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ABOUT US
Faith and Fear in Flushing made its debut on Feb. 16, 2005, the brainchild of two longtime friends and lifelong Met fans.
Greg Prince discovered the Mets when he was 6, during the magical summer of 1969. He is a Long Island-based writer, editor and communications consultant. Contact him here.
Jason Fry is a Brooklyn writer whose first memories include his mom leaping up and down cheering for Rusty Staub. Check out his other writing here.
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by Greg Prince on 16 September 2005 9:07 am This is the exciting conclusion of 1990. Part I appears in a previous post.
We hung and we clung and still had a shot at the top rung as August wound down. The Mets went out and got the damn Tommy Herr for the stretch drive. A catcher named Charlie O’Brien, too (Mackey Sasser hadn’t been the same since absorbing a hard slide from Jim Presley in Atlanta). For September, the Mets recalled a hot pitching prospect named Julio Valera. Buddy immediately placed him in the rotation, taking Ron Darling’s spot. Ron Darling threw some big games for us in the ’80s, but this was a new day. The callup won his first start.
The era of the Julio Valera Mets had begun. At the moment it happened, it seemed like a good thing.
This was my first pennant race with Stephanie. Slowly she was drawn into my baseball rhythms and found out what it meant to live with all that pressure. We moved into first place on Labor Day, but the next night, the Mets went down 1-0 in St. Louis. So much for being in first place after Labor Day. When that game ended, I made a horrible noise in the living room that brought her rushing in from the bedroom.
“What’s the matter?”
“Lee Smith struck out HoJo. We lost. DAMN!”
Stephanie got used to my noises.
This was also my first pennant race without my mother, at least in the modern era. She was gone but my dad was still in Long Beach. Just because the three of us couldn’t watch games together anymore didn’t mean the two of us couldn’t.
Or so I thought. Still popping Indocin in early September, I drove over to his house to watch a crucial showdown between the Mets and the Pirates. When the season began, I would’ve called it my house and I wouldn’t have felt so strange watching this game. Mom and Dad and I watched all the big ones together in ’85 and ’86 and ’87 and ’88 and what few big ones there were to watch in ’89.
In ’90, I needn’t have bothered. When my mother died, so did my dad’s interest in baseball, practically all at once. He barely looked up from his Wall Street Journal or at the game from Pittsburgh. I didn’t go over to his house for baseball after that. He sold it the following May.
I got used to Dad’s obliviousness. And my mom’s absence, though the fact that she was missing a pennant race bugged me. I found myself one morning before work dropping off a video at Blockbuster. My mind was on the Mets, per usual, and it wandered to John Franco, the new closer. Mom would’ve recognized him as the guy who was always getting us out when he was with the Reds. She didn’t much care for him then. Neither did I. I still didn’t have much use for his suddenly erratic ways (while Randy Myers became a Nasty Boy for first-place Cincinnati), but there was something about him I couldn’t help but root for. Probably that he was from Brooklyn, like my mother. Sitting in that parking lot, I was struck by one thought: Mom would’ve liked John Franco on the Mets.
I cried for a minute and then drove off to the beverage magazine.
The Mets played just well enough to stick near the Pirates so that they still had a reasonable chance when Pittsburgh came to Shea in mid-September for two must-games. This was this year’s version of the Mets-Cardinal showdowns with St. Louis in ’85 and ’87. Actually, since those didn’t go so well, I hoped they were something better.
They were. For a pair of nights in the middle of September, Shea was bursting at the seams and delirious. So was David Cone. He was far-removed from his blunder in Atlanta our first night in the apartment. This was September, and David Cone was a September pitcher. He struck out Andy Van Slyke to end the first and bullrushed the home dugout. He high-fived everybody in sight. In the bottom of the inning, Magadan (.328, best Met average since Cleon Jones; knowing that won me a Mets Extra trivia quiz) doubled home Jefferies and Keith Miller. Two runs were all our nutjob with the Laredo motion needed. David Cone pitched a three-hit complete game with eight strikeouts. Mets won 2-1 and closed in on the Pirates.
The next night, I didn’t get home in time to watch from the beginning. So it was in my 1981 burnt orange Toyota Corolla, barreling west on Atlantic Avenue in Freeport, that Gary Cohen let me know Darryl Strawberry had sent one soaring off Doug Drabek and over the right field fence. Outta here! Three-run homer! Two-zip deficit now a 3-2 lead in the fourth. Bedlam filled my tinny speakers. I honked my horn and high-fived my steering wheel the way Cone had slapped his teammates’ hands the night before. (All at once, my wrist felt fine.)
It was confirmation, as if we needed any, that Darryl was worth the Jose Canseco-type money he’d been demanding all summer, that Frank Cashen would look quite the fool to let a 28-year-old, left-handed slugger (37 HRs, 108 RBIs) who runs well, drips charisma and comes through in games like this take a free-agent hike.
The Mets added another run and handed Doc Gooden a 4-2 lead. He wasn’t as dominant as Cone, but Gooden was — as every other back-page headline since 1984 had blared — good enough. In the eighth, Doc gave way to Franco who didn’t blow it. Mets won 6-3. We were now 1-1/2 back with 19 to play, including those three to finish the season in Pittsburgh. It’s the Pirates who would be chasing us by then.
Didn’t happen. Doc kept up his part of the bargain. He wound up 19-7, perhaps his bravest year. But Buddy couldn’t manage. Viola unraveled down the stretch and Franco was no help. Junior Noboa of the Expos reached him for a deadly RBI one night. Junior Noboa! Everybody stopped hitting. The Expos in particular killed us. We lost a doubleheader to them when their starting pitchers were Brian Barnes and Chris Nabholz. Brian Barnes! Chris Nabholz! Darryl claimed a bad back. McReynolds, growing more lifeless and joyless by the day, was also hurting. One night late in the race, the starting leftfielder was Keith Miller and the starting rightfielder was Pat Tabler, the bases-loaded but little else guy. They weren’t the answer. Julio Valera wasn’t the answer. Nor was Tommy Herr who never stopped being a Cardinal.
Charlie O’Brien was just one of many to not man his position satisfactorily. The Mets went through seven catchers in 1990. Merrrrcado was mellifluous but otherwise unmemorable. Mackey got more and more confused, the mound as far away as Alabama in his mind. Dave Liddell got one at-bat, one hit and disappeared, though not as mysteriously as Barry Lyons. He was thrown overboard late in the Johnson administration and was never heard from again. Randy Hundley’s son Todd had a cup of coffee before being shipped back to Jackson. Alex Treviño alighted briefly without warning or impact like a mirage from the early ’80s. Ron Hodges didn’t but probably could have. The Mets never did get around to replacing Gary Carter that year.
There were no easy answers, except perhaps that I had to change the way I rooted. Despite the Mets’ perennial contention and my previously unshakable confidence, we were still chasing the Pirates. I had been cocky as recently as 1988 when I was sure the Mets would beat Orel Hershiser and the Dodgers in the playoffs. That sense of Mets-in-first Destiny had turned shaky ever since. By September ’90 — after Noboa, after Barnes, after Nabholz, amidst Valera — my default position shifted, at last, from chest-beating bravado to karma-tending humility. The baseball gods became my prime constituency. Appeasing them would become my daily burden.
Perhaps this change of sensibility was working. They were giving me a break. Despite their foibles, the Mets were somehow still breathing with a week to go. They were four out with four to play, the last three scheduled for Pittsburgh. If they could win their final Sunday game at Shea (the season ended in mid-week because everything was pushed back by that spring lockout) and the Pirates lost, the Mets could still win three in a row and force a playoff. It wasn’t much, but it was hope.
Beverage obligations being what they were, I would have to find out second-hand. I was due in San Francisco for a meeting of beer wholesalers. I left Stephanie instructions to follow the action and have a score ready for me when I landed.
As soon as my captain turned off the fasten seatbelt sign, I hustled off the plane, marched to a pay phone and called my fiancée. Stephanie, who via my yelps of victory and groans of defeat, had been truly indoctrinated into the franchise in earnest, had her report ready.
“They lost.”
And even if they hadn’t, the Pirates of Bonds and Bonilla (I wondered if we could ever get one of them) won. They were the division champs. We finished 91-71, four games out, second place. Fifth time in seven years we were the runner-up.
Unlike the Mets, Stephanie came through like a champ at the end of September. Not only did she track the score for me, but she taped “Mets Extra” for me if I wanted that, too. As Chuck (a.k.a. Carlos) said many times on her behalf, “¡Que mujer!”.
Losing to the Pirates hurt, but there was always 1991. The Mets were good every year, right? Besides, it was life-affirming to have someone to share the ups and downs and everything else with day after night after day. I couldn’t say that before 1990, but now I could.
Maybe it was good karma that got me into the lobby of that hotel with the two names in 1987. Maybe it was just dumb luck. Whatever it was, I gladly took it and ran with it. I’d have preferred a woman I loved who loved me coming along in conjunction with a first-place finish, but one miracle at a time.
To console me over not winning the East, Stephanie bought me a trinket, a tiny windup baseball with feet and a Mets cap. Wind him up and he walked deliberately, not unlike Dave Magadan. As consolation prizes go, it was very sweet. Unfortunately, she was also the bearer of more bad Mets news. One Friday morning in November, she awoke me with a bulletin: Darryl Strawberry, our biggest boy of summer, was going west. He had signed with the Dodgers.
Without a word, I trudged out into the foyer of our apartment, wound up my toy and allowed it to walk off the edge of its flat surface and onto the floor. Then I went back to bed to sulk.
Stephanie didn’t think that was silly at all.
The year was 1990, 15 years ago.
I was 27.
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) and 1985 (The Exciting Conclusion). Next stop: 1995.
by Greg Prince on 16 September 2005 6:32 am Another chance to disapprove
Remember when our biggest problem was Victor Diaz taking an extra base with a 17-run lead? Me neither. It's 15 of 18 following Thursday's matinee performance. 15 of 18 what need not be specified. Like Oprah requires no last name (or Sondheim requires no first), our losing is that beloved a recognized national institution. But it doesn't make the Mets good lunchtime company.
Another brilliant zinger
Remember when Victor Diaz pulled out September games with two outs in the bottom of what appeared to be the final inning? Me neither. A year ago, the kid who wore 50 hit a famous bottom-of-the-ninth home run to ruin the afternoon of all those Cubs fans who invaded Shea for a Saturday. One of the interlopers was a lovely man named Frank. Frank treated me to the game, one his Cubs desperately needed, one that he was sorry he traveled all the way up from Washington to witness after Craig Brazell finished it off. Since then, he's bought Nationals' season tickets. Got an e-mail from him Thursday afternoon, moments after Diaz — now displaying 20 on his front and back — struck out to end our loss. It was titled, “He was better at number 50.” (Too'Shea, Frank. Too'Shea.)
Another reason not to move
Remember when there was hope upon the land and the worst part about going to a Mets game was cramming onto the 7 afterwards? Me neither. I'm guessing they could've piled all of Thursday's attendees into one car and still been able to comfortably make all local stops to Junction Blvd. The Mets Express has stalled, and another hundred people just got off of the train.
Another vodka stinger
I'll drink to that.
by Jason Fry on 15 September 2005 7:00 pm Last night: Ninth inning, two outs, two strikes, the Giants up 4-2 on the Padres. One more strike, and they'll sweep San Diego. They'll be only four out with Barry Bonds back in the lineup. Wheeee! Dare to dream, San Francisco!
Except the closer gave up a two-run double to Sean Burroughs. Fella by the name of Benitez. Pads won in 10.
With Giants fans feeling a bit raw today, we thought we'd pass along this handy letter. Fill it out and email it (or print it and snail-mail it, if you're feeling retro) to that Giants fan of your acquaintance who needs to know he or she isn't alone. Because around these parts we're as much about Helping and Healing as we are about Faith and Fear. Kumbaya, everybody!
Dear [name of Giants fan],
On behalf of our hundreds of thousands of members, let me welcome you to the Armando Benitez Survivors Support Group. We have a host of services available to help you through this difficult period in your life.
Here at ABSS we understand what you're going through. Whether you're an avid fan of real-life baseball or just one of those chalk-white obsessives who tinkers endlessly with a fantasy roster, Armando Benitez can be a powerful, destructive force in one's life. We understand the anguish of watching triumph turn to tragedy with a single brainless heave of a ball. We know the false security one gets from seeing unimportant games saved and big ones go down the tubes, and how naked and alone one feels when this false security is stripped away. We understand the terror of knowing one's happiness and/or statistics are in the hands of a volatile man-child with an uncanny ability to hear every taunt from the crowd and a propensity for off-field problems, including shacking up with self-described witches who put hexes on him.
At ABSS we pride ourselves on being nonjudgmental. We too have been lulled by single, never-to-be-repeated seasons of glittery stats and saves piled up during garbage time. We too were once seduced by 98-mph fastballs and the whisperings of the bloated tempter. We feel your pain, and we're here to make it OK.
We understand that you may be crying out, “How could I have been so blind?” We know you are likely regretting your cavalier dismissal of our members' warnings. That's OK — this is the first day of the rest of your life, [name of Giants fan]. You'll find that as with so many things, acceptance is the first station on the path to recovery. So until you and some of our hundreds of thousands of other members can join hands at one of our nightly meetings, please consider our cyberhands joined with yours in fellowship and understanding. It's OK. You're among friends now. Let it out.
Yours in ulceration and eventual recovery,
[Your Name]
New York City Chapter, ABSS
Armando-free since July 16, 2003
P.S. Please note that ABSS has no Miami chapter. See “single, never-to-be-repeated seasons of glittery stats” above.
P.P.S. Want Looper?
by Greg Prince on 15 September 2005 8:27 am Your movie this week stars nobody and features nothing.
—Pearl Forrester, Mystery Science Theater 3000
The Mets are now little more than time chasers. I got to Shea at some point Wednesday night and some three hours later I left. I returned home from whence I started when it was over. Baseball was apparently played.
But I was there. This, I told my companion, who freely admitted there was no way he'd be there without my advance ticket buy (made when we eyed this as one of dozens of potential showdowns for the…nah, don't even say it), is what we will look back on next year, or perhaps the year after that, or some distant year beyond that one, when the Mets are titlebound. “Yeah, remember that game against the Nationals in September '05, how we went and there was nobody there and the Mets lost? Yeah.”
Yeah.
Me, my buddy Dan and 24,047 other lost souls have an alibi as to where we were on September 14. If we're suspected of any crime, we can honestly plead insanity.
24,049 was the announced attendance. I'd say a good 12,025 of our fellow ducatclutchers decided to cut out the middleman in order to cash in the “Get a Sub With Your Stub” offer on the back of the ticket. Think about it: If somebody bought a $5 upper deck jobbie and, instead of using it, took it directly to Subway to buy any 6″ Sub at regular price and receive a second Sub of equal or lesser price FREE with the purchase of any 21 oz. drink, that person came out ahead.
Like the Nationals. Again.
Nobody cheered. Nobody booed. Nobody except Jose Guillen reacted to anything. Three Nationals converged on a pop fly and none bothered to catch it. They were rewarded with a double play grounder.
And a win. Again.
Even the Pepsi Picnic Area, on a “bring your empty can, get in for free” Wednesday, looked unpopulated.
“Hey, if ya finish that soda now, you can see a Mets game for free!”
“Nah, that's OK. I'm enjoying it and don't want to tarnish my memory of it with an unpleasant association. Plus I'd really like to get my nickel back. I will take one of those Subs though.”
Is this even the same season we started in April? I don't much care for 2005 Version 2.0. I liked the prototype much better.
To be fair, Dan and I had a marvelous time in very reasonable weather. Until recently he worked a night shift so this evening was three years in the making. (The Mets apparently no longer work nights.) We agreed that going to an implications-free baseball game that turned into the 14th loss in 17 games was better than staring into space come November and wishing we had such a diversion.
But of course the Mets suck, so let's not give them a free pass for providing green grass and fertile topics of conversation. Dan and I decided we could've done this in a bar, but then we'd have to keep badgering the bartender to turn the channel to the Mets game. And you know he wouldn't.
Did you know that the Mets haven't won two in a row in three weeks?
Did you know that no Mets team has ever been over .500 as late as 139 games into a season as this one was and finished under .500 as this one seems determined to do? For that matter, no Mets team has been anything like eight games over in late August only to finish — lemme check to see where they are right now — a hundred games under.
Did you know The Log hates when I inflict games like this one on it? I'm now 9-7 for the year with three more visits to the periodontist…I mean Shea scheduled. This was Lifetime Regular Season Game At Shea No. 298 for me. It was my goal to get to No. 300 in 2005 which is what I'd be collecting on Closing Day if not for my adding this one. Now The Log is angry that, barring rain, I will finish with an odd number for the season and may punish me by making me go 9-10 which would piss me off in ways that the Omaha Leon Brown card did you. Plus, at No. 301, I'll wind up commencing a whole new page at the end of a season, something The Log considers bad form. The Log can get very cranky and may force me to fit in an extra Rockies game if I'm not good to it this weekend.
Maybe the baseball gods are exacting a toll on me for getting sick twice this season when I held tickets for games that turned into wins but couldn't go. Dan, however, is probably right when he says the baseball gods aren't really paying attention to the Mets these nights.
Why should they be any different from the rest of us?
by Jason Fry on 14 September 2005 10:09 pm From John Harper in the Daily News today:
Because Hernandez is not on the 40-man roster, Mets' brass apparently was debating the idea of releasing one of their players to open a spot for him.
“We haven't decided what we're going to do yet,” assistant GM Jim Duquette said. “We're still talking about it.”
To quote those water ballerinas from an old AFLAC duck ad that last year's Mets broadcasts rammed into my cerebellum, never to be removed: Huh? Wha? Come again?
How about releasing Jose Offerman, who was useless even before performing his cranial-anal docking maneuver at a crucial point in last night's game? How about Gerald Williams, about whom no more needs be said? If we're worried about a glut of middle infielders, why not send Miguel Cairo packing? (Heck, he'd probably get picked up by the Yankees and kiss Omar and Willie on his way out.) How about one of the pitching staff's failed experiments? Dae-Sung Koo's been a flop and the brass are pissed at him for refusing to warm up last month anyway — why not send him home early? 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? How about Kaz Ishii, solidly locked in at the bottom of any starting-pitching depth chart we could construct?
With the exception of Graves's utterly hypothetical option, none of these guys is signed for 2006. I can't imagine any of them would get us compensatory draft picks. None of them has any conceivable future with the Mets. (Of course, I said that last year about Ice Williams.)
Seriously, what am I missing? This doesn't seem like anything requiring some huddle o' suits. From my point of view, figuring out which 2005 Met to release is like figuring out which chucklehead political appointees to boot out of FEMA: Candidates aren't that hard to find.
by Greg Prince on 14 September 2005 4:49 pm The 2005 New York Mets, beloved Wild Card contender and object of irrational obsession to thousands, passed Tuesday evening.
They were 144 games old.
The cause of death was termed offensive futility exacerbated by an attack of executional ineptitude.
A coroner's report indicated there was little heart left at the end.
The 2005 New York Mets were best known for their sound starting pitching and a five-game winning streak late in life, most notably a pair of contests in Arizona in which they scored 32 runs.
“That's how I'd like to remember them,” said Mr. Met, self-identified “mascot” for the deceased. “Hitting and running and what not like they were really good at it. It seemed so unlike them but they seemed so happy.”
Mr. Met admitted he has a lot of thoughts rattling around in his head, “and there's room for lots more.”
The 2005 New York Mets gave new meaning to the term “.500 club,” a designation that seems appropriate in light of the deceased's wish to be cremated and scattered in 500 equal fragments over Citizens Bank Ballpark, Dolphins Stadium, Robert F. Kennedy Stadium and Minute Maid Park.
“They really wanted to be a part of the Wild Card race to the end,” said a National League source. “This way they'll be somewhere in the post-season.”
A viewing will be held at Wilpon & Son Funeral Home, 123-01 Roosevelt Ave., Flushing, September 14-22 and September 29-October 2. September 14, 15 and 29 are Value Viewing Dates.
“Come on out to Shea,” urged New York Mets eulogist Fran Healy, “and watch the Mets lie in state.”
by Greg Prince on 14 September 2005 5:01 am Rest easy, soul of Fred Merkle. New York baseball has a new, much more deservedly crowned Bonehead for all time. It's one thing not to advance from first to second on the winning base hit in an era when that was generally accepted practice. Bonehead Offerman has come up with a whole new interpretation of Section 7.00 of the rulebook.
Rule 7.13(j): A runner occupying first base is entitled to second base when the batter hits the ball safely into centerfield unless the runner's head is occupying 50.1% or more of the inner portion of his own ass.
It's not like Jose Offerman hadn't give us warning that with his help we'd be forever blowing ballgames. But back when he was making awful plays in the field, he was just being the Jose Offerman I'd heard about. Since then, I've come to if not respect him then at least ignore him.
But really. Thrown out at second on a single to center? I've seen Met baserunners (what other kind?) get picked off during intentional walks, but they at least had the excuse of getting distracted by a pretty moth or something. What was Offerman looking at? Doesn't the Players Association have a pretty bitchin' vision plan? Hasn't sitting in the first base dugout for almost three months allowed him the time to read every ad on the third base side of Shea? What else was there to watch but the ball whiz past the pitcher, the second baseman and the shortstop?
I shouldn't pick on Jose Offerman. This loss wasn't all his fault. Let's face it, when you're trotting out the likes of Wilson Delgado, Edwin Almonte and Pat Strange, you're bound to lose a lot more games at the end of the year than you're going to win. Therefore…uh, hold on…
Hello?
Yeah — what about them?
They're not?
You sure?
Really?
Wow, I couldn't tell the difference. Thanks for letting me know.
Correction: It only seems like Tuesday night's game included the likes of Wilson Delgado, Edwin Almonte and Pat Strange, all vagabond ghosts of Met fantastically futile finishes past. Sadly, the stunning conclusion to 2005 bears a little too much resemblance to the three that preceded it.
DEFINING LATE-SEASON SWOONS, 2002-PRESENT
2002: 3-17 (8/10-9/3)
2003: 4-19 (9/4-9/28)
2004: 2-19 (8/22-9/12)
2005: 3-13 (8/27-9/13)
SOURCES: Retrosheet; accursed memory
There's no telling where this could end.
If indeed it does.
While the Mets come up small, some players — one we love, one we don't — remain larger than life. Find out who they are at Gotham Baseball.
by Jason Fry on 14 September 2005 2:48 am I dunno, man, they look pretty undead to me.
Nothing like soothing a fan base that's not very forgiving in the first place by playing nine innings of pathetic, lead-ass baseball. The bottom of the 7th was particularly disgusting: terrible pitch selection by Jose Reyes, Jose Offerman managing to break back to first on a line-drive single up the middle and then jog to second to be forced out (leaving me making the Dallas Green face at the television), and then Carlos Beltran ensuring he'll continue to have “disappointing” surgically attached to him by once again trying to pull anything and everything. Then we had to prove we weren't one-suck ponies by putting together a ninth inning of typically wretched pitching by Braden Looper and a jaw-dropping error by usually reliable Ramon Castro. And if that's not enough, through in some typically strange/stubborn decisions by Willie: Why on earth was Reyes bunting? Why on earth would you throw Looper into a nest of lefties down only a run? (And by the way, I officially don't care if Looper's hurt. He wasn't that good when he was healthy.)
And why was Offerman even in the game? Why switch out Mike Jacobs for Chris Woodward? Enough of Offerman and Miguel Cairo — let the kids show us what they might have, instead of taking another look at useless veterans who should be released and spare parts for next year's bench. Where's Heath Bell? Royce Ring? Angel Pagan? Anderson Hernandez? Where's somebody you wouldn't be shocked to see as a 2007 Met? Omar, it's over. Willie, we're done. It sucks, but we've accepted it, so you can too. Please God, let's not have another Indian Summer of Ice Williams. Oh wait, we still have Ice Williams.
(Pause to bash forehead repeatedly against desk.)
I've seen enough Septembers unravel into playing out the string to be familiar with the emotional Stations of the Cross: anger, then disappointment, then a desperate clinging to what baseball there's left, because all too soon it's going to be bandwagon time and all too soon after that it's football and snow and other forms of depression. Please, you Mets, at least let me cling. I'm not asking for the wild card. I'm not even asking for .500. Just give me games it looks like you're interested in playing, and we'll call it even. Don't leave me seething during what little time we have left.
by Greg Prince on 12 September 2005 9:21 pm I just gandered a glance at today's papers and saw something about how we're going home and there's still time and we're only 5-1/2 out and nobody's pulled away and you never know…
Stop it. Sometimes you do know.
Even if it's just Pedro and the headline writers saying it, why must they do this to us? I realize games have to be played as if something larger is at stake, but just win a game and shut up and win another one. Stop fostering the myth that those crazy Mets are wacky enough to pull this thing off. If you truly wanted to pull this thing off, last week would've been a fabulous time to have started pulling.
I like hope as much as the next Mets fan, but they annihilated mine in Atlanta and entombed it in St. Louis. It's going to take more than one win following six losses to resuscitate hope.
Think the Mets are having a bad September? Well, they are, but somebody had one for the ages 97 years ago. Find out who at NY Sports Day.
by Jason Fry on 12 September 2005 3:00 am Watched the Mets finally beat, well, some of the St. Louis Cardinals today, and remembered how cruel baseball can be. No, it wasn't knowing that the season's done, we're cooked, etc., though that stank. It was the matter-of-fact way the calendar had turned to 2006. There were the Cardinals, resting up for October. There was the shocking sight of football, played for keeps when it's still 80 degrees out. (And a few innings after my initial outrage, I was hitting RECALL to see how the Saints were doing.) But mostly, there were the verb tenses. Like O'Brien and Seaver discussing Carlos Beltran hitting another home run for Pedro, and how that had been an early storyline of the season. Tom pointed out that's not such a bad deal, since it would work out to 35 or 36 home runs for the year. Dave acknowledged that but noted that it's not going to happen.
Hey, I thought, whaddya mean it's not gonna happen? Carlos just hit No. 15, so…oh, yeah. He's right. Shit.
'Twas the day of past tenses. Didn't make the playoffs. Failed to catch the Braves. Didn't justify his big contract. All suddenly inarguable, leaving us with nothing more than agate-type goals to arrive at, or to miss. Can Jose Reyes break the single-season mark for steals? Can David Wright beat Gilkey's doubles record? Can he drive in 100? Can Braden Looper retire a lefty in 2005? Can Piazza somehow hit 400 in our uniform? With the exception of the last question, which does hurt (particularly since the answer is “no”), the only sane response is: Who the hell cares?
Well, I care. And so do you. And so do 100,000 or so other souls, to varying degrees. But we all care in such a small-'c' way, compared with what we had to care about less than two weeks ago.
Remember? Ramon Castro smashed an Ugie Urbina slider over the fence for a 6-4 win and we were half a game out of the wild-card lead? Win the next day and we'd enter September as an if-the-season-ended-today playoff team? Yeah, that was August 30th. August 30, 2005, not 2002 or 1996 or 1971 or 1840, though it sure feels like one of those dates now. August 30th. Christ, that's a paycheck ago. It's still getting over a bad flu or a case of shin splints. It's the same fricking haircut.
What the hell happened to us? Look at the schedule and you might say doom actually arrived a bit earlier, when we got on a plane out of Phoenix and apparently left the bats behind. But still, the offensive slumbers of the San Francisco series would have been forgiven if we'd beaten the Phillies on August 31. We didn't, of course. We lost that game and have lost all but two of the ones since. How many games out of the wild card are we now? I don't know. How the hell can I not know when less than two weeks ago I could do the honors for the top five teams in the hunt?
It's not unfair — baseball's grimly and totally fair — but it sure is cruel. Twelve days ticked off the calendar and it's garbage time. Hell, we can't even have little victories: No sooner do we get Piazza back to continue his last hurrah, even if it's just for sentimental reasons now, then he gets knocked out of the lineup by a deranged reliever.
Twelve days. Twelve fucking days turned summer into winter. What the hell happened to us?
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