Aah, Your Mangled Hearts

You never know when Sir Charge from the Verizon commercials is going to pop up and take your money.

C.B. Bucknor doesn't need your money...just the searing flesh of Met fans. And that's what he popped up and took today with his interference call. (According to the poll, I'm in the minority so far...and I know it and accept it. But Bucknor blew it.)

This loss might have been the one to take the wind out of me. Most of my blogging brethren probably went right to their keyboards banging on their keyboards chanting "Hulk Smash". Some of them might need a new computer after tonight.

I couldn't do that. I couldn't watch any postgame recaps, and I probably will stay away from ESPN and all of its brethren for the rest of the night. Instead, I watched Hard Knocks. (The title alone has to be apropos of something, right?) The latest installment featured a riveting forty second montage of Chiefs head coach (and former Jets general) Herman Edwards sitting on the couch in his office doing nothing but wonder who his starting quarterback is going be. After tonight's debacle, I did the same thing...sat on my couch and wondered what the bloody hell is going on as the Mets' season is threatening to go down in flames.

While Edwards came up with an answer to his question, I have none. Sure, the Mets did this to themselves all series. Six runs in three games off of two slumping pitchers and a rookie is unacceptable and embarrassing. But tonight was the one that just made me throw my hands up in the air in disbelief and remind me just how torturous it is to root for this team sometimes. The Mets at least hit some balls hard. But all of them were caught. The scorcher down the line that Ryan Howard turned into a double play, and the two laser beams that Abraham Nunez caught to rob Luis Castillo of two hits down the line.

And then the ninth inning, and that fateful call. And more torture. When Shawn Green grabbed a bat in the dugout, I thought how nice it would be for another franchise's fans to refer to a Met as "First F***ing Last". You know what I mean: Terry F***ing Pendleton, Brian F***ing Jordan, Larry F***ing Jones, and Adam F***ing Wainwright qualify for us (as well as Armando F***ing Benitez and Kenny F***ing Rogers even though they wore our colors). When have you ever heard of somebody else's fans ever refer to a Met that way? Ever?

A home run by Shawn F***ing Green would have had a nice ring to it. Would have torn the Phillies' hearts out.

Instead, it's C. F***ing B. F***ing Bucknor. Sir Ump. Calling interference even though Marlon Anderson touched the base on his slide. Marlon Anderson punished for trying to make something happen and not be a zombie like the rest of this roster could be sometimes.

And while I'm on this tangent: if they're not zombies, they're too nice. Nobody liked what Jimmy Rollins had to say at the beginning of the season about the Phillies being the team to beat...least of all me. But he said it, and he's backed it up by jamming it down our throats with home run after home run. Nobody liked it when Brett Myers said that he hated the Mets, again, least of all me. But wouldn't you like one of your Mets to come out, pick this team up by the scruff of its scruffy neck, and say at least a little something that's brash and arrogant, and follow it up by getting some big hits and being a leader instead of being too worried about making somebody angry? It would probably prevent people from talking about eighteen year olds on Long Island or strained hamstrings or how bad the bullpen is...okay, maybe not how bad the bullpen is. But you get my drift. The Mets are badly in need of a leader right now, and not a cliche f***ing soundbite about how they have to forget about this and move on. Of course, if that leader emerged after the game tonight, I wouldn't know it, because I can't bring myself to read anything about this game right now. Maybe in an hour or two, but not now.

C. F***ing B. F***ing Bucknor.

Buckner giveth, Bucknor taketh away. It's a hard knock life indeed.