just piss him off and result in a rain of extra bases.
Does it seem to you that every “innovation” baseball has come up with over the past decade or so has done us very little good?
Victor Zambrano is slower than slow death. In fact, the slow death store called to tell Victor Zambrano that they're out of him.
Watch faithfully and baseball will show you things you've never seen before fairly regularly, but I haven't ever seen anything like Koo vs. the Bombers.
With the ceremonial jacket on, it was not easy (and my experience at doing so is not all that practiced) but I kept running.
With the double-steal (Jeter on the back end, just where he likes it), H. Matsui's ugly single (everything about him is ugly) and ancient Bernie Williams coming out of retirement to further demythologize Roberto Hernandez's resurgence, Jim sank into a blue and orange funk
So after all that Sturm and Drang, we wind up with the same record as Those Guys.
TBS shows the replay. I feel my fury wither into grumpiness. Wright pretty clearly deserves an interference call. 7-5. 7-5 and I'm late. I slink out the door grumbling.
A's for Atlanta
Where Coke makes its Fanta
And the Mets gift the Braves
As if they were Santa
Tom Glavine was
_ his usual effective self in pinning another defeat on the Mets.
_ beaten badly yet again by his old team.
X pitching pretty well until his old team finally got to him.
Getting swept by the Braves was the wrong thing to do at this juncture.
For who appeared to my wondering Met fan eyes but Daniel Joseph Staub. Le Grand Orange, the King of New Orleans, Keith Hernandez's conscience, and my favorite player when I was a boy.
If the Mets need me to resort to a rally nap every night for the rest of the season, I'll start popping melatonin every afternoon.
I still feel vaguely like throwing up, but it's a good kind of nausea.
In other news, the Eric Valent Era is over.
The Mets beat the Marlins — the Fish — Saturday night. Yeah, the Mets did that all by themselves. Like they didn't have help in the substantial form of Bernie the Cat, at the end of his first full day Up There, messing around with the first school of Fish he saw.
By the way, how is it that neither the Mets nor the Yankees play a game on Memorial Day?
If there were a game today, I'd like to trot out the best team in Mets history.
So once again we're 26-26. Glass half-full? Glass half-empty?
So Mets, stop playing like you did against the Diamondbacks Tuesday. Because if you don't, we'll…we'll… Well, there'll be no repercussions, because we've just determined we can't root for anybody but you, thus limiting our options to one, but there's no telling what kind of clever, cutting remark we'll post at the expense of your self-esteem next time you do play like that. Consider yourselves on notice.
“I waited a long time, but I can wait no longer,” said self-confessed Deep Throat W. Mark Felt. “I have to say that Zambrano threw quite a game.”
It's enough to make a team want to take a break from the game to play in the sprinklers.
Amazin' Zeitgeist
1) We're Great!
2) We Suck!
3) We're Great!
4) We Suck!
5) We're .500.
Roberto got him. I pumped my fist, swallowed a bit — and apologized to Edgardo.
I already felt physically ill. Listening to Jeff Torborg, the phantom of the manager's office, made me physically iller.
The little-known Can't Hardly Sweep The Giants At Shea Curse began, of course, with perhaps the most famous doubleheader in Mets history. May 31, 1964.
Anyway, we're no longer a game behind Atlanta. Instead we're a game behind Washington. And we're no longer a half-game ahead of Philadelphia. We're a half-game ahead of Florida. And we're no longer tied for third with Florida. No, we're tied for third with Philadelphia.
I think I've got the baseball equivalent of an ice-cream headache.
That's what I was waiting for. That's what makes the YES Network a porn channel for Mets fans.
Sometimes I wonder why a pitcher winning a complete game in which he happens to allow nobody to record a base hit is such a big deal. Because it's a no-hitter, stupid. And we've never had one.
Sometimes it just ain't happening. It's not so much that you're playing badly, but you're certainly not playing well.
Over the last two nights, the Mets have scored four runs…and left 21 runners on base. That ain't right. That ain't pennant-contending baseball, either.
I am bright enough to grasp the essential, inescapable and unwelcome conclusion: Kaz is, well, bad.
Here comes the problem with Interleague play. We're going against a team I like.
Nice of Manny Aybar to demonstrate beyond a shadow of a doubt which of our bad relief pitchers should turn into a shameful memory once the i's and t's get dotted and crossed on Danny Graves' contract.
After an evening in the presence of what had been my nominal favorite American League team, I can confidently state that I hate the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim as much as any garden-variety National League or Interleague opponent.
It's Cliff Floyd's world. We're just living in it.
They could have shown that replay for two more hours and I would've still been on my bar stool waving my hands around like a goddamn fool.
I think for the generation of Mets fans coming of age now, this becomes The Marlon Anderson Game, the night and the moment that defines why they are such staunch Mets fans and will continue to be if they're worth their Aramark pretzel salt.
Half a dozen Mets rushed forward to help “Marlon” to his feet, to hammer him on the back, to bawl congratulations in his ears as he limped unsteadily, still panting furiously, to the bench where Willie L. Randolph, the chief of the Mets, relaxed his stern features to smile for the man who had tied the game.
A nice ovation for Marlon Anderson, Gary. Mets fans will always remember Marlon as the man who ran out that inside-the-park pinch-hit home run against the Angels on a Saturday night in 2005 that tied that incredible game in the ninth, later won in the tenth on an equally memorable, more conventional home run by Cliff Floyd, who we understand will be back later in the season to take down a number of his own.
2005? Was it that long ago already? Seems like yesterday, Howie.
A new stadium? For li'l ol' us? Can it really be?
Eric Cooper did not disappoint. Right from the start he made himself the story of the game.
Gentlemen, tonight I decided to watch the lot of you earn the gross national product of a Latin American country to play what I assumed would be baseball. Having made this error, I'd now like the last 135 minutes or so of my life back.
So seeing the Mets in the Oakland Coliseum — or whatever it's called now — is painful for you.
Can you imagine how great it would have been to have won the 1973 World Series? The Mets ended their 32-year winless drought in Oakland, to say nothing of a more pedestrian three-game losing streak, Thursday afternoon. I dared to confirm it on television, even.
This Internet thing you were raving to me about in 1995 as I scoffed that it would never last — it may turn out to be something after all.
Now what say we celebrate by beating the crap out of some Mariners?
Hard drive titled NEW YORK METS is unable to access offense at this time.
Are we too injured? Too old? Too young? Too old and too young? Too unlucky?
Julio Franco retirement rumors, though eventually proven false, spur fleeting visions of unseating Braves.
There's one member, I won't say who, who makes a face when I pull out my earbuds to catch a score. It can be for the briefest moment, but I wind up on the receiving end of what in Yiddish is called the punim. It refers to a certain kind of face that one makes to reflect a certain kind of mood. I will leave it to your deductive powers to ascertain what kind of mood is involved and the effect the face has on one's ability to endure an evening of it.
Good one about the Mets recalling Gerald Williams. You're funny. I almost believed it, too.
Ack, David, stop thinking!
I'll let you in on a little secret: I haven't given up on this team.
What on earth was David Wright doing with that one-hopper he sorta fielded?
What is it about playing the Mets that brings out the worst in our Phillies? We're 3-6 against New York this year and almost every game we've lost I was sure we were going to win.
MSG has been showing “classic” Subway Series games all afternoon to get us pumped for tonight. I don't know if it'll work, but I'm pretty excited about what I already know happened.
Dear Tom: I hope the Mets do trade you and that it's to the Bora Bora Bores while they're on the first leg of a South Asian road trip that lasts three months, you pompous, disproportionately overcompensated ass.
And I thought, just give up a two-run homer here. You'll be up 6-4 but the bases will be clear and you won't have one of those horrendous Yankee carousels spinning all around you.
I'd feel sorry for them … if they weren't Yankees and therefore didn't deserve it through and through. (Hee hee hee!)
So that's what it feels like to win a series at Yankee Stadium. Took us long enough.
When the last out was recorded, I let loose a Floydian raft of feline-frightening screams. Hozzie took the first round in stride, but the triumphant closet door-banging sent him seeking solitude under a dining room chair. Once again, my apologies to the cat.
The assistant manager slinked off to wherever assistant managers who have to work Saturday nights slink off to. Me and Stephanie and Sydra and the other cashier had a good laugh. Moments later, I walked the Waldbaum's parking lot with my head held high.
Dammit, I wanted this one.
A fan has a right to believe his team's closer can get three outs without giving up a run. Let alone two. I really didn't believe that Sunday night.
Somebody find me some good in Pratt for Bennett. I dare ya.
Goodness does Victor Zambrano drive you insane. Man could he be good.
If it's Cameron and Cairo for Sheffield and some money back, I say do it.
Ishii will fool you with the occasional decent outing, but when he blows up it's so spectacular he tends to take the whole bullpen with him.
As I watched Wednesday night's contest become no contest — recurrent rain, empty citrus seats, yawning run gap, stifling opposing pitching (Lidle hands were the devil's playthings), space between us and first place growing large enough to drive a fleet of Mr. Softee trucks through — I wondered how many nights like this Shea Stadium has seen.
“Todd Pratt,” judged Fran Healy, “must've said the magic words.” Shoot, take the magic words out of Todd Pratt's vocabulary and he has nothing to say.
Hey, Braden Looper isn't permanently damaged by his world-ending implosion Sunday night.
Nor do I see a summer malaise. Not when I look at a team that's won three series in a row — if we do that through the finish line, I'll keep my October schedule clear.
Charlon Woonderson is the best darn IF/OF/PH we've had since I don't know when.
Dae-Sung Koo got a card in Upper Deck Series 2. I'm sure it will be the most-cherished possession of every schoolboy in America.
Yeah, definitely eight men out. So I'll be the eighth. What'll I do? Obviously you'se guys don't know me very well yet. I already got Willie ta start me at first today. Believe you'se me, I'll take it from there.
“Joshua, do you know you saw Dontrelle Willis pitch back before you even knew you loved baseball?”
Upon closer inspection, the Times Piazza pin is a little blurry.
“That Ishii,” the woman said in disgust before swiftly moving on to Looper, who was “no good.” They should have stuck with Benitez, and look how we used to complain about him?
I was no longer charmed by Bang or taken with Zoom.
Come October, what the hell: Go Nats!
It's not going to happen, and that's OK.
Hey, I just found a towel lying around in here like somebody threw it.
Empty the freaking linen closet.
A 9-2-6-2 double play. Usually when you see one of those, there's a keg at second base.
You're a star, Pedro! And for one beautiful night, Detroit's the town, baby! If you're ever gonna twinkle, twinkle where the lights are brightest, right there in the heart of that Motor City!
Braden Looper entered with the bases loaded and two outs. He had a four-run lead and needed to retire just a single batter, a simple task for such an accomplished closer.
Braden Looper couldn't get one fucking out.
Get your ass back to New York immediately. You're killin' us here.
The New York Cubans called. They want their uniforms back.
We are winding down the first of 99 consecutive hours without a Mets game. I can feel the withdrawal pangs coming on. Chills…sweats…the need to see somebody caught off second or nailed at home. I think I'll go lie down and lose track of how many outs there are.
“Yes, New has mentioned some problems with Atlanta. He's come home a couple of times looking like he got into a fight. We'll ask him what's wrong and he'll mutter something about Braves taking his lunch money but then he clams up.”
Naturally, that led me to ponder our Mr. Piazza as he nears the finale of his long run as a New York cultural institution.
To me, Kenny is dead.
Put me in, coach. I'm ready for the second half.
by Greg Prince on 6 October 2005 7:00 am No Poormouthing.
No Apologies Necessary.
No Being Glad The Season's Ending.
Shea Is Readily Reachable.
High-Five The Good Things.
With an 0-2 count, Boyer tries to throw another meatball past the old man, the hobbled catcher, #31 who's trying to adjust to a bat that's slower, a swing that's longer and later. It's a battle no hitter ever wins — there's only one outcome possible, and the only question is at what point everyone acknowledges the day has arrived. CRACK! That day is coming for Mike Piazza. In fact, it's coming quickly. But it is not this day.
Good night to be a Mets fan, to be among Mets fans, to meet a Mets fan. Good night all around.
We should, however, fire the entire grounds crew.
The Mets' guess was on the nose when they signed Pedro Martinez. He's better off with us (and us with him) than trapped in somebody else's tired storyline.
I keep thinking we're just about to get on the roll that will put us well beyond .500 and turn us into the team that won't be caught.
An 8-1 win makes every glass of .500 seem half-full.
Like with most things in life, Alex, baseball is something you need to experience for yourself to know how good it really can be.
There was David Wright batting ahead of Piazza in the batting order. About time — let's hope it lasts longer than the Jose Reyes Bats Seventh experiment.
Good on ya, ya erstwhile Torontoan, for giving us a shiver in the dark in the eleventh inning and for reaching back more than a quarter-century for your intro music.
Bravo, Tommy. We might just come to like you yet.
It's all very nice, but I won't be wondering who let the dogs out for at least a little while.
Focus on this pitch. Then do it again until there are no more.
You stay classy, San Diego. And thanks for stopping by.
I've been cruising Retrosheet on party-pooper patrol.
I have no witnesses, but after Zambrano left — shame on anybody who booed him and still calls him or herself a Mets fan — and Bell gave up the hit that made it 6-0, I muttered, “great, now we'll lose 6-5.” Sometimes the gift of clairvoyance is pretty annoying.
I hate Merengue Night with a fiery passion.
He bunted, he hit, he ran, he stole, he tripled, he scored, all in one constant whirlwind of motion. It's days like this when you think they weren't kidding about this kid.
That kid sure is exciting!
Alex Wolf is 1-0 lifetime at Shea Stadium. I'm 169-131 there, including the post-season
I was at Shea Stadium at least once when Randy Tate started.
The mascot tapped his big feathery wrist and strode right past them.
I'd forgotten how insane this park is.
Just get us the hell out of this house of horrors.
I never quite figured out how Lou Brown knew the Tribe would need exactly 32 more victories to make it to the finish line, but I'm gonna give his style of strategizing a shot. Are you there God? It's me, Victor. We're playing tonight. I'm so scared God.
Something tells me that's not right either — but emotionally it feels about right, doesn't it?
Sleep tight in Houston city. Now we've got a different Pedro watchin' over us.
July may not be a very good time to trade for a savior, but January is hardly the month to identify which player will be your salvation.
The mystery isn't how we got stomped by Wandy Rodriguez, but how we ever beat Sean Henn.
Disgusting was my mother's word for anything she found the least bit disturbing. Friday night in Houston was disgusting.
Bat Bath & Beyond will cheerfully issue refunds for all 2005 New York Mets Contender Towels purchased between April 4 and July 31 when presented with a receipt by August 1.
We're four back of something worth being four back of as August approaches. The towel will throw itself in if necessary.
Let's start printing up garments that announce BELTRAN $OAR$.
Seriously, you were a starter in the All-Star Game? Which year? This year? REALLY?
Two hours and counting, oh Cammy
But then Theo called LaMar and LaMar he went too far
Good for Omar for not falling for the oldest trick in the book, the illusion that says because somebody tells you that you have to make a deal that you do.
Hey Mets, what are you ashamed of? Why are you hiding your Hall of Fame?
In the words of Linkin Park, what the hell are you waiting for?
If you can swim in your own perspiration, avoid drowning after being submerged on the scoreboard four separate times and come away soaked in glory, why the heck not? Believe, that is.
It's August, and you can't play games in August with a 23-man roster.
They suck! They also blow like wind amid that logy Shea heat.
What I want out of this heartening, frustrating, topsy-turvy year is to see #400 sail over the wall at Shea and cheer for Michael Joseph Piazza as he puts his head down and stomps around the bases.
Did I just call Thomas Michael Glavine “Tommy”? I don't believe what I just heard.
Ever have one of those days that feels perfectly normal while it's in progress but is totally bleeping surreal once you take a step back from it?
Sometimes I wonder if I'd love baseball on the radio as much if I hadn't been spoiled for so many years by Murph, and Gary, and now by Gary and Howie.
Wish I could say more about Sunday night's game, but I have to pull a Phil Rizzuto on my scorecard and mark most of it WW. It was one of the few times all season when I wasn't watching. All apologies.
They're Zambranos/Identical surnames all the way /Venezuelan, yet not related/No matter what people say
This blog entry comes with a healthy portion of Jace Math (TM), meaning everything in it is probably wrong.
I can't stress how much I'm not kidding about how the Mets should not be allowed to cross west of the Mississippi River ever, ever again.
Don't they fly charter flights? Don't they stay in nice hotels? Are the bases 92 feet apart in San Diego and Houston and Denver and almost every place else when the Mets are batting?
Very nice catch. So very nice that San Diego fans stood and cheered. They could afford to. They were home against the Mets.
We weren't even impaled by human pitchfork Joe Randa.
Howie said of Beltran and Cameron “they dive” and “they collide” — verse as play-by-play — and that the ball wasn't caught. I could tell by his the tone of his voice that it was a lot worse than that but by then we were so deep into the tunnel that I lost WFAN. Obviously whatever the aftermath of the interaction was, it wasn't good.
It's astonishing to realize that Cameron has a broken nose, multiple fractures of both cheekbones and a slight concussion and that somehow counts as good news.
The first thing I heard when I tuned back in was, “Our prayers go out to Mike Cameron.”
Fives and Ohs. Ohs and Fives. Something happens to me in years ending in them.
I sincerely hope this link will magically become a happy recap, but what I did see would definitely count as an ughfest.
I could feel a Dioner Navarro home run off Braden Looper in my bones.
Now if Pedro Martinez can pitch like Jae Seo and Mike Piazza can hit like Ramon Castro, we could be getting somewhere.
Antonio Perez. Swear to god I pegged him early in the afternoon as the eventual culprit. How? Just pick the guy I've never heard of and assume he'll ruin things for the future Hall of Famer.
Tony, have a beer. We'll explain. I'm Jimmy. Been coming here since they opened the place in the winter of '71. Me and Ernie and Vic over there, we been here just about forever.
Gerald Williams is apparently determined to prove in every single game that he cannot play center field.
By the by, am I the ONLY person in all of Metsopotamia who remembers that Hershiser's very worthy foe on that tense afternoon of October 3, 1999 was a rookie named Kris Benson?
We're 3-1/2 back of a playoff spot with 44 to play. Trachsel's returning. Beltran's returning.
I actually heard myself call Glavine “Glavo” when he finished the seventh.
Hopefully Jacobs doesn't get Hietpas'd and gets an at-bat.
At least this wasn't the usual script of a shaking-in-his-boots rookie bringing in an ERA north of 5 and then beating us like rented mules. The kid was just good.
Games like this are good ones to go to with a pal with whom you can talk about other things.
I was 7.
He's been around so long it's even harder to grasp that this man on the mound with the deadly arsenal and the oodles of self-confidence is the same guy we've been tracking up and down through our system all these years. He also keeps Kaz Ishii far, far away.
Shea only has an upper deck, I believe, because it can't economically shove enough people in the lower levels.
Fortunately, we also have Chris Woodward. There aren't enough words to describe how grateful we should be for him. There aren't enough words because when Brian Schneider doubled in the tying run, I hurled the first thing handy in the general direction of the television and it happened to be a dictionary — ironic in that my vocabulary had just been reduced to a single f-word.
I remembered Jacobs — how could you not remember the guy who won the first home game in extra innings?
I want you to get up right now, sit up, go to your windows, open them and stick your head out and yell… HEY METS! YOU SUCK! BOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!
At the risk of jinxing the whole thing, I think we've collectively come around on Glavine.
Seeing as how this is the first two-game winning streak the Mets have put together west of the Mississippi all season (7-14 out yonder), I do insist that making our boys feel as if they are at Shea — where they are cheerlessly chastised despite posting an outstanding winning percentage — is what's doing the trick.
It is Victor Diaz's obligation to hustle every moment he is on the field unless his manager or a designated lieutenant informs him it is not in the team's best interest to do so (for example, not flashing the steal sign when up 17 runs).
Wham! Biff! Sock! Pow!
Seriously, we'll just trade locales with the Diamondbacks. How does Faith and Fear in Flagstaff grab you?
Hell, we swept. Roll me away. It's here.
2:19 am: Ponder mystery that what I do 2,000 miles away does not, in fact, affect what baseball team does. Who knew?
I was 12.
This game'll kill you. And that's when you win.
Michael Fucker (whose name is somehow always misspelled) is at the plate.
A couple of innings in, I realized it wasn't Trachsel's fault that he didn't get to be part of a good Mets team until now.
Welcome back the New York Mets to the Fraternal Order of Teams Who Are At Least Eight Games Over .500, an organization from which its membership had lapsed since October 1, 2000.
Of course if we lose four in St. Louis in September, we're pretty well screwed.
Hell, compared with Terrell Hansen, Moonlight Graham looks like a lucky guy.
Twenty years ago, all I wanted to tell him was “DOC! WE LOVE YOU!” Now if I could send him a message, it would be, “Get better, Stupid.”
Makes me wanna walk down the street patting dogs and handing out flowers and candy.
Lee Iacocca and Chrysler: If you can find a worse commercial, air it.
Why is every possible move that Willie Randolph might and often make doesn't so relentlessly skewered before it's shown to work, not work or never take place? Are we really that incapable of entertaining ourselves on off-days?
The Mets are playing the Phillies toward the end of the year in a game crucial to each team's fortunes. You knew that? Did you know it's the first time in the shared history of the two teams that this has happened?
Welcome back, Mike Cameron. You do realize that now you have to bring out the lineup card every night, right?
Ramon Castro's blast off Ugueth Urbina will surely stand the test of time as a touchstone in Mets history. It was a game-, season- and life-altering event. Unless we lose the next two. So let's not do that.
No reason to freak out. We go into September 1.5 games out with a chance to make it .5 before the day's done.
I will never again say nice things about a future Hall of Famer unless he's up by eight runs after six.
And then the Mets lost like they usually do. And they still suck. There. Can we go now?
I was 17.
It's possible I doomed us by not having a big enough piece of paper
The Marlins, no matter how many World Series they accidentally win or no matter how much they wipe the Soilmastered floor with us, were a bad, freaking idea.
I haven't been called gay for liking the Mets since about 1981.
“Aside from that, Mrs. Takatsu, how did you enjoy the game?”
This was even worse than the Rutles.
We have to win games in Atlanta. Plural.
An end to '05 would just be finally coming back to earth, even if it were Schuerholz's Slaughterers offering the coup de grace.
Hello, Finazzle? I want my money back.
Just hearing the name “Marcus Giles” during the post-game incited gratuitous violence against innocent furniture.
All I want for Christmas is Billy Wagner.
Twenty-three games to go. I'll watch. I'll write. I'll care. But I'll no longer believe. Not this year.
The New York Mets will indeed wear commemorative patches on the right sleeve of all five versions of their uniform tops next season to mark the accomplishments garnered during their first decade as a visiting team at Atlanta's Turner Field.
I know I said I'd care, but I didn't.
I was 22.
Let The World's Greatest Fans remember that once upon a time we were worthy of being jealously derided as pond scum.
Total record when I'm outside the Empire State: 2-12.
Was this trip really necessary?
The Mets insist on traveling poorly at any distance.
Twelve fucking days turned summer into winter. What the hell happened to us?
Please, you Mets, at least let me cling.
But really. Thrown out at second on a single to center?
“Come on out to Shea,” urged New York Mets eulogist Fran Healy, “and watch the Mets lie in state.”
How about Danny Graves, who has exactly as much chance of collecting his $5 million option for 2006 as I do of receiving it through some spectacular bank error?
Did you know that the Mets haven't won two in a row in three weeks?
Armando Benitez can be a powerful, destructive force in one's life.
Remember when our biggest problem was Victor Diaz taking an extra base with a 17-run lead?
I was 27.
Pedro Martinez. He ensures history. He foils enemies. He celebrates my cats. And every five or so days, he makes me do this: Purrrr…
If we hadn't imploded at the end of August, yesterday's game would have been agonizing.
What I can't get over in absorbing the news that Donn Clendenon has passed away is that the '69 Mets have 70-year-old men.
It's a special day, indeed, when the Mets find their way over the Braves more easily than their fans find their seats.
Man, it's getting dark at like 6:30 and there were a couple of trees shedding leaves today and we've got 13 left to play.
There's a reason football starts with an “f”. So do all the other sports as far as I'm concerned.
But still…take THAT, Marlins!
I hope our team doesn't disappear out from under us and give us nothing more than a Chinese restaurant in Riverdale three or four times a year.
For one night (or at least for two plays on one night) Cairo was everything we'd hoped to have this year.
OH! YOU COULD DO BETTER THAN CARLOS BELTRAN? YOU COULD? REALLY?
I was 32.
We don't like the Yankees.
No, we sure don't.
It's up to us to give a Pratt's ass.
They've revived themselves nicely to win six of their last eight, most recently Saturday night's triumph at the Federal Baseball Penitentiary in Washington.
RFK's a dump. It looks like a domed stadium with the dome missing. It looks like the Vet on downers.
You know why I'm positively wallowing in the small, ugly joy of playing spoiler? Because we know exactly how you feel. And you're the ones who made us feel that way.
The monumental thing is there was no Looper in sight. He has become as invisible as Heath Bell. Bartolome Fortunato. Mike Draper.
And we're now down to the know-it-by-heart part of the schedule during which wins and losses become secondary to the fact that games are games.
Stupid definitive towel. Now it's a shroud.
Shut up, Fran. Let Ralph talk as long as he wishes.
I'm much more pissed at him now than I was when I just thought he was having a crap year.
So he didn't suck, he was just a liar.
When Mike Piazza leaves, an epoch of Mets baseball goes out the door with him. Save for what we can piece together on our own, that's all gone after Sunday. It's like a set of Mets media guides will have burned to the ground.
The Manchurian Brave has been reassigned. In his stead, we have a future Hall of Famer on our hands with him and at long last I have no compunction about admitting it.
SportsNet New York, the kind of name you need a room full of marketing drones, lawyers and miscellaneous suits to come up with, provided you prime the pump with tens of thousands of dollars worth of Cosi and hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of salary time.
I was 37.
82 Wins!
We are over five-freaking-hundred once and for all!
Finish in third place. Screw draft picks; our drafts all stink anyway.
I've tipped my cap to these cretins so much over the past decade that I've got carpal-tunnel in my cap-tipping wrist.
I don't know why more people don't cherish Closing Day. It's the last chance to sit in the sun for several hours, to wear a cap for a reason, to eat ice cream out of a helmet, to retreat for a few more hours into this Brigadoon of ours that thrives over a six-month clip.
I ask nothing of Mike Piazza. He's given us everything.
But oh well. It was a .500 day for what was basically a .500 team.
We're not bad. We're not great. We're all right. On the final day of the season, that, lovely weather and a few friends are really all I need.
by Greg Prince on 6 October 2005 1:04 am You can’t take a picture of this. It’s already gone.
—Nate Fisher
This year’s Nikon Camera players of the year are Gary Cohen and Howie Rose. At the end of the season, the players of the year will have their efforts lovingly admired by this blog.
It was no contest. If they’re doing their jobs well, the radio guys are going to win every year. You could argue that there’d be no need for them if it weren’t for the likes of Pedro and Cliff and David, but you’d be wrong. The baseball players come and go. The baseball announcers stay with us. When it was Al and Mike and Robin; when it was Izzy and Lance and Rico; when it was Doc and Darryl and Keith; when it was Swannie and Mazz and Hendu; when it was Tom and Buddy and Cleon, you were going to watch and listen no matter whose actions were being described. But it would be tough to take if you couldn’t handle the voices bringing the players to you, because the Mets, let’s face it, haven’t always provided the most pleasant entertainment imaginable.
It was the announcers who were and are the relative constants. Bob Murphy and Ralph Kiner and Lindsey Nelson first and foremost. Tim McCarver and Steve Zabriskie and Gary Thorne and Rusty Staub later. Dave O’Brien and Tom Seaver and Ted Robinson and Keith Hernandez and Ed Coleman of late. Some others were sprinkled in along the way, some sticking around longer than others, whether we wanted anything to do with them or not.
But we’re not here to bury anybody. We are here to praise Gary Cohen and Howie Rose.
Together, they are the single best reason to be a Mets fan. You will almost never be sorry you tuned into one of their broadcasts. You will almost always be happy that you did, win or lose. Cable companies will forever attempt to outfox one another, with the home viewers ultimately playing the blacked-out victim, but if you own a radio, you’re fine. You’re more than fine. You’re in luck. You have Gary Cohen and Howie Rose talking Mets baseball to you night after day after night.
How lucky can you get?
Theoretically, you can listen to Mets games without being a Mets fan. I’m continually surprised at how many Yankees fans call WFAN to express dismay with their own broadcasts and freely admit, “I’m not a Mets fan, but I’d rather listen to their games.” But if you are a Mets fan, particularly one who grew up not long after Gary and Howie did and absorbed the details attendant to eternal Mets fandom as they experienced them, then you’re living right. Because Gary and Howie are talking to you.
I pay some absurd sum to have cable television in my household, ensuring (on paper) that I will be able to watch every single game in the course of a season. The pictures are nice. But I tend to turn the sound down. Games that are televised by ESPN or Fox are automatically lowered in volume. I have no interest in what strangers are trying to tell me about my team. The games that are (or were) on MSG and FSN-NY and WPIX I might stick with a little longer because those guys are around the team on at least a semi-regular basis. But eventually, there will be a game situation that I will feel I am at a loss to understand if I don’t take advantage of the explanation that’s forthcoming on the FAN.
Yet it’s about more than incisive commentary or thorough descriptions or the slight adjustment in cadence that differentiates a deep fly that’s going to be caught at the track from one that’s OUTTA HERE! crucial seconds before the outcome is known. It’s the narrative. The backbeat. The space between pitches. Gary Cohen and Howie Rose are the baseball season. They are the sound we hear virtually every day for six months. They are the sound we long to hear every day for the other six months.
Gary has been announcing Mets games on WFAN since 1989. Howie began hosting the Mets Extra pre- and post-game shows on WHN (now the FAN) in 1987. Before that, he covered the team as a reporter for radio and Sportsphone (remember Sportsphone — you’ll understand why later). He began doing regular play-by-play on TV in 1996 before moving into the radio booth to succeed (not replace) Bob Murphy in 2004.
They’ve been full-time partners for only two seasons. That’s incredible. Granted, they worked in proximity to each other much longer and Howie did frequent fill-in duty on the radio side, but they’ve only been a team this year and the one before it. It feels like we’ve been listening to them for decades.
In a way we have. Not only did they grow up as Mets fans, retaining untold thousands of nuggets from their childhood on, but they obviously learned their craft by listening to Mets games. You won’t mistake either for Bob Murphy, but you can hear the influence of Murph on both of them. There is no “we” in their play-by-play vocabulary, explicit or implied. As loosey-goosey as they might get for a moment or two, the game always takes precedence and the calls are always fair. It’s not about the announcer, it’s about the listener. Murph was that way and Gary and Howie, even with their straying into pop-culture territory and occasional soapbox moments, play it straight. They can try to be funny because they know their stuff and they know their audience (can’t say Mets fans don’t have a sense of humor), but they would never overdo the shtick, save maybe in the blowiest of blowouts. Most of what they laugh about is stuff we would laugh about because we and they are so comfortable with each other.
When they were paired together following Murph’s retirement, I did have a few quiet doubts. They’re both so similar in background that I thought two Jewish, Queens-born, 1960s-bred announcers who aspired to the jobs they had attained might try to one-up one another. It hasn’t been that way at all. Theirs are distinct voices that mesh beautifully.
Gary is professional to a fault, but listen enough and you’ll notice he wears his disgust on his sleeve for certain players or at least certain styles of play.
Howie will go a long way to speak in full paragraphs, never mind complete sentences.
Gary is passionate when so moved, but just a little transparent about betraying weariness with bad baseball.
Howie is a touch quicker in conversation, perhaps from all those years of taking phone calls for five hours a night (though he rarely does it any longer, he remains the best sports talk show host New York has ever had).
Gary, like Vin Scully, is a maestro when he has the mic to himself. He is usually a step ahead of both managers on the field below.
Howie is apt to frame any given development in the grander scheme of Mets’ things, again a likely byproduct of his sports talk experience.
Gary is the perfect filter for the drama of the big inning. He describes it, he explains it and he enhances it naturally.
Howie still feels a bit like a fan who can’t believe how lucky he is to have this gig. It makes him a great companion for the ordinary inning when three up, three down is three up, three down.
Gary builds a game while it’s in progress. He knows when three up, three down is something more than three up, three down.
Howie can punctuate every at-bat with some bit of relevant Mets minutia that links a single pitch with 44 years of franchise history.
Gary is the best in the business.
Howie is only getting better.
Together, they call a game the way you would want it to be called as a Mets fan and as baseball fan. There are no missed pitches, no wondering whether the last one came in on the inside or outside corner, no doubts as to how the double play was turned. If there is a mistake, it is corrected, apologized for and put in the past. Nothing gets in the way of you and me learning what’s going on and learning more about baseball every time we tune in.
Gary Cohen and Howie Rose broadcasting a Mets game is my definition of joy. I will listen to them anywhere: in theaters, on trains, in restaurants, in my car, in my living room, in my bathroom, in my bedroom, in my mind.
Perhaps it is best to let their work speak for itself.
There must be between 45,000 and 50,000 pitches in the course of any team’s season. There were 310 in the game the Mets played against the Marlins on September 21. Here are 32 of them, as delivered by the best announcing team in baseball.
TOP OF THE FIRST
HOWIE: Tonight’s first pitch is brought to you by Fox News Channel, your home base for news. And as Juan Pierre heads to the batter’s box, to get you started with the play-by-play, here’s Gary Cohen.
GARY: Thanks very much Howie, and a big start for Jae Seo in a number of ways.
Number one, ’cause he’s trying to bounce back from a down effort against the Nationals his last time, but also because he faced the Marlins two-and-a-half weeks ago, and second times around for Seo are very important right now.
Juan Pierre leads off. First pitch on the way is taken high, one ball no strikes.
In many ways, Jae Seo’s a different pitcher now that he was his first two years in the big leagues. He’s got an increased repertoire, a little more confidence…
Pierre went oh-for-six last night. The one-oh from Seo, he bluffs a bunt, takes a strike, one and one.
So it’s interesting to see how much of Seo’s success is based on teams’ lack of familiarity with his new way of pitching and how much of it is the fact that Seo has the chance to be the kind of dominant pitcher he’s shown himself to be so far.
Here’s the one-one pitch to Pierre…BUNTED…up the third base line…charging Wright, barehands and throws…WIDE of the bag; down the line but backed up by Cairo who makes a diving stop, and now he’ll toss it to Jacobs, and he’s gonna put a tag on Pierre ju-u-ust to make sure Pierre did not take a turn, and the first base umpire Dana DeMuth says he did NOT.
And so Pierre is safe at first base with a bunt single.
Wright with a good throw would have HAD him; Wright came charging in, he had to come a LONG way to get it and make the barehand stop, but his throw was well to the infield side of the first base bag. Jacobs dove for it, couldn’t get it, and Cairo dove the other way toward the line to flag it down to keep Pierre from goin’ to second.
So, Pierre, who was held hitless last night, gets aboard with a bunt.
And now Jeff Conine will be the batter.
BOTTOM OF THE FOURTH
HOWIE: Tonight’s Mets broadcast is brought to you by Axa Financial, a leader in financial protection and wealth management. Visit Axa dot com. Axa Financial — be LIFE confident.
Last of the fourth inning, this game tied at two as Mike Lowell went deep for Florida to get them back even.
David Wright, Mike Piazza, Victor Diaz to do the hitting against Jason Vargas here in the fourth inning. Vargas making his first-ever appearance against the Mets, so a bit of a learning curve for him.
Wright hit a soft ground ball to second his first time.
First pitch…and a fastball hit in the air to left-centerfield…that’s pretty deep…Pierre on the run with Conine…Conine on the WARNING track MAKES the catch.
Ju-u-ust enough ballpark to hold that one in as Conine got to it between the 371 and the 396 marks in front of the leftfield bleachers.
David Wright has not hit a home run in almost a month. Going back to that series in San Francisco, remember that game the Mets won one to nothing on Friday night in Trachsel’s first game, the game that increased the Mets’ winning streak to five? Well, David has not hit a home run since then.
He made a bid there. One out, nobody on, here’s Piazza who walked and scored his first time. And the first pitch, right down the middle for a strike, oh and one.
The other National League scores, the Cardinals five and the Reds nothing, they play the bottom of the fifth at Cincinnati. Chicago and Milwaukee, one-one, the last of the third. Later on, San Diego at Colorado, the Dodgers at Arizona.
Here’s the oh-one to Mike, swing and a miss at a changeup away, good pitch there by Vargas, and the count nothing and two.
In the American League, Yankees two, Orioles nothing, bottom of the fifth at the Stadium. Runs coming in the second inning on Matt Lawton’s thirteenth homer, Randy Johnson versus Rodrigo Lopez.
Red Sox lead Tampa Bay three to two, top of the fourth in St. Pete. Travis Lee, his twelfth home run.
Oh-two to Piazza…ground ball hit wide of third, cut off and BOBBLED by Lowell! And Piazza will be safe.
Well, a mistake there, I think, by Lowell, because with Piazza, a very slow runner, you know the shortstop had, Andino, pursued that aggressively would have had a better chance at making the play and throwing out Piazza, but Lowell ranged so far, that when he failed to cut it off, that cost him the play altogether. A-a-and it goes as an infield hit, REPEAT, an infield hit for Mike Piazza.
GARY: Well, Lowell we’ve seen this year just does not have much range at third base. He went a long way for that one, but he still couldn’t make the play.
HOWIE: Here’s Diaz…first-ball hitting, rips it in the air to left field, Conine turned around, recovers and makes the catch at the edge of the warning track and Piazza hustles back to first.
Now, Diaz hit it well and Conine took the great circle route, but got to it for the second out and that’ll bring up Mike Jacobs.
Other American League scores, the Indians and the White Sox no score, top of the second at Comiskey. Scott Elarton against Jon Garland. Minnesota beat Oakland ten to four, Kansas City defeated Detroit four to three, Seattle leads Toronto three to nothing, that game in the bottom of the fifth at SkyDome, Texas and the Angels in Anaheim later.
And now here’s Jacobs. First pitch on the way, another fastball, but that one inside, one and oh. It was a first-pitch fastball that Jacobs, the left-hand batter, drove up the gap in right-center against the lefthander Vargas to get Piazza all the way around from first his first time up.
Now the one-oh…there is the breaking ball, and Jacobs waves at it, tried to hold his swing but could not, and the count one and one. So again, Piazza will have to go a long way if Jacobs can drive another one to the gap. Mike is not being held on by Delgado.
One-one pitch, low and inside, ball two.
Jacobs, with that run batted in, now has 15 RBIs in 65 at-bats. That’s a good percentage, a good ratio of run-production.
Two-one pitch, that’s lifted in the air to shallow left field, Conine coming in and he’s under it now, makes the catch and that retires the side. Three putouts in the inning to Conine around an infield hit by Piazza. And at the end of four, we’re tied, two to two, on the WFAN Mets radio network.
TOP OF THE EIGHTH
GARY: And the out-of-town scoreboard…updated…
HOWIE: [slight chuckle]
GARY: …is brought to you by the New York Lottery. You can’t live the dream if you don’t play the game.
HOWIE: Pennant race, man. Fast and first.
GARY: “Next update…9:31…” [laughter]
HOWIE: Thanks, Guy.
GARY: Hamulack delivers, taken outside, two and two.
They’re still in the bottom of the seventh in Pittsburgh, and now they go to the top of the eighth. See? We are fast and first.
HOWIE: There ya go…
GARY: Houston ten, Pittsburgh six. Lance Berkman, Mike Lamb, Jason Lane with Houston home runs, Ryan Doumit hit one for the Pirates.
HOWIE: Stay tuned for the Quickie Quiz!
GARY: 3:30 AM.
HOWIE: [chuckles]
GARY: Two-two on the way, pulled foul down the right field line by Delgado, still two and two.
Meanwhile the Phillies now lead the Braves, at least they did until just this moment. Adam LaRoche has just hit a three…run…homer, and the Braves have tied up the Phillies six-six in the bottom of the seventh. LaRoche hitting that three-run bomb off of Ryan Madson.
And apparently something just came out of the stands.
TOP OF THE NINTH
GARY: Now Hernandez from the first base side of the rubber is ready. The two-two pitch…swing and a ground ball to second, might be two, but CAIRO IS COMING HOME, now he’s gonna run at Conine, who’s halfway between third and home, he runs him back toward third base and puts a tag on Conine and leaves the runners at first and second.
Well, had Cairo tried for a double play, he might have had a shot at it, but it certainly wasn’t guaranteed, and so he made sure that they cut down the lead runner, trapped Conine between third and home, ran straight at him, and without making a throw put a tag on Conine, four-unassisted on the fielder’s choice, and most importantly, left Delgado at second base and Encanarcion at first.
HOWIE: And Cairo made such a good play that he stayed close enough to Conine so that Conine had no room to try and extend the rundown and allow the runners to move up to second and third, or at least that second runner, Delgado, to go all the way to third, and so now, the Marlins lose the chance to score a run on an out.
TOP OF THE NINTH
GARY: Runners lead first and second. The three-one to Treanor is HIGH, BALL FOUR, and the bases are loaded!
So Hernandez, after getting the HUGE out against Encanarcion, walks a light hitter in Treanor and now the bases are FULL for Mike Lowell.
Lowell’s kind of been a focal point this entire game. Remember, he was supposed to start at second base tonight for the first time in his major or minor league career, but because Miguel Cabrera got hurt in the top of the first inning, he never took the field at second base, wound up at third, well, in the fourth inning, he hit a home run to tie up the game and then in the eighth inning, he had a hit-and-run single that was key in the Marlins’ rally as they went ahead four to three.
The Mets tied the game in the bottom of the eighth on Piazza’s base hit, and now the Marlins have loaded the bases against Hernandez here in the top of the ninth.
Meanwhile in Atlanta, Ryan HOWARD has just hit a grand slam off John Foster in the top of the tenth, and the Phillies now lead the Braves ten to six. The Phillies with a win would stay two games behind Houston.
So here’s Lowell, with the bases loaded and two out. He’s two for four on the night, including a home run.
Bases loaded, two out, Hernandez ready, now the pitch, and it misses the outside corner, one ball and no strikes.
Lowell three for eleven in his career against Hernandez, including a home run.
Delgado is on third, Encanarcion at second, Treanor at first. The outfield straight away against Lowell. Hernandez working from the stretch. Here’s the one-oh pitch, right down the middle for a strike. Lowell was taking all the way, and now it’s a ball and a strike to Mike Lowell.
Mike Mordecai is on deck. Of course if Mordecai gets up, it means the Marlins will have taken the lead here in the ninth.
Bases loaded, two down.
Castro sends out a sign, Hernandez ready…POPPED it up! First base side in foul ground, Jacobs over, near the stands, right at the railing…MAKES THE CATCH, and the inning is over!
Jacobs, leaning on the railing and reaching toward the front row, caught the foul pop-up from Lowell and HERNANDEZ dances out of trouble in the ninth. No runs, one hit and THREE men left, the Marlins have left twelve runners on base.
Middle of the ninth at Shea, Mets four, Marlins four on the WFAN Mets radio network.
BOTTOM OF THE NINTH
GARY: We go to bottom of the ninth inning here at Shea, the Mets and Marlins tied four to four, and if things could not get more absurd for the Florida Marlins, they are now entrusting their fate to Paul Quantrill, a pitcher who has been twice designated for assignment this year. The Yankees let him go and sent him on to the Padres; the Marlins, after the Padres released him, signed him twelve days ago and he’s now making his fifth appearance for Florida.
His ERA for the Marlins? Twelve.
Ramon Castro leads off, takes a strike down the middle, nothing and one.
So the Mets are facing Quantrill in his third different uniform this year. They saw him as a Yankee, they saw him as a Padre, and now they’re seeing him as a Marlin.
Castro batting ninth in the order leading off the last of the ninth. The oh-one from Quantrill taken on the outside corner, a strike, oh and two.
And no less than the Marlins’ post-season hopes hang in the balance here.
A loss and they’re four games behind Houston with only ten games left to play.
Jose Reyes on deck and then Miguel Cairo here in the bottom of the ninth.
Quantrill’s oh-two pitch, and he misses outside, one and two.
Quantrill, up until last year, was a tremendous set-up man, with Toronto and with the Dodgers and then he went to the Yankees and things just didn’t go right for him there. And his career has certainly faded this year.
Here’s the one-two to Castro, low and inside, two balls, two strikes.
Castro batting for the first time in the game, hitting at .257, seven home runs and forty runs batted in. Mets four Marlins four, bottom of the ninth.
Quantrill walks out of the full windup, he’s a sinkerball pitcher.
Now the two-two to Castro, low and away, ball three. So after getting ahead on the count oh and two, Quantrill’s gone to a full count on Castro.
Remember Ron Villone walked Carlos Beltran leading off the eighth and that led to the Mets’ getting the tying run home.
Now Quantrill trying to avoid walking the leadoff batter in the bottom of the ninth in a four-four game.
Here’s the three-two to Castro, swing and a ground ball back to the mound, grabbed by Quantrill. He’ll make the toss to first in time, and Castro swung at ball four. That pitch was WAY off the plate and Castro took a late cut and bounced one back to the mound.
So one out and nobody on. Let’s pause for station identification on the WFAN New York Mets radio network.
Gary Cohen, Howie Rose with you from Shea Stadium in New York. Bottom of the ninth inning, Mets four, Marlins four, one out and nobody on, Jose Reyes the batter takes low and inside from Paul Quantrill and the pitch goes all the way to the backstop, one and oh.
Reyes singled back in the first, stole second and third and scored the Mets’ first run. Since then he’s tried to bunt and been thrown out and twice he’s flied to left.
Batting lefthanded against Paul Quantrill, the one-oh pitch and it’s taken HIGH and now Quantrill behind two and oh, and Quantrill aware as everybody else in the ballpark that a walk to Reyes is essentially a double.
Reyes has already stolen two tonight, has fifty-seven steals for the year.
Here’s the two-oh pitch and it’s taken for a letter-high strike, two and one.
Quantrill the fifth Florida pitcher of the night. Jason Vargas went the first six, allowed three runs, seven hits; Randy Messenger pitched a one-two-three seventh. Ron Villone faced two batters and retired neither.
Two-one to Reyes, lifted foul, off to the left, two and two.
Antonio Alfonseca gave up the game-tying hit to Piazza. That was the only baserunner HE allowed in the eighth. And then Roberto Hernandez able to hold the fort in the top of the ninth.
Two and two the count to Reyes. The outfield plays him a step or two toward left.
Now Quantrill out of the windup, the two-two to Reyes, slashed foul down the leftfield line out of play and it stays two balls and two strikes.
Aaron Heilman is up in the Mets’ bullpen. Roberto Hernandez with a difficult top of the ninth after working two innings last night. The Mets double-switched him into the game but he may not get a second inning if we go the tenth.
Two-two to Reyes…LINE DRIVE BASE HIT going into centerfield. Moving toward left-center to play it is Pierre. He BOOTS the ball! And Reyes will go to second, the throw by Pierre not nearly in time, and Reyes is at second base with the potential winning run!
Juan Pierre, who has had all sorts of problems in the outfield over the last couple of weeks for Florida, fielding a base hit to left-center, and perhaps rushing just a little against the speed of Reyes, and he booted the ball, allowing Reyes to take second base.
HOWIE: I think that’s EXACTLY what he did, try and rush getting to that ball and playing it back in to the infield. He tried to do it all at once and the end result is Reyes winds up at second base anyway. Most of Pierre’s problems have been not getting to shallow-hit flyballs, balls that have fallen in front of him. Now, Reyes in scoring position with the potential winning run.
GARY: So it’s a single to Reyes, an error on Pierre, his fourth of the year. Mark Wiley, the pitching coach, out to talk to Quantrill. Now Miguel Cairo is the batter. Would Reyes think about trying to steal third with one out…to get the Mets within a flyball of a victory? Or leave it up to Cairo, a guy who has just been awful at trying to drive in runs all year? Cairo hitting just .161 with runners in scoring position, has only FIFTEEN RBIs in 294 at-bats.
HOWIE: Yeah, steals of third base are commonplace for Jose Reyes, but particularly in this spot, at this juncture of the game, the value of the stolen base is enhanced even more by the fact that if he gets there, the Marlins have to move the infield, probably the outfield in as well.
So, for Reyes, it’s probably a high-percentage play to try to steal third base here and change the way the Marlins have to defend.
GARY: No matter what, you know the Marlins are going to go after Cairo with Beltran and Floyd to follow.
Cairo is one out of four tonight on an infield single in the third.
Mordecai is playing shortstop, he’ll keep an eye on Reyes, as Cairo steps in, the outfield plays a step toward right.
Mordecai without much RANGE at shortstop, so his keeping an eye on Reyes really creates a hole on the left side of the infield for Cairo. The closer he plays to the bag to keep Reyes close, the more room Cairo has to hit it by him.
Here’s the pitch by Quantrill…
Looping fly ball…shallow centerfield…it’s gonna FALL IN FOR A BASE HIT! Reyes around third HEADING HOME, Pierre’s throw is well too late AND THE METS WIN THE BALLGAME on a bloop single to center by Miguel Cairo chasing home Jose Reyes with the winning run in the bottom of the ninth, and the Mets have made it TWO STRAIGHT over the SUDDENLY CRASHING Florida Marlins, and the Mets are all out to congratulate Miguel Cairo for his game-winning hit. First pitch he saw from Paul Quantrill, and he DUNKED it into centerfield to get Reyes home with the winning run, and the Mets win it FIVE to four in the BOTTOM of the ninth inning.
One run, two hits, one error and one left, the final score tonight, the Mets five, the Marlins four. Back to talk about it in a moment on the WFAN METS! radio network.
by Greg Prince on 5 October 2005 3:34 am MOST VALUABLE METS AS EXPRESSED VIA THEIR BEVERAGE EQUIVALENTS
1. Pedro Martinez is Jolt Cola: Twice the sugar. All the caffeine. Not only can’t you close your eyes, you won’t want to. The hum in your head is unmistakable. Your senses are tingling. Gotta have another blast of that stuff. A sprinkler could come on and you wouldn’t notice. A sign could get stuck in the wrong position and you’d just dance. That you might come crashing down at the very end of the night and not be able to do very much of anything before finally going to sleep shouldn’t detract from how this was everything it was promised to be. A more sudden Jolt to the doldrums was never felt.
2. Cliff Floyd is Miller Lite: Hits Great! Less Illin’! Hits Great! Less Illin’! It’s a new and improved formula that doesn’t leave you feeling weighed down by unmet expectations and isn’t so heavy that you can’t move around with surprising litheness. Yet it’s full-bodied. Now we’re living the high life. And there’s no doubt why we asked it to be on this list.
3. David Wright is Strawberry Quik: Quicker than Strawberry, actually. No milk drink had ever produced so much so immediately and this, unlike that, appears to be a genuine milk drink. Wholesome. Pure. Smooth. The only additives are the promise of getting even better and the hope that it will be served for another decade or two.
4. Jose Reyes is SoBe Adrenaline Rush: Need a burst of energy? Open it up, pour it down and get ready to run, not walk. Grab one every day. It’s available that often. Works fast. Side effects: You won’t want to stop; you’ll want to make things happen; your body may get ahead of your head. But is that really so terrible?
5. Roberto Hernandez is Old Forester Bourbon: Dates back to the 1870s, but can still deliver when called on. A rich, reassuring, robust flavor that won’t let you down when everything else has. Because it came with such a deep heritage, it was easy to dismiss at first in favor of trendier drinks. But there were days when this spirit that came out of the woods was all that stood between you and a terrible hangover. Quite a kick after all these years. Aaaahhhh…
MOST ENIGMATIC MET AS EXPRESSED VIA FIVE COCA-COLA BEVERAGE EQUIVALENTS
1. Carlos Beltran is OK Soda. Just OK. And what’s that supposed to taste like anyway?
2. Carlos Beltran is Fresca. They keep changing the labeling (a leader; quiet; moody; religious; disappointed; disappointing; injured; three-hitter; two-hitter; bound to break out), but it generally tastes the same. It has its fans but it’s not that popular.
3. Carlos Beltran is TaB. A $119-million tab. And in the hole for $17 million.
4. Carlos Beltran is Minute Maid. At least he was.
5. Carlos Beltran is Surge. At least we hope he will.
I JUST WANT TO CELEBRATE ANOTHER DAY OF LIVING IN 2005
1. June 11: Marlon Anderson does not stop at third. Cliff Floyd does not strike out. The Mets do not lose to the Angels in the best non-Subway Series Interleague game in the history of Shea Stadium.
2. July 14: David Wright makes a ridiculous diving catch. Cliff Floyd makes another one. David hits two homers. Mike Piazza hits an even bigger one. The Mets beat the Braves and the second half gets off to an awesome start.
3. April 10: Pedro Martinez assures us and the world that the Mets won’t go 0-6 to say nothing of 0-162.
4. August 30: Is that an explosion? No, it’s RA-MON! Watch out Phillies — we’re just a half-game behind!
5. August 24: What, you’ve never seen a team score 18 runs?
I JUST WANT TO REGURGITATE
1. July 9: Get me to a Pittsburgh hospital.
2. April 4: Ba Pen Drooler! Wouldn’t be the last time our easily anagrammed closer would leave the door ajar.
3. August 11: Ouch.
4. May 23: Every loss at Turner Field is discouraging. This one was outWright absurd.
5. July 28: You’re booing Beltran now, Houston, but let’s see you get to the playoffs without him.
THINGS THAT WOULD HAVE MADE YOU PLOTZ FROM NACHES IF YOU HAD BEEN TOLD IN ADVANCE
1. Aaron Heilman would pitch a one-hitter early and be the closer late
2. Jose Reyes would play 161 games
3. Jae Seo would go 8-2
4. Mike Jacobs would hit 11 homers
5. Tom Glavine would turn into Tom Glavine in the second half
THINGS THAT WOULD HAVE MADE YOU PLOTZ FROM SHREK IF YOU HAD BEEN TOLD IN ADVANCE
1. Kaz Matsui would have half as many stolen bases as Miguel Cairo
2. Doug Mientkiewicz would play 87 games
3. Kaz Ishii would go 3-9
4. Carlos Beltran would hit 16 homers
5. Tom Glavine would turn into Tom Glavine only after continuing to be Tom Filer in the first half
SPECTACULAR UPGRADES FROM 2004
1. Ramon Castro over Vance Wilson
2. Marlon Anderson over Karim Garcia
3. Chris Woodward over Joe McEwing
4. Juan Padilla over Ricky Bottalico
5. Willie Randolph over Art Howe
WHAT WILLIE DID WELL
1. Kept pressure off his young players
2. Connected with Cliff Floyd
3. Dropped Mike in the batting order
4. Experimented with the bullpen in September
5. Got everybody to run hard
WHAT WILLIE DIDN’T DO WELL
1. Play the alleged Willieball he was credited for
2. Connect with Kaz Matsui
3. Move Beltran out of the three-hole
4. Choose an opportune spot for Shingo Takatsu to throw his first Major League pitch in many a week
5. Act
FRESH VILLAINY
1. Joe Randa
2. Ryan Langerhans
3. Antonio Perez/Chris Burke
4. Chase Utley
5. Dioner Navarro
SUSTAINED NOTORIETY
1. Marcus Giles
2. Alex Rodriguez
3. Vinny Castilla
4. John Thomson
5. Derrek Lee
MOST DISCOURAGING INDICATORS
1. 11-19 in games west of the Mississippi
2. 1-8 at Turner Field
3. 3-15 from August 31 through September 15
4. 0-5 to start season
5. 0-79 in games when the other team scored more runs
GET IT RIGHT THE FIRST TIME
1. A Met led the National League in steals for the first time
2. Four Met outfielders reached double-digits in home runs (as outfielders) for the first time
3. The Mets increased their winning percentage for at least two consecutive seasons for the first time since 1986
4. The Mets were eight games above .500 (on August 26) for the first time since 2000
5. Two Mets were elected to start in the All-Star Game for the first time since 1988
2005 METS PITCHERS WHO WILL ELICIT A “THEY WERE?” IN ALL BUT THE SAVVIEST QUARTERS BY 2010
1. Felix Heredia
2. Mike Matthews
3. Tim Hamulack
4. Manny Aybar
5. Jose Santiago
2005 METS WHOSE PRESENCE WILL AT LEAST SERVE AS A CAUTIONARY TALE AGAINST HAVING GUYS LIKE THEM ON THE TEAM IN 2006, ONE CAN ONLY HOPE
1. Jose Offerman
2. Danny Graves
3. Shingo Takatsu
4. Mike DeJean
5. Brian Daubach
2005 METS WHOSE PRESENCE DIDN’T DISTURB ME NEARLY AS MUCH AS IT DID MANY OTHER METS FANS
1. Gerald Williams: His teammates can’t all be wrong about what a great guy he is.
2. Miguel Cairo: He just wound up playing too much was all.
3. Victor Zambrano: “Uncle!” on the trade that brought him here, however.
4. Kaz Ishii: He was worth a shot, if not such an endless one.
5. Dae-Sung Koo: The double and two bases on a sacrifice against Randy Johnson made his otherwise mysterious tenure here worthwhile.
2005 METS WHOSE ATTRACTION ALMOST COMPLETELY ELUDED ME
1. Heath Bell: I hope he deserves the kind of adulation he received in absentia real soon.
2. Anderson Hernandez: We could have gotten the same production from Anderson Cooper.
3. Steve Trachsel: If we’re intent on cleaning most of the pre-2005 bric-a-brac out of our closet, I’d sooner toss Trachsel than Piazza. Mad props for coming back from disc surgery, but the guy gave off vibes that a team in contention existed solely for the purpose of giving him starts when the five men in the rotation were doing all right without him. Sign him at his low option, but trade him as soon as you can. He really is a reminder of a crappy era.
CATS AND THEIR ROLES REGARDING THE 2005 METS
1. Bernie (1992-2005): Ensured we’d eat up the Fish the night after he ascended to his Skybox. There’s never a bad time to give him a click.
2. Hozzie: Couldn’t handle the celebration spurred by Cliff’s game-winner off Brendan Donnelly nor the ruckus attendant to what Floyd did to the Skanks’ upper deck two weeks later. Every time I cheered Cliff loudly, Hozzie hid under furniture. Like pitchers everywhere, I guess he’s more than a little intimidated by Monstas.
3. Avery: His September arrival coincided with the Mets rising from four games under to four games over. There’s a lot of magic in that kitten.
4. Casey (1990-2002): The first member of my All-Angel team.
5. Andres Galarraga: Didn’t make it out of Port St. Lucie, but having him around for a month classed us up by association.
GONE AND SORT OF FORGOTTEN
1. Al Leiter: He seemed so vital for so long. His final 2005 destination indicates how much pitchers must really like to pitch.
2. John Franco: I don’t think he ever officially retired. Good for him.
3. Eric Valent: Had one big hit in Chicago and then melted into the Norfolk crowd. I could think of worse guys off the bench.
4. Jason Phillips: I’d be more excited about Mike Jacobs if I hadn’t been so excited about another catcher turned first baseman who hit really well when given the chance.
5. Matt Ginter: Wasn’t he going to be our fifth starter?
BLOGS A BLOGGER ADORES
1. Metstradamus: He sees the future.
2. Mets Walkoffs And Other Minutiae: He sees happy endings.
3. Mets Guy In Michigan: He sees DET people.
CO-BLOGGER’S CHOICE: MY FAVORITE JASON POSTS
1. No Scrubs
2. Greetings, Shame Brother
3. Conversation With My Son, Circa 2014
4. The Clubhouse of Curses
5. Hands Across America
NOTES FROM THE LOG
1. Passed 300 games lifetime (167-134)
2. Attended three consecutive shutouts (2 for, 1 against) for the first time ever
3. First year since ’95 with at least one win yet no losses versus Atlanta
4. Holding a .500 or better record against every N.L. opponent except Atlanta
5. Space for no more than 99 games remain before I have to buy a new steno pad — been using this one since 1981
FAVORITE GAMES ATTENDED
1. July 24: Benson shuts down the Dodgers while Alex Wolf meets the Mets.
2. July 14: In addition to the victory over the Braves, I meet FAFIF’s first recurring commenter whom I didn’t already know; no knives were pulled.
3. April 14: Pedro’s first home start, Al’s return and a lot to shout about.
4. August 6: Seo sunny, Seo surreal.
5. October 2: I won’t remember the loss — I’ll remember the bye.
CULTURE AND BASEBALL YIELD MIXED RESULTS
1. April 14: Aaron Heilman pitches a one-hitter while Stephanie and I are at the Matt Bianco featuring Basia concert at Westbury. We manage to catch a half-inning between sets.
2. May 8: The umps screw up a sure caught-stealing in Milwaukee after Glengarry Glen Ross
3. May 29: Mister Koo gives up the game-changing homer to Carlos Delgado just as the curtain is rising on Spamalot.
4. June 12: David Wright misplays a grounder against the Angels before intermission at the ballet.
5. September 22: Carlos Beltran shuts up the heckler I had just been mocking for insipidly heckling Carlos Beltran. Dat’ll teach da joik some cultcha.
I CAN STILL SEE
1. David’s one-handed catch against the Padres
2. Cammy sticking his glove out against the Diamondbacks
3. Carlos fully extending himself against the Nationals
4. Woody morphing into a leftfielder against the Marlins
5. Jose standing at third seconds after standing at home against the Dodgers
I CAN’T BEAR TO PICTURE
1. Victor in right
2. Kaz at second
3. Looper in the ninth
4. The Mets in Oakland
5. The calendar for the next several months
ENCORE!
Fastball driven in the air toward right-centerfield…chasing back is Finley…on the track, reaches out…CAN’T GET IT! Kicks it away! It’s rolling toward the corner! Anderson around second! He’s on his way to third! Finley’s tracked it down! Anderson is being…WAVED AROUND! He’s comin’ to the plate…the relay throw…he slides…SAFE! It’s an inside-the-park-home run! And it ties the game! Marlon Anderson with an inside-the-park home run…he is shaken up…Jose Molina arguing the call, Mike Scioscia out as well, but Marlon Anderson has tied the game at two and two with an inside-the-park home run. Finley tried to field it on the warning track, kicked it toward the corner, and Anderson came all the way around ahead of the relay throw by Adam Kennedy…Anderson still down on his knees as Mike Herbst and Willie Randolph look after him, but with his FIRST home run as a New York MET, Marlon Anderson has tied the game, and as he gets to his feet, he gets a ROUSING ovation from the crowd at Shea Stadium!
—Gary Cohen, 6/11/2005
ENCORE! ENCORE!
Bell is the lead run. He’s on second. Alfonzo at first with two out. Eight to eight, bottom of the eighth. Incredible. Mulholland ready to go. The pitch to Piazza…swing and a drive deep down the left field line…toward the corner…IT’S OUTTA HERE! OUTTA HERE! Mike Piazza with a LINE DRIVE three-run homer! Just inside the left field foul pole! The Mets have tied a club record with a ten-run inning! And they’ve taken the lead…eleven…to eight! Piazza drives in a run for a thirteenth straight game, and for the first time in twenty-one years the Mets have put up a ten-run inning. They’ve done it against the Atlanta Braves, they’ve come from seven runs down…here in the bottom of the eighth inning. They lead it eleven to eight. Incredible!
—Gary Cohen, 6/30/2000
by Greg Prince on 4 October 2005 9:04 am In 1992, Jimmy Breslin was grumpy. He was covering the Iowa caucuses and wandered into a candidate's headquarters. The volunteer at the front desk didn't know who he was. He harumphed that if Mario Cuomo were running for president, everybody in the room would know him.
And if things had gone about one game per month better, you'd be reading an intense, impassioned, incisive, insightful dissection of the National League Division Series right here, right now. But our candidate isn't on the ballot, so, like Breslin, we're just strangers from Queens covering a contest in which we don't really have a horse.
Therefore, it is with fleeting interest and shallow depth that Faith and Fear in Flushing presents its first annual visceral and uninformed playoff preview. I'll skip the National League because, quite frankly, I don't much care for any of the combatants, and concentrate on the circuit where our attention is forced to be focused.
Welcome, fellow NL'ers to the league where almost nobody wanted to integrate, where baseball hasn't been played as it's meant to be played since 1972 and where boatloads of Orioles and Blue Jays throw themselves at the feet of the most vile franchise in the history of professional sports after calling up and asking, “how many would you like against us in September and by what means would you like us to lose them to you?” Fortunately, there are three American League teams we can look to in the somewhat reasonable hope that one of them will rescue us from a fate worse than snow — a blizzard of goddamn ticker tape.
LOS ANGELES ANGELS OF ANAHEIM
Should We Care? We have to. The Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim are our de facto favorite team of all time starting Tuesday night and continuing for three to five games.
Have I Had A Spiritual Relationship With This Team, The Los Angeles Angels? Yes. As mentioned here from time to time, the Angels are my nominal favorite American League team, attributable to two events. The first game I ever saw at Yankee Stadium (after my dad took my tiny hand in his enormous mitt and secured us box seats behind home plate through his friends in the music business and Gus Mauch gave my tiny body a rubdown after which Mickey Mantle autographed my prepubescent coccyx…oh wait, that's Billy Crystal's life story) featured the Angels bashing the Yankees in 1986. And in October 2002, the Angels sent the Yankees home quicker than any post-season opponent since the 1980 Kansas City Royals. No matter how stupid their name, the Los Anaheims of Angel won my lifelong affection with that series.
Have I Been Where The Angels Play? Yes. I visited what was then Anaheim Stadium in 1996, before it was shrunken and faux-beautified. It reminded me of Shea but without the spit. I considered both qualities a plus. I took a picture of Stephanie with the Angels' bearlike mascot, genEric.
Have I Worn An Angels Cap? Yes. In 1986, I bought an adjustable mesh model at (genuflection alert!) The Stadium and wore it at (genuflection alert!) The Stadium without consequence. Yankee fans were pretty well beat down that year. I brought it out of mothballs in 2002. That's just an expression. There are no moths in this house.
Metigating Factors? The Angels beat us two of three in June but the one we beat them was quite possibly the best game the Mets played in 2005, a.k.a. The Marlon Anderson Game. Vladimir Guerrero, not Shane Spencer and Karim Garcia, was supposed to be our rightfielder in 2004, but that's all right for now because he's where he can do us some good. The ex-Mets on the '02 world champions, Alex Ochoa and Kevin Appier, are long gone. I don't think we have any reformed Mets in Anaheim at the moment. I'm a little annoyed that Chone Figgins edged Jose Reyes for the Major League stolen base crown but Chone Figgins is one of my favorite players in the American League to the extent that I keep such a list. It's pretty much him and Papi. That's the list. They stuck us with Fregosi, but 2002 wiped away that sin. Who did we trade to get him anyway?
Can They Do What We Need Them To Do? Knowledgeless afternoon radio host, national spokesperson for the unabashedly ignorant and vocal Yankee propagandist Mike Francesa fears the Angels most of all. This is the same media powerhouse who a week ago was pretty much guaranteeing the White Sox couldn't beat the Indians because the Indians needed those games and the White Sox would have nothing to play for. The White Sox swept the Indians. Despite that, the Angels can beat the Yankees. It is what our world has come down to. That and addressing Get Well & Get Lost cards to Braden Looper.
BOSTON RED SOX
Should We Care? It's hard not to. The Red Sox are, after all, one half of the greatest rivalry ever. Ya got that? It's the greatest rivalry EVER. It's better than the Giants and the Dodgers even if the Giants and Dodgers have been going at it relatively evenly for more than a century. It's better than the French and the English, who fought a mere Hundred Years' War with a North American rematch in the 1750s. It's better than Pringles, which are stackable, and those bagged chips that are always broken and greasy, according to the Pringles commercials. The Red Sox and Yankees have been going at it tooth and nail, mano-a-mano, eyeball to eyeball as perfectly matched opponents since 2003. Now that's a rivalry.
Have I Had A Spiritual Relationship With This Team, The Boston Red Sox? Yes. In the summer of 1978, with the Mets on administrative leave, I picked up the cause of the Boston Red Sox in my little nook of Long Island. I became known to people I was just meeting for the first time as That Red Sox Fan. I was very cocky, very confident. Obviously, I read the bandwagon wrong. Absconded with to a Catskills resort on October 2, 1978 for a Rosh Hashanah weekend special, I walked by a group of Yankee fans watching the one-game playoff on a TV in the lobby while I was wearing my Red Sox cap. One of them pointed me out and I gave them the finger. So there's a little something there that goes beyond mere enemy-of-my-enemy stuff. 1986 kind of obliterated that, but I bled with them in 2003 and reveled in them in 2004. It smacked of frontrunning, but it was sincere frontrunning (besides, what's October for but to frontrun?).
Have I Been Where The Red Sox Play? Twice. The first game I ever saw that wasn't at Shea was at Fenway in 1985. It was me and Joel and Joel's friend Rich, White Sox at Red Sox. Tom Seaver pitched for the White Sox, which put me in a bind, finally getting to see a team I had always liked versus a pitcher I had always loved. I reluctantly went with the visitors. Back then, there were tolls every five miles on the Connecticut Turnpike. So tired had I become of tossing quarters into the machines that at one stop, I faked the toss and sped off. No authority chased me, but Rich wondered why I bothered with the fake. Fourteen years later, Stephanie and I saw the same two teams. Pedro pitched for the home side. The Red Sox scored 17 runs on his behalf. A townie woman behind me kept cursing out Lou Merloni anyway. What's not to love?
Have I Worn A Red Sox Cap? That was part and parcel of my 1978 identity. I was overjoyed that you could actually find a Red Sox cap in New York for purchase. It was at Herman's in Roosevelt Field. It was five bucks. I think it cost me a letter grade in social studies. The cap found its way to the top of our living room television last October. I refused to wear it, though. I wore it in 1978 and you see how well that went.
Metigating Factors? Olerud right now. Any team with John Olerud is to be respected and quite possibly revered, unless it's the Yankees (though Oly was thoughtful enough to come up with an oweee at a most opportune moment). Last year erased the offense I took that Red Sox fans rooted against the Mets in 1986. We got the Mookie ground ball back and Ken Burns could take a hike. When I visited a friend in Boston in the spring of '87, I ducked into a bar where some guys were watching the Mets and the Expos in the game of the week. “Who's winning?” I asked. “Who cares?” I was told. “It's only the Mets.” Ahhhh…to be ruefully dismissed with a purpose. Mo Vaughn was a Red Sock before he was an Angel before he was a Met. I hold all three teams responsible. Manny Ramirez won't be traded to us this week. One of our intermittent but valued commenters is a Red Sox fan. There is common ground to be had.
Can They Do What We Need Them To Do? Of course they can. But there's the possibility they won't. Either way, Red Sox-Yankees III is a perilous and numbing possibility. Too many demented Bill Gallo cartoons (“Boston? Derek's BEAN there and WON that!”) can come of it. I wish them the best if push comes to evil, and I wish them well in any event.
CHICAGO WHITE SOX
Should We Care? Only in theory. The last World Series they won came at the expense of the New York Giants, so it's been a while. Their cult keeps quiet, which is to their credit. A White Sox championship would serve to make the Cubs look even more ridiculous. Do we not like that? This is a team stocked with players who mostly haven't bothered to make their identities known to me. They knocked out the slightly less anonymous Cleveland Indians after being written off from first place, so something tells me they're not dead yet.
Have I Had A Spiritual Relationship With This Team, The Chicago White Sox? A little. I've always liked the way they're not the Cubs. They did have the good taste to pluck Seaver from us in '84 (less mad at them than the Blue Jays for signing Dennis Lamp from the White Sox, thus allowing Chicago to pick from the short-lived compensation pool, the one Cashen flung Seaver into so carelessly). Every time they're in the playoffs, they're new blood and I almost always root for new blood. But they never circulate for very long, so I've never gotten to know them well.
Have I Been Where The White Sox Play? Yes. On my first business trip to Chicago, I had it in mind to get to Wrigley Field, but the timing didn't work for me and they were a sizzling hot ticket. As it happened, the Sox were at home that same week, so I skipped the NutraSweet party at which I was supposed to be gladhanding and hopped into a cab at my hotel. “Comiskey Park,” I said. The driver asked me if I was a sportswriter. I get the feeling very few guests went out of their way to find the South Side of Chicago. But boy am I glad I did. Plenty of good seats available. I loved Comiskey Park, the original Comiskey Park, then in its second-to-last year of existence. The place just reeked of baseball with the green and the arches and the history (and the fuh-GLAY-vin). It became my favorite ballpark ever. The driver had warned me that cabs didn't idle outside Comiskey, so I left the game early to ensure I could call a taxi and not be stranded there alone. Had to wait a couple of innings for one to arrive. I don't think it was mine, but I commandeered it. Comiskey was immortalized in the wonderful Baseball Palace of the World by Douglas Bukowski, a serious fan's diary of the joint's final season. The author promised to never step inside the next place to call itself Comiskey, a temptation I gave into twice in 1994 and 1999. It was depressing the first time given what had stood across the street for 80 years. The second time wasn't so bad. I nabbed my only foul ball ever, off the bat of Carlos Lee, for whom I carried a torch until this season when he started kicking the crap out of the Mets.
Have I Worn a White Sox Cap? One of the things that I loved about Comiskey was its intimacy, the way the upper deck wasn’t cantilevered all the way back to the 'burbs. The thing I (and actual White Sox fans) hated about the second Comiskey when it opened was the way the upper deck reached for the clouds. Stephanie and I not only had very high, very steep seats on a sold-out Sunday afternoon, but it was hot-hot-hot, and Stephanie forgot to pack any headwear. So I was compelled to spend 15 bucks on a white White Sox cap with black pinstripes. She wore it that day, I wore it once in a while thereafter. I used to be into wearing caps from other teams just for the hell of it. I have a hard time doing that now with a clear conscience.
Metigating Factors? Timo Perez and Carl Everett are on this team, right? Good luck, Ozzie.
Can They Do What We Need Them To Do? Should it come down to White Sox-Yankees, well, that would be kind of disappointing because I'd hate to think the Angels can't do what we need them to do. But these Sox played those Skanks pretty well this year. I'm always wary of writing off teams the likes of Mike Francesa write off. On the other hand, I don't trust teams that rely on ex-Yankees like Orlando Hernandez and Jose Contreras. It's the same reason I don't put a lot of stock into David Wells with the Red Sox. Jim Leyritz made like he was the king of San Diego in 1998 and it didn't help the cause greater than ourselves one bit.
TEXAS RANGERS
What The Fuck Are They Doing Here? Though not a playoff team and not even a recent Yankee opponent, Joe Torre and Alex Rodriguez had the gall to blame Buck Showalter for pulling several of his regulars from the Rangers' last game against the Angels. By not beating the Angels, the Rangers, to Yankee logic, were responsible for taking away the Yankees' home-field advantage on Sunday. Holy fucking shit. This organization knows no shame. The Yankees, I mean. The Rangers told Kenny Rogers to get lost. They're OK by me.
PREDICTION
Yankees Suck. They shouldn't be here but they are. Yankees Suck. They will be tough. Yankees Suck. None of these four teams is overwhelming. Yankees Suck. I sure as hell hope the Angels beat them in the first round. Yankees Suck. If they don't, I sure as hell hope the Red Sox or the White Sox beat them in the ALCS. Yankees Suck. If that doesn't happen, there's a TBD National League team that will become my new favorite team of all time. Yankees Suck.
An easily overlooked October institution celebrates its tenth anniversary starting this afternoon. Toast the LDS at Gotham Baseball.
by Greg Prince on 3 October 2005 7:37 am My birthday is December 31. I tell you that because I have a real problem with year-in-review features. Everybody from the World Almanac to Newsweek to Entertainment Tonight produces those looks back at “the year” in advance of the actual year ending. It's understandable, I suppose, given deadlines and the holidays and a belief that nobody will want to wait until the second week of January for what is by definition old news.
The Soviets invaded Afghanistan in the last week of 1979, but no review of 1979 that was published in 1979 had that information. The tsunami that blasted Indonesia in the last week of 2004 came after the 2004-in-review packages were put to bed. I was born on the last day of 1962, and though I hope I wasn't such a disaster, I know I didn't rate a mention in any where-were-you-in-'62?s.
It's within that vein of personal discontent that I refuse to overlook the generally overlooked final sixth of the baseball season. Tomorrow come the Long Season Awards, encompassing the scope of all 162 games the Mets played this year. Today, we do what we do every time a sixth of the season is completed.
We overreact to what we've just seen, which in this case is a 13-13 (.500) fraction of 2005.
This is how we covered this sort of thing previously:
First Sixth: 12-13 (.480)
Second Sixth: 16-13 (.551)
Third Sixth: 12-15 (.444)
Fourth Sixth: 14-13 (.519)
Fifth Sixth: 16-12 (.571)
And this is how we cover it now:
Five For The Road
1. Tom Glavine: The multiple Cy Young winner who decided to pitch all the way to the end.
2. Aaron Heilman: The ninth inning is right this way.
3. Juan Padilla: You go before Aaron.
4. Jose Reyes: This guy is injury-proof.
5. David Wright: Funny, he didn't look tired.
Five Who Should Pack It In
1. Braden Looper: Never mind the blown saves. Think about his bouts with logic.
2. Jose Offerman: Running from first to second is the best route to get to second.
3. Danny Graves: What is the color of futility? Faded Red.
4. Shingo Takatsu: Funk never sounded so tinny.
5. Kaz Matsui: Mark FRAGILE.
Where Did It All Go Wrong?
1. Ryan Langerhans
2. Sleepful in St. Louis
3. Benson Hedges (should I do something about my shoulder or should I listen to Loop?)
4. Let's pitch to Vinny Castilla instead of Keith Osik!
5. Starting at wide receiver, Victor Diaz (he sure wasn't playing right)
Where Did It All Get Better?
1. Pedro! Pedro! There'd be a third Pedro! but he's saving himself
2. Cairo Comes Alive
3. Jakey Gets Back in the Buggy
4. Roberto Hernandez gets better if older
5. Beltran Bests Baerga, Bell
Our Impact On The Way Things Are: N.L.
1. The Phillies are staying home this week
2. The Braves could set their rotation
3. The Cardinals can feel confident
4. The Marlins are in shambles
5. Frank Robinson is even crankier
Our Impact On The Way Things Are: A.L.
1. Angels 2-1 over us allows them to tie Yankees, thus gaining home field
2. Yankees 3-3 against us keeps them from topping Angels, thus losing home field
3. Red Sox stretch run reinforced by John Olerud instead of Doug Mientkiewicz
4. Timo Perez didn't get thrown out on a near home run in White Sox' clincher as far as I know
5. Indians failed to pawn off a used-up second baseman on us and missed the playoffs
If You Blinked, You Missed Them
1. Anderson Hernandez's one hit
2. Mike DiFelice's second hit
3. Howard Johnson coaching first base
4. SNY's first commercial
5. Trachsel, Zambrano and Seo lowering their market values
What's Different From One Year Ago?
1. We were playing with zeal, not just playing Zeile
2. There's no lingering sentiment for former closers
3. Cliff Floyd is running, not sitting
4. We're not looking for a new manager
5. A dozen wins
31 Personal Impressions Stemming From Mike Piazza's Final Game
1. I dithered over whether to wear my PIAZZA 31 shirt because two of the last times I wore it, the Northeast was enveloped by a blackout and I was laid off
2. I wore it for the first time since April 12, 2004 anyway and it felt very comfortable
3. As I pulled it on, the lyrics playing on the bathroom radio were “it was long ago and it was far away and it was so much better than it is today”
4. When Mike Piazza was in his prime, it was indeed so much better than it is today
5. Still, if this was really it, better that it came with the Mets on an upswing as opposed to 2002, 2003 or 2004
6. As I walked to Gate C, I wondered whatever happened to that kid who was on TV all the time in 1999, the kid who had the Piazza facial hair drawn on; is he still a Mets fan?
7. When the lineups were posted and I saw 31 C was batting cleanup, I broke out into a big grin
8. I'd hoped his original music, “Voodoo Child” by Jimi Hendrix, would accompany his first at-bat, and it did
9. The announced attendance of 47,000 was probably a little high versus reality, but I was thrilled that there weren't a ton of empty seats, that Mets fans really did get it
10. Cal Ripken had his midgame jog around the perimeter of Camden Yards when he broke Lou Gehrig's record, but I don't remember an in-game ceremony honoring a player who wasn't doing anything except finishing out his contract
11. Mike seemed so stunned that at the scale of reception he received that it looked like he was trying to calm the crowd the way Springsteen might tell his audience to sit down after it stood for the first three songs
12. I wondered how long the umps would let it go on; they let it go on a pretty long time
13. I didn't see the logic in not giving the man one final at-bat
14. I had turned my cap around during his 7th inning ceremony to honor his catching, but turned it back to its front when he left; I feel no need to honor Mike DiFelice
15. I loved the heads-up fan who taped hand-drawn retired-number discs to the facing of the upper deck in far left field and included 37, 14, 41, 42 (in red, yet) and 31
16. The usual post-game, year-end video tribute to the season just past, including images of the beloved Pedro Martinez, lost its audience as soon as Mike stepped out of the dugout to do an interview
17. I'm disgusted that mere early-season football games took precedence over the departure of a New York sports icon on the local news
18. I'm disgusted that New York Giants football in week four got dibs on the flagship station of the New York Mets on such a historic day for the franchise
19. I loved what I could hear of the awesome montage of Piazza radio calls on Mets Extra when I arrived at Woodside, but it was extra staticky because it was on WBBR
20. The tenor of the Sunday papers' farewell stories didn't quite ring true given their overdoing the “he made the Mets matter” angle — the Mets always mattered to Mets fans whether the media got it or not
21. Mike Piazza undeniably made the Mets better, but in his first season with the team, they had the exact same record as they did the year before
22. The post-9/11 homer got the most play in how Piazza was remembered, but I've always been ambivalent about it because I never bought that anybody who lost somebody could be lifted by an eighth-inning home run, no matter how swell it was on all counts
23. I decided my favorite Piazza homer will always be the one off Terry Mulholland on June 30, 2000; it was such an unlikely inning yet he was such the obvious candidate to do what he did
24. I decided my second-favorite Piazza homer is the one off Smoltz in the NLCS. I like to call it his Cobra shot, as in Smoltz was the disease and Mike was the cure.
25. I decided my third-favorite Piazza homer is a tie between the Billy Wagner shot in 1998 (when I felt compelled to declare Mike “the greatest man who has ever lived”) and the moonshot off of Ramiro Mendoza in the Matt Franco game, which unleashed the fury of furies in me toward any and all Yankee fans in my section that afternoon — if somebody had wanted to fight, I swear I would've fought; Mike had my back
26. I've never stopped being amazed that Mike loves to catch, that he didn't look at first base as a Get Out of Pain Free card
27. My favorite Piazza non-homer moment was when he dove over the rail at Dodger Stadium to catch a foul ball in 2000 and he came up with the ball even after his helmeted head hit concrete
28. I chanted ONE MORE YEAR! with the rest of the vocal majority, but I just don't see it; if there were to be one more year, why was there such a fuss on the last day of the season?
29. My train home was delayed because somebody stumbled and fell getting off at Lynbrook
30. Driving home from the station, I discovered a roadblock near my home because a power line fell a few hundred yards from where I live, but the police (after briefly making fun of the Mets) let me pass without incident
31. Yet a bad thing did happen to me after wearing PIAZZA 31. Mike Piazza stopped playing for us. The shirt goes back into retirement pending his next appearance at Shea.
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