Sailed Ships

You know the expectations for your off-season have been lowered just a bit when the Mets go after somebody for three months, don't get him, and it's considered a success.

We Met fans will take what we can get.

Bengie Molina, who is just marginally better than Spike Nolan of the Hackensack Bulls, is headed back to the San Francisco Giants after GM Brian Sabean announced that "that ship has sailed". What Sabean didn't count on was that Molina's ship crashed into Derek Bell's yacht and never quite made it out of McCovey Cove.

That's the good news. The bad news is that Omar Minaya's sudden and inexplicable inability to multi-task has left the Mets without an outside option at catcher. Sure, we'd like to think that there's something else lined up, the fact is that we're most likely going to get another heaping dose of Omir Santos in 2010, with a sprinkling of Hank Blanco. But whatever happens, Bengie Molina can get old and break down somewhere else. And that's addition by subtraction. Or ... stagnation by subraction. Or, avoiding Bengie Molina because we have a younger version of Bengie Molina, thus avoiding the stigma of having one of Yadier Molina's brothers on the team. Because that would be kinda awkward.

If all else fails, I think Spike Nolan's still floating around the minors.

I Guess Beirut Wouldn't Pay The Luxury Tax

Welcome to New York, Jason Bay. Try to contain your obvious excitement.

In a related story for you fans, your season ticket deposit is due in ten minutes. Line forms to the left of the Angel Berroa Rotunda, and you can easily slip the check into Mr. Met's giant head.

Why do you think his smile is so wide?

I'm smiling too ... well, as much as a Met fan will allow himself to smile these days. Don't out-think this, boys and girls. This is a good move. In a vacuum, it's a great move. If you have doubts as to Bay's ability to hit home runs in a large park, look at his home run chart. Check out the distances on the home runs, specifically on the home runs that are labeled as "lucky". Even the lucky ones for the most part went 380. So don't get sucked into the "Citi Field as Cavernous" line of thinking on this one. Citi Field was cavernous to the Punch, Judy, and Banjo hitters that roamed the earth in Queens last season. Visitors hit 81 home runs there in '09. You know why? Because they didn't suck, that's why. So ... easy does it, Sparky.

And Jason, I'm talking to you more than anyone since you're the one that seems to worry about the park most of all. You know what happens when you let a ballpark psych you out? You get David Wright in 2009. Think about that Jason, before you try to jam a knife into your shoulder in advance of your physical which would make the Mets contract official.

(Speaking of, if you do get hurt this season, you'd do better relying on your Canadian public health care than the advice of Mets management.)

That's what worries me about Bay in Citi Field ... not that he can't hit there, but whether he'll allow himself to be messed up by the park. Bay isn't going to be a Robby Alomar at first, who did nothing but complain about being traded to the Mets from Day One and never had the right attitude to play in this city. Bay will say all the right things and smile and kiss babies if he has to, to keep the legions of "if he doesn't want to be here then screw him!" people off his back. He'll be fine in that regard, because if you can play in Boston, you can play in New York. What worries me is the day in mid-July where he's sitting in the corner of the clubhouse curled up in the fetal position wondering why Joe Urbon didn't just sign him for less money to play at Fenway when he's steaming towards the all-star break with eight home runs and the fans are chanting "Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaay-ruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuut" at him.

So the lesson here is that a ballpark will only psych you out if you let it. It's Citi Field, not Central Park. Of course Jason, if you do get psyched out by the park, a few sessions on the couch with Howard Johnson will fix you right up.

Wait, that didn't sound right.

Oh, and defense? Hey, I like defense as much as the next guy. But show me an available current major league left fielder who sucks up every fly ball hit in his zip code and hits 30 home runs a year, and I'll show you your created video game player. So our left fielder needs a GPS on defense. What's an out of range fly ball among friends?

(Daniel Murphy just cursed under his breath.)

Earlier, I mentioned that this was a good move in a vacuum. But in the grand scheme of things, if the Mets are serious about improving their team, this will be a move, and not the move. If the Mets are serious only about collecting those season ticket invoices, then this is it ... so go back to sleep until April.

If they're serious about winning, they'll scrap this "we only have a few million left to spend" line and go revamp this rotation by signing Ben Sheets, or trading for a Red (Bronson Arroyo or Aaron Harang will do ... I'm not picky anymore), perhaps in conjunction with a Brandon Phillips acquisition (getting greedy now). Or how about Carlos Zambrano? He's available, apparently. And as crazy as he might be, and as expensive as he might be, think about having a pitcher who has never finished with an ERA above 3.99 while pitching in Wrigley Field. And think of all the wacky antics you'll enjoy when Z destroys a water cooler or puts a catcher in a full nelson. If it's Bengie Molina, so be it.

If it's his brother Yadier, all the better.

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?

Free Flowing All Star Hostility

I would have thrown a brick through my television after the American League's latest All-Star victory ... but I had already thrown the brick through the T.V. when I was watching a replay of the 1995 game earlier today, and Robby Alomar pinch ran for Carlos Baerga.

Oh, and a second brick finished the job when I realized that in 1995, Jose Offerman was an All-Star.

I don't know what's worse. Jose Offerman appearing in an All-Star game, or Angel Hernandez getting to umpire in one. What, was a hallucinating squirrel not available?

And count me as the millionth person who has complained about this, but how can we have a dedicated camera to get a shot inside the nostrils of some actor from Fringe, but no camera available to show us if the President of the United States threw a strike on the ceremonial first pitch???

Or was that camera sent to stake out Brett Favre's workout for the Vikings? Please, FOX, get out of the baseball business and stick to your little Dow Jones reality show where you mix stock tips and beer. ("Buy Apple! Hiccup ...")

Now it's all good, because all Tuesday means is that the Phillies aren't going to have home field advantage in Game 7 when they win the World Series in five games and drive me over the edge for good. But seriously, that starting lineup the N.L. put out there outside of David Wright must have been put together by Satan himself ... Hanley Ramirez? Chase Utley? Albert Pujols? Raul Ibanez? Shane Victorino? Yadier Freakin' Molina? All on one lineup? Whoopie!!!

Man ... if Larry Jones had started instead of Wright I would have had a drink with those Happy Hour guys to commemorate it. (Get me a vodka stinger with a Clorox back, and step on it!)

The Mo Zone: Specializing In Spreading Self-Doubt Among N.L. Right Fielders

This is Ryan Ludwick.

Obviously, Ryan Ludwick has a lot on his mind in this shot. But what's foremost in his mind? Fernando Tatis' RBI single falling in front of him? Bobbling Nick Evans' eventual game winning two run double soon afterwards?

Or could it have been the constant heckling from the fans in the right field stands?

Maybe none of the above. But I'm not so sure. Let's just say I've never seen a right fielder run so fast after the third out of every inning.

Okay, okay. So he probably always does that. Tell the truth, I rarely study the post inning speed of opposing right fielders. But Ryan Ludwick being filled with self-doubt about his own abilities upon listening to the gentle advice of the fans in right field (part of the largest crowd in Citi Field history of which I was a part of, I might add) makes for a much better, and much more interesting blog post, so that's how I choose to interpret it. So there.

(I'll say this: If Ludwick blasted one of Frankie's offerings into the left field seats after being heckled all game, I would still be at the park mapping out a cool, dry spot on the Promenade to jump off because that pretty much would have been it. I'd like to think that the heckles played a part in Ludwick not driving one off the Acela Club, but that's just me.)

One thing the fans in right field did prove is that Luis Castillo knows what it takes to play in New York. As the game got started, somebody in the Mo Zone yelled an encouraging word to Luis, who promptly turned around and acknowledged the fan with a quick wave. Now who could blame Castillo if he wants to stay away from fans as much as possible. But there's two ways to handle an incident like Castillo's. And the path that Luis has chosen is the right path. From not ducking interviews to laughing at mock standing ovations for using two hands to thanking a fan for a yelp of encouragement, that's how you handle being an athlete in New York.

(That, by the way, is an observation first brought up by my baseball companion today, who was nice enough to rub off his good Citi Field mojo over my awful new park smell, as I was 0-4 before today. Thank you, kind sir.)

Yeah, I might call Castillo "Gloves of Steel" or "Glove of Gold, Brain of Steel", every once in a while. But if there's a guy that I secretly hope is the one to get the winning hit to clinch a division title, it's Castillo.

Of course, I also secretly hope that he doesn't have an MRI scheduled for Monday. Which reminds me, first 100 fans on Sunday night get free MRI's, so get there early.

Enjoy this image of the last pitch of the game, made possible by Johan Santana finding his game after walking Chris Carpenter, a sweet Fernando Martinez catch, and Frankie Rodriguez being just a few notches over Aaron Heilman ... at least as far as Yadier Molina was concerned.

Unlucky Sevens

Four games, four starting pitching performances ranging from respectable to "oh my god he's got a gun." The author of the respectable pitching performance? He chose to give a giant "up yours" sign to his hometown team after they designated him and is now a free agent.

The Mets? They're left with four starting pitchers with ERA's over seven.

It's a jackpot of failure.

The latest member of Sevendust joined the club today after a brutal outing in which he is starting to make us realize why the Twins would flat out release an Opening Day starter (You'll remember he started well last season too). He is Livan Hernandez, who is quickly turning into as good an idea as New Coke was. More accurately, he's that bottle of Coke that's been in your fridge for 12 years, and instead of just walking to the corner store and buying yourself a new bottle, you decide "eh, what can it hurt?" So you drink it, and it tastes good going down. But then three hours later you're puking your guts out screaming "Why! Why didn't I just spend the buck fifty for a new bottle of Coca Cola???"

Yeah, it's April. Feel free to beat that drum set, for it's a catchy tune. But pretty soon the Mets are going to have to think about other options. Those options could include Cliff Lee, who the Indians may try to "sell high" on at some point. (Some may say that could make the rotation too lefthanded, but the alternative is to have a rotation that's too ... well, it's awful.) Other than that? Your guess is as good as mine. Now that Nelson Figueroa's gone, the next couple of options seem to be Jon Niese and/or Dillon Gee. (Good thing Omar Minaya stockpiled on the Freddy Garcias of the world, no?) If this keeps going with Sevendust in the middle to back of the rotation, all options have to be on the table.

***

Oh and by the way, one of the defenses for bringing Gary Sheffield on board was that he was a "take no s**t" guy ... a guy who "doesn't back down", as was quoted here. Funny then that when he had a chance to put that attitude to good use and run down Albert Pujols in the fourth inning, he became a nice guy and pulled up. I'm not talking about running into him at full speed and pulling a Sean Avery on him, but just running the bases as normal and not going through great pains to pull up.

Now I don't bring this up to pile on Sheffield, but to bring up a common thread that drives me crazy with this team (that and complaining about the starting pitching and Oliver Perez gets old after four or so of my paragraphs.) The Mets are too damn nice. Why, for example, is it a big deal when Sean Green knocks Pujols off the plate? Because it is a big deal. The Mets never do it. So when Green does the right thing and brush Pujols back, it gets noticed by Gary Cohen and Ron Darling as a big event.

What's wrong with that picture?

And how about this: If Carlos Beltran didn't want to slide on Tuesday night, why was choice two trying to score standing up? How about bowling Yadier Molina over? Why is that not an option? Is it because it wasn't a throw from the outfield? Is it because Molina is his buddy? Or is it because of the common thread that this team is just too ... damn ... nice?

Think about it, what kind of statement would it have made if Beltran would have knocked over Molina ... and let's assume the worst case scenario that night which would have been that Molina holds on to the ball, Beltran's still out, and Daniel Murphy still does his Foster Brooks impression in the outfield, fine. I'm willing to bet Bobby Bonilla's salary that the Mets don't come out so flat on Wednesday night. Sure, Beltran would have gotten some bad press for being a dirty player on a dirty play for a few days, even though clearly he's not a dirty player, and last I checked running over the catcher was a clean baseball play. And the Mets would have been scrutinized for a little bit. But the rewards would have outweighed the peripherals, guaranteed.

Instead, Beltran goes in standing, Sheffield pulls up, and the Mets prove the saying that nice guys get swept.

Beginnings of What, Exactly?

They played the wrong Chicago song.

When Tom Seaver and Mike Piazza reprised their first pitch from Shea Stadium's last pitch tonight at the brand new Citi Field, "Beginnings" was blaring over the sound system. In the reality we know as Mets baseball, "Old Days" would have been a better choice for this 6-5 historical blemish. Too many eerie reminders of the old days.

First off ... a cat? Come on. Waaaaaaaaaaay too convenient. Waaaaaaaaaaay too coincidental. You tell me that that by chance there was a cat roaming the field to open up the new stadium on Opening Night when one of the signature moments of Shea Stadium involved a cat? Yeah, I'm sure some cats made the trip ... but Opening Night? Please. If there weren't so many flight restrictions in New York there would have been a parachutist in the second inning. Somebody set that up.

Then, let's return to older days like ... last season, as in Jody Gerut becoming the first player ever ... ever ... to open a new stadium with a home run, a stadium that's supposed to be impossible to hit a home run in, or at least Gerut-proof just as Shea was supposedly "Gerut-proof" last season. Somehow, that wasn't a coincidence either.

Or, let's go back in time to ... yesterday, as in another outfielder having a ball go right off his glove and helping to bring in the winning run which, if it wasn't balked home, it would have been driven home by David Eckstein. You remember Eckstein from 2006 when he was being a general pain in the ass during the NLCS, never to be seen or heard from again until the next momentous moment in Mets history, the opening of a new park. Of course Eckstein would be around to screw that up by driving in two runs with three hits. What, the Padres couldn't trade for Yadier Molina and Jeff Suppan?

No, they decided instead to get two former Mets to close out this game for the Padres. Filthy Sanchez and Heath Bell. Six up, six down. First game ever at Citi Field, and it's closed out by Sanchez and Bell ... from the old days. Heath not only was dreaming about this moment, but he got it to come to fruition with a 1-2-3 ninth. Awesome. Just awesome.

And I'll state the obvious: if this is what we are to expect from Mike Pelfrey over the coming weeks, then Citi Field is going to turn into the House of Angst for a New Millennium. Oliver Perez goes on Wednesday for the Mets. Maybe the appropriate Chicago song will reflect the final score ... as in 25 or 6 to 4. And we'll have endings before the beginnings actually begin.

Hope Jim Duquette Had A Good Seat

Six innings. Two hits. Three walks. No runs. Game 5 of the ALCS. Craig Sager can't even keep a straight face when asking Chuck Lamar about the engineering the trade with the Mets. But hey, Scott's bullpen blew the game so in some ways, it's like he never left, right?

It's all right though. I'm sure Victor Zambrano did something equally productive baseball-wise today. He traded a Scott Kazmir rookie card for a '67 Corvette. I'll give you one guess as to who was on the other end of that trade.

At least nobody plays baseball tomorrow so there's no chance of something else torturing me ... unless of course Aaron Heilman and Yadier Molina decide to appear at a charity softball game and a ball just happens to bust through my window.

A Crowbar To The Knee

I don't think they've ever made a movie about that whole Tonya Harding/Nancy Kerrigan situation. But if they ever did, you could easily cast So Taguchi as Jeff Gillooly. Playing the part of Kerrigan would be me in the fetal position screaming "Whyyyyyyyyyyyyy! Whyyyyyyyyyyyyy!" Because that's basically what I do every time So Gillooly picks up a bat. Or is that a crowbar that he takes to the knees and ankles of Met fans?

(Playing Tonya Harding in my Lifetime movie of the week would have to be that pain in the ass Shane Victorino ... only instead of a wedding video, Victorino would just dress up in a t-shirt that says "F-the Mets" with a Hawaiian grass skirt and he'd just do the hula ... or maybe that "I'm safe" dance he did at second base ... on the Shea Stadium mound all night.)

I mean, you have to be kidding me. Victorino, Taguchi, and Jimmy Rollins in the same six-run ninth inning rally? I'm shocked that Larry Jones wasn't instantly traded to the Phillies so he could have followed Rollins to the plate and put an end to the Mets franchise right then and there. And maybe Yadier Molina, Brian Jordan, and Terry Pendleton could have all come out wearing Phillies uniforms with crowbars in a conga line while taking their hacks at the pinata that is the Mets bullpen.

Not for nothing, but f**k!

Of course, people will be asking themselves if Johan Santana should have pitched the ninth inning. First off, Snoop Manuel gave an informed reason as to why he didn't trot Santana out, that he's very rarely gone past 100 pitches. Fine. And for those of you who scream at me hoping for a return to the old days where pitchers went nine innings, forget it. Outside of Roy Halladay, those days are dead and buried forever. Tony "I'm a genius" La Russa blew up the baseball landscape, it's time to move on.

But the most important reason to not bother complaining about that is that it doesn't matter who pitched the ninth inning because ...

wait for it ...

protecting a three run lead with three outs to go shouldn't be that hard!!!

Should it?

That's why Gary Cohen giving us the "this bullpen, thrust into unfamiliar roles ..." made me a little crazy (as if the bullpen didn't make me crazy enough to throw my shoe). No! No! No! Your role is to win the game!

You play ...

to win ...

the game!!!

Three outs, three run lead. At that point, is it really necessary to be a "ninth inning guy" to get three outs? One run lead, yes. There's definitely a difference between a set-up guy in the role of closer ... and a closer. Three run lead? Stop. Get three outs.

Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy?

Think about it. Have you ever seen So Taguchi and Jeff Gillooly in the same place at the same time?

And Luis Aguayo, I'm on to you. Endy Chavez doesn't get thrown out at home plate twice in one game unless he has help. You ran Jesse Orosco out of town with your season killing home run, and now you're back to finish the job like you were the villain in some awful sequel starring Steven Seagal. Now that Tom Glavine is gone the agency had to infiltrate the premises with another spy. And despite Jose Reyes' dopey decision to try to beat Victorino to second base instead of throwing out a slow-footed catcher (a move that would have had Hugh Fullerton circling his scorecard if it was 1919) my ... first ... guess ... is ... you.

The truth is out there, Aguayo.

In Yadier's Crosshairs

Not enough you break our hearts, Yadier ... now you try to kill us one by one?

Well, no use trying to figure out whether Tony Armas Jr. is going to be more Nelson Figueroa or more Alay Soler (actually, neither option is that good), but he was certainly a serviceable part Tuesday night, helping the Mets even their series with the Cardinals ... albeit with one very sore reliever who has a nice "National League" tattoo on the back of his leg courtesy of Yadier Molina.

The talk centered around Snoop Manuel playing Fluff Castro instead of Brian Schneider, Armas' batterymate from their Expos days. Castro responded by driving in three runs. That might be the best random button that Snoop has pushed since giving David Wright a rest (12 for 25 since).

Tonight is the rematch of one of those painful games from the last week of last season: Joel Pineiro vs. Pedro Martinez. And Pineiro hasn't won since April 29th. Just thought I'd point that out.

Damn you Yadier Molina.

Shea Stadium: The Board Game

Off days and rainouts stink.

What is a Met fan to do on those lonely off days and rainouts during April besides wonder why Willie Randolph consistently mismanages his bullpen?

Well now, you can combine off-day fun with Shea Stadium nostalgia with a great new board game titled: "Shea Stadium: The Board Game"! Can you get through a day at Shea without being pinched by the ushers, buying a cold knish, getting into an fistfight with a Yankee fan, or seeing Carlos Beltran strike out in a big spot? Now, you can experience the fun, excitement, and frustration of seeing the Mets at Shea Stadium from the comfort of your own living room! So help celebrate the final season at Shea Stadium with this addicting board game!

*Click board for optimal view ... template shamlessly stolen from here. Extended game play may cause drooling and dizzyness.

The Manifesto

"It hurts doesn't it? Your hopes dashed, your dreams down the toilet. And your fate is sitting right besides you." -John Malkovich in Rounders

Well team, you did it.

For a franchise that gave us the Terry Pendelton home run, the Mike Scioscia home run, the Worst Team Money Could Buy, Bobby Valentine's fake mustache, a bases loaded walk to end a playoff series, the 2000 Subway Series, eighteen Brian Jordan grand slams, countless losses to Atlanta, trading a number one prospect who would one day lead the American League in strikeouts for a guy who ran off the field with an arm injury never to be seen at Shea Stadium again, a game seven loss to an 83 victory St. Louis Cardinal team that had no business getting as far as they did, you...the 2007 New York Mets...have done the impossible.

You topped 'em all.

You blew a seven game lead with seventeen games to play.

Amazin'.

But it goes much deeper than that.

You had the two bottom teams in the division over the last two weeks...and nothing but the last two teams in the division.

You had a two and a half game lead with seven games left. Oh, that's seven home games left.

You went 1-6 during a group of games that you really should have won at least four of just by rolling out of bed.

You allowed a team that pulled a bush league stunt by announcing publicly that tickets to a one game playoff would go on sale at 11AM, then starting the sale an hour early yet only telling their own fan base, steal the division from you.

You wiped the 1964 Phillies off the map, and brought their franchise back to even when it comes to these things.

You allowed a man who once punched his wife with a closed fist on a Boston street throw his glove in the air and feel feelings that I should have been feeling tonight.

You proved right a man who made a stupid statement at the beginning of the season when he said "finally, we have the best team on paper." I said then that Jimmy Rollins was wrong, and I still say he's wrong. The Philadelphia Phillies did not have the best team on paper. The New York Mets, however, did.

But guess what the Philadelphia Phillies are: They're the best team in the National League East. And that's what counts.

And guess what you New York Mets are, for having the best team on paper: you're a bunch of underachievers who have become the joke of baseball...except there's no punch line besides the ones being written by Leno and Letterman. There's just a punch to my gut.

And you pulled all of this off during the same season that the Yankees came back from about 48 games behind the wild card to make the playoffs for the hundredth straight season, ensuring that Mets fans are going to be ridiculed for the rest of their natural lives.

Oh, and by the way, you have let them off the hook for choking away a 3-0 ALCS lead in 2004.

Anybody who wants to tell me that the 2004 ALCS is still a worse choke than the 2007 Mets were, I'm cutting you off at word one. The Yankees lost four straight games to a World Champion Boston Red Sox team. The Mets, meanwhile, lost six games out of seven to a bunch of B-list stunt doubles who had nothing to play for.

Let me repeat that because it's vaguely important: Nothing to play for.

And now, you're just like them. Because you have nothing to play for.

But I bet the champagne tastes sweeter, right Willie?

But here's what Willie said that bugged me even more...he said it after today's final nail, when he was asked if he had anything to say about the fans:

"Real Met fans know we played our hearts out."

Gee, that's sounds a lot like "Real Met fans aren't going to criticize this team...they're going to say aw shucks and we'll get 'em next season and stuff like that."

Yeah, Mr. Randolph, I want to ask you a follow up question if I may: Who are you to tell me what a real Met fan is or does? I'm sorry, have you been here playing, managing, or watching this team for thirty years? No, you haven't. You've been here for four years. Three as a manager, one as a player. And you're going to tell me what a real Met fan does? Or does your years as a Yankee give you the entitlement to tell me who I am?

Here's the problem, and it's something I absolutely despise when I hear it from a player or a manager: They like to say "You've never put on a uniform...you don't know what it's like to be me." And everybody who's ever said that has been right.

But guess what, that works both ways, Willie. You see, you, and everybody who plays for you have never...ever...been in my shoes. And I think you all need to be reminded of that. You don't blindly invest your time, money, and faith in a group of men who don't know you from Adam, but you know way too much about them. And you support them. You support them with your money...with your time...and with your allegiance. You support them because you hope that one day they'll give you that feeling of exhilaration that makes you feel like you're actually one of them.

You hope that. You hope for the best. And you expect the worst. But beyond your wildest dreams you never expect that the worst is going to include a future hall of fame pitcher giving up seven runs in a third of an inning, and hit an opposing pitcher for the first time in his career, and then tells me that he's merely "disappointed", in what surely will be his last outing before he embarks on his farewell tour back in Atlanta, where he will get a standing ovation just for what he did on Sunday.

And guess what else you don't get to experience: at the end of the season, you get to talk to the media for a day, and then you go home for three months. You go to your nice homes, with your wonderful families, and shelter yourselves from everything until spring training.

Meanwhile, we're stuck here. We're stuck to carry the brunt of what you failed to accomplish. We get to hear it from Yankee fans who ring our phones, taunt us for hours on end, and in turn affect our wonderful families who, with word and deed, live and die with us as we live and die with you.

Mostly die.

And speaking of die, here's what else we get to deal with:

Wallace Mathews, at this very moment, is doing a jig while writing his latest Met-bashing column...this one he doesn't even have to work at.

John Kruk has probably poisoned himself alcoholically with all the toasts he's drunk to tonight.

Mike Francesa and Chris Russo? They're probably lathering each other in Crisco, giggling like school girls in anticipation of the piling on they're going to do tomorrow.

You, the 2007 New York Mets, have proved them all right. The Mount Rushmore of baseball stupidity? You've raised their IQ about 100 points in one fell swoop.

Congratulations. It must have taken a lot of work to do all that you did. More work than, oh I don't know, winning one or two more games down the stretch like you were supposed to do.

Good thing it's just a game, right boys?

You must think I'm a little bit harsh. Well, you have it coming. Being a Met fan sometimes is like learning how to ride a bicycle...teetering back and forth trying to find your balance between being a supporter, and being a smart ass. You won the division title last season while blowing the field away. With that, you won the benefit of the doubt. You lost Game seven to the Cardinals, but they did go on to win the World Series. So you got a pass.

You didn't look the same in 2007 as you did in 2006. But you had the division lead over two improved teams in Atlanta and Philadelphia...and we all knew that you wouldn't run away with it in '07 like '06. So you got a pass.

Your bullpen blew lead...after lead...after lead. You lost four straight heartbreaking games to the Phillies in Philadelphia. But you went and got that seven game lead. So you got the benefit of the doubt.

When you lost the lead, and you lost the playoffs, you have lost the benefit of the doubt.

You lost the benefit of the doubt when you all tried to steal third base with two outs. You lost the benefit of the doubt when you couldn't hold a three run lead in the bottom of the ninth...or a five run lead in the top of the fourth. You lost the benefit of the doubt when you forgot that there was a force play at third base with runners on second and third. You lost the benefit of the doubt when you stopped running out grounders, and started socializing with every middle infielder every time you got to second base...which wasn't very often down the stretch.

You know what I've lost? Hope. After Yadier Molina, after Adam Wainright? After that happened? I hoped that spring training would start the next day. Things were still going rather well. You actually went farther than the Yankees, you had something to build on, and 2007 was the season for "the next step."

Little did I know that "the next step" would be right off a cliff. Because do you know what you've made me hope for now? You've made me hope that when spring training starts in 2008, I hope you guys don't show up. I hope you take a sabbatical. I hope that there's a Mets-free 2008. I hope Tradition Field stays locked up. Because to see you guys swing bats and run pitching drills and dig out curveballs from the dirt is only going to drive me to drink all over again...just as you did tonight.

What's the point? What's the point in going through all of this again if you're just going to find new ways to crush our spirit? So you can have that inevitable spring training brawl with the Marlins to get your revenge? Oooh, I can't wait! That'll make me feel better.

I know that's not possible. I know you'll be back. Well, at least some of you will be back. And against what I think is my better judgement, I know I'll be back. I know that hoping for a sabbatical is unrealistic. But did it turn out to be any less realistic than hoping that you'd make the playoffs this season?

So go. Enjoy your offseason. But lord help you if I see a picture of any of you in the act of actually enjoying your offseason. Lord help you if I see you in any stupid photo layouts for fashion magazines, or eating fancy steak dinners with your agents. The only thing I want to see you eating is the humble pie that you've forced all of us to eat as local and national media will continue to ridicule the Met fans you leave behind...who's only crime was throwing their allegiance behind you...while we have to sit back and take every last drop of it because there's nothing we can say on these blogs to defend you.

Hey, after the humble pie, you can have some chicken if you subscribe to that "you are what you eat" theory.

Just make sure it's boneless.

When Winning Turns Into A Win

So often, it's a little thing that makes me think.

Tonight, it happened while I was in my travels...passing by the television at Metstradamus HQ noticing the score was 1-0 New York. I let out some emotion at that point: "Whoo hoo, we're winning! It's a Christmas miracle!"

Responded an astute observer in close proximity: "We're always winning."

It's true. The Mets are always winning. Every time you look up at the television, they're winning. 1-0, 8-4, 7-2, 3-1, always. Always winning.

They just don't win.

It's how they hook you...get you to hang around until the end. They suck you in by winning. Then yank the win from your clutches by pulling something stupid. And worst of all, they do it while you sleep.

The Mets season has become something like a Freddy Kruger movie. Matt Cerrone goes to sleep and dreams he's falling from the sky with spoons in his chute. Greg Prince takes a nap and John Maine falls from a four run lead. Even I went to sleep a couple of weeks ago and had a clear vision of Moises Alou...and he did something stupid. I'm not quite sure what it was, but it was dumb (and two weeks later he drops a fly ball in the sun against the Phillies.)

It gives new meaning to the term "don't sleep on the Mets." Sleep on them, and you just might never wake up.

I'm not normally scared to take a nap with a five run lead. Not no more. Not after what's transpired. Toothpicks pry open my eyes until the final out. I sure as heck don't want to fall asleep while the Mets are winning...only to wake up to the horrifying shrieks of the Mets not leaving the park with an actual win.

Thankfully, and finally, the Mets were winning...and then they won. Imagine that. A win. It's safe to sleep, because Alou was far from stupid on Wednesday. And while you're at it, you can get your heads out of the oven and come down off those bridges. Get down from those trees, and put the cyanide formulas away too, for the magic number is finally down to single digits...thanks to Yadier Molina (shudder).

But keep those bridges and toxins at the ready.

Hardcore Insanity

What some people refer to as "hardcore", others refer to as "insane".

When I broached the idea of seeing four major league baseball games in a span of 48 hours, with about 14 hours of driving inter-dispersed among the 48 hours, I sat on the fence...teetering back and forth about whether this was the act of a couple of hardcore baseball fans, or whether it was the final step towards the looney bin.

So was all the effort worth it? Was it hardcore? Was it insane? (Warning: what you are about to read is an epic...split up into digestible parts, but epic nonetheless. Not epic as in good...just long. Be prepared.)

Game One: Quadruple "A"

My brother warned me that the Great American Ballpark was a really nice minor league ballpark, kind of like those players that dominate AAA ball, but can't quite climb the Mendoza line in the majors. I can't go quite that far in assessing the Reds' home, but there is definitely a minor league feel to the park. It's intimate, it has fireworks, and it's very...very...red. It's easy for a camera to spot a Mets fan in the crowd, as black and orange seem to clash with all the red seats, the red shirts, and the blood spilled by Reds fans as...

All right, maybe not quite that red. But as you can tell from the picture above, there were plenty of Mets fans at GAB on Tuesday night. And the boys at Faith and Fear in Flushing would be happy to know that one of those Met fans was sporting the now classic number shirt seen in many cities around the world, and now in Ohio...though I wasn't fast enough to grab a picture of the guy, you guys will just have to trust me that he was there.

We spent the first three innings in the Riverfront Club, which is basically fancy food, real plates, and free beer. What's better than that? (If you go, try the cream of shallot). How about the kid waiter who watched Paul Lo Duca's first home run with us, not batting an eye when we clapped politely?

"I don't care who you root for, as long as I get paid. I'm actually a Mets fan anyways."

This was quickly followed by the poor kid getting admonished by his boss for not keeping the tables clean.

Then there was the bitter Reds fan sitting at the bar who noticed my Pedro jersey and starts in with the bartender...her rant went something like "blah blah blah blah blah all these Mets fans blah blah blah blah blah blah they're just like Cub fans blah blah blah blah blah blah".

OK then.

Then it was off to our big time seats about 22 rows up from the Reds dugout, and sitting next to a Cincinnati celebrity...namely: Rocco Castellano, a fitness instructor and attitude adjustor who has been on local radio, and is not only good people, but he's actually a Mets fan from New Jersey. Wearing a Pedro Martinez jersey in enemy territory, it was good to have a fitness instructor on my side (because I'm too anemic to defend myself, as you know). As for the attitude adjusting, I wonder if Guillermo Mota has been a recent beneficiary of Rocco's expert teachings. If not, he probably should be.

Definitely make a pilgrimage to the place for no other reason than the fact that you can run to the bathroom and get back to your seat without missing a pitch. You couldn't do that at Shea unless you used an empty cup at your seat. And also, try the deep fried twinkies. Just stay away from that chili/spaghetti mess unless you have had tetanus shots.

We were lucky to be present at the game on the all-important 26th anniversary of Woody Woodward almost being hit by a ten pound sack of flour at Dodger Stadium. And it was another not so great day in Reds history 36 years later...as not only did Lo Duca hit his second dinger of the night, but my brother spent the entire night heckling Adam Dunn. Good times had by all (especially the guy in his fifties who was literally dancing in the street after the game because Orlando Hernandez threw him a baseball and he caught it), as the Mets had their first five game winning streak of the season (you know, I heard that no team ever made the playoffs without a five game winning streak), and my road record ran to 5-0. But as you know, all good things...

Game Two: What's Up Old People?

We knew it was going to be one of those special kinda days when we rode the elevator with Thom Brenneman at Wednesday afternoon's Mets/Reds tilt. Say what you want about Brenneman (and I have), but the guy not only called Boise State's Fiesta Bowl masterpiece, he has now also called Appalachian State's massive upset over Michigan. That's cache, my friends.

We traveled up to the upper deck to find my niece, at the game with her schoolmates...and along the way found a Reds usher clapping wildly for Aaron Harang as he was announced as the Reds' Roberto Clemente award candidate (and seeing how empty the upper deck was that day, we have strong suspicions that the usher was, in reality, Aaron Harang's mom.)

So my brother finds his daughter in the upper deck among her schoolmates (great school system in Cincinnati...as soon as the class saw us two mooks in our Mets jerseys, the teachers spurred their kids to chant "Let's Go Reds" at us. That's some mighty hospitality there...must be that "midwest polite") and gives her a Mets hat to wear. She then asks her daddy with a big smile on her face: "Are you going to watch the game with me?" My brother...still stinging over the fact that his daughter had him in the bathroom at GAB while Pedro Martinez was striking out his 3,000th career batter on Monday...said "nope, I just came to give you your hat".

That's good parenting.

What he probably wanted to say was that we had much better seats than the class. For reference, here's approximately what row Q gets you at Shea Stadium:

Meanwhile, here's row Q in Cincinnati:

Not bad, eh?

But before we got back to our row Q, I took this picture in the concourse of a painting featuring the Big Red Machine:


You'll notice the former Met in the lower right corner...that's correct, George Foster. I took this picture thinking "oh, here's an opportunity to rip on Foster in my next blog entry for never, ever diving for a fly ball in a Mets uniform".

Wouldn't you know that a few feet to the left of the picture that I was going to segue into a George Foster joke, was George Foster himself? Yes...George Foster was signing autographs for the throngs of people waiting in line to buy his signature on an 8X10 for $25.

Well, actually, it was more like the throng of person waiting for his autograph...so you know I couldn't let this opportunity go by without getting a picture with the man, and getting a personalized 8X10. George Foster...who once hit a triple in a Mets uniform, but was now wearing a Reds jersey during this session, was taking a picture with little ol' me. That's when this exchange occurred:

GF: Try not to beat up on us too bad today, OK?

MD: You know when the Mets signed you, it was the first step in the Mets
becoming relevant again.

GF: I thought I was the only one who figured that out.

Still confident after all these years.

(Foster would later do an interview on the Diamondvision, and when asked to give a message to the senior citizens on Senior Citizens Day, the 59 year-old Foster's inspirational message was: "What's up old people!")

The game featured temperatures that reached 105, the Mets being shut down by some guy named Tom Shearn, and Joey Votto getting his first major league hit, a bomb off of John Maine (along with the appearance of maybe the greatest name ever for a baseball player: Buck Coats.) And I gotta say: I've never had so much fun at a 7-0 beating in my life. Consider that for the final three innings, we sat here:

This picture was taken right before my conversation with Jose, which was basically me asking Jose if he was enjoying his day off, and Reyes nodding his head and flexing his muscles...telling me he needed to get stronger (probably more mentally than physically, I'd say).

Mets fans had taken over the rows behind the dugout, having a good time talking to their team...but wondering why Moises Alou wouldn't smile at them. Rest assured that Moises isn't a dour guy. He's just afraid that if he smiles, he'll pull a face muscle and be out for three weeks, so he's just thinking of the team in this instance.

A funny thing happened during the ninth inning down 0-7. Mets fans were getting up a "Let's Go Mets" chant. Certainly a far cry from some of the seemingly constant complainin' about the team back here in New York to hear a group of fans blissfully backing the team with the stench of the Phillies series seeming more and more like a distant memory. It was a glorious thing. But it had to be interrupted by a higher calling, which was my brother heckling Mike Stanton:

"Hey Stanton, Prince Fielder called, he wants his pants back!"

No matter that he was closing out a day game doldrum for the Mets, we had to extract our pound of flesh from a Hall of Hate charter member (my only regret was that I couldn't tie a Krispy Kreme to a fishing pole and dangle it in front of Stanton in hopes that he's chase it. Next year.)

Game Three: Free Parking

Here was the challenge of the day...get from Cincinnati to Chicago in four hours, find parking, and get in our seats by 8:05 for our first ever trip to Wrigley Field to see the Cubs and the Dodgers. Who could blame us for thinking we had a chance...as not only did we hear on the radio that batting practice was delayed by a thunderstorm, but that the Braves had come back to defeat the Phillies 9-8 after being down 0-5 when we left GAB, keeping the Mets lead at five games. This prompted my brother to call a Phillies fan to rub it in, with me doing the tomahawk chop in the background.

Yes, things were coming together.

The festive atmosphere we anticipated at Wrigley caused me to start singing the Amy Winehouse song "They tried to make me go to rehab but I said 'no, no, no'" for the better part of three hours (my brother probably needed rehab after acquiring that earworm from me). Unfortunately, we missed most of the festive, rehab-free atmosphere of Wrigley as we didn't get to the park until the bottom of the fourth (while missing some guy from Reno 911 throwing out the first pitch).

Then it took two innings to park the car.

Luckily, we ran into a couple leaving the game who my brother subconsciously willed into giving us their parking sticker so that we wouldn't have to find the missing parking attendant and give up upwards of forty dollars to park and watch three innings of baseball...as we didn't sit down in Wrigley until the bottom of the sixth. (So let this be a lesson to those of you thinking of trying this kind of trip: Cincinnati to Chicago is impossible if you want to see every pitch. Can't be done. Believe me, we tried. Any faster, and we would have had Jackie Gleason and Boss Hog tailing us.)

But three innings in Wrigley was more than enough for one night (and in my mind, it still counts as two games in one day...pretty cool.) Night games in Wrigley, even if consumed in a small dose, are an event. What more could you want from a baseball game than an electric crowd, a beer, and national television?

How about not having a pillar in front of your seat?

No wonder I was able to get these tickets so easily online. No matter, because I scored my Derrek Lee bobblehead doll (which upon entering my apartment, immediately leaped from the box and hit a home run off of my Heath Bell bobblehead doll) thanks to our Chicago mole who was actually there early enough to be one of the first 10,000 fans to enter the park (don't worry, for his efforts I paid for his ticket...I'm a compassionate one).

The Cubs won in a laugher, which meant we were lucky (?) enough to hear the Go Cubs Go song that the team has adopted as a theme song. Here are the lyrics:

They're singing ...Go, Cubs, go
Go, Cubs, go
Hey, Chicago, what do you say
The Cubs are gonna win today.
Go, Cubs, go
Go, Cubs, go
They tried to make me go to rehab, I said: Go Cubs Go

Oh, sorry...I got my earworms mixed up.

After the game featured the only Wrigley reference to my Mets hat (the infamous travel hat, by the way) which came from a vendor who was selling a t-shirt on Waveland which referred to the sexual preference of the St. Louis Cardinals. He spots my Met hat and says:

"You must hate the Cardinals as much as we do."

Which was met by three simple words that came out of my mouth: "Yadier...f***ing...Molina".

In one respect, brothers in arms.

Game Four: One With...

Now Wrigley Field was great. But I did have a couple of complaints. The one Cub souvenir that I really wanted was a Cliff Floyd shirt. I figured that going into a Cubs shop across the street from the Field and seeing t-shirts immortalizing the likes of Matt Murton, Carlos Marmol, and Ronny Cedeno would up my chances of finding a Cubs shirt featuring a Chicago native. But alas, my efforts to find a "Floyd 15" shirt was futile. And as much as I love Cliff, I wasn't dropping a buck-sixty on an official "Floyd 15" jersey.

My other complaint were the bathrooms. Call me crazy, but relieving myself in a community sink isn't my idea of fun. (If you've been there, you know what I mean.)

But no Cliff Floyd tee, hijinks in the bathroom, and the lack of opportunity to boo the resting Jeff Kent for a second straight day were made up for by the hot dogs. Guys and gals, do yourselves a favor. Go to the hot dog stand and order a "one with". Just trust us.

And then, after Andre Ethier broke the Cubs hearts with a three run home run off of Ryan Dempster in the ninth (apparently, the Mets aren't the only team that has Dempster's number), it was time to end our trip, and take the long trip home. So was it worth it? Was driving and riding all these miles to see four ball games in 48 hours worth the effort?

Damn straight.

So I guess my vote is for hardcore.

But you know, we passed by Indianapolis on the way back home from Wrigley on Thursday night. We could have caught a quarter of the NFL opener on our way back to Cincinnati.

Hey, what do you think...we're insane?

Iguchi Kinda Rhymes With Taguchi

FEMA has declared the Mets clubhouse an official disaster area. Sadly, FEMA can't help them (it's just like real life).

I got calls from all across the country today to make sure I was alive.

Patchogue.

Los Angeles.

Chicago.

Twice.

Not that I answered the phone. You would think that people would know better than to call me fresh after a loss like that.

But one call I did take was from Art Howe. He congratulated the team for battling.

"We'll bounce back. We're not going to fold any tents." -Willie Randolph

Great, the manager has been reading the Art Howe "Book of Folksy Quotes." I give up.

Are you like me...waiting for the headline on Yahoo! Sports that says "Wagner Sets Crotch on Fire After Loss?"

(And for those who question Randolph asking Country Time to get six outs, I ask you this: Would you have trusted Aaron Heilman to face Chase Utley, Pat Burrell, and Ryan Howard?)

Just remember: they're not saying "boo", they're saying...oh I can't even finish that with a straight face. They're saying "boo".

Along with other expletives.

We're still in first place, right? Sure feels that way, don't it?

But it's the same thing every year. Mets lose "one of those games", and I get phone calls from Yankee fans all over the country asking if I'm OK, like they really f***ing care. They probably want to see me dead anyway. Whether it's Yadier Molina, or Braden Looper, or Luis Sojo doing the damage, the phone calls always come; "oh, another tough one, huh?" or, "just calling to say we suck", or "if you're in Philadelphia watching this game I'm going to shoot you".

It's the same f***ing phone calls every season. I mean, I actually wondered today what deal was made with the devil for 1969? And did the devil give a cut rate deal for my soul in exchange for '86? And then I left the house...and I saw a guy wearing a big placard hawking psychic readings by "Teresa", who apparently will show me the way to fix all of my problems. And the guy wearing the sign was also wearing a Yankee hat.

The only thing I'm asking the psychic is this: How are the Mets going to lose tomorrow?

Because it can't get any worse, can it?

Oh wait, the Mets are going to Atlanta. Damn. Time to visit the psychic.

Then I'll hit the shrink on the way back.

Sliding Bullpen Doors

Here's the answer:

Shawn Green hit a dramatic home run in the eleventh inning against the St. Louis Cardinals in Game 7 of the 2006 NLCS sending the Mets to the World Series, where they defeated the Tigers in five games. Yes?

What would have happened if Yadier Molina had been abducted by aliens off the side of I-10 in Reading, PA last October?

That's correct.

(And now your Final Jeopardy answer: Roy Oswalt for Aaron Sele. The question we were looking for was "What is a pipe dream?")

Monday night's Cardinals/Mets game...the first Cardinals/Mets at Shea Stadium since you know what...would have to go into the ninth tied at 1-1, wouldn't it?

It would have to feature Billy Wagner facing So Taguchi in the ninth inning, wouldn't it?

It would have to feature Aaron Heilman in any capacity, wouldn't it?

All that was missing was Guillermo Mota shaking off Paul Lo Duca.

It even had the Mets facing a dominant lefty Tiger. No, not Kenny Rogers, this time it was Mike Maroth...and dominant he was, if no longer a Tiger. And even though he never even pitched in last year's series, it was too close a call. It was still too much of a reminder of what could have been if, as the Jeopardy contestant said, Yadier Molina had been abducted by aliens (or injured, as he actually was).

But regardless of the fact that this outcome came eight months too late, the Mets will take it. They'll take the excellent bullpen work by Wagner, Heilman, and for pure level of difficulty: Pedro Feliciano and his Houdini act in the seventh inning, getting Scott Spiezio (oh, the pangs of reminder) to ground out back to the box and preserve the tie, and set up Shawn Green's 11th inning swing (which was reminiscent of a five year old with a new Nintendo Wii swinging with that exaggerated uppercut from his foul ball to his game winning walk off, but hey...whatever works.)

Here are some funny things to consider:

• Did you notice the home run swing is back around the same time as the hair?
• Would this home run have happened had Julio Franco not missed this game due to injury? Because you know that Franco would have been out there at first base instead of Green against a lefty had Franco didn't come down with a sore birth certificate...I mean, sore knee? (Well, seeing as if Shawn Green played right field and not first base as he did on Sunday...which confused me, then that blows the theory to smithereens. There's a second shooter though, and I'll find him gosh darn it.)

It's just more alternate endings to the fork in the road that is the life of a Met fan. Sore knees, Nintendo swings, alien abductions...they're all fun to wonder about. But you know that what really happens the rest of this season will be much more inventive and interesting than those fictional situations. The baseball gods wouldn't have it any other way.