Xavier Nady Stole My Couch

Metstradamus comes home from work after a long day of dealing with hoards of Yankee fans using mass transit to travel to and from their victory parade, and finds a surprise waiting for him.

X: Hey, man.

MD: Who are you and what are you doing in my living room?

X: Come on, you don't recognize me?

MD: You look familiar ...

X: Yeah, you even bought a t-shirt with my name on it.

MD: Dude, that only eliminates, like, half of major league baseball.

X: Dude!

MD: Wait a second ... are you Xavier Nady?

X: Yeah man, what's up?

MD: Nothing, but I reiterate: What are you doing in my living room?

X: I heard you had meatloaf in the fridge.

MD: Uh, okay.

X: It's damn good.

MD: Yes it is. But, how did you get in here?

X: With this (holds up a giant key)

MD: That's a large key.

X: It's not just any large key ... it's my key to the city.

MD: You got a key to the city? For what??!?

X: Dude, I'm a Yankee!

MD: Don't remind me.

X: Yeah, so we're world champs, so I got this key.

MD: And ... you used it to come into my apartment.

X: Yeah.

MD: You can do that?

X: Anywhere in the city I want, I can just use this and walk right in.

MD: I thought it was merely symbolic.

X: Crazy, huh?

MD: So at any moment I could see Jeter or A-Rod in my kitchen?

X: In theory, yes. But the big players don't really use them much ... it's just the bench guys that use them to get a meal or some furniture. Not everyone can make $20 million a year. We're just trying to make a living.

MD: Furniture?

X: Yeah, I just came from Jay-Z's house. I took his couch.

MD: Dude, that's theft!

X: Hey I've got a key. The city is mine. Besides, he'll never know it's missing. He's too busy trying to convince LeBron James to play for the Nets next year.

MD: But there has to be some specific purpose that brought you here.

X: Huh?

MD: I mean, you could go anywhere you wanted, but you came here. I mean, what's it about? Is this some sort of penance that I have to go through? Is this my punishment for not watching the World Series ... I find Xavier Nady on my couch eating my meat loaf with a key to the city earned while playing for the New York Yankees? Are you a symbol, Xavier? A symbol of what my life is going to be like rooting for this team for the next twenty years? What? What is it??!?

X: Dude, do you have some ketchup for this meat loaf?

MD: No I do not have any ketchup for your damn meat loaf!!!!

X: Dude, chillax. I really just came for the meat loaf and to watch some T.V. I'm sorry if you were searching for a larger purpose for me being in your living room. It was really just hunger and television.

MD: You couldn't find a larger house with a bigger T.V.?

X: Well, I went into Frankie Rodriguez's house to watch his wall-sized flat screen. But that didn't work out so well.

MD: He didn't have meat loaf?

X: It wasn't that ... turns out he put a bullet through his television when Brian Bruney got his key to the city.

MD: Oh.

X: Yeah.

MD: Maybe you're here as a symbol that Oliver Perez will also one day get his key to the city.

X: He's got his already. Unfortunately, that city is Port St. Lucie.

MD: That sounds appropriate.


X: Hey, you got any salt for this?

MD: No Xavier. Even though you're a somewhat popular former Met, you're a Yankee who has won a championship so I'm going to have to throw you out of my home.

X: I understand.

MD: And by the way, that meat loaf is like two weeks old.

X: I knew it needed ketchup.

MD: You think Jeter will actually try to show up with his key? Because if he does I'll press charges.

X: Jeter already exchanged his for a new blazing copper Ford. And A-Rod gave his to Kate Hudson ... told her it was the key to his heart or something stupid like that.

MD: Oh lord, really?

X: Yeah. Can you believe that?

MD: What was the deal with that hat, anyway?

X: Don't ask, dude.

MD: Feel free to come back when you're a Met again.

X: With my recent injury history, that'll be soon.

MD: I'll expect the medical records in the mail.

X: I'm off for my cortisone and salmonella shots.

Here's Where I Jump Off

You wanted hell? You got holy hell instead.

Big Apple women may soon be able to take a ride on Derek Jeter -- the bridge, that is.

Bronx leaders have proposed naming the soon-to-be-built East 153rd Street bridge for the Yankee shortstop.

"There have been conversations at the community board, and I know the idea is being examined," said Bronx Borough President Ruben Diaz Jr., a Bombers fan who confesses to a "man crush" on the Captain.

"It's something I am ready to support. We're moving on it."

Just in time to clinch the World Series from hell. They're not going to stop until every mode of transportation in this damn city is named after a Yankee, are they? You've already got something named after DiMaggio, now a Jeter Bridge? What's next, the DMV wants you to make sure you follow your Joba Traffic Rules?

Meanwhile, as the city seeks to name a real city bridge after Derek Jeter, there's a fake bridge in Citi Field that the Mets haven't bothered to name yet ... even though they had all these wonderful things planned in 2009 to honor the Mets. Instead, all they did was send Mariano Rivera their pitching rubber along with putting up a few pictures to placate Mets fans and hope they forget about all of this "memorabilia nonsense".

Maybe they're planning to take the bridge and give it to Jeter to honor the greatness that is he, so he can drive his Ford Edge on it over and over again (the one in blazing copper, of course).

Isn't there a small pond in Forest Park we can name after Mike Vail?

A Cherry On Top Of The Worst Subway Sundae Ever

There are a couple of blogger standbys that I could resort too. But as I type this, I'm not sure which one fits better. I go back and forth between:

• Proclaiming the 2009 season to be over, done, kaput, or ...
• Proclaiming that the New York Mets should volunteer for contraction and cease operations.

They both sound like decent options.

Consider if you will: I wrote a post not so long ago coming up with some too funny to be true scenarios on how much worse losses can get this season. If I had come up with Frankie Rodriguez walking Derek Jeter to get to Mariano Rivera (after throwing Derek Jeter a hittable pitch to lead off the at-bat), and then walking Mariano Rivera for his first career RBI, I would bet that none of you would have thought that was more remotely plausible than any of the others on that list.

Yet, here we are, left to pick up the pieces while we sit at our keyboards trying to make sense of another 21st century laughingstock moment for this franchise.

In the big picture, Frankie walking Rivera (and if I have to hear Jon Miller call him "The Great Rivera" one more f-ing time, I'm going to stab my eyes and ears until I'm bleeding all over both the hardwood floors and the Tuscany tiles) with the bases loaded had nothing to do with the eventual outcome of the ballgame. But in the bigger picture, gee ... how about not walking a guy with two lifetime at-bats in fourteen years with the bases loaded? How about that??? How about losing a ball game without walking Mariano Rivera on national television? Am I asking for a lot? I'm not even asking for a win, I just want to be able to be able to leave my apartment without having to wear a paper bag over my head!!!

I mean, for crying out loud, Derek Jeter is smirking at the plate!!! Everyone in the dugout is trying not to bust a gut laughing. This is a moment that's a big joke to everyone wearing gray. And Frankie goes out and turns the joke right around on the Mets, as usual. I mean, how hard is Brian Bruney laughing right now? How hard are the Yankees laughing right now? They go into their off day as the happiest team in baseball, the sun shining on their world as usual. The Mets, meanwhile, get to take a plane ride to Milwaukee to begin their own personal death march towards another disastrous end of the season. And the only thing left for Frankie to do is to whip off that mask and expose to the world that he's merely Armando Benitez in disguise.

Mariano Rivera!!! He's about as useful a hitter as Dan Warthen is when he stands in the batters' box in the bullpen to simulate a live hitter! Dammit!

And one thing I don't want to hear until the Mets reel off seven in a row is how resilient this team is. Everybody wanted to drink the Kool-Aid after the Mets won the first game after Carlos Beltran went down ... and maybe because we've all been so desperate to see some resilience in this team that to see the Mets win without the bulk of their production was cause for celebration. Well guess what? Taking three of four from the Cardinals is a distant memory. But I'm sure that if the Mets go and win on Monday, we'll hear all this chatter from Snoop Manuel about how resilient this team is and how they're able to bounce back from tough losses.

Great! Then they'll lose two more to Milwaukee ... forcing the whole resiliency cycle to start again. So Snoop, how about laying off bragging about how the team is resilient until they actually get some distance between themselves and .500, the Braves, and the Marlins, whaddaya say? And while we're at it, how about letting go of the hallucination that Fernando Tatis can actually bunt? How about that?

And about that whole "shorthanded" thing? Sorry, marginal major leaguers should be able to get through an inning without kicking the ball around as if it had metal spikes laced with acid on them. And decent major leaguers should be able to handle a guy who comes into a game with an 0-6 record and an ERA of 11.60.

Eleven. Point. Sixty.

Oh, the Mets are shorthanded, boo-hoo. I was willing to go with that against CC Sabathia and A.J. Burnett. Against Chien-Ming Wang? No, you're going to have to do better than that. I mean, David Wright's a legitimate major leaguer, right? Right. A bonafide major leaguer who leads the N.L. in hitting, and couldn't get a freakin' hit during this whole freakin' series. Not one!

So yeah, I don't want to hear anything about shorthanded, resiliency, nor do I even want to hear anybody tell me "But Metstradamus ... Ya Gotta Believe". Because let's get one thing straight: After Ryan Church misses third base with the winning run, Luis Castillo drops the final out of a game, and BB-Rod walks Mariano Rivera with the bases loaded in the same season, the statute of limitations on my obligation to believe has officially run out. And I don't gotta do a damn thing except pay taxes and die.

Petey, Victor, And Dying A Little Inside: A World Baseball Tour Of The Tortured Mind

Sometimes when I'm "away", it's because I've got nothing of value to say. But sometimes when I'm away, I'm actually away, which is why I have some random thoughts from the past few days, centering around this World Baseball Extravaganza.

First off, let me say that it can be really confusing not only for people who watch these games, but for the people who watch the people who watch these games. I, for example, was on an airplane on Wednesday watching the Netherlands (no, their baseball spikes aren't wooden) play the Dominican Republic. And at the same time that I'm rooting to see the upset, I'm also watching Pedro Martinez pitch and pumping my fist with every 91 mph tailing fastball he was throwing. This prompted my wife to ask me "who exactly are you rooting for?"

And that's the problem with this tournament. There are Mets and their enemies playing for every team (think how weird you felt when J.J. Putz chest bumped Brian McCann after the USA defeated Canada), and teammates facing off against each other. It's like an intense LSD trip where Davey Johnson is managing again, and Bert Blyleven is teaching A ball pitchers his big curveball while Sidney Ponson is offering me peyote.

(But what made me the most unhappy about that first Netherlands/D.R. game was Steve Phillips laughing and joking about how he traded Nelson Cruz away from the Mets and now he's a good hitter. Meanwhile, Metstradamus dies a little inside ... That, and the fact that we had to deplane during the bottom of the ninth, so I had to wait to check into the hotel to find out that the Dutch pulled off Upset Part One.)

First, you have David Wright playing with Jimmy Rollins. And I love how Derek Jeter sits between them in the lockerroom and he's being painted as Kissinger to Wright and Rollins. This is the same Derek Jeter who has had chance after chance after chance to make sure that Alex Rodriguez was accepted in that Yankee lockerroom, but instead let A-Rod twist in the wind because of an Esquire article. But he sits in between Wright and Rollins and he's Alfred Nobel. Okay. Jeter is the greatest captain in the world. Much better than Cats. I am a sheep. I will believe everything I read. Baaaah. Baaaah.

And not only did you have Jose Reyes playing with Hanley Ramirez, but you had Jose Reyes playing with Miguel Olivo, who you remember from their brawl in 2007, started in part because of excessive celebrations by the Mets. So it was funny when Olivo hit his second home run of the game against Panama, and he came to the dugout with a ... wait for it ... choreographed home run handshake!

Gasp!

But now Jose Reyes is back in Mets camp, thanks in part to an error by Hanley Ramirez during Upset: Part One. Way to go, Hanley.

***

Oh, and speaking of dying a little inside:

First, I gotta watch Victor Zambrano throw a pitch so bad that I'm convinced that Kevin Youkilis swung at it on purpose because he knew he'd reach first base on the strikeout (Youkilis acted like he was upset with himself but I'm convinced that was part of the rouse.) Then in his second appearance, he almost hits David Wright while instrumental in beating the States. (Can you imagine Wright being out for ten weeks with a broken bone off a pitch thrown by the hand of Victor Zambrano? I'd start chugging Drano Bombs on the spot.) And you know that this potentially could mean that Omar Minaya is taking a look at him as long as Tim Redding can't get out college players. Resist, Omar. Resist!!!

(At least Freddy Garcia improved against those same Michigan Wolverines. Out-freakin-standing!)

***

Then there's Frankie Rodriguez, who had this to say about the Venezuelan media after saving Venezuela's victory over the States last night:

"They're trying to stick it to us. You ask anybody in that clubhouse and they'll tell you the same thing."

I didn't know Wallace Matthews was Venezuelan.

Only On YES

This date in Yankees history:

September 8th, 2008: The Yankees give up six runs in the sixth inning of a 12-1 loss to the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim ... in that same sixth inning, Pudge Rodriguez was ejected along with Torii Hunter after a brawl.

But more importantly than that, during the sixth inning, the Yankees Entertainment and Sports Network went to a commercial ... and that commercial featured New York Mets stars Carlos Delgado and Carlos Beltran pitching Puerto Rico Tourism. This commercial would air at least one more time during this particular Yankees loss. This is significant due to the multitude of Derek Jeter commercials shown on SNY, the Mets television network.

If you would like to read about some more great Yankees memories, go out and buy "This BAD Day in Yankees History" by Gabriel Schechter.

Small Miracles

I gotta be honest with all of you: I fully expected the Mets to lose this game tonight ... the pitching matchup didn't seem to be in the Mets favor, and it's just like the Mets to follow up a stirring win with a heartbreaking loss. But these two games against the Yankees ... especially an 11-2 win in the second and final game of this series, goes to prove how maddening this team could be.

That not only a team, but a pitcher like Ollie Perez can be capable of what he did tonight, could be the same team and pitcher capable of a whole bunch of stinkers like the ones they put forth this season is positively looney. I look for things in this team ... patterns ... they like this, they don't like that ... it's mid-May and I can't figure them out to save my life.

I certainly didn't think they would win after the fourth inning when the three blind mice (meaning the three umps not named Reilly) reversed Carlos Delgado's home run call into a foul ball ... the three umps that were in worse position than the one that actually made the right call.

I've seen games like this before: Mets have a chance to win/sweep series, Mets go on a roll in final game, Mets get screwed by a bad call, Mets use that as an excuse go in the tank, Team B wins. Inevitable. And when Hideki Matsui (I don't ever want to see him get an official at bat in a big spot ever again) hit that fourth inning home run to close the gap to 4-2, my doom fearing mind saw that "Yankees 5 Mets 4" final that of course was going to turn that Delgado home run ball with the black scuff mark on it into the most famous scuffed baseball since Mike Scott roamed these parts.

(Side note: For those who think that instant replay would slow the game down: In the time it took for the umpires to huddle and screw the call up, for Willie Randolph to argue the call, for Jerry Manuel to argue the call some more and get kicked out, somebody down the third base line with a video monitor could have watched the damn play, signaled home run, and we all would have been on our merry way at 6-0. Besides, if baseball was truly worried about slowing the game down, there would be pictures of Steve Trachsel at every ballpark with a red line through his face reading "Do Not Admit" underneath.)

But a remarkable thing happened: The Mets hit. And hit some more. And hit even more. Ryan Church went to the right of the black seats. They batted around in the eighth. Jose Reyes went yard again. And for a brief time, the Mets we all knew and loved ... and so desperately want to love again ... came back to us. They knocked at our door, flowers in hand (or was that the head of Ross Ohlendorf) and implored upon us not to give up on them.

And since we're suckers for gifts (like when your cat gives you a dead bird), we invite them in for coffee. Heck, what else are we going to do?

Speaking of cats and dead birds, there are certain times when I wish for a cat to take it's claws and puncture my eardrums out. Watching Sunday Night Baseball is one of those times. For fear of going all Fire Joe Morgan on you, this is for those of you who attended the game: I swear our friend Joe Morgan uttered this exact phrase during an iso replay of Jose Reyes' home run:

"You know what I like about that? He ran around the bases. He hit it, and he proceeded to go around the bases."

Yeah, I hate when batters decide to stop at first base after a home run and wave the hot dog vendor over. Bud Selig oughta invent a rule against that when he's not so busy not implementing instant replay.

(Editor's note: This was followed by some nonsense about how Derek Jeter is like a fullback and Jose Reyes is a halfback and they both must know how to dance because they're shortstops ... and Morgan remembering a Shea Stadium/Yankee Stadium doubleheader last year where the second game was rained out ... except it was two years ago and it was the playoffs so the Mets and Yankees weren't even playing each other.)

I really have to turn the sound down on these Sunday Night games and blast my iPod. The song lyrics have a better chance of matching up with the play on the field.

It Hurts To Boo

I wish I could give you a bit more tonight...just as I wish Tyler Clippard could have given you a bit less Sunday night.

But as it turns out, your great and all knowing soothsayer doesn't know well enough to know that if you swing yourself under the rail that separates the sections in the upper deck, and that if you're considerate enough to keep bending at the waist so as not to block your fellow fans from the incoming pitch, then there's every chance that your back is going to go out.

And out it is.

My back is more out than Derek Jeter's blast off John Maine...which was so out it was halfway to the CitiField construction. The Jeter blast, unfortunately, was the signal for all of the frustrated Yankee fans to let loose their frustrations and morph into the bragging, puffy chest, brain surgeons that we all knew they could be, as a big bag of popcorn came flying down from the reaches of section 41 in the upper tank. Not so coincidentally, that is the general vicinity where all of the fights started, yet it took the security folk a good two innings to reach that area and start ejecting people.

Then, of course, there seemed to be one of them in every section...the one that felt he needed to get up and make a spectacle of himself to everybody to prove that he's a Yankee fan, reminding us to look at the scoreboard (but conveniently failing to bring up the current standings), like the one in our section...section 31. He deserved a good booing, but it couldn't be from me...heck I could hardly stand up. Even booing hurt.

On Sunday night, a lot of things hurt.

But let's keep in mind that while losing to a pitcher fresh out of grade school is a bitter bill to swallow (along with that court order that prevents Shawn Green from coming at least ten feet away from every fly ball), the Mets have won another series, and have gained a game on the Braves in the process (not to mention the 7-3 homestand). Silver linings people...silver linings.

Enjoy your off day, and I'll give you a little bit more then...that is, if it doesn't hurt to type.

Counting Chickens

I learned last year not to count my chickens before they hatch...or in some cases even after they hatch.

The only proof you need is the 4-0 lead the Mets had on the Yankees last July 2nd in the Bronx, with David Wright batting against Ron Villone with the bases loaded. Villone had come in to the game after an early hook to Jaret Wright, and Wright had a chance to put the hammer down early in the game. Villone struck out Wright, and the Yankees wound up winning the game 16-7.

So here we were today, Darrell Rasner (who looks and pitches a little too much like Fresno Bobby Jones if you ask me), gets the early hook because of an Endy Chavez comebacker that fractured his finger, and in comes a man who had never made an appearance before the third inning in his career. As if the Yankees pen could get any more tired, here was a golden opportunity for the Mets to...once again...put the hammer down with David Wright at the plate after the Mets had tied the game.

One chicken...two chickens...

No, stop it. I will not count my chickens. But this time, Wright blasts one off of Myers for a 3-1 Mets lead and I'm starting to feel good. I'm feeling better after Wright hit his second home run off Myers in the third to give the Mets a 6-2 lead, and Luis Vizcaino coming in to burn out his arm.

Three chickens...four chickens...

Enough! The score becomes 8-2 with Glavine cruising along for an easy route to his 295th career win, and it officially becomes safe to bring in Scott Schoeneweis. He gives up one of Glavine's runs for an 8-3 lead...but even Mr. Met is counting his chickens. After the third run scored, you can clearly see Mr. Met twirling his finger around in the universal sign for "whoop-de-damn do". So after seven innings, either a five run lead is too large to blow, or the umpires are surely going to call this game because it's raining pretty hard. So it's safe now, right? I can resume counting?

Five chickens...six chickens...Alex Rodriguez hits a home run, oh it's a fluke...seven chickens...eight chickens...Jorge Posada hits another home run off Schoeneweis...nine chickens...ten chickens...Bobby Abreu walks off of Schoeneweis who has fallen behind every hitter since I started counting my chickens...

That's it! All of you damn chickens can now officially get the hell out of my yard!!!

For those of you who wonder why I find FOX more intolerable than ESPN need only look at today's eighth and ninth innings After lying in the weeds during an 8-3 game, all of a sudden it's 8-6 with Aaron Heilman coming in to face the Face of FOX, and here comes all those Derek Jeter video montages, and let's play that Joe Torre "This team has fight" quote and show Schoeneweis getting rocked again...and then Joe Buck lays down all those Derek Jeter stats like "He has more hits than anyone not named God", and "Derek Jeter has a lifetime batting average of 2,ooo", and my favorite "Derek Jeter's VORP is in triple digits!"

And then the ninth inning, after Robinson Cano's 17th error of the game made it 10-6, let's drum up those flashbacks of Country Time blowing that four run lead last season and see if he'll do it again. And here we go again with Yankee this and Yankee that and you thought that Michael Kay and Suzyn Waldman were in the booth and on and on and on and on and on and then Billy Wagner finally gets that last out and suddenly the only words that Buck can think of to say is:

"Mets win."

Now that I feel better, let's see...where was I? Eleven chickens...twelve chickens...Tyler Clippard pitching for the Yankees on Sunday night...thirteen chickens...fourteen chickens...

The Final Test, And The First Test

I laughed as I watched Chris Russo today, as he was talking about how Friday night was the final test for Oliver Perez...apparently he's been predicting Perez's demise all season long, but Ollie would not oblige. Tonight, Russo said, was Oliver's final test.

Grade: A

Russo also said during an earlier show that Joe Smith had to show him something...how even though he hadn't given up a run all season, he still had to show Russo something in the eighth inning, even though the eighth inning wasn't his domain. Unfortunately, Smith gave up a grand slam to J.J. Hardy that day. But on Friday, the Subway Series, Smith came in and struck out Derek "history will show that I got two hits in every single one of my at-bats" Jeter to finish off the eighth inning.

Grade: A

Oliver, after tonight, has earned the benefit of the doubt. From Russo...from me...from everyone. He's earned the right not to have certain bloggers put up snarky "missing posters" with one bad start. He doesn't have to do any more. Of course we don't want him to have another 24 walk night. But if he does, I'm not going to worry because he'll most likely bounce back in the next start. And because with the most chips on the line, he's come up huge. First in Game 7 last season, and now Friday night...both nights with the crowd at its most electric...Oliver has come through with flying colors.

As for Mighty Joe, when you're done wondering why Aaron Heilman wasn't summoned for the eighth inning, take some time to wonder when Joe Smith is going to see more eighth innings. It's going to happen at some point, either when Heilman gets wheeled at the trade deadline, or next season after Smith shows over a full season that he can handle the pressure of a tight spot. Today was his greatest test...D.F.J. at the plate with a one run lead, in a situation where you know Jeter is going to get a hit...only, he didn't. All D.F.J. had was a smirk on his face for the home plate umpire which said "How dare you call that against me? Don't you know I'm Derek Jeter and the women think I'm dreamy?"

Then there's Endy Chavez, his throw from left which nailed Johnny Damon stretching to second for the first out of the game, and his home run which provided the difference against Andy Pettitte. Can we get this guy a breakfast cereal?

Seriously, if we can't get him on the all-star team, I think he deserves his own breakfast cereal. It's the least we can do to show proper appreciation. But can we put marshmallows in it? I love marshmallows.

And were you scared when Hideki Matsui was called safe on what could have been the last out of the game? Not because he was really out (tie does go to the runner), but because plays like that are usually followed by a 600 foot bomb. I was concerned...all right I was shaking in my boots. If these were the Yankees of the late nineties, it would have happened. Now? Not so much.

Game two is Saturday (later today), and I don't have a good feeling. Not because of any inside information or such, but because watching a Met game on FOX feels like watching a Met game on YES. Bad karma. I'll feel better on Sunday...not only because ESPN just feels better than FOX, but because I'm not even going to watch ESPN. I'll instead be at Shea, meaning the most insightful commentary I'll hear is when my brother asks me to buy him another beer...and I'll take that over Joe Morgan any day of the week.