I'm Not An Animal ... Technically

I really thought I had it all planned out. Was rolling along on this blog and was ready to launch into foolproof reasoning why David Wright should have charged Brad Thompson after being brushed back near his head.

But then I started eliminating the reasons in my head. I went in knowing that Wright charging the mound wouldn't provide spark enough to carry the team to the pennant. I knew that it wouldn't improve the perception of the team in other circles (though it couldn't be quite as bad as it is right now.) And I knew that there would be a better than even chance that a brawl involving the Mets would probably send at least six players to the disabled list.

(Seriously, what tortured spirit was unearthed when Jeffy put his shovel to the Shea Stadium parking lot?)

But then I realized, after invoking the "times have changed and we're all too nice" defense, reasoning how Wright should only think after acting (because not having time to think did the trick for Nelson Figueroa), and getting ready to juxtapose this incident with the Prince Fielder/Guillermo Mota incident (Mota ... LOL!) I came to an honest and enlightening conclusion: The only reason I wanted Wright to charge Thompson was to make me feel better. I haven't puffed out my chest about the Mets since Game 6 (no, not that Game 6) All a brawl would have seriously done was put a smile on my face. Not the kind of smile that a 9-0 win while losing two more players to the Balkin & Eisbrouch list gives you. I mean a huge smile.

I was selfish.

I was violent.

I was an animal.

Oh don't get me wrong, I still think Wright should have charged the mound. I sure as hell would have gotten some frustration out of that room, and yeah ... I do think we've gone soft as a sport since Ray Knight went after Tom Niedenfuer, and would like to see some vigilante justice out there. It might have been overboard for Wright to charge, but so what ... some people deserve a beating. And some people who don't deserve a beating should get one anyway.

But I'm not going to hide my personal slant/bias in this. For example, the mere thought of Shane Victorino makes me wish it was me in that batters box instead of Wright (no 'roids needed for my rage). I'm not ashamed to say that rooting for this team gives me violent tendencies. Well, maybe a little ashamed. But while I came to rant about the Mets, I instead had a breakthrough about myself. I need to deal with this in a healthy way and not let it get in the way of how I write.

Aah, screw healthy. Brad Thompson needs a beating. And so does Tony La Russa for making a pitching change in the eighth inning of a 7-0 game on getaway day (take that, genius.) And the kid who saw a guy in a John Franco jersey and said aloud "Yeah, I saw John Franco get a save, like, ten years ago yuk yuk yuk" while being only about 12 years old himself ... yeah, he deserves a beating too. And Yadier Molina deserves a beating for having a Cheshire cat grin on his mascara lined face after he threw out a runner stealing second on Tuesday.

Guillermo Mota deserves a beating too. Because he's had it coming for a while. And while you're at it, look inside your own soul. You could probably use a beating yourself.

There, I feel better. But I guess I really haven't learned anything.

Maybe it was Casper?

Blood Thinners, Anyone?

Now I know how Fred Sanford felt.

I just assume these days that most Mets games are going to end up just like Wednesday's nine inning marathon did. Frankie Rodriguez has to know ... and if he doesn't he'll learn ... that he can get all the saves and break all the records he wants when he's wearing Anaheim red ('xcuse me ... Los Angeles of Anaheim red). But when he closes games for the orange and blue, being behind on the count 2-0 is automatic. From Sisk to Orosco to Franco to Benitez to Looper to Wagner, Frankie Rodriguez is just the next victim in the chain. Honestly, what makes him so special that he can just get through ninth innings without some sort of challenge ... whether it be not having his best stuff, or an umpire being talked into a call by the runner?

Or tonight, both?

Go ahead and watch that play where Delgado pulled himself off the bag to try to throw out Brandon Phillips going to third base in the ninth. It's okay to admit that Delgado was, in fact, off the bag. But he's the issue I have with it: If Carlos was indeed off the bag, it was by a couple of inches at most. And Bill Welke was way out of position to make that call. Welke was talked into the call by Edwin Encarnacion, who gets the Lee Mazzilli award for that stunt.

But Frankie caused a lot of his own problems by pretending that 2009 was actually 2008, and also by pretending that he was Aaron Heilman in a very demented game of charades where it's easy to mimic "blown save". Rodriguez, however, had the intestinal fortitude to reach up to the top shelf and pull down some of those pitches he saves for a rainy day and finish off the Reds once and for all.

(Hey, I'm not complaining. Frankie's replacement in Anaheim just gave up three runs in the ninth and blew his first save. Uh-oh.)

So now with the entire back end of the pen having gone the first two games, it would be nice if Oliver Perez could give the Mets a little length for the day game after the night game. But the optimist in me says that Perez will probably put the Mets behind by about seven runs by the time you read this, so Rodriguez, J.J. Putz, and Sean Green aren't going to be needed anyway. If I were Brian Stokes though, I'd start warming up now. (Billy Wagner is already warming up ... but he'll only be effective on eleven months rest.)

(Yeah, I said optimist. I could have said "down by forty runs".)

Mike Pelfrey won with less than his best.

Oh, and you're a true connoisseur of baseball if you were more impressed by Delgado's single to the left side to drive in the sixth run than you were by his tape measure blast in the first inning. If Jerry Manuel's 80 pitches in 6.6 seconds drill is truly going to have this effect on Delgado, maybe teams will stop playing the dopey shift on him.

***

Gary Sheffield's outfield workout before Wednesday's game didn't go so well.

To Gary Sheffield's credit, he has yet to leave roadkill on my doorstep for anything that I've written on this blog. But because he was preparing for a season where he didn't have to play the outfield, maybe he ate the roadkill.

“I knew I was just hitting, so I kept weight on just to be able to hit and keep my strength. Now I’m asked to do something else, so I have to get the weight off and be able to do both.” -Gary Sheffield

Meeting Of The Minds

We set the scene in the Mets bullpen, during the first inning of Wednesday night's game against the Braves:

Schoeneweis: Hey everybody! Everybody! Gather your butts 'round here, Billy's got something to say to all of you!

Wagner: Thanks Scott. I want you all to know that just because I'm not going to be able to close for y'all in the foreseeable future cuz my elbow is the size of Fluff Castro's head, that you guys are more than capable to get the job done. In fact, I want to tell you that you guys are great, and there's not a guy out there that I would trade any of you for. People just focus on me because I have the closer title ... and the only reason that I'm a closer is that I stunk as a starter.

Heilman: You stunk as a starter?

Wagner: Why, yes I did.

Heilman: Tell us that story.

Wagner: What story?

Heilman: About how you stunk as a starter and are now the best closer in this bullpen? Please?

Wagner: Well, that's not really ...

Heilman: I WANT TO HEAR THE STORY!

Schoeneweis: Aaron! Pipe down!

Wagner: No Schoeney, it's okay. I'll tell the story.

Feliciano: Cool! Story time! Hey Joe, you have the candy in the Hello Kitty bag?

Smith: Yup. Hope you guys don't mind, I ate a lot of it ... just the stuff with the processed sugar.

Schoeneweis: Will you mutts stifle so Billy can tell his story ... we may have to pitch soon!

Wagner: Well, there's not too much to the story ... when I was at Quad City in 1994, I started 26 games, went 8-9, and walked 91 batters in 153 innings. So then after I started some in AAA, the Astros decided to make me a reliever. So I really mean it when I say that you're all better than me.

Smith: Ha ha, hahaa ha. I'm better than yooooooou. Hey, I wonder who else I'm better than (hops off).

Feliciano: That wasn't a very interesting story. Where's the compelling plot lines? The sultry ingenue? The action scenes?

Heilman: Wait a second, I wasn't that bad in Norfolk ... I didn't walk as many guys as you when I was a starter, and they didn't make me a closer. The Mets just made me a stupid seventh inning guy.

Smith: (licking the sugar off the inside of the candy bag) Ha ha hahaa, ha. I'm better than yooooooou, Aaron!

Heilman: No really, I only walked 66 in 151 innings in Norfolk and the Mets told me that I had to pitch in the stupid seventh inning. What does that say about me?

Schoeneweis: What Billy is trying to say is that you're all capable of closing so keep your chins up.

Heilman: My chins? Are you calling me fat? I'm going to go now. (stomps off)

Feliciano: Billy, if there was a movie made about you, who would you get to play you? John Malkovich?

Stokes: Edward Norton?

Schoeneweis: Jack Black!

Wagner: Close Schoneny ... John Franco.

Smith: Hey, you know who else I'm better than? John Smoltz. After 57 years as a starter, he was a reliever for a couple of years. That must mean he stunk as a starter too. So I must be better than him too, right? I'm better than Smollll-tziiiiiiie. I'm better than Smollll-tziiiiiiie.

Schoeneweis: You're a little dense. Hey what's Heilman doing over there?

Stokes: Schoeny, he said something about "goodbye cruel world" and I now think he's trying to slit his pinky finger with a spoon.

Heilman: I'll do it too if I can find only my wrist!

Stokes: What should I do, Billy?

Wagner: Leave him alone. He obviously lacks his tools and his command tonight so I wouldn't worry about him.

Smith: Hey, I'm reading Wikipedia, and there's this guy named Mathewson, and he had 28 career saves. So that must mean he stunk as a starter ... and he's in the Hall of Fame! So I'm better than him, right? Wow, I'm going to be in the Hall of Fame! Wait 'till I rub it in to the guys at Wrigley! I'm a Hall of Faaaaaaaaam-eeeeeeeeeer! I'm a Hall of Faaaaaaaaam-eeeeeeeeeer!

Schoeneweis: Wait a second, where's Filthy? Filthy! What are you doing in the corner???

Sanchez: I'm making a t-shirt for Johan! It says "I Went to the Dugout with a Three Run Lead and All I Got Was This Lousy T-Shirt!"

Feliciano: What does it say on the back?

Sanchez: It says "Oh Yeah, and a No-Decision Too!"

Heilman: Ha ha, that's funny! Maybe this world isn't so cruel after all! I want to liiiiiiiiive!!!

Schoeneweis: Oh jeez, with all these basket cases I'd think it was Easter. I hope we don't have to pitch tonight.

Wagner: I wouldn't worry about that.

Al Reyes: All right boys, I'm here to help. Where's the candy?

Schoeneweis: Wait, you're a Met?

Al Reyes: Well, sort of. I'm a Binghamton Met.

Feliciano: Don't you play second base?

Stokes: I think that's Argenis.

Smith: Yay! We lead the league in Reyeses! Yaaaaaay! They're better than yooooooou! They're better than yooooooou!

Heilman: Where's that spoon?

Wagner: (Buries head in hands. Elbow inflames to the size of Mr. Met's head.)

In True John Franco Fashion...

Boy, that ninth inning scared the Orosco out of me.

Somewhere, the ghost of Randy Myers is having a good chuckle as Country Time decided to pull the ultimate escape act, as he loaded the bases only to get the next two batters to provide three outs in a 4-3 Mets thriller.

Maybe, as much as Chris Russo gets on my nerves, maybe he's right when he says that there's been something missing from the 2007 Mets as opposed to the 2006 Mets. While it's hardly a fair statement considering that the 2006 Mets were like that perfect regular season storm that comes once in a generation, it may have been true up until tonight.

You see when Orlando Hernandez was victimized by a two out walk to Willie Harris that turned into three Braves runs, it seemed that that something missing was going to remain missing, with Atlanta winning yet another series from the Mets.

But in the battle of trade deadline acquisitions set in the backdrop of National League East battle, Castillo defeated Mahay to get the Mets even with the Braves at three apiece in the seventh. You must understand how much pressure was packed in that at-bat...the difference between John Schuerholz being anointed a genius for all time, and Omar Minaya saying "Ha, take that you Liberty Media Slut!" (Honestly, I don't even know what that means.) And considering my admitted Luis Castillo man crush, it held higher stakes than even that. If Castillo strikes out, it's my butt on the line here.

Wrong again. Castillo ties the game, and takes the first step on the road to Brave slaying.

Then there's Moises Alou...the walking conundrum. Sure, we want David Wright and Carlos Delgado to hit. But we also want Moises Alou to hit with the bases empty, where he stood at .338 this season with three of his four home runs coming in...and not with runners in scoring position where he is at .167 entering Wednesday, including a rally killing double play on Tuesday. It's the catch 22 of life, and we're stuck with it. Even when he does hit a home run his reward is Jose Reyes making fun of his swing. What a drag it is getting old.

Billy Wagner pulling one out of the John Franco playbook though, is no drag. Loading the bases with nobody out and still coming out on top is exciting, exhilarating and exhausting at the same time. Maybe that's what we've been missing...a mind-blowing escape act that you can put in the win column.

And on your cardiology report.

Metsography: The Encounters

As I'm sure you all have known, especially as a young person, that when the world of a Joe Schmo intersects with the world of someone who by association is the friend (or enemy? Frenemy?) of everyone in America, the emotions range anywhere from butterflies in your stomach to a perverse sense of accomplishment. Even if it's something everyone can do or attend like say, an autograph signing, don't you always go back to your friends to show them the autograph or the picture taken of the two of you thinking to yourself "yeah, you're all impressed aren't you...I did this, not you."

The world of Metstradamus has intersected, albeit breifly, with the world of some of your favorite New York Mets. My regret is that I wish I had really cool stories for you like the one that would go something like this:

So I'm in this bar drowning my sorrows, and in walks Armando Benitez, and he tries to dance with my date...so I punch him out! And the next day, he blows a save for the Yankees!

Nope, never happened. But now you all have something to shoot for.

My stories are of the low standard, slightly bizarre variety. Getting Clint Hurdle and Randy Myers to wave at me from the bullpen in 1987 was a huge accomplishment for me. An even bigger accomplishment was yelling to Darryl Strawberry that he could move from his "Strawberry Patch"; the small, worn patch of grass at Shea where Strawberry played every hitter...sluggers and slappers alike; because the opposing pitcher was up. And you know what? He did. And you can't tell me that it wasn't because of my gentle reminder.

The best enounter of the long range variety involved another outfielder named Daryl, but it wasn't Straw, it was Boston. Daryl Boston, otherwise known as D-Bo, roamed the Shea outfield in the early 90's...and one night while in right field, our ticket plan crew gave him the warmed over "Daaaaaaar-yyyyyyl" chant during a particularly ugly game during the top of the inning. One of the smart ones in our group reasoned: "No no no, he's not going to respond to that, he hears that all the time...watch this!" And with that, in a half empty Shea Stadium, he yells:

"HEY MR. BOSTON!"

He turns and faces us between pitches, and sees about ten of us yahoos waving at him. Class act that D-Bo was, he waved back.

Now that made our entire night...especially since this was the early nineties, which means the Mets were probably losing by about oh, fifty runs or so. But the same man who came up with the brilliant attention getter, almost took it too far.

"Hey, you're going to meet us at Scores after the game, right?"

What does D-Bo do besides laugh his butt off? He turns back to us and gives us the finger to the mouth in the universal sign for "sssssshhhhhhhh."

Daryl Boston: Metstradamus legend.

***

Autographs are things I wish I kept better track of. My first ever autograph was on a slip of paper barely bigger than one of those out white out strips that us older folk used on a manual typwriter. It was Neil Allen, acquired down the first base line before an afternoon game where I went with a friend of the family. That piece of paper, unfortunately, is long gone. So too, I fear, might be the program signed by four of the World Champion Dodgers of 1988 down the third base line at Shea. One was '86 champ Danny Heep, one was Jay Howell; known to Met fans as the pitcher ejected from game three for too much pine tar in the glove. (Phil Garner was the third, and I always got Tracy Woodson and Jeff Hamilton mixed up but one of them was the fourth.)

I don't have an autograph story as cool as a friend of mine does: Not only did he catch a batting practice ball at Fenway Park, but got Lee Smith to sign it before the same game!

But an autograph signing almost caused John Franco to go blind...courtesy of yours truly.

It was one of those "get to know you" signings during the winter of 1990, just after Franco joined the Mets after the Randy Myers trade. This took place in the well known pantheon of baseball history known as Pergament hardware store. There was a long line and for time purposes, Franco was only interested in having the memorabilia shoved under him so he can sign it without ever looking up. Now a picture of the top of John Franco's blue cap wouldn't have been very impressive. So the only thing for me to do was to call out Johnny's name and hoped he would look up and say cheese. Only after I tried to get his attention about 15 times did he look up. Realizing I probably only had a second before he buried his head again to resume his assembly line style of memorabilia signing, I didn't ask...I just clicked.

If looks could kill.

And let me take this opportunity to say: sorry Johnny. I was young and stupid. What else can I say?

***

Some baseball fan I am. I was chatting with a key member of baseball history...a former Met at that. And didn't even know it.

Not even after I met him!

A colleague at a former place of business of mine was entertaining an associate, and as I passed them in the hallways, I was introduced to the visitor by name. I shook his hand with and gave him the generic "how ya doin'"? The man was very polite in return as we parted ways. Now mind you...I knew his name! And still had no freakin' idea.

Luckily for me, our paths crossed again, and I think he wanted to make sure I knew who he was. That's when he handed me a picture and asked "does this look familiar?":

Oh my freakin' goodness...you're that Mike Torrez?

Boy did I feel like a lummox. I had to come up with something:

"You know of course Mike that he sold his soul to the devil to hit that home run, don't you?"

And there it was...my own home run off of Torrez.

After Mike's good laugh, we chatted for a few minutes about the seminal moment and about baseball, most of that conversation being a blur. But what is crystal clear in my mind is that this was a man at peace...at peace with being on the wrong end of history. It's a place not everyone is comfortable with. Yet here's a man who, when presented the opportunity to escape an introduction to a nobody like myself without ever having to acknowledge what took place in October of 1978 at Fenway Park, made a conscious decision to point a flaw in his professional life. It's not something I'm sure I would have done. But Mike Torrez, the same Mike Torrez who I once thought was a bum when he pitched for the Mets but was actually a good pitcher who called Shea home at the wrong time in his career, did it.