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May 16, 2012 A Mets All-Star Game? How Novel In the woods near a lake in a part of Massachusetts I still couldn't find on a map, two dozen beds full of baseball-mad—or at least baseball-silly—kids gave their undivided attention to the Midsummer Classic. A week or so into my first session at Ted Williams Baseball Camp, and still a little homesick, your 12-year-old narrator peered into the small TV set in the center of the blockhouse feeling even more jealous of the Yankees than normal. On July 19, 1977 the Yankees were not yet the world champions—and were actually third in the tight AL East—but they were the defending AL champions, had 50 wins while the Mets had 55 losses, and the club from the Bronx possessed both a present and future. The Mets had only so recently blown up both during the Midnight Massacre. The Yankees not only kept their best players in the city, they grabbed the best players from other cities as well and either put them in pinstripes or at least hosted them for a night of All-Star revelry. I was overjoyed when the NL scored four times in the first and held on for a 7-5 win in the Bronx for what was, at the time, another in a long line of senior circuit wins in a one-sided series that indeed mattered. No network novelties were needed, no gimmicky voting was included other than the gimmicky All-Star ballott stuffing, and teams were locked into one league for a century or more and did not change leagues on the commissioner’s whim. The All-Stars put aside their intraleague rivalries for a night for old school interleague butt-kicking. And at a time when the uniforms were wackily interesting, the ’77 All-Star Game was like a lending library of dysfunctional fashion. Dave Parker forgot his Pirates helmet and wore Dave Winfield’s Padres helmet for two at bats and a Reds helmet later—while Ruppert Jones of the brand-new Mariners became the first person to wear a Blue Jays helmet in an All-Star Game. Three years later Toronto’s Dave Steib would return the uni favor. (Thanks to who but Paul Lukas at uniwatch.com for having this—and so much more—detailed to the letter.) The NL won the ’77 Midsummer Classic and Mets representative John Stearns actually played (half an inning), Tom Seaver actually pitched (in his new Reds uniform), and I went to bed happy because my league had won, not because the eventual NL champion Dodgers had home-field advantage in the World Series (they didn’t, it was the AL’s year to have the alternating honor, and LA would go down to defeat in a rain of Reggie homers come October). Ten years passed, the Mets even claimed a World Series title, and I had access to regular seats at Shea. I wondered when I was going to see an All-Star Game in the flesh at my home park. The Mets hadn’t hosted the All-Star Game since 1964, when I was still in my mother’s belly and even then may have been wondering if they would credit the Mets for All-Star MVP since Phillie Johnny Callision wore a Mets helmet as he walked off around the bases at Shea. Another decade passed, I graduated college, I endured my first 100-loss Mets season and second prolonged strike, and the club was in the middle of a resurgence that made a married fellow in his 30s feel like he might still enjoy the night air of an All-Star Game. Ten more years passed, two kids were born, the Mets got into one World Series and just missed reaching another, and it was assumed the new Mets stadium would soon see an All-Star Game. And in 2008 Yankee Stadium was to host an All-Star Game. Again. More years passed. The novelty of the new park wore off. The team became harder and harder to watch. The owners—who were buddy buddy with the damned commissioner—still couldn’t finish the job on getting the All-Star Game. While I continued my lifetime of All-Star waiting, I wrote Best Mets. The book includes a chapter dedicated to the Mets in the All-Star Game, complete with an obsessive segment on all the other teams to host All-Star Games since the Mets came into existence in 1962—18 teams have hosted multiple games and every club save for the Florida teams has held at least one. I assumed that the moment the book went to print last fall that there would be an announcement that the Mets would finally be awarded the 2013 All-Star Game. Well, the book has been in stores for several months and finally there is am All-Star confirming press conference. An All-Star Game at Citi Field. Well, what do you know? So much for the back story of why I waited to run with this until I got that email from mets.com confirming it. Oh, and at the conference, Mayor Michael Bloomberg said that no city had ever before hosted the All-Star game twice in a five-year span…except for New York, which hosted the 1934 game at the Polo Grounds and the 1939 game at Yankee Stadium; and Chicago (1947 Wrigley, 1950 Comiskey). That is not to say all this waiting has left me edgy, but.... I will be talking about this subject, the top 50 Mets, and more with Taryn Cooper at Gal for All Seasons on Wednesday night at 7 p.m. Check it out here. |
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May 14, 2012 Mets Monday Monologue The Mets handed over their mojo to the Miami Marlins and now we've been handed a Monday to deal with. How to cope? Well for metsilverman.com’s fifth season and the Mets’ 50th year, the first day of the work week is always a Mets Monday Monologue, with tidbits and observances from the Mets and the world at large. Want to learn more about the best of Mets history? Check out Best Mets. Think of that book as the sponsor of our Monday monologue, but this week we check out The Dude, Mad Men, Mayan calendars, Sosa-ian flashbacks, Benny Hill, and old-school strategy. Now that that’s all over, mix up some White Russians and chill. M3, Volume 8: The Dude Abides Like the Mets are the only team capable of coming back? Yet that Mother’s Day marring performance in the ninth inning Sunday was maddening. A month into his Mets tenure, Frank Francisco has knocked down the door into that high end group of volatile Mets closers, standing somewhere between another Francisco—Rodriguez—now a Brewer, and Braden Looper (the 2005 Looper, the one who imploded Opening Day, pitched the whole season with a bum shoulder, and didn’t tell anyone until he’d thrown away any postseason chance the team had). And for someone whose biggest past claim to fame was throwing a chair into the stands at Oakland Coliseum, Francisco’s ejection Sunday was embarrassing—and left his team in a no-win situation. The Marlins, who had played few games in their new stadium, and were having a closer crisis of their own, wound up with two wins for Heath Bell and long-term video board fodder of walkoff wins and dancing Fish.... On Friday, a friend called to say the Mets were playing with house money right now, the Marlins were hot, and he’d sign on for one of three in Florida. I pretty much agreed. From now on I sign on for nothing. The Miami drown machine series reminds me of the weekend in Chicago in May of 1996 when Generation K went off the tracks. Rookie Paul Wilson was just one out from a complete game win on Friday afternoon at Wrigley Field when Sammy Sosa, not yet the reincarnation of Babe Ruth that modern chemistry would make him into two years later, crushed a three-run walkoff home run off Wilson. Sosa did it again that Sunday against Jerry DiPoto. In between was a blowout Mets win by Bobby Jones, reminiscent of the easy win by R.A. Dickey this past Saturday. Thanks for the memories…. Friday night’s Mets game, the 8,000th in franchise history (still no no-no; no kidding), had one of those circumstances that makes National League baseball exciting. At least to me. Johan Santana has thrown 82 pitches through six innings. He has been masterful since a rough first inning, but he is still trailing, 3-2, and the Mets have the tying run in scoring position. What do you do if you’re Terry Collins? Well, he does what most of us would do: he sighs and sends in his best righty pinch hitter, Justin Turner, who is retired on one pitch. Now in the American League, there is no strategy to play along with. Turner is up anyway because he is serving as the designated hitter against the lefty starter. A different version of the same conundrum came up on Sunday, only with the ninth spot for Jon Niese coming up and the Mets looking to blast the game open. I think the DH has its place, but not in games I care about. I like the strategy, the novelty of a pitcher getting a hit, the execution of the bunt, and the pace. Let the AL keep its DH. If that creates problems for interleague play, get rid of that while you are at it. When the DH becomes the rule for all games in a couple of years because MLB has forced interleague play into the daily calendar, I’ll really miss these little bits of strategy to play along with at home. It’s their game, I’m just a spectator…. After Friday’s debacle of a denouement, I turned to an ace in the hole. I had never seen The Big Lebowski and, with the wife and daughter out of town on a school band trip, I borrowed the film from the library. People had always said how funny the movie was, but I had never seen it. I will still take Raising Arizona, which I saw in college—the only Coen brothers film I’ve seen in a theater—and to this day it is still the funniest pre-credit portion to a movie I have yet seen. The Big Lebowski, however, helped take the sting out of that ninth-inning loss. The Dude abides…. Sunday, Mad Men filled the role of soothing the mind after a meltdown of Franciscan proportions with a classic episode where much of the action took place in the characters’ and viewers’ head.…. And not to think I just sit around watching the boob tube by myself—with the ladies away, my son and I borrowed a film he needs to see before he gets too old: Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. One of my favorites as a kid, the 1968 film still gives you a pat on the head as you age because of the presence of a Vulgarian toymaker played by Benny Hill. The only thing helping libidinous Mets fans tuned to Channel 9 in the final gloomy innings of a late 1970s night game was to hear the words, “And now stay tuned for the Benny Hill Show….” On the positive side, the New York Times reported on Friday that dead civilization calendar experts have reassuring news on the Mayan calendar, which some had interpreted as proof that life on this planet would end come this December. These experts relate that the calendar of this long-dead civilization is instead readjusting itself “like the odometer of a car rolling over from 120,000 to 130,000.” On the down side, though, we can’t count on the end of civilization to eliminate the obligation for the Mets to pay the last year of Frank Francisco’s two-year contract. |
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May 10, 2012 The Say May Kids The Mets swept the Phillies. In May. They also did this in 2010—shut them out for three straight days just after Memorial Day—and that didn’t stop Philadelphia from winning the next three series from the Mets. The 2010 Mets won the last series of the year from Philly—after the Phils had wrapped up everything of meaning. And, it’s also worth noting that for the last three seasons, the Mets have had winning records in May—and were over .500 late in the season in 2010 and 2011—only to finish in complete irrelevancy. This most recent series in Philly, though, was a thing of beauty. Each game was won by the Mets in the same fashion that they routinely lost at Citizens Bandbox against the young, always resurgent Phils. Maybe things are changing. Maybe the norm will settle back in. When the people who vehemently claimed they would boycott the Wilpons start showing up again in droves in Flushing, we’ll know it’s time to dust off the blue and orange bandwagon. Quoth Jasper from the The Simpsons: “By gar, it’s been a while.” This might be another blip on the radar screen we’ll one day wonder how we could have gotten so worked up over. But right now it’s ecstasy in May. Beautiful, unpredictable, amazin’ May. |
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May 7, 2012 Mets Monday Monologue For metsilverman.com’s fifth season and the Mets’ 50th year, the first day of the work week is a Mets Monday Monologue, with tidbits and observances from the Mets and the world at large. Want to learn more about the best of Mets history? Check out Best Mets. Think of that book as the sponsor of our Monday monologue, but this week we have look at math formulas, places where the Mets perform worse than Denver, tragedy in the NFL, the last word on Levon, the first word on Narwhals, and odd dream-like sequences. M3, Volume 7: Pythagoras, Abacus, Barnabas As we sit here before the Mets take the field in Philly, the Amazin’s own a 15-13 record despite scoring just 106 runs and allowing 134. Breaking out the eye shades, rolling up the sleeves, and going to the Pythagorean Winning Percentage formula, a team that scores that few runs and allows that many should have a 13-15 record. That does not mean the Mets will finish 22 games better than the law of averages, but a four-game swing this early is the season is another reason enough to feel good so far. Depending how you look at these things, it could be timely hitting, great managing, good old fashioned luck, or, more likely, a mix of all these. Whatever it is, be glad that the game is played on a diamond and not on an abacus. When the Mets beat the Rockies in 11 innings at Coors Field, it was the first time they’d broken the Rocks there in extras. They’ve played five extra-inning games in 18 seasons at Coors. They had lost games there in extra innings in 1996, 2008, 2010, and let us not forget the longest and most aggravating game the Mets have played there, a game I called in Best Mets the fourth-most frustrating regular-season loss in team history: the 14-inning Twilight Zone-esque defeat to the Rockies on the night Coors opened in 1995. Lousy things just seem to happen to the Mets in Denver’s way too-friendly confines (humidor or no)—7-0 leads vanishing, 11-run innings, Dante Friggin’ Bichette—but the team’s actual record at Coors is 28-40, a .412 winning percentage. That is better than the Mets have fared at Dodger Stadium (.406), Pac Bell and its pseudonyms (.375), Turner Field (.344), Petco (.333), and a number of departed parks, including—get this—the original home of the Mets, the Polo Grounds. In their two seasons in Manhattan, the Mets were an appalling 56-105 (.348). Back to Colorado, though one of my favorite states, it’s hard for me to watch Mets games at Coors—I even missed Scott Hairston’s cycle after checking out following the 11-run inning. All things considered, I’d rather be in Estes Park…. In the wake of the Junior Seau tragedy last week, it has been publicized that four out of five NFL players have some kind of immediate difficulty upon leaving the NFL, usually financial or marital. And it is a given that anyone who played in the NFL for any length of time has some physical issues as well. With all the money the league rakes in, an 80 percent rate of struggle post-NFL is inexcusable. That the NFL doesn’t care about its past is one thing, but that it does so little to aid its past players is something I hope the courts will take care of—and it still won’t help many who feel cast adrift after their playing days are over. The NFL has faced many challenges in 90-plus years of existence, but this may be its biggest test…. Last little bit on the passing of Levon Helm. Woodstock was essentially closed down for his funeral, and he was buried next to Bandmate Rick Danko. There have been many tributes by other bands to Levon, all of them seemingly playing “The Weight.” It is to the ever-loving credit of The Band that this tune is barely in my top five—ranking higher on my list are “Acadian Driftwood,” “Up on Cripple Creek,” “The Shape I’m In,” and “The Night They Drove Old Dixie Down,” (“Don’t Do It,” “Back to Memphis,” and “When I Paint My Masterpiece” are awesome but not original Band compositions). Bruce Springsteen, was one of many to try on “The Weight” of late, but my favorite version by a guest is by the Staples Singers, who do their turn accompanied by The Band in Martin Scorsese’s incomparable The Last Waltz. And a one, two, three… Also close to my heart is my daughter’s 13-to-16 softball team, which debuted Sunday. It’s the first team in years in that age bracket in our town—covering Kerhonkson, Marbletown, and Rosendale—and coached by Wayne Decker and me. One of our three players named Ali stabbed a liner on a hop in right field and gunned the runner out at first with the bases loaded to end the game for the Narwhals (not the way it’s spelled on the uniforms, but there is a hypnotically awesome theme song). R.A. Dickey couldn’t get the complete game win on the hill in Flushing, but my daughter did—though with the opposite reaction of R.A. Huzzah for the underwater unicorns.… As someone who suffered countless severe nightmares as a kid as a result of the character Barnabas Collins on Dark Shadows, the scary soap opera of the late 1960s, I have to say I am a little insulted that the film version seems to be a slapstick comedy. My older brothers and sister watched it after getting off the bus. Four-year-old me felt cool watching with the gang at 4 o’clock every afternoon, even though it sent me scurrying to my parents’ room in a panic at 4 o’clock every morning. I remember that dopey show but recall nothing of the Miracle Mets drama running concurrently on Channel 9….
Speaking of odd dream-like sequences, I was at the Kingston Barnes &
Noble on Friday and was looking at the R.A. Dickey book (I have the
Kindle version; |
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May 2, 2012 The Stork and Friends, Getting Their Due Some dream about retirement, some don’t want to think about it, some feel it is an outdated luxury, and some feel it is an entitlement. Being unable to see into the future, who can say what retirement will look like when I am directly affected? I leave it to others to argue about the merits and drawbacks of whatever system they are fortunate—or unfortunate—enough to be involved in (or not involved in). When it comes to baseball and retirement, however, I feel the obligation to chime in. “Anyone who played even one day in the majors is of an athletic caliber that we in the stands can only imagine. They deserve their day, however belated.” That is what I wrote to Doug Gladstone a couple of months ago. Gladstone, a journalist as well as the assistant public information officer for the New York Retirement System, helped prod MLB and the players association into an agreement to finally pay life annuities to former players not originally eligible to receive pensions. Hundreds of former major league players who didn’t qualify for any retirement benefits were finally rewarded for their contributions to baseball. Baseball takes care of its own, but until the agreement of 2011, MLB only took care of its own after 1980. It was 32 years ago, during contentious union-management negotiations that helped avert a strike—fleetingly, as it turned out—that provided benefits to anyone with even one game of major league experience after 1980. It was yet another in a long line of triumphs by the union over MLB owners, who had put the screws to players for decades under the reserve system. But under the 1980 agreement, those who played between 1947 and 1979 received nothing if they did not have at least four years of service time in the majors. This omission is especially egregious given the high-profile nature of the game, along with the fact that concessions to former players have been given in several other cases. This began when Gladstone was writing a piece for Baseball Digest and came across Jimmy Qualls, whom Mets fans know—or should know—as the villain who broke up Tom Seaver’s perfect game in the ninth inning on July 9, 1969. Qualls comes out the hero now. Gladstone remarked to the ex-Cub, now a farmer in his 60s, that at least he had his baseball pension to fall back on. Qualls informed Gladstone that he received nothing from MLB. And thus a crusade was born. Gladstone painstakingly put together the long and sad history of the pre-1980 players left out of the collecting bargaining agreement. Most of these guys were marginal players, the type you seemed to get two of in every pack of baseball cards you bought as a kid (if you bought your cards before 1980). The book that came out of Gladstone’s efforts, A Bitter Cup of Coffee (named after the proverbial “cup of coffee” that these 874 players got in the majors), examines the negotiating system as well as the lives of many of these people after baseball. Some have done fine. Others, who played during an era before exorbitant league minimums, are really struggling without these benefits. The union and MLB, for the most part, contend in the book that this is the way collective bargaining is: someone is always left out. True, but that doesn't make it fair. Especially when the game is making out like bandits, while many who played in the era before big paydays, are being held up. Gladstone kept putting the hard questions to MLB and the union. And both kept avoiding him, or pushing off the issue. That action was eventually taken is a "W" for him and for all the surviving ballplayers affected by the issue. Gladstone is happy that baseball has made amends with the annuity, but there are more concessions he thinks the pre-1980 players deserve. “The life annuity payment plan is flawed,” he told me this week. “The payments end when the man dies.” So if a ballplayer dies tomorrow, his widow and son wouldn’t get the hard-fought payments due him in 2013, 2014, 2015, and 2016—the latter year is when the current collective bargaining agreement expires. “Also, the men still are not permitted to buy into the umbrella health insurance coverage,” Gladstone said. “In 1993 the league awarded health insurance coverage to 39 vets of the Negro Leagues and their spouses. And these were guys who clearly didn’t have a contractual employment relationship with MLB. So from an employment benefits perspective, what the league and union are doing to the men I wrote about is comical.” Others have taken up the standard brought into battle by Gladstone, and there may one day be resolution on the issue, just like the annuity finally came the way of the players previously snubbed. And what, you might ask, does this have to do with the Mets? Well George Theodore, the ever-loving Stork of 1973 fame, and one of the five all-time characters featured in Best Mets, was among those left out in the cold before Gladstone took up the issue. I talked to the Stork recently—Gladstone provided that contact (he has been working on me like he's been working the MLB and MLBPA). The Stork is as wonderful to speak to as he has been to think of in the 38 years since he last swung a bat at Shea Stadium. Back in 1973, Theodore, a 31st-round pick out of the University of Utah four years earlier, stunned many in New York by making the team out of spring training. He was supposed to quickly be dispatched back to the minors, but a Minaya-esque number of injuries put the Mets in such a hole that the Stork stayed in New York, hitting .300 at one point until he too was injured in a horrific outfield collision with Don Hahn. He was never the same after that. He played with the 1974 Mets and spent 1975 at Tidewater before returning to the U. of Utah for his graduate degree. He has since embarked on a long and meritorious career as a counselor and social worker with elementary school students in Salt Lake. If you want to find out how people still feel about the Stork, check out his page at ultimatemets.com. “I just figured that when we played, you had to have four years in [the majors] to have a pension,” Theodore said. “I didn’t realize the other ways, how they used to grandfather things in before, whenever they made a new collective bargaining agreement. How they gave special recognition to many of the Negro League players and gave some compensation. So Doug took it on himself, his mission, that this was not fair for us players not to get part of a pension that he felt we should have. He’d been in labor relations and all of that, so he wrote the book. “In fact, he even came out to [Salt Lake City to] promote his book at a bookstore here,” the Stork continued. “Now I’m thinking somebody had sent him and the publisher put him on tour, [but] he’s done this all on his own. He paid for that. Here’s another person that I’m indebted to. So now we’ve got some compensation through 2016 which wouldn’t have ever happened without Doug. You should get that book, A Bitter Cup of Coffee.” I can only reiterate what the Stork said. A great scholastic athlete in his native Utah, Theodore didn’t look like your prototypical ballplayer, what with his nonstandard gait and thick glasses. He looked like that kid from the playground more than a major leaguer, plus who could resist his refreshing manner and love for marshmallow milkshakes (that comment on the back of his baseball card was reason enough for someone to plunk down a quarter in 1974 for a pack of cards). His story came to a crashing halt when he slammed into Don Hahn. He broke his hip and batted just once more the rest of the season, though he was kept on the postseason Mets roster and played in the 1973 World Series, for which he is still grateful to Yogi Berra today. We should be grateful for the Stork keeping people believing in `73 before it was decreed “Ya gotta believe.” George Theodore is one of the good guys. And so is Doug Gladstone. |
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April 30, 2012 Mets Monday Monologue For metsilverman.com’s fifth season and the Mets’ 50th year, the first day of the work week is a Mets Monday Monologue, with tidbits and observances from the Mets and the world at large. Want to learn more about the best of Mets history? Check out Best Mets. Think of that book as the sponsor of our Monday monologue. Last week ran a little Oakland-heavy and this week the thoughts are centered on the Mets 50th anniversary conference at Hofstra, like Metstock with Ed Charles instead of Country Joe and the Fish. M3, Volume 6: Mets Life, A.C. (After Conference) I had looked forward to the Mets 50th anniversary conference at Hofstra University since the day Dana Brand first told me about it in 2008. It was a long time in planning and some of the most beloved members of the Mets community never saw this weekend, including Dana, along with longtime Mets figures Bob Mandt, Jim Plummer, Jane Jarvis, “The Sign Man” Karl Ehrhardt, Gary Carter, and many others. Also taken too soon was Greg Spira, a good friend and hardcore fan who really would have enjoyed the conference. This past Friday, which would have been Greg’s 45th birthday, it was announced that SABR, an organization near and dear to his heart, will give an award annually in his name…. I had to leave the conference before Saturday’s closing ceremony in order to attend a wonderful art opening in Chelsea by friend and artist Lynn McCarty. It was hard coming to the realization that the conference was over. The years of planning, the anticipation, the brilliant presentations, and the raw emotion I felt from so many of the participants made me feel the recent losses of friends Dana and Greg in the last year. But in a good way, a reflective way. The images of Shea Stadium’s demolition by Andy Richter made me feel once more the pull on the heart for the building so many of the people at the conference thought of—and still think of—as their second home. Of all the speakers I saw, the one I felt captured Dana’s spirit best was Judy Johnson, whom I didn’t get to talk to but whose work I have followed online. She wrote and read with the passion of an English professor who loves both the written word and the Metsian mystique, like Dana Brand. And saying anyone was the best at this conference is like saying one member of the 1986 Mets was better than everyone else. And that is how good her piece was. Bobby O. in ’86 good.... I want—no, need—to thank those who put this conference together, including Hofstra professors and co-directors Richard Puerzer and Paula Uruburu, conference coordinator Natalie Datlof, registration coordinator and old friend Jeannine Rinaldi, and all the staff members and students who helped out. Esteemed author and new friend Stanley Cohen made the strenuous trip, at my urging—being on a panel with him and old friend and mentor John Thorn was an honor. Thanks to Ron Kaplan, who ended up being my first roommate since college; getting to talk about the conference, baseball, and books as we watched the befuddlingly bad local news and the remarkably well-cast Shipping News made up for any of the stuff I missed during the daytime shuttling to three panels going on simultaneously. I got to spend time with people I will call colleagues but think of as friends in this Mets life: Jason Antos, Matt Artus, David Bagdade, Mike Cesarano, Kerel Cooper, Rob Edelman, Andy Esposito (who has a nice writeup of Best Mets in this month’s Mets Inside Pitch), Jason Fry, Jim Gates, Jay Goldberg, Leslie Heaphy, Steve Keane, David Krell, Lee Lowenfish, Mark Simon, Jon Springer, Ray Stillwell, and others I have neglected to mention or didn’t run into. And to everyone who lavished praise on my work and made me feel like, well, a big shot, all I can say is thank you. I truly was humbled…. Mr. Met was there on Friday, as was his co-author and Mets ambassador Rusty Staub, but I was surprised that I didn’t see anyone from the team’s front office, TV network, or websites. If they were afraid that people would hurl insults at them, it was a needless worry. The people attending the conference love the Mets, warts and all. If they are willing to trust the fans to do the right thing at Banner Day, they certainly should have trusted this crowd. If I had a say, I would have included a field trip to Citi Field on Thursday afternoon, even if it meant starting the sessions earlier or having them run later. I went to Thursday’s matinee on my own with Eric Aron and saw a hell of a game. Having not gone to a game this year, I could not justify sitting in a classroom listening to people talk about the Mets while the team played an actual game—and went for a sweep—just 15 miles away. During his epic 13-pitch at bat against Heath Bell in the ninth inning on Thursday, Justin Turner morphed into “Burner,” a reference to an old college buddy named Turner, who went with me to the Doc Gooden post-rehab rehab start in Lynchburg in April of ’87. Twenty-five years later in Flushing, I started shouting “Burner” from the upper reaches of the promenade, where Eric and I had retreated to get away from the late-day rain. I wound up missing most of the conference on Thursday, which was a shame, but there are only so many in-person, walk-off wins in the life of a Mets fan. I am glad I redeemed that one…. To me, and perhaps to those in attendance old enough to remember, the conference felt like the “Steve Henderson Game.” For those who don’t know the reference, the game in question occurred in June 1980, when Steve Henderson’s three-run homer in the bottom of the ninth capped a late rally from a 6-0 deficit for a Mets team making an unlikely—and ill-fated—run in the NL East. To those who lived through not just the Steve Henderson homer, but the dismal three years that preceded it, and the three drab years that followed it, the Hendu lightning bolt was a harbinger that things would one day be better—an Old Testament prophet spreading the vibe, “You just wait, meshugeners.” I don’t know if I can wait 50 years for another conference, or another World Series triumph, but I sleep better knowing that this elite guard of Mets fans is waiting with me. I want the Mets to win for these people. Man, do they ever deserve it. |
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April 25, 2012 Mets Conference Signing I have already made my pitch and my point about coming to this weekend’s Mets 50th anniversary conference at Hofstra University (April 26-28), held in honor of the late author, Mets fan, and Hofstra professor Dana Brand. Be there or be square. I have some details about the book signings I will be taking part in. Here is the whole author signing schedule, which will be held in the multipurporse room at the Hofstra Cultural Center. Thursday @ 12:30pm – Michael Shapiro Thursday @ 8pm – Frank Messina Friday @ 12:30pm – Frank Nappi, Matthew Silverman, David Bagdade Saturday @ 12:30pm – Greg Prince Saturday @ 3pm – Jason Antos I will be the one with the bookmarks and bells on. |
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April 23, 2012 Mets Monday Monologue For metsilverman.com’s fifth season and the Mets’ 50th year, the first day of the work week is a Mets Monday Monologue, with tidbits and observances from the Mets and the world at large. Want to learn more about the best of Mets history? Check out Best Mets. Think of that book as the sponsor of our Monday monologue, but this week we have thoughts on the late, great Levon Helm; the mustache view from Oakland; a metal German; Jack London; and Scott Hairston. M3, Volume 5: Levon’s Legacy, Oakland Odyssey I have to lead off with the passing of Levon Helm, who was one of my favorite musicians and singers. And now, in my rock and roll heaven lineup, Levon takes over the drumming when Keith Moon passes out, which is often. He plays the mandolin and sings the rest of the time. Levon was also sort of neighbor over in Woodstock, where he’d lived since Bob Dylan called the place home in the 1960s. Smitty and I even went over to Levon’s house for a ramble last year. We paid for the privilege but brought along some dessert as a tribute. Some house, some ramble, some man, some Band.... I heard about the leader of The Band’s demise while driving around Jack London Square in Oakland—and many friends sent word and condolences. I listened to The Band all weekend on Pandora from my hotel room. It helped me reflect and get revved up to talk to the 1972 A’s for a book I am doing—don’t worry, there is a New York angle as well. The A’s were pretty nice, if not pretty busy, but it was worth the effort just for the 15-minute face- to-face chat with Rollie Fingers—the first true Hall of Fame reliever, and one of the few pen men deserving of Cooperstown induction. If you have ever felt like you just could not stop staring at someone’s, let’s call it predominant feature, I was transfixed by the mustache. I can maintain my stare from a safe proximity at the Rollie bobblehead given away Saturday night.... I had been to San Francisco on several occasions, but I had only been to Oakland for an A’s game in 1997 and to Berkley for an evening a decade before that. I was either researching in the Oakland library, sitting in the press box, or driving around trying to find a damned parking space without paying through the nose or getting a ticket. (Not knowing the BART well enough to rely solely on—and Oakland has some dodgy neighborhoods—led me to rent the cheapest and smallest car available.) I was taken to dinner by publicist and SABR board member Paul Hirsch, and later went to the best burger chain in the country, but my favorite memory came during a Sunday morning walk to the farmer’s market when a dog barked like crazy at the statue of Oakland’s Jack London, author of perhaps the best book in the dog genre, The Call of the Wild.... Yes, in 100 Things Mets Fans Should Know and Do Before They Die, I listed the Oakland Coliseum as the worst stadium the Mets have visited that I have also visited (I will gladly take anyone’s word for it and call it a tie with Tropicana Field). The view-blocking, soul-crushing Mount Davis in Oakland is about the ugliest thing I have seen at a ballpark—the extra seats for football sitting in the parking lot is another visual monstrosity. I ventured out each game, bought something to eat, and sat in an empty seat to dine. The food is better than the stadium: barbecue beef sandwich, soft tacos, and bratwurst (Gulden’s mustard available) were all good. The fries were mediocre, but they came in a cool, mid-size helmet the kids are already fighting over. The most unique item I purchased at the game was an apple for $1. It feels strange that I have thrice been to O.Co, as Raiders call the stadium, while not having been to Citi in 2012. Yet.... Plug alert: Best Mets and New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History will be on sale after the author’s panel I am involved in Friday at the Hofstra Mets 50th anniversary conference on Friday. If you can't make it that day, come Thursday or Saturday. It will be the time of your young (or old) life. And if that is not enough hype, there will be metsilverman.com bookmarks as well…. As I type “metsilverman” on the IPad, it automatically becomes “metal German.” Achtung! And “achtung” comes out as “aching.” Oh, my aching metal German head after taking the red eye home Sunday night.... With the Giants here while I was there I noticed that Scott Hairston can’t hit and he can’t field, but the man can still slide! |
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April 19, 2011 The Mets Conference at Hofstra (April 26-28) Up until now I have let others make the pitch for the 50th anniversary New York Mets Conference at the Hofstra University Cultural Center in Hempstead from Thursday, April 26, to Saturday, April 28. But now I am swinging the bat in the on deck circle, knee firmly on the Mets logo, and hands sticky with pine tar. It seems very strange that this event kicks off in just a few days. I received my first correspondence on this conference in November of 2008 from Dana Brand. A lot of people got that email—the conference was originally scheduled for November 2011—but upon consultation with the Mets, they moved it to the 2012 season. Because major league schedules aren’t set more than a year in advance, it turns out that the Mets leave town the day the event starts (April 26). If the weather is as nice as it’s been of late, tap me on the shoulder Thursday morning if you want to play hooky to see Mets-Marlins. I am sure Dana wouldn’t have minded me skipping out for my Opening Day. In fact, I think Dana would have enjoyed all of this. Hofstra Engineering department chair Richard Puerzer, who has been involved since the beginning, has carried through after what could not have been more difficult circumstances following Dana’s death last May. Paula Uruburu, like Dana, an English professor at Hofstra, has taken on the duties of co-director. And they have put together a great bill. I am not going to go into all the events going on, because you can see all that here. But I will list what I plan on checking out. Keep in mind that at any one time there might be three or more panels going on, so I plan to step in and out and check out as much as I can, but these are my leadoff spots. At least for now. If you don’t see me at something I highlighted or appear somewhere I didn’t mention, keep in mind that for this weekend I am a fickle little kid in a candy store with one of those big lollipops stuck to my face. Thursday, April 26 10:30-noon: Kathleen Lockwood on life outside the ballpark. Really enjoyed her book, Major League Bride, about her life in the majors with Mets reliever Skip Lockwood. Noon-1 p.m.: Brown Bagging in the Bullpen An all-star lineup of Mets bloggers who will be around at lunchtime Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. Many are friends of the site and all are worth listening to while you nosh: Matthew Artus and Matthew Callan (amazingavenue.com), Kerel Cooper (ontheblack.com), Michael Donato (ceetar.com/optimisticmetsfan.com), Shannon Shark (metspolice.com), Jason Fry and Greg Prince (faithandfearinflushing.com), and Joe Dubin. An opening ceremony starts at 1 p.m., with John Thorn giving the keynote address and then there are several great panels in the afternoon, but I haven’t been to a Mets game yet and may not get to until June, so I may be promenade bound. But I will be rushing back for… 4-5:30: A visit with prominent former sportswriters Hal Bock (AP), Stan Isaacs and Steve Jacobson (Newsday), plus Sal Marchiano, who has broadcast sports for every over-the-air channel in New York, plus Ed Ingles from Hofstra. I’ve had the chance to interview Marchiano and Jacobson and both have great tales to tell and were on the front lines. I remember walking by Marchiano doing a live remote outside Shea after the bleach-spraying incident of 1993. 6:45-8: Panel III-A: Charlie Vascellero, who wrote the definitive piece on the Sign Man a couple of years ago, takes on another one of my favorite subjects: Dave Kingman. James Holzmeister speaks on the 1977 “Midnight Massacre” that sent away Kingman and, of course, Tom Seaver. And Mets by the Numbers co-author Jon Springer of mbtn.net, who is pretty much a Mets blood brother, will also talk about Seaver. And then at 8 p.m. is a screening of Mathematically Alive, a film on baseball fandom (the Mets version). I saw this at an event I was at—jeez, was it four years ago?—and the film is a must. Even if you’ve seen it before. Friday, April 27 9-10:30: Skip Lockwood on life as a player at Shea; John Saccoman, who wrote the Gil Hodges piece in the Miracle Has Landed, on Hodges; and esteemed author Lee Lowenfish on the wonder that was Jane Jarvis. 10:45-noon: Forgive the blatant use of boldface but… I will be on a panel about writing on the Mets, along with John Thorn (Baseball in the Garden of Eden), Stanley Cohen (A Magic Summer), and scholar Joseph G. Astmanon, with Metstock roomate Ron Kaplan (ronkaplansbaseballbookshelf.com) as commentator. This day would have been Greg Spira’s 45th birthday, and I knew Greg well enough to say for a fact that he would have blown off both me and his former boss for a statistical analysis panel going on at the same time featuring friend of the site Mark Simon of ESPN.com. I miss Greg, his never-ending honesty, and Spock-esque logic. 1:30-3: After lunch with the All-Star bloggers is a session with Miracle Mets Bud Harrelson, Ed Kranepool, and Art Shamsky. 3-4:15: Immediately following that is poetry with Ed Charles with an intro from George Vescey of the New York Times. 4:15-6: Vescey joins Mrs. Gil Hodges, Gil Hodges Jr., Ed Kranepool, and Joe Pignatano on life post Dodgers and pre-Mets. 6:30: VIP reception and dinner with the aforementioned Mets on hand, plus a keynote speech from Rusty Staub. I bought a ticket for the reception and dinner. Saturday, April 28 9:30-11: Chris Horgan, Peter Carino, and Jeffrey Kroessler will all be presenting on Shea Stadium. 11:15-12:30: Sustainable practices at your ballpark. Or, as I might put it: How to avoid having the surface of the earth covered entirely in plastic refuse by the time the Mets turn 150. At the same time are two other panels, including one with Greg Prince on the Mets dictionary. 1:30-3: Always wanted to meet Joseph Antos, who put together the very cool Images of Baseball: Shea Stadium. 3:15-4: This is where it winds up with bits on Metmoirs from Taryn Cooper, John Coppinger, Steve Keane, and Greg Prince. And I will be there until the last minute listening to talks about Mets uniforms and baseball cards. I sort of wish I were more involved, but I am also quite excited that I will be able to flit in and out of all the different panels, plus I’m done with worrying about public speaking after Friday morning. I know I left out a lot of the cool stuff on the full itinerary, much of which I will probably check out, but right now I am checking out. I am flying to California to cover another team’s alumni event for a book I’m doing, then coming back on a redeye for my daughter’s confirmation, and help coach both of my kids softball/baseball teams. The point is, this is a really busy time—and I beg the pardon of my fellow bloggers and writers for not being able to link their work in this post but I am up at 3:30 in the morning to get to the airport. Yet I am making sure this conference gets my full attention. Like an All-Star Game hosted by the Mets, there is a good chance only one such conference will occur in your lifetime. Make time to attend. It is only a $40 daily rate ($45 on Friday), or $100 for all three. Hofstra students get in free. And so you don’t think I’m talking big because I got comped, I paid for it all myself, along with a hotel room so I won’t lose anything to commuting. I know a few people unable to make it due to other commitments. I feel for them. Like a playoff game you might have missed, we’ll be here to tell you all about it, but it won’t be anything like being there in the flesh. This is like having Shea back for three more days. And I know Dana would have liked that. |
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April 16, 2012 Mets Monday Monologue For metsilverman.com’s fifth season and the Mets’ 50th year, the first day of the work week is a Mets Monday Monologue, with tidbits and observances from the Mets and the world at large. Want to learn more about the best of Mets history? Check out Best Mets. Think of that book as the sponsor of our Monday monologue, but this week we have promos for the Red Sox radio network, SNY, ESPN, AMC, and the President of the South Florida Chapter of the Foot in Mouth Society. M3, Volume 4: Speaking of Revolutionaries In between jackhammer bursts from the workman next door, I hear what sounds like play by play of a ballgame. Fella must be listening to a rebroadcast of last night’s Yankees game. Who listens to radio rebroadcasts any more? Must be a big fan. That has to be it because there’s no game being played at 11:10 in the morning on a Monday. Then it hits me, that’s not the Yankees—it’s the Red Sox. And today is Patriots Day. A rare holiday for state employees—and hard work for Boston Marathoners—that I recall fondly and enviously from my days in western Mass. What could be better than baseball, hooky, and celebrating the start of the American Revolution? But my Patriots Daydreaming is interrupted by a phone call from the dentist. Did I forget my 11 o’clock appointment? In New York it’s still just another Monday…. I am a little afraid to say anything about the Mets starting rotation so far for fear of jinxing them—or coaxing them back to reality with faint praise—but they have been the reason for the 6-3 start. And despite a couple of bad outings by the bullpen, I have almost come to look forward to seeing Jon Rauch’s neck tattoo…. Power ranking are kind of dumb, but when your team is doing well you want to revel in them. And when the Mets were undefeated that first weekend, ESPN had them ranked—17th? The Yankees, winless at the time, were nine spots ahead. The top three spots after the first weekend went to undefeated Detroit, Tampa Bay, and Arizona. The Orioles, also 3-0 at the time, were three spots behind the Mets, at number 20. I guess this is why power rankings are kind of dumb.…. And when the Mets went to 4-0 last week, they beat the Nationals with eight homegrown Mets in the starting lineup, the first time the team had done that since April 19, 1990. That 4-1 win over Don Zimmer’s Cubs featured Tidewater-fed Mets Gregg Jefferies, Keith Miller, Mark Carreon, Dave Magadan, Barry Lyons, Kevin Elster, Doc, and Straw. The only import in the 1990 batting order was Howard Johnson, a far cry from April 9, 2012 lineup interloper Jason Bay, who was once a Mets farmhand for a few months (and is hitting like a minor leaguer again). Ironically, the 1990 homegrown win was one of Davey Johnson’s last as Mets manager. Twenty-two years later, he was victimized in the other dugout by the farm-fresh Mets in both ends of the ninth inning thanks to the play he so famously hated in New York: The bunt!... After the first couple of episodes of this year’s Mad Men, I had a slight fear that the show might be starting a delayed production spiral like the one that turned the last few years of Matt Weiner’s last show, The Sopranos, into a slog of enduring two dull episodes for every good one. After watching the two most recent Mad Men episodes in succession Sunday night, twi-night doubleheader style, I’m sorry I ever doubted. He even had me feeling a slight touch of sympathy for lascivious lout Pete Campbell. Those Greenwich girls will break your heart, Pete. And those British blokes will break your face…. I was transfixed by the Ozzie Guillen press conference—clarification, the third Ozzie Guillen press conference, held last Tuesday. I will not make the same mistake and use a comparison regarding a specific group, but every ethnicity has a line that you do not cross and Ozzie not only crossed it, he pulled down his pants. He also potentially alienated a part of the fan base the Marlins must capture to survive in Miami, once the paint dries on the new stadium. Following Guillen’s mea culpa in two languages, ESPN interviewed Dan Le Batard, a prominent Miami columnist who co-hosts a fun TV show with his dad. His parents left everything behind in Cuba, and Le Batard had just spoken with his mother, who still cries thinking of how Fidel Castro’s regime forced her to flee her homeland. She felt that Guillen, a longtime Miami resident, has genuine remorse and shouldn’t be forced out of his dream job less than a week after debuting with the team. If she is happy with the apology, who am I to say differently? Though if I were the MLB poobah, I would have doubled the suspension. Ten games would be more of a lesson for others to shut the hell up when talking about sensitive matters they know nothing about. We can say anything we want to in America, but that does not mean what we say shouldn’t have consequences. Just because there is a microphone in front of your face—or a keyboard at your fingertips—does not require you to say the first thing that comes in your head at the expense of people who have suffered. It’s not being politically correct—it’s knowing one’s place in the world and respecting it. |
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April 11, 2012 It’s always great when a really good friend is just a little bit older than you. You two are close enough in age to share most everything, but you retain just a bit of youth and the right to give some good-natured ribbing about age to someone who always gets there just before you. I grew up in a household where the mom was just a little older than the dad and I am slightly younger than my spouse. Same goes with my other mate for life, for better or for worse, in sickness or in health: The New York Mets. The Mets played their first game 50 years ago today, also a Wednesday, the night following a rainout in St. Louis. They lost the game at what people recall today as Sportsman’s Park, or if they are under the influence, the first Busch Stadium (now on the third round). The 1962 Mets did a lot of losing that first year and have generally lost more than they’ve won. In all, 17 of the existing 30 major leagues franchises have losing records in their history, with the Mets owning a .479 percentage, behind the Royals—believe it or not—but ahead of the Guillen-otined Marlins and Bud’s Brew Crew at .477. Five teams, all from the older National League, have won 10,000 games. The Phillies, a .473 franchise, are not among them—in fact, the Phils have the most losses in major league history and are the only club more than 1,000 games below .500. So in those celestial standings, at least, the Mets hold a substantial lead that won’t be the end of the world if they blow in a decade or two. Pending a call-up for injured David Wright, who was poised to become the all-time Mets RBI leader, 923 men have hit the field in variations of orange and blue (we shan’t mention the black period). That’s an average of 18-plus athletes per year we wish we were. You can only fit so much sentiment on a birthday card, but I wrote a bit more in a gift or two I had specially made for the occasion. I am glad you’ve been there for me all these years, dear old friend. I hope the feeling is mutual. |
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April 9, 2012 Mets Monday Monologue For metsilverman.com’s fifth season and the Mets’ 50th year, the first day of the work week is a Mets Monday Monologue, with tidbits and observances from the Mets and the world at large. Want to learn more about the best of Mets history? Check out Best Mets. Think of that book as the sponsor of our Monday monologue, with this week is also brought to you by the MLB merchandizing department, The Bing Bang Theory, and a beatdown of the Braves—and the critics—for a change. M3, Volume 3: A Bazinga of a Beginning Just got back from Orlando. Did I miss anything? Oh, just the first Mets opening sweep coinciding with the Yankees getting swept to start a season in 27 years. I was at college in 1985 and missed that beginning as well—and that year the Mets started out 5-0…. This will be the first opening homestand I have not attended since I was in college, but it was my mother-in-law’s 75th birthday and she wanted to take the kids to Disneyworld. I don’t miss the opener for just anybody…. I still have baseball-related fodder generated from the Magic Kingdom. I looked past the sea of humanity constantly passing by like we were all fish under the sea. (Sorry, but after a few days you get used to hearing a Disney song every five minutes or so.) My daughter and I made a game of gauging which major league teams were best represented by the garb worn by visitors in the Disney parks. We saw people wearing clothing from all 30 teams, with the Angels finally chiming in on the last day—not surprising given that they play in the home to Disneyland: Anaheim (not Los Angeles). Who would want to go to the hassle of going across the country to Florida when the original is right in your backyard? Anyway, here’s the top 10 team garb spied at Disney during Easter week. MLB marketing department, take note: 1. Yankees 2. Phillies 3. Tigers 4. Red Sox 5. Braves 6. Cubs 7. Mets 8. Twins 9. Reds 10. Pirates The Brewers had a lot of early support before fading and the Rays nearly stole the last spot at the last minute, but Tampa Bay did that last fall on the field and so they can cool their heels this spring on the fashion runway. Yankees and Phillies garb seemed to appear with the precision and routine of a Main Street USA parade. (I’ll stop now, really.) And what of the team that is supposed to be taking Florida by storm, the Miami Marlins? That new logo, even uglier in the flesh than in pictures, barely registered as many Magic Kingdom views as Big Bang Theory “Bazinga” t-shirts. And even Sheldon couldn’t infuriate Miami’s Cuban community like Ozzie Guillen, who’s in it up to his neck in the deep stuff after one weekend on the job. I’ll give the Mets a big bazinga for their unscientific seventh-place finish in the garb wars and for sweeping the Braves to begin the year. The Tigers also opened with an impressive sweep and had a lot more support at Disney than I would have imagined. I still can’t get over all the Pirates gear I saw. Bradenton is two hours away from Orlando while Kissimmee, home of the Astros, is next door, and there were only a handful of Houston hats. The Pirates prove that Disney is a fami-lee attraction…. These are the kind of clunkers I come up with when I miss Opening Day and the first series. And I mean I didn’t even see a highlight. There was exactly one sentence about Saturday’s game in Sunday’s Orlando Sentinel. But once back in New York and turning on the car radio to WFAN was music to my ears when the first caller said the Mets might just surprise some people and the second caller complained about Joe Girardi calling for intentional walk in the first inning of the first game. You have to enjoy vacation—even a vacation from reality—while you can. |
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March 30, 2012 Letters to the Met-idor, Guest Host Edition I’m two weeks into the Mets Monday Monologue and here I am explaining that I’ll be unable to do the next one, or for that matter, toss in a clever seeming April Fool’s parody. So on April 1, or later, look at the Mets roster. The joke should be pretty obvious. As a replacement I am bringing in--at great expense—the old stand-by Letters to the Met-idor, in which you write in, I write back, and the good times—or something like it—ensues.
Josh Lewin, New Mets Announcer, Checks In Dear Met, Josh Lewin here, new Howie Rose sidekick... love your blog, and I’m interested in purchasing a Maple Street for 2012 ASAP... I’m sure they’re on the newsstands in NYC but since I’m heading straight to Port St Lucie from here in Dallas, can I get one sent down there?
Thanks for your help, Matt! I look forward to getting to know you this
spring and summer. Your writing (both in blog and book form) is
fantastic—you have totally helped me fill in the holes between my Mets
fandom days ('77-'95) and the present. ------------------------ Josh,
Checking on ’98 Choking
Hey great book! Lifelong Mets fanatic. One question: Why not one word in
Best Mets about the final game of ’98? If they win they tie for wild
card. It ends with, of all things Turk Wendell (I believe), hitting a
batter on an 0-2 count to lose it... ughhhh!!!! --------------------------- Frank, It’s funny how greater, more recent tragedies can wipe out the devastation of earlier traumatic incidents. If you look on the list of five most heartbreaking Mets losses, the first two are the last day of 2007 and 2008, followed by the Castillo dropped popup in 2009. I think most people would back me up on those, as well as the number five heartbreaker lock: The last game in St. Louis that essentially ended the Mets’ bid for the 1985 NL East title. Listening to Jack Buck call that game on the radio from my dorm room was like death. That game made me forever loathe Jack Buck and his progeny—and I had liked the man’s work on Monday night NFL and playoff radio broadcasts with Hank Stram. The wild card in all this is number four on the list of heartbreakers: The first game of 1995, when the Mets repeatedly blew leads in a mile high Wiffle ball game in Denver that established brand-new Coors Field as a circle of hell for visitors. Due to bitterness over the just-ended strike, I was actually trying to boycott baseball at the time and only listened to only a couple of pitches of that game. My boycott attempt was as ultimately successful as Mets relief pitching in that first game at Coors. Yet the game’s very existence still annoys me enough to make the list. (And I still hate watching games from Coors Field enough that I have yet to attend a game there, even though I am quite fond of the Rocky Mountain State otherwise.) But the end of the 1998 season was kind of like 2007, where the game was over early. Armando Reynoso, whom I liked, got lit up and Hideo Nomo pitched in relief in what would be the pair’s last games as Mets. The team never got closer than three runs in the 7-2 loss and sat home while the Giants and Cubs played a one-game playoff the next night. (Its overall affect on the Mets psyche is somewhat muted by the team pulling out a 1999 postseason berth in thrilling fashion.) The game from 1998 that still sticks in my craw is the Carl Pavano/Ugueth Urbina shutout I witnessed at Shea earlier in the final week against a stone dead Expos team against a pitcher whose next outing would be famous for surrendering Mark McGwire’s mammoth 70th home run. (A mammoth being a majestic creature that’s somehow extinct while admitted cheater McGwire remains employed as a teacher of impressionable ballplayers. Go figure.) So that mid-week September 1998 loss to the Expos, giving Montreal a sweep of the two-game Shea finale series, meant the Mets needed to do well that weekend in a three-game set in Atlanta against a Braves team that already had 103 wins and would have 106 by weekend’s end. And we have already established how well that went. There wasn’t room for this long explanation in Best Mets anyway. So consider this extra credit. Thanks for reading. Best, Matt
Give 10 Catch by 10 Its Due Dear Met, How was Endy’s catch omitted from the last revision of 100 Things Mets Fans Should Know and Do Before They Die!? It was the last great play to take place at Shea and if it wasn’t for Beltran staring at a fastball the next inning we would have gone on to win a third World Series. Instead that couplet of events is just another almost page of Mets history, but one that should burn enough in our hearts to be in the book.
Derek Sekuler Derek, Thanks for reading. While Endy’s catch may not be numbered among 100 Things, it does get its due in number 48 (p. 126 of the paperback). That chapter, “Seventh Heaven and Hell,” discusses every Game 7 the Mets have played—only one of four has turned out the way Mets fans would want. I was at the game in 2006 and had a great view of Endy’s leap, but to be honest I can’t think of that catch without thinking about how the Mets lost the pennant to the Cardinals a few innings later. (And, for the record Carlos Beltran went down looking at a knee-buckling curve.) I don’t know if you recall Endy’s similar catch (though not as much extension) against the Marlins in the last game at Shea, but once Florida won the game and knocked the Mets out of the 2008 postseason picture, the catch was relegated to the rubble heap along with the ballpark. I don’t recall the catch ever being shown on TV after that day. These kind of arguments are what make baseball fun. There’s more such rankings in a book of mine just out, Best Mets. Endy’s two catches are included among the five most heartbreaking losses (regular season and postseason). I wish Endy the best in Baltimore. Best, Matt
One for Our Side
Dear
Met, While I was working for the company Cuisinart in Greenwich, CT, back in 1986, my boss was an avid Mets fan and his family owned box seats behind third base, about 20 rows back. He took me to four games, but unfortunately no playoff games… Sob, Sob… I was caught up with all the frenzy of the season and the gut-wrenching playoff series vs. Houston and the dreaded Mike Scott! Thank God we avoided that most certain loss! Then of course, the Buckner error, which had me jumping for joy in my living room!!! Ever since, it has been heart-break city, all the way from the 1988 NLCS loss to the Dodgers (ironically, to one of their parents from Brooklyn) to the 2000 loss to the Evil Empire and then ending up with Beltran’s bat on his shoulder! Of course, it has been downhill all the way with the 7 up and 17 games to go collapse to the $50 million payroll cut to the 2012 roster ala the Wilponzis. Why did I ever root for these guys? Fate? love for hopeless causes? I don’t know. Being a life-long Jets fan is no better! And their last win was the year man was on the moon as well! I definitely plan to read your other books and let’s hope by a miracle the Mets can somehow repeat 1986 within the next decade! Best Wishes, Gene Casciari, Stamford, CT ----------------------------
Dear Gene, Dear Met, I enjoy your blog and books. I picked up 100 Things by chance at Duane Reade a few weeks ago and loved it. I am a baby Mets blogger myself, although I've been lazy about updating. My brother knew R.A. Dickey in high school, so I guess that’s my Mets connection. Take care, Joe ---------------------------- Hey Joe, Thanks for the note and for the info that you got the book at Duane Reade. Most of the time I don’t know where they sell the books. It’s certainly not Barnes & Noble, which puts out half a dozen of my books, sells out and doesn’t order more. But I digress. Liked your blog and the story about your roots as someone from the nontraditional Mets proving ground (read Long Island) who wound up stuck with the Mets. I grew up 30 minutes from Shea (away from Long Island), surrounded by Yankees fans. I was watching those 1979 Mets you missed when your grandmother took you to the Reds game. Picking the Phillies was the smart choice. Then or now, sorry to say. Best, Matt
On Greg Spira Note:
This note is emblematic of many notes I received in the days after Greg
Spira’s passing. Most of these people I had never personally had contact
with before. It shows the diverse group that was touched by Greg. Thanks
again to all. My interest in the sport faded over the years, and we lost touch at times, but we always reconnected, and had chatted as recently as a couple months ago. He said he wasn't feeling that great, but that was usually the case, and it was a shock to find out that he had passed away. Anyway, I just wanted to say that you wrote a really nice tribute to a very good man. Andrew Fruman ----------------------------
Andrew, |
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March 28, 2012 Viva El Birdos While the Arizona Cardinals can light up this site—or at least light up this site’s founder when all is right with the world—I am not a big fan of the baseball Cardinals. But let’s face it, they are a much, much better franchise than my Cardinals will ever be. And they pretty much have the Mets buried as well. In four do-or-die moments, the Cards beat the Mets in 1985, ’87, and, who can forget, 2006. I’d trade the one the Mets did win, 2000, to change history on any of those aforementioned dates. Larry Borowsky put together the Maple Street Press Cardinals Annual that was a distant relative to the Mets one I churned out until the company could no longer make it. But Larry, whom I know only from his work, marshaled his forces and put together an E-annual that matched the name of his site, Viva el Birdos. I would do an annual for the Mets, if I got purchase orders for 1,000 of these up front. These annuals are hard to do, and I was actually glad I did not have to do it this winter because co-editor Greg Spira passed on in December and it would have been a kind of sad exercise in more ways than one. So Mets Nation went from two annuals per spring to none in one year. But if the Mets had won the 2011 World Series like the Cardinals, I would have said to hell with it and gone for it like Larry did. And he did a hell of a job for $3. I read all the articles on my I-Pad. On my device it came in at 159 pages on the standard setting. I don’t know how many pages that would translate to in the annual format. When I worked on the Mets Annual, my favorite part was going through tons of pictures and working out headlines and captions, but I-Pads and e-readers are not quite there graphic-wise yet, so Viva el Birdos instead uses numerous charts to spiff things up. And these are also pretty helpful. Among the things I learned:
There is just one pure history piece in this e-dition, but it’s a keeper: a look at the 40-year-old Steve Carlton-Rick Wise trade from a 1972 viewpoint, using the accepted stats of the day and the advanced numbers of today to examine the deal critically. The Cards still got hosed, but it’s not as bad as you’ve been led to believe (especially since the Cards sent Wise to Boston for Reggie Smith and got good production from the other Reggie before giving him away to L.A.). One thing I can admit now: The Mets Annual always had a much larger history section than any other team annuals the company did. The first year we did it was the last year at Shea and so we went hog wild there. After that we kept a firm grip on the past each spring. And as 2009, 2010, 2011 came around, who really wanted more of the present? Or the future, what with Omar Minaya’s recommended slot slop, many of whom are out of the game now, stuck in the minors, or with other teams. Glad we didn’t waste your time with that <> <> <> Had a nice interview with Pete Spadora on Sports and talking Best Mets on March 24. Click here to hear. |
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March 26, 2012 Mets Monday Monologue For metsilverman.com’s fifth season and the Mets’ 50th year, the first day of the work week is a Mets Monday Monologue, with tidbits and observances from the Mets and the world at large. Want to learn more about the best of Mets history? Check out Best Mets. Think of that book as the sponsor of our Monday monologue. Today’s topics include the falling Mets market, lefties, center field (not the John Fogerty song), Tebow, Berkman, Swedish hackers and Madison Avenue’s finest, a far out Far East Opening Day in the middle of the night, and words to live by from Jerry Izenberg. M3, Volume 2: Zou Bisou Bisou! The Mets are sixth in the Forbes franchise rankings. While teams always dispute these rankings, one thing you can’t argue with is that the Mets are falling. For years the Mets ranked second or third in franchise value. Now they are sixth, trailing the Yankees, Dodgers, Red Sox, Cubs, and Phillies. The Dodgers are up 75 percent in value over last year. See what a little MLB takeover and new ownership can do?... I can’t understand why lil’ Danny Herrera isn’t the favorite to fill in as lefty on call in the Mets pen. He pitched nicely last year after coming from Milwaukee and he may have the later years John Franco-esque guile—and size—that gets people out with slop…. It’s a back-to-the-future feeling in center field for the Mets. Remember the early 1970s when Tommie Agee was slipping, Amos Otis was given away, and Don Hahn and the ghost of Willie Mays shakily manned that position in a World Series? Del Unser, where for art thou? And who is the next Lee Mazzilli for us to wait on?…. It was Tim Tebow as much as anyone who kept the Jets out of the playoffs last year, courtesy of his Thursday night comeback in Denver. Now he has the chance to keep the Jets out of the playoffs two years in a row. I like Tebow, or any person who can force the winning-is-all-that-matters pontificators to reach into their bag of BS for more adjectives and empty arguments. I think Tebow would have fit in better with the Cardinals, who need a QB as badly as the Mets need a CF…. For those who’ve tried to quit the Mets and can’t, someone who is living out of market and is smarter than most of us, David Brooks of the New York Times, has gone back to his pack a day habit of Mets addiction. We all need a drag. (Thanks to old pals at Loge13 for the link and for picking this up a couple of weeks back.)… Quite a Sunday doubleheader for me: finally got to see Girl with the Dragon Tattoo and the season’s first Mad Men. Both ran a little long but I would call it a twinbill sweep.... And thank you, Lance Berkman, for using the term “extortion” about MLB forcing the new owner of the Astros to agree to shift to the AL West in 2013 so we can all enjoy/endure interleague play every day (which Bud Selig will probably soon use to justify changing both leagues to the DH). Why a league shift has to wait more than a year while the extra playoff teams are rammed down our throats weeks before this season starts is something that maybe MLB can explain in another ad in the Houston Chronicle…. Does anyone know—or care—that the Mariners and A’s are opening the season Wednesday in Japan? The 3 a.m. Opening Day pitch won’t inconvenience those fans on the West Coast too much.... For the rest of the teams, the final full week of spring training calls to mind the words of Jerry Izenberg, the longtime sports writer who was astute enough to call his book about Game 6 of the 1986 NLCS, The Greatest Game Ever Played. He said, “Watching a spring training game is as exciting as watching a tree form its annual ring.” Here’s to more trees and to games that count. I hope Tebow is praying for us. |
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March 19, 2012 Mets Monday Monologue For metsilverman.com’s fifth season and the Mets’ 50th anniversary we are making the first day of the work week a Mets Monday Monologue, with tidbits and observances from the Mets and the world at large. Want to learn more about the best of Mets history? Check out Best Mets. Think of that book as the sponsor of our Monday monologue. Today’s topics include Las Vegas, the Mets owners having something positive to report for the first time since Bobby V. was on the payroll, the professionalism of the Mets radio announcing team, Daniel Murphy, Peyton Manning, Don Draper, spring training losing streaks, NCAA tourney upsets, and, of course, bowling and the fashion wisdom of R.A. Dickey and Monty Cappelletti. M3, Volume 1: Betting the Under... Dog I’m surprised Las Vegas hasn’t come up with an over-under line for Johan Santana. Let my first act of the season be to grab the croupier’s rake and set the number of major league starts this year that will be made by Johan. The number, and this is adjusted upward after watching him pitch on TV a couple of times, is 16 starts. No more bets, please. No more bets… And speaking of gambles, the Wilpons almost got to the courthouse steps Monday before settling their clawback suit with Madoff trustee Irving Picard for $162 million, which they don’t have to pay for three years. And the Mets paid some other outstanding debts as well. Now I’d be really impressed if they could get a player or two to strengthen the game’s weakest bench for the game’s most injury-plagued franchise.… A little piece of info I recently got from Howie Rose is that while he is in Florida covering Islanders hockey this week, Howie is hitting Port St. Lucie and calling games with new broadcast partner Josh Lewin. The broadcasts are just for them to practice, not for us to hear. To have a couple of guys who have been in this business for such a long time doing that to get better acquainted shows what professionals they are. Wish we could get a dose of them midweek instead of a few extra hours of the Sports Pope…. I hate to be a downer, but if Daniel Murphy keeps sticking his knee between the runner and the base on tag plays at second base he is going to get horribly hurt playing that position for the third straight year. And he was doing it on TV last week. I’d trade Murph to a team that needs a first baseman or DH and get back some pitching before someone slams into his leg. Again…. If the Mets can get this year’s eight-game losing streak out of the way in spring training, then the whole Grapefruit season has been worth it…. I cannot wait for the new season to begin—for Mad Men…. There was a rumor for a couple of days that Peyton Manning might be heading to the Arizona Cardinals, but now he’s going to Denver to wreck the city’s happy marriage with Tim Tebow. Maybe that decision will work out for the Cards. They got Peyton’s backfield mate Edgerrin James in 2006 and he wasn’t half the man he’d been with the Colts…. The NCAA tournament has been a lot of fun already. I admit I missed both number 15 teams beating the number 2 seeds, but mucho kudos for Lehigh and Norfolk State, not to mention South Florida, patron club of Faith and Fear. But my heart was broken before the tournament even began—please don’t insult us by declaring those play-in qualifiers to be first-round tournament games—when my beloved Iona blew a 25-point lead to BYU and wound up left at the altar in Dayton…. Now on to bowling. While Mets bowling night in Port St. Lucie isn’t really worth commenting on, the whole exercise is worth it just to see footage of R.A. Dickey sporting a bowling shirt. As always, the man just gets it. And I think we just might have a new model for the Monahan’s Department Store’s “Regular Guy Look.” |
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March 14, 2012 My Messy Jesse Year I have now been doing this site long enough to have a fifth year and a fourth anniversary. Ugh. It’s that confusing kind of math that has the Mets complete 50 seasons in 2011, yet 2012 marks 50 years of Mets baseball. Pull out your fingers and count, if you don’t get it. So with the ugly bit of math out of the way… now the fun starts. Bob Murphy used to say that on a Mets promo from one of those first 50 seasons—or is it 50 years? If my first paragraph didn’t send you scurrying away, congratulations. You are an old school Mets fan, regardless of your age. The kind of fan who cannot be turned off by cloudy math, lousy teams, clueless ownership, mediocre settings, and trying to compete for market share with the happeningest, bandwagoniest win(dbag) machine this side of the outer boroughs. And as in years past, I adopt a former Mets uniform number that corresponds with my age, and proclaim it as my own for a year. Here’s the metsilverman.com roll call: 2008: Age 43—My Terry Leach Year, #43 (number worn, 1981-82) 2009: Age 44—My Ron Darling Year, #44 (number worn, 1983-84) 2010: Age 45—My Tug McGraw Year, #45 (number worn, 1965-67, 1969-74) 2011: Age 46—My Neil Allen Year, #46 (number worn, 1979-80) 2012: Age 47—My Jesse Orosco Year, #47 (number worn, 1979, 1981-87) I can only hope there is a Turk Wendell Year for #99. I love that it’s worked out that all the years are pitchers numbers, and that four of them are relievers. The bullpen is a great place to accumulate pranksters, late bloomers, and guys who go out there and get people out even on days when they’ve got nothing. Jesse Orosco sort of fit into all these categories. And he is the most durable pitcher in history; not in Mets history, mind you—John Franco has that distinction—but no one has pitched as often in the major leagues as Orosco. And the funny thing of it is, it took Orosco a few years to break into what was an incredibly lame Mets bullpen. Orosco made the majors out of spring training in 1979, just his second professional season and his first as a Met. The previous December the Mets and Twins were in talks about compensation for Jerry Koosman, who threatened to retire if not traded back to his native Minnesota. Even as a 13-year-old kid, I was not angry at Kooz. I was jealous. If only they could have shipped me to a team that was just as cheap as the Mets but managed to be entertaining. The Twins wanted to give the Mets a scrub or two for the best lefty in club history. Mets GM Joe McDonald mentioned Orosco, a 1978 second-round pick by the Twins from his hometown Santa Barbara City College. Poker face owner Cal Griffith’s reply: “Whose Orosco?” So Orosco wound up as the player to be named later, along with Greg Field, a fourth-round pick from 1975 who was dispatched without ever playing in the Mets system (or the major leagues). Kooz won 20 for the 1979 Twins, but patience was the dividend with Messy Jesse. Orosco debuted on Opening Day 1979 wearing number 61—so Jesse and I may share another year some day. The lefty got the final out at Wrigley Field, retiring Bill Buckner, delicious irony for those who love an extra heaping of foreshadowing. He finished five other games in ’79, including one against world-champs-to-be Pittsburgh. I recall sitting on the floor of our den listening to the radio—a fair number of games weren’t on TV then—and I could tell by Bob Murphy’s voice that Willie Stargell’s eighth-inning home run was no wall scraper. Looking it up, it was the only hit Jesse allowed in three innings out of the pen, but it cost the Mets the game. That sums up the ’79 Mets. Jesse’s last two games for the Mets that year were starts. Somehow the Mets won both, though he didn’t get credit for either victory. The ’79 Mets were desperate for a lot of things, especially pitching, but they weren’t desperate enough to keep the kid at Shea all year. He did not return to New York until 1981, but by pitching in ’79 he would get credit for being part of one of the worst Mets teams ever and it would enable him to later become a four-decade player. He retired at age 46, turning down offers to pitch for yet another year for yet another team. It would have been wonderful number symmetry for No. 47 to retire at age 47, but after 1,252 games pitched, Jesse figured he—and we—had had enough. I pegged Orosco as the 18th greatest Met in my most recent book, Best Mets. Insane you say? Well, that’s not the first time I’ve heard that, but I am one of those people who think pressure does have some effect on performance. Remember Armando Benitez? (We will not be sharing a year when number 49 comes due.) Despite throwing as hard as perhaps any Met not named Ryan, Benitez just could not get the side out in a crucial game. On the other hand, I have never felt safer in the late innings than with Orosco standing on the hill. Oh, things could get characteristically messy, but just the idea that it was Orosco instead of Doug Sisk made me feel at ease. And Orosco’s ascendancy allowed GM Frank Cashen to make up for the biggest gaffe in his early Mets years—keeping Neil Allen and trading Jeff Reardon in 1981. Cashen dealt Allen, plus prospect Rick Ownbey, to the Cardinals for Keith Hernandez at the 1983 trading deadline. Orosco led the last-place ’83 Mets in wins (13) and saves (17) while placing third in strikeouts (84) despite pitching just 110 innings—though that many innings for a “short” reliever showed how valuable he was to the team. And if that stat didn’t do it, his 1.47 ERA did. He placed third in the Cy Young voting for a team that the manager, George Bamberger, quit on in May. Orosco didn’t quit—and neither did I. Having just graduated high school, I went to Shea more times than I’d ever gone before to see interim manager Frank Howard’s spunky—though often clunky—band o’ merry Mets. I cheered on Mex, Mookie, Hubie, Straw, Seaver, and even Sisk, who was actually pretty good as a rook. When I got back from college in the late spring of 1984, I ran to Shea Stadium the first chance I got. I bought a yearbook with Strawberry, Hernandez, and Orosco in profile on the cover, all looking like they could see something that I could not—like a babe standing up in a tank top behind the dugout. The Mets should have re-issued an All-Star version of the yearbook with rookie Dwight Gooden’s profile added to the cover. That quartet went to San Francisco for the All-Star Game for the first-place Mets. Finishing first wasn’t meant to be in ’84—or ’85—but by the time Orosco was a seasoned pro of 29, the bullpen tandem of Jesse and Roger McDowell gave Mets fans the most dominant season in team history. The pair could even fill in as outfielders when necessary. And when everything threatened to fall apart—repeatedly—in October, Orosco was on the hill when the big outs were needed. I still don’t know how Orosco wasn’t named MVP of the 1986 NLCS for his three wins, not to mention five innings of relief in just over 24 hours in Games 5 and 6. Keith Hernandez and Gary Carter talked about coming to blows over Jesse’s fastball at the Astrodome. Orosco threw the curve, Kevin Bass missed, and the Mets were headed to the World Series. Orosco picked up a save in Boston, but his place in Mets history was forever assured when he fanned Marty Barrett to end the World Series. Yes! The Mets could not follow up ’86, and after the ’87 season the 30-year-old Orosco was shipped to the Dodgers in a three-way trade that brought back three pitchers: Kevin Tapani, Wally Whitehurst, and Jack Savage. The trade tree of Mets who were on the mound when they clinched a World Series ended with Koosman and Orosco, though Tapani was in the Twins dugout when Minnesota won the 1991 World Series. By then it looked like Jesse was going to just fade away. He became a situational lefty who was handed from team to team, always in number 47. Almost. His first and last stops—with the 1979 Mets and 2003 Twins—were the only times in his nine-team, 24-year career where he had to find a new number. It was 50 with Minnesota, the organization where it all began. Orosco’s last pitch was wild, bringing in the winning run for Detroit and assuring that the ’03 Tigers would not break the Mets’ mark of 120 losses in 1962. Some records, no matter how negative they may seem, should forever stay with the Mets. Another save by Jesse. What I loved most about Orosco, though, was that he fulfilled a prophesy I came up with as a bored and desperate young teen in the late 1970s. With nothing better to do than practice pitching in the mirror next to the lone color TV in the house—not that I was a pitcher, mind you—I somehow got it in my head that I should make phantom tosses left-handed in the mirror... even though I was right-handed. Anything to stay entertained with the ’70s Mets. Then, like Richard Dreyfuss and his Devil’s Tower fixation in Close Encounters, I came to believe in my vision that one day a left-hander would be on the mound and strike out the last batter when the Mets finally won the World Series. I hadn’t thought about this in years until I woke up after my post-championship bender in college in late October of 1986—oh, who are we kidding, late March of 1987. I realized that my vision had actually come to pass. Even the on-field celebration at Shea was a lot like the one I’d so often envisioned—though the glove toss was all Jesse. I have a vision of how the next Mets championship will be clinched, but I’m holding onto that premonition. I’ll pass it on to my grandchildren so they can tell their grandchildren what to look out for. The final part of my annual declaration is resolutions for my new year. Usually I have a theme for regular postings on the site. Well, I’ve been thinking about this and by now I’ve detailed all my favorite Mets games witnessed (2008), reviews of Mets books (2009), and a two-year project to detail my impressions of the first 50 seasons in Mets history(2010-11). I thought about a top 50 list of players as other sites have done, but my last two books—New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History and Best Mets each have similar but far from identical lists. And, to be honest, my past themes have taken a lot of time to write. I need to complete a book in the next few months... so I can push that during year number 48. I have come up with something quick, fun, and maybe even a little snarky that I can hopefully post with more regularity than I have in the past. I am calling it the Mets Monday Monologue. It will be funny, poignant, ironic, and sarcastic all at the same time. And it will debut this coming Monday. Or next Monday. Or some random day to be determined. In any event, I hope this will make this 50th season, er, year, a little more fun. And remember, even Messy Jesse put in his time with crap Mets teams before he could throw that mitt high and proud. And it is Orosco’s year once more. |
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March 13, 2012 Book Review: Wilpon’s Folly Given this subject, maybe this should be a cook-the-books review. In case you haven’t been following baseball for, say, the last 72 years—like Greg Prince’s friend’s cousin, Milton—there is this family who owns the Mets named the Wilpons. (If you need to know who the Mets are, I suggest reading up on it here and here.) This family came on the Mets scene when the team was at its nadir. Like a lot of people through the years, they got in on sports team ownership by being a small part of a larger group. Fred Wilpon has been Mets president since 1980, went halfsies as owner in 1986, and then took over the team lock, stock, and barrel in 2003. There have been many good times—the mid- and late-1980s come to mind, and 1986 in particular—and there were a lot of down times, such as the early 1980s, a six-season chunk of the 1990s, the first few years of the 21st century, and, well, now. I could go into how the Wilpons were duped into giving much of their money, plus a lot of other people’s, to this fellow they thought they could trust implicitly. But hey, Bernie Madoff was a big Mets fan! That seems to be about the extent of the check that was done on him and his magic money growing system. Goes to show that when it comes to money matters, fan loyalty isn’t a prerequisite. To read Wilpon’s Folly, that’s all the background you need to know. Howard Megdal provides the rest in the form of in-depth analysis not only of the Wilpon holdings, but on the financial system they were involved in. It paints the picture of a group that could have and certainly should have seen the warning signs of the Madoff meltdown, especially in lieu of a Ponzi-type scheme that the family had to deal with a few years earlier. It paints a picture of the Wilpon and the team finances that is as grim as the Mets rotation this year. And if the Mets hadn’t thrown a bunch of money at a couple of players who really are of little use in the surrender-now mode of the current roster, the payroll would probably be in the $35 million range the Royals threw out on the field last year. (I’ll forgive the Mets Johan, but not seeing Bay’s faults was either ignorant or, a term that comes up a lot in the book, willfully blind.) As Megdal paints it, even selling the team might still keep the family in debt. Of course the Mets dispute these claims. They even took the proactive step of barring Megdal from sitting in the press box during games this year. That in itself is a sign that you’ve done solid reporting and hit close to the nerve when a fully buttoned-down, lawyered-up entity like theirs reacts like a seven-year-old might. But there’ll be a lot more people missing from Citi Field this year than just Howard. With the trial set to begin shortly, Wilpon’s Folly is recommended reading. And important. I ripped through the e-book in less than three days. It was actually the first e-book I’ve read. I still like the option of being able to write notes in the margins or call up page numbers (maybe I can do that and just haven’t figured out all my I-Pad can offer). But the only folly with this book is acting like it doesn’t hit close to home. The walls are coming in all around… |
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March 6, 2012 Every Spring with the Baseball Watching the Mets steal five bases in a spring training game is odd. Watching it amount to one run is something I am afraid will be a recurring theme in 2012. Enjoy. Spring games do not count. And the Mets leaving loads of men on base is kind of like a fuzzy blanket, taking me back to the late 1970s at Shea with my dad, watching the Mets stranding those underdogs who tried so hard to get on base, only to be left alone. The spring training opening crowd of 5,021 is about right for that era at Shea as well. The pitchers working their little buns off to keep the game close, only to lose. Ah, nostalgia. Ah, spring. |
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March 5, 2012 A One-Game Rant Well, another Bud Selig gem of an idea is going official. We will now have two extra “playoff” teams. This means there will be as many wild card teams annually as there were teams playing in the postseason in the two leagues combined from 1903 to 1968—during what was, supposedly, the game’s golden age. If you want to call these new teams “playoff” teams—and I don’t—that would push baseball into the double-digit mark for postseason teams. So much for being the sport where you had to earn your way into October. Or November. Whatever. Oh, and because it was ram-rodded in after the schedules were put together, the team with the best record will have to play two road games to start the Division Series. Not like it’ll affect the 2012 Mets, so go crazy, folks, go crazy. I will be watching Family Guy re-runs instead of your convoluted new system. Skipping MLB postseason action, just like everybody else does. The other day I handed my daughter a 7-pound, 2,500-page book I worked on a dozen years ago. (She wrote a paper for history class on the Roaring ’20s that included a summary on the best-of-nine 1920 World Series and can you believe she left out the Bill Wambsganss unassisted triple play from her first draft. Kids today!) It had been a while since I’d actually held that book in my hands, but I like its heft, and I especially like what it contains. Maybe it still can make people take notice. I wish I could go to the next meeting where baseball pooh-bahs gather, pick that book up, and aim it at these blockheads who may just yet find a way to ruin the game. (Do not get me started on the new every-day-is-interleague-day 2013 format.) Of course, I’m not advocating violence. But maybe when the book thuds to the floor, it would get their attention. And then I would tell them this: Congratulations! You have just turned the information contained inside your former official encyclopedia and cheapened it beyond your own narrow-minded comprehension. You have taken the one-game playoff, the rarest of baseball occurrences—besides the Mets hosting an All-Star Game—and you have made the one-game playoff mean nothing. Because now you’ll have a one-game playoff every year. And unlike the real one-game playoff, which actually does not count as a postseason game, these will all be playoff games. Cheapened playoff games. A one-game playoff to break a tie forged over 162 games is a gift from heaven. A scheduled one-game playoff, in each league, is a load of crap. It clogs up what should be sacred postseason history while not even giving both teams a home game. If you’re going to screw up the game and fast-track the NBA-ification of the MLB playoffs, at least make it a best-of-three and use the traditional format that was used to break ties in 1946, 1951, 1959, and 1962, and give one team the first home game and the other club hosts the next two, if necessary. If I recall, this format gave you your best-remembered game ever between the ’51 Dodgers and Giants—cheating aside. And if you plan to fundamentally change the rules, how in God’s name can you spring it on everyone in spring training? Even the DH was agreed on the January before it began. This is kind of a big change, guys. Can’t we have one last season to enjoy before you guys screw it up, you sons of… At this point I will be grabbed by a handful of bodyguards, put in a straight jacket with “purist” stenciled across the front, and forced to watch Yankee-ography with my eyelids propped open until I hate baseball as much as the average 15-year-old kid does today. Meanwhile, Bud is being administered a Band-Aid where the corner of Total Baseball caught him above the eye. Oops. As one of the owners blows on Bud’s boo boo, another owner says, “I didn’t understand one word that guy was rambling on about.” “Yeah,” says another. “He didn’t mention money once.” |
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February 23, 2012 Kaplan Connection Thanks to Ron Kaplan’s Baseball Bookshelf for featuring me on the site and asking such good questions. I feel like a schlub, though, for going on about my Total Sports days and leaving out the influence of John Thorn and Mike Gershman, or talking about Mets by the Numbers without mentioning it was the brainchild of Jon Springer. Speaking of which, coach Bob Geren is given #7? If I were Jose, I would steal second, third, and home off the Mets just for that my first time back to New York. |
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February 21, 2012 Carter Belongs with Canadiens I was away over the weekend and missed some of the Gary Carter tributes, but Total Sports vet Mike Meserole forwarded this Montreal Canadiens Carter tribute inexplicably omitted by NBC during its Sunday telecast. As is often the case, Canada shows more heart and class than their American brethren. And to hear the cheer for the Expo-clad Youppi (transferred to mascot of the Canadiens after the Expos left) shows that baseball and Montreal are like a divorce in which the people who could be the most bitter still have love in their hearts. Merci. Thank you. |
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February 16, 2012 Always 8: Gary Carter (1954-2012)
Forever Kid Thanks, Mr. Cashen Expo Met Giant Dodger Expo No more Ron Hodges behind the plate Sending Hubie, Herm, Floyd, and Mike to Montreal The Jarry Park P.A. Announcer Screeching, “Gar-y Car-ter!” Balls blocked in the dirt A Mets catcher hitting cleanup Line drives land in pen “The Curly Shuffle” rally maker Taking Neil Allen deep Fist pump Shea curtain calls Scoring on Knight single Greeting Knight in full gear Mets captain with Keith The Ivory soap commercials Hall of Famer in 2003 Manager of St. Lucie Mets Catching 19 innings v. Atl 7 RBI in 2 innings v. Atl Dreading him as an Expo Loving him as a Met Starter of the rally of ages in Game 6 of 1986 Series Catching every single 1986 postseason inning for Mets Catching first completed night game at Wrigley in 1988 Waiting forever to hit home run number 300 in ’88 1974 3rd youngest in MLB 1992 5th oldest in MLB One of legion Mets 3Bs Also played 1B, LF, RF All-Star MVP 1981 All-Star MVP 1984 Three Gold Gloves Five Silver Sluggers Author of A Dream Season And also Still a Kid at Heart RBI single in 12th beats Astros Two WS homers at Fenway Hit .426 in only Expos postseason Knocked in 9 in only World Series His double in the ninth beats Orel Hershiser in Game 1 of ’88 NLCS With Doc, Mitch, and kids on ramp in “Let’s Go Mets” video “Go ahead, Doc!” Yes, Doc, go ahead indeed Messy Jesse breaking balls in Houston Knew when to not fight Keith We’ll miss you, Kid Adieu |
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Radio Alert:
If you are in the Kingston, New York listening area, tune into WKNY 1490
at 6 p.m. on Monday, February 13, to hear me chat with Dan Reinhard
about
Best Mets. |
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February 7, 2012 Whose Folly Now? This was just supposed to be about thanking people who had recently written up Best Mets—including the Library Journal, Sportsology, spreading the good word at Goodreads and Amazon.com, and via our oldest ally in cyberspace, Mets by the Numbers. And while I appreciate the kind words about my book, I have to say something in support of another author, who has sadly been given the shaft by the team he loves. As someone denied access to the Mets press box more than once, this is how things are when you’re not a full-timer at a paper or part of the Baseball Writers Association of America, a place that, like the big leagues, you have to earn your way into. I haven’t earned the right to be a regular in a big league locker room. But Howard Megdal belongs there. Howard, who wrote for me for all four editions of Maple Street Press Mets Annual, also wrote for the Lo Hud Mets Blog, which sort of functions as my old hometown paper. When I was a kid, most towns in Westchester had their own editions of the suburban Gannett afternoon paper. Ours was called The Reporter Dispatch. All these papers eventually folded into one, The Journal News. The headquarters was a mile or two from where I grew up in White Plains. I never wrote for them, but Howard did, and he did a pretty good job of covering the Mets. Now, you would think that the Mets would be happy that any media outlet nowadays would want to cover the team on an even semi-regular basis. The papers near me—farther up the Hudson—simply use condensed Associated Press coverage, and only put the Mets on the first sports page when the Yankees are off or when the Amazin’s do something embarrassing. And they’ve done it again. The Mets have chosen not to credential Howard. It’s their right. Their small-minded, thin-skinned right. The reason behind this is because of his new e-book, Wilpon’s Folly, which from all accounts is what it sounds like: How the first family of the Mets screwed up and made matters worse by holding the fans captive. I encourage all of you to join me in buying Wilpon’s Folly, even though I have to borrow my daughter’s Kindle to do so. Glad to do it. I don’t have anything else to advocate as a way to get back at the Mets for their continued absurdity. A boycott hurts me—and my kids—as much as it does the Mets. We care about the team, not the owners. We will still be here when they are gone. But I don’t know how long our children will stay patient with this team. Right now, waiting for the Mets to get their head out of…um…the sand sounds like folly indeed. |
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January 31, 2011 Video Interview with On the Black Kerel Cooper from On the Black was good enough to conduct a little interview with me via Skype the other day. We chatted about everything from the current Mets situation to other players worthy of Mets Hall of Fame induction to the future of Mets blogging to the content of Best Mets and, as they say in the trade, so much more. And a free book goes to the first person who can correctly identify the strange figurine by my elbow on the bookshelf behind me. Thanks, Kerel, and y’all. |
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January 26, 2012 On Board with Steady Eddie and Johnny Franco There has been a lot of talk about the Mets retiring numbers lately, but I think the team is doing the right thing by holding steady and sticking to honoring not just great players for their team, but those who stack up with the greatest of all time. 37: Casey Stengel, a legendary manager who gave the Mets their start. A special man and a special case. 14: Gil Hodges masterminded our touchstone moment as a franchise, the unbelievable transformation of chump to champ. 41: Tom Seaver is the best Met ever, case closed; Baseball-Reference lists him as sixth best in the history of pitching. Mike Piazza, if he gets into Cooperstown, is the only player I foresee who can crack this numerical code. A Met like Mike comes along every 20 years—if you’re lucky. While we’re waiting, and are preparing for the 50th anniversary of the Mets, it is only fitting to fete a new member of the Mets Hall of Fame. And John Franco is the ideal candidate as the 26th member of the Mets Hall of Fame. In the past I’ve complained that the Mets ignored their Hall of Fame—notably during the eight years where no one was inducted between Tommie Agee (2002) and the deserving ’86 quartet: Dwight Gooden, Darryl Strawberry, Davey Johnson, and Frank Cashen, all inducted at Citi Field in 2010. You can’t argue with the ones who are in the Mets HOF. The ones who aren’t—a group of deserving Mets that includes Edgardo Alfonzo, Howard Johnson, Jesse Orosco, David Cone, Al Leiter, Sid Fernandez, Ron Darling, and my dark horse favorite, Jon Matlack—are all fodder for future discussions during the Hot Stove period and on those days when the team is actually playing and you wish they’d just stop. Franco is what Mike Francesser would call “a compila.” He compiled a lot of saves—426 in all, good for second all-time when he retired in 2005. He has been surpassed by Mariano Rivera and Trevor Hoffman, but he is still number one among lefties. For those who think the one-inning save is too easily gotten, wait ’til next year. I hope I live long enough to see someone surpass his 276 Mets saves. Franco’s 695 games as a Met seems pretty safe as well, unless Pedro Feliciano (459) gets his shoulder in shape and returns from the Dark Side. Franco, who gave his number to Mike Piazza in 1998, acquiesced to a secondary bullpen role for the team good in ’99. And for those who want everything perfect and liked to complain when he left too many men on base while getting out of a jam throwing junk, look at how well big man Armando did at getting big outs when most needed. As the setup man for Benitez, Franco ranks fifth in club history with 53 holds—Feliciano leads this ho-hum category with 98. Aaron Heilman (69) is second, so take this stat for what it’s worth. But as far as years of service, Franco’s 14 seasons in a Mets uniform is second all-time, edging out Bud Harrelson (13). His post-Tommy John surgery GT (garbage time—it’s OK, Franco’s dad was a sanitation worker) puts Johnny ahead of a large crop of Mets who spent a dozen years on the field in Flushing: Tom Seaver, Jerry Koosman, Tom Seaver, Craig Swan, Jerry Grote, Cleon Jones, and—as proof that a good attendance record is worth something—Ron Hodges. Number one on that list is Ed Kranepool with 18 years served. I was talking to the master of Mets longevity about another project just after Franco was announced as a Mets Hall of Famer Thursday. Krane, a Mets Hall of Famer since 1990, was understandably pleased. Franco has a great record. He’s done a great job. He’s a New Yorker, but he came out of Cincinnati and did a tremendous job. Look at how many saves he had for the Mets organization. He’s in the top half a dozen for saves lifetime. He deserves it. He’s been a great player for them. I like him and respect him. Steady Eddie also noted that it’s getting tougher to find Mets who have the longevity to be worthy of Flushing HOF induction. I guess the Mets now are shortchanging guys who jumped around so much with free agency. It’s tough for guys to have any kind of longevity with the ballclub. John certainly produced on the field. And I think he does good work and does some PR for the club, in a limited capacity. So he’s still around New York. I saw him the other night at the [Baseball Assistance Team] Dinner. (Two note taking sessions in one week! Try not to get used to me doing actual reporting. This could hurt my image.) Anyway, welcome to the Mets Hall, John Franco. In a year that no one is too excited about, the June 3 induction gives us something to look forward to. <> <> <> To see how Franco, Kranepool, and other top notch Mets rank in my all-time top 50—and how they rank based on Wins Above Replacement—check out Best Mets. |
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January 23, 2012 Carter Kids Pinch-Hit Homer for Dad at BBWAA Dinner I attended the New York Chapter of the Baseball Writers Association Dinner Saturday night. That this is coming out 24-plus hours after the fact is perhaps reason one why I’m not a BBWAA member. As a newspaperman, I was still at least half a dozen career moves away from even being close to a beat writer job, and that career path was irrevocably changed when I read The Bad Guys Won by Bob Klapisch and John Harper, both of whom were in attendance Saturday. Their book portrayed the job of beat writer as one of hellish torment surrounded by rare moments of clarity and pleasure. At the very least, according to the writers, the occupation would make me hate whatever team I covered, and perhaps the game itself. If I reached this pinnacle of the profession, whenever I was asked what my favorite team was, I would be required to say something insipid like “I don’t root for teams, I root for stories.” But there I was at the 89th annual dinner anyway, thanks to Mets Inside Pitch’s Andy Esposito. And it was an entertaining and newsworthy night, if I may add. I guess this is where most of the people in attendance would tell me I’ve buried the lede (it’s pronounced lead—to be more specific, leed—but newspapermen on deadline are in such a hurry there is no time to wonder whether a word refers to the potentially hazardous material or a potentially hazardous paragraph opening so as to make a reader continue flipping the page, or in modern newspaper parlance, hit the “close” button). I got to chat up some of the veterans in the crowd like Marty Appel, Marty Noble, Lee Lowenfish, Jay Horwitz, New Breeder from Newsday Steve Jacobson, and 1980s Mets dynamo Randye Ringler, creator of the timeless tome GourMets. I also had a great chat with Tommy John and met original Met Frank Thomas. But the big news from the dinner wasn’t about me, or them, or any of the younger, crustier writers, it was about Gary Carter. As you may have heard, the news turned grave on Kid Carter the other day when new tumors were found on his brain. In the party-hearty 1980s, Carter sometimes got an unjustifiably bad wrap as a goody two shoes, but he was the best catcher in the league, and when we look back in hindsight, it’s plain to see that he was also probably the best person in the league. You can judge a lot about a person by his children, and Kid’s kids did him proud Saturday when they accepted the Arthur and Milton Richman “You Gotta Have Heart” Award. With a crowd of people that tends toward the cynical, you could hear a pin drop when Bobby Ojeda introduced the Carter clan, saying that “they’re learning that [when] you go through something like this, you go through it with that fight in your heart.” In Best Mets, when I assigned MVPs for the top Mets teams of all time, I picked Bobby O. as the ’86 Mets MVP. He’s still proving he’s the man more than a quarter century later. The 40-second standing “O” from the no-cheering-in-the-press-box crowd was the equivalent of a mid-1980s curtain call. All that was missing was Carter himself, permed, a little sweaty, and very excited, popping out of the dugout for a fist pump. But that his family would make the trip after the devastating news received this week, says a lot about what the Carters think of the city and its game. Here’s some of what his daughter, Kimmy, said: I’ll be telling my dad about that standing ‘O.’ He’d like that a lot…. We are so honored to be accepting this special award tonight even though we wish our mom and dad could be here. It’s been a difficult eight-month journey, however, the Lord has given us our daily strength. We would like to thank the friends and friends for their countless prayers, love, and support for our dad and our entire family. We are incredibly proud to be the kids of such amazing parents whom we love very much. There is no doubt that both of them have a lot of heart. Before we left for New York, I asked my dad if there was anything he would like to share on his behalf. He spoke from his heart, and with the help of family, we would like to share his words. This is where D.J. Carter, who looks quite a bit like his dad did as a fresh-faced Expos rookie, stepped up and read his father’s words: I’ll always have a special place in my heart for the people and city of New York. I’ll never forget my first day in a Mets uniform on Opening Day 1985 when I had the fortune to lead our team to victory over the St. Louis Cardinals with a 10th inning home run…. I have nothing but fond memories of my time in New York, highlighted of course by the World Series championship in 1986. I still remember the feeling of riding in that World Series parade with over one million people lining the streets to celebrate our championship. The fans were always supportive of me on the baseball field and continue to support me and my family since my diagnosis of brain cancer in May of 2011. I’ve always strived to put my heart and soul into everything in my life, whether it’s playing baseball, coaching my team at Palm Beach Atlantic University, or raising money to support efforts for the Gary Carter Foundation. I am truly humbled to be recognized by the New York Chapter of the Baseball Writers Association of America for the Arthur and Milton Richman “You Gotta Have Heart” Award. It is with honor that I accept this award. I want to wish all of you the very best in the future and hope the Mets can win many, many more World Series championships. Carter’s other daughter, Christy, followed that up the only way anyone possibly could, by saying “Thank you and God bless you always.” There were actually many more acts to go on the night, including some needed levity in a sportswriter’s version of “Who’s on First.” And one of the few publication covers the Mets will get this year is Scorebook, the annual NYBBWAA dinner program edited by Marty Noble. And I could not leave without getting a Casey Stengel coffee mug caricature by Johnny Pennisi (and I don’t even drink coffee). The other highlights, edited for your protection: The “Willie, Mickey, and the Duke” Award went to the ’62 Mets, represented by Al Jackson, Frank Thomas, and Jay Hook, who was pretty funny for an engineer and a 19-game loser. Choo Choo Coleman was also in the audience. The Joan Payson Award for community service, first given to Payson in her memory following her death in 1975, was awarded to Yankee Dave Robertson, who worked tirelessly in his hometown of Tuscaloosa, Alabama following the tornado devastation there last spring. The Casey Stengel “You Could Look It Up” Award went to former Met Tommy Davis, who corrected ex-Met Jay Hook, who introduced him by saying Davis knocked in 193 runs instead of 153 in 1962 (as a Dodger, mind you). “If I’d knocked in 193 runs,” the Brooklyn native said, “I’d own this whole place.” And yes, Jose Reyes was back in town, wearing glasses I noticed, to receive the Ben Epstein-Dan Castellano “Good Guy Award.” He was not on the podium long, but he was up there longer than he was on the field on closing day last September. Jose Bautista, Jeremy Hellickson, Joe Maddon, and Tim McCarver, were also honored but not present. On hand for their fete were retiring Yankees trainer Gene Monahan, never-retiring Yankees relief ace Mariano Rivera, Braves top-notch rookie reliever Craig Kimbrel, Diamondbacks manager Kirk Gibson, and Cardinals World Series MVP David Freese, winner of the most obscure major-minor award in the game, the Babe Ruth Award. That award has been given out annually to the top World Series performer since well before there was an MLB official Series MVP. It does make it easier when, like this year, the Babe Ruth winner and Series MVP are the same guy. Sometimes life has more spice, like in 1969 when Met Donn Clendenon was Series MVP and Al Weis won the Babe Ruth Award. That’s the kind of spice I’d love to try more often. There was another award that also requires some explanation: the J.G. Taylor Spink Award. Named after the longtime publisher of The Sporting News, this honor does not put you in the Hall of Fame per se, but it puts your face on a plaque with all the other sportswriters in an exhibit down the hall from the player plaques in Cooperstown. This year’s Spink Award winner went to Canada’s Bob Elliot, who has fought the good fight for years to bring the best baseball coverage to a nation that thinks as much of baseball as most Americans do of hockey. That’s only a slight dig. I like hockey, but I’m probably as lukewarm about the sport’s daily doings as the average Canadian is about the grand old game. Turnabout’s fair play, eh? And then there were the awards we were all waiting for: the presentations of the MVPs and Cy Youngs. Justin Verlander made it easy by winning both awards in the AL, but 85-year-old Don Newcombe made it unforgettable with a hilariously long tale of double entendre about how he finally tracked down Verlander on vacation to congratulate him. Newk and Verlander are the lone players in history to own a Rookie of the Year, Cy Young, and MVP award. Verlander can only hope he makes it to this dinner in 57 years, and gets this level of both respect and laughter. Mets manager Terry Collins, who was part of the Dodgers hierarchy when he saw Clayton Kershaw make his minor league debut just five years ago, introduced the southpaw. The deserving Cy Young winner came across as humble and engaging as you’d want your Cy Young winner to be. And then there was Ryan Braun. To be honest, I thought Matt Kemp deserved the MVP. And you have to be honest, this would be a lot less messy if Kemp had won. Of course, a few weeks after Braun won the MVP, it was leaked—pardon the pun—that he had tested positive for a banned substance and would be suspended for the first 50 games of 2012. Braun spent part of this week’s trip to New York meeting with MLB execs about his situation, to no avail. Most of his Saturday speech was innocuous, but at the end of his four minutes he addressed the elephant in the New York Hilton ballroom. Sometimes in life we all deal with challenges we never expected to endure. We have the opportunity to either look at those as obstacles or as opportunities. I chose to view every obstacle—every opportunity—excuse me, I chose to view every challenge I’ve ever met as an opportunity and this will be no different. I’ve always believed that every person’s character is revealed by the way they deal with those moments of adversity. I’ve always loved and had so much respect for the game of baseball. Everything I’ve done in my career has been with that respect and appreciation in mind, and that is why I am so grateful and humbled to accept this award tonight. Thank you again to everybody and hope you enjoy the rest of your evening. Freudian slip aside, it was a nice try by a ballplayer caught in a pickle. Sorry, Braunie, I just can’t believe anyone anymore who gets caught using banned substances. Even if the test was incorrect, Braun can thank his fellow Players Association members, whom he did thank earlier in his speech, for creating this situation where a whole generation of ballplayers may never be trusted by the same public that once watched them in awe. And Braun was addressing an audience that will one day judge him and others in his situation—or who just seem like they might be under suspicion. Hope he enjoyed the dinner because I think MVP votes for him will be harder to come by in the future. And sitting next to the podium was Boston’s new manager, Bobby Valentine, with a look of distaste on his face the entire time Braun was speaking next to him. The filet was rumbling a bit in my belly as well, Bobby. But what’s a big night in the city without a little drama. |
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January 16, 2011 Thank You Notes and More I have a tradition where I collect my favorite letters a couple of times per year and run them like a Sunday letters to the editor section in your favorite newspaper or other anachronism. It features sometimes pithy—and often real—responses given to the person who sent an email here at the site. Best Mets came out a few weeks early, and today is the official publication date. There’s already been a mythical party in the book’s honor, so here are a couple of thank you notes penned within a month of the holiday and sent out on the world wide web rather than in personal mailboxes. And there is a third note I am not sure how to classify. -- To Ron Kaplan’s Baseball Book Shelf: Thank you for including two of my books on the Mets 50th anniversary of the Mets, New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History and Best Mets: Fifty Years of Highs and Lows from New York’s Most Agonizingly Amazin’ Team. One book is not meant to replace the other but rather as a compliment. And I appreciate the compliment of being compared with some of the more prodigious Red Sox authors. -- In an online review of the paperback version of 100 Things Mets Fans Should Know and Do Before They Die, you said, and I quote:
I am an avid Met fan and I did enjoy
reading about the history of the Mets and top Mets moments, but I found
the title of the book to be a little deceiving. Well, that was some of the best criticism I have ever received. Really. First, let me explain why there wasn’t much in the way of activities in the version of 100 Things. The hardcover version, which came out in 2008, included many activities at Shea Stadium in honor of the last year of the park. When the paperback version of the book was released two years later, Shea was lamentably gone, and most of the activities and advice were thus rendered worthless. With just a couple of weeks to make changes for the paperback version, I replaced the obsolete Shea chapters with profiles of several Mets who missed the cut in the original version. And I also included a bit on the last game at Shea. The short turnaround time for the paperback did not allow for changes to the book’s structure. But your criticism was 100 percent accurate. I thank you. When I started working on Best Mets, I recalled your words and put together a special section on Mets Activities with this in mind. It features numerous things to keep a Mets fan busy, including books, the internet, spring training (something near and dear to your heart I’ve noted in your postings on other websites), Mets minor league team info so people can see them in person or follow them on the web, a few favorite watering holes where you can be with Mets-minded people, the upcoming Mets 50th Anniversary Symposium at Hofstra University, and something on the Hall of Fame at Citi Field, which hadn’t opened when the 2010 version of 100 Things came out. Of course, when I handed in Best Mets to the publisher, who knew the Mets would welcome back Banner Day and usher out their Gulf Coast League team. Both decisions floored me. Anyway, thanks Rich. -- To the first reviewer of Best Mets on Amazon.com: Thanks for acquiring a copy and providing feedback. Your review on Amazon included some valid criticism, but it is apparent you did not read the book—or look at the Table of Contents—because most of the points you railed against are indeed in the book, including a list of best regular-season games—with the post 9/11 game well represented—and two pages on the “Midnight Massacre.” Online reviews are always welcome—encouraged even—but, good, bad, or inaccurate, they sit on Amazon forever and are viewed by every potential customer. In the latter instance—a first for me, I will admit—all I can hope for is the kindness of strangers in cyberspace. And when this reader asks if the author did “any real research,” I have to stand up and point out where the reader is wrong. Hope this doesn’t come out as snitty, but I take a lot of pride in the opportunity afforded me to write about the team through 50 years of triumph and travails. By all means, feel free to share your opinions on the book, or any of my works, whether in letters on this site, reviews, discussions on other sites, loose talk on the street corner, graffiti, whatever. We can be defensive, obviously, but we are not that particular. |
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January 10, 2011 Fame Not What It Once Was So Barry Larkin is in the Hall of Fame. It has become such a ho-hum that I forgot to even check on the Hall voting until a day after it was announced. When I heard, I winced. I knew Barry Larkin probably had as good a shot as anyone, but I often wince when the Hall of Fame voting is announced. I winced when it was announced Barry Larkin was the 1995 MVP. He didn’t deserve that either. I’m not against Barry Larkin. He was a solid shortstop for a long time for Cincinnati. But was he 50 percent of the vote better than Alan Trammell, who had a long and illustrious career and also helped an underdog Midwestern team to its only world championship of the last couple of decades? I would put Dave Concepcion in the Hall of Fame before Larkin if there was a need to put a Reds shortstop in. If someone from this class should have gone in, I would have taken Tim Raines, and only half the baseball writers needed to make that happen agreed. All things considered, I am not a big fan of recent Hall of Fame inductees Andre Dawson and Kirby Puckett, and to some extent, Jim Rice and Ryne Sandberg. And do not get me started on the Veterans Committee—or whatever they call it nowadays—banging in fellows that were not voted in by the baseball writers. This is also not a case of sour grapes over Larkin not waving his no-trade clause to come to the Mets in 2000. Though I’ll admit if he were wearing a Mets ring into the Hall of Fame as a slayer of the Yankees I would wince considerably less. I like the Hall of Fame. I like the above-mentioned players. But there are more people in the Hall than there should be. The first 40 years of the Hall of Fame’s existence enabled Cooperstown to catch up with all the players from past generations who deserved to be in the Hall of Fame. And there are only a few players from each generation that deserve to join them on the walls in Cooperstown. If there is no one deserving to be in the Hall of Fame in a given year, I think no one should be voted in, regardless of what MLB or the Cooperstown Chamber of Commerce thinks. If you’ve been to Cooperstown lately—and if you haven’t, you should—you will see that they are running out of plaque space in the rotunda. But they’ll find a place for more plaques. Whether they are needed or not. Whenever I see players elected other than those I looked at during their playing days and said, “Oh, yeah, he’s a Hall of Famer,” my reaction is to wince. I won’t wince when Greg Maddux or Randy Johnson or Pedro Martinez are elected to the Hall of Fame. (I’ll wince when Tom Glavine gets in, but for a different reason.) I don’t know what my reaction will be when the first guy gets in that I’m not really sure didn’t have Hall-worthy stats because some substance might have given him a boost. And that may be coming as soon as next year (and, yes, I know which Mets catcher is on the ballot). All things being equal, I’d rather wince than cringe. |
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January 6, 2011 There’s Some Things in This World You Just Can’t Explain The latest news is that a bankruptcy consultant is on the case with the Mets. And despite what the team may tweet in the meantime, people are going to draw their own conclusions. Or at least draw hope. Many Mets fans have—in the short term—stopped getting on their knees and wishing for a financial windfall out of the sky for themselves, but they look to the heavens for something to happen that will finally force the Mets to be sold. At this point when you see that the Mets won’t retain the services of Willie Harris, your first thought isn’t that Willie Harris sucks (though his .351 OBP was downright productive for this team), your first thought is that the Mets can’t afford Willie Harris. Though they somehow scraped together enough from the seat cushions to bring back the least useful Hairston brother. There is no more legitimate good news surrounding the Mets in what we can only hope is the waning days of this ownership regime. Most news about the Mets these days falls into the categories of either humbling or pathetic. The perks the team is handing out to minority owners for handing over $20 million are especially embarrassing. So let’s stop calling for a Mets fan boycott. How about a boycott that will actually force a change? You know who you are. That person with so much dough that they might actually consider handing over $20 million for a piece of the Mets nonaction. If getting a front show seat on the deck of Metanic somehow sounds appealing, please think of something more productive to do with your money instead. Give it to the poor, use it to develop alternative fuel sources, bury it in the yard like crazy old Lucius Clay in “The Legend of Wooley Swamp.” Handing over large sums of money to the current ownership is like tossing a sponge into the ocean and thinking it could soak up all that water. I don’t care about the Ponzi schemes. I don’t care about who is in the right in the courts. What I care about is the Mets, and if the people who owned the team truly cared about it, they’d sell at a nice profit and give their descendants cash instead of the headache the New York Metropolitan Baseball Club Incorporated has become in the latter years of their reign. They figured all they had to do was get at the revenue streams of a new ballpark and get through the final years of Shea Stadium, which they denigrated at every opportunity. Now what? I lived through Lorinda deRoulet ownership in the late 1970s, the woman that Nelson Doubleday—and yes, minority owner Fred Wilpon—saved us from in 1980. But you can say that Mrs. deRoulet went out trying, even if she did greenlight Elliott Maddox and Mettle the Mule. Though she has remained a fan from afar, I’m sure it was a little lonely for Mrs. deRoulet to watch her mother’s team win a world championship for somebody else. Mrs. deRoulet at least had her dignity. |
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This was supposed to run at the end of 2011, but something more important came up. Thanks to those who sent me notes in the past few days. Now we move on to the future by saying farewell to our shared past. January 2, 2012 2011 in Review: The Eve of Destruction “Probably all the other families will line up against us. That’s alright—this thing’s gotta happen every five years or so—ten years—helps to get rid of the bad blood. Been ten years since the last one.” —Peter Clemenza, The Godfather (1972) (Insert “fans” for “blood” above and that pretty much sums up where we are.)
It having been three months, I’d forgotten exactly what the Mets record was for 2011. They finished 77-85, which is pretty good for a team that from all I’ve heard of late is coming off a 7-155 season and will be even worse in 2012. For all the gloom and doom—and I’m guilty of some of it as well—maybe it’s not so bad winning 77 times and finishing ahead of the Marlins before that team changed its address to Miami and found its checkbook and mojo along the way. Take away the Yankees residing in the same town and the Mets are suffering a similar fate that has befallen most major league teams at some point in the past decade. And things could be worse. Haven’t you heard the Mayans, whose glory days are even further in the past than the Mets’, declared hundreds of years ago that the world would end in 2012? On the good side, it’s not supposed to happen until December 21, 2012. On the down side, we have this baseball season to get through. It’s a shame that so many Mets fans are going to boycott the team this year and miss the final fleeting pleasure of a summer afternoon or evening at a ballgame. Oh, well. It’s your funeral. But that is then, this is now. What happened that was considered the end of the world in 2011? I’m going to tell you, like it or not. And I’m going to sprinkle in a pleasant moment now and then, so stay alert. Here are ’11 Mets moments in time, in no particular order in a season that made no particular sense. 1. Jose Reyes. He is like handling a rose bush. It could be beautiful, it could crumple in a sudden frost, or a thorn could get stuck in the wide part of your thumb and hurt for days. Jose became the first Met to win a batting title in 2011, but he won it after taking himself out of a tight race following one at bat on the last day, thus robbing the fans of giving him the hand he deserved for nine seasons, several of which were among the most exciting individual years that offensive-starved Mets fans have ever enjoyed. He also had two 2011 stints on the disabled list, making it three straight years that his legs have broken down at some point. We all knew he was going to bolt the Mets, but it was an unnecessary parting shot saying the Mets didn’t show him the love. Et tu, Jose? 2. Terry Collins and Sandy Alderson. Let’s give a little credit here for these two hires. Maybe they were hired because they work cheap, but they made a decent team out of the stuff that others had thrown away. And they did this while still paying—and playing—Jason Bay, a left fielder who makes one long for Joggin’ George Foster the Met. Alderson has thrown some clunkers out there—D.J. Carrasco comes to mind—but he cut bait with Oliver Perez and Luis Castillo and we were all better off for that. Alderson dealt the impossible-to-move contracts of Francisco Rodriguez and Carlos Beltran and got good value. And Collins may not have had a team that was capable of competing every day, but he always gave it his all and I think he got more out of a few players than could have been expected. 3. Johan Santana. He did not throw a pitch all year and has a $24 million price tag. The two-time Cy Young winner cannot be counted on for anything except to serve as an albatross around the team’s neck. And by albatross I mean an anvil forged to a stone, wrapped in iron chains, and hung around the neck of a man standing at the edge of a cliff. Can they get a Leroy Neiman rendering of that for the cover of the 2012 yearbook? 4. The Atlanta Braves. You think we forget how you forced the decimated Mets to play a doubleheader after they just lost a doubleheader in April? It’s two weeks into the season and the Mets have two more trips to Atlanta where could make up that rainout. You might even draw more fans if you did a twinbill when the Mets return in June. OK. Fine. The Braves have their April doubleheader despite the Mets’ wishes and Atlanta wins both games. But come late September and Atlanta is running on fumes, the Mets, just swept four straight at home by the Nationals, take two of three in Turner Field, until then a House of Horrors for the Mets. The greatest moment was a classic late comeback in the Sunday finale to throw a wrench into the postseason dreams of a team that seemed to have the Wild Card in the bag long ago. My middle finger was raised in mock Tomahawk Chop at the TV every time a Brave was shown sitting stunned in the dugout. Been waiting for any kind of payback in Atlanta for a loooooooooooooooooooooooong time. 5. The St. Louis Cardinals. Just after that Atlanta September trip the Mets went to St. Louis, a team in hot pursuit of the Braves. The Mets slept through the first two games and appeared well on their way to doing it a third time in the afternoon matinee when, down by four runs in the ninth, they put together an unlikely rally with Ruben Tejada getting a game-tying two-run double and Willie Harris notching the go-ahead hit. A lot of things did not go right for this team in 2011, but I was as impressed with the Sunday Atlanta win and Thursday victory in St. Louis as anything I saw all year. And if you admire pluck, you had to hand it to the Cardinals for getting off the mat after this devastating loss left them two out in the Wild Card with six games remaining. But the Cards stole the Wild Card from the Braves, beat the Phillies in the NLDS, knocked off the why-so-cocky Brewers in the NLCS, and put together their own rally for the ages in the World Series against the Rangers. 6. Best comeback ever. Almost. A fun comeback with no postseason meaning occurred on June 2 against the Pirates. Because of a change in my schedule, I had gone to the game the previous night—an uninspiring loss—and gave away the tickets I had for the Thursday matinee against Pittsburgh (asking anyone to give you money for tickets to a Mets game became as laughable in 2011 as it had been in 1981). But on this afternoon Mike Pelfrey—so mediocre and confounding in 2011—allowed the Bucs to take a 7-0 lead in the third inning. But Carlos Beltran hit what I will remember in the future as a “real” Citi Field home run to left field to put the Mets back in the game and Ruben Tejada and Daniel Murphy came up big as the Mets completed their second-biggest comeback in history. 7. The New Yorker. I don’t know if it was reading on a moving bus or the words from Fred Wilpon in the infamous New Yorker piece on him that made me feel nauseous. I had already heard reactions to what the Mets owner said, but I figured it was probably overblown. I got off the bus in Manhattan realizing that I was wrong, wrong for previously believing that Jeff Wilpon was the biggest problem in the Mets universe. His father has personally messed up the Mets in every conceivable way—and a few ways that hadn’t been invented. 8. Cutting the GCL Mets. I’d love to talk about the positives from rookies Dillon Gee and Lucas Duda, but given the team’s financial straits, there will be a lot more rookies where they came from—but don’t expect them to come out of Rookie ball in the Gulf Coast League. Saving $800,000 is a lot for most of us, but for a major league team it truly is peanuts. And nothing reeks of desperation or refutes what Sandy Alderson has been saying about the importance of player development quite like cutting a low-level minor league team. Yes, I know the franchise had among the most minor league affiliates of any major league team, but the Mets need all the minor leaguers they can get. It is also makes it look like a team that’s hemorrhaging money has totally lost its way. If Sandy Alderson is staying at his post in New York for Bud Selig’s benefit, the commissioner owes him big time. 9. Remembering. The Mets have a special tie to 9-11 and they were on Sunday Night Baseball telecasts with Bobby Valentine in the booth for the night that Osama Bin Laden was taken out and the evening that September 11th marked its 10th year. Both games went extra innings and the Mets won one and lost the other. Doesn’t really matter which was which. 10. R.A. Dickey. This guy’s personality alone could scale Mount Kilimanjaro. He said the wrong thing early on in the year when the team was floundering and he endured a tough first half, but R.A. hung in there and finished 2011 as the team’s most consistent pitcher. Again. I’d love for him to be the Mets knuckleballer in residence like Tim Wakefield was in Boston for 15 years. Prost, Prof. Dickey. Can we pay you in books instead of bucks? 11. Carlos Beltran. He freed himself of the burdens of center field in spring training and went on to have a sensational season. He was so good the Mets were able to get a desperately-needed top-notch prospect in return for him at the trading deadline. He didn’t play the last two months of the season in Flushing and still led the team in homers (15) and RBI (66). That says a lot about Carlos and even more about this anemic offense. Don’t blame the park, blame the players who call it home. Good luck in St. Louis, Carlos. Wish us luck, too. We’re really going to need it. My advice for 2012? Enjoy. Bring your kiddies, bring your wife to Citi Field. None of us may be around at all by the time 2012 ends and our final thoughts should be about weightier matters than David Wright’s contract status or the financial status of the Wilpons. Such as how is Britney Spears preparing for the end of days? |
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December 31, 2011 Greg Spira (1967-2011) I used to have a big office. This may sound self-important, but the former IBM complex in Kingston, New York had space for more than a thousand workers, all of whom had come into work one day to find their occupation no longer existed. A gun shop located a quarter of a mile away was purposely closed that day, lest anyone do anything rash. Five or so years after that dark day in Kingston history, I worked in the abandoned IBM compound, with its row upon row of cubicles, dust-covered offices, and bathrooms of a size you’d normally find in a ballpark. Total Sports Publishing had big plans on the eve of the millennium. We were hiring, airlifting people to otherwise sleepy Ulster County, and cranking out honking-big sports reference books and other titles as quickly and prudently as possible. I had several reference books open on my desk because information like this was much harder to locate on the Internet. And there was a need to get things done quickly because we were less than three months away from D-Day on Baseball: The Biographical Encyclopedia. The book, containing biographies of the 2,000 most important people in baseball history, was such a massive undertaking and one taken so seriously by my boss, esteemed author and later MLB historian John Thorn, that most new editorial people were handed over to me upon arrival. As associate publisher for reference, I in turn handed them all manner of biographies to edit. A knock came on my door one morning in December 1999—scratch that, he rarely knocked and the door was generally open, and make that late morning because he was not what you would call an early riser. I looked up from my books. I can’t say he said his full name or even his first name, he just started talking. His unique manner of speech, the result of overcoming a cleft palette as a child, took a moment or two to get used to. If I thought my initial meeting with Greg Spira would last 10 minutes, it was probably closer to an hour and 10 minutes. This was a trait of the countless conversations we had from that December day until we had our last conversations this December, those marked by an odd feeling that he was hanging up too soon. Greg was ill more often than not. Before arriving at Total Sports at age 32, he had spent most of the previous decade undergoing, and recuperating from, procedures related to kidney disease. That was what why he was in the hospital when he died after a series of heart attacks on December 28, 2011. It wasn’t always easy working with Greg, though he—along with me—worked better when we were free of the small talk and niceties required in an office setting. He was all honesty, telling me when he thought my work was not up to snuff, irritating me to the point where I made him buy my last few books on his own. When a month ago he told me that New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History was the best of the crop of books released for the team’s 50th anniversary—he ordered all of them—I felt I had won over my toughest critic. And he knew his Mets as well as anyone I’ve known. From Whitestone, Queens, he was a Mets fan from the day he watched Benny Ayala homer in his first major league at bat in 1974. I did not join the Mets multitude, if you could call it that, until a year later. Greg was far better than me at making and keeping contacts. He had a long and complicated network of people that he regularly kept in touch with and when his health allowed he frequently visited far-flung outposts, trips often highlighted by a new ballpark and a serious bookstore. For a former state capital, Kingston had no first-run bookstore when he arrived, and insider talk was that the chains did not think Kingston “smart enough” to support a big-time bookstore. Within a couple of years of his moving there, though, Kingston not only got its own Barnes & Noble, but it was located a mile from Greg’s apartment. It was coincidence, I’m sure, but good business on B&N’s part nonetheless. When Greg moved to Philadelphia three years ago, I was drafted to help him pack. His housekeeping habits, to put it nicely, were along the lines of Oscar Madison. He had more sports books in his not-so-big apartment than big box B&N down the street. And he also subscribed to every periodical known to man and had a serious comic book, soap opera, and DVD habit. For my packing effort I received a T-shirt that I wear as I write this and will fittingly retire to the attic, to reside near a box of Mets artifacts that Greg left behind for safe keeping. The shirt reads: “I Helped Greg Move And Didn’t End Up Buried Under a Pile of Books.” Though, I will confess, it was close. Greg enjoyed pursuits beyond books and baseball—after several years of trying, we finally saw the annual hockey game between his alma mater Harvard and the local power, Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute (RPI) in Troy. But most everything else in his sports consciousness was baseball. If there was a baseball-related, car-bound journey to undertake, he was a willing participant—if his health permitted. We took the long drive to see the Class A Pittsfield Mets in their final year in 2000, and when he finally nudged me enough to attend the 2002 Society of Baseball Research Convention in Boston, I witnessed a game with him at his beloved Fenway Park. I took him to the only postseason game he ever attended, the “Benny Agbayani Game” in the 2000 NLDS. He became seriously ill at the end of the workday that Monday and the paramedics thought him in enough pain that someone should ride with him. I hopped on board, spending the evening waiting with him for treatment at the Kingston Hospital E.R. He was still there two weeks later, fading in and out of consciousness as the Mets lost to the Yankees. His health forever dogged him, always putting him behind or making him start over once more. I like to think Greg and I worked together in the smartest sports-information company in the field. We had the best minds in the field of statistics—at least those who would agree to live in Kingston—and created books that presaged or improved upon many of the other publications and data portholes now common. Perhaps we weren’t the best marketers, and maybe we would have been all right if we hadn’t been tied to a parent company that went from flush to flushed down the toilet as the Internet bubble burst in May of 2000. By then I’d moved to another office in the same vacant building, one located up the hall from Greg’s cave, where I could hear his loud humming and his loping gait gaining steam as he trekked to my office with a new revelation about Total Baseball. Our company survived into November of 2001, with many of the 1999 hires long since let go. Greg stayed on as a consultant, if that describes his status, and we took in many Mets games, movies, and lunches. Since I was also an outsider to the area—and we were both pretty heavily into the Mets—we were natural friends. He was a frequent guest at my house, sometimes pulling a brand new board game for the kids out of the back of his messy Subaru. He confided that his own family or even a pet was not in the cards due to his health, and he loved being around kids and dogs. He sometimes served as our dog walker when we were away, and when I called from Florida to say that the animal he was supposed to walk had been found dead by another dog walker (Gilbey had been diagnosed with cancer an hour before our plane left), Greg was inconsolable. The day of September 11, 2001, he came over to my house to watch the Presidential speech that we both agreed wasn’t exactly FDR. A couple of weeks later—after having seen three games in San Francisco and enduring the rather stressful act at that point of merely getting on a plane—I insisted that I attend a meaningless Mets-Pirates game at Shea. Exhausted and not wanting to drive the 100 miles each way alone, Greg went with me after a friend canceled at the last minute. Greg’s health would force him to cancel on me at the last minute, more than once, including the last game we were supposed to attend a few months ago at Citi Field, but I like to think I could coerce the best out of Greg when it was needed. Though it took the work of many people, the Maple Street Press Mets Annual was organized and assigned by Greg and me: coordinating writers, adhering to budgets and mandates, meeting deadlines, and trying to keep it as interesting as possible with a club that we both felt, deep down, repeatedly blunted its own efforts. We both loathed bringing in the fences at Citi Field and were torn by the need to keep Jose Reyes against hamstringing (appropriate word) the club’s dwindling finances. For reasons beyond our control, the magazine will not come out in 2012. For reasons beyond anyone’s control, its co-founder is now gone. I left him for the last time Friday in Flushing, not at a ballpark, but at Mount Hebron Cemetery on the other side of the Long Island Expressway. You can see the Unisphere from there. |
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December 26, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 2010 This last entry of Reflections is supposed to be about 2010, but 2010 was about what we are experiencing now. A year or so ago, the hope was that the growing pains would blossom into something positive in the future. Well, here we write from the future, and the earth isn’t blossoming, it’s scorched. The pains are only growing. But for a couple of months in 2010 we got a reprieve from the drumbeat of doom. And for those who say the Mets weren’t given a chance to compete in 2011 because they traded Beltran and K-Rod, well, they had both men for the second half of 2010 and see how that turned out—one more year in which a promising start turned into meaningless games in August, much less September. Yet ownership still kept Jerry Manuel and Omar Minaya on, even after it was obvious the players no longer listened to Jerry, and Omar was not allowed to do any long-term, damage with the club—except maybe making Jenrry Mejia into a short reliever at the major league level and helping blow out his arm. Even when news of these lame ducks being fired leaked to the press the last weekend, they were still kept around. Holy Art Howe. While I genuinely enjoyed doing most of these Reflections, I will admit the ones from the most recent years were the most painful to do. Even 2006. The best homegrown hitters in franchise history were supplemented by the best talent Wilpon money could buy, and it still blew up in their faces. They tore down Shea put up the park they pined and whined for. And they christened the place with a season that made The Worst Team Money Could Buy seem like a club with a lot of redeeming qualities. In 2010 they added a Mets Hall of Fame and got lucky with R.A. Dickey and somehow getting 15 wins out of enigma Mike Pelfrey. But their most fortunate moment came in the wake of the 20-inning win in St. Louis when the 4-8 Mets were already desperate enough to promote Ike Davis. They had a winning record once they promoted Ike, despite playing .580 ball at home and just .395 on the road. In the end, a 79-83 season sounds about right. The season ending on a bases-loaded walk in the 14th inning by Ollie Perez is about par for the course as well. What can you say about the last year of the budget-less, plan-deprived Mets? In 2011 they seemed to have come up with a plan, but without the money to properly implement it. The most fitting summary for 2010 that I can think of is through the mystical power of the limerick—the bad joke format for what turned out to be a bad joke of a year. See if you can keep up with the syllable pattern: 9-9-5-5-9. Sounds like an old phone number—“Mabel, get me 99559.” And on the other end the pickup line would be: “New York Mets, a Madoff-ravaged company. How may I help you?” If 2010 was an incoming call, you’d let the machine pick it up and not return the message. ’10 Limericks Prologue There once was a skipper named Jerry Whose laugh, over time, became scary With Omar in tow The forecast was woe And this year looks way friggin’ hairy.
March The calendar says spring has come To Mets fan this makes one quite numb Even spring training So very draining How could they sign Jacobs? That’s dumb.
April The Mets find their way to last place Dull, especially at first base Boom, Ike arrives Then the team thrives Who sent him down in the first place?
May The Mets fully shut out a guest The Phillies found Citi a pest If walls could talk They’d never squawk On distance or height or the rest.
June In June they went 18 and 8 On the road they won seven straight Eleven over? Must be hung over This team is just not all that great.
July It is hot, hot, hotter than hell R.A. and Pelf hold up quite well Lurch to the break But Mets fans will take One out in the Wild Card is swell.
Post All-Star Break Carlos and Luis now are back As welcome as a heart attack Whipped on the coast This team is toast And Bay’s done when his head is whacked.
August The pattern: win, loss, loss, win, loss, win Up, even, and under again Like this for weeks Can’t even speak And the end is one bloody sin.
September The meaningless month comes once more These Metsies have played dead before 20-10 ended No fences mended Ollie walk, the winning run scores.
Postscript Jerry is cut loose pell-mell Omar is banished as well Now here’s comes Sandy Here’s hoping he’s handy And can fix a ballclub shot to hell.
<> <> <> And you thought limericks were all just about Nantucket men? A prose form of the first 50 years in Mets history is available in book form in Best Mets as well as New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History. In case you’re curious, I will look at the 2011 season in my first annual year-end review. |
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December 21, 2011 The Best Mets Book Party Ever! When you start thinking that maybe you can be a writer someday, you think about the finished product: the thrill of seeing your book in the front of prestigious bookstore windows, the longwinded interviews where you provide sage wisdom fit for publication from coast to coast, the royalty checks pouring in, and of course, the parties. Well, there’s little bits of truth in the first three, but I still haven’t seen that author’s party. That’s not to fault the publishers. It’s just not done anymore—the money is spent elsewhere. Hopefully in promotion. And save for a few big-time authors, the author’s soiree belongs to another time. I can still dream about it 1950s style, booze being poured out by publisher’s assistants while I hold court in a smoky hotel ballroom or suite or even in Holly Golightly’s apartment in the only scene from Breakfast of Tiffany’s that is worthy of the book. (The publishing party was practically created with Truman Capote in mind.) Yet with the early arrival of Best Mets: 50 Years of Highs and Lows with New York’s Most Agonizingly Amazin’ Team on Amazon and other outlets this week, I started thinking about the kind of party I might have if time, budget, and maybe even subject were no object. I’m still a little giddy about the book coming out ahead of schedule—and having it out in time for last-minute holiday shopping is worthy of a celebration, even if the party is all in my little head. The doorbell rings and the hum heard through the closed entryway reaches conflagration as the door swings open. Come on inside. Fix yourself a drink. You know everybody. Everybody, this is you. Chatter, chatter, peas and carrots, chatter, chatter, a chortle of laughter from a woman in a green dress, while a woman in a blue cocktail dress with ever-so-minute orange piping has her cigarette lit by a man in a gray suit with a thin black tie. The author is in the corner talking to the writer from the New York Herald, Madison is his name. A publishing assistant comes in with a box of books and hands them out—the box emptying even quicker than the a bottle of Cutty Sark that winds up in the hands of the disappointed man in the black suit with the thin gray tie. A call starts, low at first, then louder. “Speech! Speech! Speech!” Oscar slaps the author on the back and nudges him forward as his friend takes a photo. Unger I think it is—commercial photographer, portraits a specialty—took some nice shots for Playboy once. Lawyer turned commentator Howard Cosell steps in with Madison and starts pointing a finger in his face. Even Cosell pipes down for a moment as the author begins, with his young son in front. “Great speech,” calls out a writer from the Brooklyn Eagle. “But this is the 1950s. Who the hell are the Mets?” Everybody laughs. “Someone fill up that guy’s glass. Fill up everyone’s glass.” The author pauses and regains his train of thought. “I want to say thanks to Yahoo…” “Who called me a Yahoo?” “I called you a new breed. Like a dachshund. If I were you, Dick Young, I’d keep my presence a secret in this crowd. “As I was saying, thanks to Yahoo for including me on the list of prominent Mets authors with the likes of Greg Prince, Stanley Cohen, Jeff Pearlman, and Howie Karpin. And I will add Dana Brand to that prestigious list. When the Mets sang, “You Gotta Have Heart,” they were singing about him. Smartest fan with the biggest heart. “And Breslin, I know you’re back there—no Daily News writer would miss a event with free booze—you’ll be on that list one day yet. “But I said it in my speech and I’ll say it again now. Raise ’em high. To the New York Mets fan: The most resourceful and good-hearted people on the earth.” Everyone pauses, raises their glass, and knocks back their drink. The author wipes strong liquid from his chin. “Now I’ll shut up!” Everyone applauds. The search for refills is on once more. The clinking of glasses and boisterous conversation lasts until the morning comes. |
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December 17, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 2009 My wife’s computer has hundreds of photographs from the last few years in an odd screen saver shuffle mode that we didn’t program and don’t really know how to change. At dinner—with the table right across from the computer—we all steal looks at the screen. It is strange seeing yourself from not all that long ago while surrounded by the kids who are so little. There I am wearing a hat and a shirt I gave to Goodwill many moons ago. There we are on vacation in Maine. And there we were just last year hiking. There the kids are playing ball. There’s Shea. A pang in my heart. Wait, it’s not supposed to feel that way. That feeling is only reserved for living beings, for lost relatives, or the dog I had as a child, or this person on the screen who has since passed on. But there’s Shea again. And that pang again. I don’t know how to explain it. I don’t know if I even should explain it. I really thought I was over Shea by now. I thought I worked that all out a couple of years back. A lifetime ago. I guess the only way to address it is to look at that first year at Citi Field in scattered pictures from 2009. Grumbling at every small pocket of traffic, I make my way to Shea, I mean Citi Field. I’ve never told anyone this before, but the last time I went to a Mets game—the last day at Shea—stuck in an endless knot of traffic past the Whitestone, I looked out the window and saw a runover kitten. I mumbled, “Please don’t let this day end with me feeling like my kitten has been run over.” Good luck on that. No dead animals on the way this time—maybe because I take a different route. And when the Marina Lot is filled for this infernal night opener, they don’t send me to the nether regions of Flushing. (I literally was directed to park four miles away for the last game at Shea and had to have a friend drive me to find my car.) This time I park in an almost convenient overflow lot and pay my ransom to a bubbly cashier equipped with a brand-new uniform, portable receipt machine, and multi-pocketed money belt. Snappy. I walk underneath the subway platform, heading right for the old Shea, bits of its steel and concrete still mangled and pushed into a large fenced-off debris area that will be gone in a few weeks. It’s not as hard to look at as the cat. I had tickets to go to the first event at Citi Field, a St. John’s-Georgetown baseball game that sounded cool until the day came and it was raining and the person I was going with couldn’t make it. So I blew it off. Can’t blow off Opening Day. Not at these prices. I am livid as I enter the Robinson Rotunda, not because of its tribute to Jackie Robinson, but it is only the start of all the frigging Dodgers references at the expense of any Mets presence on the premises. The enclosed corridors of the field level make me feel like I’m in a mall. (Maybe I am.) Steam is coming out of my ears when I show the red-clad usher—red?—my ticket and he pleasantly points me to my nearby destination. The Ebbets Club. Well, I never. When I walk through the door and see the view of the field. I am stunned. These are great seats! My buddy from high school has these seats? He tells me all about the amenities and shows me to the World’s Fair food court. I am speechless… until I walk out of the stadium alone after another in a seemingly endless stream of pissed-away games. I mutter to myself over and over, “This team sucks. They’re just not good. They really, really suck.” NOW, I’m right. There was a brief time when the Mets actually contended during 2009. After the ugly April came the merry month of May, when the Mets went 19-9. I saw four games that month at Citi: the completion of a two-game Mets sweep of the Phillies; a double loss, falling to Atlanta in 12 innings and losing Jose Reyes for what would turn out to be the year; the stadium’s first complete-game triumph, a 6-1 victory by the immortal Livian Hernandez; and the night Omir Santos made the Mets feel it was finally safe to trade Ramon Castro. Greg Spira, Greg Prince, Jon Springer, and I took in the last Friday night game in May, a mere six days after Omir’s two-out, two-run home run off Jonathan Papelbon in Boston etched itself as the high moment of what would be a down year. This game was Omir’s encore. His homer was the only Mets run of the game for the first 10 innings. After Gary Sheffield stunned the crowd by stealing a base in the 11th, Omir stole the show by singling him in. Look Who’s Number One! Not only were they in first place, but Omir Santos was the first-string catcher when it was announced minutes after the game ended that Castro had been sent to the White Sox. The next time I hit the Citi the Mets had suffered through the dropped popup at new Yankee Stadium that consigned their attempts at contention to the waste bin. They were trying to hold everything together, but they were slipping. Things were looking up for me, though. I had a Father’s Day book signing in the Robinson Rotunda with Keith Hernandez for Shea Goodbye. It was a check-one-off-the-bucket-list moment for me, but the Mets helped keep me from getting a swelled head. My name was surgically removed from the book cover on the fliers put up around the ballpark. And then not long after Keith returned to the booth for the day, the cartons of books were packed up and returned to the publisher. And this was before a Mets Hall of Fame existed—something the powers of be didn’t think of until the villagers came at the gates with torches and pitchforks. The Mets store had enough room to house a 10,000-book library with every Mets book ever produced, or at least every Mets book still in print. But then they might not have room for the Carlos Delgado jersey (he had played his last game as a Met weeks ago). I got to walk on the new field for the first time. It felt like a championship golf course. I don’t think nearby Bethpage Black, hosting the U.S. Open at that very moment, was manicured to this level. Then I sat in the Mo Zone for a Father’s Day function for Gary, Keith, and Ron for kids who had lost their fathers. Nice kids. And when I got home after the 10-6 loss to Tampa Bay, I made sure I called my dad. Oliver Perez was the first Met to win at Citi Field. He won exactly twice more as a Met in two years (three, if you count the year he was paid a dozen million to not play). And I was there in person to see one of these $12 million wins. With the Mets options for starting pitchers dwindling on the free agent market in February 2009, Omar Minaya hurled a three-year contract at Ollie. And then Perez couldn’t throw strikes. They started coming up with maladies that would keep him off the field. After one of these DL stints he returned to Citi Field in July and was his usual wild self, yet he somehow managed to be the only Met to beat L.A. all year. Greg Prince and I—and Centerfield Maz, whom we ran into during my new upper tank debut—were amazed at Ollie’s, and our luck. And disgusted at the team in general. I was working with a bunch of people on The Miracle Has Landed, a book celebrating the 40th anniversary of the 1969 world championship. To be honest, I was disappointed at the general yawn many so-called fans gave for what I know to be the most important season in franchise history. I had my priorities straight and got on the field for the ’69 ceremony. I wasn’t close enough to talk to any ’69 Mets, mind you—I wasn’t permitted that kind of access—but I did get to be on the field when Nolan Ryan donned a Mets uniform for the first time since the most asinine trade in club history (and one could certainly argue, in New York history). Kooz, Seaver, and Ryan shambled down to our end of the field near home plate and each threw a pitch (to Dyer, Grote, and Berra). Anyone who can’t appreciate that needs to find another hobby. The Mets fell into an abyss, going 18-39 in the months of August and September. A personal four-game winning streak was followed by a four-game losing streak, which spoiled the 1969 Mets reunion; a Mr. Met Dash; a personal reunion with grade school buddy Rob Pizzella as well as Al Yellon, a co-author for Cubs by the Numbers; and a get-together with me, my brothers, and their high school friend, Gene Caputo. All the planning and effort to set up these rendezvous on my end wound up with a half-ass effort by an unwatchable bunch of nobodies in a park I’m starting to realize I like only because of my friend’s box seats. Oh, and the Mets hit one home run in the last seven games I saw at Citi Field. I did personally witness Fernando Tatis grand slams earlier in the year. Go figure. When I was writing in the new book Best Mets about worst Mets teams of all time, I did not start the process thinking about 2009. Truly bad seasons aren’t just based on the number of losses, especially when it comes to the Mets—otherwise the franchise’s 1960s clubs would basically own the top five. But when you look at the two previous years leading up to it, losing on the last day both times to get bumped from the postseason, and you add in the never-ending injuries crapping all over the new stadium hoopla, I think that pushes 2009 over the top. And with 92 losses, it’s not like ’09 is some forgotten gem. And the Mets would have lost more had the Astros not rolled into town the last weekend of the year mailing in the effort like they were on the USPS payroll. The sweep of the Astros pushed the Mets to 70 wins—finishing the season with a Nelson Figueroa shutout that was completed in about 23 minutes. My record in the new park was 10-10. That’s not bad, given the stench coming off the Mets. Then again I had the exact same personal record when they lost 103 games in 1993, another top five stinkeroo season where the Mets finished with a meaningless sweep. Where the hell were you all year, Houston? I thought it would never end. <> <> <> Want to relive the better years of Mets baseball? Here’s one more subtle hint: Consider giving the gift of New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History for that Mets fan who has everything, except piece of mind. |
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December 5, 2011 The Gift of the Future If ever Mets fans needed a gift, it would be now. For those of you wanting a holiday gift that relives the better days of the team’s first 50 years, I recommend the Mets Police Book of the Year—New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History. And if you have that, you can pre-order Best Mets: Fifty Years of Highs and Lows with New York'’s Most Agonizingly Amazin' Team and be reading it before the Mets hit the field in Port St. Lucie. But this holiday season isn’t about you, or me. In some ways it is about loyalty, about sticking with something that may not be at its apex just now. I know such blind loyalty is not necessarily popular in this buy-whatever-I-want, I-want-a-champion-yesterday town, or society. But loyalty through tough times is what we have, or need. For those Mets fans with kids, this is not the time to abandon your team because they have failed to live up to your lofty or unrealistic expectations. Simply put, buying players from other teams has never worked for the Mets. And paying through the nose to retain your own players beyond their worth is not something that necessarily builds winners. But whatever your attitude, do not take it out on the next generation. Every parent who ignores the team he or she came up with is inviting their children to become Yankees fans, Red Sox fans, Phillies fans, or worse, fans of no one at all. And while people grouse about how expensive it is to take a kid, or a family, to a ballgame, the Mets have a program that I came across last year that was cheap and a lot of fun: the Mets Fan Club for Kids. I mentioned this during the season, but I am mentioning it again at holiday time because the gift of the future is the best present I can think of this year. For $25 the kids gets a handful of Mets paraphernalia you can wrap—or stick a bow on—and put under the tree. I just opened the box and it was stuffed with a Mets visor, a backpack, baseball cards, a sticker, Subway card, and other items tucked in a Mets folder, plus an ID card that allows for 10 percent off at the three clubhouse shops located off premises. If you take your kid to three games and get their card stamped at a Mets fan assistance booth, the kids get a free gift. (The workers at Citi have become a little gruff over three years, but the fan assistance people were extremely nice and handed out some extra swag and a smile along with each stamp.) The best part of the deal is that it includes two tickets to a Mets game of your choice. When we ordered tickets, there is an option of ordering extra seats to take friends or family to sit with you. The catch last year was that the tickets were only good for games from Monday to Thursday. People have different time schedules and priorities, but staying up past bedtime to go to a game once a year or taking a day off work to go to a game with your kid is a wise investment. And last year the Mets provided seats in the lower deck in left field in the shade, which was great because on the afternoon we went—Carlos Beltran’s last day in the home whites—the heat index was around 101. To that end, the tickets included access to the Promenade Club, which was a wonderful refuge from the heat (and the stinker of a game the Mets put on that day). My son, who is eight, loved it. He did not care that Carlos Beltran was leaving and not coming back—he doesn’t really even know who Carlos Beltran is. All he, and most kids that age, care about is being at the game, with their parent, with their team, with tickets he felt he owned. That’s worth a lot more than sitting at home wearing the jersey of someone who might be gone tomorrow. The Mets Fans Club for Kids is about tomorrow. I’ve been to hundreds of Mets games in my life, but the ones I think about most fondly are not necessarily the dramatic comebacks or clinchings or playoff victories I saw in the 1980s or 1990s. My heart—and mind—keeps coming back to those games in the 1970s where my dad and I quietly sat at Shea, usually watching the Mets get whipped by a superior team. And my favorite game last year was a nondescript 6-2 loss to the Cardinals in heat that made you want to die. With all this talk of kids, holidays, and heat, I give you: Heat Miser! Best to you and yours, Mr. 101. |
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December 4, 2011 Goodbye, Jose, Goodbye Well, it’s official: Jose Reyes is a Marlin. I guess this is why the Mets have never had a batting champ before. You may be mad, but please don’t boo Jose when he comes back to face the Mets. And be kind to Ruben Tejada, a fine young second baseman who hasn’t shown the ability to play shortstop every day. It wouldn’t be quite so sad if Jose signed with a team that the Mets did not play a dozen and a half times each year, but, hey, he could be a Phillie. Or a Yankee. Though he still could wind up in those places in the future since the Marlins have a long track record of trading their most marketable, or expensive players, with the warranty still on them. Past Marlins free agents have not generally worked out (see 1998 Florida apocalypse, Carlos Delgado). I don’t wish anything bad for ex-Mets Jose Reyes and Heath Bell—one my favorite Met, the other a coveted Favorite Non-Playing Met. But I do hope the gray clouds of disinterest follow the Marlins inside their precious—if not legitimately-funded—new retractable dome. If you are in the Kingston, New York area on Monday (December 5) and want to hear some more Mets laments, I’m on WKNY 1490 AM at 6 p.m. Life goes on with the Winter Meetings. The Mets have a GM that I hope will see this through. With the Mets, when in doubt, hope. |
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December 1, 2011 A Valentine to Beantown’s New Bobby In this fall where nothing is happening for the Mets, the extended Mets family has a marriage to celebrate. The union of Bobby Valentine and the Boston Red Sox is like a close’s cousin’s wedding. Besides that nasty fight with our Boston brethren 25 years ago, we are on the same page when it comes to hating all thing Yankee. And we are officially related now that we have the first former Mets manager to ever take the reigns in Boston. If you grew up following the Mets in the 1970s, 1980s, 1990s, or early 2000s, Bobby V. was always around or had just left. He arrived at Shea as a fringe player trying to stay in the show, part of the paltry return (along with Paul Siebert) in the “Midnight Massacre” deal with San Diego for Dave Kingman on June 15, 1977. He was a coach to keep an eye on in the 1980s, one of the best third-base coaches the Mets have ever had—his greatest feat was in 1983, when, twice in one week the Mets won games in their last at bat when he orchestrated Mookie Wilson scoring from second base on balls that didn’t leave the infield. (And yours truly made you $50 by orchestrating a list at Fleer’s behest that gratuitously included the Mookie moments among the greatest in baseball history.) Finally, in the 1990s, Valentine was hired to manage a Mets team that had thoroughly disappointed. “Generation K” was a disaster, with none of those pitchers ever putting together more than a few months of actual performance as Mets. Still, Bobby V. helped rebuild the staff, turned the team around, and improved the team’s record by 17 games his first year at the helm. After a disappointing end to 1998—one that would become all too familiar with other managers—he brought the franchise their only back-to-back postseason appearances. Losing to the Yankees in the 2000 World Series was a bittersweet end to a brilliant two-season October run where the Mets faced superior opponents and more than held their own. And the pride and compassion he brought to the city in the wake of the 2001 tragedy cannot be properly quantified. You could feel it in his voice when he spoke with his former players at the 10th anniversary of 9/11 at Citi Field in September. You knew that Mets incompetence was here to stay in the fall of 2002 when they fired Bobby V., kept Steve Phillips, and hired Art Howe. Bobby V. should have been gobbled up by the first team that wanted to make a winner from existing parts. Bobby V.’s finest ability as a manager was fashioning a bullpen and a bench from the players allotted him while also keeping everyone happy with playing time (a quality he shared with the best Mets manager, Gil Hodges). Valentine went to Japan, becoming a winner and an icon before being forced out by salary considerations. He came back home and was the model of what an in-studio baseball analysts should be: engaging, provocative, and knowledgeable. My one nonflattering statement: He wasn’t great in the booth, but he was a hell of a lot better on Sunday Night Baseball than Steve Phillips. Now the Red Sox, far more desperate than even the Mets were in 1996, have brought in Bobby V. Not everyone in New England is ecstatic right now. I will admit that I wasn’t exactly overjoyed when the Mets hired Valentine in late August 1996. But by mid-1997 I was a believer for life. If you want everyone to love you, well, Bobby V. will invariably piss some of those people off. You know what? Screw them! I sure like the view of this marriage from the reception. The man who knows baseball better than anyone going to the town that cares about baseball above all else? Watch the sparks fly. |
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November 23, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 2008 I could write a book about what happened with the Mets in 2008, and in fact I did. Or at least I helped write one. Now I bring back my co-author as narrator again, playfully putting new words in his mouth because it is his narration that runs through my mind whenever I think back to 2008. But with all its plot twists, the jovial and malevolent characters, range of emotions brought out in the audience and players, 2008 was not a mere book, it was a play. High drama, certainly, but there was toe-tapping music if you listen hard enough. Well-acted, tense, captivating, it was seen in person by a franchise-record four million people. And like most classic drama, this tale is a tragedy. So now, without further ado about nothing, the Metsilverman.com Players present the Cliff (Floyd) Notes version of: OH-EIGHT…OH-NO: A BASEBALL TRAGEDY (Keith Hernandez, in suit and tie, appears from behind curtain.) When I arrived here long ago The Mets were aimless, epic woe. Siberia I called it, yet much worse, Here I stand now speaking in verse.
Set clocks twenty-five years ahead Off of ’07, the Mets have been bled. Seventeen and seven, numbers still sting Yet of last year one can’t do a thing. Act I Willie Randolph opens with a soliloquy about perspective and history regarding baseball’s biggest collapse of a year earlier. In another corner, Johan Santana is introduced by Omar Minaya, who speaks of waiting out suitors from Boston and the Bronx to pluck the coveted southpaw from Minnesota. Omar tosses a bag of shells on the table, Johan stares, unmoving. Omar pulls out another bag and tosses it on the table. Johan smiles, brushes his moustache, and sits. As the scene shifts to Florida, other characters are introduced: Reyes, Wright, Delgado, Beltran, Wagner, Endy, Ollie, and the comic relief of Pedro, who stands in stark contrast to the stern Randolph. The curtain falls with Santana singing a ballad as he spins on the mound on Opening Day in Miami. All characters recite the final line together: “This time is different.” All join hands and raise them toward the sky as the curtain falls. Act II The stage is empty save for the name “Shea” appearing next to the numbers 37, 14, 41, and 42. Keith Hernandez enters and explains that this honors both the man who created the Mets and the stadium named after him. The Phillies spoil Shea’s final opening, clearly positioning themselves as villains of this play; yet even as the Mets ultimately win the battle (11-7 against Philadelphia), they lose the war. Local thespian Nelson Figueroa earns applause for his solo number, but the cheers for him are drowned out by the catcalls coming from offstage in Santana’s Shea debut. Bit players step forward, Ryan Church, with Brian Schneider, who appear wearing their Washington uniforms topped by Mets hats. Church battles with Nationals, Braves, and Pirates, earning high marks (.306/.376/.535 with 32 RBIs in 42 games through May 20), until he is struck in the head by a Brave knee, rendering his part nonspeaking from here on. There’s danger as Wagner’s arm and mouth both catch fire, umpires turn Delgado’s home run into a foul ball, and Randolph makes a comment about race. All the other actors stop and stare at Randolph as a single spotlight shines on him. Curtain. Act III Shifting to a California set, Randolph appears out of uniform as he walks a gauntlet of uniformed characters. Delgado and Wagner nod to each other. Omar makes a long, garbled speech as Randolph slowly walks offstage with Rick Peterson, who utters his only line: “I’m the hardwood floor that’s getting ripped out, and they’re going to bring in the Tuscany tile.” The reporters all cock eyebrows but don’t stop writing. They part and in the middle, poised on a pedestal is Jerry Manuel. His first line of the play becomes a soliloquy that suddenly breaks into a rap with Reyes: “I’m a gangster. You go gangster on me, I’m going to have to get you. You do that again, I’m going to cut you right on the field…” His laugh echoes and fades into Billy Joel’s Last Play at Shea. In the foreground the Mets reel off 10 straight wins, and a different character rips off a sign with a different number, going from “7½ Out” to “Tied for First” as a month elapses. Music stops abruptly with Manuel staring at the audience as the trainer gently holds Wagner’s left arm. Curtain drops. Intermission. Act IV Opens with a conga line of extras throwing one pitch and jerking their head to see where it’s hit. The back of the uniforms read: Smith, Stokes, Schoeneweis, Sanchez, Heilman, Feliciano, and Ayala. Santana rubs his head while Keith Hernandez reads the numbers: 206 strikeouts plus league-high 2.53 ERA plus 234 1/3 innings plus 964 batters faced minus 7 blown saves = 16 wins. Of course it does not add up. Late-inning nightmare scene: Endy Chavez helplessly chases a ball over his head, Albert Pujols homers in extra innings, two Astros score simultaneously when the game could have been over, and Padre Jody Gerut and Pirate Ryan Doumit each tie games in the ninth. The board now reads: “August… three games out.” Reprise of Manuel rap and suddenly the Mets are doing the celebrating at the plate, Ayala is congratulated, Wright and Beltran clout game-winning homers, Delgado forms his own conga line: swinging, admiring, and circling the bases. Keith Hernandez appears, back to the audience with number 17 showing, declaring: “Only 17 shopping days left.” Jerry jogs out, signals to bullpen, and stands alone. Waiting. After a full awkward minute, the curtain falls. Act V Sign reads, “September 22, 2008, Wild Card, one game lead.” With home plate conspicuously raised in the air, Johan repeats his motion over and over. He smiles. On the other side of the stage Daniel Murphy sits alone at third base, having a glum picnic while singing in an enthralling tenor voice about a future in a place that is dying. Murphy exits the stage, walking the opposite way of home. Reyes enters dancing, joined by Beltran as rain falls—Jimmy Rollins stands in the corner, wagging his finger disapprovingly. Mike Pelfrey throws one pitch and hangs his head. Santana reappears for an extended dance number, reeling in a giant Fish, refusing all help, and triumphantly raising his arms to signify he did it all himself. Oliver Perez pirouettes, Beltran swings, and an explosive sound, jubilation. Chavez leaps, looks in his glove and dances off stage. Then the reliever conga line reprise and an audible groan offstage. Finally Church enters in single spotlight, swings, and the Shea set goes black. Keith Hernandez reappears in a spotlight, still wearing the jersey. The house lights come on and he is suddenly surrounded by an army of older men clad in uniforms from every Mets era. They touch home plate and then walk into the audience in a farewell to Shea that brings down the house. Not a dry eye to be found. <> <> <> Want to read a slightly less-dramatized account of the Mets and their history from day one? Get New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History for the Mets fan in your life, or indulge yourself and bask in the glory days of this franchise. The new Mets jerseys can wait. And whose number would you put on your back, anyway? And while I am shamelessly plugging, unbeknownst to me, someone at the Examiner.com was plugging me and my upstate New York-iness. Do not let anyone from Buffalo hear you call Hudson Valley upstate, but I will take the compliment. Thanks to Doug Gladstone and Happy Thanksgiving to all. |
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November 17, 2011 I applaud both Mets Police and Uni Watch for winning their long-waged war against those stupid black Mets uniforms. I will go along with many of my Mets blogging brethren to lament that it is too sad that Dana Brand did not live to see another Mets Banner Day. My two cents, they should give out one of the best banner prizes in Dana’s name and have real hardcore fans, such as the bloggers mentioned above—and certainly the Faith and Fear duo—sit as judges, plus Gary Cohen, Howie Rose, Steve Somers, and Bob Heussler. Please no morning disc jockeys and local TV weathermen as judges... unless they are died-in-the-wool Mets fans who recall Banner Day. But all the doings in Flushing this week, exciting though they may be for portions of the fan base, are mostly about moving more merchandise (and I’ll bet someone sells bedsheets and paint somewhere near Citi Field on Banner Day, at a date not yet determined). We live in the midst of a period of culling the weak-willed from the fan base, dispatching them to an over-priced holding pen in the Bronx or to their mother’s basement to play more X-Box or whatever. I am a little shaken at the concept of losing Jose Reyes, the only Met I can claim as a true favorite since John Olerud, but I am a Mets fan first. And I’ve been to this place before. I mourned the loss of Johnny O. around this time of year in 1999 and banged my fist on a table three years later upon hearing Edgardo Alfonzo signed with San Francisco. I survived those events and others like them. Losing Reyes is not losing Seaver—not even the ’83 version of Terrificness. I remain committed to the very long overdue youth movement. I only hope the front office remains like-minded and that Sandy Alderson sticks around to see it all the way through. I am becoming used to the idea that 2014 might be the year I look to and think the Mets may again be competitive. (When referring to the current Mets, the passive voice works.) The 2014 season will mark the 10th anniversary of the last time we were all assured of the glory of the future, only to have the Mets chuck the whole concept as it was about to ripen. Hindsight tells us that Scott Kazmir is no Nolan Ryan, but I never again want to deal with giving away a prize so highly regarded for a fourth starter when the chances of postseason play are remote. (Scroll down to Reflections of, 2004, for a sustained rant on that topic.) In the meantime, we buy the new merchandise, we plot our banner slogans, and we wait. |
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November 15, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 2007 In 2007 the Mets fulfilled the prophesy that they are second-rate and might even be jinxed, if you believe in such things. I believed in such hoodoo in ’07 and down the stretch I tried to keep—or change—a hundred different routines in the futile hope that anything I did could somehow alter the course of the Mets swirling toward the business end of the toilet. All the Mets needed was one win in their last seven games against Philadelphia in the final month, or two more wins in their last seven games of the year against the lousy Nationals, the bored Cardinals, or freakin’ Florida. I would have gladly sat at Shea to watch the Mets get swept in the Division Series by eventual NL champion Colorado. I would have loved it. Four Septembers later the Red Sox stumbled down the exact same abyss as the Mets had taken. Having retreated for solace to Boston for a seat on the Red Sox bandwagon for the 2007 World Series, I might have felt the need to offer advice to my many Red Sox friends in their newfound (or re-found) circles of despair, but I know from that same 2007 experience that well-meaning words from outside forces are of no consolation. Because assurances, mathematical probabilities, or discussions of who’ll be pitching for you in the playoffs makes one want to grab a bat and just start swinging at anyone who gets close. I also know that if you ever want time to slow to a dead crawl, just watch your ballclub blow a September lead. September will seem to last as long as winter in Siberia. And feel about as inviting. On the last Friday of September, the Mets officially fell out of first place. Florida’s immortal Byunh-Hyun Kim, with an ERA north of 8.00 and pitching in his final major league game, beat 15-game winner Oliver Perez—yes, that win total is accurate. I unleashed a primal scream at the same unwitting evergreen tree in the Marina Lot as I had done after the Mets lost Game 7 in 2006—also an Ollie start, though a much better one. To heighten my personal stress level, I also had two books on the Mets slated for release the following year: 100 Things Mets Fans Should Know and Do before They Die and Mets by the Numbers, with Jon Springer. Worries about lost leads, lost book sales, and a lost youth with this exasperating team continued to steal sleep from me. The next day I didn’t even check on the Mets, now one game behind and losers of five straight at the worst possible time. I spent the day with my cousins on Long Island and had a wonderful stress-free, Mets-free afternoon. And I almost missed the first Mets no-hitter ever. John Maine came within four outs of that historic no-no. Plus the Phillies finally lost, setting up a tie with one game left on the calendar. Now there was hope. Cruel, vindictive hope. I was on my way to a memorial service on Sunday, September 30, which kept me from attending a Mets home finale for the first time since 1993. Yet I was lucky to A. not be the one being honored at the memorial, and B. be spared witnessing the baseball cataclysm at Shea in person. I got into the car departing my family following brunch, about 30 minutes after first pitch, trying to glean the score on the radio from Howie Rose, who as writer of the foreword of Mets by the Numbers, may be the only person that knows more about Mets uniform numbers than Jon Springer. I spent a torturous minute, maybe two, trying to probe the inflections of Howie’s voice that might hint at the score. Howie’s good, but I could interpret that the Mets were behind. Yet by how many? One run? God, don’t let it be two runs. In a moment the curtain was pulled. The emperor had no clothes. Or balls. The 7-0 deficit sent me into a five-year-old’s screaming tantrum in the car. Mercifully, I was alone. All alone. As alone as each of the 3,853,955 who entered Shea in 2007 had to feel. As alone as A. Bartlett Giamatti foretold. The agonizing season he never saw but knew would come for us all, one year or another. At the memorial service, which actually became the setting of a New York Times piece on my work a few months later, I forgot about my petty sadness about a game and tried to focus on the bigger picture. Yet when a somber-sounding person at the service, who described himself as a Mets fan, told someone next to me that he was going to his car to catch the Mets score, I had to do something. Instinctively I placed my hand on the arm of this person I’d never met. “Excuse me. I couldn’t help overhearing. It pains me to tell you this, but I can’t watch another Mets fan suffer. It’s over. They lost. I’m sorry.” My so-called bucket list doesn’t include traveling to ballparks for the sake of going, but I will make the effort to visit places I’ve always wanted to see. In July 2007 I attended a Friday night game at the new and not-so-improved third incarnation of Busch Stadium during the SABR Convention in St. Louis. And on a very sunny and hungover Sunday morning, I crammed into the back of a rental car with a bunch of people whose zeal for the game could classify them as baseball Deadheads. We drove across Missouri to get to Kansas City by noon. We couldn’t have been happier. Kaufmann Stadium, in its pre-2009 remodeled state, is one of the five best baseball places I have been to. It looked even more perfect in person than it had all those times I saw the Royals as my only hope for vanquishing the Yankees and saving the autumns of my youth. Six weeks after going to Kaufmann Stadium (and visiting Kansas City’s superb Negro League Museum), I knocked out another holy grail. One I would not have dreamed of had it not just worked out: Two games, two stadiums, two cities, two states… one day. Joel Youngblood, eat your heart out. My buddy Paul Lovetere, a salesman at the time, had seen games in all 30 major league cities (plus Montreal). He’d previously gone to Three Rivers Stadium, a structure I also visited and one that made Shea Stadium, or even Riverfront Stadium, look like Frank Lloyd Wright designs. While trolling online in 2007, Paul came across round-trip tickets to Pittsburgh from LaGuardia for $40. The airfare was actually less than an unused ticket I’d bought to a Mets-Pirates game at PNC Park in September 2004, when another college buddy, DBird, and I drove to Pittsburgh on the same day that a monsoon was also scheduled, washing out the ballgame and numerous other parts of Pennsylvania. We couldn’t see the Mets and Bucs on Saturday because we were going to Penn State (no need to express my newfound regret or rage about that decision). Now three years later, we had a plan, plane tickets, and luck. (This time I wisely opted to buy one of the plentiful Pirates tickets the day of game.) Pittsburgh hosted Milwaukee for a 12:30 game. To top it off, the Mets and Braves were at Shea at 7 p.m. What a day it was going to be. The day? Wednesday, September 12, 2007. And when we’d completed the two-city twinbill with the last five innings of a Mets win at Shea, we were ready to declare 2007 just about perfect in terms of baseball: My books had been handed in—100 Things was emailed to the publisher an hour before driving to pick up Paul at 4 a.m.—and the Mets had built a lead that the newspapers, TV, radio, and the SABR-skilled insisted was insurmountable. Seven games ahead with 17 games remaining. No one had ever blown a lead like that. Who knew the Mets were so readily capable of the impossible? They ruined my year and also spoiled the memory of my dream doubleheader. Yet even before it all went to hell, to be truthful, my love affair with PNC Park never got past the like stage. The land of forging metal suddenly ran out of material when it came to making Ralph Kiner a statue to match those of Willie Stargell, Roberto Clemente, Honus Wagner (and later Bill Mazeroski). They only had enough material, apparently, for Kiner’s hands. Even the bat he was holding had been bent from people pushing on it. Ralph Kiner, who’d been lauded at a Shea celebration a few weeks earlier, simply deserved better. And my previous favorite day of 2007 had been spent with the Mr. Kiner signing copies of Mets Essential at a Long Island bookstore. Seeing the way the Bucs mistreated the legacy of this super-sweet guy and seven-time NL home run champ as a Buc—Pittsburgh’s only star (in any sport) in the four decades between Wagner and Clemente—made my Primanti Bros. sandwich stick in my throat a little. PNC is still a fine park, but give Ralph back his body. Give me back my great day in the Steel City and Shea. Give me back my team. They’ve been missing ever since that seemingly perfect September day. Reward offered for prompt return. |
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October 31, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 2006 My wife walked into the ladies room while I stared straight ahead at the Shea Stadium outfield. Were the Cardinals still having a ceremony on the field? Was the grounds crew tidying up? Was Carlos Beltran still standing stock still at the plate? I don’t know. All I could see over and over was a ball rising and traveling farther from me. I heard myself yell, “No!” as the ball climbed beyond even the Amazin’ Endy’s reach. And then Yadier Molina came into focus shaking hands at third base, his back to me. Still stunned, a little weak in the knees, and the game long over, I put my back up against the wall and slid to the floor. How did it come to this? Wasn’t this the year with the payoff? The 20th anniversary year of 1986 with a team that was just like that ’86 team. Or maybe we just wanted them to be just like ’86. Sure, the 2006 pitching staff wasn’t on the same tier as ’86, but the offense, oh, that offense. They had shelled the opposition and wrapped up the division title in June. And the bullpen was among the game’s best. The team was 31-16 in one-run games and a similarly impressive 34-17 in blowouts. Playing in a park that favored pitching, the Mets set a club record with 200 home runs, while placing third in the league in runs, slugging, and doubles. They were first in steals. Utterly dominant and consistently mentioned in the same breath as 1986 by the new announcing trio of Keith Hernandez, Ron Darling, and Gary Cohen. They were the stars of the new home of the Mets, Sports Net New York. Their own cable station! We’re ready for our close-up now, Mr. Webb. These Mets had ended Atlanta’s 14-year postseason run, performing the coup de grace at the end of July with a sweep at Turner Field. The Mets finished 12 games better than the Phillies in the NL East and compiled nine more wins than any team in the National League. Only the Yankees could match their 97 wins. But something funny happened on the way to the Subway Series. All that misplaced New York arrogance and self-appointed TV time wound up on the cutting room floor. It had happened to the Yankees almost two weeks earlier in Detroit. Now October cancellation had come to Queens. And here I was. Completely exhausted and depressed. Not sad like someone died, but sad like a piece of me had died. I would not have believed that this would be the last postseason game ever played at Shea. I couldn’t have faced that then even had I know. I was just starting to come to grips with 2006. I’d thought this would be The Year. From the beginning it showed all the signs. April 3: Mets 3, Nationals 2 I breathed in the red, white, and blue bunting on a cold, gray Monday afternoon at Shea Stadium. This was the day I recall hearing the chant of “Jose! Jose! Jose!” in person for the first time. Clueless yet obliging umpires called way-safe Nationals out at home and second in the last two innings, securing the first shaky save of Billy Wagner’s Mets career. Jimmy Jim got a $60 ticket for parking in a school zone—the only place we could find to park within a mile of the ballpark. Pleased as punch with the win, Duck, Dupes, and I each handed Jim a $20 bill, and we laughed at the idea of it, “Imagine paying $20 to park for a Mets game?” Funnier still was listening to the ad nauseum debate about the song played by the incoming closer. As Billy Wagner made his first Mets entrance, the P.A. played the same Mettalica song as was used when Mariano Rivera jogged into from the bullpen at Yankee Stadium. My position on this controversial and critical matter: Who friggin’ cares? April 6: Mets 10, Nationals 5 They were still talking about that stupid song three days later—after Wagner’s first Mets blown save pushed the Mets out of first place (for what would be the only time all year). Pedro Martinez had his fight song going, drilling four Nationals (Nick Johnson and hot-headed Jose Guillen twice each). Yet when Washington’s Felix Rodriguez hit the only Met of the night, new catcher Paul LoDuca, Rodriguez was the one ejected! And again, the focus was on some foolishness beyond what happened on the field. Carlos Beltran, booed by some buffoons the first few days of the year, hit two home runs and had to be pushed out of the dugout for an encore by ageless and useless Julio Franco. The curtain call actually got more play than the team’s 4-1 opening homestand. April 18: Braves 7, Mets 1 The Mets were 10-2 and up by five games in the NL East when the night started. I sat in Loge seats provided by the Mets for colleagues involved in the first edition of the ESPN Pro Football Encyclopedia. Free seats from the Mets? It really was a fun year. Pedro Martinez had been cheered lustily the previous night while earning his 200th career victory. On this night, Victor Zambrano was booed off the field after allowing seven runs in five innings against the Braves. Zambrano’s elbow would give out a few weeks later and he would never win another game for the Mets—or anyone else. Yet what would persist through October and beyond was Scott Kazmir being healthy, young, and hard-throwing in Tampa Bay with Duaner Sanchez not in the pen but watching as helplessly as us fans, following his taxicab accident that cost the Mets his valuable right arm. A stereophonic lament of “If.” Sad and beautiful at the same time, sung by Roger Waters, the Pink Floyd legend I saw perform at the Garden in 2006. June 4: Giants 7, Mets 6 This loss actually made me feel good. With the Carlos Delgado shift on, Jose Reyes had such a big lead off third base that he could have stolen home standing up. He didn’t but Lastings Milledge stole the show—or at least the showboat. Called up from Norfolk a few days earlier due to an emergency appendectomy by Xavier Nady, Milledge bashed his first major league home run to tie the game with two outs in the 10th. My wife and I, hustling out of the park with the kids to get in line for the Mr. Met Dash, heard the crowd suddenly erupt. I tried to sneak a look through the light filtering in from the Shea portholes, but I instantly knew what had happened when an usher turned around and shouted an expletive that meant only one thing to me: The game was now tied and the salty usher’s long day just got longer. The family was on the ramp out of the stadium for the Mr. Mets Dash line when Lastings high-fived his way out to his position in the 11th. The Mets subsequently lost, but up by 4½ games, with untouchable reliever Duaner Sanchez winning three times in a six-game homestand, I was still thrilled. Yet I was disappointed to find that rather than optimism, all I heard on the way home was how bush league this kid was and how he’d never amount to anything with his attitude. I put on some traveling tunes instead—right as they proved to be about the lastability of Lastings. The Mets embarked on a road trip that had the effect of Sherman’s march on the NL East: A 9-1 sacking of L.A., Phoenix, and Philly that pushed the Mets 9½ games in front with the rest of the division in full retreat. August 8: Mets 3, Padres 2 A Yankees fan I had dealings with tried to dismiss the Mets to me by bragging about how his firm had great seats to Shea that clients never used because no one in the City cared about the Mets. So in March I contacted his office and put in a seemingly vanilla request for a set of four unused tickets for a Tuesday night Mets game against San Diego in early August. Three friends and I sat eight rows from the Mets’ on-deck circle and witnessed Mike Piazza’s return to Shea as a Padre. We were comped the night where Mike bathed in applause and had one hit, not the next evening when Piazza scared the standing O out of the crowd with two homers. In both cases, the Mets won one-run games and wound up sweeping Piazza’s Padres. The lead was 14 games. September 7: Mets 7, Dodgers 0 The Mets, now up by 14½, held a 4-0 lead with two outs, two on, and first base open in the sixth with Jose Reyes at the plate. Brad Penny, an All-Star who would actually lead the league in wins, fell behind Reyes and put one over the plate rather than walk him to face Paul LoDuca, batting .315 at the time. Reyes crushed Penny’s pitch and center fielder Shawn Kemp hit the wall just as the ball bounded toward the infield. The New York Post clocked Reyes at 14 seconds rounding the bases. He dove into home, though he could have—and should have—gone in standing up. Reyes was going so fast that he could have turned home and run to first and even taken second before they got the ball to the proper fielder. Now that would have been showing off. The 48,000-plus house on a Thursday night—the week school started up, mind you—was so elated they even cheered when Reyes dropped a popup the next inning. Tom Glavine, coming back from a blood clot, and newbie bullpen darling Guillermo Mota drew cheers that would be unimaginable in the September they helped devastate a year in the future. September 18: Mets 4, Marlins 0 This school-night packed house never stopped cheering for the Monday night clincher. I actually snuck someone down to the Field Level with an Upper Deck seat to get a close-up view of the first Mets division title clincher in 18 years. While it was great to be there, I would sometimes think of that night and wonder if the Mets had clinched the 2006 title in Pittsburgh—where they’d been swept just before this home series with Florida—maybe the Marlins wouldn’t have had to endure the over-the-top clinching celebration, which maybe helped the bottom-feeding club form a grudge that would push them to play so much harder against the Mets in September ’07 and ’08 than they did against everyone else. I left about 15-20 after the clinching, figuring the show was over—only to hear that the players came out again immediately after I left. If only I’d known this would be the last champagne bath for the home folks at Shea... October 4, 2006: Mets 7, Dodgers 6 This is the way October baseball should be: late afternoon, Indian Summer, kids in the seats instead of corporate suits, and the place roaring long before player introductions for the first Shea postseason game since the 2000 World Series. I snuck behind the dugout during the intros to snap photos of the Mets lining up that would be used for Mets by the Numbers, which Jon Springer and I signed as a book contract with a publisher that morning after a long time trying. I was so happy I forgot my disappointment about Orlando Hernandez’s jogging injury knocking him out of the rotation the previous day. Rookie John Maine got the ball for the opener and Paul LoDuca tagged out two Dodgers at the plate in a play I was blocked from seeing. A secondary roar went up upon among the blocked out and slow witted among us when we looked as one at the scoreboard and realized no runs had scored on the play. The Dodgers had four consecutive hits and a walk in the inning and scored only once. The bullpen blew a lead—not for the last time—but the Mets held on to win this one and would sweep the Dodgers. October 13: Cardinals 9, Mets 6 There was heartache one night after Tom Glavine combined for a shutout in the rain-postponed opener. On Friday the 13th, the Mets hammered Cardinals ace Chris Carpenter and clung to a 6-4 lead in seventh. With two outs and two Cards on, the previously unhittable Guillermo Mota threw a pumpkin that Scott Spiezio slammed to right. August acquisition Shawn Green got a glove on it, but he could only knock the ball back onto the field as the tying run scored. It wasn’t quite Nelson Cruz being a step from the potential clinching high fly ball in the 2011 World Series, but you got the feeling that if Endy Chavez is in right field for either of those October nights five years apart, the Cardinals might have two fewer World Series trophies. But on this unlucky night in 2006, Endy was already stationed in left field, filling in for injured Cliff Floyd. And all Endy could do was watch So Taguchi’s home run off Billy Wagner in the ninth. That that was not even the most painful ninth-inning home run to left field at Shea Stadium in that NLCS tells you all that is needed. I had literally thought of nothing besides the Mets for weeks. Behind schedule, I wrote the last chapters of Mets Essential in October during the daylight hours before heading to the games at night. It could have been my favorite October. Should have been. The AL champion Tigers were so ripe for the taking, I was practically ill watching the Detroit pitchers make wild throws in every game. Hearing Game 7 of the 2006 NLCS mentioned by Albert Pujols after the Cards won the 2011 World Series was a new stab in an old wound. A wound that would seem like a tiny boo boo compared to the fatal body blows to be inflicted in the two Septembers to come. But you could not see that coming in 2006. The Endy Chavez catch, which I had a fantastic view of, is only a fleeting glimpse of the greatness that was never to be. A fleeting glimpse in the images superimposed in my mind. As I stared out at the Flushing night. My butt on the cold, drab concrete next to the lady’s room on October 19, 2006. “You ready to go,” asked my wife, who’d probably not been inside more than three minutes. I stood up and walked down the ramp. We’d hear the Daniel Powter song “Bad Day” on the way home, making the long drive through the rain as we’d done six Octobers earlier after the bitter end of the 2000 Subway Series. Soon it will be the sixth anniversary of the long drive in 2006. Some bad days go on for years. <> <> <> I want to take a moment here to mention a couple of recent notices. Subway Squawkers said some nice things about New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History. And Netgalley, a book industry site that aids reviewers in, well, reviewing, featured the upcoming book Best Mets up front in their profile on Rowan & Littlefield, the publishing house of imprint Taylor Trade, which is putting out the book. |
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October 28, 2011 Cardinals Fly High Once More Well, these Cardinals keeping winning championships. My Cardinals can’t win a game. For all of you who couldn’t be bothered to watch the World Series, you missed one of the all-time greats in Game 6. I’ve watched Game 6 in ’75, ’86, and ’02, and ’11 goes right with that batch, though ’75 will always be special because it was my first Series and ’86 has become my reason for living with no new Miracles on the horizon. I was pulling for ya, Texas. Can’t blame Ron Washington so much, but if Mike Adams hadn’t been used for one batter in the eighth inning of Game 6. And maybe if Endy Chavez had gone to right field for ailing Nelson Cruz... Tony La Russa’s bullpen machination cost him Games 2 and 5, but he’s a genius once more, pulling the 11th world championship for St. Louis out of a hat. LaRussa has as many world championships as John McGraw, who also managed 33 years. LaRussa will soon pass Mugsy for second on the all-time wins list, but Tony needs four more pennants to match the 10 by McGraw (and Casey Stengel). Most of us would be content with one pennant, at this point. |
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October 25, 2011 ’86 Turns 25 Where were you when the Mets won Game 6 of the 1986 World Series? If you are too young to remember or were not born yet, I still envy your youth, but you can envy me watching as it all went down. Though I contend that Game 7 and ultimate victory in the World Series was more important (and rank it accordingly in Best Mets, a book due out in 2012), Game 6 is the emotional epicenter of Metdom. Though I bet plenty of people who were around in 1969 will argue that point. Mets chronicler extraordinaire Mark Simon at ESPN.com asked several people—myself included—where they were and what they were feeling in the 10th inning of Game 6 of the 1986 World Series. Unlike every other Mets postseason game since Game 3 of the 1986 NLCS—save for the last two games against the Red Sox—I was not at the park but in Paul Lovetere’s dorm room in Salem, Virginia. For that moment, no matter where you were, being a Mets fans was not the curse it has become, it was a gift from above, a light shining down. They called it “Baseball Like It Ought to Be,” but it was a Miracle, pure and simple. |
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Thank You, Bolton Landing I just want to thank the Bolton Central School District for having me up to talk to the students and making me feel at home. Kudos to the staff, especially Lori Humiston for setting it up and to superintendent Ray Ciccarelli, the biggest Mets fan in the 518 area code, whom I later learned drives almost six hours each way for Bills home game and is back at the office first thing Monday morning. Holy Joe Ferguson! And of course, thanks to the students for listening, asking, and buying. A perfect fall day for a drive to Bolton Landing along the banks of Lake George. A great place to be in New York State. |
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October 21, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 2005 Record: 83-70, Third (Tie) Manager: Willie Randolph One Line Summary: “The change it had to come, we knew it all along.”—Pete Townshend I find the celebration of all things 1986 simultaneously heartening and depressing. Don’t get me wrong, no one relishes Mets history more than yours truly, but with every celebration of 1986 comes the realization that the Mets have not won since I was 21. By 2005, I was 40 and it seemed like an eon since 1986. All the news the Mets were making in the waning days of the 2004 calendar and the frigid early days of January 2005 belied the reality that the team had crashed so badly the previous summer that they had to resort to stealing the Montreal Expos GM as that franchise lit out for Washington. I was head over heels about the kids, Wright and Reyes, but rather than build from the ground up—as the 1986 Mets had done (never mind the 1969 champs)—the Mets were once again trying to spend their way to the top. Where had we seen this before? I was so jaded that I did not think any free agent would ever prosper at Shea Stadium. How many had failed? Vince Coleman, Bobby Bonilla, Eddie Murray, and Roger Cedeno were the most notable busts, with Bonilla and Murray’s positive numbers cancelled out by their negative effect on younger players and fans. Even a couple of rare good ones, 1999 free agents Robin Ventura and Ricky Henderson, had one superb year and then dropped off—or in Rickey’s case, dropped out. By 2005, Rick Reed may have been the most successful Mets free agent signee ever… and he’d come to the team as a minor league free agent. The 2005 roster was chockfull of major league free agents taking home lots of cash and bringing the Mets so-so results: Tom Glavine, Braden Looper, Cliff Floyd, and Mike Cameron. I liked speak-his-mind Cliff, while Cameron had 30 homers and 22 steals in 2004, but Cammy permanently got on my bad side in ’04 when he dropped a bases-loaded pop-up to ruin my first solo game at Shea with my daughter. I so wanted to see the Mets go with young players. Yet the reality was that the best of that potential lot had been traded the previous summer to Pittsburgh and Tampa Bay for Kris Benson and Carlos Zambrano, respectively. Now this unwanted pair made up two-fifths of a rotation that got remarkably shaky after the new ace’s turn. Pedro Martinez was that new ace. I listened to his introductory press conference as I drove around doing errands the day before starting a new job, just as I’d listened to Willie Randolph’s press conference while returning from my final interview at a small publishing house in Irvington, a cute town on the Hudson in upper Westchester where fabled author Washington Irving long resided. The job kept me busy enough where I barely noticed that, like Steve Phillips before him, the early years of Omar were going to be the highlight. Like Stevie Wonder Boy, Omar had a solid run of bringing in the small pieces to make the whole more cohesive: Ramon Castro, Chris Woodward, Juan Padilla, Marlon Anderson, Roberto Hernandez, and Doug Mientkiewicz. Mientkiewicz had been run out of Boston for getting on management’s bad side after catching—and not letting go of—the ball that clinched the first Red Sox title since 1918. Mientky had a weak bat and a big mouth, but the slick-fielding first baseman saved David Wright countless throwing errors in 2005. It also took a while for me to realize my 180-mile daily drive back and forth to work, along with ridiculous hours and the most unrealistic bosses I’d yet come across, made this job a living hell. It was also the only job I’ve ever lost—though I had my letter of resignation in my pocket when a book conference became a bait-and-switch for my termination interview. By the time I’d mercifully been released, I’d only missed the first month of baseball season, though I had managed to attend the debut of the New Mets at Shea Stadium (and the uncalled for booing of John Franco as an Astro). I also saw the first game at Shea against the Washington Nationals (nee Montreal Expos). Braden Looper ruined Pedro and Carlos’s brilliant debuts on Opening Day in Cincinnati. Friends were soon emailing back and forth the corrupted final line of “Won’t Get Fooled Again” by the Who: “Meet the New Mets, just the same as the old Mets.” But it wouldn’t take long before we bought the Omar and Willie package of hope, swallowing it hook, line, and sinker. And we would learn at 40 what we’d known at 17, that Pete Townshend was always right. “And the Slogans Are Replaced, by the Bye” Like the above clip, when you’ve pulled one out of the fire and stand defiantly, you’re not thinking about the lyrics, you’re in awe of the performance. All you can say is, “Awesome. Totally awesome.” Awesomeness was needed in Metdom. The Art Howe experience in 2003 and 2004 had been both mind-numbing and excruciating. Not that “Willie-ball” couldn’t make you nuts. Right off the bat came five straight losses, followed by six straight wins. Looper, who pitched all year with a bum shoulder he didn’t tell anyone about, constantly coughed up leads, including a Sunday night game that, to this day, is the closest the Mets have ever come to sweeping a series in the Bronx. After three wins in four days at first-place Washington (!), the next night Pedro’s 4-0 lead with two outs in the ninth was given away by Looper in Pittsburgh. Pedro held a 7-0 seventh-inning lead that the bullpen blew and would have lost if Favorite Non-Playing Met Chris Woodward hadn’t come through in extra innings. (The next day, during my first Mr. Met Dash with the kids, I conducted an on-field inspection of the dent in the wall at Shea where Brian Schneider—yes, Brian Schneider—hit a ball for the Nationals that was a foot from being a game-winning homer instead of being a game-tying double.) Looper essentially cost Pedro a 20-win season in what would be his only injury-free year as a Met. The roller coaster continued all summer. One pitch from defeat, Mike Cameron homered and the Mets won in extra innings over Milwaukee, only to lose to the Brew Crew on a five-run ninth two days later (Looper had the day off; Roberto Hernandez handled that implosion). The Mets swept the Cubs and then went to San Diego and lost their right fielder, Mike Cameron, in a violent collision with Carlos Beltran, who was never right after that in 2005. The Mets embarked on a five-game winning streak, fueled by Mike Jacobs. About to be sent down after a brief callup, I witnessed Jacobs homer in his first major league at bat in a blowout loss to the Nats. Jacobs not only stayed with the team, but he set a major league record with four homers in his first big league games, fueling a four-game sweep in Phoenix. The Mets scored just three runs in three days in San Francisco, yet upon their return home, the Mets took the Wild Card lead. Ramon Castro’s three-run homer in the eighth for a 6-5 win over the Phillies had me dancing for joy in the Mezzanine. The Mets then went 2-12 and any dreams of the postseason dissipated, as did the more modest dream of finishing .500 for the first time since 2001. As the “Meet the New Mets” line passed hourly through my head, things turned the other way. Oh, it was too late to get back in the Wild Card race. Six years ago, we didn’t see the now almost routine multi-game, late-season collapse by seemingly playoff-bound teams that Omar’s Mets would make fashionable. This time, the Mets pushed their supposed betters out of contention. The Mets knocked out the Phillies, and did the same to the Marlins, tying Florida for third place. And they pushed the Nationals into last place, albeit with an 81-81 mark the Nats haven’t sniffed since. The Mets had the best 10-game finish of any National League team at 8-2. (How we would wish for transference of this finish to future Septembers.) And that 8-2 mark to end 2005 included a throwaway 11-3 loss to Colorado on the final day, but raucous cheers rang out at Shea all that afternoon. It was all for Mike Piazza. Warm, but too early for Indian Summer, October 2, 2005 marked the final day of the great catcher’s 7½ seasons of service in orange and blue. He was cheered lustily for past home runs both dramatic and cathartic, for giving a full effort every time, and for working diligently at catching even as everyone said he wasn’t that good at it (though he had proved in 2004 that he was worse at first base). Piazza was stunned by the magnitude of the applause. And so was I. That kind of cheering may never happen again because you can’t clap while clutching a hand-held device to text, tweet, and Facebook simultaneously about how cool you are. Everyone, young and old, Mets fans and tourists visiting from Oslo, stopped what they were doing, and sustained the cheering for as long as possible. The only thing I’ve ever heard that compared with it in a non-crucial game was when Piazza visited for the first time as a Padre in 2006. . I was glad Omar did not try to bring Piazza back in 2006. Mike would never get a better sendoff. And it was time to move on. It was not, however, time to move on in the eighth inning of the last game. With 47,718 waiting to see Mike come up once more, the only Mike that came out of the dugout was named Difelice. The fans, standing, cheering, and just waiting for Piazza to emerge in his catching gear, were incredulous. And then they got angry—about as angry as people were when Jose Reyes left with a batting title seemingly in hand after one at bat on 2011 closing day. (There were 30,000 more at the Shea finale in 2005 than at the last game at Citi Field in 2011, but the level of annoyance by those in attendance was in the same ballpark, so to speak.) On that last day of 2005, the fans booed Piazza’s removal almost as loudly as when Victor Zambrano had been knocked out in the sixth inning. We were disgustedly on the way to the parking lot when Difelice singled in Piazza’s spot in the order in the bottom of the eighth. We were enjoying a much cheaper beverage in the Marina Lot than Shea could provide when Anderson Hernandez got his first major league hit—in his 18th career at bat—moments before the season ended on a line-drive double play in Jose Offerman’s last big league at bat. (There would be other days for Jose Offerman to get his licks in.) And 2005 begat 2006, with an ending that would cause far more angst and much more bitter tasting beer in the same Marino Lot. But we would learn the hard way that there were worse endings than being dumped in the playoffs. As a result, ’05 stands as the last season to date that ended with better days still ahead for the Mets. Finishing 83-79 was just a beginning, the beginning of what may be as aggravating a period in Mets history as I have lived through. And I’m still living it. You, too. However you want to process it, don’t let hindsight ruin what was still in store for this crew in ’06. Some of my favorite days at Shea were still to come. And so were some of my most frightening. <> <> <> Want to see how our story ends? Check out New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History, where we uncover all GMs great, evil, and in between in a half-century so fraught with tragedy and pathos you would think I made it all up. Except, of course, you know I did not. Know I could not. |
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Letters to the Met-idor, World Series Edition I’m creating a precedent so that when the Mets actually make the World Series, I can throw one of these Letters columns together before I head out to the ballpark. Of course by then, it will be the year 2525 and I’ll be teleporting to Wal-Mart Field at Krispy Kreme Park and all that will be left of me is a head in a jar. But I’ll have a column ready to go. Old habits die hard.
Why We Run Letters Dear Met, I enjoy your letters columns. Greg Prince (Faith and Fear in Flushing). ------------------------ Greg, Thanks… [Actually this is a pretense. I didn’t write back to Greg on this particular occasion, though when we communicate it’s usually lengthy and sprinkled with obscure Mets references. So the brevity of Greg’s note spoke volumes. Think of this as an aside to the audience. And while we are aside together, I will jump on with Greg with Texas over St. Louis in the World Series, though I am slow to disembark from the fully engulfed Detroit bandwagon. Football is kind of volatile in that town, too. Texas at least knocked the Yankees out last year while the St. Louis Cardinals have yet to beat the Yankees in October in my lifetime.]
No Way on Jose Dear Met, I disagree that Jose Reyes besmirched the legacy of Ted Williams [with his one at-bat in the final game to secure the batting title]. As a Mets fan and a Jose Reyes fan I was disappointed that he left the game in the first inning, however, it is unfair to compare this to Ted Williams’s situation or to say his bunt single has historic significance. Ted Williams may have been the greatest hitter that ever lived but he was competing with a “number” and history, not another player. Lots of stuff swirling around Jose, his last Mets game? Why was Terry Collins crying? Does he know something we don’t? Reyes earned the batting crown, his last hit was just as important as his first hit, but we all would have felt better if Jose played the whole game. Jose Reyes taking himself out of the game pales in significance to the incredible games that took place that night. Now, I’m just looking forward to next season and your 2012 edition of Mets Annual Maple Street Press. Arnold Dorman ------------------------ Arnold, Good points all, but I just thought his move was bush league. Even if Jose Reyes came out of the game before his next at bat, he could have given fans the chance to cheer instead of boo—and most of those on hand booed Terry Collins, not understanding it was Jose’s decision. Watching the replay later, Keith Hernandez went from ecstatic about a last-day batting race to completely disgusted. So did Gary and Ron. Not being a former batting champ, I didn’t feel that strongly and I put the Jose bit in my article after the great day of games because of how little it mattered in the great scheme of things. Some team will pay him an extra few million for that title, but I don’t think it’s worth all that. As for the Maple Street Press Mets Annual we will be doing a fifth year of the publication due out in late February. I’m praying that Jose can be our cover boy, like he was on our first edition. Best, Matt
Averting Nix on Season Tix Dear Met, Since Taryn and I are season ticket holders, I wholeheartedly agree with your ideas for those who buy tickets to all 81 home games. The Mets added their “Amazin’ Perks” for season ticket holders like ourselves, but all that got us with a meet-and-greet with Scott Hairston in left field. (And that was Taryn who met him; I wasn’t even there!) The best way to keep their most loyal fans is by rewarding them in their wallets. Let’s hope Dave Howard reads your ideas and takes them to heart. Ed Leyro (Mets Mesmerized Online) [Note: Ed is referring to my August 27 post that the Mets should give season ticket holders some type of discount like they gave all the single-game ticket buyers with the summer promotions like “two for one” and “kids go free.” My suggestion was to let the season ticket holders pay one price for tickets to every game in 2012 and let single-game ticket holders pay for the variable pricing plan. When you start having a championship-caliber club again—and actually see the world beyond the last week of September—you can start gouging everyone again. We expect that in New York.] ------------------------ Ed, I think it’s a good thing the Mets are making changes on the go to give fans incentive to come to games that aren’t of great import in the standings, but it’s only right that they take care of the season ticket holders while they help everyone else out. No one likes to feel they’ve being taken. Even by their favorite team. Best, Matt
A 111-Loss Phillies Team? Break Out the Cake!
Dear Met, Mike McNamara ------------------------
Mike! A very happy birthday to you! Vince Coleman, on the other hand, can blow out his own (roman) candle. Best,
Matt Dear Met, Just finished Baseball Miscellany and thoroughly enjoyed it! I love being entertained along with learning something new along the way. Thank you. I am an artist and did a drawing of Tom Seaver you may be interested in. I sent a copy to Tom (care of his Northern Cal winery) and he loved it and signed one for me! You can check it out at my website: martyparkerart.net or on facebook at facebook.com/martyparkerart. Would love to hear what you think.
Thanks again for the great writing! ------------------------
Marty, Did you grow up in the Bay Area, watching those A’s teams? I have always been in awe of that club and how they put up with Charlie Finley and themselves to turn it on and win when they needed to. They were like the Raiders. If they could have gotten by the Steelers, you know they would have rolled the Vikings a couple of more times in the Super Bowl. For a great look at those 1970s A’s and Raiders teams, check out the 2003 HBO special Rebels of Oakland, hosted by Tom Hanks, who grew up rooting for those great Oakland teams. The DVD is hard to find but worth the search. If anyone else besides Marty somehow is reading this—wink, wink—and has a copy of this (or a DVD of any of the 1973 World Series games broadcast on NBC), drop me a line and “Let’s Make a Deal.” Best,
Matt Pilot to Tower Dear Met, I just finished your book Baseball Miscellany and read the book in one day. I picked up your book because I really was looking for the book about Ron Santo but that book was checked out of the library. I like to read baseball books in the summer and hockey books in the winter. In your book you mentioned that Seattle took the name of the Pilots because of the nautical history. Yes, but that is only partially correct. Seattle does have a longstanding waterfront history but the Pilots name became because of the airline industry. The Seattle area town of Everett is home to the manufacturing of the Boeing Aircraft Company. In the late 1960s Boeing was building the new aircraft, the 747. A lot of the Seattle economy was somehow influenced by the Boeing Company and aviation. When the team came about, the owners choose the Pilots name to show thanks to one of the largest employers in the area. I don’t know the reason the Pilots only lasted one season before moving to Milwaukee. The only reason I know all this is because my older sister was an airline stewardess living in Seattle during that time. The family went out there for her wedding where my older brothers went to the game and all I received was a pennant. Boy, I wish I still had that pennant! Maybe you have additional research on this information. Thank you. Pat Trunda P.S.: A White Sox fan but Santo played for the Sox for one season. ------------------------ Pat, Thanks for the note and glad you enjoyed the book so much. You make a really good point about Boeing being in Seattle. The Seattle Pilot hats did sort of look like something an airline pilot would wear. It was kind of cool that the Brewers kept the Pilots colors and used a similar font—minus the “scrambled eggs” on the bill. I really liked the simple and classic “M” logo in their formative years in Brewtown as an AL team before Bud Selig went political and spread his doddering to all regions of the game’s sphere. On a positive note, the Pilots pennant was only worth about $12 on e-bay when I checked today—probably about the cost of a low budget sushi plate at Safeco. But that pennant would be a lot cooler to have than a plate full of raw fish at a ballgame. Pennants can be hard to get, though, just ask the Pilots/Brewers, who have won only one pennant in their 42 years of existence—and that came in their old league. And to the fun city of Milwaukee, we have an old baseball saying in Flushing, by way of Brooklyn, “Wait til next year.” Best, Matt P.S.: And regarding your sister the 1960s stewardess, that reminds me how much I have been enjoying Pan Am on ABC. It is light, fun, nostalgic fare and it is getting me through this dead time waiting for Mad Men. The show would form a nice Sunday night doubleheader when Mad Men returns. Of course, if Pan Am somehow gets grounded by the network because of too few passengers, I vow to never get hooked on another network show. Ever. I have been burned before. Hey, you could be stuck watching the Yankees right now, so sit back, sip some champagne, and buckle up. But now turn off the TV. We’ve got one more letter.
The Forgotten Big Red Machine Dear Met,
While your book
Baseball Miscellany is an interesting read, it has come to my attention
that there is an error on page 15. If possible, please correct this error in future publications. John Piassek ------------------------ John, So other readers aren’t in the dark, on page 15 of Baseball Miscellany is a chart about repeat world champions since the World Series began in 1903. Here’s the list with the correction scrawled in. Repeat Champs Years Chicago Cubs 1907–08 Boston Red Sox 1914–15 New York Giants 1921–22 New York Yankees 1927–28 Philadelphia Athletics 1929–30 New York Yankees 1936–39 New York Yankees 1949–53 New York Yankees 1961–62 Oakland A’s 1972–74 Cincinnati Reds 1975–76 New York Yankees 1977–78 Toronto Blue Jays 1992–93 New York Yankees 1998–2000 I remember writing that chart and I cannot believe I left out the 1975–76 Reds. Those were my first two World Series as a kid and I watched almost every pitch in rapt awe. While I was rooting hard for the 1975 Red Sox against Cincinnati, I was pleased as punch to see the Reds sweep the Yankees in 1976. I just wished the Reds could have kept on adding to their championship ledger the next two seasons as the Yankees kept going to the World Series. The Mets were nice enough to gift wrap Tom Seaver to Cincinnati for the three-peat effort, but to no avail. You couldn't trust the Dodgers to get the job done in October—just don’t tell that to the ’77 and ’78 Phillies. It is kind of cool that for seven straight seasons in the 1970s there were repeat champs with the A’s, Reds, and ugh, Yankees. No more repeat champions came around until the Blue Jays in the 1990s. Thanks for reading and writing. Here’s hoping there is a future edition of Baseball Miscellany for me to add this correction to. Best, Matt |
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October 6, 2011 Delighting in the Work of Others First week of October and already it’s been a really fun postseason. A lot of people with Mets ties—and I’m not talking about Tie Guy—have been heard from already this postseason.
Keep watching this October. It is a good one. It will keep you sharp for the day when it really matters again. |
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October 5, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 2004 Record: 71-91 Manager: Art Howe One Line Summary: “Over unsounded gorges, through the rifled hearts of mountains, under torrents’ beds, unerringly I rush! Naught’s an obstacle, naught’s an angle to the iron way!”—Herman Melville The 2004 season was like a diet. Maybe it was the food poisoning that skimmed 10 pounds off me. Or maybe I wasn’t eating as well because a publisher reneged on a verbal commitment for my first book. Anyway, I felt a little better when the Mets started winning. And I felt more pained when they stopped. By economizing now and biding our time, we were told repeatedly, the Mets would look fabulous some day soon. For now, Jose Reyes was hurt, and we would just have to make do while the kids on the farm got ready. That made it a little more palatable for Kaz Matsui to skip throws from short to first in the top of the inning and skip grounders off his bat to second in the bottom of the frame. It was OK. We weren’t expecting much. The Mets hadn’t done much to heighten anyone’s expectations. Instead of Vladimir Guerrero, the Mets had Mike Cameron and acted like he was the man they preferred. The first month of the season the Mets had been swept at home by the Pirates and the following weekend were swept out of Wrigley Field, scoring twice in three games against the Cubs. They won a series in Los Angeles but dropped the first two games at brand-new Petco Park to sit at 9-15. Then something very strange happened. The Mets started winning. With Art Howe managing. And you know if you’ve seen the film Moneyball, winning and Art Howe are often considered coincidental. (Brad Pitt is very solid and the film legitimately good, but what got me in the theater was Philip Seymour Hoffman as Art Howe. Sure, the guy won an Oscar for playing Truman Capote but he played Art Howe for more than two hours and did not once use the word “battle” as a verb.) The Mets won the last game in San Diego before coming home to face the Giants. After winning the first game of the series, Mike Piazza set the record for most homers as a catcher the next evening. It’s strange that someone keeps track of the position a player is listed at when he hits a home run—it’s not like they’re wearing their catching gear while batting. Piazza hit his 353rd homer as a catcher to break Carlton Fisk’s all-time mark—meaning that, unlike Fisk, Piazza would now be hustled to first base where he would solve all the world’s problems except what to do if a ball was hit at him. Piazza wouldn’t start playing first base on a nightly basis until the next road trip. The night after he set the homer record, however, I was at Shea as Piazza donned the gear again. The Mets actually had a job fair in the Picnic Area that my buddy Paul was working. I think it cost around $35 to go to the fair, but it included a ticket to sit in the bleachers afterward. I was 39 years old and competing against people just out of college, or still in college, for a handful of jobs—many of them unpaid or minimum wage—with minor league teams all over the country. It was fun being there, but I was 15 years too late to the party. With a wife and two kids at home, the odds were pretty good that I would never be paid to don a chicken suit. But after I changed out of my gray suit, I did see one hell of a major league game after the fair. I sat in the Picnic Area for about half the game before using the old ticket stub dodge to sit with friends over in the Field Level. Paul came, too. Al Leiter and Jason Schmidt were locked in a scoreless duel through six innings. In the seventh, Pedro Feliz homered off Leiter, but the Mets tied it in the bottom of the inning on a home run by Karim Garcia—he and Shane Spencer tunneled out of the Bronx to beat up a Port St. Lucie pizza boy and add a couple of rough and tumble months to their résumé. They were using Shea as their own job fair. It didn’t work for Shane, who cut his feet walking barefoot in a Manhattan bar—apparently looking for a pizza boy to kick box—and then a few days later he was arrested for driving while intoxicated on a rehab assignment (insert your own comment here). Karim, who had started a brawl in right field at Fenway Park during a playoff game the previous fall, tried to keep things a little more professional. This enabled the Mets to swap him for Mike DeJean, who would have a 1.69 ERA out of the bullpen for the 2004 Mets. But back at Shea in May against the Giants, the score was still locked at 1-1 after 10 innings. It was a great duel, but it had been a long day. Boother, who used his knowledge of Japanese to heckle Kaz Matsui, suggested it might be time to go. The others agreed. I said give it another inning. David Weathers, who would be traded for a month of mashing by Richard Hidalgo, struck out Feliz with the bases loaded in the top of the 11th inning. Our time was just about up when Piazza stepped up with two men out in the bottom of the frame. I didn’t hear the radio call that night, but I heard it hundreds upon hundreds of times as a Mets bottle opener sound effect that came up every time I opened a beverage. Pop! Brower delivers. And a drive in the air to deep left field, back goes Bonds to the track, near the wall, jumping... IT’S OUTTA HERE!!! MIKE PIAZZA WINS THE GAME!!! A line drive homer over the left field wall, and the Mets win it in the bottom of the 11th inning! Sweeps came and went quickly in the merry, merry month of May. The San Francisco sweep was followed by one of the Rockies a couple of weeks later, with Tom Glavine no-hitting the Rocks until two outs in the eighth in the finale. The Mets were swept by the defending world champion Marlins (how strange is that to say?) and then went to Philadelphia and swept their first series at new Citizens Bank Ballpark (how great is that to say?). June proved wacky as well, with the Mets hanging around .500 and keeping within five games of first place. The Mets lost the first five games of their first trip to Minneapolis and Kansas City and then went 5-1 on a homestand welcoming Cleveland and Detroit to Shea for the first time. The best—and most damaging sweep—came in July. The Yankees were fresh off sweeping the Red Sox, adding yet more layers of storylines to the epic ALCS the teams would battle through for the second straight October. But the Mets faced the Yankees after beating the Reds and the July Fourth fireworks in Flushing were heavy duty. (That was just a metaphor, of course, because Fireworks Night would not be wasted on an already sold-out stadium full of Yankees fans; the real Grucci display was held two weeks later against Philadelphia, before their fans started traveling as if they were Cowboys Nation.) The Mets pounded the Yankees Friday night, and then won on Saturday thanks to a Shane Spencer dribbler plus one of the worst—and most-appreciated—strike three calls in recent memory. On Sunday, the Mets held on for a tight victory to give them the season series a year after going 0-6 against the crosstown buzz killers. Now the Mets stood two games over .500, and just two games out of first. That’s when the Mets went insane. An 8-13 stretch in July that dropped the Mets six games back in division and almost eight games back in the Wild Card, the Mets could have concentrated on getting their young players, like newly-promoted David Wright, major league experience. Instead, the team’s oft-preached approach of patience was thrown right out the window. The Five D’s: Dodge, Duck, Dive, Dip, and Dodge I guess the sixth—and maybe the seventh D—that Patches O’Houlihan left out would be the double DD’s that came with Kris Benson from Pittsburgh. But even if I somehow missed Anna Benson, there was no missing a trading deadline brainlock that would have made Steve Phillips blush. I was driving in Maine with my family, coming from a whale watch in Boothbay Harbor that had me feeling a tad queasy. The trade deadline was fast approaching and the woodsy static of coastal Maine permitted radio reports of the deadline trades while my family innocently spoke of whales and seals. Then came the report that made me feel like a harpoon had just been fired into my solar plexus. Jose Bautista—just acquired from the Royals for Mets prospect Justin Huber—was shipped to Pittsburgh with can’t-miss phenom Matt Peterson (he missed) and gritty Ty Wigginton for Kris Benson and Jeff Keppinger. I had about 15 minutes to digest the shortcomings of this trade (it would take about five years to realize what the Mets had let slip through their fingers with Bautista, aka “Joey Bats”). Then in an instant I was lost in a far more gut-wrenching deal. “The Mets have made another trade. Victor Zambrano and Bartolome Fortunato to the Devil Rays for top prospect Scott Kazmir and Jose Diaz.” Jim Duquette, the seemingly sane-minded general manager of my favorite team, who had soberly preached patience since his promotion 13 months earlier, had turned into Captain Ahab. It was all gone in a an instant on the quarter deck, the Sporting News Radio had transformed into a running dialogue of Moby-Dick, Ahab spouting: Aye, aye! and I’ll chase him round Good Hope, and round the horn, and round the norway maelstrom, and round perdition’s flames before I give him up. And this is what ye have shipped for, men! to chase that white whale on both sides of land, and over all sides of earth, till he spouts black blood and rolls fin out. What say ye, men, will ye splice hands on it, now? I think ye do look brave. Brave? Well, the Braves immediately swept the Mets, their tenuous plans for even mediocrity batted away like a giant tail through a whaling boat. “Man overboard!” Like Ishmael and others aboard the Pequod, I would have gladly left the ship at the moment of Duquette’s folly. But I had as much chance to leave as Ishmael or Starbuck, stuck aboard a tub in the middle of the wide ocean on a voyage years long, with no escape. Down, down, down the Mets dropped. They were 22-39 from that point on, dropping 11 in a row and 17 of 18 as August blurred into September. Free-speaking Cliff Floyd spoke for all when he said, “I don’t see light at the end of the tunnel.” We could not even see an end. As I prepared to go to a Mets game that I’d gotten a free ticket to for sitting through the rain earlier in the year, the news leaked that both Ahab and Fedallah (or Duquette and Howe) had been set adrift… though both would stay on: Duquette in a lower capacity in the organization, and Howe as lame duck skipper for the final 18 games (the club would go 9-9 and even start the Cubs on a downward spiral that left them out of the postseason). As I expounded at length to poor Paul in the Mezzanine overhang seats the Mets had gratised: The crime wasn’t in trading 20-year-old Kazmir, who that night happened to be beating the eventual world champion Red Sox for his career win; the unpardonable sin had been to trade someone so coveted for so little in return. Some would blame Rick Peterson or Jeff Wilpon for the trade, but it is a general manager’s duty to fully believe in a trade or offer his resignation if forced to make a bad trade. And if Duke had only waited until November, he could have perhaps shipped Kazmir for Oakland’s Tim Hudson or Mark Mulder, both of whom were traded by the A’s. Even the inevitable lack of success by Kazmir since 2009 cannot wash the stench for this error that cost the Mets the starter they so desperately needed to support the offense the Mets later assembled. Paul and I went once more to Shea in 2004, for the last game of the year. Yet the final game of the season and of the Montreal Expos’ existence was more Joycean than Melvillian. The death of a beloved comrade—in this case a team whose relocation would blot out its prior identity—was almost as hard to take as revealing the future of our club to be a lie. The future was a lie, a beautiful lie. One that would be paid for over and over, not in blood—but in dreams dashed just short of fulfillment. It was not Ishmael, but Omar whose foot was pressed against the rail of the boat as he chased leviathans that could turn on him at any second. # # # In case you’re wondering if this series will be extended another year now that this season is over, the goal is to try to finish the series by Christmas. And speaking of gifts, the whole story on the club—with more about the Mets, less about me, and far less excess from my 400-level English classes or Mr. Magoo Literary Classics—can be found in New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History. It’s no fish tale. |
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October 3, 2011 One Fan’s Citi Tally from 2011 In going over the facts and figures from my 10 games at Citi Field in 2011, I have this to report: It sucked. I attended exactly 20 games each of the first two seasons at Citi. The Mets played .575 ball at home for me in that span even as they stunk up joints everywhere else. This year they went 3-7 in front of me, a Stengel-esque .300 win percentage to put me at just over .500 at Citi (26-24), though that is actually ahead of the 122-121 overall Mets mark at the park since the team moved in. My family's undefeated reign also ended as the Silverman Four lost for the first time—and took out two top five batting leaders on August 7: Jose Reyes and Daniel Murphy. I’ll momentarily dispense with my narcissism for a bigger question: Are the Mets going to bring in the fences? I wouldn’t. And I went from April to the last day of the year with one Mets home run sighting. The Mets simply don’t hit for power regardless of the dimensions. Wright and Bay are shells of their power-hitting selves. Ike Davis, when healthy, can blast a ball out of anywhere; same goes for Lucas Duda. The only ones it might help are opponents, who are already bashing the Mets pitching staff. The Mets scored the most runs in the division with 718—five runs better than the Phillies and 50 runs better than league average. Mets pitching, meanwhile, was 12th in the NL, 69 runs worse than the average staff. After losing 101 times on the road over the previous two years, the Mets finally got the knack of playing away from home. But I can’t expect the Mets to start listening to me no matter how much I yell at the TV screen at home. And that is where I will be watching from more and more in the future. If the ballpark lost its new-park shine in 2011, the ushers and other stadium employees lost their new-job shine as well. For every pleasant employee I came across, two went out of their way to act superior, move at a glacial pace, or, in the case of ushers, enforce ridiculous rules—such as not allowing us to sit in a worse seat than our tickets indicated in the waning innings when tens of thousands of seats were empty. One usher told us, in all seriousness, that we had go up a flight of stairs, wait for an elevator, and take it down to an area that was a 50-foot walk away, but he would not let us pass his station. We waited until he got in someone else’s face and then walked the 50 feet. My suggestion—you know I always have one—is to let the ushers accept tips again. Allow a return to the system that made Shea hum. So you sell fewer Caesar Club seats. You’ll get more people entering the building, you’ll boost the local economy, and maybe the ushers won’t be so crabby. On a positive note:
Thanks for coming. I’ll leave you with the 2011 big board. Hope you missed some of these gems… Captain’s Log 2011 Citi Field
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September 29, 2011 Races for the Ages I am not one for hyperbole when it comes to baseball history, but I cannot readily come up with a better season-ending sequence that I’ve seen that tops the last hour of the season on Wednesday night. The final day 1908 dual pennant races, 1949 Yankees-Red Sox, the four-team races in 1964 and 1967 are all legendary. There are the epic two-team races that ended in tiebreaker playoffs, notably 1948, 1951, 1962, 1978, and for our own purposes, 1999. But 2011 was unique in that the MLB Channel and modern media enabled one to follow the climactic events for each race with live play-by-play and video. Usually when a ballgame is on, I have the newspaper out, channels are flipped during slow moments, and I occasionally get caught up in a movie or TV show—I saw Mad Men wannabes Pan Am and The Playboy Club earlier this week in this very scenario. But Wednesday night the only time I turned from MLB-TV was for ESPN2 coverage of Phils-Braves or the YES Network for Rays-Yankees game. (Joe GirARdi—“AR” stands for Anal Retentive—would it have killed your grandiose schemes to bring in “The Great Mariano” for a dozen pitches in the ninth?) The destinies of four teams were decided in the last hour of the season. Three games culminated in blown saves. Two games went 12 innings or later, including a comeback from a 7-0 deficit (ironically that the same deficit the Mets faced after one inning in the Closing Day Disaster of 2007). And Wednesday saw the surrealistic hometown walkoff celebration in front of the devastated visiting Boston fans who long ago took over Camden Yards. Oddly, the late-inning rain delay in Baltimore kept all four games on the exact same programming schedule. The Cardinals won an 8-0 laugher over 106-loss Houston, but they partied like 1999 when the Phillies turned a slick 3-6-3 double play in the 13th to end Atlanta’s season. Oh, and by the way, if the much-discussed two-Wild Card format had been in place this year, Wednesday would not have meant a thing. Leave great enough alone, MLB. I am proud of the 2011 Mets for their little part, playing top-notch spoiler, going 3-3 against the Braves and Cards last week on the road—overcoming a four-run deficit in the ninth in St. Louis plus Lucas Duda’s home run off Craig Kimbrel in Atlanta starting the rookie on a downward spiral that saw him blow two of his final three save chances. The Braves—like the Mets four years earlier—saw their bullpen fall apart because of all the close games and the lack of innings from the starters. But if I ever thought about feeling bad for them, all I had to do was remember Atlanta’s announcers mockingly singing “Meet the Mets” on the air after New York was eliminated in 2007—with Atlanta spy Tom Glavine doing the sabotaging. I spent a full minute on Wednesday night after the Braves were eliminated doing the tomahawk chop with middle finger extended. And Thursday morning I stumbled across the updated Mets Wikipedia entry. And I quote: [2007] is widely considered the third worst collapse in baseball history. (The 2011 Red Sox blew a 9 game lead with only 26 games left, going 7-19, and the 2011 Atlanta Braves blew an 8.5 game lead with only 22 games left, going 7-15, as opposed to the Mets’ 5-12 record in their final 17 games.) Talk about an instant upgrade. I am truly sorry about the Red Sox. We Mets fans know what this is like. You will survive and you’ll probably do so far more successfully than the Mets. In 2007 I was invited to the first two games of the World Series at Fenway Park and that went a long way to healing the deep wounds from the Mets’ fall and recreating the agony for several different publications. Even with Boston as 1986 foe and the sometimes frightening over-exuberance of Red Sox Nation, the Saux will always be a team I enjoy. My first World Series was in 1975 and I pulled so hard for them I cried. A couple of years later I attended Ted Williams Baseball Camp and took on the Splendid Splinter as an idol. As I told another friend: I’d love to see Jose Reyes back, but Ted Williams he’s not. Seventy years to the day earlier, Williams, sitting on .400, eschewed his manager’s advice and played both ends of a season-ending doubleheader in Philadelphia and went 6-for-8 to hit .406. The event began the Williams legend. Jose pretty much did the opposite. Reyes did the wrong thing by taking a seat after one at bat in the final game. I was there with a disappointed crowd that must have been made up of 80 percent bloggers, plus Cowbell Man and some guy with a Jose Reyes cape. I appreciated Miguel Batista’s two-hit shutout far better than the Closing Day effort four years earlier by another number 47. Or walking in the winning run to end last year by a number 46. I even enjoyed Jose’s bunt—harkening back to the controversial 1910 batting title—but give us at least one more trip to the plate. Then come off the field from shortstop so everyone can cheer you. Instead, everyone booed. As it turned out, Reyes would have won the damned title anyway. I actually missed Evan Longoria’s second home run after flipping to SNY to watch a replay of Terry Collins getting misty about the whole thing. Collins has given everything he has for this team. He blew up after that horrible 10-1 loss I witnessed that ended the 1-8 homestand, and the Mets finished the year with renewed vigor. Don’t force TC to reign in your ill-conceived notions, Jose. To paraphrase a Bob Murphy game-day announcement outside Shea: He wants you safe, because he wants you back. At the Reyes compound where a large gathering watched Ryan Braun go hitless Wednesday night, I just hope that Jose’s posse stuck around to see the end of the races that mattered. And while a Met won a batting crown for the first time, the Brewers—and K-Rod, for that matter—will play on. Teddy Ballgame would have told you that that is the name of the game. |
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September 26, 2010 FNP Met for 2011: Pridie of the Metties If you’ve been reading this site the last couple of years, you may vaguely recall that we dole out a prestigious award every year to an overlooked Met who didn’t play as much as their talent should have allowed. My Favorite Non-Playing Met, or FNP Met, has been distributed among some of the great scrubs in recent Mets memory. Some have gone to greatness, or at least mediocrity. Mackey Sasser, Todd Pratt, Robinson Cancel have taken home the trophy for their lack of work behind the plate. Heath Bell is the only FNP Met to go on to be an All-Star… with another team, of course. Most FNP Mets do not reach such heights and can often be found in the footnotes of Metdom in small type at the bottom of a page. And then every once in a great while, one of our own makes it. Nick Evans, the only two-time winner in the award’s two decades of ballyhooed history, went from Jerry Manuel’s doghouse to Terry Collins’s top dog, though it took exposing Nick to waivers three times this year before he finally received significant playing time and showed what he can do. We’re very proud of Nicky boy—and TC, too. Collins played him despite going hitless in his first 20 plate appearances after being called up in May. During the slump Evans did draw five walks, including one that helped key a rally from a 7-0 deficit against the Pirates on June 2. Nick may stick, even when the long list of wounded presumably returns in 2012. Evans has shown he can play in the majors and has a really nice glove at first base, plus he is adequate at the other corner spots. So with Nick’s status happily changed from non-playing, he is out of a third straight FNP. Who else had a shot this year?
And the winner is—if you’ve forgotten the headline above—Jason Pridie. The race was never really close. Please handle the award with pride, Pridie—I have been waiting to say that since I fell hard for JP when he came up in April. The Mets needed a center fielder and brought up someone who could pick it and get on base at least once per start (he reached base in each of his first 13 starts). He showed both good defense in center and the ability to hit home runs with men on base when it was completely unexpected (all four of his homers came with runners aboard). It is a tribute to Collins for getting Pridie so much playing time. (Though it also says something about the fragility of Angel Pagan.) I was stunned that Pride had 220-plus plate appearances and that his seven steals tied another surprise, Justin Turner, for most among the extensive Mets rookie class. Only once did Pridie really test me, and that was his strikeout on a questionable pitch in a full count in the Sunday night game against the Cubs. His home run his next time up—with the Mets down by six runs in the 11th—was hit moments after I’d gone to bed in disgust. The Pridie pride was swelling again this Sunday against the Phillies. He was a home run away from the cycle yet stayed within himself. Pridie had to have known of his chance to nudge past Mike Phillips as the most obscure Met to hit for the cycle (Phillips, by the way, sort of acts as the patron saint of FNP Mets). Pridie did not start swinging from his heels in search of that cycle-fulfilling homer. He worked the count, got a 3-1 pitch, fouled it off, and then took an inside pitch for ball four. Nick Evans, on the bench after hustling home from first on a double, may have been wiping away a little tear as Pridie marched to first. They just might make it after all. |
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September 22, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 2003 Record: 66-95 Manager: Art Howe One Line Summary: Howe rhymes with “Ow!” Please end this now. It’s always a little jarring when, after a few years of success, your team sucks from the get-go. The realization can take a lot out of you. Yankees fans have now gone 20 years without this happening, but perhaps one day genetic therapy will allow them to experience this feeling, too. Though I wouldn’t wish Art Howe on my worst enemy. I caught one inning of the Mets opener on TV before I had to leave for the ballpark... in Phoenix. On the way to the park I was so happy I’d decided to stay with the friends and relatives in Arizona while also seeing the end of spring training and Opening Day between the Dodgers and D-Backs. Tom Glavine and Art Howe both debuted as Mets, and though I hadn’t missed a nonstrike Mets lid lifter since 1988, I decided that was fine and dandy if family, friends, and another Opening Day was involved. All I missed at Shea was an historic 15-2 Mets drubbing in near-freezing temperatures. My vacation from reality was short lived. The realization that 2003 was going to be a long year came exactly two weeks after the opener. Four-game sweeps against mediocre teams early in the season have a way of derailing one’s optimism. This sweep occurred in Puerto Rico, where Major League Baseball’s other 29 owners, who now ran the Expos, decided that the team should play arbitrarily-scheduled series against major league clubs in a minor league stadium several countries away from Montreal. Not that they asked for my help in the matter. A nicely-worded form letter from the Expos denied an earlier request for employment. Hey, they seemed desperate. They’d hired Omar Minaya, hadn’t they? The Mets had almost swept the Expos at Shea the first week of the year, but a ninth-inning three-run homer by the immortal Jeff Leifer off Armando Benitez put an end to that. David Cone’s comeback after 11 years away from Shea was billed as a feel-good story for the pitcher rather than the desperation move that it was for the team. After beating Montreal at windswept and frigid Shea in his first start as a Met since 1992, he was pummeled in his next start in Puerto Rico as les Expos became los Expos. Three days later, when the Puerto Rican nightmare was over, you had to question if MLB was threatening to contract the wrong team. In my first meeting with Jon Springer of mbtn.net, we saw Cone get knocked all over Shea by Houston before he left the game with a bad hip. It was his last major league start. Cone pitched a month later in Philadelphia in his final career appearance. By then Mo Vaughn had also played the last game of his career. Though an insurance dodge would require news agencies to post random stories about a Mo comeback, it was clear that he was done. The Mets were better off without him. Just as they were better off without Armando Benitez. As if to showcase his availability, Benitez and his seven blown saves (already more than he’d had in any of his previous four full seasons as a Met) represented the club in the All-Star team. He wisely was not used by NL manager Dusty Baker in the “first All-Star Game that counts!” The day before the break, with terminally-ill Tug McGraw at Shea for the final time, the Mets were in position to salvage a win in a four-game series against the Phillies and end a six-game losing streak. Benitez coughed up the lead, again, but the Mets won in the bottom of the ninth, sending him to the All-Star Game with a vultured victory. Benitez would be a Yankee by the time the break was over, a crosstown debt seemingly owed for handing the Yankees a Sunday night game that should have been the only win the Mets managed against their the Yanks in 2003. Instead the Mets went 0-6, a frightening Subway mugging. “Help, stop that man, he just stole my dignity!” Dignity was in short supply in the Art Howe era. A month into the job, players sat down for haircuts in the locker room in the midst of a blowout loss in St. Louis—Armando supposedly provided a mid-game trim to Rey Sanchez. Howe’s “we’re not in Oakland anymore” moment came during a pre-game discussion when he publicly shared his idea of moving Mike Piazza to first base… without first telling Piazza. Piazza, still very much a catcher, injured his groin in mid-May and was gone for almost four months. Piazza did appear at first base for an inning in the last home game of the year, a night that also marked Bob Murphy’s final game at the microphone. Murph left the booth with the style and grace he had always shown, getting to call one last exciting play when Piazza caught a vicious line drive that could have killed the unsteady first sacker. The team was clearly bad. Howe only made them worse. Since the Mets couldn’t fire a manager partway through his first season with the team—especially after giving him a four-year deal—ownership finally agreed that perhaps Steve Phillips had made one too many bad decisions. Ya think? One of his final calls was a good one: Bring up Jose Reyes. Jose arrived in Texas on the eve of his 20th birthday in June. Phillips had sanely resisted the offer by the Mariners the previous fall to send manager Lou Piniella to New York in exchange for the shortstop prodigy. (Piniella went to Tampa Bay in return for outfielder Randy Winn.) So, rather than hire one of several novice managers available—Willie Randolph was among those interviewed—Stevie Boy called old friend Billy Beane, who played him for a stooge one last time. It was too late to get this one into the soon-to-be-released book, Moneyball, but it would be a perfect fit if the movie has a sequel (ooh, ooh, I have the title: Moneyball II: The Quickening). Anyway, Beane, who loathed Art Howe, let the Mets have the manager for no compensation. Howe generous. The 2002 A’s had set an American League record with 20 straight victories in 2002, winning number 20 the hard way after blowing an 11-run lead to Kansas City. Watching Howe manage in New York, you got the feeling that perhaps those A’s would have won 30 straight games without him. And maybe they’d have managed to win one of the three straight Division Series they played in. But after Howe’s replacement, Ken Macha, coughed up a two games to none lead against Boston in the 2003 ALDS, you couldn’t say Oakland’s shortcomings began or ended with Art. Must I go on about 2003? I really don’t feel like going into new GM Jim Duquette dumping washed-up veterans for “prospects” who never amounted to anything; or the team’s not winning a single game against a contending team in September; or how the Mets recalled 30-year-old minor league scrub Mike Glavine (a first basemen who wasn’t as good a hitter as his brother, Tom, the pitcher); or how the Marlins, who had actually borrowed last place from New York in June following their hiring Jack McKeon, a manager everyone said was too old, clinched a postseason berth at home during the final weekend of the year against the moribund Mets—an indignity that would become more galling as the decade progressed. And don’t even get me started about Aaron Francouering Boone and the Yankees beating the Red Sox in the seventh game of the ALCS—though for one shining moment I rooted for the Marlins as they ruined the Yankees’ assumed coronation. Baseball-wise, 2003 sucked. But I am reminded every day that wonderful things happen even in the darkest days. My son was born that July, during a one-sided loss to the Phillies. He’s a Mets fan from birth. Like his dad he was born during a year (1965) when the Mets finished in last place. Forged in steel, schooled in heartbreak, perpetually awaiting deliverance. |
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September 16, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 2002 Record: 75-86 <-------40 years in we come up with bullet points and such. Fancy. Manager: Bobby Valentine One Line Summary: “Alomar Shrugged” or “Where There’s Smoke, There’s Fired.”
By 2002 reality TV had gotten completely out of hand. I tried to steer clear of the genre, but I did find myself engrossed in HBO’s Project Greenlight and learned how difficult—and tedious—it is to really make a movie. I have still never watched any of the movies made during the series, but I would have time to explore all manner of programming. Wouldn’t you know it, reality ruined my year. And I mean actual reality, not the concocted version where Gwen tells Harper her feelings about Ben and we’re all supposed to care that Barbara is in the confessional commode whining about how hard it is to be 21, extremely hot, and living for free in an apartment on a beach with a houseful of supposedly beautiful people. Reality in its natural form ruined my perfect slacker’s holiday the previous November. I strategically arranged a vacation to stay with friends and family in Scottsdale that included two Sundays that my Cardinals just happened to be playing at Sun Devil Stadium. That would land me back home the Monday night before Thanksgiving. I’d go in to the office Tuesday, work that no-one-gets-anything-done Wednesday, and then get the rest of the weekend off for the holiday. It almost worked, too. Except when I was just out of the shower Tuesday morning, I got a call from my boss saying that the planned purchase of our lil’ company by a monolithic publisher had fallen through. I won’t name the publisher, but it rhymes with Condom Louse. My dream job was over. Now have a great Thanksgiving! While I tried to come up with a new career as a full-time freelancer, Steve Phillips was trying to come up with a new team. Wonderboy Stevie had a Hollywood-sized budget to work with and he picked people who had name recognition, if you looked beyond the fading skills and diminishing desire. Sentimentality is the bedrock of baseball fandom, but a roster built around this emotion is built to fail. So two clubhouse cornerstones, Robin Ventura and Todd Zeile, were dispatched. Ventura, whose mojo had been slipping since his magnificent 1999 campaign, was traded to the Yankees, believe it or not. The Mets got back David Justice, who was a paper Met for all of a week before he was dealt to the A’s for two relief pitchers—that term will come up a lot, and I don’t mean justice. Phillips signed two more relief pitchers, David Weathers, 32, and Japan League veteran Satoru Komiyama, 36. And he signed the likes of Pete Walker, 32, and John Frascatore, 31, who didn’t make much impact in 2002. Phillips signed Gary Matthews Jr., not a relief pitcher, but a scrubby outfielder still a few years away from reaping the benefits of steroids and a $10 million annual payday. (Hmmmm. I wonder if the Mets dumping Junior Matt twice had something to do with the hard feelings that made Poppa Sarge recently call the club “a bunch of crybabies.) Phillips made bigger moves. He scraped together the minor leaguers he hadn’t traded earlier and threw them at Cleveland, along with Matt Lawton, for future Barry Bonds BP pitcher Mike Bascik, plus Roberto Alomar, a two-time world champion second baseman and perennial Gold Glover. Alomar had hit .336 the previous year while producing 20 homers, 100 RBI, and 30 steals—numbers so even, it was as if he stopped trying after reaching these plateaus. The Alomar trade was big news, but wait, there’s more. Phillips scraped together a few major leaguers and sent them to the Brewers and Rockies for Dallas Green whipping boy turned slugger Jeromy Burnitz and right-hander Jeff D’Amico—the good Jeff D’Amico (kind of). Roger Cedeno came back to New York, apparently intrigued by all the food options in the Big Apple. Outfielder Tony Tarasco signed as well, perhaps because he heard Mets relief pitchers loved to party. (He was right.) Starting pitcher Pedro Astacio signed as well, having heard that pitchers with their arm attached by a single thread could still make good money in this town. All he had to do was ask Kevin Appier, but before the ink was dry on Pedro’s deal, Appier went west. The overpaid though generally effective Appier was sent to the Angels with three years and $33 million left on his contract for former MVP Mo Vaughn, whose remaining contract (three years, $42 million) was only exceeded by his own girth. He’d gained 30 pounds in two years with the Angels before missing all of 2001 with a torn biceps tendon. The blizzard of moves concealed the fact that a team that had won the National League pennant a year and a half earlier had precious little left from that club beyond the Opening Day battery of Al Leiter and Mike Piazza. The 2002 season began with Leiter beating Pittsburgh’s Ron Villone on Opening Day, but losing the next two games to a team that had Ron Villone as its Opening Day starter was a bad sign. The Mets hung around the wild card standings despite barely playing over. 500 for the first four months of the season. There were high points, such as five-game winning streak on the West Coast in May, though that immediately followed a six-game losing streak at home. On Memorial Day weekend the Mets rallied against Florida’s Braden Looper to take a lead in the eighth, only to see Armando Benitez blow it in the ninth before winning in the 10th on four straight walks. That was offset the next day by blowing a 5-0 lead with Weathers serving up meatballs and both Alomar and Vaughn committing egregious errors in the seventh. The circus came to Flushing on June 15. No matter how much Joe Torre tried to keep Roger Clemens from pitching at Shea, his turn indeed came up in Flushing in the unfair league where pitchers have to actually bat. And retribution was on the agenda for the double sins of 2000: drilling Mike Piazza in the head and later hurling a broken bat at him during the World Series. Former 20-game winner Shawn Estes, imported from San Francisco for fun ’01 Mets Tyoshi Shinjo and Desi Relaford—missed Roger’s big butt. You would have thought the world had ended. If you listened to the yammering meatheads on TV and radio, you would have thought Estes’s home run off Clemens, not to mention Piazza’s, did not count. Personally, I enjoyed how the Mets pounded Clemens and shut up the equally annoying David Wells the next night with a Mo Vaughn homer in the eighth inning to win the series. A cool and collected kid named Johan Santana mowed down the Mets in Minnesota’s first-ever trip to Shea. Despite witnessing a young star named Carlos Beltran working out a walk, going first to third on a scratch hit, and scoring the go-ahead on a flyball, the first-ever Mets-Royals game came down to a less-heralded player’s speed. Tony Tarrasco won the game in the ninth by scoring from second on a ball that didn’t leave the infield. Heavens to Mookatroid! Between June 2 and July 20, however, the Mets never went more than two games over .500, bobbing along five games or so behind in the wild card race, vying for air along with the Giants, Expos, Reds, Marlins, and other assorted teams. Yet the trade deadline would prove as fatal as playing a must-win game on the last day of the season—save for 1999. Is 1-for-4 really so bad… That was rhetorical, the trade deadline gaffes of Steve Phillips were historical. Here’s a look at the Phillipsian deadline deals made a week or less before the deadline. Because of the cutoff, this list skips the 1999 swap for Kenny Rogers (necessary) or the 2001 trade of Todd Pratt (not).
1998 Deal: Bill Pulsipher to Milwaukee for Mike Kinkade. Appraisal: Brought in the fastest HR trot in Mets history.
Deal: Bernard Gilkey and Nelson Figueroa to Arizona for Willie Blair and Jorge Fabergas from Arizona. Appraisal: Superb job of dumping dead weight on an expansion team.
Deal: Leo Estrella to Toronto for Tony Phillips. Appraisal: Useful if undesirable left fielder Tony Phillips (no relation to Steve).
1999 Deal: Traded Brian McRae, Rigo Beltran, and Thomas Johnson to the Rockies for Darryl Hamilton and Chuck McElroy. Appraisal: B-Bye, B-Mac. Hamilton came through in 1999-2000.
Deal: Craig Paquette to the Cardinals for Shawon Dunston. Appraisal: NLCS Game 5 alone makes this deal a winner.
Deal: Jason Isringhausen and Greg McMichael to Oakland for Billy Taylor. Appraisal: Nooooooooooooo!!!!!!
2000 Deal: Jason Tyner and Paul Wilson to Tampa Bay for Bubba Trammell and Rick White. Appraisal: Two shiny former first-round picks for two players who helped the Mets reach the World Series? Brilliant!
Deal: Melvin Mora, Mike Kinkade, Pat Gorman, and Leslie Brea to Baltimore for Melvin Mora. Appraisal: An already bad deal became a 5-for-1 rental when the Mets had to send another minor leaguer to the O’s to make up for Brea lying about his age. And the Mets could have gotten by with Mora plus a late-inning defensive replacement—the Tigers did just fine with an outfielder playing shortstop in the 1968 World Series.
2001 Deal: Dennis Cook and Turk Wendell to Philadelphia for Bruce Chen and Adam Walker. Appraisal: Chen is still pitching 10 years—and seven teams—later; Turk’s arm fell off after the Phils paid him.
Deal: Rick Reed to Minnesota for Matt Lawton. Appraisal: Reeder came out of nowhere to solidify the rotation, put up with scab BS, and just signed a three-year deal in New York. An almost mean-spirited trade that brought back a steroid scrub.
Given all that went before it, I was visibly afraid on July 31, 2001 when the Mets announced they had made a deal—no, make that two. “Please don’t do anything stupid, please don’t do anything…” Too late.
2002 Deal: Jason Bay, Bobby (Lefty) Jones, and Josh Reynolds to San Diego for Steve Reed and Jason Middlebrook. Appraisal: Imagine Bay, who’d been stolen from newbie GM Omar Minaya in March, having his productive years as a Met and letting someone else foot the $15 million per year bill for the late-career garbage time?
Deal: Jay Payton, Robert Stratton, and Mark Corey to Colorado for John Thomson and Mark Little. Appraisal: After Payton finally gets through his growing pains, now you trade him for a fifth starter who wound up hating New York and the Mets? And Corey was traded because he couldn’t handle his weed.
Sure, we all needed to light up after the Mets tanked in the wake of the trades. And if we did anything like that, we were only following the lead of a couple of Mets reserves. After a Mets game in June, Corey had suffered a seizure while getting high in a car with Tony Tarasco, heretofore best known in New York as the right fielder swindled by pre-pubescent Public Enemy Number One Jeffrey Maier in the 1996 ALCS. At only 27 years of age—and with an 8.59 ERA—Corey wasn’t Steve Phillips’s kind of reliever. Neither, it turned out, was Grant Roberts. A September 2002 report indicated that as many as seven Mets were linked to smoking marijuana. Grant Roberts became the new Mets poster boy after a 1999 bong picture—and I don’t mean Korean-born Braves callup Jung Bong—was circulated by a woman trying to extort money from the Mets reliever. The Mets could have closed ranks and sent all inquiries to the legal department. Any other way of handling it would surely make the Mets the butt of every pot-smoking joke growing stale since the ’60s. Just issue a press release, don’t serve pastry. Because pastry is sooooo good, man. It’s just like, y’know, great. I was at a wedding in Maryland at the time, getting dressed and watching the press conference on ESPN. Valentine stated that he could tell if someone in uniform was high. Then the manager made a derisive “stoner” face. You’d like to think that a face made at an unnecessary press conference about a two-bit reliever getting high three years earlier did not cost the second-winningest manager in franchise history his job. Maybe the 12-game losing streak that knocked the team completely out of contention in August played a bigger role. But with Mets ownership… well, you just never can tell what makes them tick. After an abysmal 6-21 August, the Mets had a .500 final month. The overall record was 75-86, the first losing season for the Mets since Valentine was hired late in the 1996 season. It was the first last-place season by the Mets since 1993. As only the Mets can do, the day after the 2002 season ended was even more depressing than losing every home game at Shea in August. The verdict: Valentine was fired; Phillips was not. Bobby V’s reaction: “You mean he stays?” Yes, he stays. So does immovable Mo Vaughn, useless Roger Cedeno, washed-up Jeromy Burnitz, burnt-out Roberto Alomar, plus David Weathers and all the king’s relievers and all the king’s innings eaters. They would all be staying. I had no choice but to stay, too. |
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September 12, 2011 Putting on My Top Hat I haven’t seen such a fuss over hats since that magician in Frosty the Snowman. “Silly. Silly. Silly.” Major League Baseball was/is wrong. And so is Joe Torre, who dared say he was doing “the right thing” in enforcing a stupid MLB mandate not to let the Mets wear the first responder hats during the 10th anniversary game of 9/11. Torre should have put down his Bigelow Tea and told the higher-ups on Park Avenue a few stories about the people he met in the weeks and years after 9/11. And then maybe he should have suggested that the MLB outfitters make “FDNY,” “NYPD,” “PAPD,” and other fitting hats with “NY” on one side and the flag on the back. That would probably have brought in more money for 9/11-related charities than auctions of these now tainted Mets hats. Just when you thought black Mets hats could not look any worse... Or Torre or someone else could have pointed out that the Mets have worn the first responder hats for numerous 9/11 memorial game since 2001! I found a photo from the Daily News of Orlando Hernandez wearing one as recently as 2007. I could swear seeing them wear the hats on at least one other 9/11 game since then, but I haven't located a picture. But you never know which petty thing will set MLB into a tizzy. A few weeks before El Duque and company wore the first responder hats in a real, live 2007 game, MLB performed a mid-game uniform check on Terry Francona at Yankee Stadium to make sure he was wearing a jersey under his ever-present windbreaker. (He was.) Well, there’s not much that can be done about the hats now, or the 1,175 men the Mets left on base until the Cubs finally got tired of gift-wrapping the game and put up a touchdown in the 11th (PAT not included). I thought for a brief second the Mets and Jets were going to pull out comeback victories in the same minute. Oh well. I know what I will do, though. I’m going to wear my son’s FDNY hat when I go to Citi Field Thursday. And I think I’m going to just keep wearing it every time I see the Mets in person. Feel free to join in. I think MLB will do the same thing to me that they would have done to the Mets. Nothing. Hell, I’m a Mets fan. What more punishment could they inflict on me anyway? Some things are bigger than the game. Or Clueless Joe. |
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September 7, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 2001 In my great fortune of writing about Mets history, there are certain events that must be presented in almost every book. There is the ambrosia: 1969, 1973, 1986. The bittersweet: 1988, 1999, 2006. The heartbreaking: 1998, 2007, 2008. And the pathetic: 1962-65, 1977-82, 1992-93, 2003… But there is no season in Mets history, or in my lifetime, that I find harder to write about than 2001. It is tragically unique. The baseball portion of this story is comparatively easy. It begins the previous year, when an overachieving New York ballclub plays a storied New York team in the World Series... the outcome is no Cinderella story. The Mets are flat for almost the first five months of 2001, sitting 13 ½ games out on August 18. Suddenly, the team starts overachieving again, going on a 17-4 spurt that includes shelling Mike Hampton in his first game back after leaving as a free agent and insulting both New Yorkers’ intelligence and the region’s school systems; winning three straight one-run games from the Giants, including a walkoff hit on Irish Night by Rey Ordonez, of all people; five straight wins against the Phillies, including a ninth-inning rally with the go-ahead run scoring on an errant return throw to the mound at the Vet; and another ninth-inning comeback fueled by new Met Matt Lawton (acquired at the expense of beloved Rick Reed), who knocked in the tying and go-ahead runs, after the Marlins walked not quite immortal Mark Johnson to pitch to him. The Mets had a chance to reach .500 for the first time since the opening series of the season, but they lost the Sunday finale in Miami to end a six-game win streak. Oh, well… there’s always tomorrow. Tomorrow was September 10, a beautiful, sunny Monday. Spectacularly uneventful, historically inconsequential. It is these uneventful, inconsequential days strung one after another that make up life. I have a pretty good memory for specific days and such, but I cannot remember a single thing about that Monday except that it was sunny and a travel day for the Mets... and that the day became the demarcation line for everyone in the United States. And beyond. We were so overwhelmed those next few days, it is impossible to recall when all the actions, reactions, and emotions of that time were compartmentalized into the term “9/11.” It doesn’t really matter when or how the phrase came about. Nothing really mattered. There was no work to do at the office. Deadlines became meaningless. Recreation became meaningless. It seemed inconceivable that we would ever get to that point where we would ever have another uneventful, inconsequential day like September 10. I looked almost enviously at my three-year-old daughter or six-month-old puppy as I watched them enjoy their seemingly carefree days. Far from ground zero, the minds of everyone beyond toddler age kept going back to what happened in the city. For the first time in my existence every event was cancelled for almost a week, and not because of the elements. The weather was, in fact, perfect. And though I live in a spot where a dozen or more flights pass by per day, the only objects overhead for those six days were Canada geese. Come Monday, September 17, life was scheduled to start over again. This return to regular life felt forced, strange, unnatural. Any minute a news report or footage of another confirmed death could reduce one to tears. But that Monday’s news blended into baseball, tuned in by habit and professional curiosity more than a need to see a game. The Mets wore their NYPD, FDNY, and PAPD hats in the field in Pittsburgh, so even if you forgot about 9/11 for a moment or two as a ball found the hole, you remembered when the next frame showed Al Leiter standing on the mound in his NYPD cap. And when they showed the view from behind, you saw the American flag stitched on the back of every jersey. And the fact that the series was held in Pittsburgh told yet another story about the ongoing situation in New York. The series with the Pirates was actually scheduled for Flushing, but Shea Stadium was too busy for games. Shea served as a staging area for supplies and even acted as a shelter for workers, so the three games with the Bucs in Flushing were moved to the first week of October—a week added to the schedule as makeup for the games missed after the attacks. Many Mets had been working during the down time, visiting fire houses, hospitals, or—it makes you almost gulp to write it a decade later—newly-created orphans. Bobby Valentine was moving supplies at Shea until he hopped a flight to Pittsburgh a few hours before the first pitch. The players had taken the bus. They swept the series, perhaps the most low-key Mets sweep I’ve ever seen. And as much as people like to go on about PNC Park, the brand-new ballpark was mentioned sparingly in the Mets’ regular-season debut at the place. There was no time to prattle on about bridges, statues, and design nuances when all thoughts were on New York and two buildings that no longer existed. And given that Flight 93 had crashed on 9/11 in Pennsylvania, forced down by passengers rising up against the terrorists... well, everyone was pretty subdued for that first series in Pittsburgh. The Yankees were in Chicago, as scheduled, so when Shea returned to its accustomed role as a ballpark, the Mets-Braves Friday night game was the first outdoor sporting event in New York in 12 days. I pause here to provide some background on my Mets obsession. I have not missed a Mets postseason game since the 1986 championship. You joke, or at least a Yankees fan would, “What’s that, like three games?” Actually, it’s 21 games. And I have lived 100 miles away from Flushing for the last 13 of those contests. In all I went to Shea well in excess of 300 times. In the last weekend of September 2001, I flew from a mobbed San Francisco airport—going ahead with a trip to Pac Bell that DBird and I had long before planned, terrorists be damned—and after a full day at the office I drove to Shea the night after returning home to witness a meaningless Mets-Pirates rescheduled game. And that Sunday I found out the war in Afghanistan had begun from Eddie Coleman on WFAN as I pulled into the Shea parking lot for the even more meaningless season finale against Montreal. So it was peculiar that I wound up missing an event like the first game at Shea after 9/11. But my wife needed my help for a charity auction she was hosting for my daughter’s school, so I was with her that Friday night. That week where life, not to mention baseball, was on hold, I learned—or at least re-learned—that family comes before everything else. I was back home paying the babysitter as Liza Minelli sang, “New York, New York.” It’s not a song or singer I much enjoy, but it was perfect that night at Shea, complete with firemen chorus line and hug to Jay Payton waiting on deck. And an inning later Mike Piazza assured that he would never be booed again in Flushing with what is probably the most memorable home run in Mets history. That home run did not bring me back to baseball as much as the preceding walk to Edgardo Alfonzo did. Because I let out an “ooooooo,” thinking the full-count pitch was strike three—and I shook my head at the umpires and their damned individual strike zones. Just like I always had. Atlanta reliever Steve Karsay, as angry as I was surprised at the call, earned his place in ignominy two pitches later. Even Chipper Jones and Bobby Cox later admitted they didn’t mind losing to the Mets that night. I didn’t mind winning. When the Mets beat Atlanta again on Saturday night—their fifth win in a row—I was tickled that I had a ticket the next day to see if the Mets could pull within 2 ½ games of the hated Braves. In terms of the world, we were living in unprecedented times, the first major foreign attack on the continental U.S. since the British were expelled for good in 1815. But in baseball terms, the team’s 12-2 record to open September was even better than the 10-4 start to the Tug McGraw mitt slapping, Ball-on-the-Wall bouncing, “Ya Gotta Believe” September of 1973. I found myself tuning into sports radio more than news radio that Sunday morning. The world around me was starting to draw me back to the life I’d known on September 10. When Armando Benitez blew the save on that Sunday after Al Leiter spun a gem, I was genuinely pissed off. I barely slept a wink that night. The miraculous Mets climax I had started to believe in turned into a finish where the Mets won the same number of games as the 1973 team, but these 82 wins did not result in a World Series trip. And I would not be rooting for the Yankees out of sentimentality. When Jeremy Giambi did not slide and was tagged out after Derek Jeter’s backhand flip in the ALDS, I was livid. When the Yankees completed their two-games-to-none rally to beat the A’s, I wanted to battle Art Howe and submerge Eric Chavez in boiling oil. When the record-setting, 116-win Mariners turned into sheep in the ALCS against the Yankees, I wanted to crumple up Lou Piniella’s guarantee and burn it along with every Haiku written to Rookie of the Year/AL MVP Ichiro Suzuki. Ichiro Haiku #51 Batsman swings at all As graceful as the swallow Spits bit in the Bronx. And veins were popping from my neck when the Yankees pulled two games out of their arse against Arizona in the World Series. When the Yankees seemed poised to win Game 7 in Phoenix, I walked the puppy in circles in the yard, muttering to myself like a fellow whose heart had clearly returned to its normal baseball size. I came back inside the kitchen, runner on first, Mariano Rivera fielded a bunt and… threw it away. I froze, leash still attached to the pup, as the Diamondbacks rallied for what Greg Prince describes as “arguably the most uplifting non-Mets victory ever recorded.” The puppy and I jumped up and down in the kitchen. DBird, a hardcore Red Sox fan who was at the game that night in Phoenix, took the celebration up a few notches. And our college buddy Paulie, a veteran of two Navy tours, hurled insults at a room full of shattered Yankees fans in a New York watering hole. We were all back to normal. Changed yet still the same. Life continues. That little girl walking around my house smiling while I wanted to cry in September 2001 is now a teenager. The puppy that danced with me in the kitchen after the Diamondbacks won the ’01 World Series is a tired old dog of 10 asleep at my feet. Ten years can go by fast, but I like to think it’s a decade that I have not taken for granted. And I try to neveThe r forget those who left us that day. Or the fact that I am one of the lucky ones. |
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September 1, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 2000 “Imagine if the Mets and Yankees played in the World Series and it ended in a tie!” Sure. And imagine there’s no heaven. It’s easy if you try. The hell that the song said was not below us was actually all around us. Inside Shea Stadium. The last week of October 2000 could have been the greatest moment in Mets history, eclipsing the 1969 Miracle, 1973’s “Ya Gotta Believe,” and even the hysterical climax of 1986. And for a fleeting moment the prize was there for the taking. Then it was gone. I was there when Mike Piazza’s high fly died in center field, but I never saw it come down. The fool inside dreams the ball never descended and the World Series ended in a tie. Imagine. I spent October 1999 to April 2000 as the sole occupant of my father’s house an hour north of Kingston, New York. The area is a bit of mess at this instant, but in the winter of 2000 it was calm, serene—a little too serene some nights—and extremely snowy. My dad spent the winter in Florida. Always the smart one. I oversaw the final stages of a BAB—Big Ass Book, at 1,298 pages, Baseball: The Biographical Encyclopedia certainly qualified. I stayed each night until 10 at a lonely and infinitely vacant building that had housed thousands of IBM workers, almost a decade into their permanent furloughs. I went home to Connecticut on weekends. I’d been made associate publisher, picked up insomnia from the looming project deadline, and suffered loneliness at spending so much time away from my wife and infant daughter. Yet when the book was finally done, a lasting aura of accomplishment remained. A nice feeling for a new millennium. Whenever that began. By the time the book arrived in stores in May, the Mets had managed a nine-game winning streak, immediately followed by a 6-13 skid. And I watched the team from my new home. Two moving vans had packed the family lock, stock, and barrel at the expense of the parent company. Fortunately, they paid the movers in advance. The tech bubble burst a week after we moved. It ruined a lot of people’s dreams, and it ended the parent company’s incessant IPO nonsense and illusions of grandeur. With a lot of hard work, our division stayed afloat and made more books. The Mets helped take my mind off all this. Mike Hampton shored up the rotation and Al Leiter picked up where he left off the previous October (final NLCS start notwithstanding). The irreplaceable John Olerud left for Seattle, to be replaced by Todd Zeile, a pedestrian first baseman but a nice enough fellow. Otherwise, the team seemed like a continuation of the 1999 model, one that still couldn’t catch Atlanta but had enough power to zip by everyone else in the Wild Card race. Not that there weren’t a few bumps along the way. The patented Mets September swoon came early enough in the month to be overcome with relative ease. The slide even produced a Timo Perez out of thin air—though I’d still rather have had a Mora than a Timo. But Melvin had been dispatched to Baltimore for shortstop Mike Bordick. A broken arm forced Rey Ordonez to miss the last four months and then Barry Larkin refused a trade to New York, resulting in Steve Phillips sending Mora and three others to the O’s for Bordick. Orodonez and Bordick would be playing shortstop at the same locales in 2001 where they started 2000. The lateral move cost a homegrown All-Star that Baseball-Reference claims compares most favorably to…Edgardo Alfonzo. But back in May 2000, there were growing doubts than the Mets would reach October again. A four-city trip saw the Mets fall from first place to seven games out. That slump included four excruciating losses at San Francisco’s brand-new gem of a ballpark. If you’re going to get swept, it was a least a nice place for it to happen. Pac Bell was sensational, as I witnessed firsthand during a weekend trip that summer. Dusty Baker’s NL West champs thrived in their new surroundings. Tell me if you’ve heard of a stadium like this—a massive fortress that drove hitters crazy due to its distant elevated fences. The Giants had the pitching staff to utilize their new home as a weapon and possessed a slugger who could clear any wall any place. Ever hear the Giants complain about their ballpark? Come October, those Giants hosted the Mets in the Division Series. The Giants throttled Hampton in the opener, but the Mets incurred one of the most fortuitous injuries in club history. Derek Bell, an amusing if not useful right fielder, injured his leg and Timo took over. Perez, a 25-year-old Dominican outfielder who arrived in New York via Japan, hit .294 the rest of the series and knocked in three runs. The whole ragtag outfield put on a show that made the toothpick drop out of the corner of General Dusty’s mouth. Rookie center fielder Jay Payton pulled the Mets out of the fire by knocking home fourth outfielder Darryl Hamilton with the winning run in the 10th inning of Game 2 after Armando Benitez blew a sure Al Leiter win. In Game 3 the hero was the everyman underdog Benny Agbayani. B-B-B-Benny joined the Mets for the predawn March opener in Japan as a going-away present before being assigned to the minors, but his game-winning grand slam against the Cubs in Tokyo kept him from being demoted. Now it was October in the US of A and Benny’s mighty swing knocked the ball clear through a wall of wind at Shea in the 13th inning of Game 3. Bobby Jones gave the outfielders and everyone else the day off in the clincher the next day with a one-hit shutout for the ages. (For more praiseworthy prose of this grand 24 hours, go here.) The NLCS had a lot of pre-series hype, but this Cardinals team—unlike the ones that beat out the Mets in 1985 or 1987 (or 2006, for that matter)—was a clay pigeon. Catcher Mike Matheny’s birthday gift of a hunting knife resulted in a lacerated hand, making Cardinals fan wish that Matheny preferred golf to hunting. Somehow, though, the Cards caught the Braves napping in the Division Series, marking the first time the Braves had not reached the NLCS in a decade. Those people in St. Louis really are accommodating—even to pond scum—but the Cardinals had pitching problems as well as catching issues. Southpaw Rick Ankiel, who would be voted Rookie of the Year in November, simply lost it. Ankiel set a postseason record with five wild pitches in one inning in the NLDS opener in Atlanta. The Ankiel nightmare resumed in Game 2 of the NLCS, when 5 of his 20 pitches reached the screen in the first inning at Busch Stadium. While only two were considered wild pitches, the Mets seemed on their way to a laugher and a two games to none lead. The Cards twice rallied to tie the game, but once more Jay Payton bailed out the club with a tiebreaking hit in the team’s last at bat. Almost as newsworthy was Armando Benitez protecting the lead in a big game. Games 3 and 4 felt more like Wiffle ball contests than major league games, with balls flying everywhere. The teams split, thanks to a superb long relief effort in Game 4 by Phillips-find Glendon Rusch. The Mets were one win from the pennant. Shea was packed Monday night and a pennant was waiting to be had. Oh, and it was had. The Matheny-free and McGwire-less Cards (injuries limited Big Mac to three pinch-hit at bats) went down without a whimper. Todd Zeile’s bases-clearing double in the third was, I think I can say now, the apex of the Bobby Valentine era. Shea quaked and the Mets were up 6-0. Hampton was working on a three-hit shutout and the place grew louder with every strike. Rich Wilkins lofted a final fly and Timo Perez playfully jumped in the air while waiting for the ball. Shea shook again when he came down. The Mets win the pennant! The Mets win the pennant!! The Mets win the pennant!!! The Mets win the pennant!!!! Might as well celebrate now because it wouldn’t be worth much in a fortnight. I have not attended a Mets-Yankees game since Game 5 of the 2000 World Series. There hasn’t seemed much point. I rooted with all my might for a World Series with the Mariners and ’99 Mets Johnny Olerud and Rickey Henderson, but the M’s were not ready for prime time. And while the rest of the country gnashed its teeth about a Subway Series—a Cleveland radio station postponed an interview with me because of caller anger over trading 2000 ALCS MVP David Justice to the Yankees that July—every metropolitan area writer born before the Dodgers and Giants left town mused about the good old days and how this signaled the dawn of a new age of hyperbole. The pre-Series frenzy was almost fun, but nothing was fun once the games began. I died a little—a lot, actually—in the late innings of Game 1, as every historic Mets break now went against them. The Ball on the Wall became a Yankees’ thing with Timo Perez now playing Richie Zisk, adding his own fist pump. The Mets didn’t run out ground balls, runners on third held their ground instead of heading for home, conceivably reliable closers turned to jelly. The Roger Clemens Game 2 bat throw was surreal. The games at Shea were a nightmare. I would set up a link to the VHS tape Young Tom sent me of Duck and I cheering that was shown on Fox after Benny Agbayani’s tiebreaking hit in Game 3, but MLB would yank it off Youtube quicker than David Cone was removed in Game 4 after retiring Mike Piazza in a key spot. Fox showed Duck and I during the Game 3 rally not because we were stars of a new Fox show, but because we were the only people on the field level rooting for the Mets at Shea Stadium. Among the phone calls I got after the fact was from a close relative asking why I didn’t sell those tickets for big bucks. At the time I was aghast at the suggestion. I was at the pinnacle of my career as an, ahem, executive, and what good were raises and relocations and promotions worth if they didn’t allow a person with an obviously serious baseball problem a chance to sit along the left-field line in the World Series to watch a crosstown matchup that may never occur again. Apparently, no one else felt this way. Seemingly every other Mets fan with seats in that part of the ballpark sold out. A precious few Mets fans actually ended up with tickets there, including Peter Boyle and Matthew Broderick (evened out by the Yankees hat-wearing wifey Sarah Jessica Parker). And while waiting for ice cream Chris Rock and Jerry Seinfeld were escorted past us wearing Mets black. Star struck, struck down. After the Luis Sojo grounder broke the tie in the ninth in Game 5, I sat silent for 10 minutes. I’d know since the ninth inning of Game 1 that the Mets would never win this Series. Once they ended the Yankees’ streak of 13 straight World Series games won in Game 3, my concern had been just to get to Game 6. Let them celebrate in the Bronx. Allow me the dignity of simply turning off the TV. Through it all, though, I never once thought about selling my tickets. That’s why we’re here. Mike Piazza stepped up against Mariano Rivera. They tying run was on. Crack! The ball seemed to hang up forever, but like Ryan Church’s long fly out to close out Shea’s existence eight years later, I never thought it had a chance. The moment though, seemed to last an eternity. With the ball airborne, I turned and shook Duck hand and then Jimmy Jim’s, their eyes following the ball’s path. I tapped my wife on the shoulder and we left. Our back to the field, a sound of cheering mixed with utter despair filled my ears as I walked through the tunnel, down the ramp, out the gate, and into the night. I refused to look back, afraid to be turned to a pillar of salt as in the fall of Sodom and Gomorrah. Our car was in a chop shop lot. Bob Murphy was still on the dial. Just the sound of his voice was soothing as my wife took us the long way home. If Murph, who’d seen every last thing good and bad that had happened to the franchise, could make it through this, then so could I. The miles passed by. The years, too. |
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August 27, 2011 Cappy, Crappy Weather, and a Season Ticket Solution Little did I know that recalling Al Leiter’s season-on-the-line 1999 two-hitter might rub off on Chris Capuano, who had the game of his life a few hours after I finished my opus on the ’99 one-game playoff. Way to go, Cappy! Even garbage time baseball is sorely missed when a hurricane preempts everything else. Stay safe. And dry. Kudos to the Mets for extending the “kids go free” program, as I suggested earlier. And thank you for the “two-for-one” deal, which let me sit in the Champions Club with MBTN.net’s Jon Springer for two bucks plus one 2010 raincheck. While the Mets are playing generous with the ducats, how about taking care of your most loyal customers: the season ticket holders? They showed enough faith over the winter to pay full boat, but when summer comes the seats in front of them get filled by people who bought tickets through the club for below list prices. I no longer have even a partial plan, but friends of the site who have maintained season tickets this year have told me they feel they’re being taken for chumps. And while the team’s price slashing has been good for the populace, it has stalled the market so season ticket holders can’t get close to 50 cents to the dollar in-season for reselling tickets they can’t use. Here’s a solution. To help prevent another mass exodus of loyal customers in 2012, let season ticket holders pay one price for all 81 games in 2012 and let single-game ticket purchasers deal with your infernal variable pricing plan. And if the team slashes prices during the year, send those who paid full price a set of coupons via Mets.com for selected—read impossible to move—merchandise at the team store. A little good faith on both ends is needed to get everyone through this rebuilding phase. And maybe there’ll be enough in the piggy bank to even keep Jose. |
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August 26, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 1999 When I think of 1999 a thousand different things come to mind. In terms of the Mets, it was one of the most exciting years ever. But excitement is bred by danger, the risk of losing everything with one toss—a roller coaster coming off the track, a pair of dice coming up two instead of seven, a single ballgame where the winner takes all. Baseball does not have a Super Bowl. The standings are decided by playing 162 games and postseason series are decided by five- or seven-game series. Even regular-season series consist of two to four games. Single-game roadtrips are generally only caused by rainouts. With one exception. A one-game playoff is played after two teams are tied for one playoff spot at the end of a season. Unlike football, there are no tiebreaker rules. You break MLB ties in the standings by playing a game—as even the NFL did prior to the 1970 merger. On the final day of the 1999 regular season, the Mets and Reds had identical records. And only one wild card spot. (All high-minded baseball purist disdain for this prize instantly evaporated with personal involvement.) In a span of two weeks, both the Mets and Reds had swung from mortal lock to historical choker. It was no time for the faint of heart. While I’ve written at length about the games on three straight October 1999 weekends that are numbers two, three, and four in my list of favorite Mets games attended, I’ve rarely talked much about the 1999 one-game playoff. Yet I don’t think I’ve ever been as nervous leading up to a Mets game as I was on October 4, 1999. Since it was a road game, there were no plans to fill the idle mind like getting down to the stadium, figuring out tickets, timing, the whole bit. There would be plenty of that to worry about—if the Mets won the game. If the Mets won the game. Sunday night the buzz was starting to wear off, though the sound of the Robin Ventura-inspired “Mr. Mojo Risin’” still rang in my ears. After the Mets had knocked off the Pirates at Shea, we drove from Flushing to Port Chester to watch, or as it turned out, not watch the Reds-Brewers game. Port Chester was where we’d grown up—not the town, but the strip of bars running the length of Post Road on the border of New York and Connecticut. It was like a comfort food we sought, feeling triumphant after the must-sweep of the Pirates. Yet we were still apprehensive that what we were pseudo-celebrating might not be worthy of celebration at all a day hence. Duck, Young Tom, and I were, after all, long-time Mets fans. Any show of hubris could serve as mere fodder for our eventual demise. All we needed to do was reflect on the previous year—the five-game losing streak that ended the 1998 season and put San Francisco and the Cubs in a one-game playoff at Wrigley. I still have a sheaf of unused Mets playoff tickets from 1998. Now it was a Sunday night, October 3, 1999. All was dark, wife and daughter long asleep, and I sat on the couch, still waiting for the Reds-Brewers game to start after a 5 hour, 45 minute rain delay—the longest delay of a game ever played. Once action finally started in the Milwaukee mosh pit, the Reds finally did what they were supposed to have done all weekend: Beat the Brewers. But winning the first two games from the Reds marked the only time I’ve ever been glad Milwaukee jumped to the National League. I still wore my outfit from what I already thought of as the Melvin Mora game at Shea, with my blue Mets cap and striped Brewers jersey bought during a great 1992 trip to Beer City in the waning days of the Jim Gantner Era. I watched the crucial 1999 Reds-Brewers game until midnight, flipping back to the local news repeatedly to catch highlights of Mora touching home plate to be engulfed in teammates. I awoke with a start on Monday. Duck had considered flying to Cincinnati for the game, but we deemed it to be for the best to let things run their course and watch it play out on TV. We’d save the dough and spend it at Shea over the weekend. We hoped. Oh, how we hoped. There was plenty of work to do. A book called Baseball: The Biographical Encyclopedia had been behind schedule from the moment I was handed the project in the spring. It was to include biographies of the 2,000 most important people in baseball history—2,000 for the upcoming year 2000, see what I did there? I was in charge of updating the bios we had, assigning the ones we didn’t have, and make the whole thing a massive book—with photos and color illustrations for every page—to be in stores for Father’s Day, 2000. I had an army of editors and writers, but I was still perpetually behind schedule. Things I thought would take an hour wound up taking a day. People I thought were capable, weren’t. And I was also supposed to permanently move to our company’s publishing HQ in Kingston, NY. For a year I’d commuted 120 miles two days per week: driving up in the morning, working all day, being put up at the Holiday Inn, working the next day, and then driving back home to Connecticut. I kept putting off the big move, prolonging it until baseball season was over. I was going to enjoy this last season of relatively short drives to Shea. By 3 p.m. on October 4, 1999, I could no longer wait. For baseball, that is. I turned on the FAN in my home office and succumbed to the prattle and predictions of “Mike and the Mad Dog.” I did paperwork while hanging on every word about the game. And then I missed the start. First Inning Eating dinner and putting the baby to bed must have taken considerable time because next thing I knew I looked at my watch and shouted, “Holy crap, the game is on!” I ran down the stairs, lunged for the TV, and there was Edgardo Alfonzo rounding third base in a home run trot. “The Mets are winning,” I mumbled. Two batters, two hits, two nothing. Oh, how I loved Fonzie! A quiet professional who does his job very well and very quietly. Alfonzo’s hit right after Mora’s in the ninth inning the previous day had set the stage for the intentional walk and the wild pitch that pushed the Mets into this game. Switching to second base to accommodate the arrival of free agent Robin Ventura, Alfonzo had a season like no second sacker in Mets history before or since—unless you want to argue about the .324 Fonzie hit the next year. Exactly five weeks before the one-game playoff in Cincinnati, he had enjoyed the only 6-for-6 day in Mets history, tying a club record with three homers and setting new marks with six runs and 16 total bases in one game. Now his 27th home run of the year knocked in his 106th and 107th runs. As thankful as I was to Fonzie for all he’d done, his blow in Cincy jangled a whole new set of nerves for me. All the nervous anticipation that had gone into this moment was now focused on not blowing the lead. OK. Only nine innings to go. And Al Leiter walks the leadoff batter. Al Leiter hadn’t made 1999 any easier. Deemed the de facto ace after his 17-6 season the year before—a win total no Met has reached since—Leiter was thoroughly mediocre in his second year with the team. Al was a great interview and probably had a postseason ESPN studio gig lined up for the next day if the Mets got ousted. Watching him pitch, however, could drive one insane. He was all over the place, channeling Tug McGraw’s emotions and Doug Sisk’s command—but when he was on, Leiter could indeed be an ace. And he was very much the ace that evening in Cincinnati. Pokey Reese didn’t move off first as Greg Vaughn went down looking to end the first. Second Inning After the Mets were retired in order by Steve Parris, a rookie with an 11-3 mark, Jeffrey Hammonds singled to left to start the Cincinnati second and bring the tying run to the plate. Leiter had a losing record until his win the last week of the year broke the club’s stupefying seven-game losing streak. Again he bore down, retiring the next three batters. Third Inning Parris lost his poise with two outs and nobody on. Alfonzo walked, John Olerud doubled to right, and Parris then walked Mike Piazza intentionally. Lefty Denny Neagle, a 20-game winner two years earlier, came on to face Robin Ventura—always dangerous with the bases loaded. Neagle went to a full count and then walked him. 3-0 Mets. Leiter walked another in the third but set down the Reds. Fourth Inning Leiter grounded out to end the top of the fourth, but that was all right as he then retired Cincinnati in order for the first time. Fifth Inning Someone must have told Rickey Henderson that he was leading off the game instead of the fifth inning because Rickey crushed a home run to left off Neagle to make it 4-0. The Mets loaded the bases with two outs and were just a base hit away from actually making me feel comfortable. Though Roger Cedeno whiffed to end the inning, Leiter retired the side in order again to allow me to smile in spite of myself. Sixth Inning Rey Ordonez started the inning with a walk—yes, a walk. Believe it or not, the unwalkable Rey-Rey drew 49 free passes during the year, hit .258, and knocked in 60. (By gum, every Met had their hitting shoes on in ’99!) Leiter sacrificed Ordonez to second. Then Fonzie drilled a two-out double to bring Rey-Rey home to make it 5-0. Did I say I loved Fonzie earlier? Yes, I did. But RBI 108 for a 5-0 lead in the first one-game playoff in franchise history pushes the love to a higher plane. Everything was working for the Mets now. Leiter got three flyballs, making it 13 straight Reds set down. Did I say how much I loved Leiter? Seventh Inning A two-out Mets rally goes for naught, but no matter. Cincinnati’s 4-5-6 hitters go down 1-2-3. Eighth Inning After going down in order against Danny Graves, the Mets took the field in the bottom of the inning with Melvin Mora in left field for defense. You could start counting outs now and not feel premature. And then Leiter walked the leadoff batter, the first Red to reach since the third inning. Aaron Boone then rapped into a double play. Best infield ever, don’t ya know. Ninth inning As the Mets failed to score despite a couple of hits in the top of the inning, I was working myself into a lather about the bottom of the ninth. Leiter had thrown a lot of pitches—110 through eight innings—but back in ’99 pitchers sometimes kept on pitching regardless of this newfound reliance on the pitch count. The guy has a one-hitter, for Christ sakes, of course he’ll pitch. But this game can’t get away. It just can’t. Who says Mets fans are insecure? I do. Pokey Reese, who would steal the Gold Glove from Alfonzo in the rigged balloting announced a few weeks later, led off with a double. “Take Leiter out!” “No, he’s only allowed two hits all night.” “He can’t be trusted.” “He’s got a shutout going. He can do this. Gooden clinched the division with a complete game in ’86. Darling did the same in ’88. It’s been a long wait. Let Al do this now.” “You sure?” “I’m sure.” “This is really important.” “Let it happen.” Too bad there was no one else in the room. My sanity failing, Leiter was rallying from a 3-0 count to retire Barry Larkin. He then whiffed Sean Casey, who broke the bat over his leg in frustration. A fan ran on the field. Bobby Valentine, who had been suspended the last time the Mets had been in Cincinnati as punishment for his earlier post-ejection sunglass and eye-black tape dugout disguise, cursed the timing of the Cincinnati miscreant. Bob Murphy called the intruder “some idiot.” I wasn’t the only one on edge. Coach firings, three months of .600 ball undone by a bad week, ill-timed Sports Illustrated remarks by Valentine... it had been a long year just to get to a game 163. Leiter walked Greg Vaughn on five pitches, yelling at himself as he put two runners on base in the same inning for the first time all night. The fans stayed in the stands, Valentine stayed in the dugout, Leiter stayed on the mound, and dangerous Dmitri Young approached the plate. He took a strike and then hit a line drive past Leiter. “Oh God, it’s going through, a run’s going to score, first and third, Jeffrey Hammonds up, followed by Taubensee. You don’t know if Benitez will have it when he comes in…” Fonzie ranged over and grabbed Young’s liner. Ah, scouting. Ah, Fonzie. It was over. The game. The season. It marked the only time other than ’73 that the Mets have won their last game to clinch a postseason spot. I was ready to celebrate. I cracked a little novelty egg filled with confetti and poured it over my head as I hugged my wife, who’d recently deemed the room safe for reentry. The dog even looked relieved. Duck called and I stood on the porch in the rain gasping between gulps of a mini-bottle of champagne that had been in the fridge since we’d moved in three years earlier. “Allow me to crack the bubbly.” I don’t know what I told Duck as the rain washed the bits of confetti from my hair. It was probably something like Bobby V. was saying at that same moment: “It’s a lot of emotions. I don’t know if I’m smart enough to tell you all of them.” There were great moments—plus a heartbreaking finish—in the weeks that followed, but in many ways it felt like the Mets were playing with house money compared to playing with the deed to the house on the table in Cincinnati. And in hand were three aces in Alfonzo, Henderson, and of course, Leiter. Plus a pair of kings in Bobby V. and the grateful Mets faithful. A good hand. A great team. |
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August 8, 2011 The Parnell Sunday News I should have known my concerns about a drawn-out, extra-inning affair were unfounded when Bobby Parnell came out for the ninth inning on Sunday. Three straight Sundays now he’s taken the loss. I won’t let the defeat to the Braves take away from what was a really fun day with the family at the park. Just before bed, when I asked my eight-year-old son who had won, he said, “the Braves.” For a Mets Kids Club member who has yet to come down with a true case of Mets fever, that’s good memory. As he fell asleep I whispered in his ear over and over: “Braves are bad, Atlanta is evil. Braves are bad…” Actually I didn’t do that last part, but now that I think of it—“Brainwashing: It’s All We Have Left.” In terms of honesty and ingenuity, that motto plastered on the side of the stadium is superior to “The Magic Is Here, Come See It.” While taking potshots at the Mets is something bloggers have become quite adept at since the blogosphere blossomed, let me commend the Mets on their “kids go free” program that ended Sunday. We got seats in the back row of section 136 in the lower stands in left field for $54 each, including fees and such. Still overpriced? Sure. But we only had to pay for two seats for the four of us. So it was actually a deal—at Citi Field! I wish more people knew about this, including the fellow who sat next to my wife with a kid on his lap who squirmed more than Dillon Gee in his five innings on the mound. But great job with the promotion, Mets. I initially was pretty annoyed that I couldn’t arrange for seats over the phone, but I did it on Mets.com and when I swiped my credit card at the kiosk out front of the park on Sunday, the four tickets suddenly appeared. Now that’s magic. Trust me, I'm not suddenly a shill for the Mets ticket department, but I want to give credit where it is due. And I also saw that the Mets have a great deal for high school and college students to go for $10. I’ve got a little time before my children qualify for that, but if they resume the “kids go free” promotion in September, I might even go through the four-hour travel ordeal once more with them to see the Metsies. If you can’t have meaningful games in September, how about meaningful savings? |
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August 2, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 1998 Sure, we all know too well what it’s like now to go into the final day of the season needing a win to try to get into the postseason… and losing. But in 1998 that had never happened before to the Mets. And it seemed unlikely… until that final week. Yet 1998 was a Mets epiphany for many people. The 1997 turnaround hadn’t really gotten through to the masses, but the Mets suddenly appeared on everyone’s radar on May 26, 1998. General manager Steve Phillips was rolling the dice and coming up sevens in his “prospects-for-pricey-players” crap game in 1998. In three separate deals Phillps sent eight prospects to the dismantling Marlins for Dennis Cook, Al Leiter, and Mike Piazza, in that order. The only two who became major leaguers of note were A.J. Burnett in the Leiter deal and Preston Wilson for Piazza. Thirteen years later most people would do those deals again. The trades did, however, empower FrankenStevie through the years to keep trading more and more minor leaguers for lesser and lesser major leaguers, until the bullpen was full of old slop-throwing middlemen and the prospect cupboard was bare. But in 1998, that wasn’t a worry. In 1998 the worm had turned. Saving Private Ryan was the best picture of 1998, regardless of what the Academy of Arts and Sciences said, but the 1998 film I’ve seen more than any movie that year—and viewed more than any movie except for Caddyshack—was A Bug’s Life. It was the film my infant daughter wanted to see every day—kids can be that way, I learned. The wife and I even even enjoyed a pre-viewing and I post-viewed the tape plenty of times, with the other audience member plopped in my lap and giggling. It’s just about the best Disney effort since the Aristocats, which I’ve also seen a few dozen times thanks to kids and the miracle of the VCR, which still ruled the waves back in ’98 (and still does in our throwback house with the mountain of videotapes I’m not ready to ditch). Yet watching TV only held so much comfort for me in 1998. The early months of that year were a fog. My mother died Christmas night in 1997, kind of sudden, and a month later my daughter was born, about three weeks early. She was healthy, but I was far from ready for the sea change her arrival meant. But like the arrival of the best catcher in the game to Shea that year, I was able to get used to the concept pretty quickly. By then I had been moved to a home office at full salary by the parent company that bought Total Sports. I did the writing, research, and public relations required by my bosses, but I don’t think I could have done the office thing of pretending to be interested in everyone else’s stuff or talking about the latest news and gossip and what all. Sometimes I just came to after staring out the window for an unknown amount of time, lost in reminiscences after something made me think of my mom. Or I might just be zoned out from the sleep disruption that comes from an infant who wakes repeatedly to eat or cry or whatever she feels like doing. When an unexpected call came that we had a deal to do several team books with the NFL and I would handle the editing, I gladly threw myself into the project. When baseball season arrived I threw myself into that, too. Even with the books and baby, I met the Mets in person more often than I ever had before. The day Piazza debuted was the same day my daughter—not yet four months old—made her Mets debut. (To read about that game, number eight on my all-time favorite games witnessed at Shea, go here. The year began with a sultry 87-degree opener turned frigid as a scoreless game went into the 14th inning before an Alberto Castillo single mercifully ended it. Two weeks later I saw Rick Reed’s home run off Steve Trachsel beat the Cubs in the night portion of the two-team twinbill in Queens necessitated when a Yankee Stadium beam collapsed. The Yankees won a Shea matinee against the Angels, outdrawing the Mets handily. In June Reed outdid himself, tossing a perfect game until two were out in the seventh in the first game the Mets ever played against the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. Of course Reed didn’t get the no-no, but he did throw a three-hit shutout. We also learned nutcase baseball owner Vince Naimoli freaked out when the Shea scoreboard just read “Tampa” and not “Tampa Bay”—I know you no longer own the team, Vince, but we can still ship you Jason BAY C.O.D if that’ll make you happy. Tampa was one of four teams that came to Shea to face the Mets for the first time in 1998—five if you somehow don’t count Baltimore’s postseason trip to Shea in 1969. Also coming to town in ’98 were the league-swapping Brewers, the brand-new D-Backs, and this team from the Bronx that simply did not lose. I got to the first-ever Mets-Yankees game at Shea extra early and, sitting about a dozen rows from the field, watched the Yankees stretch and preen in front of me. As the hushed masses in their ugly Modell’s jerseys stared in awe at Derek Jeter, I broke the mood with a thunder-clapping yell of “Mariah!” A real shame that the shortstop and the drama queen’s tabloid romance was now a nomance. Derek and his pals got the last laugh. I was still livid about Paul O’Neill’s home run as we sat in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the way home. Smitty playfully bounced the football he’d brought to throw in the parking lot against the back of my head. I warned him not to do it again. Of course he did. And then did it again. Still stuck in traffic, I grabbed the ball and hurled it out the window. It bounced once—a perfect spiral—before disappearing forever in a wooded patch off the Hutchinson River Parkway. A la John Belushi after breaking the troubador’s guitar at the Delta House, I muttered, “Sorry.” I did subsequently buy him two new footballs. I should have charged them to Mariah Carey’s heartbreak posse. I was in a froth for the Sunday night game as the Mets tried to avoid the sweep by a Yankees team playing .743 ball midway through the season. (They did set a record for AL victories in a season that lasted all of three years with 114 wins, not 125 as it became fashionable to say—trust me, I put together the official encyclopedia of Major League Baseball that year and you don’t mix the regular season and postseason like it’s Chex party mix.) The Sunday night game was super tense as the score stayed tied in the bottom of the ninth. Carlos Baerga lofted a deep fly to bring in the go-ahead run, yet the runner on first, Brian McRae, somehow got tagged out after the game was officially over. The Mets won, but only after an argument. How I loathed B-Mac! When not attempting to give back a victory, McRae became the last player I ever booed at Shea. I was booing B-Mac a few weeks after the Sunday night game, telling everyone who would listen how much he sucked. Then lo and behold he crushed one of his 21 home runs of 1998. And there I was, forced to either continue berating him as he trotted or cheer him as he added a run on the board. I cheered, of course. He was, above all other things, a Met. And right then I promised I would never again boo a Met. And though I have been tempted, I have yet to break my oath. Because booing your own, as we learned the hard way in 1998, is stupid. Piazza had the best partial season in franchise history—and he was more productive than just about any Met over a full season between ’69 Cleon and ’84 Keith. Not only did Piazza hit 23 homers and drive in 76 in just 109 games, he put together a line of .348/.417/.607. The Amazin’ thing was that John Olerud was actually better. Johnny O. put up a .354 average and .447 OBP in 160 games, both still club records. Yet somehow Piazza was booed routinely in those first two months as a Met. There’s nothing so self-righteous as a newly-reformed booer and I wanted to chase down anyone guilty of such idiocy. Well, maybe not chase down, but say as loud as I could, “I hear Tim Spehr’s feeling better now, or how about Alberto Castillo?” Referring to the catchers the Mets had on the Opening Day roster. By midsummer, the Mets had another catcher back: Todd Hundley. Hundley, an All-Star the previous two seasons, was the reason the Mets originally weren’t going after Piazza. I’m still not sure if I’m willing to fully credit the sudden pursuit of Piazza to Nelson Doubleday, who chimed in after the original denial of Mets interest in Mikey P. (I’m certainly not giving credit to Mike Francessa, who belabored the topic for a week and then was besieged with thanks from Mets fans as if he had personally handled negotiations.) When Hundley was finally healthy in the second half, it was sort of like: “Great, you’re back, Todd. Now go get your shine box.” They tried Hundley briefly as an outfielder. He made Dave Kingman look like Garry Maddox. For Hundley, the son of an ironman catcher, it had to be pretty humiliating butchering balls in left field at Wrigley, where his dad Randy was an All-Star. Yet the Mets still managed to win a twinbill at the Friendly Confines in July. Even after the Mets lost close games the next two days to split the series, they were done for the season with Chicago, where Sammy Sosa was hitting home runs like he’d stumbled into the Gamma Ray extract that made him a scowling blue hulk. A similar elixir made Mark McGwire a happy red hulk, but I’m not here to talk about the past. The Mets and Cubs battled for the wild card until the final week. The Giants, the previous year’s NL West champs, seemed done. And when Cubbie Brant Brown dropped a fly ball in left field in Milwaukee that let three runs score in the ninth, it looked like the Cubs were done, too. But this wasn’t 1969. Carl Pavano, acquired in the Pedro Martinez deal the previous fall, blanked the Mets in the final home game of the year as the Mets were swept by the last-place Expos. The stands at Shea were as empty as our hopes had suddenly become. That weekend the Mets were skunked in Atlanta—at least that one time the coup de grace was performed by a playoff-bound team. The Giants played, and lost, the one-game playoff at Wrigley the day after the season. I could not watch. I did not even watch most of the final weekend due to a previous engagement... with baseball. A wonderful trip with the Mrs. and the little one to the Hall of Fame, my first such trip since 1976, kept me from looking directly into the eye of the desolation, but I knew it was happening. You can’t keep baseball secrets in Cooperstown. And if that town teaches one thing about the game is that it’s not fair—beautiful, but not fair. Like life itself. Years of too-intense study of baseball has taught me that the game evens out for the majority of teams—not for the Yankees, who won in ’98, and ’99, and… Yet everyone else may have to wait a lifetime for their moment. Or even longer, as the Cubs learned when they were dispatched by the Braves as easily as the Mets had been a few days earlier. Or your team may just have to wait till next year. <> <> <> But why wait to get to the ending, pick up New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History and find out, as Paul Harvey liked to say...“The rest of the story.” |
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July 11, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 1997 The Mets took me totally by surprise in 1997. A lot of things did. For one, the Mets played the Yankees. For real. Before we were bludgeoned over the head with it for two weekends per year, it was an Amazin’ novelty that even had a purist like me using the busy redial feature on my office phone to score eight tickets for the first game between the clubs in the Loge at Yankee Stadium for $21 each—oh, for the days of pre-Subway gouging. As eight of us took two and a half hours to drive 20 miles to the Bronx—my car only broke down once—our Robert E. Lee-like invasion commenced with the enemy already engaged. The Mets were on the scoreboard as I glimpsed my first view of Mets-Yankees baseball; a second later Todd Hundley stole home. Dave Mlicki pitched a shutout. Mets-Yankees would never get better from a Flushing perspective. The year would get even better. And quickly. After the Mets lost the last two to the Yankees during this earth-shattering midweek series—yes, it was actually held on Monday and Tuesday nights, concluding with a Wednesday matinee!—you worried that maybe they’d start sputtering after a dizzying 34-21 stretch. The Mets showed no ill effects with a four-game sweep of the Pirates at Shea, coming back to win two games in the series despite blowing leads in the ninth. The sweep was climaxed by Carl Everett, whose three-run homer capped a 12-9 win in 10 innings on Sunday. Coming home from a weekend with the guys in Vermont, I caught the last few innings on TV in an empty house. I couldn’t have been happier. Or so I thought. My wife came home just after C. Everett’s coup with news she hadn’t wanted to share over the phone. There was going to be another Mets fan in the family, the due date right around my birthday in February. There was dancing in the streets, Austin Powers style. It was 1997, but we were feeling cheeky and fab like it was 1967. I’d spent most of the previous fall and winter studying the Mets. I was a wet-nosed rookie with Total Sports empowered to pitch book ideas to every major league team. As I called and pestered all 28 clubs—as publisher of the official encyclopedia of Major League Baseball, access to the clubs was one of our few perks—it seemed clear that most of them weren’t big on history and even fewer were big on doing anything out of house. Believe it or not, the Mets were the one who bit on my historical book lure. It felt like a Dave Kingman blast landing in the parking lot. Total Sports produced a 128-page book called Total Mets as a giveaway to season ticket holders. The books were also sold at their concession stands (though they mostly seemed to gather dust at Shea—a few are still boxed somewhere in my attic). This was essentially the first sale of anything in my life (other than gasoline, if you count my pump jockey past). The Mets paid the company much-needed cash for the finished product, which I put together from existing material and by cranking out a lot of new stuff. Six months earlier I’d been covering high school baseball, now I was putting together a book on my favorite major league team. And that favorite team was good. That was as big a surprise as me making a sale. The Mets looked like dead club walking on Opening Day, an April Fool’s joke. On the afternoon of April 1, 1997, the Mets took a 4-0 lead into the sixth inning in San Diego—these were the days when MLB still pretended to care enough about the fans to have cold weather teams open against warm weather clubs. The Mets might as well have been playing in the arctic circle because California didn’t do them solid. The Padres put up an 11-spot in the sixth in the opener and took two of three. So did the Dodgers. And the Giants. The Mets lost games that lasted 12, 14, and 15 innings on that first excruciating roadtrip. So not only did the team have no luck, but their pitching staff was worn out nine games into the season. And then the home opener—scheduled for a Saturday so as not to conflict with the opening ceremonies for the world champion Yankees!?!—was rained out… after we stood under the Grand Central Park overpass for three hours. So the home portion of the season began with a doubleheader loss to the Giants on Easter. San Francisco completed the three-game sweep the next night. Since the Mets had traded Jeff Kent to the Indians the previous July, Kent had been traded again, to San Francisco, where he began a mission to become one of the greatest second baseman of all time. He went 7 for 16 in his first go ’round against the Mets, with two homers and six RBI. (For his career, Kent would hit 14 homers in 80 games against the Mets, with a .282 average and .363 OBP—and he’d also break up a Bobby Jones postseason no-hit bid). Back in 1997, a dozen games had been played. The Mets were 3-9. Is everybody happy? Well, yes, actually. The next night, frigid April 15, the Mets and MLB celebrated the 50th anniversary of Jackie Robinson’s breaking the color barrier. The place was packed on a Tuesday. Security was at an all-time high because President Bill Clinton was at Shea. Jackie’s widow, Rachel Robinson, was there. And—this made Fred Wilpon really excited—the Dodgers were on hand as well. Everyone from Jesse Jackson to Spike Lee to Joe Black to Ralph Branca came to Shea, along with several Hall of Famers and dignitaries. And they were all upstaged by mousy Bud Selig, who announced that from that day forward number 42 would be retired in honor of Robinson throughout organized baseball. Play stopped in the fifth inning—once the game was official. When the 35-minute proceedings ended, not only were the starting pitchers gone, but so were most of the 54,000 around me. Buster Olney reported in the New York Times that “only a few thousand fans stayed around to see the end of the Mets’ 5-0 victory.” The audience-challenged Mets would finish 10th in the 14-team NL in attendance and would not get within 10,000 of the Jackie Robinson Night crowd the rest of the year. The ’97 Mets were like a great restaurant that only you, your spouse, and a handful of others seemed to know about. Table for two, no waiting. The season really began for the Mets on April 15. From that night forward the Mets had the second-best record in the NL at 85-65, actually 1½ games better than Florida’s get-rich-quick (and get-poor-even-quicker) scheme. Unfortunately, the first 12 games of the year counted in the standings, so the Marlins would win the wild card—not to mention the World Series. The Mets, however, won back the hearts of a few disillusioned fans. The Marlins, whose fire sale of stars began shortly after the victory parade, only wish they could have achieved as much long-term goodwill. The Sunday after the Robinson Night, my wife and I took in a doubleheader against the Cubs on a sunny afternoon. We brought our own snacks and read the Sunday New York Times between games like the sophisticated New Yorkers that we were not, gabbed with people sitting around us about the Mets’ lopsided win in the opener, and stayed for every pitch—all the way to the last one thrown by Turk Wendell… the Cub. Wendell gave up a two-run double to Met Lance Johnson to make it a one-run game in the ninth, but he got the final out to end Chicago’s record 14-game losing streak to start the season. It was funny that Lance and Turk would be swapped for each other four months later in a deal that I have yet to understand by a general manager I still don’t know why they hired. Steve Phillips was a career Met. He’d gone from prospect to mediocre minor leaguer to slick front office guy. I thought GM Joe McIlvaine was doing a great job. Yes, he did let the team oversell Generation K and he traded Jeff Kent for Carlos Baerga, but I still think that evened out by trading Robert Person for John Olerud (and getting the Blue Jays to pay them $5 million). Joe Mac also had the onions to hire Bobby Valentine and promote Rick Reed. Joe Mac’s tenure dated back to the start of the Frank Cashen regime with a little prodigal son parable thrown in. He’d left New York for San Diego and came home when the Padres initiated a fire sale on his watch. McIlvaine had overseen the overhaul of the 103-loss Mets and put a lot of the pieces in place for the turnaround of 1997. Just after the Mets rallied from a 6-0 deficit in Atlanta to win their first series at new Turner Field on July 13, McIlvaine was fired. Why quibble? The ’97 Mets were pulling wins out of every orifice. They created one of my favorite mental exercises: What lineup will Bobby V. use today? The Mets were far from a star-studded club and Valentine mined the talent daily. He plugged the rotation with Babe Ruth ringer Brian Bohanon in place of Pete Harnisch, who’d battled depression since the Opening Day debacle. (That Valentine and Harnisch later got in a shouting match is another matter.) The All-Stars on the Mets were pedestrian Bobby Jones and bystander Todd Hundley, whose injury in midseason brought up another Joe Mac reclamation project: Todd Pratt. And I’m still convinced that McIlvaine would have found a way to keep Cory Lidle from being exposed to that fall’s expansion draft—to become a Devil Ray, whatever in hell that was. After Phillips was hired, the Mets—with needs in several areas—did not pull of a trading deadline deal. Eight days later they traded starting pitcher Mark Clark, infielder Manny Alexander, and single-season hits and triples leader Lance Johnson to the Cubs for center fielder Brian McRae and relievers Wendell and Mel Rojas. While it did net Turk, the trade essentially gave the Cubs an out for Rojas, a reliever they’d signed to a big contract who now couldn’t get anyone out—in Chicago or New York, it soon became apparent. Duck met me at Shea the night of the trade. Before cell phones became news providers, I came across him staring up at the scoreboard, saying, “Who is number 56 and why is he batting leadoff?” A scoreboard news flash that turned out better occurred on Keith Hernandez Day in September, a day after the Mets rallied from a 6-0 hole in the ninth on a game-tying grand slam by Carl Everett and a game-winning three-run shot by Bernard Gilkey two innings later. I had visions of the Mets retiring Mex’s number on the day he was inducted into the team’s Hall of Fame. That concept was quickly nixed when I saw number 17 batting seventh in that day’s lineup: the great Luis Lopez. I should have known better than to dream of two numbers being retired at Shea in one year. True to ’97 form, the Mets won when Lopez homered for the only run of the game. The lead was preserved in the ninth by a perfect relay from Gilkey to Ordonez to Pratt to nail ex-Met David Segui at the plate. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen a trainer run out to argue a play with an umpire and get ejected. You didn’t need a medical degree to know Segui was safe. But we took it. Fans never really got behind the Mets and their race against the Marlins. Attendance on Keith’s day was buoyed by a giveaway of tickets to Saturn owners throughout the tri-state area. The game in which they were eliminated at Shea in the final week of the season drew just 14,000—including me and the Mrs. WFAN had such a apathetic radio audience for the final Friday night game of the year that I was able to hit redial and get Eddie Coleman right back on the line after I blew the initial answer to his trivia question: “Who was the first Atlanta Brave to win a World Series game.” I flipped a few pages in Total Baseball, always open on my desk then, and gave the proper response this time: “Jim Clancy.” Eddie C. announced my name and I wound up with a year’s subscription to Mets Inside Pitch. It was a good promo because I have re-upped for that fine publication every year since then. But there were more consolation prizes to come. At the final game of the year, Duck, Smitty, and I tippled back a few beverages and were thrilled beyond words when Olerud homered off Atlanta’s Denny Neagle to push him over 100 RBI. A man and his young son next to us looked at us strangely. I thought he was going to reprimand our zeal. Instead he said: “They just announced ticket numbers for the team raffle. I didn’t win, but I think you did.” So I tottered over to the area where the prizes were and recognized the person who authorized Total Mets. I shoved a big wad of gum into my mouth and casually came over to say hello and show her my ticket. I thought she might give me one of those “prizes are not permitted for Mets employees or their licensees.” She said I’d get a game-worn jersey from one of the Mets on the field that afternoon. I studied the box score of that last game in the back of my new Inside Pitch. As the Indians knocked off the Yankees in the NLCS and the Marlins beat Cleveland for the world championship, I held out hope the jersey would be Johnny O. or Fonzie or even crazy Carl Everett, though he’d soon be traded because of a Mets-related child care incident that was about as bad as anything Frankie Rodriguez did in 2010. Which jersey would it be? The number of scrubs in that last game boxscore was ridiculous. Juan Acevedo and Alberto Castillo were the starting battery, for crying out loud, and the game also saw Shawn Gilbert, Roberto Petagine, Jason Hardtke (the runner up to Pratt in my Favorite Non-Playing Vote voting), plus some player I don’t even recall named Mendoza. Each time the Fedex truck drove through my neighborhood, I looked out to see if he was delivering any jersey-sized packages to my door. Finally, the Fedex truck pulled in the driveway. A white Mets jersey tumbled out of the Fedex bag. It was all-white like the team had gone to in 1997, it had the Jackie Robinson sleeve patch, and then I held it up to see the number… 23. Bernard Gilkey. Sure, he’d had a down year, but it could have been B-Mac. A few days later I was having lunch at home and the Fedex guy pulled up again. This package contained a small box made out to me… from WFAN. I opened it up and there was a Croton watch in a display case. It was gold colored and had a tag that stated its value at almost $300. Seems there was a prize beyond the Inside Pitch. FAN must have been getting rid of their inventory and I got lucky. I’m wearing the watch now. Keeps good time. Just like ’97—one hell of a good time. |
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July 14, 2011 All-Star Book Break: Reading Double With Francisco Rodriguez dispatched to Wisconsin (a salary issue the Mets simply had to deal with), let’s use the extra day of the All-Star break for a makeup doubleheader. Two books that came out last year and I read them this spring, when it was rainy. Now in hot and hazy July, I present a “Let’s Play Two” review. First Game Big Hair and Plastic Grass by Dan Epstein Having grown up in the 1970s, that decade is my touchstone. Though I appreciate the 1980s, especially, of course, the ’86 Mets, and I’m hip with what’s gone done since, I feel eternally connected to the 1969 and 1973 teams that I did not see in person but lived through vicariously thanks to the Kiner-Nelson-Murphy rain delay favorite World Series highlight films (please dig these up and put them on the tube, SNY!). I also appreciate the 1970s in general, mish mosh that it was of both culture and responsibility, like mixing a cocktail of Brady Bunch and Watergate. As a parent today, I almost wince at the freedom I had as a kid: riding bikes anywhere I wanted (no helmet, of course), playing baseball until it was dark, and making my own choices on the go. Calling home on a rotary phone from a friend’s house to ask to stay there for dinner when my parents had no idea where I was. And I was the spoiled and fretted over baby of the family! My brothers and sister, who experienced the ’69 Mets live, had even more freedom and more friends in our Baby Boomer neighborhood. But there was other stuff going on while we rode our banana seats around town to flip Topps cards and then pull off some minor vandalism on the way home. The world was changing. Dan Epstein’s wonderfully titled book, Big Hair and Plastic Grass, puts the 1970s in perspective for the baseball obsessed of that age—or any age. His storytelling technique makes you feel like there’s a bass rift going on in your head as background, or a song by War or the theme from Shaft. That’s good writing and good fun. At times the book is an overview of the year being discussed, and in others instances it gets down to some of the falling down that happened in the 1970s… like Skylab. Each year in the 1970s is covered in a chapter, and with every two years comes a bonus chapter covering some thread—or threads, because clothes made the man, or foxy lady, in the ’70s. I won’t give away what it’s all about, but here are those tweener chapter titles to enlighten you or re-invite you, for those who’ve read them already:
Ashtrays and Astroturf The Polyester Proliferation Chicken Suits and Cheap Beer Epilogue: The Party’s Over
Epstein, a journalist who is far from the maddening crowd, has the knack for headline writing, storytelling, and taking you back in time. If you haven’t read this book yet, do. It’ll blow your mind.
Nightcap Major League Bride by Kathleen Lockwood The late Dana Brand suggested this book to me, and through Facebook, I’ve been able to have some communication with the author, Kathleen Lockwood—wife of ’70s Mets reliever Skip Lockwood. The so-so 1975-76 Mets were the closest Skip really got to playing for a contender, but he was a competitor and a pretty good pitcher. His career took off when he joined the Mets in 1975 and was summoned from Tidewater in the waning days of the Yogi Berra regime. Roy McMillan, who is generally credited with very little in his two months as Mets manager, established Lockwood at the back of the pen and penciled callup Mike Vail into the sputtering ’75 lineup and watched him hit in 23 straight games. August and September that year might not have been meaningful, but it was kind of fun. Throughout the rest of the decade, Skip often pitched the eighth and ninth innings—and sometimes the seventh—trying to salvage what few wins the Mets could cobble together. According to the Baseball Encyclopedia, Skip saved 65 games and blew 18 leads with the Mets between 1975 and 1979. Nowadays, someone else would surpass that save total in two or more years, with fewer blown saves—such as the recently dispatched K-Rod (83 saves in 96 chances). Yet I felt safer in the late innings with Skip, who was paid a lot less and managed a much better relationship with his in-laws than K-Rod. Skip also didn’t complain about how he was used, even though he was one of the earliest experiments of reliever overuse in the managerial career of one Joe Torre. Lockwood pitched 94.1, 104, and 90.1 innings in his three full seasons with the Mets. And even in his two partial seasons with the club he averaged almost two innings per outing. If a closer goes two innings today to get a save, a medal is forged to pin on him upon the game's completion. But this book isn’t so much about Skip as it is about the life of a ballplayer during that time before free agency as we know it. In the first half of the 1970s Skip was a have-ball, will-travel ballplayer at the mercy of employers who controlled his every movement. From the time Massachusetts-bred Skip and Kathleen wed in 1970 until his career ended a decade later, they moved 35 times. He played for the Seattle Pilots, Milwaukee Brewers (the AL version), the California Angels, the Mets, and the Boston Red Sox. He started 26 or more games for three straight years with the Brewers—Kathleen also confirms that Wisconsin was as unbelievable a place to live in as I always suspected during my awesome visits to the state. The Mets stuff in the book is also a lot of fun. My favorite Mets story answers the question of how many Mets does it take to deliver a baby. In the days following the tumultuous Seaver trade in 1977, Nancy Seaver drove in-labor Kathleen to the hospital in the middle of the night in traded Dave Kingman’s car, which had just a thimble full of gas. Skip, meanwhile, was on a roadtrip to Chicago. Dee Matlack, a midwife and spouse of Mets starter Jon Matlack, came in to toss relief, staying with Kathleen when Skip could not. The families often had a stronger bond than the players. And it’s interesting how the friendships forged often had little to do with prominence on the team. The players did their jobs, but for every transaction, the wives and families had to start over, without a stadium full of fans to support them. The big free agent money did not arrive until Skip left the skinflint Mets of the 1970s and signed with the 1980 Red Sox in what turned out to be an abrupt end of his career. Any time I’m learning stuff about the Mets I didn’t know before, I’m happy. And Major League Bride kept me happy and entertained at the same time. Dana was always right on with his literature recommendations. Mrs. Lockwood is on the mark with her book that takes you back to the 1970s and shows what it was like to be young and athletic in the ’70s. These people turn out not to be so different from the grownups I knew at the time, they just threw the ball a lot harder. |
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July 11, 2011 All-Star Edition (by Subtraction) Yes, I know the above heading might seem grammatically incorrect, and I should be saying something about the first half season—.500, wa-hoo!-—but there's something about this All-Star Game that sort of irks me. Last year there were 82 All-Stars, I'm told. This year it seems like even more players have been selected to the team and turn down the honor as “All-Stars” come up with new, more ingenious, and even lamer excuses for not going to the All-Star Game. The All-Star Game is a who cares event to many people. Some years I don’t watch. But the selection and the pomp that goes into it is interesting all the way up until the first pitch. Then it gets old. Still, there’s a good game every now and then, like the 15-inning game a couple of years ago at Old New Yankee Stadium. Even last year’s game was pretty good, though I didn’t see Brian McCann’s big hit. Why isn’t the All-Star Game a big deal? I don’t know. But to those making millions a year playing the game, a reminder should be sent out that this is their occupation. Being an All-Star is a perk, not another excuse to be a jerk. It’s this kind of can’t-be-bothered idea that has eliminated Old Timers Day as an actual event in all but one stadium I won’t name. Fred Lynn was on the radio talking about how he hurt his arm from diving. Not in the 1983 All-Star Game in which he became the first player to ever hit a grand slam in All-Star competition and helped end an 11-year AL drought—but Freddie Lynn’s injury happened in Sunday night’s celebrity softball game. Lynn even explained how one year he missed the last couple of Red Sox games before the break yet still played in the All-Star Game because he had been voted in and felt it as an obligation to the fans and the other players in his league. I know Major League Baseball has essentially neutered the National and American Leagues, eliminating all differences except for the one glaring dissimilarity that actually affects the game on the field: the designated hitter. That they’ll have a DH in the NL park for the All-Star Game—a game designed for constant pinch-hitting—but not allow the DH in NL parks in interleague play or the World Series, shows how cock-eyed the MLB poobahs have become on the issue. And yet there is still no rule in place to prevent an extra-inning game from turning into a tie, or forcing David Wright and J.D. Drew, back when they were All-Star caliber position players, into pitching when the game reaches the 15th inning. There should be a taxi squad for each league equipped with three pitchers, an infielder, an outfielder, and a catcher set to play if the game goes into extra innings. These can be rookies, middle relievers, or players who have never made an All-Star team and would still consider it an honor. They won’t turn down the offer, especially if you toss in say $25,000 just to show up and wait until the game goes extras. There was a time when incentives weren’t necessary for the All-Star Game. In 1976 Tom Seaver threw a complete game the Thursday before the All-Star Game, he made a rare relief appearance that Sunday, he pitched two innings in the All-Star Game at Philly, and then he threw eight innings the Saturday after the All-Star Game. This just in: His arm did not fall off. A year later, with Seaver wearing a Reds uniform at Yankee Stadium, our dorm full of middle school-age boys at Ted Williams Baseball Camp stayed up late to watch the 1977 All-Star game—with the Splendid Splinter’s full support on that decision to bring TVs into the dorm. Even though watching Seaver pitch as a Red was painful and the Mets were fully ensconced in last place, when John Stearns was introduced, I felt like a citizen of Lichtenstein must feel when the one representative of his country is announced at the Winter Olympics opening ceremonies. You know you won’t win, but it doesn’t matter. Someone is there holding the flag for you, the only Mets fan in a dorm full of overbearing Red Sox and Yankees fans. And when the NL stomps the AL, 7-1, that’s not such a bad feeling, either. Now you feel that half these players are inconvenienced by this little game that dates back almost 80 years. Be that way. As Bobby Valentine suggested on Baseball Tonight, don’t let the skipping players pick up the All-Star appearance check in their contracts. Or shame them into giving the dough to support a local charity if they’re not going to support their city by showing up to represent them. If a ballplayer insists on being a jerk, let someone get something out of it. And I get the benefit of not having to see Jeter or A-Rod prancing on the field. Thanks for not coming. |
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July 7, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 1996 In 1996 the preseason hype was that the Mets, brimming with young players, were just about ready to make their move. And they could even regain their place as New York’s baseball darlings, especially in the wake of George Steinbrenner’s mercurial firing of career Yankee Buck Showalter and hiring Mets retread Joe Torre to run the Bronx Bummers. Oh, how we laughed at the “Clueless Joe” headline in the Daily News. Oh, how we laughed. Generation K was going to start a thousand-year reign of Mets greatness. It would surely be a Seaver-Matlack-Koosman trio or Gooden-Darling-Fernandez triumvirate, only this time we wouldn’t wait until the pitchers actually did something. The buzz had long since begun. The Mets were managed by a former pitcher in Dallas Green, who’d been running the show at Wrigley when the Cubs turned it around, and who’d even taken the perpetually snakebitten Phillies to a world championship in 1980. As we slowly progressed through spring training and year six of the post-Davey Johnson era, a thought perpetuated about these Mets was echoed in the tour that year of one of my favorite albums, The Who’s Quadrophenia. The album was originally released, as the British would write it, on 19 October 1973, a date better known in Mets history as the day after the Mets took the three games to two lead over the A’s in the World Series. On that date the 1973 Mets stood only one day from greatness, or impending tragedy; a moment when they still could have penciled George Stone in to start… and who knows if that would have commenced the perpetual second guess of “How could you start Stone if Seaver wants the ball?” Only the Mets could make me put all this together in my head, a quarter century later: I pick up phones and hear my history I dream of all the calls I miss I try to number those who love me And find exactly what the trouble is. I could barely see as I sat at empty Shea Stadium on a sunny February morning in 1996. My wife had vacation at school and I was home from work for a second day because something had flown into my eye on a windy yet warm walk on Presidents Day in Fairfield. We got an appointment at the ophthalmologist conveniently located down the street from the house we were renting. He prescribed all sorts of exercises to help my eye get back to normal. I tried driving the quarter mile home as a test: If I could do that I could drive on I-95 to the daily paper where I’d started working in the waning days of 1995. I immediately backed into a pole. So I called in sick. My friend with the Mets tickets asked if I might go to Shea for him and look at the seats the team proposed for his upgrade. He was moving from the Mezzanine to the Field Level. The big move would land him on the outer edges of the orange seats. I wore a jacket and tie to act like I was a somebody. Whether you have clear vision or not, it’s hard to judge stadium seats when no one is sitting around you, especially at Shea, which often requires you to tilt your head toward home plate. I tried to get as close to the field as budget and availability would allow. With my one good eye I peered out from several seats on both sides of the field. I eventually settled on seats down the left field side, $17 per. With others depending on my limited view, I got up and inspected the plaques of the box owners surrounding me. They were all owned by lawyers, accounting firms, and companies who wouldn’t be content with lousy seats. I compared that with some of the other seats in the same price range (back then Shea made figuring out the price of a ticket a lot easier than today). These seats were available because someone had given them up. Why would anyone give up their Mets seats? Maybe $17 was too pricey. Maybe the team wasn’t progressing to their liking. Maybe they didn’t know about Generation K. As I pulled into the Marina Lot on Opening Day, confidence was high. Lerno and Jimmy Jim—not to be confused with Dr. Jimmy and Mr. Jim from Quadrophenia—cooked out with me on a frigid, soggy day reminiscent of the weather conjured up by Pete Townshend in the dramatic scenes from that album. Though Pete’s best imagery still could not beat the snow that would blanket Clueless Joe’s first game in the Bronx. The rain and cold did make for a nasty start to the day at Shea, especially when the Mets fell behind 6-0 to the Cardinals in the fourth inning. The Mets clawed back, a verb that could also describe what happened when a foul ball landed near the new seats. A scrum ensued among the men—few women or children came out for this downer downpour—and just as Lerno’s hand grabbed the ball amid the melee on the steps below me, I clearly saw a work boot stomp on his hand. The ball fell free and another scrum ensued that we did not take part in. Boother rushed over from work just in time to see the Mets overtake the Cards with a four-run seventh, as new guys Lance Johnson and Bernard Gilkey knocked in crucial runs. Another new guy, Cuban defector Rey Ordonez showed us the type of highlight reel play we would come to expect in our new and improved view. Ordonez took a low throw from Gilkey, directly in front of us, scooped it off the wet grass, and fired from his knee more than 150 feet to Todd Hundley to nail speedy Royce Clayton. Still probably the greatest relay I’ve seen up close. The offense and Ordonez’s defense would indeed be special in 1996. It was the pitching that was uncharacteristically shaky. I came to this realization on the third day of the season. I had Thursdays off and took in the matinee with the Mrs. to see the major league debut of wunderkind Paul Wilson. And boy did he look good for the first four innings as the Mets went up, 7-1. The former number one overall pick departed after six with an 8-3 lead, but his teammates proceeded to sabotage him, surrendering five runs in the eighth and another in the ninth. With two outs against Dennis Eckersley, Gary Gaetti threw away a grounder to tie the game and the Brent Mayne singled in the winning run. It was an exciting finish, surely, but you also couldn’t help but feel a little worried that the Mets pitching might be a bit suspect. It turned out to be very suspect. A few weeks later, a nice trip to the ballpark with another couple was ruined by a John Franco meltdown and a loss to the Rockies. Following Franco’s 300th save at foggy, empty Shea, he did not appear in either soul-crushing loss that weekend at Wrigley. The first came minutes after Dallas Green had told Wilson to walk Mark Grace, to get Sammy Sosa for the last out of the game, and for good measure patted the pitcher on the butt. That ball is still rolling on Waveland Avenue. Sosa did the same thing in a tie game to Jerry DiPoto on Sunday. A return visit to Shea saw the Cubs rally from a 6-3 deficit after Green’s failed attempt to stretch out Dave Mlicki for a four-inning save on John Franco Day—Franco inconveniently ejected from the game for fighting. Rico Brogna pulled the Mets out of the fire with a home run. The Mets were never out of a game, but they never wrapped one up easily, either. And Generation K needed a new PR man, or at least a new pitching guru. This rotation of promise was, to be polite, inconsistent. It was also down a man. Bill Pulsipher, who had the most major league service time and preseason magazine cover time of any of the ballyhooed trio, was finished for the year just after spring training opened. Izzy and Wilson were mostly healthy but painful to watch in ’96. For every good outing, there were three bad ones. The pair combined to go 11-26 mark with a 5.05 ERA. To their credit, they did start 53 games, which was 39 more starts than the injury-riddled duo would make over the rest of their Mets careers. (Though Izzy would become an All-Star reliever elsewhere and come out of retirement to provide fringe benefits at age 38 as a 2011 Met.) The ’96 Mets slid deeper in the standings and further into the fringes of fringe contention. Veteran Mark Clark, acquired from Cleveland just before the season began, was the team’s most consistent starter. Pete Harnisch was overrated and Bobby Jones could not do it alone. Another young hurler, Robert Person, the first Met to throw a pitch—or absorb a defeat—in Mexico, was the only other starter outside of the five-man rotation to make more than two starts on the year. The historic trip to Monterrey made the Mets sick—Todd Hundley, especially so—but they at least emerged with one win. Person, who took the 15-10 loss in Mexico, also absorbed a 12-11 defeat at the next stop in San Francisco. Then the Mets went to Los Angeles, scored five runs in each game, and were swept. Mount Dallas erupted. “These guys don’t belong in the major leagues,” Green said of his kid pitchers. “That might sound harsh and negative, but what have they done to get here?” The resulting question turned out to be “What has Dallas Green done to stay here?” Never mind that the question was rhetorical, the response was “Bobby Valentine.” Back in 1996, Mets ownership liked the cut of Bobby V.’s jib. He was fiery, he was thorough, he was worldly, he had earned his shot to manage the Mets. With September approaching, the club was 13 games under, 23 games out, and looking more like a beat-up Mexican alley cat that stowed away in the luggage than a major league club on the verge of contention. So Valentine replaced Green. Valentine had become the first American manager in Japan, and when that didn’t go perfectly, he humbly—yes we’re using that word and Bobby V. in the same sentence—returned to the minors with the Mets, where he’d been a marvelous third-base coach before starting his managing career with Texas. His one-season stint with the Norfolk Tides was like a research grant. The 1996 Norfolk roster was dotted with players who would have brief stints in New York under the new manager: Juan Acevedo, Alberto Castillo, Joe Crawford, Shawn Gilbert, Jason Hartdke, Roberto Petagine, and Derek Wallace. That 1996 Tides team also yielded men who would play key roles in New York in the years to come under Valentine: Benny Agbayani, Matt Franco, Jay Payton, and Rick Reed. For the remainder of 1996, though, Valentine would have to make do with the roster as it was. The pitching was still brutal, but Valentine and former Met turned pitching coach Bob Apodaca helped the staff at least gain some level of competence. In the first 31 games of the Valentine regime, the Mets lost only twice when they scored six or more runs, as opposed to a dozen such losses under Green. The Mets still continued to hit at an astounding pace, setting marks the team hadn’t seen since their early years at the hitting-friendly Polo Grounds. Todd Hundley set a record for catchers and established an unsurpassed franchise mark with 41 homers. Bernard Gilkey tied a Mets record with 117 RBI and clocked 44 doubles, 30 homers, and hit .317. That was enough to get Gilkey a $20.4 million, four-year deal (beware career years in walk years). Hundley likewise got a big contract on the basis of his ’96 season. The best year of any Met, though, belonged to a free agent signed the previous winter: Lance Johnson. Even Jose Reyes has yet to match Johnson’s 1996 marks of 21 triples or 227 hits. One Dog also batted .333 and stole 50 bases, plus a steal in the All-Star Game, where he went 3-for-4 as a starter in place of injured Tony Gwynn to help the NL claim what would be its last Midsummer Classic victory until 2010. Imagine how good the offense would have been if they hadn’t traded the two best hitters on the team from 1995? Jeff Kent and Jose Vizcaino were sent to Cleveland at the ’96 trading deadline for Carlos Baerga. Despite the good intentions of getting the sour slugger Kent out of town for a proven All-Star in Baerga, Carlos was on the decline. Kent would become a star... and soon. The closest the Mets have come to having a high caliber second baseman since Kent left was when Edgardo Alfonzo manned second base, but the Mets wound up moving Fonzie to third base to accommodate Baerga. The Mets would have to be patient, even as the “gritty, gutty Yankees,” beloved “underdogs” of the media, got the benefit of one of the worst calls ever made by an outfield umpire in the ALCS against Baltimore and then came back after dropping the first two World Series games against Atlanta. I was even forced to portray the Yanks as comeback kids as an editor at Total Sports, where I had gone from part-time to full-time in 1996. I had mercifully been delivered from the newspaper trade to book publishing, where the deadlines were not always immediate, and the final product was placed on a bookshelf instead of used to wrap fish. And wrap fish is what you could do with the record-setting 1996 Mets season, the whole thing forgotten as soon as it was done, buried in the confetti and pomp from the Yankees’ parade. |
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July 1, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 1995 If 1984 was my favorite year and 1986 was my favorite year where I parachuted in for the happy ending, then 1995 was my favorite losing Mets season in my experience. I began the year hating the team—and Major League Baseball in general—for their unnecessary and useless strike that wiped out a 1994 season that I had been enjoying, not to mention eliminating the World Series. It took a trip to Chicago and a May afternoon spent at Wrigley Field for me to tell myself, “Life is too short to stay mad at something you love.” Like the classic cuckold, I returned to my previous setting and acted like nothing had happened. By the end of 1995 I’d written so many thank you notes, I might as well have sent one to the Mets: “Thanks so much for the thoughtful gift of competency. It should come in very handy.” After playing miserable baseball and going 19 games under .500 in the first half, they put together a solid second half at 13 games over .500 while introducing two thirds of what would be the myth of Generation K. Hope seemed right around the corner. The story of 1995 began for me in the moments just after Old-Timers Day in 1994, which marked the 25th anniversary of the 1969 Mets. That Old-Timers Day must have been abhorrent to the Mets because they never held another. Actually, the official line from the caring front office was/is that Old-Timers Day requires too much effort for the organization, plus the fans don’t care anyway. Actually, the fans do care about the Old Timers. Things they don’t care about? Labor issues. The Mets, and MLB, ignored the fan’s wishes on that one as well. And that Old-Timers Day, on the first Sunday of August 1994, also marked the last time Shea opened its doors until the last Friday of April 1995. What happened that August afternoon at Shea would stay with me, and not just because it was the last major league game I would see for a long time. I had just moved to a new apartment and had no dishes or glassware, save for a few assorted bar glasses accumulated through the years as well as a few “You Got the Right One, Baby, Uh-Huh” Diet Pepsi glass from the Ray Charles ad campaign (what can I say, my mom loved diet soda). I did have a few plastic cups I’d collected at the various ballparks I’d been to in recent years. So as people started filing out of the seats following Old-Timers Day 1994, my girlfriend started picking up the Mets plastic cups left behind. She said she’d put them in the dishwasher in her apartment and bring them over to my place. There were cups with Mr. Met and Jeff Kent—one always smiles and the other is a jerk (for confirmation, just check out the “sponsor” of Kent’s baseball-reference page). That became my eureka moment. To put my affection into Met-ese: In the year and a half since we’d met her, I’d been able to laugh off the memory of “The Worst Team Money Could Buy,” pooh pooh the only 100-loss Mets season is my memory, and survive a cataclysmic baseball strike. No glassware was broken—even when I had some at my disposal—during any of these frustrating seasons. She and I had also attended numerous Mets games together—far too many for someone to fake baseball enthusiasm—and when I saw her gathering up not one, not two, but stacks of cups to fill my bare cupboard, something in me clicked. “Marry this one,” came a voice that actually made my head turn. It wasn’t the usher, who was doing his best to ruin the moment by telling us to hurry up so they could shut this place up good and tight for the next eight months. I realized the voice was like the one from Field of Dreams. “Go the distance.” I didn’t share the voice in my head with anyone, but it made perfect sense. The weekend the World Series would have been happening—the Expos vs. the Yankees, everyone likes to speculate—I proposed on a Sunday afternoon, October 23. The wedding was set for a Saturday in late July, as steamy as one could imagine, but the only weekend the church had left before school started—she was a teacher and I a journalist covering the scholastic beat, so summer had to be the season. By then I was doing everything I could to find a new job. After lunching with CBS broadcaster Jim Nantz for a Westport News profile, he gave both advice and inspiration about how to change my lot in life. Tapping a reserve of energy I did not know I had, I volunteered to cover ballgames for a radio station in Greenwich, WGCH, where I knew the sports coordinator, who himself was trying to move out of the humdrum life of small-time sports writing. I worked for the station a few times per month, but I did the drill often enough to know that I really didn’t like it very much either. But it was better than waiting for luck to find me or imagining myself spending Thanksgivings until the end of time on a high school football field, jotting down every carry and taking never-ending notes for an occupation I no longer enjoyed. As the radio guy I went to station, picked up the cumbersome and outdated equipment, arrived at Shea early, stood around for batting practice, ate the tasteless yet free buffet for press, sat in the press box—the open-air auxiliary press box for us low-tech radio types—watched the game, descended to the locker room after the game, and then returned to the radio station and strung together quotes and commentary for a few 45-second sound bytes for the morning drive. I rarely even heard the reports since the low wattage station couldn't even be picked up at my place at the other end of the county. I collected innocuous quotes from anyone I felt wouldn’t bite my inexperienced head off. Mets featured in my WGCH radio reports included Bobby Jones, Doug Henry, and Tim Bogar—though manager Dallas Green, who definitely could bite, often had the best quotes. I also interviewed Jim Leyritz of the Yankees (yes, I went to Yankee Stadium, too—day games only) and Steve Avery of the Braves (John Smoltz darted to a back room while Greg Maddux officially blew me off after the season finale at Shea). Most of the rest of the time I stood silently with my large tape recorder in front of a subject while a beat guy like Marty Noble or John Harper fired away with insightful questions. Sometimes the queries were angering—you do not want to be standing a foot from Dallas Green, a mountain of a man prone to fury, while others prod him from across the room following a one-run loss. The radio gig also enabled me to blow off many wedding-related events where my presence was required only as a courtesy. Instead of picking up my fiancée after her bridal shower and making nice with the ladies, I was standing near the Yankees showers trying not to get caught in the tractor beam of Derek Jeter’s frighteningly blue eyes after his first big game as a fill-in. I couldn’t believe they would send Jeter back to the minors in favor of 1993 Mets dog Tony Fernandez. Jeter would be well past 3,000 hits by now if they hadn’t demoted him. And maybe they wouldn’t have lost the last three games to Seattle that fall in the Division Series. Oh well. There was never a chance of the Mets playing in the postseason. They blew three leads in the season opener, a game I refused to listen to because of my lingering anger about the strike (pre-Wrigley meditation). That opener was a glass-smashing 14-inning disaster that christened Coors Field as the worst stadium in baseball for a visiting team. (All these years later the 26-39 Mets mark at Coors sounds better than it should be given the horrors they have endured at altitude). The Mets quickly sunk to fourth place and there they stayed—until my honeymoon, when they dropped into the basement. It was then that I vowed to forgo the Mets for the rest of the trip. Letting two-day old Mets scores in the newspaper anger me was no way to begin married life. It wasn’t until the flight home, when I stumbled across a Sunday Daily News on the plane, that I got filled in on all the dirt. And then the in-flight movie was Tommy Boy. Holy Schnike! Bobby Bonilla and Bret Saberhagen had been traded for spare parts and five-tool bust Alex Ochoa. Shortly after I got home—and just as the Dodgers arrived at Shea—the Mets traded Brett Butler to Los Angeles. Then the Mets swept L.A. Jose Vizcaino was on fire. Rico Brogna was suave. Carl Everett was just sane enough to be dangerous. Joe Orsulak, one of the few elder statesmen on the team, was a 1990s ballplayer who played the game like it was the 1890s. And the team’s youngster, 20-year-old Edgardo Alfonzo, showed promise even if he was slow and rarely pulled the ball. Man, could he field. The pitching was still nondescript, but it got better quickly. The Mets brought up two kids with long names and power arms: Jason Isringhausen and Bill Pulsipher. Izzy won 20 games all told between the majors and minors while accruing 223 innings at both levels. Pulse threw 218 innings all told. Izzy had been ranked the game’s 37th best prospect by Baseball America before the year; Pulse was number 12. Another kid in the minors, the previous year’s top overall draft pick, was ranked number 16. After his second year in the minors he shot to number two, behind only Andruw Jones of the Braves. But it wasn’t just some far-off future that Mets fans could latch on to. It was happening now. The Mets finished 1995 with a 27-15 flourish and climbed into a tie for second place—albeit six games under .500 and a 21 games out of first place. And that was after sweeping the final homestand from disinterested division champs Cincinnati and Atlanta. Those clubs would fight it out for the pennant, with Atlanta winning the NLCS and beating Cleveland for the world championship to reverse the 1948 World Series result and spoil the Tribe’s first trip to the Series since their last October date—two franchise shifts and 47 years ago against the Bravos. So Atlanta won the World Series. Big deal. Actually it was kind of a big deal for me because the Total Baseball people, whom I’d stumbled into a couple of years earlier because of an interview with Westport resident and Diamonds author Michael Gershman, called to ask if I would contribute biographies for the books Total Indians and Total Braves, being produced post haste for Penguin Books and Major League Baseball. The same people had asked me to also create content for the website AT&T interchange. It taught me that with a little time and effort, my work could stand next to these “big-time” sportswriters who were also involved in this project. It also taught me about this here thing called the Internet, which I’d barely heard of previously. Ah, naïve ’95, back then we still did our procrastinating the old-fashioned way: with the radio at my side and hands-on reading material. From here on in, I’d be killing time with the whole world wide web (or what there was of it in ’95) a mere phone call away. |
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June 24, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 1994 By my 20th season following the Mets, I understood one thing about this franchise: They started thinking about the fans when they were worried about losing them. And after 1993, there was plenty of reason to worry. The 1993 Mets had insulted, the city, the press, and the fans. The Yankees, after a few down years, had a slew of young players who could not only play, but were in the final stages of completing a takeover for the heart of the baseball fan. Easily-wooed New York fans no longer rooted for the Mets out of default as they had since the mid-1980s. The borderline fan again considered the Yankees their team. The Yankees cruised to the AL’s best record. At Shea in 1994 a Nickelodeon theme park materialized beyond the wall in center field, complete with children screaming and running around. I even stuck around one Sunday for 20 minutes to watch the kids run the bases, not appreciating the 90-minute drill this little dash becomes once you have an actual youngster or more in tow. Back in Queens for the first time since the 1970s was Mr. Met. Or maybe it was Mr. Met’s evil cousin, Comrade Met, a sinister looking, even-bigger-head-than-you’d-expect-on-a-giant-baseball-headed-man. He wasn’t the Mister Met who’d first appeared on the 1963 yearbook cover and seemed no relation to the fella who’d gone all bicentennial with that kooky tri-corned hat in ’76. This colossal-headed personage was scarier than a team that stole just 25 bases in a season with John Cangelosi—Sports Illustrated cover boy (for fighting)—leading the team with five steals. Jimmy Jim and I delighted in a Sammy Davis sing song “The Cangey Man” whenever Cangelosi sauntered to the plate. It was almost delicious that the Cangey Man, perhaps frowned on by manager Dallas Green for being too short—or too fast—should get released in early July yet still becoming the Met with the fewest steals to ever lead the club in that category. Of course, that he wound up leading in steals and the team never surpassed the 1973 club’s record-low 27 steals was because the 1994 season came to a crashing halt on August 11. But I’m not here to talk about the strike. I didn’t care what players and owners were quibbling about then, and I don’t care now. My only concern is that they never, ever, never, never, ever, never have another strike in my lifetime. Ever. Are you listening NFL? Sometimes My Mind Plays Tricks on Me Still, it was a great summer. The Mets were watchable again. And by watchable I mean watchable for people who don’t go to 20 games per year and catch almost every other game on TV or go to pains to listen in on the radio. Or who treat a Darryl Kile September ’93 no-hitter against the Mets at the Astrodome like a death in the family. I had lived away from the Mets for most of their run to greatness from 1984 until their sudden drop like a rock in ’91. I spent the first and last months of the season out of contact with the team while purportedly studying in Virginia, or later spending all but a few Shea weekends in Massachusetts churning out copy on the selectmen in Buckland or the Saturday night contra dance in Ashfield. One of the benefits of moving back to the New York area had been the ability to watch the team every night on TV, listen to them without static on the radio, and with an unexpected but certainly added bonus of free tickets to almost any game of my choosing. And what did I get for my trouble in 1992 and ’93? “The Worst Team Money Could Buy” and the even more frightening real-life sequel. Like a Twilight Zone hell for people without strong imaginations or interesting goals. After the ’93 team went 49-100 from April 15 to September 28, the Mets ended the season with a six-game winning streak. The meaningless year-end flourish felt like a personal slap in the face due to the Flushing Bay wade-in wager, but that season-ending streak helped make the start to ’94 that much more sweet. The Mets opened the year with a sweep at Wrigley Field—no thanks to the Tuffy Rhodes three-homer outburst against an unDoc-like Gooden on Opening Day—forging a nine-game winning streak over a two-year span. And by virtue of not getting swept (or no-hit) at the Astrodome that first weekend of the season, I could laugh off losing to the Cubs at Shea’s opener that Monday. There was enough excitement about the team that the free tickets went to others and I gladly bought seats above the Mets bullpen in right field for the home opener. The Mets, who back then still played mostly afternoon games on their first homestand of the year due to actual concerns about fan comfort, blew an 8-3 eighth-inning lead in a Thursday matinee against Chicago. Showing a resiliency they hadn’t displayed since I moved back to the area, the Mets came right back on Jeff Kent’s second home run of the day—after a Cangey Man single—and wound up with a wild 10-9 win. Facing Darryl Kile for the first time since the no-hitter, Kent again homered twice on Sunday, including a tie-breaking two-run shot in the eighth, to win a series against rookie manager Terry Collins’s Astros. I was at Shea and ecstatic. The Mets were 7-4! The Mets reached the dizzying heights of four games over .500 in early May before spending pretty much the rest of the year a shade below .500. They fell all the way to 10 games under on July 3, but then bobbed back closer to the surface. There were a lot of Mets to root for that year in place of the discard pile that had made up the 1993 roster. Bret Saberhagen, who barely resembled Kansas City’s two-time Cy Young winner and World Series MVP in his first two seasons in New York, channeled Christy Mathewson in 1994. He, in fact, beat Matty at his own game—winning 14 while walking only 13; Sabes also fanned 143 in 177 innings and had a 2.74 ERA. Bobby Jones (12-7, 3.15 ERA) was unspectacular yet impressive in his first full season in the majors. Though none of them lasted in New York, the Mets had several players who went on to be major league regulars elsewhere: Rico Brogna, David Segui, Jeff Kent, Fernando Vina, Jose Vizcaino, Mike Remlinger, Josias Manzanillo, and Dwight Gooden. Yes, Dwight Gooden. Doc was caught using drugs while I was on a trip in Colorado. The odd ParaDocs has been better explained by others, but since I heard a single radio report about the incident while I was a couple thousand miles from home on what was an otherwise great trip—including a return voyage to Mile High Stadium, this time to see major league ball—I will always feel a surreal sense of loss about the end of Doc’s tenure as a Met. To me it felt as if he just disappeared... like some worn and beloved suitcase I’d carried around forever, that I’d brought on every fantastic trip, only to have it one day mislaid by a carrier, and simply gone. Forever. No reimbursement could make up what was lost. The summer of ’94 was bizarre in many ways. First, there were now three divisions, with former rivals Chicago, St. Louis, and Pittsburgh relegated to the newfangled NL Central. The Braves, never worthy of much thought as a foe beyond the 1969 NLCS, were now in the NL East—just in time to dominate the senior circuit. (Where was this concern for geographic redistricting when the Braves were sucking eggs and the Pirates, Cardinals, and Cubs were finishing first in the NL East eight times between 1982-1992?) And it’s worth noting that the Montreal Expos, built from scratch more times than the little pig’s house of sticks, were kicking butt in this new world order. Les Expos stood 36 games over .500 and seven games ahead of Atlanta after a 19-2 run to close July and roll into August. While there were now wild card standings, there were fewer rivalries. The NL adopted the AL’s boring method of playing every team in the league essentially the same number of times. Yet 1994 threw a monkey wrench into this method, with the Mets playing more games against the Dodgers, Giants, and Padres than against any division foe. You can’t blame that on the schedule maker. I’d like to blame the ever-present union rep: Tom Glavine. Though David Cone also said enough stupid crap to make me loathe him as well. I hated them all—player and owner alike. And not for a second did any of them ever act like the season might be completed or a compromise reached. It didn’t matter how close Matt Williams got to 61 home runs (43 in 112 games) or how high Tony Gwynn batted (.394), they were shutting it all down. I resented Jeff Bagwell, even before I knew about “steroid profiling,” because the strike won him the MVP. A pitch broke his hand a few days before the August 11 strike. In any normal year, the MVP would have gone to someone else because Bagwell would have missed too many games. But then again no one deserved any award for ’94. Everyone deserved a big fat “F” or at least an “Incomplete.” A bunch of people from the Westport News were in the stands watching the New Haven Ravens, the new Class AA team for the Rockies, in the fantastic setting of Yale Field on the evening of August 11. As we hammered down beers and counted down the hours until the strike began at midnight on that Thursday night, we all agreed that historic Yale Field was the way baseball should be. To hell with the big league fat cats intent on ruining summer. We listened to music on the way back to my new apartment in Fairfield—a few days earlier I’d reluctantly moved out of the house with the guys in Stamford after the lease ran out. When I turned on the TV back at my cramped little pad, what should be on the set but SportsChannel. The Mets were still playing. It was extra innings in Philadelphia. Bonus coverage when almost every other team in the majors had gone dark as midnight approached. The crisply played 1-1 game moved on well into extra innings: 11, 12, 13, 14… the innings zipped by as our earlier vows to hang tough disappeared like smoke in the rain. By inning 15 at the Vet, I wanted them to play all night, to play forever, to still be out there playing when they solved this damned strike. It wasn’t an utterly impossible thought. There was the 33-inning game in Pawtucket in ’82 and then the ’85 strike lasted barely a day, and… base hit by Phillie Ricky Jordan, Billy Hatcher scores. The game is over. The season is over. The whole damned thing is over. |
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June 19, 2011 Listening in from the Clubhouse A special thank you to Jay Goldberg at Bergino Baseball Clubhouse for having me speak there. I’d heard a lot about the place and it was a great place to be in Greenwich Village or anywhere else. His shop in the historic Cast Iron Building at 67 East 11th Street has a lot of cool baseball stuff, including shirts, art, handmade baseballs, and more—most of which have a little retro feel for the game we love. Bergino’s also has a nice selection of baseball books, including a couple of signed copies of New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History. And if you want to find out how our little demonstration went, listen in here. |
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June 16, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 1993 I do not gamble. I used to, but I learned my lesson the hard way. I went to Las Vegas in June of 1992 and maxed out my credit card and ATM card, wandered Caesar’s Palace, unable to find my way back to the room in this Romanesque labyrinth, and returned time and again to the roulette table. The future site of The Hangover scoffed at me. I kept losing, my pockets filled with slips guaranteed to pay off big if the Phoenix Cardinals won the Super Bowl at 75-to-1 odds. The Cards went 4-12. As bad as it was to fly home with a borrowed $5 bill in my pocket—and having my homebound luggage lost for a day—I recovered. Come 1993, I figured the things that had haunted me in 1992 would dissolve. Among the most disturbing memories from ’92 was the high-priced and poorly-thought-out Mets exploding like a zeppelin upon contact with New Jersey. But life was going to be different in 1993. For the Mets and for me. No more bets, please. No more bets. The book landed with a thud on the stomach of every Mets fan. There was no internet to warn the gentle reader just how damaging a book on the previous Mets season could be. “Why would they want to write about the 1992 Mets?” was the question. “Oh,” was the response upon hearing the title. The Worst Team Money Could Buy chronicled a team that was lazy, selfish, bloated, pompous, poorly-run, and most pertinently, a loser. The ’92 Mets lost 90 times, which by Mets standards I’d seen before, but no Mets team ever lost so distastefully. Beat writers turned authors Bob Klapisch and John Harper provided insights not just on the team and the organization, but on their profession as well. After reading the book, thoughts I still harbored about becoming a beat writer faded quickly. The authors just didn’t make the job sound like much fun and the stress was far greater than I envisioned. And what if I was lucky enough to cover the Mets? I was guaranteed to hate them for life. Why did I need that? I was 28, still a few steps away on the uphill climb to the beat writer job at a paper I wasn’t yet qualified to work for. But sometimes in the newspaper business you catch a break. That’s how I’d ended up sports editor in Westport. That’s how I ended up on the field at Shea Stadium. Since the Greenwich News was in our chain, I secured press credentials for a Mets-Padres game to interview Greenwich native Tim Teufel, yet another banished ’86 Met. I have rarely been as nervous as I was that Friday around the batting cage, standing on a major league field for the first time. Teufel answered every question I had about his hometown and Mets career…and then he answered them again after the game when I realized the recorder I’d borrowed had left a Nixon-like gap in the tape. In between Teufel interviews, the Mets beat the Padres. It was April 23 and the Mets stood at 8-7. They were tied for fourth place with the Cubs in the new seven-team NL East, trailing the Phillies, Expos, and Cards. They were ahead of the Pirates, something that had rarely occurred over the past four years. They were also well ahead of the 5-11 Marlins, that new expansion team with the teal uniforms. Dave Magadan or no, they were sure to lose 100 times. It seemed like 8-7 would be a stepping off point; instead, it was the high water mark. From that point on the Mets were a 51-96 team, dropping like a stone through the standings. As they fell, I fell with them. Could have drowned. The Mets lost seven straight following the Padres win I saw from the press box. The most deflating defeat of April was the one witnessed from the mezzanine in the Sunday rubber match with the Padres. Jimmy Jim and I were double dating with our future wives; it was the Mets we felt like ditching. In that one afternoon the Mets started a brawl with Gary Sheffield over peeking in at catcher Todd Hundley for pitch location. Then came the laziest moment of crazy 1993. Tony Fernandez, whom the New York Times had hailed as “the greatest shortstop to play in New York since Pee Wee Reese,” tossed a relay throw home like Opie skipping a rock at Mayberry Pond, not really caring if it landed true or not. After a Mets comeback, the Padres, who would lose 101, scored the winning run when Charlie O’Brien, replacement for the ejected Hundley, threw away a ball on a double steal. The 9-8 loss was hung on Anthony Young, his 16th straight defeat dating back to ’92. And A.Y. was just getting warmed up. Anthony Young kept on losing. Even as his ERA dropped to 3.42, he lost his 20th straight decision, breaking the club record for consecutive losses set by Craig Anderson, who lost 19 straight for the more inept, yet far more interesting, Mets of the 1962 to 1964 era. So manager Dallas Green—ham-handed Jeff Torborg had been fired before Memorial Day of ’93 after a Joe Frazier-esque 13-25 start—shifted A.Y. to the starting rotation in mid-June. And the losing continued. He dropped six straight starts, enough to break Cliff Curtis’s 82-year-old mark from the brutal Boston Braves—someone even contacted the Mets to arrange séance between Young and Curtis. The Mets didn’t take the fellow up on that, but they did remove Young from the rotation. So A.Y. rejoined the bullpen and suffered a 5-4 defeat to the Dodgers on July 24, his 27th straight loss. With that walkoff loss in L.A., the Mets had accumulated fewer wins in the standings than they were games under .500. When your record is say 5-11, that’s a bad start but you can recover from that. When you have 32 wins and are 33 games under .500, you are an abomination. And then Vince Coleman, another abomination, who’d injured Dwight Gooden swinging a golf club in the clubhouse earlier in the year, injured a toddler by throwing a firecracker at some fans after a game at Dodger Stadium. Bret Saberhagen would try to out-stupid him by spraying bleach on reporters, but since Coleman was subsequently banished, I think Vince won that battle of Mets morons. When the Westport American Legion ballclub put together a double-digit losing streak, I came up with what I thought was a clever and timely headline: “Westport Legion Playing Like Pros, Too Bad It’s the Mets.” A parent at the next game standing near me said to a friend: “That headline was just cruel. The Mets?” Yes, the Mets. Sorry, m’am. Lerno, Pepe, and I went to the game on July 28. The Mets were actually shooting for a three-game winning streak, which would match their longest streak of the year to that point. Florida tied the game on a two-out double in the eighth by the immortal Orestes Destrade, but rookie right fielder Jeromy Burnitz denied the go-ahead run by throwing to rookie shortstop Tim Bogar, who relayed to the plate to nail Marlin Gary Sheffield. (By this point the no mas Pads had dumped Sheffield—they did get this kid named Trevor Hoffman in exchange—while the Mets jettisoned the disinterested Tony Fernandez, who was magnificent in Toronto, and received Darrin Jackson, who was seriously ill for his Mets tenure.) In the ninth inning Anthony Young was on the hill and this time the luckless one screwed up himself rather than wait for a teammate to do it. Hundley did help with an error, but Young chose poorly on a ball bunted back to him and the go-ahead run scored on an infield hit. A.Y. really deserved to lose this one. But Jeff McKnight, he of the many uniform numbers, singled and was bunted to second by Dave Gallagher. Ryan Thompson knocked in the tying run and then Eddie Murray drilled a double to bring in the winner. The remains of the Wednesday night crowd of 24,377 gave high fives and hugged and smiled and danced at the end of the A.Y. streak from hell. Lerno and Pepe and I marched into the Diamond Club and slapped a $50 on the bar to celebrate—Wednesday was, after all, payday. The moribund Mets were still actually checking to see if you had a pass to enter the club. How did we get one? Funny you should ask. Dirty Water (It’s not like stealing “Sweet Caroline” or anything) A friend with Mets season tickets was in his second year of law school in 1993. Because he is the main character in the dumbest part of this tale and we don’t want to detract from his reputation as a barrister, we’ll just call him D. Well, when I moved in with my roommates in Stamford in September of ’92, I noticed that his tickets mostly sat unused in a drawer. To me, this was a sin. I took over distribution of the tickets and did so for several years. I made sure the tickets were used on a nightly basis. It was a great gig, but the ’93 Mets were so bad that even giving away free tickets was hard work. I got a lot of “thanks but no” responses until I found a charity that took them a couple of times per homestand. I wound up going 20 times because I was dating and I did have passes to Shea’s exclusive restaurant and bar back when that was as much exclusivity as the Mets could muster. Somehow, I saw a team with a putrid .346 winning percentage go 10-10 when I was at Shea. That included a 17-inning contest, the longest game I’ve ever witnessed. With me were three unsuspecting Westport News photographers who were just hoping to go down to the late September game and have a few pops. Instead, they witnessed a rapid fire scoreless game with a young Bobby Jones going the first 10. (Dallas Green, 143 pitches? Who do you think this rookie was? Al Leiter?) We got there just after first pitch and last call came about 90 minutes later. In the 15th inning, we four, parched beyond comprehension, went to the Diamond Club and watched Kenny Greer’s lone major league win from there. By then the Mets were at 103 losses. The 17-inning win was part of a season-ending six-game winning streak culminating in a sweep of the Marlins, who had long since clinched sixth place. The Marlins never did lose 100. Even after getting swept to end the year they still wound up at 98. The Mets swept expansion Colorado to open the season and expansion Florida to end it. In between the Mets played like the expansion club. That's how I got into trouble. Along with a really dumb bet. When it seemed that the Mets were merely in a spring funk, D. bet some college friends that should the Mets finish behind the expansion Marlins, he would walk into Flushing Bay. He did not walk in alone because there are no free tickets. I tied myself to this foolhardy wager and went down with the ship. For those who wondered how I always came up with Mets tickets in the years that followed: A friendship forged in Flushing Bay is stronger than steel. So on the final Saturday of September, after covering a high school football game, I donned a heinous, ill-fitting Mets giveaway T-shirt, paisley shorts, boxers and socks without elastic, and a blown-out pair of Chuck Taylor basketball shoes. A crowd of 15 or 20—thankfully no news coverage—greeted and jeered us as we hit the dirty water. Before going in past our waist in the waste, I read a quote in the Times from John Franco that ended with this observation: “On and off the field, we’ve been terrible for two years.” Sorry, John, by my count we were actually at terrible plus three years. I’d like to say the water wasn’t oozy or nasty or wet or cold. But it was all these things, even after anointing our skin with petroleum jelly like swimmers of the English Channel. Their cause is noble, ours stupid. A Toyota Celica hung half out of the water, like some bad mob hit gone awry that wound up creating a coral reef. An RV served as headquarters in Flushing Bay’s Marina Lot and T-shirts bearing the words “Bleach, Bombs, and the Basement” were handed out. When the dirty work in the dirty water was done, our guests drank from a keg in the parking lot, while in the RV a team in contamination suits cleaned us. Or we took showers. I forget which. Note to kids, don’t try this at home. But if you do, it goes quicker if you’re a little drunk. Throw away any article of clothing you wear into the Bay, but bring the keg and RV to the Jets game the next day. So now the tale is told. D. and others have long badgered me to include this tale in my Mets writing through the years. Happy? Maybe this disclosure will kill book sales, but after almost 18 years I think whatever was in that water is not going to kill me. The Mets are another matter. |
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June 6, 2011 Dating Myself Memorial Day was last week, but please remember the bravery and sacrifice of those who landed on the beaches of Normandy to start liberating western Europe and bring about the end of World War II. It's also Bud Harrelson's birthday. Here are some other dates of interest coming up. Sunday, June 12: Woodstock Little League Old-Timers Day The town famous for the rock festival that bore its name--while avoiding the hassle of hosting the actual event--turns it eyes to baseball at beautiful Rick Volz Little League Field, Dixon Ave. & Yerry Hill Rd., Woodstock, NY. I'll be selling and signing books. Peace. Tuesday, June 14: Bergino Baseball Clubhouse Talking and signing books at this wonderful little baseball enclave at the Flat Iron Building, 67 East 11th Street, 212-226-7150. It is an honor to do an event there. Mets Inside Pitch: Thanks to Andy Esposito and the gang at that fine publication, who saw fit to include a review of a couple of my projects in the July 2011 issue, the one with the dual Chrises on the cover. |
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June 3, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 1992 What we thought was simply a pothole in the path to perpetual greatness turned out to be the road to perdition. In 1992 the ride officially ended. One bad year is a fluke. Two in a row is, well, a dead giveaway that your team is bad. And like the Yankees of that time found out the hard way, you cannot simply spend your way out of this quandary. New York baseball in ’92 was in a heap of trouble like we haven’t seen since. The Yankees were the big problem. Their owner, George Steinbrenner, was in the second year of a lifetime ban from day to day operations for hiring a two-bit crook to dig up dirt on Dave Winfield so as to stiff the outfielder’s charity. Their top relief pitcher, Steve Howe, was likewise banned for life for repeated problems with drugs. In both cases, life sentences had them back on the job in the Bronx soon enough, but in 1992 it at least felt like justice was being meted out. The Yankees were indeed in limbo. The Yankees had traded away future stars for aging vets by the bushel full for much of the 1980s. Now they were paying for it. They endured their fourth straight losing season, which included a last-place finish in 1990—and not one of those “someone-had-finish-to-finish-fifth-in-a-tight-division” deals like you might see now, this was a “full-on, worst team in the league, seventh-place suckathon.” John Schuerholz, who’d made the slick move of going from general manager of the Royals to the same position with the Braves, told the New York Times that he’d actually spent large chunks of his time in Kansas City worrying about competitive balance—not for his club, but for the Yankees! Could the Yankees compete with the Royals? “We used to talk about it in Kansas City all the time, how important it is for the American League and all of baseball for the Yankees franchise to be very strong, for it to be the Yankees again,” Schuerholz said in 1992, unable to see the irony his words would have. “It doesn’t do anybody any good to see that organization struggle.” Yeah, but it feels so good. If there had been interleague play then, a Mets-Yankees series might have seen attendance not much better than the 26,000 who came to the Bronx for the ’92 preseason Mets-Yankees home-and-home series that filled in for the long-dead Mayor’s Trophy Game. The Yankees won both exhibition games against the Mets on New York soil that spring. The Mets even found time that weekend to christen a new state-of-the-art park in Baltimore. They lost. In fact, the Mets dropped their last six exhibition games heading into the season and lost their voice as well. Rape allegations against three Mets had created a circus atmosphere in otherwise dull Port St. Lucie. The Mets instituted a brief media boycott that lasted until Dave Magadan and good clubhouse guy Willie Randolph convinced their teammates that they should open their mouths once more. And they did—again filling the air with pithy quotes. “I won’t say who will win it,” David Cone told the New York Times on the eve of the regular season. “But I will say for sure that we won’t fall out of the race by July. There will be some exciting games in September.” Cone did pitch meaningful games in September… as a Blue Jay. There was plenty of trouble to be had in 1992. Sinead O’Connor tore up a picture of the Pope on Saturday Night Live and then cried as she was booed off the stage a few weeks later at the Bob Dylan tribute concert at Madison Square Garden. Speaking of tough musical moments, Yoko Ono released a boxed set, “Achy Breaky Heart” almost breakied my achy eardrum, and people insisted on playing Kenny G. in non-makeout settings. But there was Soul Asylum and the Gin Blossoms and Cracker releasing music that I came to enjoy. I was so into CDs and mixing tapes that by the early 1990s I was buying CDs of LPs that I owned and still had a working turntable to play them on. I was pretty much at the point of no return in technology. I was also pretty much to the point of no return in Massachusetts. I loved the town and the paper and the people and my employers, but all those friend weddings, those two-day reunions, had made me feel… I don’t know… left behind. Unhappy. To me, 27 was too old—or was it too young?—to feel this way. So after numerous attempts at finding jobs at other newspapers all over the country, and getting close enough for an interview on half a dozen occasions, I decided I could no longer wait. I was going home. I left Massachusetts for good in mid-June, saying goodbye to many good people. A few weeks later I was on a ballpark tour with P., visiting people I rarely got to see and going to ballparks that have all since been razed, save for new Comiskey and the place where we started the whole shebang: Camden Yards. I mapped out the whole trip on a flight (to another wedding) using a wall calendar and a preseason guide that had all the schedules. This was the most planning I’d done in my life to that point. Worked out pretty well.
Locale Local interest Washington/Baltimore/Frederick Broke in new park; saw old pals Duck & Crum; visited Antietam Battlefield. Columbus/Cincinnati OSU Germantown rocks; raging sunburn and buzz at Riverfront; love at first slurp of Cincinnati chili. Louisville/St. Louis Louisville Slugger and Churchill Downs tours; no game due to All-Star break; blurry, Bud-dy. Peoria Illinois State Fair with West County News alum Andrea; Peoria Chiefs game and free hat. Chicago Wiffle and Sunday doubleheader with oversize softball for Fred’s team; uninspiring new Comiskey. Milwaukee/Madison Essen Haus, brawl at Madison Muskies game; two Brewers games; people so nice, so blonde. Cleveland Biddy let us stay at his place while he was away; three straight Indians walkoff wins at Municipal Stadium. Toledo/Detroit Klinger was right, Packo's rocks; give me Tiger Stadium over any park; Ann Arbor beats Columbus—barely. Canton/Pittsburgh NFL Hall of Fame is no Cooperstown; Three Rivers Stadium is no Shea.
And then we were home. You plan something and look forward to it for a long time, make the phone calls, and do all the correspondence that was much harder to keep on top of in the ’90s than it is today. And then you know what? It’s over. P. is off to grad school. You don’t have a job. You’re living with your parents. And that team of yours? Well, it just plain sucks. You won’t know exactly how much they suck until the next year when the definitive book on the subject comes out, but the Mets are a total flop. Vince Coleman? A deadly mix of combativeness and mediocrity. Bret Saberhagen? Hurt. Eddie Murray? No one told him the media boycott was over. Anthony Young? Wholly without luck. David Cone? Traded. And Bobby Bonilla? Ugh. He tried to deflect attention like his glove deflected balls hit his way. I was at the afternoon game against the Cubs where he charged in on a soft liner by Greg Maddux and let the ball get by him to clear the bases and make it a 7-0 game (back when the Mets didn’t come back from these kind of early deficits). In the first inning. He immediately called the press box to complain about the official scorer’s decision. The closest thing we had to a text message or email back then was the fax. Gregg Jefferies could have faxed him a note: “E-9, dude. You earned it. Now go get your fargin’ ear plugs.” Of course, by June of ’92 the blockbuster Saberhagen deal had long ago sent Jefferies to Kansas City, along with Kevin McReynolds and Keith Miller, whose hustle I so much enjoyed. P. and I heckled the hell out of McReynolds and Jefferies for three days at the Mistake by the Lake in Cleveland. The people around us—and there weren’t many at the empty colossus—had never heard a baseball fan heckle a Royal. They thought we were insane. And then they realized we were just from New York. Back at Shea Stadium, people were booing the players in the home white. In Bobby Bo’s defense—though there was no defense to his defense—I was there when he smacked a walkoff homer that caused Rob Dibble to tear his throwback jersey off his body as he left the field on Sunday Night Baseball. I also personally witnessed Bobby Bo’s old team, the Pirates, whip the Mets four times. I was only listening on the radio when Bill Pecota, a throw-in from the Royals in the Saberhagen deal, became the first Mets position player to pitch in a game. It just happened to be the game that clinched Pittsburgh’s third straight division championship—or one more than the 1980s Mets won. A far more successful player to pitcher conversion was Pirates rookie Tim Wakefield. I saw the knuckleballer shut out the Mets on the last day of the season, with Randolph batting for the last time in the major leagues (he walked). I drove right from Shea to the Meadowlands for what I was calling “The Doubleheader of Doom” to see Sunday night Jets-Patriots. The Jets won. It wouldn’t happen often. With fall underway, I finally got around to making some serious inquiries at newspapers about openings. I knew that at a larger paper, I’d have to either be a sports guy, a news guy, or a photographer—I couldn’t do all three like I had at the West County News. Since I didn’t know how to develop photos, critical to being a photographer at the time, that career was out. And since I often faked my enthusiasm for news stories I was covering, that made it a difficult field to succeed in. So that left sports—where I soon learned how to fake my enthusiasm for any athletic event that wasn’t baseball. Though I did actually come to enjoy field hockey, cross country, and any sport that had a good chance of ending less than 90 minutes after it began. I started with an interview at the Greenwich News. They had no full-time openings, but they were interested in having me be a stringer. I was waiting for that first assignment a day later when the phone rang and another newspaper in the chain, in Westport, was on the line. They needed a sports editor. Since my résumé was the last on the pile, it was the first to get passed around. All those cover letters I’d typed and interviews I’d traveled hours to get to. All the angst I used up waiting for a call or letter to inform me if I got the job. (Not one ever called or sent a perfunctory note to even say I wasn't being hired.) So I ended up getting a good job by random chance. Just as by similar chance I met my future wife a month after I started at the paper—being a writer is a much better as a rap when someone is actually paying you to write. She was friends of my new roommate’s fiancé and was in my living room for an impromptu party for that day's proposal at the place we rented in Stamford. You just never know what you’ll find lying around the house. |
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May 26, 2011 A One of a Kind Brand In all my years coming to Flushing, I had never gone for Chinese food. I got my Mets and then usually left. Dana Brand, whom I had struck up a correspondence with after hiring him to write an essay for the first Maple Street Press Mets Annual, suggested we go to one of those little Chinese places a mile or so away from Shea Stadium for a Thursday afternoon game in May 2008. We had a nice lunch and talked about… literature. And writing. I felt as if I should be paying tuition instead of my portion of the check. I wish I could have taken one of his English classes at Hofstra because he really made you feel the life underneath the words on the page and it was sheer joy listening to him read aloud. I heard him read a few times from Mets Fan—one of my favorite books about the team and perhaps the most unique angle in the canon of Mets lit. That day over dim sum we talked about James Joyce—he suggested reading Ulysses rather than Finnegan’s Wake—and that led in its own Brandian way back to the Mets. We discussed a blog entry I’d written early in the life of this website about the last Mets-Expos game ever in 2005 at Shea and how I lost myself in recollection to the point where the piece became a sort of baseball version of Joyce’s epic short story, “The Dead.” I don’t bring this up to be ironic or clever. I bring it up for the comment I got back the next day from Dana, who went home after an excruciating 1-0 loss and read the 3,000-plus word opus on the final game of Montreal baseball’s life. When I got home last night, I read your piece about the death of the Expos and thought it was terrific and indeed, very Joycean. As you know from reading my book, I too believe that baseball offers us parallels to what goes on in life, as well as ways of dealing with aspects of reality that are particularly difficult to deal with. You experience a great deal of emotion when you lose a franchise or a stadium or a pennant and it is a parallel to and a kind of rehearsal for more significant failures and disappointments, just as baseball hope and triumph gives us a taste of imperishable happiness. I do not generally get correspondence like this. When I finished reading it, I felt like the professor had given me a B-plus in a 400-level Mets class. I say B-plus because he seemed a realistic grader and he ruefully informed me I had the wrong tense of a French verb in the original title. He was a master of French as well as English, naturalment. I let my email pile up in my inbox at a disturbing rate, but my computer can offer me a consoling piece of information now that Dana Brand has been taken from us so suddenly at age 56: Dana and I shared 50-odd emails through the years (plus an unknown number of back-and-forth comments on his blog). We corresponded just last week about whether he was going to Book Expo this week in New York. We shared an agent, which in itself tells plenty about the kind of person Dana was. I was incredibly frustrated that an agent I believed was taking me on abruptly rejected me. I asked Dana if he had any recommendations and he put me in touch with his agent. He actually worked as an agent for both the agent and me until we could meet up. And then he gave me gave me detailed advice about Facebook after I’d mentioned possibly joining it as a way to gain more readers and exposure. All this was not just some professional courtesy, it was a grand gesture that many would not have made, and all I had hoped for was the name of an agent I might contact, not arranging a meeting and speaking eloquently on my behalf. We all went to a game last year in Champions Club seats I’d arranged as a celebration of this union. We went to a game together each year since the dim sum game—all losses, of course—and I had hoped we would do it again this year. I am envious that Greg Prince got that opportunity by chance. I did accidentally run into Dana the last day at Shea, sitting alone quietly in the Mezzanine. Like a scene in a tragic play he might have taught at Hofstra, he was sitting right there when I popped through the portal, also on my own. We talked because we were friends, but we were both devastated by the goings on that day, hoping to move forward from what was the final act to our own decades-long Shea passion plays. Plays that had gone on independently yet were still somehow synchronized. And here we were on closing night, the darkness creeping around us, peering in at us, whispering its last secrets. Dana was very attached to Shea—as his tremendous book, The Last Days of Shea, makes so very clear. He kept coming back on his way from Hofstra to see the place incrementally torn down throughout that winter. Geography kept me from witnessing this slow and painful spectacle, but I was glad that Dana was there to report it, interpret it, serve it up as pathos for future generations who may not otherwise understand what Shea meant to so many people. Even Dana would admit that Shea was a questionable piece of architecture, but it was a place of millions of shared experiences. The people may have been from myriad tax brackets, ethnicities, ages, interests, and levels of concentration, but they were in it together from the 1960s through 2008. Dana was there to tell us what we’d seen and what we would miss. Do miss. Dana was unique in his books and on his blog, because it came from the heart—mixed with a natural pessimism that could only come from someone who hitched his wagon to the Mets at age seven when he and the Mets were Brand new (laughter needed). Someone who came from a house where his mother simply said that their family didn’t worry about what the Yankees were doing. And so Dana never worried about them again. He certainly worried about the Mets, cared for them, and spoke for all of us who do. He put into words things I cannot express, about why we follow this team, why we wait patiently for the abuse, why we don’t just give up. Frankly, he made me proud to be a Mets fan. And an English major. Dana’s bitterness over Citi Field was not hidden. But on the last page of The Last Days of Shea, he recanted, as only he could. The new stadium is here. I am tired of resenting it. I meant all the bitter things I said about it, and I am still critical of all the things I criticized. What I feel about what is gone is too deep to be cleared by an easy gesture of reconciliation. Still, I don’t want to spend what I have left on something that is gone I want to enjoy myself. I want to enjoy the Mets and baseball. Shea isn’t here any more. People are what made it great. Especially someone who was there from the beginning, was a teenager to soaked up 1969, who spent an afternoon hanging out at Tom Seaver’s house, who as a Yale student would stop Yale president and future commissioner Bart Giamatti on the campus and talk baseball, who actually got the Mets to give him whatever he needed for the 50th Anniversary Mets Conference that was scheduled at Hofstra for next year. I don’t know how such an event can happen without Dana. But he’d probably say the show must go on. Just as the Mets now have to play without him for the first time. But he'll always be there in some form. He has to be. His brick outside Citi Field says: The Brands—Mets Fans Forever. |
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May 22, 2011 Perspective Provided If the Subway Series finale made you as perturbed as I initially was, a couple of items I read in the Sunday Daily News made me feel like a great big baby for the way I shut off the TV and slammed the sponge in the sink. Gary Carter has a brain tumor. One of only two players inducted in both the Mets Hall of Fame and the National Baseball Hall of Fame, Carter had been suffering from headaches recently. The man who ignited the greatest rally in Mets history is now trying to pull off another. It’s still early in the process, but his situation gives people even more reason to support Brain Tumor Awareness Night on Saturday night, May 28, against the Phils. I met Gary Carter once for a private audience at a book event Jon Springer and I were also at. He truly was as nice as he’s always been made out to be. I never met Tom Fersch, but Mike Lupica said very nice things about the longtime Mets fan who lived his dream job for the Mets for the past 17 years, setting up groups and charities to come to ballgames. He died at 49 of cancer the other night. Lupica passed on the info that the Mets win over the Yankees had been on in his room at the end. I don’t read Lupica nearly as often as I did when he was all over the 1980s Mets, but I was glad I read him Sunday afternoon. |
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May 19, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 1991 The 1991 season, like most years that end with a “1” in Mets history, was a year to forget. Forget that Darryl Strawberry had been replaced by 1980s fan favorite Hubie Brooks. Forget that Hubie was no Darryl. Forget that Bobby Ojeda had been sent to L.A. to retrieve Hubie. Forget that Vince Coleman was now the center fielder, proving to be as big a pain in the clubhouse as he’d been on the bases as a 100-theft Cardinal. Forget that the team had one catcher aged 37 and no pop (Rick Cerone) and another catcher with pop who couldn’t throw the ball back to the pitcher (Mackey Sasser). Forget that now five years after the ’86 World Series victory, the only Mets Opening Day starters left were Dwight Gooden and Howard Johnson. Forget the whole year. That is what I did. Sure, I followed the Mets as permitted by my perch in the middle of the Massachusetts woods, but it wasn’t easy and it wasn’t fun. Far more fun was attending the weddings whose invitations beckoned in my little PO Box with their starched white envelopes and requests for the pleasure of my company for what was sure to be more fun than I was coming in contact with at Shea Stadium or points north. In these nuptial journeys, I managed a few ballpark side trips. While I matched a career-low with just two games at Shea, I saw six games elsewhere (not counting two dates to Pittsfield to see Jerry Koosman as pitching coach of the P-Mets). East of the Mississippi I visited Wrigley Field, Fenway Park, and Olympic Stadium. (Yes, putting Montreal’s concrete mausoleum in the same sentence as the other two jewels sounds strange even 20 years later, though I did enjoy the “Big O” Molson vendors, as well as its metro friendly stadium stop and open roof.) The coup of the year, however, occurred on my visit to see my sister, brother, and DBird—now all ensconced in southern California. I hit three SoCal ballparks in three days: Dodger Stadium, Jack Murphy Stadium, and Anaheim Stadium. I even got to see the Dodgers-Braves fight it out in person for the NL West title—the only race of consequence I witnessed in ’91. As the Mets were going down, the Braves were coming up. Atlanta had lingered at the bottom of the NL West standings in the 1970s while the Mets were doing the same in the NL East. The Mets had reversed their role in the mid-1980s, but Atlanta had done little since a fluky 1982 division title that constituted the only postseason appearance in the first 14 years of Joe Torre’s managing career. A fan sign at Fulton-County Stadium, as noted in Sports Illustrated, said it all about the teams and Atlanta’s attitude toward same: “Go Braves… and take the Falcons with you.” Bobby Cox was the x-factor. He’d been the club’s general manager and he’d even served a tour as Braves manager while Torre still managed the Mets. Cox had turned around lost causes before, earning 1985 Manager of the Year for taking the previously hapless Blue Jays to their first division title. His 1991 Braves, a last-place team the previous year, reminded you a lot of those 1984 coming-out-of-nowhere Mets. They had the worldly ex-Cardinal (Terry Pendleton), the stud homegrown outfielder (David Justice), the feisty little everyman middle infielder (Mark Lemke), and the young pitching staff any team would kill for (Tom Glavine, John Smoltz, and Steve Avery). From a Mets fan’s perspective, it was refreshing to relive, even vicariously, now that Keith Hernandez, Darryl Strawberry, and Wally Backman were gone. The Mets still had the pitchers who’d made up the dominating young staff of the mid-1980s, but Gooden wasn’t his old dominating self, Sid Fernandez’s ballooning weight caused injuries elsewhere on his person, and Ron Darling…well, Ron Darling was gone. Almost the same time I was in Montreal to see the Mets win, Darling was being transferred there on a more extended basis—and by that I mean only slightly. Not long after the Mets sent Darling to les Expos for Tim Burke, Darling was shipped to Oakland. Olympic Stadium wasn’t safe either. A 55-tone concrete beam collapsed, forcing the Expos to run for cover, literally. Montreal finished the season on the road. Their doubleheader against the Mets in September represented the fewest patrons at Shea (4,355) since 1983, which happened to be the last time the Mets had a losing record—’83 was also the year before Davey Johnson took over. Sixteen months into the Mets’ post-Johnson period, Davey’s replacement was replaced. Bud Harrelson, who’d waited so long for his chance to run the team, had brought a flawed club to a second-place finish in 1990. The 1991 club’s flaws were more evident than a Gregg Jefferies fax, like the one he sent to the FAN to complain about everything—note to Gregg, not a great idea. The Mets were wholly inconsistent, registering the best (7-0) and worst (0-10) roadtrips in franchise history in a six-week span. The Mets were 53-38 on July 21 and 58-61 exactly a month later… and falling fast. One of the last acts of the Frank Cashen regime was to relieve Harrelson of his duties in late September. “They should have fired him before the All-Star break. What good is all of this now?” nine-year-old Mets fan Kara Ezrin questioned in the New York Times. Out of the mouths of babes… One-time Met Mike Cubbage had paid his dues managing in the club’s minor league system, finishing first five straight years and placing second his other two seasons. For his seven years in the bushes, the Mets gave him all of seven games in New York. They’d keep Cubbage around as a coach, sure, but this was New York, you needed someone big… Jeff Torborg big. That October the Twins and Braves, last-place teams a year earlier, put on one of the most entertaining World Series in history. You had to feel a little hopeful that maybe the Mets’ fifth-place finish was just an anomaly. I mean, Gooden and El Sid would be back, Coleman had to be better, and Howard Johnson was a bonafide star. Even on a miserable offensive team, HoJo had led the league with 38 homers and 117 RBIs, plus he’d managed 30 steals—and 31 errors (while playing three positions). With a few new parts and maybe a little more dough put into the club, the Mets would rise again. I had a hard time feeling it in 1991. There was the night I drove around in my car listening to the Mets-Braves game through static as pitcher Steve Avery collected four hits and allowed five in a 6-1 win. There was the way Frank Viola soured on his native New York—and we on him—as he followed a 20-win season and a great first half with a completely ineffective and mournful finish that left all involved counting the days until he left as a free agent to go bother someone else. Or the Saturday my buddies came to Massachusetts and hung out at my place to watch the Mets-Dodgers on Game of the Week on my ’lil TV rather than try to get a New England bar to turn off a Red Sox game in favor of the Mets. Gregg Jefferies rewarded us by botching two balls with the game on the line. Fax to Gregg: Bite me! And that’s it. You expected more out of 1991? Well, so did I. |
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May 15, 2011 On the Air and on Awareness On this soggy Sunday night, May 15, I’ll be on Long Island’s oldest radio station, AM 1240 at 9:25 p.m. Listen in, that is, if you can tear yourself away from the Posada Adventure in the Bronx. As someone who wouldn’t have played high school baseball at all if I’d refused to bat last—and I at least batted my weight—my advice is: suck it up, Jorge, suck it up. A more important date to put on your calendar is Saturday night, May 28, when the Mets take on the Phillies. It is brain tumor awareness night. People enjoy giving the Mets organization grief, but one thing the Mets recognize is that there are many ways to create awareness about how people around you might be suffering and might be helped. The team’s annual autism awareness night, held last week against the Dodgers, had a real success story. A boy wound up receiving treatment because a parent watching last year’s game on Channel 11 noticed the symptoms of autism in his infant son, got him checked, and it made a real difference in that family’s life. A brain tumor took the life of one of the Mets’ most vibrant performers, Tug McGraw. Sharon Chapman is the lone Mets marathon runner in a sea of Phillies red for the Tug McGraw Foundation, but that makes having brain tumor awareness night against the Phillies all the more poignant. Phillies and Mets fans can agree on only one thing: Losing Tug McGraw to a brain tumor before the age of 60 was a colossal waste. And losing anyone at any age to a brain tumor is tragic. I support Tug’s memory on baseball-reference and Sharon’s efforts, though I’m small potatoes compared to Sharon’s major web sponsor, Faith and Fear in Flushing. I’ll be out of town for the Mets-Phils series, but if you want to help the cause and see the Mets tame Philadelphia, forgot StubHub for a night and buy your tickets here. And help this worthy cause. |
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May 12, 2011 A NO 1 The above shorthand has been written on the family pen-and-ink stained calendar for months, continually baffling my wife as she tries to juggle baseball, softball, and track events with band recitals, Cub Scouts, CCD, and First Communion-related events. “What is ‘A NO 1’?” was asked more than once. That’s both a motto and “Iona” spelled backwards: A number one. My brothers, who were at all-boys Iona Grammar School in New Rochelle during the 1969 Mets mayhem, passed that motto on to me, along with dozens of white button-down shirts, when I started first grade in 1971. I was so ready, wishing Iona had a nursery school and kindergarten (they have both now) so I could be at the same school with my brothers and be rid of all these bothersome girls and teachers who didn’t understand my obsession with playing army, playing with army men, drawing army men, watching movies about army, and thinking about army. When I finally got in the door for first grade, Brother Burns, the headmaster, came to meet us that first day in our little room—good Lord, I now see how tiny that room was. “Silverman?” Brother Burns asked, looking at me like a wise old owl clad in black. “You have twin brothers who went here, don't you? Michael and Mark.” “Yes, sir,” I said, my chest swelling so deep with pride I thought it would push him out of the room. From that day on I always felt I belonged. I was at that school for eight years, longer than I ever stayed at any one job, or, until recently, at any one address not in my parents’ name. I left the school in 1979, having ridden out the entire ’70s at this place. My maroon jacket, maroon and gold sweater, striped tie, white shirt, gray pants, and wallabees/loafers combo protecting me from the dangerous daily fashion sins of the decade that others were exposed to, like a radiation leak. Through the years, I had contact with a handful of old classmates, but the institution remained fixed in my subconscious, bits of it conjured up every day in haphazard fashion through statements like “back when I was a kid” and “when I was your age.” I had driven through Iona when school was out of session in the 1990s, but I had not been inside IGS since the presidency of Jimmy Carter (whom I voted for in our mock sixth grade election, for the record). A mention of how I became a Mets fans while at Iona Grammar School in the Introduction of 100 Things Mets Fans Should Know and Do Before They Die resulted in the school contacting me. And finally, the day to address the boys at the annual book fair came about. My family dressed up and headed down, arriving ahead of time and betraying the mountain of tardy slips I accumulated over eight years from Mrs. Egan (whose grandson now performs the task in the office). The place was so different, yet so much the same. I told the boys about what it was like then and how the school had prepared me for life and immersed me in baseball—my obsession for army had flipped over to sports about halfway through my tenure at the school. I answered questions that only a young male audience wants to know, like who my favorite player is (in every sport), and how I became an Arizona Cardinals fan (St. Louis Cardinals fan back in the day). And an appearance by the Burtis sisters, friends from my college days who now have their own ties to Iona, enabled me to finally have a conversation on the grounds with a female not employed by the school. If Mr. Teixiera, a Mets fan cursed with a Yankees name, didn’t need to lock the place up after we’d been there for a long time, I might still be in the gym signing books, answering questions, and wondering how 30-plus years disappears like that. The experience felt like a dream where past and present mix together, the living and the departed side by side like it is the most natural thing in the world. Standing on such familiar ground, I half expected to see my mother and Topper, who met me every time I arrived home from that school. Or kissing the cheeks of Aunts Lillian and Tutter, captured together on film for the last time at my eighth grade graduation on the football field. Or Charles’s blue Malibu pulling up to give me a ride home after intramurals. Or the fake wood-paneled Country Squire, which was older than I was, suddenly appearing as my brothers at Iona Prep remembered to pick up their little brother. And besides providing a rapt audience of spellbound boys who live and breathe sports, the wonderful people who keep Iona humming 95 years after it was founded, gave me a gift basket loaded with items emblazoned with the school name and logo. I will continue to wear the insignia with pride. Religiously. But no matter what I have on, I will never forget that place. <> <> <> I hope the boys at Iona got something out my visit besides fodder for future book reports. One book they all took home was Baseball Miscellany. Mets fans at Iona, of which I am proud to say there are many, also purchased numerous copies of New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History and vintage Mets tomes of mine. Here are some kind words about Baseball Miscellany from people who did not go to my grammar school.
“This is one terrific, fun, educational, and interesting read—and I have four brothers and seven nephews who can’t wait to get their mitts, so to speak, on it!”
“Baseball Miscellany is a great read, and an easy one too as I blew through the book’s pages in less than two hours.”
“The book’s answers to baseball questions are intelligent and engaging.... What’s especially delightful is that there’s not a ‘right’ answer to every question.” Watching the Game (pointed out on Ron Kaplan’s Baseball Bookshelf)
“Meticulously researched and compiled, Baseball Miscellany isn’t your grandfather’s everyday trivia–this book is jammed packed with memorable quotes, fun facts, definitions for those odd baseball terms, as well as 27 things you always wanted to know about baseball but didn’t even think to ask.”
“He doesn’t bog you down with stats and his writing is easy going and humorous. All questions were obviously thoroughly researched as well.”
“If you’re a younger baseball fan and think that nothing interesting happened before the steroid era, then this book is definitely for you. It’s full of a lot of baseball information, much of which you are probably unfamiliar with, but it’s things you need to know about the game of baseball and it’s history. My 22-year-old son will be reading this book next.” Baseball Revisited—DMB WS Replay (but don’t get him started on Tony Bernazard)
“[It] can be read in no time at all. What's more, how many hard cover books can be purchased for $14.95 retail, or about $10 at amazon.com? Not many.”
“This would also be a great gift for a young baseball fan who is just starting to get immersed in the game…. The answers are simple, short and to the point, which is what makes this work effective.”
“Baseball Miscellany would make a good gift for a baseball fan or a worthy addition to your own library.”
“Silverman provides the kind of history lesson that doesn’t bore the kids; a lesson about the origins of the game’s most common traditions. Some stories—like the great one about why umpires use hand signals—may even be entertaining enough to share with your non-baseball fan mate at the game.” Ballpark E-Guides (and check out the Citi Field E-Guide as well) |
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May 6, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 1990 In hindsight, 1990 was a nice round number with a little luster to it because it was the last winning season the Mets had for half a dozen years and the last 90-win season for almost a decade. But at the time 1990 was a meal you’d always liked, only it just didn’t taste right. We were so happy to have baseball that we didn’t notice the odd taste at first. The season started late because of a lockout, but it finally opened a week late on a sunny Tuesday afternoon. I swung Monday off from work and the Pirates swung their sticks. Hard. From my mezzanine perch, I followed the trajectory of a Bobby Bonilla bomb until it struck a bus in the parking lot. This was Bobby Bo the Buc. Darryl Strawberry the Met was in right field for his seventh and final Opening Day for the good guys. Doc Gooden was on the mound and got rocked in a 12-3 loss to the Pirates, who would be neck and neck with the Mets all year. Unlike 1988, Pittsburgh could not be shaken off. Unlike the Mets, they were a team with a future. Yeah, the Pirates. Makes you realize how long ago we’re talking about. “Knock a Little Louder, Sugar” Shea Stadium was a veritable “Love Shack” in 1990, a place where people could get together, as they had in large numbers during the span between that first and last Strawberry Opening Day. The 1990 season marked the sixth straight year the place held at least 2.7 million. Between 1986 and 1990 the Mets had the second-highest attendance (14,488,717) behind the Dodgers, who were only a quarter of a million fans ahead of the Mets despite being light years distant in terms of weather. There were 47,836 at Shea on June 24, Amoco sunglasses day, where we got cool drug store type shades with a kitschy Amoco logo and a string to let them dangle. A great giveaway turned into a great day, but even that afternoon summed up 1990 to a tee. I wound up with tickets to both the Mets game and the final round of the Buick Classic. My friends and I wanted it all. And with the prospect of Roger McDowell closing out a Sunday afternoon for the Phillies—we were so not over the previous year’s trade of Dykstra and McDowell for Juan Samuel (now a Dodger)—we took off in the eighth inning figuring to beat the rush. All we got was a place in the wedge of cars whose owners and passengers had the same idea, or were heading home from the beach, or both. We were still close enough to Shea where we could hear the roar as Tim Teufel knocked home the tying and winning runs in the bottom of the ninth with a two-out single. It was very similar to the Seinfeld episode where they leave the Mets game early and are stuck in traffic until they finally get out and set fire to the Puerto Rican flag (a reason you won’t see that re-run on TV). In 1990, though, Seinfeld was just five episodes into its epicness and I had seen each one to that point. Yes, I was so cool and so without cable. We arrived at the golf tournament just in time to see Hale Irwin’s butt, not putt, as he followed his U.S. Open win the previous week with a Buick Classic victory. He then blew me off not once but twice as I came across him both in a hallway and in an elevator. The Mets sunglasses must’ve turned Hale off. Kramer would have clocked him one. That’s kind of how 1990 went: You experience two premier sports events in one day and still feel like you blew it. Note to self: Mets tickets come first. It was a year I learned which things were more important than others. The house I grew up in had a multi-alarm fire. My parents barely escaped. Note to others: Don’t ask people who just lived through a fire about the cause—just say you’re sorry; they’ll tell you the origin if they know or can put it into words. I never even learned the definitive cause. One look at the charred house and I didn’t ask twice. I’d learned of the fire the previous Sunday night and had to wait through a never-ending week to come home. My parents were all right and had several days to gather themselves and put their house—or at least house papers—in order. I met them at a hotel, but there was one less face to greet me. The Siberian husky we’d had for seven years, Joker, died in the fire. (It was confirmed that the fumes had gotten her before my parents fled the house.) The whole thing occurred a few days before I turned 25. It was the worst thing that had happened to me to that point in life. I can still feel that dog’s snout push against my leg as I closed the door to keep her from getting out, as she always tried. If she got out, she would run and run and run, at speeds no human could match, often coming back two or three days later, her white patches of fur caked with mud. She was wild at heart and born to pull a sled, but there wasn't much cause for that talent in the suburbs. We found her at the White Plains shelter on April Fool’s Day 1983. That’s how we came up with the name Joker. I still have the velvet painting my mom found of a lookalike husky. Joker met a hero’s end, perpetually at her post, despite spending her life leaping fences and outrunning people trying to catch her. It did not take us long to understand how this absolutely beautiful year-old purebred wound up at the pound, but I loved her. The last time I saw her was the day after the latest Super Bowl blowout of the Broncos. I closed the door and her clear blue eyes followed my hand as I waved. Then I turned and moved on. Segue When the Mets started 1990 slowly—even as Frank Viola began the year at 7-0—the drum beats grew louder and louder for Davey Johnson’s removal. It was one of those things that seemed inevitable and impossible all at once. How could a team fire the most successful manager in club history? The man had a .588 winning percentage and never finished lower than second place, but the machine built around him was such that the number of second-place finishes (five) seemed more damning than pointing out that before Johnson’s arrival in 1984 the Mets had never once finished second. And in six-plus seasons he’d equaled the two first-place finishes the franchise had managed in the 22 seasons before him. In the 22 seasons since Davey’s departure, the Mets have finished first once in the NL East. Bud Harrelson, who had been on the field for the first two pennants and had been third base coach for Johnson’s 1986 and 1988 division champions, took over. The team quickly got behind him, tying a club record with 11 wins in a row his first month as manager. An 18-2 stretch made up 9½ games in the standings in just 25 days. Everybody loved Buddy, but everybody knew the team could not keep up this pace. They didn’t. The Mets were up by half a game going into September before dropping five straight while scoring only three times in that stretch. Three of those losses came in two days in Pittsburgh. Harrelson started callup Julio Valera over Ron Darling—Valera did not make it out of the third inning and never won another game as a Met. Even when the Mets returned the favor and swept the Pirates at Shea, New York then dropped five straight. I got to Shea for the final weekend of the season. By then the Mets were one big band-aid with a lineup featuring Keith Miller (loved his hustle), Tommy Herr (hated him as a Cardinal), Pat Tabler (Mr. Bases Loaded), and Charlie O’Brien (sourpuss banjo-hitting backstop). The Mets were down three games with five to play, but at least Frank Viola was on the hill looking for win number 20. He didn’t get it. Tommy Herr dropped a double play ball and the Cubs got three in the third inning. The Mets only wound up with two runs, though Dave Magadan, fighting for a batting title he wouldn’t get, hit a long home run. Viola would get 20 in the final—meaningless—game, while Dwight Gooden missed his shot at 20 in the game prior to that. It would have been interesting if both had reached 20 wins, especially given that no Met has reached that number since. In my last 1990 game at Shea, my friends and I glumly walked up the stairs from mezzanine box 511, not thinking that we’d never see either the star attraction in right field or those front and center seats again. Two rows of two next to the railing above the announcer’s booth had been picked out before the 1981 strike. The per seat price that first year was less than $6. By 1990 it was $12, but they had doubled everyone's pleasure at Shea in the intervening interval. The seats had begun as a business writeoff so a father might know where his prodigal son was on a given night (even at my worst, I never lied about being at a ballgame). The tickets became a commodity that employees and clients fought over in the mid-1980s. After 1990 the perk simply disappeared with the stroke of new management’s pen. I’d had a front row seat perched high above the plate, seeing hundreds of pinstriped heroes from Alex Trevino to, well, Alex Trevino (the 1981 signal caller came back for a nine-game encore in 1990). Eighty times by my count, probably more, I sat there. Goodbye vantage point where you grew up… you thought everything would stay the same forever. |
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May
2, 2011 Happily Pre-empted I close up work for the night at 11:20 and head downstairs to see if Mike Francessa is indeed going to display a copy of New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History on Miked Up, as I’d been told he might. This one time I am actually ready, with DVR set, electronic screen capture device (aka the camera) hanging close by, and my cousin at his place doing the same in a more high tech way. I turn on the TV and instead of the Sports Pope I got the News Bishop, Brian Williams. In the time it takes to wonder why he’s on instead of the local TV weekend news people, he has succinctly explained why: Osama bin Laden is dead. This is the film at 11. I do not explore political leanings on this site and will not now, but this unregistered independent isn’t crossing party lines by saying the initial feeling was excitement. I didn’t think of someone having just been killed. I thought of someone killed almost ten years ago. I went to college with Steve Lamantia, lived in the same dorm with him, and feel blessed to have spent an hour opening up with him about life for our “Student of the Week” feature at the Roanoke College newspaper in 1985. A Long Island guy, I remember talking to him a few times about the Mets—though I’m sure I was the more excited party talking about the ’84-’85 Mets. He had a great sense of humor, a born leader, a school officer, a solid athlete, a great guy. There was some intramural matter that wound up not being resolved in my favor. This big man on campus junior making a trip across the quad, with head hung low, to tell me that although he’d recruited me to play—a growth out of our talks about the Mets—I wasn’t eligible because I didn’t belong to the fraternity. Most guys would have just blown me off, but he was more disappointed than I was. When my softball team played his in the playoffs the next year, his “great game” and pat on the shoulder still stands out amidst the littany of mumbles of that phrase in the hundreds of softball games I’ve played in since. Jet Lamantia was at his job at Cantor Fitzgerald at the Trade Center that horrible morning in 2001. A few minutes after hearing the news about bin Laden, my thoughts turned to Jet and the family he left behind. I also thought of one of the faithful followers to this site, Luke, who’d just sent me an email the previous night that I had yet to respond to. He was on National Guard duty upstate this weekend. I guess this stands in for that reply because I know he’ll read this. If he wants to share any thoughts, please send it along. When NBC switched away to local coverage, I remembered the Mets had the Sunday night game. I don’t usually forget that the Mets are playing, but it was a big weekend. My daughter’s under-13 softball league team played Saturday and Sunday (and Monday). As the team’s newly-minted coach I hadn’t seen much of the series beyond Ryan Howard’s first homer Friday. I was pretty worn out from my youth managerial debut following weeks of practices. We lost our first game—in this case, I can say “we”—but we won on Sunday with my daughter debuting as a pitcher with a no-hitter (walks are another matter). I only went out to talk to her once on the mound, though I was as jumpy as if Armando Benitez were pitching a must-win game. The outcome for Sunday’s softball game was never in doubt, but I still had my heart in my throat when I sent her home on a wild pitch that wound up caroming right back to the catcher, who tagged her hard, but clean, on the neck. She was banged up a little, but was ready for Monday’s track/softball doubleheader. I did not get to see my son’s Mets—with these Mets I can also say “we”—who played at the same time as the Silverbacks. The need to finish a project made seeing the real Mets, back in a little funk, seem just as implausible. And by the time I thought to check the outcome on ESPN, it was past midnight. I was stunned to see the game was happening. Taylor Buchholz retired the Phils in the 13th, which I remembered was the beer inning. (Any time I’m watching at home and the Mets go to the 13th, I feel it my duty to crack open a beer.) It was a nice savory Palm ale, which I bought from Hopheads, the beer market/bar that recently opened a mile from home. The ale/beer tasted even better when Ronny Paulino, whom I had never even seen wear a Mets uniform before, doubled in the go-ahead run. Buchholz set down the Phils in the bottom of the 14th and, even though it was well past midnight, May 1, 2011 goes in the books as a win-win-win day. It’s the kind of day you want to remember what you were doing years later. Now I have written it down. Sometimes you just need a win. Getting it I hope can only help us—and by “us” I mean in lowercase and capital letters. |
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May 1, 2011 May Day: Bolton and the Pope I am way behind on mentions from other sites and locales for my new books, especially Baseball Miscellany. For kicks, here's a link to some recent fun I had with Hall of the Very Good. Right now I’m in the midst of three games in three days in my 13-and-under girls softball coaching debut. Go Silverbacks! (No, they are not named after me, but my son’s team, wouldn't you know, is the Mets, about a 1 in 30 chance.) Here are two non-recreation baseball events that I didn’t want to let pass without notification. First, Mike Francessa is supposed to have a copy of New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History on the set of his Miked Up show on NBC Sunday, May 1. We’ll see if it gets on set, and if so, whether it is ignored or becomes a prop for a Sports Pope Mets diatribe. Way more cool is what’s happening this week at Bolton High School near Lake George, where a colony of Mets fans is trying to blossom in a sea (or, I guess, a lake) of Yankees fans. I plan to do a talk there in the future, but for the time being the Bolton band is taking their show on the road to meet the Mets at Citi Field Thursday afternoon to perform the national anthem and spend the matinee watching the Mets take on the world champion Giants. Nice job by music teacher Stan Walkanowski and to the Mets, for providing a bunch of comp tickets and saying yes to the event. Be even better if they show their performance on SNY. We need all the Mets fans we can get on this side of the Tappan Zee. |
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April 28, 2011 Letters to the Met-idor In the tradition of the weekly paper, you the reader thoughtfully compose a letter and I dash off the first thing that comes to mind and call it a response. Now that’s modern Gonzo journalism. I let the letters steep like I would a strong tea, pour, and serve…
A Cure for the Pre-Winning Streak Blues Dear Met,
Just wanted to tell
you how much I am enjoying your latest book
New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History.
Your book.... hit the mark! It will be proudly displayed in the Brennan library and the kids will need to wash their hands before taking it down.
Anyway, hope to meet
up with you one of these days at Citi or in McFadden’s. I attend about
6-8 games a season with my grammar school Mets buddies (since second
grade). One of them is usually on the money (he predicted a 68-win
season this year, I predicted an 84-86 win season) and feels that the
Mets will not be competitive until 2014. All the best! Keep writing! Chris Brennan ------------------------ Dear Chris, It was a lousy day. My plane the previous night was two hours late and I didn’t get home until 1 a.m. The next day I had to drive all over taking care of family messes and then hit 1,000 fungoes to my daughter’s softball team until my knees throbbed. That was the good part compared to the Mets portion of the day. I learned that second baseman of the future Brad Emaus—whose name I finally learned to pronounce properly—was being given up on after 37 whole at bats while the Harris and Hairston hijacking of roster spots continues, and then the Mets lost yet another one-run game at home to a team they have dominated in the past. And I wonder if anyone will buy a Mets book in 2011. So your note was very well received in these quarters. Especially since a note came in just a little bit before came from a publishing exec who rejected a proposal, saying in essence he liked my idea but not my writing. Well, to hell with him and the Yankees fan who belittled my Mets hat earlier in the day. I grew up being belittled and so did you and many of my generation and now my seven-year-old son’s generation, too. We are Mets fans. We know rejection. And we know how sweet the champagne has tasted as a result of those sometimes daily doses of caster oil. And we know how sweet the champagne will taste again. I’ll buy you a glass of the champagne of beers when we’re celebrating at McFadden's in ’14. Best, Matt
Jumping the Shark.......Phillies Version Dear Met,
Loved the “Jump the
Shark” Mets version. For us, that Phillies Phateful Year came in 1984,
when, after having made the postseason six of the previous eight
seasons, the Pope had the idea of getting younger and faster. Enter Juan
Samuel, Von Hayes and, to some extent, Jeff “Hands Of” Stone...the
result? From 90-72 to 81-81, which included a season-ending nine-game
skid. Oh, Charlie Hudson, where are you now?????? Ah...so many Phillies since that time...Jefferies, Steve Jeltz, Randy Ready, Robert Person, Rob (great in the clubhouse) Ducey, Ricky Jordan, Ricky Otero, David West, Doug Glanville, Dutch Daulton, Glenn Wilson, Bedrock, and my favorite, Randy Lerch....even the Kooz. And now, as I approach my 50th, the great one, Michael Jack, approaches his 62nd. Whitey and HK have left us. The Vet has been imploded. John Felske manages a Jiffy Lube. Lee Elia celebrates life in retirement. And rest in peace, Tommy Underwood, a talented lefty who passed way before his time..... Mike McNamara ------------------------ Mike, You’ve stumped us here with a thoughtful, intelligent, introspective piece on Philadelphia baseball that does not once mention the Mets sucking or the greatness of the Eagles (for the record, I know the writer is a Patriots man). I did not know about John Felske’s new occupation, but if his Jiffy Lube is anywhere near Philadelphia, there may be a guy sitting on the raised lift in the third bay, perpetually booing Felske during oil changes between gulps of a Schmidt’s (or six). No matter what team you call your own, it is sad when that team takes that inevitable turn toward something bad. Sometimes you see the shark coming, and sometimes you can only see its fin jutting out of the water in retrospect. The front office rolls the dice and says they’re going younger without realizing youth is often wasted on the young (and the fans). Len Matusek isn’t Tony Perez. Two pennants in four years doesn’t make up for one in the next 22. Though it is funny that you mention John Wockenfuss and I was just showing my son his batting stance yesterday. Speaking of Phillies of the ’80s, there’s a few pics of powder blue Phils duds that I got into Baseball Miscellany. Stunning. Best, Matt
Mets Even Screw Up April Fool’s Forfeit Dear Met, I am literally rolling on the floor laughing at the “boiled dinner and one tankard of stout ale” line on your latest blog! BTW, even though I’ve written to praise your blog, I have been following it all winter...good work! Can’t wait to read your new book chronicling all 50 seasons of our beloved Mets. Let’s Go Mets! Luke Watertown, NY ------------------------ Luke, You are the man. A little down after watching that opener—yet thankful they didn't get no-hit—and after your note I’m raring to do a little more work now. As they say, I'll be here all week. Hope you enjoy the book. Watertown rocks. Best, Matt
Everybody Dear Met, If you’ve worked at enough newspapers, you should also know that every writer needs an editor. The main problem with blogging on the Internet is that writers, professional or not, think they can post clean, clear, concise writing without another set of eyes reading it first. They are wrong. Find someone to read your copy before you post it, or at least read it again before you post. Paul I. ------------------------ Paul, I should know better. I have strayed pretty far from my newspaper roots—my last time on a newspaper payroll was 1996—though I do still maintain one feature of that, which is my letters section (which I would like to include this correspondence in…). I do enjoy the immediacy of the blogging medium. I normally read my posts seven or eight times and spend four hours and sometimes double that on them (which explains why I find it hard to do more than one per week). This one [about two generations of Clemens males being boorish jerks] I did on a whim and it was less than a couple of hours from germ of idea to post to Facebook link, because I was pressed with having to go somewhere. Nothing like recreating newspaper deadline pressure. I usually go back and re-read my pieces after they’ve been posted and then make a couple of changes for grammar and coherency—something that is impossible in newspaper or print publishing. I’ve gone back and fixed a couple of things, but I admit this one was about as wild as an inside pitch to Piazza. In the randomness of these things, however, it got more immediate response than the long thought-out pieces I spend days on. Go figure. But it’s not the same as having another proofreader. I’m a one-person operation and I welcome your input, and anyone’s input, whenever you have an opportunity to provide it. Best, Matt
E-Books, Anyone? When will New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History be released as an e-book? Thanks, and love your books! Winston ------------------------ Winston, Here’s the response from the publisher himself: “As far as e-books, it will be available for a variety of formats/readers (kindle, nook, ipad), although probably not until a few months after the print book is available. Of course, most of the electronic formats don’t really do justice to the book’s design and color images, but the great text is there for all to enjoy on their screens.” The publisher did a very nice job with layout. I provided a bunch of items and photos, but they came up with hundreds of images, many of which I hadn’t seen or thought might be too costly to include. But nothing, it turns out, is too good for Mets fans. Which is as it should be. Thanks for your kind words and inquiry. Hope this helps. Best, Met
Because Your Niss Is on My List Dear Met, Sorry to say I have not read any of your books and have just come to learn about them through MetsBlog. I was wondering if you happen to mention my grandfather, Lou Niss, in any of your books. I have recently begun to build a collection of such books but as a die-hard, it’s not the only condition for me to purchase one on the Mets. Good luck with your latest release! Regards, Greg Niss ------------------------ Greg, As a matter of fact, I haven’t mentioned your grandfather and original Mets traveling secretary Lou Niss in previous books. As a diehard fan, I think you’ll still enjoy them. My new book, New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History, mentions Lou Niss for his key role of getting the Mets out of a segregated hotel in their first spring training in St. Pete. If you have any remarks from your grandfather or his insights on the 1960s or 1970s, I’d love to hear about it. Likewise if you have any photos from those days, give a shout. Best, Matt
The Punk Meets the Dolls Founder Dear Met, I was at one of the Who shows at Shea in 1982 and don’t feel too bad, if you got there real early David Johansson opened that show, too. He only did a half an hour before The Clash came on but he was there as well. Bill Butler ------------------------ Bill, We took the David Johansen portion of the Who Brendan Byrne show in ’82 to prepare ourselves for the concert. When I saw a guy two rows down already passed out during the stirring David Johansen “Animals Medley” in the warmup act, I took pains not to overprepare. Best, Met
Baseball in the Roanoke Valley Dear Met, [Regarding the story about frequenting the 1987 Salem (Virginia) Buccaneers Carolina League club in “Reflections of a Mets Life: 1987,” a college friend writes.] Wow…interesting…you went to baseball games during our college career? Did I ever go? Was that a boy thing? I have NO memories of you and baseball! Andrea ------------------------ Andrea, Though I left a lot of details out (for the benefit of all), I did go to a bunch of minor league games in 1987, especially since the Salem ballpark was directly in between the campus and the house I lived in on Yorkshire Ave. [Names are exchanged of people you, the average reader, won’t know.] Somehow you escaped without us taking you to a Bucs game. They were a lot of fun. I actually went there my last night in Virginia following graduation the following year with Little Richie and Rob F. Something I’d been hoping to happen for a long time occurred: a local Salemite got hit hard (on the leg) and the ball bounced right to me. It was time to go. |
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April 25, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 1989 This was the year that the Mets jumped the shark. What does that phrase even mean? Ask Fonzie—and I’m not talking about Edgardo Alfonzo, who was 15 in ‘89. Happy Days, a ‘70s TV staple, became a cultural bellwether when Fonzie—Arthur Fonzerelli, that is—moved into the Cunningham household three years into the show’s run. Fonzie jumped a bunch of garbage cans in Arnold’s parking lot, injuring his leg and cementing his reputation as the ultimate in cool, whether you’re talking about the ’50s or the ’70s. (Never mind that the show was better when Fonzie had his own accommodations and flitted in and out of the storyline, wearing a beige golf jacket here and playing Hamlet there.) But five years into the show’s run, producer Garry Marshall had Fonzie jumping again, this time a shark tank while the Happy Days crew was on a California vacation that lamely echoed campy beach flicks of yore. I don’t think I’m spoiling the suspense when I tell you Fonzie landed the jump (in his leather jacket), but the show began an irrevocable decline that saw Ron Howard leave and the scripts get lamer and lamer. “Jumping the Shark” became a term people often used to pinpoint when a vital, creative ensemble cast reverted to gimmicks to mask a slippage in quality and effort. Happy Days staggered on until 1984, ironically bowing out the same year the Mets began their greatest run of success. By the start of 1989 the Mets had long since taken Manhattan and the rest of the tri-state area, even spawning fans in distant markets who wanted to associate with a winner. No, I’m not making this up. Between 1984 and 1989, the Mets won more games than any major league team. They had won a world championship and another division title and finished a close second three times. As much as I didn’t like the concept of a baseball wild card back in the 1980s, the existence of such a contrivance would have put the Mets in the playoffs in ’84, ’85, and ’87—and ’89 and ’90, as it would turn out. Yet as the players convened in the beach scrub wilderness of 1989 Port St. Lucie, Darryl Strawberry took a punch at Keith Hernandez during the team yearbook photo shoot. I got all that info and everything else about the world outside from the New York Times, which had always been my dad’s paper (I was more a Jack Lang Daily News guy growing up). Now the Times was my lifeline as I spent all day as the lone staff reporter at the West County News in rural Shelburne Falls, Massachusetts, with my dog, Gilbey, at my feet, sleeping. Gil came into the office with me so I could work longer hours at the lil’ paper. The publishers were/are wonderful people, but even 22 years ago, a New Yorker living in Massachusetts whose job was to constantly ask questions of the locals wasn’t someone everyone wanted to be buddy buddy with after hours. I missed my friends and I really missed the Mets. Many of my favorite Mets would go missing, too. First Wally Backman was dispatched to Minnesota. The Mets wanted to make room for Gregg Jefferies and looking at it realistically, Wally was a switch hitter who never could hit right-handed and his best years were behind him. Then Lenny Dykstra and Roger McDowell went to Philadelphia for Juan Samuel. I cannot properly explain the thinking behind this trade then or now. The rumors through the years were that Dykstra was taking “vitamins” and quickly morphed from a scrawny kid into big-mouthed behemoth. Steve “Thank God for Steroids” Phillips was not yet in the front office, but the adults in charge thought Dykstra was a bad seed. Can’t say they were wrong about that, but Dykstra did end up having his best seasons with the Phillies. Roger McDowell was, by my count, the most successful right-handed reliever in Mets history not traded before his prime (see Reardon, Jeff). Juan Samuel lasted half a season in New York and hit .220. Then the once crowded center fielder position became barren and would stay that way for oh, about 15 years. First, the Mets released Lee Mazzilli, who also ended up with the Blue Jays. A day after Maz was claimed, the Mets sent Mookie Wilson to join him in Toronto. As they club sent dispatched two of the ten most popular Mets of all-time (according to can’t-live-without Mets site Ultimate Mets database), all that came back to New York was Harvard-educated southpaw/disappointment Jeff Musselman and a fellow named Mike Brady (no, not that Mike Brady—that would have been far out). The real jumping the shark moment came on the last day of July. Frank Viola was a World Series MVP, the reigning Cy Young winner, an All-Star starter, a stud ace. But in bringing him to New York, the Mets not only jumped the shark, the also bet the farm. Five young pitchers were sent to the Twins, in order of importance at the time: David West, Rick Aguilera, Kevin Tapani, Tim Drummond, and Jack Savage. West was an overhyped bust, the oft-injured Aguilera had finally been moved to the bullpen by the Mets and was shipped off just as he looked like the next Roger McDowell—except that Aggie actually proved to be much better than Roger, and now the Mets had no real set-up man. Tapani, who’d pitched three times in relief for the ’89 Mets, wound up a key starter on the world championship pitching staff the Twins put together in 1991, a year when the Mets faded into obscurity and Viola played out his New York option. "One in five, no one here gets out alive." But in August of ’89 there was so much hope for Frankie V. He was a Long Island boy and a former star at St. John’s. He had won the fabled 1981 NCAA playoff game at Yale over Ron Darling, who had been perfect for 11 innings but lost in the 12th when the only batter to get a hit off Ron proceeded to steal second, third, and home. Now the Mets had both Viola and Darling on the same staff, but there was a catch. Dwight Gooden was hurt and the Mets had dropped seven straight. So the pressure was on “Sweet Music” to pull the Mets out of the fire and into the playoffs. The Cubs, who had stunk since taking the 1984 division title away from the Mets, had turned things around under Don Zimmer. Great! Zim’s Red Sox famously let the Yankees come back from 14 games out in ’78, but a dozen years later, he puts it all together to knock off the Mets. That’s what a young Greg Maddux can do for a ballclub. And Mitch Williams was unhittable out of the pen, if he got the ball over the plate. But I didn’t really have a problem with the Cubs at the time. They played in the National League’s oldest and coolest ballpark and my older brothers had rooted them on at Northwestern. I knew tons of Chicago people from Boulder and Fred now worked in the Windy City. He had come visit me at my little sugary apartment among the maples in Mass. and it was my turn to return the favor. I arranged my visit when the Mets were in town. That’s where I learned firsthand how much Chicagoans really do hate the Mets. Most cities, when they figure in their hatred of New York, choose the Yankees to despise first when it comes to sports. It’s easy to do. But Chicago is different. Even Chicagoans who weren’t born in 1969 feel the spike marks on their soul left by the Miracle Mets in September of ‘69. The Friday afternoon game—life would be better everywhere if all Friday games were played in the afternoon—was loads of fun in great seats at Wrigley… until we were outed as Mets fans. These people, who’d been enjoying a day off with us, turned unmerciful, just like rookie Dwight Smith unmercifully turned on an Aguilera fastball for a pinch-hit home run to bring the Cubs back from a 5-2 hole in the seventh. Aggie lost Sunday, too, in his last appearance as a Met before the Viola deal. In between Maddux shut down the Mets and I saw Wally Whitehurst get creamed, though I didn't actually see it. Fred and I scalped terrible Saturday seats that wound up putting me at the intersection of two poles in the grandstand. All I could see was Whitehurst in his motion—before and after the pitch I could only see the pole. A pole could have done a better job that day. It taught me to think twice before heading to enemy territory to see the Mets. It would have been a lot more fun going to see the Cubs beat up the Phillies. 1989 at Wrigley was a far cry from 1969 when it came to Mets success. Yet the Mets won all eight times I saw them play at Shea that year, including the ’89 blockbuster trade game featuring Frank Viola against Mark Langston. Langston, even more sought after than Viola, had switched leagues in May, going from Seattle to Montreal. Yes, les Expos were going for it, and in that regard they were in deeper trouble than the Mets. Not only did Montreal fizzle and forever lost Randy Johnson in the deal, but Langston left for the Angels after the season. The ballyhooed Viola vs. Langston outing I came to see in late September turned out to be a slugfest between two teams playing out the string. The Mets won 13-6 in an ugly game. The ending of the season at Shea was even uglier. While flipping channels in my apartment in the woods on a dirt road, with cable not even a possibility, I had one hand on the VHF knob and the other on the antennae, just hoping for anything watchable. Suddenly I caught a glimpse of Shea Stadium through what looked like a snowstorm of fuzz. It was the final inning of the final game of the year at Shea. The Phillies were leading, but I was excited just to get this glimpse from a Pennsylvania station that had somehow navigated through several mountain ranges to my little abode. I never got that station again, but I did catch the last inning at Shea for co-captains Gary Carter and Keith Hernandez, who would be leaving as free agents after long and meritorious service. Both players’ arrival had marked the start of a tingly phase of Mets resurgence. Now, in their last inning in home duds, it was signaling something new, something that wasn’t tingly, but more like an electric shock. With two outs, up stepped Gregg Jeffries. He grounded to second, was thrown out at first, and then all hell broke loose. McDowell had been shouting at Jefferies through the at bat, apparently (it was hard for me to tell through the blizzard of fuzz). Jefferies used the first base bag as a catapult to hurl himself back toward McDowell to commence the only season-ending brawl ever at Shea Stadium. (Plug of the Year: There is a cool picture of the brawl—and some cryptic words about the team from Fred Wilpon in New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History.) Phillies manager Nick Leyva said of the fight, “There were 30 guys on our aside rooting for Roger and 20 guys on their side rooting for Roger.” The odds would remain against the Mets, now that the shark had been jumped. |
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April 21, 2011 It's Getting Uggla Early In past years, whenever I put together a written complaint about the current state of the Mets, things immediately turned around. So here goes foot in mouth for the greater good. Unlike the “impartial” media, which now includes snarky websters getting more hits in an hour than this site—or the Mets—will accrue in a year, I do not relish the Mets failing. With a book to support and mental health to maintain, quite the opposite is true. But I can no longer defend what the team is doing. I’m not against them, but when someone asks me about their current direction I’m just going to say, “I don’t know.” Because I don’t know why they have done any of these moves or what the hurry has been three weeks into the season. Cutting Blaine Boyer: Four awful appearances—and gone. Someone had to go to make room for Jason Isringhausen, but Boyer's preference to being in Pittsburgh’s minor leagues over the Mets’ says something about the Mets organization, and redbeard’s sanity. Sending Away Brad Emaus: I went back and looked at the start of the Rule 5 pick whose name comes up most when you are trying to project the career of a middle infielder who might turn out to be a find: Dan Uggla. Through Uggla’s first 12 starts as a Rule 5 pick with the 2006 Marlins, he was hitting .205 in 46 plate appearances with one homer, three RBI, eight hits, four walks, and four runs. Emaus was at .162 with one RBI, six singles, two runs, and four walks when the plug was pulled after 42 plate appearances. I think the fielding skills of both can be described as “shaky.” Both teams at this point in the season were six games under .500 and in last place. What cheeses me off most about this hasty decision in 2011 is that my mouth just recently was able to say the kid’s name properly (E-mus) as opposed to the biblical or Pennsylvania town of Emaus (a-MAY-us). The bigger concern is this: Is three weeks on a team going nowhere really enough time to make a final evaluation on a player the organization cooed about all winter? I recall the last Rule 5 pick the Mets gave up on a few weeks into the season: Darren O’Day, who pitched in the World Series last year for Texas and would look good coming in the eighth (or ninth) in Flushing. Promoting Justin Turner: He wasn’t even called up last September after a great season in Buffalo and now he has to be rushed to the majors in April. What’s the hurry? Is he going somewhere? Keeping Chin-lung Hu: His spot on the roster has essentially been secure since he was acquired from L.A. over the winter. Other than his being the only Met capable of laying down a bunt, I beg the delicious but legitimate question: Why Hu? Harris and Hairston: The Rosencrantz and Guildenstern of the Mets. Except they are onstage far more frequently than Shakespeare’s two interchangeable courtiers from Hamlet and Tom Stoppard’s later adaptation. And Hairston and Harris are far less entertaining. As for the rest of the team, the one hope is for the surge that often comes once it is abundantly clear that a Mets team won’t compete. But I must warn you, some years it can be a looooooooooooooong wait for said surge. The team’s last brutal start under a new regime was 2003. At least the arrival of Jose Reyes made the games fun at times that year. The specter of Jose’s leaving is making 2011 depressing from the Met-go. Who are we waiting on with baited breath to come up from the minors now? |
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April 14, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 1988 When I see “1988” written down, there are plenty of things that should come to mind.
But when I see 1988 written down, the first thing that comes to mind is Randy Myers. Why, oh why, didn’t Davey Johnson bring in the lefty reliever in the ninth inning of Game 4 of the NLCS against the Dodgers? It hovers over ’88 like a turkey vulture. You wish the ugly bird would stop circling and go away, but it knows where dinner is… and it will pick your bones clean. Until that October evening where it all came crashing down, 1988 was almost a perfect year. The Mets were making it a little more dramatic than their romp of 1986, but everyone knew they were the team to beat. As they’d done in ’86, the defending NL champion Cardinals checked out early. Carter, Keith, Mookie, and Maz were all over 30, but the rest of the team was still in their 20s. The Mets still had a swagger. They even had some new faces that weren’t around in ’86, notably Kevin McReynolds, who enjoyed an MVP-caliber year in ’88. Oh, the fantasies I had of revisiting ’86 celebrations as I drove from boutique shop to florist to baker, picking up this and that for my elder sister’s wedding. My parents were far more thrilled about having an extra set of wheels to run errands than an extra dog in the house. They already had a dog. Joker, a beautiful if willful Siberian husky, locked her jaw on the puppy’s neck the moment they met. I considered getting a dog after my roommate graduated in December. The want ads proved lacking and I wound up at a nondescript pet store at someone’s request. My eyes locked on hers while the bell above the door was still jangling. I knew that dog would be mine forever without knowing its pedigree, cost, or even sex (mutt, $40, and female). But I knew that all my best laid plans for sensible dog ownership were gone the moment I touched her brown-black bear-like coat and tickled the cream-filling white patch on her chest. Gilbey, named after the gin, remained by my side for the next 13 years. That day I came upon her, Groundhog Day, is the day my heart changed. The rest of me continued—and continues—doing the same selfish things, but in my heart from that day on was the recurring thought, “Now, where’s that dog?” Even when she grew to 100 pounds, Gil was always curled up in the shadows near me. Ten years to the day when I first took Gilbey home, my daughter arrived in the world. Groundhog Day does not belong to Puxatony Phil or even Bill Murray, it belongs to me. But in 1988 I didn’t know any of that, couldn’t have known any of that, would have run for the Blue Ridge Mountains if someone had told me that a new pattern of life would commence at the precise moment I left the store with that dog. I was taking things one day at a time. So were the Mets. They took over first place to stay in May just as I was returning home with all the worldly goods that would fit into my LeBaron (nicknamed “LeLemon” for its never ending problems and brittle craftsmanship). The Mets’ lead shrunk and grew as the summer went on, but by their second West Coast trip at the end of August, they were rolling, rolling, rolling—and I was there. After my sister’s marriage at our childhood home and the removal of my wisdom teeth, I went back to Boulder, where my girlfriend from school had moved for a couple of months with a several others. It seemed as good a place as any to continue my job search. I dutifully typed—and by typed, I mean on a typewriter—several letters per day to newspapers. I wasn’t choosy. I looked in the want ads in the back of Editor & Publisher, sent out an individually written cover letter with each resume, and then sat back and waited for the offers to stream in. None came. In fact, out of 100 or so sent, I believe I only got a half dozen written rejections and a couple of mildly encouraging replies. I moved to Boulder with Gilbey to my girlfriend’s place in Sunshine Canyon, a beautiful spot. My high school chum and former Boulder housemate Fred had just graduated from the University Colorado, and—thank God—was still in town. We hung out every day, played Wiffle ball, and even worked together at Colorado Security Systems. We swapped paperbacks as we stood guard at different facilities. I remember reading Frankenstein at a factory that made switches for missiles, Less Than Zero at a substance abuse clinic, and Breakfast at Tiffany’s at a blowout summer sale at a used car lot. A disturbing brush with a frantic patient made me re-think continue this line of work; the end of the lease in Sunshine Canyon made me re-think my locale as well. I stayed with Fred for another week, applying for entry level newspaper jobs in obscure locales, to no avail. Interviews in Boone, Iowa, and Canon City, Colorado were blind alleys. Buddies Al and DBird, who’d moved three hours up the road in Steamboat Springs after graduation, had made for frequent good company when the quarters in Boulder became too close. DBird’s job, which ended in August, was in the hotel industry and enabled us to get good lodging discounts as we tooled around out west. We stayed with friends in various parts of California and tracked down the Mets on their road trip. Candlestick lived up to its reputation as frigid after dark. After missing the Mets’ record first inning, we endured nine innings in the upper deck, where no number of coats, sleeping bags, blankets, or beer could warm us. Alcatraz was more hospitable. Dodger Stadium was like a prison of sorts. While sitting in the unending traffic in the back seat of our California host’s car, we cracked open beers and were promptly ticketed by a CHIPs cop who didn’t look like either Ponch or John. Then, as if our bleacher seats had been purchased through the Ironic Punishment Administration, instead of through an ad in the L.A. Times, our $2 ducats turned out to be in the non-alcoholic section. Like a baseball version of the Hotel California, there was no way to get to any other section. We soberly watched the Mets subdue the Dodgers, something they did 10 of 11 times in 1988. On the subject of irony, I too saw the Mets win 10 of 11 times in person during the 1988 regular season. The last game of their August trip to California happened to be the last time Orel Hershiser allowed a run all season. The date was August 24. Hershiser did not allow another run until he met the Mets again—in the playoffs. Despite having two siblings living in sprawling L.A. (90 minutes apart—got to love that traffic!), friends who let us crash at their place for days on end, and going to Universal Studios and the Baked Potato jazz club (we weren’t dressed well enough for Trader Vic’s), my hate for Los Angeles had only grown by the time the postseason came around. WFAN and K-Rock perpetually played the parody “I Hate L.A.” for a week leading up to the Dodgers-Mets NLCS. All copies of it must have been destroyed because I can’t find it anywhere. I only wish the whole Championship Series was imagined. L.A.’s pitching was good, but Mets pitchers had one of the great seasons in team history. They held opponents to a .236 average and .293 on-base percentage. The players behind them made the fewest errors (115) and scored the most runs (703). But despite the 100 wins and 15-game margin of victory—Ron Darling had clinched the division with a complete-game victory over Philadelphia on September 22—there were cracks that could be seen if you looked hard enough. Gary Carter, named co-captain that year, was getting old. He could still catch and throw, but he was no longer a force at the plate. It took him almost two months between home runs 299 and 300, adding a little tarnish to a career milestone. Keith Hernandez, named captain a year earlier, was hurt on and off. And two developments in September altered club cohesion. One was the arrival of wunderkind Greg Jefferies. Considered the future of the franchise, the switch-hitter was built from scratch by an overbearing father who made his son swing a bat in their swimming pool to become both strong and neurotic. Jefferies came up just before September and started hitting, supplanting Howard Johnson—who was enduring his usual even-numbered season funk. The veteran-laden Mets barely tolerated smiling All-Stars like Carter. A fresh-faced rookie whose presence threatened to push a friend out of the lineup was, at best, a distraction. The other development occurred a couple of nights before the Mets clinched the division title. Bobby Ojeda, an outspoken 1986 hero with a superior makeup and pitching arsenal, severed the tip of a finger on his pitching hand with electric hedge clippers. The Mets still had Gooden, Cone, Darling, and Fernandez (Aguilera was hurt), but no Bobby O. left the team without a proven big-game lefty starter. Ojeda, on the road no less, had won his first start in both the 1986 NLCS and the World Series after the Mets started both with losses. Though he started and did not get the win in either Game 6, the Mets pulled out both in extra innings in what you might call memorable fashion. The opener of the 1988 NLCS ended in memorable fashion. After Hershiser added eight postseason zeroes to his record 57 consecutive shutout innings, the Mets scored in the ninth. When Tommy Lasorda inexplicably removed “The Bulldog” for reliever Jay Howell, Carter came through with a two-run double and the Mets pulled out Game 1 in L.A. The next night’s game started late to show a Vice Presidential debate on TV—a network decision that would not happen now, but Lloyd Bentsen did get a zinger in. David Cone, whose Daily News column had been almost as off base as Dan Quayle, got knocked around by a Dodgers team fired up by the bulletin board fodder. My buddy P. and I waited out the rain for Game 3 at Long Island’s largest bar: Shea Stadium. DBird came in for the next morning’s shift to see Game 3 and we endured freezing drizzle in the upper deck, lest a rain delay interfere with a college football broadcast. The Mets rallied late to win in the slop and Jay Howell tried a high school move and put pine tar on his glove. He was ejected and Dodgers seemed dejected. I abused a Dodgers fan friend on the phone, telling him his team was toast now. We should all make such good toast. P. and I were toasty in the upper deck Sunday night as we made use of the perfect usher gift for the hard partying ’80s: a flask for being in my sister’s wedding. All was well as the Mets took a 4-2 lead into the ninth. I thought it odd that Dwight Gooden was still on the hill. No one worried about pitch counts then, but Randy Myers had blossomed into a dominant closer, saving 26, winning seven, and finishing 44 games. When Gooden walked scrub John Shelby to lead off, I thought for sure the lefty Myers was on his way in to face lefty Mike Scioscia. He wasn’t. To my everlasting regret, he wasn’t. Picture Yadier Molina’s 2006 NLCS home run, only with three extra innings—and three extra days—to endure the pain. Remember the silence at Shea the moment Molina hit it into the left-field bullpen? It was that quiet as Scioscia’s ball landed in the right-field pen and the catcher circled the bases. The Shea mood was surly when Kirk Gibson made his trek around the bases in the 12th. The Shea mood was disconsolate as Hershiser relieved—after Jesse Orosco, of all people, had retired Darryl Strawberry—and Kevin McReynolds popped up with the bases loaded to end the game from hell. Until hell began anew 11 hours later. Game 5 started at noon on Columbus Day. The Mets lost. Handily. I watched David Cone pitch brilliantly in Game 6 from a Boston hotel room on the eve of an interview for a technical writing job I didn’t want, or get. (I would finally get lucky during my third round of job interviews in Massachusetts in December.) I stopped by DBird’s house in Storrs briefly and then bee-lined it to Duck’s to watch the game with the boys from high school. “And we would all go down together…” The day after the disaster, I lay on the couch all day, sick to my stomach. I felt ill again when the Dodgers beat the mighty A’s in a 1974 World Series rematch. And I was queasy once more when Gibson beat out both Strawberry and McReynolds for MVP. I hate L.A. We hate it! <> <> <> Answers to Salem radio station quiz many words above: Gene Tenace homered his first two times up for the A’s against the Reds in the 1972 World Series. And Darold Knowles pitched all seven games against the Mets in the 1973 World Series. Amazingly, in this era of specialization no southpaw has matched that mark. And the prize you picked… |
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April 12, 2011 The Blue and Orange and Gray Remembered One hundred and fifty years ago, the Civil War began with the firing on Fort Sumter off the coast of South Carolina. Maybe it’s me, because I have family that came from both North and South, that has resulted in a lifelong fascination with the War Between the States. I liked Ken Burns’s Civil War better than his Baseball and I’ve sat through every Civil War movie from The Beguiled to Gods and Generals. In the words of General William T. Sherman, “War is hell.” Sometimes movies about it can feel that way, too. But what does this sesquicentennial of the Blue vs. the Gray have to do with the Mets? To provide some perspective as to how long it’s been since the South was defeated, if Bernie Madoff had started serving his 150-year sentence when the Civil War began in 1861, he would just be getting out now. Satan lives forever. <> <> <> Of more recent vintage, I want to say thanks to It’s Mets for Me for their killer review of New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History. And also thank you for the chance to chat on The Happy Recap, not to mention WKNY in Kingston; Taryn, Matt, Nik, of Kiner's Korner and the Kult of Mets Personalities (I chime in at 72:30); Steve Keane and This Call to the Bullpen, and On the Black with Kerel Cooper. And a personal thanks to The Apple, which hosted a pre-game bash near where I parked on Opening Day and I met many Mets blogosphere types in the flesh. And if you’re going next week to see the Mets and Astros duke it out like it’s 1962, go to McFadden’s for a few pops beforehand to benefit Sharon Chapman’s Run for the Cure for the Tug McGraw Foundation. Find out more about that worthy cause here. |
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April 8, 2011 Yin and Yang, Yank and Met The Mets. When they are your team, you hear every stinging remark, whether it’s kids in the lunchroom cracking wise about getting four scrubs for Tom Seaver or everyone with a keyboard snarking about the financial straits of your owners not knowing a Ponzi from a Pulsipher. The Mets are the youngest child of four. Two moved away to California—one’s going through a tough divorce and the other just got a major promotion—while the other brother lives right down the street, and he’s a multimillionaire. Your brother Yank got heaps of money from his wife’s side of the family, but he’s doing a good job investing and will keep the family rolling in dough for generations. Even if he loses money now and then, he shrugs. It won’t hurt him. You try not to think about Yank. You’ve got a great family and you are certainly better off than a lot of others who barely have a revenue stream to piss in. You ignore what they’re saying about you and head onto the Grand Central Parkway to work. You think about the good times… Tom Seaver, Jerry Koosman, Gil Hodges, Cleon Jones, Donn Clendenon, Bud Harrelson, Tommie Agee, Tug McGraw. These are names you have memorized, even if you didn’t see them. If a few of these names don’t ring a bell, pick up a book, go to Google, do something about it. These are the Washington, Adams, Franklin, and Jefferson of the Mets—and we won’t even delve into Knox, Greene, Kosciusko and others on the front line in the Revolution. Without overcoming ridiculous odds and toppling foes of unimaginable power, the Mets are the Houston Astros with less sultry summers. Keith Hernandez, Dwight Gooden, Darryl Strawberry, Davey Johnson, Mookie Wilson, Sid Fernandez, Gary Carter, Jesse Orosco. These names you have never stopped hearing about. Whether you lived through the 1970s or the last 10 years with the Mets, 1986 is your rope to sanity, to the difference between you and those who have never pulled a World Series out of the fire. Ask brother Yank if he can list the opponents he swept in the World Series; then ask him who hit a “little roller up along first.” Mike Piazza, John Olerud, Edgardo Alfonzo, Bobby Valentine, Al Leiter, Rick Reed, John Franco, Robin Ventura. They didn’t win a World Series—thanks again for that, bro—but they did make Yank sweat just a little. And a lot of us in this house were prouder of what happened the fall we wound up short of the World Series in ’99 than the year we lost to you. Didn’t think you’d understand, Yank. David Wright, Jose Reyes, Johan Santana, Carlos Beltran, um, get back to us on the manager, and the kids are so young we can only use first names: Ike, Josh, Mike, Jon. This is your family now. All these names are connected with yours. One day they—or their descendants—will make you weep with joy. Can’t say when. You say “now” so often Yank, that your tears are of relief, not joy. This side of the family is holding out for joy. It’s the difference between comfort and joy. <> <> <> If you are going to bed late, getting up early, and live in the Kingston area, I'm on WKNY 1490 at 7:30 a.m. on Friday morning to talk about the home opener, which should be fun now that I've gotten this out of my system. See you in the Citi. |
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April 6, 2011 One for the Books Thanks to all who came out to the Maple Street Press Mets Annual 2011 viewing party on Tuesday. Also thanks to Marie and Tony and everyone at the Holiday Inn LaGuardia Pine Restaurant for setting it up, and to sponsors SNY, Skyline Cruises, and StubHub. And if you need pocket schedules, none other than the master of all things uniform, Paul Lukas at Uni Watch, was stunned to find that the Holiday Inn was the first place in the city with these elusive skeds. A great time watching the Mets-Phillies game and setting a precedent: The Mets won for the first time since the almost monthly Amazin’ Tuesdays began in 2009. More firsts: Chris Young became the first Mets pitcher to ever have two hits in an inning. The Princeton big man had three hits in all and allowed only five while handing the Phillies their first loss of 2011. Watching the Yankees blow a 4-0 lead to the Twins was a nice bonus as was the company of friends old and new. I’ll leave Greg Prince to eloquently recall the details of the evening. But Tuesday, the oft-maligned and oft-drab day of the week, can’t get much more Amazin’ than this most recent edition, as the Mets cracked through the rock hard soil into first place like a brave crocus knowing more frost is coming. Granted, a share of first place four games into the season is the level of Mets bragging we were left with in 1978. But I like Chris Young more than Mike Bruhert, D.J. Carrasco more than Butch Metzger, Scott Hairston more than Tom Grieve, and Terry Collins more than Joe Torre (and I’m talking Torre the lousy Mets manager, not Genius Joe and the Amazing Technicolor Payroll). A third of a century after 1978, we’ll simply make note that the Mets touched first in 2011. But all the better that it happened at the expense of the Phillies, who, it should be noted for history’s sake, won the 1978 division title. Their closer back then, Mets icon Tug McGraw, had more class in his middle finger than the entire city of brotherly schlubs. Back in the present, it is great to lift a glass at a Mets bar, in a Mets town, on a Mets night. Prost! |
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Next Stop: Amazin’
Tuesday I guess if you actually play the games, you’ll win a few of them. Alert the media. While you’ve got their ear, tell them and anyone else you know that there’s an Amazin’ Tuesday on the horizon. Place: Holiday Inn LaGuardia (Pine Restaurant) Time: 6-10 p.m., Tuesday, April 5 Who: The 2011 Maple Street Press Mets Annual Reason: It’s baseball season—and I also hear some television outlets are playing games with the heartstrings of Mets fans. Forget ‘em and watch Mets-Phillies on the big screen with us. Specials: $10 buffet, cash bar, $5 Maple Street Press Mets Annuals, free magnetic Mets schedules (while they last), bookmarks, and plenty of Mets publications and other goodies to raffle off. You're guaranteed to have the time of your life. (Guarantee not valid in conjunction with play by the New York Metropolitan Baseball Club Inc. But bring the kiddies and the wife anyway.)
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April 1, 2011 Open and Shut: Mets Forfeit Season Before It Starts Metsilverman.com has learned exclusively that the Mets will not compete in 2011. Literally. With financial difficulties looming, injuries mounting, and an avalanche of derogatory press coverage, the Mets have made the unprecedented move of forfeiting the entire 2011 season. Putting the decision in a positive light, the Mets front office announced that by forfeiting the 2011 season, the team can better focus on the 2012 season. The decision, though drastic, became viable when one of the team’s army of lawyers working on the Bernie Madoff case uncovered a loophole in the MLB agreement that stated that a team that forfeits its season is responsible only for train fare for players back to their home city, plus a boiled dinner and a tankard of stout ale (the obscure rule dates to the founding of the National League in 1876). “When the owners read the stories in the New York Times saying we had no chance at first place or the wild card and would also be lapped by the Marlins, who did win one more game than us last year, well, everyone was pretty down,” explained press relations head Jay Horowitz. “The next morning we were informed about this rule, and the whole front office was sky high. We haven’t had much positive news for a while. Our plan came together very quickly after that.” The Mets decided to finish out the remaining spring training games and keep their plans secret while the details were finalized. “Our main regret,” explained general manager Sandy Alderson, “is that we didn’t uncover this loophole before we released Luis Castillo and Oliver Perez. Look, we weren’t expecting anything from this season anyway, and now our entire front office can focus on the minor league operation. And without the Mets playing in Flushing, we expect the Brooklyn Cyclones to set attendance records.” Not surprisingly, the player’s union filed an immediate injunction against the Mets, but a circuit judge ruled in favor of the club and their interpretation of the 135-year-old rule. Trumping the Players Association suddenly put the Mets back in commissioner Bud Selig’s good graces again. “And we have determined that the 600,000 pre-sold season tickets by the Mets will count toward the overall major league attendance,” Selig announced. The Mets confirmed that the money owed to ticket holders will be applied to tickets in 2012. The ticket office will be closed during 2011, another cost savings derived from the club’s bold plan. “We’ll pass the 120-loss mark set in 1962,” conceded Horowitz, “but I think in the end we’ll be better for it. And Carlos Beltran even asked for the recipe for the boiled dinner.” In a related move, the Pittsburgh Pirates announced that they will be forfeiting the next five seasons. Staff reporter Sidd Finch contributed to this story. |
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March 30, 2011 Just when you thought I couldn’t possibly plug another book, here it comes. But Baseball Miscellany is different and pretty fun, I must say. Unlike other books I’ve done the last few years, which focused on one team, this looks at everything about baseball from why the Hall of Fame is in Cooperstown to why there is a National and American League to why managers wear uniforms in the dugout. (Short answers: Tourism. Because. Tradition.) Of course, I provide more than one-word answers to 27 questions—the same number as there are outs in a major league game. Why stop with one word when you could use one thousand and delve into history, conjecture, anecdote, wives tales, and throw in a tangent or two? Each “answer” also includes three sidebars: a quasi factoid you probably didn’t know, a related quote about the topic, and definitions of baseball terms, including the term’s origins in many cases. I dug around a lot of different places to find the answers. On the subject of baseball’s birthright, I got input from John Thorn, a colleague and former boss who has recently been named baseball’s official historian and whose new book Baseball in the Garden of Eden delves into the game’s origins. As to why some teams continue to mystify the populous by not putting names on the backs of their uniform—handheld devices keep people from having to memorize their significant others’ phone number much less try to recall what number Brett Gardner wears; I couldn’t adequately explain why (pompousness was too short an answer), so I went to the knower of all things uniform, Paul Lukas of Uni-Watch. And when I needed some information on what the curveball does from a pro—I consulted one: southpaw Jerry Reuss, who pitched in the majors in four decades and also took some tremendous photos through the years that I used in the book. When I sent Jerry a copy of Baseball Miscellany, the inscription included a thank you for beating the Yankees in the 1981 World Series—the one good thing that happened in a lousy year. (I should thank Paul Lukas for his article alerting me to the blonde lefty’s lens talents.) I explain the origin of every current major league team name, but the miscellany includes areas away from the major leagues, including wheelchair softball at Citi Field and Sandlot Day, kids playing the good old way with no adult intervention, I mean supervision. I toured the photo files at the Hall of Fame and also had the opportunity to show off baseball photographs I’ve taken through the years. As a bonus for Mets fans, there are some cool late 1970s and early 1980s photos taken at Shea and spring training by Dan Carubia: Jerry Koosman as a Twin, Tom Seaver with bat in hand, Tony Bernazard with his shirt on, and John Stearns ready to steal a strike from Pete Rose. And while Mets fans will enjoy the book, Baseball Miscellany is something you can pick up for the nonMets fan in your life, if you admit to knowing such people. I had a lot of fun working on the book for Skyhorse Publishing, the good folks who brought you Mets by the Numbers and a few others titles in that series. Enough talking up myself—for now—so I’ll let Library Journal have the last word on Baseball Miscellany: “The author writes with skill… it is highly recommended for all baseball fans.” |
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March 28, 2011 Review Reveille There has been a lot of positive buzz about my work this spring. Thanks for reading. Thanks for writing it up. And thanks to Maurrie Salenger from MVP Books for putting together much of this list, and pulling the quotes. Thanks as well to publicist Lori Ames for setting some of these events up. Here’s an honor roll, starting with a few upcoming events. 3/28/11 Monday: at 6 p.m. WKNY 1490 AM Kinston, NY, with Dan Reinhard, 3/28/11 Monday: Video interview with Kerel Cooper On the Black, 3/29/11 Tuesday: Interview with Steve Keane of the Kranepool Society and This Call to the Bullpen, 3/31/11 Thursday: at 9 pm Kiner's Korner & The Cult of Mets Personalities, 4/5/11 Amazin' Tuesday: from 6-10 p.m. A Met Together Pine Restaurant at Holiday Inn LaGuardia, 37-10 114th Street, 4/10/11 Sunday: at 6:15 pm The Happy Recap.
For New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History “When you pick up this new volume, you realize it was all leading up to 50 Amazin’ Seasons, wherein every damn one of them is covered lovingly, thoughtfully and, yes, critically. Matt knows his stuff like few Mets fans I know, and he worries about his stuff enough to get it right. Inside this lavishly illustrated book, he practically recreates a half-century of good and bad, of hope and dismay, of, well, faith and fear. Matt absolutely gets what has made the Mets the Mets since their DNA commenced to coalescing with the departures of the Giants and Dodgers and he carries that ethos of “getting it” clear to the present.”
“In perusing this book, a comprehensive, heavily illustrated, factoid-laden, coffee-table team history, I was reminded of my own youth and Donald Konig’s hardcover commemorating the Mets' 25th anniversary. I received that book as a Christmas gift in 1986, and if you asked me then I'd have told you it was as solid a team history and as valuable a keepsake as existed in all of Metland. I can tell you today that without minimizing the hours of discovery and pleasure Honig's book provided, Silverman's history is not only twice as long but many times better as a story, chronicle and archive.”
“Matt, a true Mets fan, believes (as we do here at centerfield maz) that the Mets are more than just 1986 or 1969 or 2000. There is a great history to the ballclub with many great players & characters who have worn Mets uniforms. Yes, there were many bad seasons that we can now look back & laugh at, but we still have fond memories of those days too.”
Long interview ending in: “Buy this book. It’s a good one.”
“It’s rare to find a book that you can be just as entertained reading a random section of it as you can just by randomly flipping through and looking pictures, but this book does just that. I’m definitely going to delve into it further once I return from Spring Training. I recommend you do the same.”
“I absolutely loved the book, it's a nice mix of written history and incredible pictures that chronicles the entire history of the New York Mets. It's a unique item whereas it's not strictly a written history that is only appealing to the adult fan nor is it a pictorial that only attracts the youngsters. It’s a richly written story of the history of the Mets that grasped my interest from the start and kept me reading through the entire book. Not only was it a great read for me, but I found myself sitting down with my 10-year-old son who is a budding Mets fan leafing through the pages, looking at the pictures and discussing my memories, along with what Matt had written. It’s already found a home in my den on the coffee table and I’m sure it would be a great addition to any Mets fans collection.”
“The book is a true treasure and I encourage all of you to get a copy for yourself and relive all of the memorable moments of the first five decades of the Orange and Blue.”
One of five different summonses from the site about the book. These cops are thorough! “Stop everything and buy this book now. New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History is awesome. I got to thumb through it last night and it is THE BOOK YOU HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR. This gets my all-star thumbs up.”
“The New York Mets: A Complete Illustrated History brings to life the goofy fun of fifty years of Mets baseball. It’s not going to change your life, but it is baseball for baseball’s sake, which is more than enough. If you feel overly pretentious putting art books on your coffee table, or if you’re looking for a gift for Mom or Dad, you might want to check this one out.”
Maple Street Press Mets Annual “It might not erase the memories of the past two seasons, but it will surely make you anticipate the better days ahead.”
“If you haven’t read the MSP Mets Annual, well…why haven’t you?”
“This is a true Mets resource unlike any other, and you will find yourself using it again and again all season long It’s the perfect companion to following the Mets in 2011, and blows all those other generic baseball annuals out of the water.” |
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March 26, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 1987 You are a world champion. You don’t play baseball yourself—and in fact injure your knee badly sliding in a softball game in the spring—but you are a champion because your team is a champion. You own a handful of items that say both “Mets” and “world champions,” which you graciously accept as gifts from loved ones, saving comments about being typecast for another Christmas morning. You utter the affirmation one last time before the season starts, as you drift to sleep in your cold, wet basement room located smack dab in the path of the James River floodplain. You are world champion. You don’t have your number one starter on Opening Day, but you have Bobby Ojeda and raise the championship flag before beating Pittsburgh. Your ace is in drug rehab. It’s one of only two times between 1985 and 1994 that Dwight Gooden doesn’t start your Opening Day—in 1992, with Gooden physically ailing, David Cone will start. In 1987 you’ve never even heard of David Cone before March, and you are a little annoyed to give up a good young backup catcher like Ed Hearn and a couple of other minor leaguers to Kansas City for him. Shows how much you know. You watch from afar while your team stumbles through the first two months of the season. Your team endures more and more injury news while the batters pound and pound the ball, as does everyone else in what will be dubbed “The Year of the Home Run.” Seven of your guys run up double-digit homer totals and your team sets new marks for longballs (192) and batting average (.268). Your team has the first pair of teammates to hit 30 homers and steal 30 bases in the same season: Darryl Strawberry and Howard Johnson, playing everyday now that your team unsentimentally bid adieu to World Series MVP Ray Knight. But your pitchers keep getting injured. You get excited—and a little apprehensive—when 42-year-old Tom Seaver tries to come out of retirement, before he realizes that he can’t. You are both saddened and relieved. If not for minor league veteran Terry Leach starting the year 10-0, you don’t know where your team would be. You recall the glory days from last year as your team cruises to wins by one-sided scores like 11-4, 13-2, 13-3, and a club-record 23-10; you are queasy after losses by scores of 11-7, 12-8, 12-4, and especially 8-7, 10-6, 10-9, losses you personally witness. In each case your team seemingly had those games locked up before last fall’s bullpen dream turns into this summer’s late-inning nightmare. The worst loss of all, though, is a loss you don’t see but could see coming. Two paragraphs in the Roanoke Times & World News detail a miraculous Cardinals rally in the ninth inning started by a Terry Pendleton home run against your team, the defending world champions, who had cut the deficit to just 1½ games. Your team would cut the deficit to that number again, but would never get closer. After falling a run short against third-place Montreal during the last homestand, you know that your team will not be world champion again, something you sort of knew all along. You understood that this could happen on Opening Day, were fine with it then because a karmic equilibrium seemingly had to be restored, something you understood very well since the buddy who moved in across the hall was a Red Sox fan. Now, in a new dwelling, in a new fall term, with the same guy sitting in the same easy chair watching the “F” next to the game with the Expos get posted on primitive ESPN… well, you are not so fine with it now. You open the fridge and open a beer. You try to drink in the memory of last year, but all you can taste is aluminum. You read Jay McInerny’s Bright Lights, Big City, written in the rare yet distinctive second person narrative and soon to be a major motion picture, but the book doesn’t make you feel any better. You don’t see the film. You don’t see the point. You were a world champion. But enough about you, what about me? Recently someone asked where I attended college and I responded, “Roanoke College… Virginia.” I learned to fill in the location because the question invariably followed. As it would had I gone to nearby Lynchburg College. There’s something to be said about going to a college with name recognition, geographical or otherwise. By 1987 I’d finally accepted that southwestern Virginia was where I’d be for the duration of my schoolin’. The college had no baseball team, but the town did. Salem was home to the Carolina League Class A Buccaneers. (They are now the Salem Red Sox, they were previously the Avalanche (Rockies), and they were the Redbirds when I started college—a Rangers/Padres affiliate.) I have been charmed by minor league baseball since I first stumbled on the now long-gone Salem Municipal Stadium as a freshman. And in the days before Sabermetrics and fantasy baseball gained wide acceptance, not a lot of people—at least not a lot of people I knew—were excited about minor league ball. Despite having promotions every game, crowds were scarce. The ’87 Bucs opener was the same night that many of my friends had night classes, so I went by myself and discovered a way to drum up the interest of others: Beer cups. The plastic cups were yours to keep after you downed your beer, a stunning look with the Salem Bucs mascot on one side and a shooting range ad on the other, complete with bull’s-eye. The beat-up ranch house where I lived with five others wound up the location for impromptu gatherings almost every weekend—never mind that my floor was perpetually flooded by incessant spring rains and Blue Ridge Mountain snowmelt. Someone simply showed up with a keg, others followed, lather, rinse, repeat. One night we ran out of cups and out came the Buccaneer souvenirs (these being the closest thing I had to glassware). The bull’s-eye logo was a hit and soon there were scores of college students wanting to experience this local hootenanny for themselves. Future major leaguers Jeff King and Bill Sampen were ’87 Salem Bucs. I’d actually seen the immortal Steve Phillips play for the Lynchburg Mets in Salem a couple of years earlier, along with number one overall pick—and bust—Shawn Abner. But these names, save for Abner’s, only register in retrospect. There was far more interest in cup collecting, gabbing, and chasing down foul balls. (No bull’s-eye cups survive but an official Carolina League ball does.) The minor league game that stands out from 1987, however, was played in Lynchburg. The Mets affiliate had a special guest star: Dwight Gooden. The recently cocaine-free Doc needed to get back in shape and was scheduled to pitch in Lynchburg on May 16, a Saturday night. Big doings in the town Jerry Falwell called home, with the drawing card being a sinner from Sodom and Gomorrah (what many there believed New York was). But Doc owned the town, or at least Lynchburg City Stadium, for a night. The 60-mile ride from Salem created the odd grouping of Crum, Turner, Jessica, and Ted, the latter had graduated but was our Lynchburg host. The tickets were $3 (more than in Salem, though the Bucs sometimes let us in free). Doc looked a little older, and not quite up to speed, but his pitches still popped. He didn’t allow any runs, but the Durham Bulls managed a couple of hits. When he exited after the fourth, so did about two-thirds of the capacity crowd. We continued collecting cups. Of the many minor league games I’ve seen through the years, my own little backcountry Virginia viewing of the guy who was still my Mets hero still tops the list. “Stand up and boo” yourself, Dick Young. Doc returned to New York three weeks later and led the team with 15 wins in just 25 starts, actually finishing fifth in the Cy Young voting (Phillies reliever Steve Bedrosian won the award, proof that it was an off year for pitching). That summer the city founders in neighboring Roanoke lifted the ban on performances by the Grateful Dead. They played two nights at the Roanoke Civic Center for the first time since the 1960s. That was another worthwhile roadtrip of ’87, and the time when at least one segment of the population—not the upper segment, perhaps—stopped asking where Roanoke was. The tide had turned for me in Virginia. If ’86 had taught me anything, it was to stop fretting and enjoy. The good times are brief enough. |
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March 24, 2011 We Gonna Rock Down to… Amazin’ Avenue Last year I made the mistake of simply downloading the PDF of the maiden issue of this periodical put together by the staff and friends of Amazin’ Avenue. Maybe it’s just me, but I like holding a periodical in hand, putting it down on the floor, and picking it up for reference months after it was published. That’s a lot harder for me to do with a PDF without printing out hundreds of pages myself. Though my office isn’t exactly a 21st century version of Oscar Madison’s, it is more cluttered than if my life was contained on a Kindle. Right now, I’m still very much enjoying books in the tactile version. And I’m enjoying this as well. A successful followup to AA’s inaugural labor of love in 2010, the 2011 model is about the size of the media guide, though at 334 pages it’s a bit shy of the annual magnum opus from the Mets PR staff that is the best in-house publication of its kind. The Amazin’ Avenue Annual isn’t afraid to retrace the scorched ground of last season at Citi Field. I especially enjoyed the “Ten for 10” leadoff piece by Eric Simon, who oversees this preview mag as well as the popular website. He looks at good and bad developments from the team’s 24th consecutive frustrating season. For example, “Good: Jeff Francouer through the season’s first ten games,” and “Bad: Jeff Francouer the rest of the way.” Frenchy is a gregarious sort who would make a great game-show host, but besides speeding up games by swinging at the first pitch every time and unleashing cannon-like throws from right field… well, did I say he’d make a good game-show host? I admit to a soft spot for Frenchy, just as I had one for ridiculously-flawed Mets like Ron “Never to Be Confused with Gil” Hodges. But after Frenchy’s remarkable 1.392 OPS in the pre-Ike Davis, 3-7 stretch to start the 2010 season, his highlights consisted of a three-run homer to beat the Marlins in June, a long home run off Adam Wainwright in July, and a game-winning hit in Atlanta against his alma mater in August. But he did precious little in his other 111 games between the second weekend of the year and when the Mets dispatched him to Texas for Joaquin Arias. Hey, Frenchy, now of the Royals—where his high school football style might be more appreciated—at least this Arias was once traded for A-Rod (though I seem to recall fellow hacker A-Sor being in that deal as well). There is plenty on Pelfrey, as well there should be. He'll never be Roy Halladay, but the Mets need Pelf to be as good as he showed for five months in 2010—and to stay away from his 10.02 ERA in July, which I can trace to an overturned call on a pitch to Scott Rolen by an umpire far, far away; the result was Cincinnati starting Pyrotechnics Night a couple of hours early and the rest of the National League lighting up Mike for the rest of the month. A piece preaching patience from the Mets faithful—“Have Hope, Mets Fans” by Grant Bisbee. It’s an open letter from an avid San Francisco Giants fan. Two years ago that club had absolutely zero offense and now the Giants have their first world championship since abandoning New York in the 1950s. It was the pitching, of course, but the rules say you do have to score to win, so the offense finally reaching the competent stage was a major factor as was the team’s good fortune with injuries (the maladies the Giants did suffer actually allowed them to bring in better players). A 10-game September losing streak by the first-place Padres—even the ’07 Mets didn’t do that—helped the Giants reach the postseason, where their pitching made life unbearable for everyone. And once the Giants did win, the first thing out of a front office advisor’s mouth? “We’ve shown Moneyball is a bunch of garbage.” But wait, I’ve seen that quote somewhere before. The quote came from Sam Page’s piece in the Maple Street Press Mets Annual, which brings me to my next point. We—or specifically Greg Spira—talked to Eric at Amazin’ Avenue about doing a piece, and he graciously introduced us to Sam Page. A sincere thanks, Eric. Not only did he come up with one of my favorite pieces in the Maple Street Press Mets Annual, he wrote three pieces that are among my favorites in the Amazin’ Avenue Annual. His description of how he became a Tennessee Mets fan was beautifully written, and he conducted a remarkably entertaining sit-down at the home of R.A. Dickey, a graduate of Sam’s high school in Nashville. Among the many revelations is the disclosure that erudite R.A. read The Tender Bar. R.A. didn’t reveal if he teared up, but it made me love the red-bearded lug even more. Sam's youth and writing ability remind me of a writer we’ve been lucky to have at the Maple Street Press Mets Annual since the first issue: Evan Drellich. While attending Binghamton University in 2008, Evan wrote a profile on Kevin Mulvey for our first issue, but the piece was cut from the magazine when the Mets included Mulvey in the Johan Santana deal just before we went to press. Undeterred, he came back the next year with a great piece. Evan, who likewise interviewed Dickey for a story in the Maple Street Press Mets Annual, is now a staff reporter for MLB.com with the plum assignment of covering the Red Sox. You read his stuff and wonder why more beat guys can’t come up with cogent, non-formulaic stories that increase the reader’s knowledge of the game and the people who play it. Greg Prince and Jason Fry, plus Ted Berg, likewise past and present vets of the Maple Street Press Mets Annual, put together solid pieces for AA as well. Joe Posnanski and Will Leitch, whose work you may know from some well-known periodicals and sites, contributed pieces for AA that focus on a 2006 Mets team that was here and gone too quickly. I only got the magazine last week and there are a few writers I haven't read, but I'm sure I will come to admire their contributions in the weeks to come. And while I will quibble with their contention that it is the only book Mets fans need, I am glad that I ordered the hard copy of the Amazin’ Avenue Annual this year—such a deal I bought two from Amazon for $13.46 apiece. Do as you wish, but I will just saying you can buy an issue of both annuals for the price of the ad-cluttered, word-deficient Mets yearbook and program, which won’t be out for a couple of weeks. Those stadium-bought relics that don't even begin to compare with the publications they once sold at Shea. While those invariably get shoved in the closet, you'll keep the annuals at your feet for the whole 2011 season and beyond, reflecting on the studs who turned into duds and vice versa. So when it comes to Mets Annuals, I twist around the quote from Mr. Cub, Ernie Banks: “Let’s read two.” <> <> <> No matter what your reading habits, you’ll want to come together for a Met Together to get you geared up for the home opener. On Amazin’ Tuesday, April 5, the writers and editors of the Maple Street Press Mets Annual will be on hand at the Holiday Inn LaGuardia (Pine Restaurant) in Flushing/Corona from 6-10 p.m. We’ll be selling copies of the Maple Street Mets Annual for the specially discounted price of just $5. We’ll talk Mets and there’ll be food (scrumptious buffet for $10), cash bar, free soda, free magnetic Mets schedules (while they last), raffles with cool prizes, and bookmarks, plus other items available that we’re still negotiating. On hand will be the aforementioned Sam Page, Greg Prince, Greg Spira, and others whose work you know and whose brains you'll want to pick about the Mets. We'll watch the first Mets-Phillies contest of the year on the big TV. Maybe we can all finally hiss at Luis Castillo as one. |
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March 21, 2011 Reflections of a Mets Life: 1986 Ah, 1986. For those of you too young to remember it, I envy your youth, but this was the top of the mountain for Mets fans of my generation, we who'd been too young to have memories of much in 1969 beyond the moon landing. By 1986 I was 21, a junior in college, and for the first in a decade, baseball was just about the farthest thing from my mind. For those looking for the overall fan experience of the 1986 Mets, I recommend a piece I wrote in the Maple Street Mets Annual 2011 entitled, “’86 Turns 25.” What follows here is my story, a quarter of a century later. Call this a disclaimer, if you like, but call it the best year of my life. The night after I turned 21 in late February of 1986, I spent a sleepless evening reviewing my lackluster academic achievements and my goals for life moving forward. Having foolishly overlooked the hard math and science requirements when looking at colleges three winters earlier, I was now trapped. I was progressing nicely in my major, English, but I was completely inept at college-level math and science. I could interpret Shakespeare, but I could not memorize the life cycle of the mitochondria. After my sleepless epiphany, I arose with a strange new plan: Take a leave of absence from school and go to Boulder, Colorado, live with friends, and pursue my goal of writing professionally. If this sounds like the premise of a bad novel, it was. Before departing school, I summed up my feelings to the friends left behind in the only way a person could in the mid-1980s: Mixed tape. I put together the tape with my buddy Ed, who was leaving school for his own reasons. The last thing I gave to Paul, Al, Crum, Ted, Jen, and Andrea in the dorm room we so often hung out in was this tape. Ed and I put five songs on the 45-minute tape, four of which I recall and use as subheads below (clickable as a soundtrack). The tape also included lots of banter, jokes, intoxicated truths, and a memorable scream of “SHIT!” over “kicks” about something funky going down in Steve Miller’s city. Me, I was determined not to return to our fair campus in southwestern Virginia until success brought me back there. Fast forward to me stuck in the middle of the interstate in my ’81 Monte Carlo during a sudden and symbolic April Fool’s blizzard just over the Nebraska-Colorado border, standing out against the whiteout in my bright green Oakland A's jacket. Someone stopped and gave me a lift to a gas station. The tow truck took me to my car—and also got stuck in the snow. After sitting in the cab of the truck with an odd tow truck driver for a cold and frightening hour, the University of Nebraska women’s tennis team came by, pushed us out, and just as quickly disappeared. In ’86 you never could tell who would come to your rescue at the very last second. I stayed the night in a motel, arrived the next morning in Boulder, and then blabbed incessantly about my plans for life with people I barely knew. Everyone was very nice, nonetheless. Along with writing every day—and pulling out a piece of paper containing a “drink of the day” prescription from a mini helmet of the Red Sox (ah, fate)—I also played Wiffle ball daily with my pal Fred. We often played at Folsom Field, CU’s AstroTurfed Big Eight bottom feeder football stadium featured in the opening to Mork & Mindy (Na nu, Na nu). The Buffaloes sometimes held mini drills on the other side of the field while we were there, yet they never told us to scram or accused us of being spies for Nebraska or Oklahoma. I’ve been a CU football fan ever since. Big league baseball was still seven years away in the Rockies. The only baseball I watched was on a neighbor’s television—our cable was shut off for nonpayment about the time the Canadiens won the Stanley Cup (man, did ESPN cover the hell out of hockey back then). I watched the NBC baseball Game of the Week in April when Wally Backman dove for a ball up the middle in St. Louis and turned a game-tying hit into a game-ending double play. And I watched a couple of Mets-Cubs games at Old Chicago’s in front of a very partisan anti-Mets bar crowd. That was as much as I saw of the Mets, but I followed them every day in the paper (until the Denver Post was cut off like the cable before it). I got to Mile High Stadium twice to see the Denver Zephyrs, Milwaukee’s Triple-A team. Mile High was so massive that 3,000 attendance made the place feel utterly deserted. Foul balls could rot to black in the stands before someone found them. My buddy Lerno came out and he, Fred, and I took summer school classes at CU. I had a blast with them and the new friends I made there. I would have stayed in Colorado if:
The man I talked to—at the Daily Camera, I believe—told me that despite having worked as a summer employee at a newspaper back east, I didn’t have the experience to become a full-time editor. He said I’d be wise to get a degree and go from there. Of course I knew that’s what I needed to do, but hearing it from someone not related to me finally made it click. Or maybe it was the self-justifying carpe diem vibe given off by my two favorite movies that summer: Ferris Bueller’s Day Off and Back to School. And so, having arranged a deal with my parents—they signed off on me going west in the spring, and I would head south to college in the fall—but first I detoured back to New York for a few days in August. Though Fred and I went to a Cubs-Reds game at Wrigley on the way back, I still had yet to attend a Mets game, the longest I’d gone—or have ever gone—in a season without seeing the Mets in person. As a reward for my return, the prodigal son received Mets tickets in lieu of a fatted calf. The model of efficiency that I was, I lost the Friday night tickets against the Dodgers and had to send Fred back to Boulder without seeing the ’86 Mets in the flesh. One benefit, however, was that I sat home and watched the Yankees-Mariners game that night. In a wild 13-12 game, Don Mattingly wound up playing third base at the Kingdome. Yes, Mattingly, the lefty. He played the position for a couple of days because of injuries and a short roster; he made one error there in 13 chances. I saw the guy do a lot of things through the years—in ’87 he would hit home runs in eight straight games—but none of it was as impressive as watching Mattingly field grounders at third, spin his body around, fire to first, and get the runner. I would have loved to have seen Keith Hernandez to do that just once. I’m sure he’d have been better at third than HoJo, lefty and all. I found the tickets late Friday night, but with the U.S. Open going on simultaneously, Saturday was the most crowded I’d ever seen Flushing. And watching the Mets up by 20 games in the standings lose to Fernando Valenzuela and the Dodgers on Sunday was actually more interesting than watching the go-through-the-motions win the day before. Ah, how we would recant such hubris as October rolled around. But as I headed back to Virginia, tail somewhat between my legs, I could still maintain a swagger when it came to my ballclub. To be sure, we Mets fans were as cocksure as our heroes in ’86. I needed a 3.3 GPA that semester to get back to the average required to remain in school. For me, it was like trying to win a batting title in order to get your career average over the Mendoza line, but I set my mind to it. Academic pursuits, however, were on hold as the Piedmont Airlines prop plane bounced me back home the second week of October. My dad, displaying infinite patience, guidance, and understanding with his fourth (and luckily for him) last child, stood waiting at what was then a tiny municipal airport in White Plains. Since he had kept his end of the bargain with playoff tickets against Houston, I guaranteed I could get the kind of grades I hadn’t gotten since I was in, oh, seventh grade. The seats were in the back row of the mezzanine, just about the worst seats at Shea, but there was no place I would have rather been. I felt so privileged for my obstructed view of Jerry Koosman, who threw out the ceremonial first pitch in Game 3. I loved Kooz. I still do. He was the quintessential hardworking and cunning Mets southpaw of my preteen years, perpetually overlooked because Tom Seaver ruled the staff. Seaver won the hardware, but Kooz had won the ’69 Series, and should have been Series MVP. That award never seemed to go to the right person when the Mets were involved. I wished the recently retired Kooz could have pitched because Ron Darling got lit up for four early runs. The enormity of the game cannot be overstated. If the Mets lost this game—my first postseason game, and the team’s first since 1973—Houston would be up in the series. Next on the docket was Mike Scott, ex-Met batting practice pitcher turned devil in road white, to pitch Game 4. Lose that and the Mets would have to win the last three remaining games—Game 5 at Shea, then two in Houston, with Game 7 vs. Scott—to avoid becoming a big, fat, overrated, postseason bust. Astro Craig Reynolds committed an error on what should have been a double play ball and then Darryl Strawberry followed with a blast off Bob Knepper to tie the game. Mike Kaplan, Duck, Pepe, and I jumped up and down and high-fived anyone we could get our hands near. Then Ray Knight made an error that helped Houston retake the lead. It looked like the Mets were done. Even after this regular season for the ages, I was still an old school Mets fan at heart who always expected the worst. But in ’86, that one magical year in my Mets lifetime, hope truly did spring eternal. Wally Backman veered four miles out of the baseline on a bunt and got the benefit of the call to start the bottom of the ninth. Backman was wild pitched to second, but Astros closer Dave Smith—oh, how I feared and loathed Dave Smith—got the first out. Up stepped Lenny Dykstra. From our seats under the overhang, you could not see any ball that wasn’t a grounder or a line drive. I quickly learned to watch the outfielder for their reactions and movements to determine where a ball to right field would go. “The man they call Nails” took a mighty cut and Astros right fielder Kevin Bass quickly moved back. Still going back, near the wall, looking up, and…Bass looked down. The din of 55,000 was my confirmation of the win. I’d have shouted, but my voice was long gone, I’d have doused the boys in beer, but that was even more gone. We had just witnessed the greatest Mets game I’d ever seen—or have ever seen in the flesh. The swagger was back. Dykstra’s home run proved even bigger when Scott skunked the Mets the next night. I got locked out of the house and slept on the porch the long chilly night leading up to the day game, which was rained out after a long wait at Shea. I made the executive decision to stay the extra night and blow off more classes to see the Tuesday afternoon makeup of Game 5. The Mets won that game on a dramatic Gary Carter hit and, of course, pulled it out the next afternoon/evening in Houston in a game some people call “the greatest game ever played.” After that game, my buddy Paul and I made plans to head back to Shea. For the World Series. The World Freaking Series. At Shea. This I had to see. I spent the money I’d allotted for the whole semester on a return plane ticket. After my headstrong ways that, as my older siblings had said for years, only the baby in the family could get away with, this baby was going to the World Series—with older brother. I had one choice to make. Go to Games 1 and 2, or come instead the next weekend for possible Games 6 and 7. Games 6 and 7? C’mon! It was the ’86 Mets? This was going to be a sweep. For a while, it looked like it just might be. My savings gone and my team humbled at home, the Red Sox could have put the dagger in the Mets with a win at Fenway in Game 3. I missed the first three innings of that game on TV. I was in my basement apartment working on a paper for Southern Lit and was lost in the task. I looked up and saw it was nine o’clock. I raced over to Paul’s dorm to see the Mets were up big. He and I watched the Mets and Bobby Ojeda put the Mets back in the Series. The gathering in Paul’s room grew and grew and groaned and groaned in the 10th inning of Game 6 when the Red Sox took the lead. I could not believe that after battling back, the Mets were now going to lose. I’d earlier doubled my bets with the vocal Boston contingent (bets I couldn’t pay if the Mets lost), and a couple of New England girls had stopped by to rub it in. Feeling our hostility, they left just before Gary Carter came up. With Backman and Hernandez retired, I thought the best chance of a rally in the 10th was over. But Carter justified the four-for-one 1985 trade with one moment, one swing. He may have an Expos hat on his head in Cooperstown, but we’ll always have that hit. Kevin Mitchell was only a Met for a year and went on to be an MVP for San Francisco, but he came through with a hit while batting freestyle. Then came Ray Knight, who'd looked washed up a year earlier before a redemptive ’86. I kept telling myself not to think something great would happen… through the years there had been so much heartbreak after getting your hopes up during these too-little, too-late rallies. Vin Scully had already crowned Boston champion and the scoreboard had Bruce Hurst as MVP. Then… a base hit. Carter scored and, even more importantly, Mitchell crossed to third. Do I have to explain what happened next? If you’ve gotten this far in this piece, don’t you already know? You know, we all know, just like we all know the story of Lazarus rising from the grave. The ultra-religious Mookie, a hero from the dark days, was now charged with saving the current regime. He worked the count, he jackknifed out of the way of Bob Stanley’s wild one, and while the joy that the season would continue for at least another inning washed over us, Mookie hit “a little roller up along first, behind the bag! It gets through Buckner! Here comes Knight and the Mets win it!” I do not remember what happened after that, or the next day when the game was rained out, or the next day as the hours ticked by until Game 7. I know that I studied and read and caught up, doing everything I could to keep up my end of this Faustian, Metsian bargain. My TV Production instructor, a big Red Sox fan, looked a little pale on Monday night and he let us out early, glaring at me during the shortened class. The game had started and Darling was getting rocked. The New England girls returned to Paul’s room, rubbing in the 3-0 lead. “Didn’t you learn anything from Saturday,” I shouted at them. I had a copy of the Rolling Stones compilation album Hot Rocks that I needed as background for a commercial I was doing for TV Production, and I somehow got Paul to put it on during the middle innings of Game 7 because we all just knew Vin Scully wanted the Sox to win and he hated the Mets. (Just like every fan of every postseason team is always sure the national announcers have something against them.) When the Mets came up in the sixth, “Gimme Shelter” was on the turntable. We were glued to the action on the screen. When the Mets loaded the bases with Keith Hernandez up, Paul wanted the music off. I asked to let the song finish for karma, summoning my Boulder muses at the most important moment of the most important season. “It’s just a shout away.” Just like he’d done in Game 7 of the 1982 World Series for the Cardinals, Mex drilled a two-run single with his team trailing. Carter then tied the game. I didn’t see the New England girls again for weeks. I certainly didn’t see them at Mac ‘n Bobs after the game when Paul and I led a two-man celebration. Everyone else who’d watched it with us went to study or console Boston fans. We watched Giants-Redskins on Monday Night Football at the bar. My eyes were fixed a few feet from the screen where fireworks were going off in my mind. I did not know how to process the joy. That championship season was so expected and then so unexpected. Stuck in a baseball ignorant burg 500 miles away from where the World Series was an epic celebration, I couldn’t have been happier. I grabbed a couple of rolls of toilet paper from the Mac n’ Bob’s bathroom, and we TP’ed the tree in front of Sections on the way back. Salem, Virginia would know the Mets had triumphed, even if no one there cared which “Yankee” team had broken the other’s heart. I got a 3.4 GPA (somehow getting an A-minus from our heartbroken TV Production instructor), devoid of funds I hit the cafeteria before closing time and right after Andy Griffith (dining on a meal plan I wasn’t actually on), and I got the world championship that still nourishes me a quarter of a century later—otherwise I’d have starved long ago. I can’t say if the Mets will ever win another title, but even if they do, short of beating the Yankees it would be almost impossible to top the way it all happened in ’86. I guess it’s like how some Mets fans who were 21 in ’69 can’t compare ’86 to that Miracle. There is a new world champion every fall, but some things are indeed once in a lifetime. |
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March 16, 2011 The Complete Illustrated Plug After writing up a colleague’s book whose pub date was yesterday, I checked and realized that today New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History officially rolls off the press. In 17 days, the Mets begin their 50th season, at least they will if you use the same odd form of math that enabled the 1986 Mets to celebrate their 25th season. You count the season you’re in—and you’re in it to win it. Unless you’re not. In New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History, I look back at the Mets from day one. Actually before day one. The prologue dates back to the 1880s, when the Bridegrooms and Gothams roamed their respective cities—Brooklyn wasn’t consolidated into the five boroughs until 1898—and formed one of the game’s great backyard rivalries until the Dodgers and Giants up and moved west in 1957. I read numerous stories in the New York Times and elsewhere to verify information as it happened, rather than go by the neat after-the-fact history normally accepted as gospel. Much of it was as I thought, but there were bits and pieces I didn’t know that took place in the dance between the National League and Continental League about getting New York a new team. I always thought Bill Shea was bluffing with the new league, but reading his daily quotes and following his posturing, he was willing to try whatever means necessary to get his city an alternative to the Yankees. Bless that man. He was the franchise’s first hero, and his work was done by 1961. Next came Joan Payson, whose checkbook gave the Mets leverage, and whose patience and business savvy we can only look back on with envy. Then there’s Casey Stengel, of course. His place with the Mets was also not the fait accompli we all assume. He was pursued as manager by a few American League teams and could have easily taken charge of the Angels, who were located much closer to his Glendale, California home than the “Knickerbockers,” as Casey called New York’s newest team when he finally agreed to manage the club in September 1961. His former boss with the Yankees, George Weiss, had been Mets president since March of that year. Weiss, like Stengel, had been “retired” by the Yankees against his will after winning 10 pennants over the last 12 seasons. Weiss didn’t initially take the general manager title with the Mets because being president enabled him to force the Yankees to still pay him. Those early years were bawdy comedy that kept the fans smiling instead of crying. The voices in the booth ensured that no matter what the team was doing on the field, their broadcasts were the best in the business. Lindsey Nelson, Bob Murphy, and Ralph Kiner’s 17-season run as a trio has never been matched in baseball annals and their professional demeanor—always “the Mets” not “we”—is a standard all future Mets announcers have followed unfailingly. Gil Hodges hit the first Mets home run in 1962. He was one of several washed-up former Brooklyn Dodgers that the Mets brought in to try to drum up business. It was a strategy that wasted the franchise’s initial years of development, but after sending Hodges to Washington to learn the managing trade, he returned and changed the culture of losing at Shea Stadium. No one else could have turned this perennial doormat into a champion, and perhaps no one else could have kept board chairman M. Donald Grant in line. Hodges’s tragic death began a long decline (even with the 1973 pennant smokescreen). Like Gil Hodges, Davey Johnson’s arrival as manager signified a sea change in Mets fortunes. Just as with Hodges, Johnson stepped in as a bumper crop of talented young athletes flooded the minor league system. (Note: On the two Mets world champions the only real imported stars were Donn Clendenon, Keith Hernandez, and Gary Carter. The farm is the way.) The team’s record of failure when Johnson arrived wasn’t much better than the situation Hodges walked into. The Mets finished last five of seven seasons prior to Johnson’s hiring after the 1983 season. The Mets immediately energized the fan base and became New York’s most popular team. Though everyone wished the hard-partying Mets could have held it together to win another world championship or two, the way the Mets rallied in 1986 comes to mind every time a team is down to its last out and defeat seems imminent. Bobby Valentine did not inherit a great situation when he was named Mets manager in August 1996. The team’s vaunted youth movement had come up snake eyes, the pitching staff couldn’t get outs, and there was no leader, no life. That soon changed as Valentine became the lightning rod, creating energy, controversy, and statements for his detractors to chew on. Like the other two great managers in Mets history, his tenure at Shea was too short. And those are just the sidebars about people who didn’t play for the team (other than a few appearances late in the playing careers of Gil and Bobby). There are sidebars on the team’s 10-game search for its first win in 1962, a completely different 10-game turnaround in 1969, streaks of 36 and then 42 straight shutout innings in September of ’69, four December deals that dismantled the Mets in the 1970s before the Seaver trade, four teams sharing Shea in 1975, the Mayor’s Trophy, Joel Youngblood’s two hits in two cities in one day, HoJo's odd and even season mojo, Anthony Young’s 27-game losing streak, “The Best Infield Ever,” the story of all four World Series teams, Shea and Citi Field pieces, and each chapter ends with little-known facts about every Mets team. And those are just the sidebars. There is an all-time record book (through 2010), plus an index, for people get excited about that. Besides the detailed team history, there are short bios on the 50 greatest Mets, with a foldout page and more details on the best Met of each decade. Try and guess who those are. MVP Books kept their end of the bargain with a superb “illustrated” part: 400-plus images, including action shots, memorabilia, yearbooks, signs, and more. I put everything I had into the “history” part. I'm proud and pleased at how it came out. And that’s all I’ll say now. The Mets Police, a pretty fair judge on matters of history and style, will tell you more. |
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March 15, 2011 This History Is Official The news actually came out as I was preparing to head for Florida, so I wrote something and put it on hold. Now everyone from the New York Times to the Woodstock Times is talking about John Thorn’s elevation to Official Historian of Major League Baseball. But the news remains pretty timely, especially since his long-awaited book on the genesis of the game, Baseball in the Garden of Eden is now finally available. (I trust Amazon will have my backordered copy to me post haste.) Thorn’s promotion may not be a big deal in some corners, but it is here. Fifteen years ago John Thorn and Michael Gershman plucked me from the monotony of covering high school track and small-time college basketball to writing about major league baseball every day. I had been writing for them at night and working in their office on my day off from the newspaper. When I was told a full-time position was being offered, I was glad to be sitting down. It is the closest someone like me will ever get to being called up to The Show. For a while Total Sports consisted of about half a dozen people, but we persevered. Sadly, Mike died in 2000. John, whose face I’d first seen on TV as senior consultant for Ken Burns’s Baseball, has an encyclopedic memory and is the most astute baseball researcher on the planet. And he has a soft spot for the Mets—I ran into him more than once coming out of Shea Stadium for a matinee. Haven’t bumped into him yet at Citi Field—and I can only wonder what he thinks of the franchise’s latest imbroglio. When I was on the payroll with John, he made sure no one took me off it, even if that ran contrary to the thinking of the large corporation that bought our little shop during the dotcom hype (a time when BS seemed the stuff that IPO dreams were made of). I was a little rough around the edges and royally screwed up more than once, but he was like a manager who allowed a young hurler to work out of jams. After producing six books in a short time for our NFL partners, John pushed for our company to give me a hefty raise and for them to move my family from suburbia to our publishing home in Kingston, NY, setting up a more rural existence that I quickly came to love. John now lives in the Greene County town where I first lived when I came up here. (For a little more from John about the appointment, try this piece from bizofbaseball.com.) In 1998 John put me in charge of producing the sixth edition of Total Baseball, a 2,500-page book he and Pete Palmer created that changed the way books of this type were put together. I wasn’t sure I had what it took to do it. John was. The next year he promoted me to associate publisher when I thought the promotion was months away, if not years. He kept me on until the very last as things went downhill following the dotcom bust. I’m proud of just about everything we produced during my time with Total Sports. Even now, though we have not worked together for years, when I think about not checking a fact or going with some generalization in my writing, I can still hear his voice questioning that type of sloth. And I do the research. As the final authority on the origins of baseball, he provided guidance for a couple of chapters in a new book of mine, Baseball Miscellany. I was a liaison for content with Major League Baseball—assigned to get their approval on their “Official Encyclopedia,” though the poobahs had seemingly little idea that Total Baseball actually contradicted several of their “sacred” records that had been constructed on erroneous facts. There has been poobah progress in the last decade, as MLB.com, the MLB Network, and other endeavors have really taken off. Jerome Holtzman, creator of the save rule and MLB’s first official historian, died in 2008; no one had held the position since. John Thorn will not let convenience trump fact when it comes to records or anything else. MLB could not have picked someone more qualified for the position. Nobody knows more about the game, where it came from, and where it’s headed. Oh, and this just in. Maybe we'll find out how this crazy game got started yet. Cheers, sir. |
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March 13, 2011 Monday Morning Pitcher, Tuesday Night Partier For those of you in the Kingston (NY) area, I’m on with Warren and Chris on 1490 AM Monday, March 14, at 7:35 a.m. (yes, that’s a.m.). I also want to officially invite one and all to a viewing party put on by Maple Street Press Mets Annual 2011 at the Holiday Inn LaGuardia (Pine Restaurant) in Flushing/Corona on Amazin’ Tuesday, April 5, 6-10 p.m. We’ll have many of the writers of the Maple Street Press Mets Annual on hand to talk Mets before, during, and after the game on TV from Philly. There’s a very nice buffet for $10, comp sodas, and cash bar. Plus we’ll have Maple Street Press Mets Annuals for $5. It’s a great way to get pumped and prepped for the home opener at the end of that week. Come one, come all and watch the Mets fell the Phils. Hey, first week of the season: our team, our time. |
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March 12, 2011 That Went By Fast My brief tour of Florida spring training is sadly over. It wasn’t really a tour since I did just go to the one spring training facility, Port St. Lucie, but I tried my hand in the press box one day and spent another selling a dozen different Maple Street Press preseason magazines at the stadium entrance. It was kind of fun, but I think everyone is glad I’m on the content provider side. The Mets Booster Club meeting was sensational. They filled Creative Catering's hall and bought out the case of books I had lickety split. SpringHill Suites was exceedingly nice. They not only have the MLB Channel, along with a comfy couch, fridge, and desk I actually spent a few hours at, but the hotel even sold copies of the Maple Street Press Mets Annual at the front desk. Thanks to all, especially Booster club head Jimmy Fertitta as well as Yara Erosa, who volunteered to be my secretary and photographer at the event. Ron Darling and Kevin Burkhardt from SNY came and gave a great talk, addressing questions on both the Mets and on matters important to St. Lucians (is that the right term?): how opposing teams get away with bringing nobody on road trips, how playing the same five teams over and over in spring training is actually detrimental when three of those opponents are in the NL East, how the Mets may take a weeklong trip to the other side of Florida in the future, and why oh why can’t this Mets colony in Fla. get SNY? When Ron and Kevin told me they enjoyed my books, well, that was worth the trip right there. I also briefly spoke with Sandy Alderson and Bobby Ojeda at the ballpark. As some of the seniors in the crowd might say, “They’re such nice boys.” I finally bellied up to the bar at Duffy’s, a St. Lucie legend. I didn’t bowl but I watched others do so through the window. I ordered the dinner named after Luis Castillo: Caribbean Jerk. It cost $6 million but was very tender going down and was served with tasty plantains. Now if I could just convince Mr. Alderson to eat the same dish, I think all of Port St. Lucie, as well as New York, would enjoy it. While I was away, the work piled up, and the reviews rolled in. People shared their views about:
Maple Street Press Mets Annual 2011 reviewed in
Plus books I haven’t even had a chance to properly plug yet. New York Mets: The Complete Illustrated History is discussed in Mets Police, again! Twice!! Both here and here.
And Baseball Miscellany:
Thanks for reading. And writing. |
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March 4, 2011 Meet Me in St. Lucie Editors from the Maple Street Press Mets Annual 2011 will be on hand at the ballpark for the day games on Sunday, March 6 (vs. Boston), and Monday, March 7 (vs. Detroit), selling the magazine and talking Mets with everyone on hand. I’ll be there on the main concourse behind home plate during the day on Monday and that night will talk during the Mets Booster Club’s monthly meeting at the SpringHill Suites Marriott Banquet Room at 7 p.m. I’ll be at the ballpark in a more casual capacity Tuesday afternoon against the Nats. (Sorry but I’m not calling it Digital Domain Park; Tradition Field was already pushing it.) How do you like Ike Davis on the cover of the magazine? I figured if he could bat cleanup a month into his major league career on a team with high-priced veterans like Jason Bay and David Wright, then Ikey might have the stuff to be a cover boy. He actually batted cleanup more than any Met in 2010. Wonder where he’ll bat come April under Terry Collins—ESPN NY keeps calling the manager “TC,” which makes the Twins come to mind with the “TC” on their hats (for Twin Cities). Ike, Thole, Niese, Parnell, Murph, Emaus… Let’s go Mets! Enough with the depressing financial stories in the New York Times (that’s the only way The Old Gray Lady ever mentions the Mets in print). Let’s see some ball already! Mets fans should look to the future as a way of looking past the “Brother Can You Spare $25 Mil” present that we’ve endured all winter long. |
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March 2, 2011 Maple Street Press Mets Annual The Maple Street Press Mets Annual 2011 is in stores throughout the metro area (click image to order). This is our fourth edition and, if I may say so, our best. It wasn’t easy figuring out what the Mets might do this winter—or if they would, in fact, do anything—but putting this together was a lot of fun (and work). And then, just as I sent in the last piece, shortly before the magazine went to press, I sat down to lunch, flipped on SNY, and stumbled onto a conference call about a potential cashflow situation in Flushing. Lunch was wolfed down and we got a few paragraphs in the lead article addressing the situation. There’s plenty of other news, profiles, stats, and stories in this year’s edition, featuring an All-Star lineup of writers. I also contributed the most pieces I have in the four years Greg Spira and I have put together the Maple Street Press Mets Annual. Broken into three sections, it begins with The 2011 Mets: The Wait by me The aforementioned piece looks at the words to live by in Metdom in 2011: patience, prudence, and partnership. Player Profiles on the 2011 Mets—by Greg Spira, me, and Inside Edge A lot of in-depth scouting and statistical information, hot and cool zones for stars, scrubs, and the kids we’d like to see make the team, such as Nick Evans and Brad Emaus. Bridging the Moneyball Gap by Sam Page Sam does great work for the Amazin’ Mets Annual, which I liked enough as PDF last year to order a hard copy this year (I’ll review after it's delivered). Sam’s piece discusses both Sandy Alderson and the mistakes that brought down the previous front office regime. The Sanity Is Back by Joe McDonald Joe, managing editor of Inside Pitch, another Mets magazine I enjoy, draws parallels between the start of the Cashen regime in 1980 and Alderson’s appointment in Flushing. He also looks at what Mets fans can expect from Terry Collins. It’s Not the Park by Howard Megdal Howard, from SNY, provides facts and figures about why the ballpark isn’t to blame for the club’s lousy offense. The team would be truly awful without its distinct home field advantage. Other teams have tinkered with ballpark dimensions, usually at their own peril. Is This Goodbye, Jose? by Greg Spira We toyed with doing this piece for most of the winter. Right now it’s hard to envision a scenario besides Reyes having a lousy year—or other owners showing fiscal restraint—in which Jose remains the longest-tenured Met. Love to see that change. R.A.: Realized Ace by Evan Drellich The only one I hope for lasting success more than R.A. is Evan, who’s written for us since he was in college and is already a seasoned reporter for MLB.com. What didn’t make it in the piece? Dickey called Evan to ask if he needed any additional quotes to cover the time since their initial interview. The Professor never fails to astound. Is This Heaven? No, It’s Flushing by Andy Esposito Andy, from Inside Pitch, reviews what’s exhibited at the Mets Hall of Fame, the best thing to hit Citi Field since the 1969 Anniversary Night. I took the photos for the piece. Circuit Seniority by Ted Berg Ted, of Tedquarters and SNY fame, does a superb job of looking at all that could go right for the Mets while also acknowledging how much the team has its work cut out for it. The league is growing ever tougher and the division is only getting more competitive. Section II: Down on the Farm Development Is Job One by Toby Hyde Toby, who heads up both our minor league coverage and minors content for MetsBlog, looks at the top 10 pitchers and top 10 hitters in the system. Toby included last year’s rankings, which showed Ike and Thole among the top three and Jon Niese the second-ranked pitcher behind Sir Jenrry. We hope for continued success for Toby’s evaluations and the organization’s future results. Back Draft by Toby Hyde Toby examines the final Minaya draft and the tendencies that helped hem in his regime: not taking risks, sticking to slot bonuses, and losing top minor league picks as compensation for major league free agent signings. While there’s still some good new talent in the system, the old Omar ways are a thing of the past. Thirty Years of K-Mets by John Moorehouse Each year we feature one of the minor league teams and this year we look at the Kingsport Mets. Much of the franchise’s top talent over the past three decades has started up the ladder in this small Tennessee city since 1980, with Darryl Strawberry in the inaugural K-Mets class. Remembering Brian Cole by Jason Fry A very well written piece by Jason Fry, who also helps give us Faith and Fear in Flushing. Cole could have been the Mets center fielder for the past decade or he could have just had a cup of coffee in Flushing. We’ll never know which. He was killed in a car accident coming back from spring training in 2001. A young man taken too soon, and how he affected others, is worthy of reflection. Hard to Spell, Harder to Ignore by Toby Hyde Kirk Nieuwenhuis, the kid with the sweet lefty swing out of Azusa Pacific, has put in the work and progressed to the point where you may find yourself grappling with the spelling of his name in the near future at Citi Field. Hint: call him “Nieuwy.” Minor League Thumbnails by Toby and me Facts about each minor league club in the system. Part III: Pieces of Mets History ’86 Turns 25 by me Sometimes things just work out for the best. This piece was going to another writer who disappeared on us, so I sat down and tried to recreate the ’86 season. I enjoyed it immensely and hope you do, too. I’d say more but can’t spoil the ending. The Top 25 Moments of 1986 by Greg Spira Summaries of the biggest Mets games, regular season and postseason in ’86. For the record, there is a second game of a doubleheader included to make it 26 games. The Mets did lose one of the featured contests, but the .962 win percentage is pretty accurate for the ’86 juggernaut. Thems were the days. Back to Life by Greg W. Prince Faith and Fear’s Greg Prince and Jason Fry upped their awesomeness level by coming through with the two hardest pieces to write in this year’s Maple Street Press Annual. There’s nothing I have a harder time writing about—or coming to grips with—than September 2001. Like Mike Piazza, Greg knocks the ball clear out of the park. It’s hard to fathom it’s been a decade already. I’ll Buy That for a Dollar by Jon Springer Another writer who’s been a big part of the Maple Street Press Annual since its debut is mbtn.net’s Jon Springer (he also has a sidebar on injuries in this issue). Jon looks at the convoluted free agent history of the Mets, going in-depth into their floundering at the original free agent draft and detailing the many dropped balls since. The Mets Uni-Sphere by Paul Lukas It was a real coup getting Paul from Uni Watch to look at Mets uniforms as only he can. Starting from day one, Paul provides 20 Mets uni-related factoids and we came up with some diverse illustrations, from champagne-tousled Gil Hodges to Roy Staiger to Keith Hernandez to the Mercury Mets. Cooperstown Mets by Dan Schlossberg Sixteen men who have worn a Mets uniform are in the Hall of Fame following the election of Roberto Alomar—to Cooperstown, mind you, he’ll never be allowed in the Flushing HOF. Dan, a former AP writer, looks at all the Cooperstown crowd who has worn the orange and blue at some point, including 1963 Met Duke Snider, who recently passed. Dropped at Birth by me Can you believe that something associated with the Mets has reached a 50th anniversary? The 1961 expansion draft was loaded rosters o’ crap that no one else wanted. But did you know the Mets—and Houston, for that matter—missed the boat on top caliber players like Dick Allen and Robin Roberts in order to draft the likes of Ed Bouchee and Craig Anderson? Wright to the Top by me Look out Ed Kranepool and Darryl Strawberry, David Wright will shatter the Mets record books in 2011. Want to know which records? You’ll just have to pick up a copy of the Maple Street Press Mets Annual at a local newsstand, convenience store, supermarket, or book store. I’ve just given you plenty of reasons to pick up the Maple Street Press Mets Annual 2011. Here’s one last reason that should have you running to the corner store for a copy: there’s not a picture of Castillo or Ollie to be found in it. |
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February 23, 2011 My Neil Allen
Year If you’ve been following here since day one—or the start of my Terry Leach Year—you might vaguely recall that each year I name my current age after a dubious Met’s uniform number. As I reach 46, I choose Neil Allen, a decent Met with enough name recognition to bring back a franchise-changing first baseman named Keith Hernandez. Lord knows this year could use some franchise changing. If you have a copy handy of the Springer/Silverman collaboration Mets by the Numbers—and if you don’t, I’ll wait—you’ll note that Chapter #46 is called “Rickey Don’t Use That Number,” which hints at the number’s lack of star power. And there’s no way in hell I’m going with the longest-running holder of this number. Oliver Perez is someone we all pray will be stripped and shorn of #46 in short order. Neil Allen was the first #46 in team history. He liked the number so much that after two years he decided to become the first full-time wearer of #13. Allen was a kooky Kansan who prevented the 99-loss Mets of ’79 from zooming into triple-digit defeats. He was supposed to be shipped to the minors after a rocky beginning as a starter that year, but Allen got hurt and went on the DL instead. When he was all better, some other schlub was hurt or was completely ineffective—even I forget which—and Allen stayed with the team as a reliever. He went 6‑10 with eight saves. The ’79 Mets were so bad he was tied for second on the team for wins. And because Skip Lockwood was hurt for much of the year, Allen became Joe Torre’s go-to guy in the bullpen (Genius Joe always kept an eye out for arms to abuse). The other options for saves that year: Shea hot dog vendor turned Mets reliever Ed Glynn (7 saves), tall drink of water Andy Hassler (4), and Dale Murray (4), who had his own unique following at Shea. I must share the story about how a friend’s dad got seats a dozen rows from the field—don’t fret, they weren’t so hard to get—and someone sitting near us held up a hand-drawn sign that said something like “Garden City Loves Channel 9.” The camera focused right in on the guy, who then flipped the sign to read: “Dale Murray Sucks.” The camera immediately wheeled in the other direction and we almost pissed our pants laughing. Back to Neil Allen. The Mets said farewell to Skip Lockwood, who’d been the team’s “fireman” (the operable term then) since I first started following the Mets in 1975. So Allen was essentially my second Mets relief ace. At age 22, Allen racked up 22 saves—a big number at the time that was good enough for fourth in the league in 1980, and an impressive total given that those Mets wound up losing 95 games (even though they flirted with first place in July). Once Allen switched to #13, things were never quite the same. I don’t want to blame anyone personally for the baseball strike, but… I can blame Allen, along with Frank Cashen, for that year’s disastrous trade of future all-time saves leader Jeff Reardon (plus Dan Norman) for Ellis Valentine. Though the GM made the wrong choice, Cashen understood that good teams could really use two or more top notch relievers, but for lousy teams it was a luxury. So two years later, with the emergence of Jesse Orosco as a bullpen ace and Allen becoming more and more erratic on and off the field, Cashen shipped Allen and Rick Ownbey for Keith Hernandez in June of 1983. So you can even credit Neil Allen with the birth of the Mets renaissance. Renaissance blogger Centerfield Maz has a more complete picture of Neil Allen. Usually when the new Metsilverman.com year begins, I make a few resolutions or plans for the year ahead. Keep in mind that I’m not great at following through on outlines, resolutions, plans, or even wishes, but here goes: --In 2011 I will complete my version of the Mets year-by-year countup. This began last year with 1962 and could have maybe completed it in one year, but with 2011 being the 50th season in Mets history (not to be confused with 50 years, mind you), I decided to stop last October after 1985 and pick up this year with 1986, which might be the best year of my life (apologies to wife, kids, parents, siblings, dogs, and everyone else, except you, dear reader—because you understand). The distraction of past Mets glories might help get us through this year. --To keep posts brief. Oh, hell, I promise this every year and never follow through. All right, I’ll try to keep it shorter, except for the annual writeups. Those are therapy sessions and trips down memory lane for me, so they’ll be as long as they need to be. That I can promise. --Promote the hell out of everything. After a couple of years of restraint, there’ll be a lot more appearances in person and on radio to promote New York Mets: An Illustrated History, Baseball Miscellany, and Maple Street Press Mets Annual 2011. Let the plugging begin. --But while I’m doing more events, I’ll be going to fewer games. My 200-mile roundtrips aren’t as much fun as they were when I was going to Shea. I’m sorry, they just aren’t. The new stadium is nice and all, but I’m going to try—try, mind you—to cut back from 20 games to 10. A friend who lives near the ballpark moved, plus a longstanding ticket source dried up, and during a game I can’t look around and see my dad and 11-year-old self in the mezzanine talking about Dave Kingman. I plan to be in some far reach of Citi with my son, talking about Ike Davis, but the boy’s only seven. When he’s ready to trek to Flushing more often, we’ll be there. That’s another promise. |
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February 12, 2011 Roger and Out Thank you, Roger Clemens! No, not for anything positive, but for still being that same asinine, clueless bully and giving me an easy entry back into the land of the Mets post. If you’ve been following here the last few weeks (thank you!), then you may have detected a veering from baseball. This isn’t an apology. “Met” is in the site's name, but if I don’t have something interesting to say about baseball or the Mets—or at least something I can rant on for several hundred words—I'll write about something else. I worked at enough newspapers where if you weren’t out covering an event or were chained to your desk pecking away, you weren’t considered to be doing your job. Even if you came back with nothing interesting to write about. And I spent most of the last couple of months working on the 2011 Maple Street Press Mets Annual. It’s available to order at Maple Street Press starting this week. It will be on newsstands everywhere come March 1. I'll be selling it in person in Port St. Lucie on Monday, March 7. And we’ll host a season kickoff party on Tuesday, April 5, starting at 6 p.m. and watch the Mets play at Philly from the Holiday Inn LaGuardia, off the 7 train Citi stop (where Bobby V. used to run the bar). But more on that another time. For more on morons, here comes Roger Clemens to the tri-state area. I've been angry at him essentially since he became a Yankee, and I guess, really since he joined the Blue Jays and started juicing to show Dan Duquette he wasn't washed up. I saw him clinch the 1999 World Series in person and watched on TV in horror as he threw two different harmful objects in the direction of Mike Piazza's head in a four-month span in 2000. From the surreal seconds after the bat throwing incident in the 2000 World Series, I've thought the whole thing was blown out of proportion. Sure, I would have liked to have seen Clemens thrown out of the game, but only because that would have given the Mets the best chance of winning. He didn’t deserve ejection from a World Series game. And if I may briefly divert my rant, Mike Hampton had no right to say that Piazza should have started a brawl. If a brawl needed to be started, you were the one with the ball in your hand, tough guy. Piazza was irreplaceable and the star of the team. You pitched once in that World Series. And pretty damned poorly, I might add. So the Mets lose Game 2 and a few days later the Series. The Metsian world comes to an end and Hampton tra-la-la’s to the Denver school system, which his kids attended for a minimal amount of time before they were rushed back to the superior skoolin’ of Fla. Hampton, who beat the Mets soundly in his first game against them in Denver, comes back to Shea in 2001 and Mets shell him—the ball Piazza hit is still ricocheting off the top of the camera scaffold in center. That score is settled. But the Clemens thing is talked about over and over and over again, analyzed by countless experts in machismo, both professional and amateur. I was so consumed by the Clemens return to Shea in 2002 that I was playing golf when the game occurred. I was at a pub afterward watching the highlights with friends—without prior knowledge of the outcome. I was very satisfied as the highlights were presented. Piazza homered off Clemens, starting pitcher Shawn Estes homered off Clemens, and—what I thought the most important part—the Mets beat Clemens. And the Mets barely missed sweeping the series from a very good Yankees club. Estes, who always had horrible control, missed Clemens when he tried to hit him, received his warning, and Estes would have been ejected if he'd tried to hit Clemens again. (The Mets had lost to the Yankees in excruciating fashion the previous night, so having your starting pitcher tossed would have been worse form than missing Clemens's butt, I'm told.) But no one ever mentions the circumstances of the game. Some people would have rather Clemens be hit than the Mets hit him and win the game. The issue passed only due to the passage of time. Until Clemens emerged from his bunker of ignorance and arrogance to appear at a Connecticut casino. Clemens’s recent comment that when he threw the bat at Piazza, “My form was impeccable,” is just another piece of evidence in the case of the People Vs. Clemens, in which the state will plainly show that this man is just a complete and total ass. This moron, who was originally drafted by the Mets in the 12th round in 1981 before he opted for the University of Texas, was a virtual lock for Cooperstown, yet—like Barry Bonds—still decided to take steroids so he could shatter records and make mo’ money, mo’ money while tarnishing everything from the Cy Young Award to a couple of Yankees world championship trophies. He even left the people cheering him wildly in Miami, for what was supposed to be his last exit during the 2003 World Series, feeling pretty foolish as well. Why retire when you can just keep juicing—and let’s get the Mrs. her own supply as well for her vanity—and get a million bucks per start and do everything but have your own “The Decision” show to announce where you’re going to sign next. And because that’s not enough, let’s have the bamboozled Astros sign on for multiple generations of Clemens BS by wasting an eighth-round pick on you lunkhead boy—it’s Krybaby right? When last heard from, that kid was challenging all comers to a fight in the parking lot of my college bar/restaurant, Mac ‘n’ Bob’s. I did all kinds of dumb things in and around that parking lot—and went to that bar to celebrate the night the Mets clinched a certain little trophy in 1986—and even I never managed to get thrown in the county jail, which happens to be right across the street from the bar. (Ah, the South.) But then again, look who the kid had to learn from. Well, anyway, good to be back and ranting in mid-season form. And I managed to completely bypass the Wilpons. Oh, I’m ready for spring training. |
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February 7, 2011 This Bandwagon May Never End When I think about Wisconsin people I’m happy about, Heather Graham is usually pretty high on the list. And if I’m feeling introspective or nostalgic, I’ll think of other sons and daughters of Wisco like Spencer Tracy, Orson Welles, and Oscar Mayer. And I may even ponder how you get from West Allis to wacko with the single-name deities of our culture: Oprah and Liberace. But rarely do I think of Iona classmate Paul Ronga. I hadn’t thought of him much since we were in junior high together in the late 1970s—sorry, Paul (I’ve probably been low in your recollections as well). Before you think this has degenerated into a plug for Classmates.com, bear with me. Paul Ronga, unlike say Sheboygan’s own Jackie Mason, wasn’t a Wisco native, but he lived there for a couple of years, I think. I recall a distinctive New York accent as opposed to the stereotypical Wisco dialect: “Oh, gee, you go Pack go.” Paul was a good athlete and used to be the best player in our somewhat tame touch football games on the blacktop during winter. Paul, having lived in Milwaukee—or someplace near the land of Laverne & Shirley—was our local authority on all things Wisconsin. He took this responsibility rather seriously. Such as the day in December of 1978 when the Packers, coached by Bart Starr, were fighting the Vikings in the NFC Central race. I mentioned casually to someone else that I was glad the Pack had won the previous Sunday. I instantly got a face full of Ronga. “Hey, Silverman. Who’s your favorite NFL team? “The St. Louis Cardinals.” (Don’t ask why.) “Who’s your second favorite team?” “Um, the Cleveland Browns.” (Shoot me, I was a sucker for no decal helmets and Dave Logan.) “All right, Silverman. Who’s your third favorite team?” “The Patriots.” (I’d never really gotten this far down in favorite naming before, but give me Stanley Morgan, Steve Grogan, Sam Bam Cunningham, and slap Pat the Patriot on a helmet and I’m ready for battle.) “So who’s your fourth favorite team?” (Back then the NFL had 28 teams and I wasn’t sure I could list them all in a desired order, so I took the bait.) “I guess I’d say the Packers.” “Oh, sure, hop on the bandwagon while loyal fans like me have bled green and gold and have stayed with the Packers through thick and thin…” He tore into me like the Bears and Rams wound up doing to the Pack the next two weeks, leaving them tied with the Vikings with an 8-7-1 record and out of the playoffs because they’d lost an October game to Bud Grant’s boys at Metropolitan Stadium. (Back when the Rams still played in Los Angeles and the Seahawks were in the AFC, we thought the greatest indignity of this newfangled 16-game season would be for a team to make the playoffs while finishing half a game over .500.) The Pack had been 6-1 before losing to Minnesota and missed out on their first playoff spot since Vince Lombardi. I glimpsed Bart Starr cheering at the end in one of Jerry Jones’s 8,398 luxury boxes at Super Bowl XLV. And I thought how he had deserved better as a head coach and how he and Paul Ronga must truly be happy. And I’ll admit, as Paul Ronga accurately guessed long ago, I have kind of turned into a bandwagon football fan. I pay little attention to the draft or training camp unless a publication pays me to care. I watch baseball when it’s available on Sundays, even when the Mets are playing their usual meaningless brand of September baseball. If the Yankees are playing late into the postseason, I often make a quicker transition to the NFL. I usually rearrange my schedule to see the Arizona Cardinals on TV, but I have never bought the NFL TV package or the dish service it requires. There is still a boy inside me that’s lying on the floor in my parents’ den playing electric football, with Super Jock set up to simulate all field goal tries, keeping stats on “my” simulated version of the NFL season—and I think I was kind of embarrassed to tell Paul Ronga back then, but the Packers won “my” NFL title, a six-game season in which most of the games were decided on my Coleco handheld game. But that kid now mostly comes out during “weather games” and the playoffs. If you’ve been reading along the last month (thanks for your patience and the next topic will be Mets related!), I still get worked up about the NFL and ache a bit when the season is gone, as it is now. But the ache is brief because by the time the Super Bowl is over, spring training is practically upon us. If they go to an 18-game NFL schedule, the seasons might overlap entirely. Let’s just hope there’s no work stoppage…because that would be as lame as having a fourth favorite team, which I can’t really say I have (and I stopped caring for my number three club about the time the Pats got their current lame-o helmets). I’ll freely admit I was on the Packers bandwagon Sunday. Yet I do have plans for a future that may one day include Green Bay. Even if I never see it. Shortly after my son was born seven years ago, the Jets forced me off their season tickets waiting list by charging $50 for the privilege of being on a piece of paper—something I’m sort of glad they did in retrospect, especially since they hadn’t even made my eighth-grade top four. (Now I'd rate the Jetsies second on my list.) But in 2003, with a newborn son crying in the next room and me preparing to attend a Packers game during my last Wisco trip, I thought big picture and put the boy on the Packers season ticket waiting list. It didn’t cost anything and paying for Green Bay tickets probably won’t come up in this lifetime. By my guesstimation, his number on the waiting list won’t come due until he’s 84. And that might be enough time to acquire a taste for the Pack and let technology enable us to beam ourselves anywhere instantly. Like everyone else in his second grade class, he had to go to bed before Super Bowl XLV was decided. (And while we’re thinking far down the road, is it really the wisest long-term policy to risk alienating the next generation of football fans on the eastern seaboard by having the one game everyone wants to watch not end before 10 p.m. on a school night?) If the NFL is still around in 2087 and my son's heart is indeed green and gold, he can personally claim at least one championship under his belt. My two favorite teams, circa 1978, may still be waiting on their first title. Or maybe a grandchild of mine and Paul Ronga’s kin can take in a Packers game together 109 years later. Now that would be some bandwagon. |
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February 1, 2011 Super Bowling for Ice The Packers and Steelers are going for history in Dallas on Super Bowl Sunday. Yeah, yeah, the Steelers already have the most Super Bowl victories ever, but it has a chance to be the coldest Super Bowl in history. If the temperature dips below 39 on Sunday in Dallas, it would break the mark set in Super Bowl VI in New Orleans in 1972, back when they still played out of doors in N’Orleans, and Dallas, ironically, won the game over Don Shula’s Dolphins. The weather for the game isn’t such a big thing in and of itself, unless you’re the Weather Channel’s Jim Cantore. Though it’s supposed to warm up in Big D after some arctic blasting down there—things will be far dicier up here—it still could nudge 40 the night of the game. If it sneaks into the 30s, that could break the ice, so to speak, for what’s to come with the Super Bowl in three years at the Meadowlands. The two Super Bowls between now and 2/2/14 are indoors at Indy and N’Orleans (NFL, you been away a long time, they don’t play at Tulane Stadium no more). Imagine if they had the game in New Jersey this year with all the snow piled up everywhere? I don’t think playing a Super Bowl out of doors in these parts is the end of the world, but I don’t think it’s a great idea either. If you wanted a Big Apple Super Bowl, you should have put in the option of a retractable roof at the Meadowlands. That way you could have the Final Four, Super Bowl, and National Presidential Conventions in the metro area instead of letting all that wild spending and price gouging happen elsewhere. It would pay for itself in a decade or just up the seat licenses a little more. Of course, if you build it, they will close it… the roof, that is. That’s what happens with the Arizona Cardinals’ roof: even on a perfect day, the players and team want it closed because it’s louder or whatever. If Jersey had the dome option, it would close every time there were clouds and the long tradition of the local teams toughing it out in the elements would be lost (see Vikings, Minnesota). The Pack came through in the Ice Bowl at Lambeau Field when they beat Dallas for the 1967 NFL title. Now maybe they’ll get that toe-hold on the Texas turf on the last play to pick up their second league championship post-Lombardi era. Of course, after winning the Ice Bowl, the Pack went to Miami and beat up the Raiders of the AFL in Super Bowl II. The temperature for Vince Lombardi’s last game with the Packers? 67 degrees. Ah! Go Pack go. |
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January 24, 2011 The Last Waltz of ’11 So this is where the Jets bandwagon ends. Two straight years in the championship game, only to be sent home. My son only got to see the 24-0 portion of what became a great game. (Thanks, CBS, for the unnecessary 6:30 start time so the people out west with no single-digit temps, school night bed times, or teams involved can see it at their convenience). So I had to fill him in Monday morning while we tossed around the football at zero degrees, waiting for the bus that never came. (Insert sports symbolism here.) “When you get so close to your dream and don’t get it, it hurts all that much more.” Robert Young must have said that on a rerun of Father Knows Best, because I don’t know how I came up with that while throwing a football in the stilting chill of a January morning. Or maybe I just know the feeling too well. There’s of course the 2006 NLCS Game 7. Skipping over 2007—which is always a good thing—we come to the far more dramatic and emotionally wrenching 2008 season. I saw my beloved stadium and baseball team essentially taken down the same day. In the early weeks of the following year, I was offered unexpected redemption by my normally invisible football team, the Arizona Cardinals, who reached the Super Bowl for the first time ever. Knowing no other Cardinals fans, I felt like I was personally being offered a hands up after a nasty fall, going all the way to the Super Bowl, only to lose in the waning moments. Just seeing the ad yesterday where the Steelers fan jumps up and down after seeing that decisive play, makes me kick the ground like it just happened. That pain doesn’t go away. Jets fans, my heart is with you. <> <> <> It was a great weekend, nonetheless. While I already have your ear, I want to pass on my impression of a singular evening of entertainment I experienced Saturday in nearby Woodstock. There hasn’t been a lot to draw national attention to the area since Max Yasgur’s farm was turned into a cultural touchstone 40-odd years ago (though the event was held 40-odd miles from Woodstock, if you’re a stickler for that kind of stuff). A few of the old guard remain, including a man who could call his job at the legendary concert at Bethell, NY a local gig, and whose driving drum beat belies musical genre. That man is Levon Helm. I went to his house Saturday night, or more precisely his studio, for one of his fabled Midnight Rambles. Unlike Don Imus, I wasn’t invited, but I did buy a ticket a few weeks back and went with Smitty O’Smith to pay homage to a legend of rock. Levon Helm is the kind of person whose full name you say even if you’re saying Levon Helm multiple times in one sentence. The Band ended its official musical run with The Last Waltz on Thanksgiving Night 1976, a night I vividly recall seeing the then-St. Louis Cardinals get stomped by the Dolphins in one of the rare (or rare until the NFL Channel got involved) Thanksgiving games not played in Detroit or Dallas. I remember my introduction to The Band maybe five years after they stopped touring. A radio show talked about this group of young musicians in the 1960s holed up in West Saugerties, NY, just outside Woodstock—pre-Woodstock—in a house known as Big Pink. They didn’t even really have a name because they were mostly known for backing Bob Dylan’s controversial changeover to rock. (The reaction by the folksters was so harsh, Levon Helm spent almost two years working on an oil rig in his mid-20s before he came back to the music, thankfully.) They never really came up with a name that stuck, so they wound up going with what people generally called them, The Band. The record companies let the name stick and they became a musician’s musician kind of band, this band, The Band, with four Canadians and a drummer from Arkansas with a distinctive voice and a face like actor Robert Shaw’s. This drummer could act, too. The Band had a smaller-scale version of the Pink Floyd-Roger Waters disagreement among the band mates, or in this case, The Band mates. Robbie Robertson, the guitarist and writer of most of the songs, thought The Band should stay retired after making a three-record LP and film of what was supposed to be their last concert in 1976. So Levon Helm went out touring as The Band with any number of musicians, including the late Richard Manuel and Rick Danko, plus Garth Hudson, still going strong at 73 (he was elsewhere on Saturday). Levon Helm is 70, has survived throat cancer and a life on the road. Now he spends his time at home in Woodstock with his daughter Amy, who also sings in his home band. After the relentless touring that led to the end of The Band, now people come see Levon Helm at his place. This we did Saturday. I tried to see Levon Helm twice in 1992, only to have him cancel both times. The voice isn’t the same, and he sang maybe half a dozen songs. Yet hearing Levon Helm’s hoarse voice, in a room with a churchlike ceiling, and only 200-300 others, in his home, watching him play almost every song on drums—unless he’s playing the mandolin—and being fully in charge of 10 or more people on stage, you feel the heart filling in where the voice cannot. When he broke into Ophelia, I wasn’t in a state-of-the-art barn in Woodstock, I was at The Last Waltz, floating on air—and not just because they allow you to come and go, bringing a cup of your own concocting. With his band (lowercase) and the warm-up Dirty Gov'nahs, we got nearly four hours of music that did indeed ramble til midnight with a special guest appearance from Jimmy Vivino, leader of the band on Conan. He made you feel Richard Manuel in the room. The whole place feels like the First Church of Levon Helm. Thanks for having me over, sir. I know I’m a newbie compared to someone who’s been here since the 1960s, but I’d put off the visit for a long time. I’m glad I finally up and did it while we still have you. It’d be great if Robbie Robertson did the same. Take a load off. |
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January 20, 2011 The Steel Gauntlet It’s taken some time to put something together about the upcoming AFC Championship Game between the Jets and Steelers. Part of the delay has been the difficulty I’ve had in processing the Jets victory. We were going out to dinner last Sunday just after the Jets game started—with kids and old people, you eat early—and I even positioned myself so as to see a distant bar TV. I was concerned that I may miss the competitive part of the game, as happened with the Monday night game in Foxborough, which was over by the time I got myself situated. Different concern this time around. The Jets made the Pats look bad. The Patriots didn’t seem to have a game plan to go to once they fell behind, and their methodical seven-minute, fourth-quarter drive changed the game. When the Pats came up empty on a field goal try, the Jets were in complete command. And the Jets scoring a late touchdown? Inconceivable. The Jets could have reigned in the showboating—though, wow, nice Ozzie Smith-esque backflip, Braylon Edwards. But I’ll live with seeing them do it again on Sunday. It would be personally sweet because I hate the Steelers. When I was a kid and the Steelers were rolling to Super Bowls all the time, I admired them. Because getting a St. Louis Cardinals football jersey in New York in 1977 truly was inconceivable, the Steelers were one of about four non-New York choices available when my dad took me to the sporting goods store (even the Patriots were impossible to get). So my first jersey purchase was a Steelers long-sleeve #21—no particular player, I just liked the number (I never quite got the whole jersey thing right from the get go). I watched them steam on the numbers at the store (and watched the numbers slowly peel off over the next year). To keep it real I bought a short-sleeved Steelers jersey #32. You didn’t have to like Franco Harris, or the Steelers, but you had to respect them. And they own just about the only cool black uniform. The Steelers were all weather. They played in the rain, snow, freezing rain, and slush. They were in the playoffs every year when the playoffs were a lot harder to get into. If they got to the big game, they did not lose. And they beat the Cowboys in two of the first three Super Bowls that I saw on TV. I watched Lynn Swann’s juggling catch live in my first football game (anything to procrastinate studying for a test). Pat Summerall and the recently-deceased Tom Brookshier, the top CBS color guy pre-Madden, did the play proud. The Steelers were so good, you knew everyone on the team. They even had two superb tight ends—Bennie Cunningham and Randy Grossman—when teams only used one. They had two great wide receivers—Swann and John Stallworth—when other teams had no one good to throw to. When it came time upgrade electric football, I spent my allowance on the Steelers (and the Seahawks—I was all about the uniforms). I still respected the Steelers during their down years and was pissed when the Cowboys beat them in their third Super Bowl rematch in 1996. In my electric football Super Bowl dream matchup come true in 2006—Steelers vs. Seahawks—I pulled for Pittsburgh, though it was like the NFL sent an officiating crew from Allentown to hold Seattle in check. My long, respectful ride with the Steelers—which included me overseeing the book Total Steelers in conjunction with the NFL in 1998 (you’ll have to take my word for it, since my name didn’t make the cover)—abruptly ended two years ago on February 1, when my Cardinals faced the Steel Curtain for all the marbles. It was an unfair fight that could’ve been a personal triumph even the Mets could never provide, given how many fans they have. Being a Cardinals fan at a Super Bowl was like being a red-sweatshirted drop in a sea of oily black. I saw every Steelers jersey imaginable, though I still don’t recall seeing a long sleever. If Ben Roethlispredator had thrown an INT in the final minute, my dream would have come true and my life would have been in jeopardy getting out of there. I like to think I could have run the gauntlet, or died trying. Flip ‘em, Braylon. Then keep on going. |
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January 9, 2011 Rex, Pucks & Ingenuity The Jets pulled out another one! Watching them in the postseason these last two years has become like following the Bobby Valentine Mets of 1999-2000. You watch with no idea what’s going to happen next. You’re not sure how they can win, but they do. That Nick Folk kick looked like it was going to sail right and then it broke left like a Bert Blyleven curveball and split the uprights. I heard a primal “yeah” when the ball made its final ascent into the land of “good.” The yell had to come from Rex Ryan, the kicker, or maybe Fireman Eddie in the house at Indy. Good for the Jets, though I generally don’t like seeing Peyton Manning lose. His dad lost enough for three generations of Mannings with the Saints in the 1970s. The Mannings exude class in a league that often seems to have a ban on that trait. I sort of like that Mark Sanchez, too. He’s no Matt Robinson, but the kid is 4-1 in postseason play. Though I tried to listen to a couple of quarters through the radio static, I only watched the last five minutes of the Jets-Colts game, including another Adam Vinatieri money kick that was overpowered by Folk. I was at another sporting event, a Division I college hockey game at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute. (It always seemed endearing that it’s called RPI instead of Rensselaer Poly, Ren Tech, or something like they do at the big engineering schools in Virginia, California, and elsewhere. The difficulty I’m having in spelling Rensselaer may explain why the 5,500-undergrad school opted for initials.) RPI’s hometown of Troy is in its own kind of world. Back in the 1870s, this go-getter town just north of Albany was a real jewel, even sporting a National League baseball team (1878-82) back when New York City had none. But the Troy Haymakers, along with the Worcester Brown Stockings, got bounced by the NL, essentially replaced by the Giants and Phillies. A smart move, as time would certainly tell, but Troy can still sparkle even on a snow-covered night 129 years after the NL left town. It does suffer the problems of rust belt cities where the buildings have outlasted the people, an all-too common problem today as the region and state lose population to the southern states. The brick three-story houses from back in the day still stand even as the dandies and their bonny brides long ago moved away and the neighborhoods too went south. (At the game there was a booth trying to build momentum for spiffing up old Troy through a Pepsi grant, an award my neighborhood’s Rosendale Theater got through online voting last year and it saved the facility. Vote here to improve downtown Troy, if you’ve a mind to.) Anyway, I’d been to the Houston Fieldhouse for a game once before. But having to get there exceedingly early allowed me a chance to really examine the sight angles and the sunken rink that lets fans look down at the action. Though there are still a few good old beams remaining in the 60-year-old facility, those wily RPI Engineers figured out how to eliminate poles from the main seating area at the 4,800-seat venue. It’s the only ice rink “fieldhouse” I’ve been to—and I’ve been to a few, having devoted seven years to visiting such buildings to cover scholastic events in my newspaper life. RPI has sent many an Engineer to the NHL, including Adam Oates and Joe Juneau, who played together on the “Bonanza Line” for the Bruins in the 1990s. Returning to 2011, the Engineers knocked off another solid hockey school, St. Lawrence, 5-3. I wouldn’t normally miss two humdinger NFL playoff games for a college hockey game, but to be honest I never gave it a second thought. My son’s hockey team was taking the ice between periods, and 17 kids aged 7 or so pushed around a puck at speeds of up to 4 miles per hour for 3 minutes while a group of fans yelled, as they had for RPI: “Red! White! Red! White!” No one even came close to scoring a goal, but I thought my heart might burst with pride. |
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January 4, 2011 The New Meadowlands: Better Late Than Never With four months to go before there’s a bona fide baseball game, I tried something I hadn’t tried in more than a decade. And yes, it was totally legal. I’m talking about attending a Jets game. I walked into the new Meadowlands Stadium last Sunday exactly 11 years after my last trip to its predecessor. New decade, new stadium, new parking configuration. Today's lone useful tip: Try parking at Redd’s Restaurant a half mile from the stadium and taking the school bus shuttle to the game (order the Redd’s nachos with your free voucher). It wasn’t the old tailgating, but did you know that the word “tailgating” is derived from the Latin word “tailgatum,” which means to drink, eat, and talk too much? I’m sure they wouldn’t have even believed that one in the chariot lot after a dozen wine goblets at the old Coliseum in Rome. Back in East Rutherford, the new stadium is…nice. Besides the millions of rich-get-richer reasons for a new stadium, it was ridiculous to tear down a stadium built in 1976. (I was in sixth grade when it opened, it couldn’t have been that long ago!) But at least both not New Jersey teams share the stadium, making it useful for all of 16 regular season games. So much for the reason, how about the look? It has these rings around the exterior that are reminiscent of Shea Stadium after they took down the colored steel panels. It also had that Shea feel because going through security next to us was Ron Darling and family, though my host Jeff Lerno did not believe it was him. I could have snapped a quick pic of him and let the know-it-alls of cyberspace back me up on it, but I decided to go up and tell him how much I enjoyed his book—and I knew no author would turn down an unsolicited positive reader comment. Yet the wily old Met deftly switched course and used a group of people as a pick to separate himself from us as he marched toward the swankier seating sections and left us to escalate to the top of the stadium. From the outside, the new building reminds me of the Cardinals Stadium in Arizona, where I’d been three times since my last Jets game, plus six trips to Sun Devil Stadium, single games in Foxborough, Lambeau Field, the former Texas Stadium, and Tampa Bay’s stadium for Super Bowl XLIII. That roll call is only partially to show off—and doesn’t include the college stadiums I’ve seen in the past decade—but it does confirm that I’m still quite willing to go to football games in the flesh…when I’m out of town. When I’m home, I try not to schlep to New Jersey without a good reason. But I considered going to the first game at the new Meadowlands Stadium against the Ravens in September—a payback to mein host of Cardinals games past—but that didn’t come off due to a change of plans. So I was thrilled to get a chance to see the place in its inaugural season. From the middle of the upper deck, it felt remarkably like being at the old Meadowlands, only the seats were gray and had a price of $101--twice what I'd paid to be a few rows from the field 11 years ago. The new seat color did nicely camouflage the thousands of no-shows for the meaningless Jets-Buffalo game the day after New Year’s. Though the barbeque sandwich I bought wasn’t great, it was edible, which is more than I can say for the food choices at its predecessor in the 1990s. A group of friends and I bought three to six Jets games per year from a season ticket holder from 1992 through 1999. Though an attempted conversion of my football loyalty from Cardinals red to Jets green invariably failed, it was a lot of fun going to Jets games. The seats were $20 per game in ’92 in the lower seating area, about six rows from the field and from Fireman Eddie. I still have a couple of giveaway green plastic fireman hats from the mid-1990s—when Eddie was bigger than the scrubs on the field—and I was the guy who wore a red Wisconsin sweatshirt almost every Sunday. In the latter stages of my seatdom I made the switch to a Jets-colored sweater, which I wore once more to Sunday’s game. You know why? Out of respect. Those Jets teams I saw back in the day were on the other end of meaningless games. They were the team that played Buffalo after the Bills had already wrapped up a postseason spot. They were the Bruce Coslett, Pete Carroll, Rich Kotite Jets, who went 22-58 over a five-season span. Their only win in 1996 came on the road—in Arizona, in a game I’m still furious about. The Jets were the team that got knocked around by Parcells’s Pats until the Tuna came to town and spiffed up the Jets while making parking even more difficult. I remember seeing Bill Belichick glowering next to Tuna, who constantly bellowed and displayed his Hithcockian profile. I recall how great it felt when the Jets finally beat Buffalo—back when Flutie Flakes were a legitimate breakfast treat—and witnessing the Jets beat up on an in-his-prime Marshall Faulk and rookie Peyton Manning when the Colts were an AFC East team (and you couldn’t give away tickets against them). Going to Jets games was always fun. It was the never-ending drive home that wore me down more than the team’s many Metslike qualities. I stopped going to Jets games when I moved upstate, which seems like a lifetime ago. But I've found that the trip is much more civilized when you don’t have to cross a major bridge. Thanks to Jeff for the ticket and to the Jets for making it a trip down memory lane. Now those Colts are on this week’s schedule and nobody wants to see that Manning kid again. |
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December 23, 2010 Let Nothing You Dismay I sort of feel like a general manager who believes he must make some sort of deal, a small deal, some sign that he’s awake and raring to go. But that’s the old model. Enough of that, the holiday is upon us and my duties lie elsewhere for the coming days. Knowing that little holiday memories from 30-odd years ago still burn inside me, one sometimes feels the weight of creating imagery for those who now sit in front of the outmoded TV in my home. Even now a glimpse of a long forgotten holiday TV special can transport me to scratchy wool pants, of snow traipsed into the rarely-used front hall by relatives I barely saw save on Christmas Eve. A sumptuous dinner bolted down and then waiting, waiting, waiting for the presents to be opened. Like wishing the final out of the game to magically arrive to get to the handshakes and hugs. But there’s still a palpable feeling—or is it need?—to say something short, since time itself becomes short this time of year. Then suddenly there is a week of nothing significant before we barrel headlong into a new year, another year. So I’ve opened a bottle of old holiday procrastinating tonic. Here, friends, is one last flashback for 2010, to CBS in the half hour before the NFC pre-game begins with Irv Cross, Brent Musberger, and Phyllis George. The AFC game on NBC drags on with the Cowboys ahead of the Jets at Shea, 30-7. A manual twist of the television knob, black-and-white, mind you, and suddenly the jaw drops (though not as far as Jacob Marley’s). Electric football halts mid-game, the boy edges closer to the screen, preparing to travel from 1978 to 1843, from New York to London, in an instant. “Bear but a touch of my hand there,” said the Spirit, laying it upon his heart, “and you shall be upheld in more than this.” Ghost of Christmas Present |
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December 11, 2010 E-Gads, E-Guides! We wish you a Metty Christmas We wish you a Metty Christmas We wish you a Metty Christmas In this rebuilding year. We know money’s tight So stayed tuned, all right? For the Mets gift of the year That costs less than a beer! I get occasional emails promising free stuff I don’t want if I simply promote or mention some product on this site. I can only imagine what proprietors at bigger sites get. To date, just about everything that wasn’t an actual book has gone in the virtual recycle bin. I have to believe I’m not the only one who can spot something phony. And I'll tell you up front, I'm doing this on my own, without remuneration. A few weeks back I got a note from the author of a Citi Field E-Guide to Citi Field. I suppose it’s like a book, but I still have a hard time thinking that anything that’s not made out of paper is a book (maybe some more Kindle sales of 100 Things Mets Fans Should Know and Do Before They Die will change my mind). I responded to Citi Field E-Guide author Kurt Smith, saying I’d take a look but probably wouldn’t do much with it. And then I took a look at the E-Guide. I had a ton of pressing matters to deal with and yet I read every page. Considering that at $5 the E-Guide is cheaper than almost any item available at Citi Field, it’s worth your while because it tells you which seats and amenities are worth spending your money on and which you should skip. Plus it has tons of photos, including the views from various seats and lots of other things. No matter how many times we’ve been to the place, we’re all still just learning about Citi Field. The E-Guide will certainly help in the education. It took a decade, some really bad baseball, and essentially growing up at Shea to feel like I really knew the place. It just takes time, to use the phraseology on everyone’s lips after all the communal Sandy Alderson Koolaid we’ve been drinking quite politely. (BTW, nice job by Mets fans the other day on FAN by not taking Mike Francesser’s bait when he wanted them to turn on Alderson for not doling out seven-year contracts like they were Whitman’s Samplers.) We’ll get where we need to be, but while we’re waiting, it doesn’t hurt to get a little more knowledge from a guy who goes to new parks with a critical eye for what the fan's most want to know about. You want a good present for a Mets fan? Buy them a book. Forget the hats you already have 10 of. Skip the jerseys for players who will be long gone while your $100 purchase mocks you from a dusty drawer with the words “Matsui,” “Alomar,” “Rodriguez,” or even “Bay.” Enjoy your E-Guide with some egg nog. And it can be dowloaded instantly, so you very much can last-minute shop. I hope this doesn’t come out sounding advertising-y because as much as I like Mad Men, I’m pretty bad at crafting persuasive ads. There are E-Guides for other ballparks, which is a nice idea if you're planning on roadtripping to a game next summer…but you’re worried about the Mets, so I asked author Kurt Smith a handful of questions. I thought it might be different to talk to someone walking into Citi Field with a job to do, who can compare the details of Citi against a memory bank of other faux-retro parks. Here are my italicized introspective questions, and his the nonscripted, non-informercialized answers. As an outside observer, are today's Mets fans really as needy and cranky as they seem close up? E-Guide Guy: Ugh...meant no offense to Mets fans (every Mets fan I know is a great person) and it was not my intention to create that impression. But I was worried about the intro in fact, and since you asked that question I may re-write it. I’m concerned people will think I'm a Mets-hating Phillies fan and I’m nothing of the sort. (I’m a displaced former Orioles fan.) What happened was that I was doing so much research in reviews, message boards, and while it seemed like everyone liked Citi Field, they complained about a lot of things with it, and honestly I thought people were justified in many of their beefs...like the lack of acknowledgement of the home team, the tributes to the long lost Dodgers, obstructed views, and the name of the place. I didn’t mean for it to sound like Mets fans were needy, more that New York is a demanding town, and I meant that in a good way. Seriously though, I am going to probably change the intro, because I don’t think Mets fans are cranky at all. What was the coolest feature about Citi Field that you did not expect? E-Guide Guy: You know, I never really thought about that until you asked. All I could really think was that it was better than Shea in almost every way. But after pondering it for a while, I decided I really liked something that I don't praise in the guide. I love the view from the Pepsi Porch of all the chop shops. I know that’s strange, but I think it’s awesome! Nothing like it at any other park. Second place would go to the Shea Bridge in right center field. You don’t think about it too much but then when you remember it later it’s pretty cool. If you had $50 to go to a Mets game, how would you best spend it (you don't have to go down to the penny, but your top choices)? You can do it without including ticket price, but please include the seats you think are the best value. E-Guide Guy: My favorite place to sit at any game is behind home plate in the best seats I can afford...which in my case would be in the Promenade Level. The Promenade is more than adequate anywhere except left field, and even that isn’t too bad. In Citi though, I might like to try the Pepsi Porch seats once. It just looks neat. With $50—I would probably get a double Shackburger with a Shackmeister Ale, so since the fries would be included I wouldn’t go to Box Frites. I’d certainly get the Mama’s cannoli or a Cinnabon at Carvel’s. Would need to walk all that off, so I’d probably stop at the killer souvenir shop and get a T-shirt. All that and a mandatory program would probably be about $50. Does parking count? Knowing what I know from research I would probably take advantage of that reduced price Southfield Lot and perhaps spend a few hours in Corona Park or the Hall of Science before the game. Is there an application so someone with a better phone than I have could refer to it while at the game? E-Guide Guy: I was just looking online to see if Adobe Reader is available on iPhone, and apparently it isn’t, but there are applications that can read PDFs on iPhones. I don’t have a table of contents in them yet, maybe in future editions. I have thought about perhaps working with someone to design software that will include videos where I tell you where to park and all that neat stuff, but that’s way down the road... How many of these books are you planning to put out? E-Guide Guy: I have written them for all of the East Division ballparks, and I’m working on PNC Park and Wrigley Field at the moment. They take a while...I have to get to the ballparks themselves to get pics for them and verify things, so I should have Camden Yards and Nationals Park done by May of 2011, and I’m going to try to get some others like Turner Field, Tropicana Field and Rogers Centre next year. With home issues looming, I can’t say how much I’ll get done. The goal is to offer guides for all 30 someday. Would be nice, yes? You haven't already done so you can sign up for the newsletter...comes out on Friday and offers news and discounts. <> <> <> Did that sound like an infomercial? Back in the early 1990s when I lived alone and had no cable yet felt compelled to watch the three channels I got until they went off the air each night, I remember sitting there all tired—or something—and actually watching an entire Tom Vu infomercial. You know the one: “Come to my seminar and I teach you three little words to make you rich. You neighbor die, they wife sad, you buy house for very little, sell for very much. You be rich, too. I came to this country a loser with no money. Now I rich with hot babes. Come to my seminar.” I finally learned what Tom Vu’s three little words were: Let’s Go Mets! |
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December 6, 2010 Dear Santa, While watching Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer with my son the other day, the abiding feeling I got was that you were pretty damned uptight. Are you always so short with the elves, so to speak. And could you have been more cruel to Rudolph? Jeez. Fortunately, you saw the light before the OSHA people got wind of it. I’m sure you’re building a facility to code that can comfortably house the toothless Bumble. Then as Burl Ives sung us out…it hit me, you're on edge, Santa, because you’re a Mets fan! I have the Christmas tree ornament to prove it. It’s been a rough couple of years for our Mets, Saint Nick. And if you’re expecting a miracle from the Mets, you’re be better off expecting the Heat Miser to zap Luis Castillo and his contract before spring training. While I’m speaking frankly, and the yule log’s aglow with the Winter Meetings, here’s a few things that this Mets fan would like. If you can arrange it.
In short, all I want for Christmas is a team that knows what it’s doing and knows that champions aren’t built overnight. The San Francisco Giants seemed to have come out of nowhere to win a world championship in 2010, but they slowly and methodically built that pitching staff while biting the bullet for several lousy seasons until they assembled a team that hit just enough—and had enough luck—to put their pitchers in position to win it all. I've given up expecting a Mets dynasty. I’ve been following the team for 35 years and in the best of times there’s been a handful of decent seasons strung together. Historically, the Mets hit it big once, come close a second time, and generally go into hiding for a few years. I don’t demand that championships be rammed into my stocking every year or else I stamp around Christmas morning pouting that the whole holiday stinks. Sure, maybe we’re a little jealous of Jayson Werth—non-tendered four Decembers ago, given a ginormous gift in Washington this Christmas—and we may long to have Adrian Gonzalez under our tree, Carl Crawford gobbling up the Citi Field real estate, or hope to see Cliff Lee circling the living room on Christmas morn like an spanking-new electric train set. But we’ve gotten gifts like that before and now they’re all broken: Johan Santana’s worn-out Kung-Fu grip, Carlos Beltran has just one wheel left, and Ollie Perez’s head came off so long ago it’s hard to remember what he once looked like. Sometimes the best gifts are the ones you earn. Or the little gifts that you don’t think much of in December, but come September you wonder how you could have ever gotten along without them. I see you under that beard, Sandy Claus. You’re secret’s safe here. And please see if you can keep that grumpy lead elf—is his name Terry?—from giving Herbie the dentist and the other Misfit Toys too hard of a time. It is, after all, the holiday season. <> <> <> Since budget is the operative word this year, later this week I'll have the Mets gift of the year—and it's not even a book of mine (though they sure make great gifts). |
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November 30, 2010 Flipping Around We are now a week or so into the Terry Collins regime and a month-plus into the Sandy Alderson era. What have we learned? That someone is realizing that the Mets need an overhaul, not another pricey tune-up that puts them right back in the shop next winter. Chris Young? Good big man on the Ivy League hardwood. The oft-injured Princeton alum could be this year’s version of Kelvim Escobar (I threw as many pitches at Citi Field as he did in 2010) or maybe a happy surprise like R.A. Dickey. Who’ll sign on for 2011? I won’t pretend to know which of the warm bodies in this putrid free agent class are worth signing. It won’t be a big name and that is refreshing, based on recent past failures that have hindered the team going forward. Ex-Mets Melvin Mora, Ty Wiggington, Xavier Nady, Chris Woodward, and even Jay Payton caught my eye in the free agent list, but they should always be wary about bringing back someone for a second go. For every Rusty Staub there are two Roger Cedenos (though one was enough). And when it comes to trading one bad contract for another, visions of Bobby Bonilla, a two-time Met still on the payroll, should cause pause. So then what else is there to discuss? Well, there’s that Monday Night game. Jets-Patriots? Sure, that one’s probably worth staying up for, but how about that Niner-Cardinal fiasco? My apologies to anyone who tuned in. (By the fourth quarter even I’d flipped to the surprisingly amusing 500 Days of Summer.) The offices of East Coast Cardinal don’t shut down when the team is bad—and in this case, historic Cardinal bad (bad grammar, worse team). The only thing uglier than this year’s club would be those black uniforms. I’ve hated the black Mets uniforms for a dozen years now, but it’s not like I can look out my window and see a blue and orange Met singing in a tree. Cardinals are red, my love, Metsies are blue. The new uniforms are even dumber because the team name originated a century ago from the color of their jerseys rather than the bird. (The baseball Cardinals got their name in separate but similar fashion.) With quarterback Derek Anderson—who shows a lot more force on the post-game podium than on the field—the black may be in mourning for the all-too-brief Kurt Warner era. How they have that kid quarterback from Fordham University, John Skelton, on the inactive list is a mystery. A kid straight out of Fordham Prep would be an improvement over Anderson. Hardy har har. A word of forewarning: Spend time with your family not Cowboys-Cardinals on Christmas night. But that won’t be hard to do since a game on NFL network is harder to find than the Ghost of Blowouts Yet to Come. Several Jets called the Thanksgiving Night game on NFL network “nationally televised.” I don’t get or miss NFLN. I only watched Jets-Bengals because I was exhausted from traveling and it was simulcast on Channel 11. I would have rather seen the 11 Alive Odd Couple marathon. The Cincinnati Bangles may be the only team with less life than this year’s Cardinals. Still stuck on the boob tube….In the “I Never Thought I’d Say This” department, the YES network’s Hot Stove program is more informative than the Mets version, which has too many interviews saying nothing. A show that’s ending a strong season is Boardwalk Empire on HBO. I didn’t think much of the show initially, but it really is entertaining. Just don’t go Sopranos on us and become appointment TV that loses the point. |
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November 22, 2010 Collins Mix Washes Down Holiday Turkey Despite the hand wringing in some corners, Terry Collins is the new manager of the Mets. Although the group whine of 2009 resulted in the Mets remembering they had a Hall of Fame, the new regime doesn’t seem too caught up in doing things based upon the number of “likes” they get for a move on Facebook. (Though Sandy Alderson does have a problem with overflowing email inboxes.) It's not the most popular hire in Mets history and The Apple caught exclusive footage of the reaction to the Collins hire by a group of diehards. In some ways, Terry Collins is the perfect manager for the Mets. He’s already let four September leads slip away at his previous stops. But really, do you think the Mets are going to have any September leads to blow in the next couple of years? And if they do, who’s to say that Collins won’t come through this time around? Players tend to revert to their average seasons—unless they’ve stumbled across a BALCO-inspired fountain of youth. Managers, on the other hand, sometimes find success late in life after arriving in new situations brimming with superior talent. There’s a few current—or at least recent—managers who failed previously, spent time away from big league managing, received slight applause when they were re-hired, and became revered geniuses. Terry Francona, Charlie Manuel, and Joe Torre come to mind. All three of them failed in their first try as major league managers—in Torre’s case it was failure in three places (including at the Big Shea)—before winning world championships. You want to go back further? In 1948 Casey Stengel was seen as a clown. He was managing in the Pacific Coast League because he’d had a losing record in eight of nine major league seasons with the Braves and Brooklyn. Stengel was hired by the Yankees the following year and proceeded to win 10 pennants over 12 seasons. Then the Yankees fired him after Bill Mazeroski’s home run cost him the deciding game of the 1960 World Series. So Casey was more than available when he was tabbed by the Mets—or Knickerbockers, as he called them in the first of many clever change of subjects from the lousy Mets to his entertaining self. Debuting with the Mets at age 71, Casey remains the oldest manager hired by the club; Collins, 61, is second. That’s all right. I learned long ago that I have no idea what I’m talking about when it comes to managers. I laughed as loud as anyone when the Yankees hired Torre after I’d grown up watching his moves backfire at Shea. I figured things would really turn around when George Bamberger was hired in 1982. Bambi may be the worst Mets manager I’ve endured, but there’s competition: Joe Frazier, Jeff Torborg, and Bud Harrelson in the two-years-or-less crowd. (Wes Westrum, who took over after Casey when I was still in the crib, lasted slightly longer than two seasons, but like Bambi he quit on the team.) And then there’s Art Howe. Like every Mets manager, I tried to like him. I even tried to think like him, but that gave me a headache and made me hungry for bran cereal. So good luck, T.C. May this time around be a hell of a lot better than your last run. And if it isn’t, let’s hope Mets management knows when to cut the cord. A two-year contract sounds about right. |
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November 9, 2010 Marathon Effort The marathon update is a few days late, but I’m just trying to approximate when I would be finishing if I had run in it. There I am, crossing the finish line. Right…about…now. Sharon Chapman finished the race long ago. An avid Mets fan, she ran for the Tug McGraw Foundation, raising money to help people suffering from brain tumors, which claimed the life of the late, great Mets reliever in 2004. I was just one of many who made donations for Sharon. She earned $6,214 for the foundation, well above her goal of $4,500 for Tugger, who wore number 45 while helping pitch the Mets to pennants in 1969 and 1973. Tug was one of a kind. So is Sharon. So, in fact are the 40,000-plus people who took part in this 26.2-mile endurance test. I wonder how many Mets crowds in 2010 will exceed the turnout for the marathon? And while we have the metaphor handy…for those who would bury or chastise the Mets for the tortoise-like speed with which they are pursuing a manager, remember: it’s not a dash, it’s a marathon. Sharon achieved her goal through hard work and a strict regimen. The Mets can, too. Though they may be a while crossing that finish line. |
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November 5, 2010 A Big Red Vacancy A new baseball landed in a playground in South Central Los Angeles in 1943. The other kids wanted to keep it, hit it as far as they could, play with it until it disintegrated. There was a war on. Baseballs didn’t fall from the sky. But this one had. A scrawny nine-year-old named George Anderson fought off the other kids for possession of this sacred object and then broke the news to them: “Ain’t ours. We gotta give it back.” So the kid, still relatively new to California after moving from the outhouses of rural South Dakota, walked to the other side of the fence, where there was a fancy baseball diamond and a team practicing. The kid picked out the man who looked like he was in charge. Just like this kid was clearly in charge on the other side of the fence. The man he walked up to was Rod Dedeaux , head coach of USC baseball, who would win a record 10 College World Series. Dedeaux ran a trucking empire that was so successful he took a $1 annual salary at USC. And he turned down plenty of offers to manage in the majors. But in 1943 he had the USC job because the team’s coach had enlisted in the military. Dedeaux was a great judge of talent, and not just the athletic kind. After asking the boy’s name and how far away he lived, Dedeaux looked at the ball in his hand and asked a question that would forever change the boy’s life: “George, how’d you like to be my batboy?” That is a summation of the first page and a half of Mark Frost’s book, Game Six, the tale of a game that is, or at least should be, on every fan’s list of 10 greatest games ever played. Frost’s book should also be in a few top 10s. I wrote favorably about it last year, but I picked the book off the stack again because that kid, George" Sparky" Anderson, died at age 76. Frost’s book touches on dozens of people who had some small role in Game Six, but the story is held together by that tenacious little kid from South Central via South Dakota. The one whose team lost that great game, fell behind 3-0 the next night, and still won a world championship. They called him Captain Hook for his impatience with his pitchers, but his use of the bullpen should be studied by every suits in a suite. And after he won in 1975, he won in ’76, sweeping the Yankees, which to this sixth grader was a gift from above. Sparky was the last manager to win consecutive world championships in the NL and the only manager, period, to win every game his team played in a single postseason—back in ’76 it was 7-0, with a sweep of Philadelphia, too! It was the first World Series with a designated hitter—he adjusted accordingly and inserted Dan Driessen as the first DH in NL history, who was one of seven Reds (Sparky used just nine hitters in the Series) to hit at least .300 against the Yankees. Sparky Anderson could outmanage anyone this side of Gil Hodges. Even in the 1973 NLCS, with Yogi Berra managing the Mets after Gil’s death, Sparky’s team still won twice in its last at bat. Two of the Mets wins came via blowout—and Sparky’s team did win the Pete Rose-Bud Harrelson fight (with Anderson pulling his team off the field after the whiskey bottle from the stands sailed past Rose's head). Two years later when the Reds ran off with the NL West title, they did not fool around. The Reds, who had lost in the 1970 and 1972 World Series in addition to the ’73 NLCS, blew through the Pirates and then beat the Red Sox in my first World Series as a fan and still the one I measure each succeeding October/November against. (And by way of parenthetical congratulations, if Sparky had been his old self, he would have gone on at length about the job Bruce Bochy did with the Giants. It’s been a long time coming, Frisco. A great park—and take note Citi Field beancounters, a great big park—and just enough offense to go with outstanding young pitching to lasso a title after 56 years.) They talk about the 1970s Oakland A’s being eaten alive by free agency, but theirs was a rapid dismantling; Cincinnati let its stars leave one by one (though they began the dismantling in December of ’76 by shipping the soul of the Big Red Machine, Tony Perez, plus the southpaw on the mound for both world championship clinchings, Will McEnaney, to Montreal for Woodie Fryman and Dale Murray). Like the Mets of that period, the Reds refused to sign free agents (at least ones that mattered). They kept George Foster for a few years, along with Dave Concepcion, and just one of the three (plus asterisk*) Hall of Famers of 1975-76, Johnny Bench. Everyone else left. Sparky was fired after 1978 when the Reds didn’t win with Tom Seaver. For a year, 1984, Sparky made the Tigers a machine as well, becoming the first manager to win a world championship in both leagues. He stole a division title from Toronto as an encore in 1987, but after that the Tigers only roared sporadically. I never made it past the not-so-special guest star level in the press box, but putting aside all the BS, travel, and cannibalism those beat guys dealt with, it would have been unspeakably cool to sit in a dugout and listen to Sparky pontificate. He talked the likes of Torey Luvullo into George Brett every spring, but Sparky was a baseball man. A man who hit .218 playing every day as a rookie second baseman for the the 1959 Phillies and then never played again in the bigs. A man who won a pennant in his first season managing in the majors and then won four more flags, along with 2,194 games, a .545 winning percentage, and 10 seasons of 92 or more wins. A man who saw a baseball lying on the ground and knew what to do with it. |
