To Be Continued

Apologies for the short post tonight. I don't even know what to say except that when the first two runners got on off Frankie in the ninth, my thought was "how are we going to lose this one?" Sure enough ...

I got to witness it all ... six rows from the Mets dugout. And they heard plenty of me by the time they retreated to the dugout. The words: "back up the truck" were prevalent.

It was misplaced frustration. I probably shouldn't have yelled at the players, some of whom put their signature on a baseball for me before the game. You should know that none of those players who were nice enough to provide signatures were responsible for what happened on Wednesday. For the rest of you ... well, back up the truck. Since I can't yell at Snoop, or Omar, or the Wilpons, the players had to feel the brunt of that.

But Frankie, hows about a strike once in a while? Is that a lot to ask?

And Wilson, I thought you were some sort of defensive wizard. Isn't that the only reason you're in the majors? Oh that's right, I forgot about the 34 tears that Jose Reyes has in his hamstring. There's that. (Way to go, medical staff.)

Oh, and even though the only person I should blame for all of this is myself for wanting to travel all the way to Washington, DC to see the Mets lose two meaningless games in spectacularly horrendous fashion, I want my money back. I want a refund for Tuesday's and Wednesday's tickets, my one night in the hotel, my round trip bus tickets, the 3 Musketeers bar I bought at the vending machine, everything. The invoice is in the mail, headed to 126-01 Roosevelt Ave. Send my refund to Metstradamus at Wysteria Lane.

See you at our own Fan Appreciation Day. Oh wait ...

To be continued.

Baseball's Antarctica

Kristina Horner is one of a handful of bloggers who have entered a contest to be able to blog from Antarctica. Certainly, it's a unique and interesting experience, as although people are stationed there at various times, only "cold-adapted plants and animals survive there."

I don't need to enter a contest to enter a desolate region. Definitely not tonight, for at this very moment, I'm in Washington, DC. Where the locals distract themselves from the latest foible from their beloved Redskins in many ways ... beer, politics, talking politics over a beer, stalking Alex Ovechkin, and the like. For a few, brave souls, they forget about a loss to the Lions by turning to baseball in the beltway ... the Washington Nationals ... as they combine with the New York Mets to form a rivalry with a long history, fierce competition, and 193 losses combined. There may or may not be more losses in the building then there are actual fans. But for the Nationals' faithful who've arrived, they do so because they love their baseball, and they know that a bright future is just around the corner.

For the Mets' faithful who've come all the way from New York City, they do so because they need acute mental observation. Nevertheless, I'm here ... nine innings, 193 losses, one deranged blogger.

This ...

is Baseball's Antarctica. Only broken hearts and long festering angst can survive there.

Tuesday's game featured all of the broken hearts and long festering angst you're used to seeing live, except with gray uniforms. It really was a microcosm of the season: Mets have a chance to break the game open in the first inning with bases loaded and one out but only score one run instead of the three or four they should have scored. Mike Pelfrey has his bad inning. Mets have a chance to take the lead back with, again, bases loaded and nobody out in the seventh, but score nothing. ("Ooh, we have the bases loaded, who's up? Brian Schneider! Oh, let's get on that Five Guys line.") Stellar defense featuring Anderson Hernandez and Luis Castillo (and by "stellar", I mean "stellar is to abominable as Gold Glove is to Anderson Hernandez and Luis Castillo". And these are the defensive specialists, no?

Then top it off with a heartbreaking ending in which Elijah Dukes (who's defense is also "stellar" at times), makes a spectacular wall crashing catch on a ball which, if it had ten, maybe fifteen more feet on it, would have been in my lap. Seriously ... I'm the guy in the Mets jersey in the front row standing up and stopping my camera because I think this projectile his headed right for me. Seeing that a Metropolitan hit it, I should know better ... I probably would have had the youtube video of the year. Instead, I have a drunk guy in a suit putting his arm around me screaming "Meeeeeeeeets Loooooooose!!!" after saying nothing for nine innings. Awesome.

Oh, and the pointless "Let's put Frankie in down by one" move by our fearless leader which only served to keep the game close so that Dukes can win the game right in front of my nose. Rub it in, why don't ya.

The expedition continues on Wednesday.

***

Some other oddities:

A Topps lineup? Where have we seen that before?

A helmet garbage can, where have we seen that before? (I'm guessing we ripped them off on that one.)

Hey, Ray Knight! Where have we seen him before? (I'm guessing they ripped us off on that one.)

The Mets aren't the only team to honor other franchises. Never you mind that the Nationals have only been around five years.

Hey, he hasn't even played for the Nationals! Then again, Tommy Lasorda never played for the Mets yet they honored him with his own day, so what do I know?

Five Going On 27, And One Going On Forever

How do you know you're not having a good September? How about when you're on the verge of losing your fifth game in a row, and already you're being tangentially compared to Anthony Young by the announce crew?

The good news is that with most of his future already in the past, most likely he isn't going to get a chance to get near 27. But that's the way the cookie crumbles when you're Nelson Figueroa, it's 2009, and David Wright is continuing to have horrible at-bats with men on base, and making fielding errors left and right. No wonder Met fans can't wait for the season to end ... they're just taking a cue from their leader, who seemingly can't wait for this week to end either.

Last season, we didn't want to end. But it did ... and with it came the end of the road for our home, Shea Stadium. Yesterday passed the one year anniversary of the final game ever at Shea. If there's one thing we've all learned as we look back with some distance between us and Shea, I hope it's this: The talk about leaving all those curses behind at Shea, that it was somehow the park's fault, that it was Shea that held all those evil ghosts in it that caused the Mets to lose in horrible, horrible ways, and that tearing it down would fix everything, and cleanse everyone of the dark chi that had enveloped us all? All crap. All of it. By that logic, there's about ten parks that need to be bulldozed if every ghost will indeed be eliminated.

If Shea was indeed a living, breathing mechanism with a soul, it certainly would be having a nice laugh at all of our expenses up in ballpark heaven with the rest of the dearly departed.

Timing Is Everything, And Pat Misch Doesn't Wear A Watch

Nice day you picked to pitch a complete game shutout, Pat. On this Yom Kippur prelude where the revised schedule had the Mets, Yankees, Jets, Giants, and the Rangers all playing at the same time, it's quite possible that you could fit everyone who watched all or part of your gem in the Marlins locker room, with room to spare for everyone in the stands. Of course, when you gave up eight runs in eight minutes, there was nobody to take away your spotlight as it shone with the intensity of a thousand fires on you, and only you.

Game of your life? Get in line. You're fifth on the runway for takeoff. As we all know by now, such is life. But it's no reason not to have a party to celebrate the occasion. So scale your catch, debone it and fry it. Set a place for Hanley at the table while you're at it, and make reservations for him to complete next week's foursome since he'll need a tee time soon.

But don't wear your costumes to dinner. (Really? Ken Takahashi has to wear a costume for rookie hazing? He's a man! He's forty!!!)

Gangsta Depreciation

Thank heaven for Gary Cohen, proving that I'm not the only one yodeling in a canyon. Here's what he said on Saturday in not so many words: "Why the $%*& is Fernando Tatis starting at first base for a 66-88 team while Nick Evans is rotting on the bench? Have we gone to the Tony Bernazard school for developing players?"

So he didn't say exactly that, but he started the conversation out loud ... the same conversation rattling in my head between all of my personalities. I've never seen a manager manage like it's spring training from April-August, only to be eliminated in September ... and then manage to win the game. Doesn't it worry you that Snoop Gangstalicious got the vote of confidence from the Wilpons, and still fills out a lineup card as if he's going to lose his job tomorrow? And if that's true, doesn't it also worry you that he truly believes that the man who's going to save his job single-handedly is Fernando Tatis? This is what he's banking on? He might as well go to a roulette table and ask if he could put all his chips on 44 blue.

As you can probably surmise, I could care less that Tatis hit a two-run home run to tie the game. Did it help? No. The Mets still got it handed to them by the Marlins in a game where my psychic abilities came rushing back to me in one fell swoop. Jorge Cantu batting against John Maine and what comes to my head? "Cantu is going to hit it 500 miles." Meanwhile, in the real world, Cantu hits a screaming liner to left to give the Marlins the lead. Close enough. It was then that I left the room thinking "when I walk back in, I'm going to see an "8" next to "FLA". What do I see when I come back? A f*&%ing eight, that's what. Eight for them, three for the Mets. Show me what I've won, Gene!

"Absolutely nothing, Metstradamus!"

I'm never right when it comes to those stupid lottery numbers, am I? Noooooooooooooo! Instead, I have fishes and eights and Fernando Tatis dancing in my head while I'm stuck in this torture chamber of a season for another eight days waiting for Jose Reyes to play a minor league game which doesn't exist. Welcome to my world ... where the circus is in town, the common sense is optional, and it's always Fan Appreciation Day. Speaking of, don't miss Fan Appreciation Day this season as the Mets take on the Nationals on Wednesday ... too bad you have to go to Washington to be appreciated because the Mets don't seem to have a Fan Appreciation Day this season. Instead, check out Fan Depreciation Day.

Oh wait, that's every day for us. I guess that doesn't make is so special, does it ...

Zombieland

Cory Sullivan strokes what will forever be known as the least fun game winning hit in major league history

I wish I could say that I could feel some satisfaction in potentially eliminating the Marlins from the playoffs after what happened the last two seasons. But sadly, there's none.

Alright, maybe a little. But with the Marlins' elimination number at four after Cory Sullivan knocked it down with a game winning two run single on Friday, there's pretty much zero chance that the Fish will be officially dead by the time the Mets go to Washington.

And even so, it's difficult to get over the fact that I've never seen a team have less fun than these New York Mets are having right now. And maybe that's a good thing ... how many people would be howling if they saw a Met laughing and yukking it up in the dugout? And I know most teams in their position would just be waiting for the season to end. But jeez, this team looks like Woody Harrelson is about to make them his Zombie Kill of the Week. I mean, there's some extreme lethargy going on here ... except for Sullivan. Oh, and Brian Schneider who alertly scored on a passed ball when David Wright refused to believe he missed the pitch, and Bill Hohn refused to signal anything even though it's his job to.

Speaking of Wright, hitters go through entire seasons without striking out after they've worked the count to 3-0. Wright did it in two straight at-bats. It's sad to see a man so mentally beaten to the point that he looks eerily like a man who isn't very good at baseball. But it's okay, because at least we know that David Wright is very good at business deals.

Sad that a great businessman plays for a team owned by alleged businessmen who have allowed themselves to be taken by a Ponzi scheme.