The first day of spring training went pretty much as I thought it would: After an inning I paid almost no attention (though being at work ensured I couldn't), the Mets lost and made like 47 errors and I was still giddy.

This morning the papers are surprisingly upbeat, oohing and aahing over Matsui's two nice plays on the infield and Mientkiewicz's nice scoop on the back end of the first-inning double play. (Of course, just seeing Matsui and Reyes on the field together with an umpire involved means this March is better than last March.) Yes, it's great to not see poor Piazza ole-ing throws from the infield, or Ricky Gutierrez taking up roster space, or Rey Sanchez and Roberto Alomar yawning as balls wander past them and then looking around for a rookie to blame. (Auggh, Alomar! Avert evil! Avert evil!)

Maybe it was just the Nationals-related spotlight, but it was nice to see positive headlines for the M boys — I was wondering if the papers would be moaning about Miguel Cairo and Aaron Heilman (who probably needs a different gardener if he's going to bloom).

It's early, but I'm beginning to regret those mean things I said about Omar Minaya. Yes, his inaugural press conference was longer and sillier than Bill Clinton's infamous first Democratic Convention speech. Obviously the Wilpons opening the checkbook makes any GM look better. But I get the feeling Minaya's not going to let go of that famous full autonomy given to him, and whenever I see him going about the day-to-day stuff, he's doing it with a grace that's impressive. Item: His choice of hats yesterday. It's a little thing, but he knew the cameras would be on him for the first game between his old, relocated team and his new one. So what would he wear? Mets hat? Fine, but a bit cold. Nationals hat? Clearly not. Expos hat? Guaranteed to bring a pissy phone call from the MLB offices. But a Montreal Royals hat? Nice salute to his time in a city that was a great baseball town (and might be one again), with a quiet echo of Jackie Robinson to remind us that baseball's first black manager and its longest-in-waiting black manager were running the show. Well done.

A couple of tidbits you undoubtedly already saw: Bob Klapisch has some dirt on Armando Benitez (Auggh, Benitez! Avert evil! Avert evil!) dating back to Pratt's Homer. I seem to remember this is old dirt, though — didn't Armando get involved with some crazy woman who put a hex on him, leading to Bobby Valentine learning santeria and casting a counterspell, or some such typically insane Mets '99 thing? The real blood is drawn from Skill Set Phillips, regarding how he helped undermine Valentine starting that season. I think this can be safely added to the list of truths about this world worthy of being carved in stone: Steve Phillips Is a Bad Man.

Meanwhile, Senator Al is spinning again, blasting away at Mike and the Mad Dog in the Daily News. Holy cognitive dissonance, Batman! On the one hand, there were too many people last year talking about Leiter and Franco and the front office for it all to be the work of some left-of-the-dial conspiracy. On the other hand, I loathe Mike and the Mad Dog so thoroughly that I'd gladly blame them for not only the Mets' disarray but also global warming and nuclear proliferation without looking too closely at the evidence.

But you know what? If all of this March's Met controversies are all about 1999 and 2004, we'll be doing very well indeed.

Ohmigod, there's a guy named Hinckley pitching for Washington. Who came up with that one — Mark Russell?

C'mon boys, the game's at hand
We don't wanna say we lost her
Please tell our pitcher to concentrate
On the batter and not Jodie Foster

Topical, too.

Yes, pretend games are on the air. ESPN is covering this with three announcers and a sideline reporter, in the middle of the day, no less. And ya know why? Respect. Every exhibition should be covered to death.

Speaking of which, the Washington Nationals, with Hinckley on the mound, Booth behind the plate and three lone gunmen in the outfield, are, like the Junior League, in existence. Nineteen times a year they will be a federal pain in the ass.

Every time I think about the Expos in the abstract, I feel terrible that they're no longer among the living. Then I look at the team they've become, which is still very much the Murderer's Row from Montreal, plus a couple of hired guns, and I shudder. The Mets could never handle the Expos particularly well. The rest of the world saw a ragtag franchise that made one post-season trip in 36 years. We saw a team full of anonymous killers and we needed the 597th and final game of our all-time series with them to emerge victorious. Final score: Mets 299 Expos 298.

That's just silly.

Now imagine having to take them on without them being jetlagged. On the other hand, we won't have to go through customs to face them. Remember when Jeff Kent got nabbed for attempting to carry a firearm through the Montreal airport? He said he forgot he had it on him. Montreal was also where the vets nabbed Kent's street clothes and left him a clown suit that he refused to wear when he was a rookie, thus establishing himself as a Major League malcontent in record time. When is Bush appointing him ambassador to Quebec?

Phillips just drove in Beltran with Mientkiewicz moving up to second. Good for Jason Phillips, particularly that dynamic. Bought the Sporting News baseball yearbook the other day and he was listed as the projected first baseman for us. For the umpteenth year in a row, preseason baseball magazines are woefully out of date by the time they hit the stands. In this age of instantaneous information, they are almost useless. But buying a few every spring is yet another of those rituals I enjoy. So what if Jason Phillips is now a scrub hanging on by his slow fingertips and Mientkiewicz is our first baseman? Baseball magazines now litter the living room. Like they oughta be.

Who's the quintessential Expo-cum-National vis-à-vis the Mets? Endy Chavez. Endy Chavez was a Mets minor leaguer mindlessly dispatched by Steve Phillips while he was presumably eyeing Sheila in accounting. Endy Chavez is a lifetime .264 hitter against everybody, a lifetime .330 hitter against the Mets. Endy Chavez is my own private Vladimir.

Even on an afternoon when I want to look ahead, there's Steve Phillips yammering away on ESPN, pulling me back toward a half-decade's worth of resentments. I don't wanna talk about Steve Phillips, destroyer of worlds, today, but what a disingenuous bastard now posing as a sage. Earlier he was going on about how the Nationals won't beat themselves the way the Expos did because of an infusion of veteran leadership. Who? Jose Guillen? The guy bounced by the Angels for cause in the middle of a pennant race? Were the Expos beating themselves the last few years? Or were they just undermanned? And did Steve Phillips ever watch the team he general-managed into the ground get their heads handed to them by the allegedly In-Eptspos at least half the time?

Talk about your sinecures. I hope they give Steve Phillips his own show on ESPN. I hope they give him an office in Bristol. I hope they find him putting the moves on some poor administrative assistant who in reality is an undercover detective and she reports him for his favorite play, sexual harassment. And I hope she kicks him square in the nuts when nobody's looking.

But this is a day to look ahead. Who's pitching for us now? Aaron Heilman. So much for looking ahead. Aaron Heilman went to Notre Dame, you know. He reminds me of the legacy in Rudy, the guy who they have to keep on the Fighting Irish because his father went there but he really hates football after all his failures these last few years. Aaron Heilman is 26. He's gotta be older by now.

Ah, maybe he's a late bloomer.

Guillen has just shown some veteran leadership off of Heilman with a two-run homer. Bloom, Aaron — bloom already yet.

Endy Chavez fell down in center, allowing Kaz to double. Brad Wilkerson couldn't catch up to a ball hit by Jason Phillips. Maybe spring really is a season of renewal.

Either way, we're oh and oh when this thing is over.

Victor Zambrano (19 strikes out of 30 pitches) is the papers' subject du jour, which of course means Scott Kazmir's riding shotgun. Zambrano said he doesn't concern himself with Kazmir, but our local scribes won't give him that choice. You just know some paper or other will run a graphic comparing every start of Zambrano's with every start of Kazmir's. Can you imagine having to answer questions about some 21-year-old you probably never met before and after every start? I'd go completely insane, and not in an obsessed-about-a-baseball-team way.

My objection to That Trade isn't so much that the timing was so poor, or that we traded a prospect with so much upside for a pitcher with serious question marks. It was and we did, but both of those points have achieved dead-horse status for now and the jury will be out for some time. Rather, what bugs me is the trade seems to have been made for two Dysfunctional Met reasons: Too much clubhouse/coach interference in front-office decisions (Al Leiter, but also Rick Peterson) and a late-80s-ish desire to punish players who are unapologetic about liking the other side of midnight.  

In my mind, those will be valid objections no matter what stats Zambrano and Kazmir put up. I'd be thrilled if writers kept asking Jeff Wilpon, Peterson or Leiter to explain how Dysfunction Metdom influenced the trade and what's been done to keep D.M. away from future transactions. But what does poor Zambrano have to do with it? Give him some peace, even if it means hiding him in the Jets' training room.

But on to more important things: The boys are on TV today, and I'm giddy. It's one of those days you keep looking at the clock and wondering how it can only be two minutes after you last looked after the clock. C'mon, ESPN, show long-tossing. Show stretching exercises. Show Port St. Lucie's best realtor in the infield accepting the keys to a new Taurus. It's March 2 and there's snow on the ground, so I'm easy.

Of course, spring training being spring training, I know my anticipation will soon give way to somewhat-lackadaisical interest, and then to occasional glances. And that's OK. Beyond the inability to get too worked up about whether or not John Pachot can work the count full, this is baseball, the ultimate marathon-not-a-sprint sport. (Besides marathons, of course.)

In every game I've ever watched, there's been a point when I've thought, “Jeez, this is taking forever.” (When Trachsel's pitching there are about 350 of them.) I understand why some people see that as incontrovertible evidence that baseball is boring, but I don't — to me, baseball is profoundly beautiful and wonderfully exciting, but it's also comfortable. It's around every day, in one way or the other, for eight-odd months of the year, and on most of those days it's around for three-odd hours of the afternoon or evening. Which is plenty of time to tell tales, take a phone call (if you're not at the park), or even flip through the paper if everyone's standing around on the mound talking behind their gloves about the need to throw strikes here, babe. You don't have to white-knuckle it all the time, and if you have any semblance of a normal life, you can't.

There's really such a thing as the Junior League? And it's not where they sent Jay Kleven and Ike Hampton every fall to work on mechanics? I'll be damned. This is like finding out after years of watching Bugs Bunny that Al Jolson and war bonds actually existed. Or that people truly put Christmas trees in their living rooms. I thought that was just a TV conceit.

The Junior League? That must've been a My Cousin Vinny moment. Da Junior League? You were serious about dat?

The Junior League? Instead of the Mets and Braves? If you'd posted that circa 1994, I wonder if we'd be here today.

We would, because you did the right thing. No, not keeping your word to your future bride, though that was noble. Because you brought a radio, a simple act that seems beyond the scope of many who should know that such portable one-way communications devices exist, yet find themselves scoreless at inopportune junctures.

Remember that doubleheader we went to, the one in which Robin hit the grand slam in each game? The Knicks were in the playoffs (right around the time I decided all other sports were designed to drain attention from baseball, so I resented them and continue to do so) and there were folks nearby calling people on their newfangled cell phones at home to get basketball updates. And I'm thinking, dopes, why didn'tcha bring a radio? You deserve not to know what's going on. I tuned in the Knicks on my Walkman for a moment just so I could feel fleetingly superior to them.

My life's been better or at least better informed because I figured out as a yute (or youth) that there was a device I could carry around to stay in touch with the things the mattered: election nights, Casey Kasem countdowns and the Mets. If there's even a chance that a baseball game will break out, I will have a radio somewhere within ear's reach of desire.

Paeans to Baseball On The Radio always include smuggling transistors under the pillow or distant signals wafting over dark skies into Chevys barreling down lonesome highways. That's fine, but to me, it's a pair of headphones rescuing me from cluelessness and the distractions that comprise life. It's more utilitarian than romantic. Either way, it's vital.

The Orpheum Theatre in the East Village gets great AM reception. I wouldn't know that if I hadn't spent an interminable matinee there one Sunday afternoon in May 1995 being subjected to something called Stomp. The title refers to the noise the performers in this show make when they're banging on garbage cans and such. Banging rhythmically, to be fair, but that's pretty much the synopsis.

Stephanie and I were less graciously invited to this production than kind of stuck with the tickets by family. A month earlier there'd have been no conflict, the '94 strike having forced the delay of the '95 season. But once the schedule got underway, having been deprived since the previous August, I wasn't giving up a single pitch that I didn't absolutely have to. So I brought my Walkman to Stomp. Slipped on the headphones early and often.

Best decision ever. The Mets lost 5-3 at the Vet. Bobby Bonilla ran through a stop sign put up by Mike Cubbage. The Mets fell to 10-14 and deeper into fourth place, 7-1/2 behind Philly. Whatever. They were playing, I was listening. Now that's what I call a good show.

I wonder if Matt Hoey does anything like this, bring a radio to a school-painting party or an Off Broadway debacle. Surely by now you recognize the name Matt Hoey. He's the guy in the blue and orange Cat In The Hat hat who's first in line every winter when single-game tickets go on sale. In 1998, ESPN The Magazine ran this lovely montage of Opening Day at Shea. (My own mental medley reveals 87 degrees on March 31; Jones and Schilling firing blanks; Bambi Castillo winning the game 1-0 in the fourteenth; guy passed out near us with his friends building a tower of empty plastic beer cups on his unconscious body — don't say you don't remember.) One of the pictures was of this Matt Hoey character being the first fan to pass through the turnstiles in all of baseball that year.

Annually since then, when the News does its “lunatic Mets fans who wait in the bone-chilling cold to watch their crappy team” story, Hoey's been interviewed, but nobody ever seemed to connect the dots that he shows up in print every February. It wasn't until this year's New Mets Fever that he became a celebrity along the lines of the idiot who bangs on a pot at Yankee Stadium for it. There he was on all the newscasts. There he was on the back page of Newsday Monday posing with a perpetually blissful Gary Carter and an increasingly cranky Darryl Strawberry. I even read about his dramatic weight loss. Good for Matt Hoey.

But three things struck me, squinting at the tickets he was clutching:

1) They were upper deck seats for a Mets-Yankees game. You mean this poor soul confronts the elements from Thursday through Sunday and they can't sell him anything better? Just for PR purposes, the Mets can't set aside eight loge reserved for Matt Hoey? You don't have to comp them to him, but make them available.

2) If Matt Hoey is a fan among fen, I'm a little disappointed that he used his position to buy Mets-Yankees tickets. Show you're really committed and ask for Mets-Pirates, best ya got. Better yet, ask for Mets-Expos. What? The Expos don't exist anymore? But I was going to be first in line for customs.

3) I'm suspicious of superfans, the ostentatious kind. I don't know Matt or Cow-Bell Man (whose jersey features the hyphen) or the Lone Ranger guy or the lady who twirled her arms or SIGNMAN (not to be confused with The Sign Man). I get the feeling that after a while, being Matt Hoey supercedes watching the game or following the team for Matt Hoey.

“Hey Matt? Didja see that catch Beltran made in the eighth?”

“Didja see my Dr. Seuss hat? My cousin said he saw it on TV when a foul ball went in the stands. I knew this thing would pay for itself in crowd shots!”

Every now and then somebody sponsors a contest to Show Your Mets Pride or something similarly intangible. Fans are encouraged to mail in pictures of themselves or their dogs in full team regalia. The winner is always some guy who's built his basement around one of Buzz Capra's used wristbands. I never quite buy that this person or a fella who sews his name over No. 41 on a $350 Mitchell & Ness jersey has something on me.

Wanna see a Mets fan? Don't look at the stuff. Look deep into the eyes. Look into the soul. Better yet, take a stethoscope to the ears. If you can hear, amid the clatter of dented garbage cans, faint echoes of Mike Cubbage grinding his teeth after Bobby Bonilla has demonstrated utter insubordination for the umpteenth time, you've found something better than Mets Pride. You've found someone who's not too proud to be a Mets fan.

Ah, spring training. Jose Reyes gets picked off twice, Kaz Matsui makes an error (scored a hit) at second, and everybody's pleased. On February 28, sure. On April 28, no.

I know it counts for nothing, but it was nice to see the real lineup (minus Cameron) assembled. Switching Cameron and Diaz, it looks like this (sub Galarraga for Mientkiewicz against lefties):

1. Reyes 5 BB/31 K in 220 AB, .271 OBA, .644 OPS
2. Matsui 40/91 in 460, .331, .727
3. Beltran 92/101 in 599, .367, .915
4. Piazza 68/78 in 455, .362, .806
5. Floyd 47/103 in 396, .352, .814
6. Wright 14/40 in 263, .332, .857
7. Cameron 57/143 in 493, .319, .798
8. Mientkiewicz 48/56 in 391, .326, .676

Anyone who's really good at baseball's new math will laugh at my pathetic efforts, but hey, I'm trying. That middle of the order's better than one might think — Beltran, Piazza and Floyd had better years than their BA would indicate. The lineup seems better if you flip-flop Floyd and Wright, which I bet will happen by late July. Mientkiewicz (who had an .843 OPS in '03) will have a better year. Piazza might.

But the top, Jeez Louise. Someday must teach Reyes to draw a walk — he's on pace for Bonds to outwalk him in a week, off-day included. This is a Ryan Thompson level of plate discipline.

Not to bring up phenoms past or anything. Remember Ryan Thompson's profile in New York magazine speculating that if he fulfilled his promise, he could be mayor? Back in our days on the AOL board, I bet someone I'd do some outrageous thing if Ryan Thompson saw Ball Three twice in one week. I'm pretty sure I won.

Still, Ryan Thompson did leave me with an entertaining memory, the following retelling of which is guaranteed to be 50% true: I was still living in DC and up here visiting Emily for the weekend. The Braves were in town, as were some of my DC housemates, who were going to the game with my friend Chris and his girlfriend. The perfect weekend, except I wasn't going — Emily had signed me up to paint a mural on the wall of some elementary school as part of some Junior League thing, something I'd probably agreed to while not paying sufficient attention and then promptly forgotten about.

But the game! The Braves! Tickets! Uh-uh.

Off to the elementary school we go, me fuming and whining and insisting on buying a $5 AM radio from a street vendor so I could listen to FAN. Being me, I then vindictively insist on giving poor Emily game updates, picking of course only the parts that would be worth seeing from the stands.

So the game's grinding along, and the Junior Leaguers are doing their usual thing of souring new recruits on the entire idea of charity by being alternately officious and disorganized, sanctimonious and petty. (One proto-matriarch excoriated me with spots in her cheeks for painting the whale in their incompetent undersea mural cobalt blue instead of steel blue, or some damn thing.) Ryan Klesko drops a ball in the outfield to extend the inning. Then, with the bases loaded, Ryan Thompson (mired in a hideous slump even for Ryan Thompson) naturally manages to dig himself into an 0-2 hole against John Smoltz.

All Smoltz had to do at that juncture was throw Thompson a pitch he couldn't have hit with an oar — fans always say crap like this, but I really think you or I could have struck Thompson out at that moment. But Smoltz was both mad at Klesko and young and stupid back then, so he threw one right down the pipe. CRACK! Grand slam, and I'm racing around the schoolyard whooping and trailing paint droplets and squawking Junior Leaguers, while cowed boyfriends look on in horror. And then Smoltz promptly hits John Cangelosi in the back, sending Cangelosi out to the mound to administer a savage beating to every part of Smoltz he can reach (i.e., feet to lower ribs) with Charlie O'Brien in hot pursuit.

We won the game. I learned to listen when asked about plans. (At least for a while.) Emily ditched the Junior League in favor of better charities. Ryan Thompson became a Cleveland Indian instead of the mayor. And my $5 radio lasted for years. In other words, it all worked out OK.

No matter how hard I try, I can't get too worked up about Al Leiter's supposed comments to Carlos Delgado. For the record, here they are from the original Toronto Sun article, a retelling of the Delgado saga that is perhaps thorough to a fault:

“Who better to discourage him from going to New York? … In New York you have seven or eight competing papers, TV networks and their affiliates and peripheral periodicals. It's fine when you are dealing and kicking butt.”

“[When you're not kicking butt,] it just chip, chip, chip, chips away at your resolve, cracking away your protective toughness. Every bad game it's like 'are you worried? … the manager says this … are you worried?' You begin to doubt yourself. That's why slumps in New York are so elongated.”

“Then, the guys on (talk radio) get on you, move it up another notch and everyone driving to the game listens. You get to the park and your home fans are booing you and after the game you say something stupid.”

Now, it's not as hard as it should be to make me outraged, and I join many Met fans in having had enough of Al Leiter for the next year or two — from all that's been said and written I do think he had too much influence on ownership and the front office, and I do think those were Al's fingerprints on Kazmir's exile to Tampa Bay.

But was what Al said really such an affront to Met fans? First of all, he isn't talking specifically about the Mets at all — he's talking about New York, and he basically said that with all the media attention, it's a tough town where slumps get relentless scrutiny, fans are unforgiving and dumb remarks made in frustration in the clubhouse get blown wildly out of proportion. Nothing inaccurate there.

Which leaves only one point of contention: Leiter billing himself as the perfect person to discourage Delgado from going to New York. Well, if you were the Marlins GM and suspected Delgado might have reservations about New York, which player on the roster would you tap for the job? Sheesh, it's not like Leiter signed a noncompete. I know our local sports pages like to stir up shit, but honestly — what part of “free agent” isn't getting through here?

I don't mind that New York is too tough a town for the Alomars and Cedenos of this world. But there is a New York mentality that sports stars who succeed here are therefore always and forever New York sports stars, and if they go somewhere else after their glory years, it's either a silly temporary thing for us to be smug about, or an affront — since these athletes can no longer play in New York, shouldn't they just retire? Apply that kind of attitude to the rest of your sports-fan life and hey presto, you're a Yankee fan.

Like I said, I do blame Leiter for some of this organization's dysfunction in recent years. While I was always interested to hear what he had to say about games or baseball in general (they miked him for a game in San Francisco last year and his comments about pitching decisions were riveting), when it came to civic and franchise boosterism I always thought I detected the sheen of snake oil. But I can't find a smoking gun in Delgadogate, and I've looked. I can't even find a gap in the tapes. On to the next controversy, please.

Scioscia … Gibson … Pendleton … Jordan … I certainly hope we've

to do when they face their betters. To the spoilers belonged the Victor.

Wasn't John Shelby in our camp one particularly misbegotten spring? I remember being upset about that. Though it wasn't as bad as Jim Leyritz, which prompted Emily's funniest-ever reaction to a Met atrocity, as well as proof that she's a baseball fan of the first order, and hold any grading on the gender curve, thank you:

Me: The Mets did something awful.
Emily: Oh no, what? Is it going to upset me?
Me: Yes.
Emily: Did they get [name of some player we hated at the time but weren't possibly going to acquire — possibly Chipper]?
Me (briefly baffled that this is what she'd think): What? No. No. Not a major move.
Emily: Who?
Me: You have to guess. I refuse to say his name.
Emily: This is stupid. I won't get it.
Me: What player would it most upset you to see in a Met uniform?
Emily (instantly): Oh my God, they did NOT get Jimmy the King.
Me: YES.
Emily: No! I hate them!

It's funnier, of course, since JTK never made the team. In a similar vein, I enjoyed seeing him during last year's playoffs, being interviewed in his so-three-years-ago Jimmy Cagney roughneck hat and his ridiculous leather jacket covered in team logos, braying his eternal loyalty to the Vertical Swastika. I enjoyed it because the dark legions of the V.S. lost — had they won, I'd still be seething that JTK was the final harbinger of doom.

Thinking back, that '88 debacle was my first brush with personal, adult-sized disappointment at a Mets disaster. Falling short in '84 and '85 (and looking like it would happen in '86) hurt, but it was a kid's hurt, somehow — I dwelled on it, but it didn't infect everything else I did. '88 was different — watching Keith Hernandez crawling through the mud filled me with a personal dread, like I was now fated to go under the wheels of a bus myself, Shelby and Scioscia felt like not being able to breathe, and Game 7 was a long, slow slide into corrosive anger, one I watched all of only because I knew when it ended there would be no more Met games until March. That year I didn't watch a single inning of the World Series — something I've never willingly done since  — and friends who knew what a baseball fan I was asked how I could possibly live with myself having missed Gibson's homer. Kirk Gibson? I wanted to see Kirk Gibson like I wanted to see a surprise midterm.

Actually, now that I think about it, the first brush with that kind of disappointment wasn't '88. It was Terry Pendleton's homer in '87. Which suggests that the change wasn't adulthood, but having won it all. Winning changes everything, I suppose, and not all of it's for the better. Oh well. If it happens again anytime soon, I'm pretty sure I'll figure out a way to endure the not-for-the-better part.

(I will now go turn around three times and spit. Sorry, man.)

The worst stomach-punch of them all, though, had to be that second meltdown against the Braves in '01. I was stuck working on the weekend, away from home because of 9/11, and after it had all come unglued (goddamn Armando, goddamn Franco) I really thought I was going to vomit. The only thing I could think of was having read that when you felt nauseous, you were supposed to put your head between your knees. So I did. For about 45 minutes.

Some actually substantive stories today about the bullpen: Looper, DeJean and Felix Heredia are seen as locks, with Bartholome Fortunato and Heath Bell leading the rest of a field that includes the likes of Grant Roberts, Scott Strickland, Todd Van Poppel and Roberto Hernandez. Having Felix Heredia be a lock for your bullpen doesn't strike me as a good thing. Meanwhile, I know the Mets, being a modern baseball team, will opt to watch the Hernandezes and Scott Stewarts of this world blow instead of trying a Fortunato or Bell. Sigh. Oh well, we'll deal with it. As long as Franco doesn't come in to face Brian Jordan. 

(I really did turn around three times and spit. I'm insane.)