The Almost Official Site of
Author Matthew Silverman
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.
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 Lebowskiand, 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, theNew York Timesreported 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.
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.
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; book review coming Tuesday). As I was looking at R.A.’s
tome, a man standing behind me reached for the coffee table books on the
Mets shelfed side by side: one by another company
and one by me. I was sort of stunned for a second—the
coincidence factor made it feel like a dream—but the fellow didn’t even
look at the book he took, the other guys’ version. He just tucked it
under his arm and walked to the check-out line. He was 75 feet past me
in a few seconds. Too far to make a sales pitch that seemed more and
more pathetic the farther he got away. So for all my self-promo moxie, I
felt like I’d held the ball when I should have thrown home. Everybody’s
safe.
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.
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.
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.
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 Metsand 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!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Mucho appeciado,
Josh
------------------------
Josh,
Hey, thanks for the kind words and congratulations on the new gig.
Unfortunately, because of financing issues Maple Street Press was unable
to produce any of the previews for 2012. Last year, there were two Mets
preview magazines—ours and Amazin’ Avenue—but talking to Eric Simon at
Amazin’ Avenue a little while back, he didn’t think he would be putting
one out this year, either. [Note to Josh and everyone else, there is an
electronic guide due out in April from Mets Merized Online.]
Some would say you’re starting with the Mets at a tough time, Josh. I’d
say you’re getting in on the ground floor. There is no group of fans
that cares more about its team than Mets fans. When they get this all
together, you—and all of us—can say we were there when. Howie knows
about it better than anyone.
Best,
Matt
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 J. Dirig
Endicott, NY
---------------------------
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, I just read your
book, 100 Things Mets Fans Should Know and Do Before They Die.
The book was given to me by my manager as a gift even though she is a
Banke$$ fan! LOL. I really enjoyed reading about the history of the Mets
from Casey and Ron Hunt to Johann and Beltran even though the latter is
gone for good. I must admit I am a 1986 convert. Yes, a bandwagon fan
that unfortunately never jumped off the wagon since.
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,
Bandwagon fans who hold on when the going gets rough are worth their
weight in gold. I came across the team sort of by accident a decade
before you (a tale told in the introduction of 100 Things, which
actually resulted in a school board member reconnecting me to my grammar
school—something both unexpected and gratifying).
The Mets are the ultimate test of will. When I got on the bandwagon, if
1975 can be called such a season, the Mets and Yankees were both playing
at Shea. After the Mets finished third my first two seasons following
the team, I assumed they would have to get better. As I learned from
The Odd Couple, re-run five or six times daily in 1977, when you
assume,
“you make an ASS out of U and ME.”The Mets stunk from
sixth grade until I was in college, so when the team got good in 1984
and I had the summer of freshman year to soak them in, it was heaven.
Oh, the heavenly feeling when they won in 1986. I think a lot of us
assumed they’d win more world championships. Didn’t The Odd Couple
teach us anything?
Keep the faith, Gene.
There’s plenty of other books on the subject to keep you busywhile
we wait once more on the Mets. It’s hard to believe my kids are now
experiencing the same kind of Mets lean years at the same age as I did.
Luckily, they like to play sports more than watch them. They’ll learn...
Best,
Matt
Bro Hung with
R.A., Old School
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.
Dear Met,
I read your piece on Greg Spira. I only met Greg in person on a couple
of occasions but I knew him for around 20 years, having first crossed
paths online around 1989-90. Back then, we used to talk about baseball
on the phone frequently, and it was always a great conversation.
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,
Thanks for writing and for the kind words. I was just counting how many
different books Greg and I worked on together and I stopped at 10. I
obviously never lost the sports bug and it enabled me to write about
something I liked. Greg fell in the same boat.
It’s hard to appreciate someone who worked so hard to keep so many
connections going until you try to replicate it, or until that person is
gone. In all my correspondence of Greg since his passing, I always try
to balance the reality of the situation with, "he could drive you nuts,
but...” He’s driving me a little nuts now in not being there. And come
baseball season it will probably start all over.
Best,
Matt
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:
The Cardinals farm system is light years
ahead of the Mets. And not just now, but for the last quarter century.
I also learned that when Gary Carter
came up in Game 6 with two outs, the Mets had just a 1 percent chance
of winning that Series, which is as far from reality as any team in
history that has ever won. One more reason to love and miss the Kid.
Mike Fitzgerald, the
first-time-up-in-the-majors-homering, otherwise light-hitting Mets
catcher before Gary Carter, was more like Yadier Molina offensively
than you might think. Just don’t tell Fitz about Yadier’s new $75
million contract.
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
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.
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.
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.”
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)
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.
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…
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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
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. If you can't listen to that, listen to
this. Not a Grammy fan but when channel surfing
and Joe Walsh comes on the screen—not
to mention Paul McCartney, Bruce Springsteen, David Grohl, and others—the
clicker stops in awe. (Sorry, all links to that cool performance have
been pulled down already. The music industry killing off goodwill like
MLB and the NFL.)
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
There were only 2 thing TO DO in the whole book attend a Met Road game
and have you kids run the Mr Met Dash.
How about watch a Met practice during spring training.
Watch a spring training game or better yet watch the Mets play two games
in one day at two spring training parks.
The book was a good read but I was looking more for places to go or
things to do!
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
“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?
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 Dieand 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 Essentialat 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.
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 Metsup front in their profile on Rowan &
Littlefield, the publishing house of imprint Taylor Trade, which is
putting out the book.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
[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,
Loved your post regarding 2003. May I remind you that today is my 50th
birthday; so in 1961 my Phillistines finished with a 47-111 record. Now
THAT was a tough campaign in which to be brought into this world.
Of course, tying it back to the Metropolitans, Vince Coleman
also was born on 9/22/61. Nuff said.
Mike McNamara
------------------------
Mike!
As a Phillies fan, I guess you’ll always have one up on my clan because
my son was born on a night the Phils toasted the Mets in 2003. I’m not
looking it up, but I’m going to dare guess that the 111-loss ’61 Phils
lost the day you were born. [Oh, who are we kidding, of course I looked
it up on the site you were onto a decade ago.
The Philthies blew a one-run lead in the ninth to the Pirates at
Connie Mack Stadium.]
A very happy birthday
to you! Vince Coleman, on the other hand, can blow out his own (roman)
candle.
Best,
Matt
Oakland Revisited
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!
Marty,
Thanks for the note and your kind words about Baseball Miscellany. Now some kind words about your art.
I really enjoyed looking through your gallery and like the circle
trademark (for lack of a better term) in your drawings. Of course I
liked the Seaver drawing and I am familiar with the picture it was taken
from. I also especially enjoyed Pete Fonda, Dracula, Frankenstein, Henry
Fonda, Still Life #2, Jerry Kramer, Joe Rudi, and Rollie Fingers.
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.
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
enjoyingPan Amon 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.
On page 15, there is a table showing all the teams that have won
consecutive World Series championships. However, the Cincinnati Reds,
who won in 1975 and 1976, have been excluded from this list.
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
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.
I
turned on the Rangers-Rays ALDS in passing and who did I hear on the
radio but Gary Cohen. I was a little surprised they didn’t have him on
the National League beat, but Gary kept me listening.
Of
course, Ron Darling was front and center on TBS with Yankees-Tigers,
showing the nation and Yankees fans what a great announcer sounds like
with no need for shtick. Though he was a hated Brave, John Smoltz was
pretty good, too. If you're going to put the postseason on stations
that would otherwise be showing Andy Griffith re-runs-—not
that there's anything wrong with Ange and Barney—at
least TBS has good people calling the action.
What are the odds we ever hear Darling and Cohen do a Mets postseason
game? Or just see a Mets postseason?
Speaking of people we’d like to see working in a Mets postseason,
Bobby Valentine has been great on ESPN. He even called the Yankees
winning Game 4 with A.J. Burnett (a one-time Mets farmhand before he
was traded for Al Leiter), and he said Detroit would win the series in
the House That Taxpayers Subsidized. Always bold, and often spot on.
The
weirdest call was Robin Ventura getting the White Sox manager’s job. I
thought that was Terry Francona’s landing spot. Much as I think Terry
Collins did a good job, I’d have half a mind to bring in Francona to
manage. The guy is the first manager since before the U.S. entry into
World War I to win multiple World Series in Boston. If he could handle
the insane fans and rabid media there, I think he could handle
Flushing. Don’t think he’ll still be available when the Mets outgrow
T.C.
One
more thing about Francona... if, after all he’d done in Boston, he
managed all of 2011 without his option being picked up, why did
the Mets rush to pick up T.C.’s 2013 option a year early? Just asking.
And I’m just wondering what Detroit bauble I’ll pick up as a bounty
for their knocking off the Yankees and sending their fans away from
baseball for six months (Yankees fans don’t watch other teams play
baseball). My personal bounty system has a .733 success rate since it
was instituted minutes before Sandy Alomar’s homer off Mariano Rivera
in the 1997 ALDS. Oh and Joe Giradi-o, good thing you saved Mariano
from pitching the ninth in game 162 with a postseason appearance at
stake in your division. “The Great Mariano” is probably exhausted from
throwing 1 1/3 innings this October. Now he has all winter to rest.
Pull up a chair and join the rest of us.
Keep watching this October. It is a good
one. It will keep you sharp for the day when it really matters again.
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.
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.
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:
Half the games I saw were day games—four of them on weekdays. I like
day games.
I
didn’t see Mike Pelfrey in person all season.
I
didn’t see K-Rod. I only saw three saves all year—one by a Met.
For
$25 we joined the Mets Kid Clubhouse. Our free tickets were two lower
deck seats plus Promenade Club access.
I
saw Mike Nickeas’s first, and to this point, only career home run.
Ditto for local boy Mike Baxter.
I
had three rain checks from last year that I used for a total of eight
tickets, all in prime locations because of various two-for-one ticket
promotions.
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
Date
Foe, Result
Mets Rec, Pos
MS Rec
Win
Loss
Save
HRs /by
NYM
Who hit the HRs
Note
8-Ap
Was, 6-2 L
3-4, 4th
0-1
Zimmermann
Dickey
0
A ho-hum opener and
the start of a brutal year when playing in front of the home folks.
21-Ap
Hou, 9-1 W
6-13, 5th
1-1
Capuano
Happ
3
Davis, Nickeas, Wright
Three homers in one
game! This also kicked off the longest 2011 winning streak (6).
1-Jun
Pit, 9-3 L
25-30, 4th
1-2
Correia
Capuano
1
Turner
Tell me if you've heard this: Cappy
throws six great innings and then gets hammered.
17-Jun
Angels, 4-3 L
35-36, 3rd
1-3
Piniero
Capuano
Walden
0
Another Cappy start, another
crappy game.
19-Jul
StL, 4-2 W
48-48, 3rd
2-3
Gee
Lohse
Isringhausen
1
Berkman
Titanic HR by Berkman. Gee and Parnell
solid with Izzy back in save mode.
21-Jul
StL, 6-2 L
49-49, 3rd
2-4
Westbrook
Niese
1
Pujols
Boxscore said 90 F.
Lie! It was 100. Last Beltran home game (better exit than Jose).
7-Au
Atl, 6-5 L
56-57, 3rd
2-5
Venters
Parnell
Kimbrel
3
Heyward, Constanza,
Gonzalez
The Mets lost both Reyes (for the
month) and Murphy (for the year) yet still gamely battled back only
to see Parnell get lit up.
11-Au
SD, 9-5 L
58-58, 3rd
2-6
Harang
Dickey
0
After consecutive comeback wins
vs. SD, the Mets drop sloppy game despite 15 hits.
15-Sep
Was, 10-1 L
71-79, 4th
2-7
Millone
Schwinden
0
Losing four straight at home to the
Nats commenced Terry Collins to yelling.
28-Sep
Cin, 3-0 W
77-85, 4th
3-7
Batista
Volquez
1
Baxter
Batista’s
Figueroaian gem. But the lasting memory: He who bunts and runs
away...
2011
Home: 34-47
3-7 in '11
Cappy, Gee, Batista
Dickey, Cappy 2
10/5
No power, no pitching, and 13 games
under .500 at home. I was 7-under. Yow!
Since '09 opening
122-121
26-24
Santana 4
Pelfrey 3
K-Rod 7
79/42
Wright 5
Imagine how bad Mets pitching would be
if they brought in the fences? Crazy to think it.
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.
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?
Willie Harris: I’m not really a fan,
but he broke up a no-hitter on Opening Day, won the next night’s game
in extra innings and got that tiebreaking single against the Cards in
that great ninth-inning spoiler comeback in St. Louis last week. At 33
he is a little older than most FNP candidates, and he wound up playing
more than anyone could have imagined. Yet Harris put himself in the
award conversation.
Scott Hairston had a couple of big hits
after a brutal beginning to his Mets career, though I’ll say right now
I’m rooting for Evans to take over this role next year.
Ronnie Paulino spent too much time as
number one catcher to qualify for the FNP list—and the judges also
take a dim view of players suspended for banned substance use. But
despite just two homers, he’s shown pop; on Sunday he easily cleared
the wall that launched a thousand whines.
Mike Nickeas: I like the cut of his jib
and he calls a good enough game where he may yet earn his backup
catcher’s union card. He just didn’t hit enough (.189) to merit the
FNP prize. Though I do appreciate that his lone ’11 homer came in one
of the two wins I’ve witnessed in person.
Chin-lung Hu and his .050 batting
average were never in the conversation—though his lone RBI to bring in
the tying run in Washington in April may have been the most stunning
Mets development this side of a six-run ninth. It should also be noted
that Hu’s 23 Mets plate appearance matched the number by former top
prospect Fernando Martinez (though F-Mart had a pinch-hit homer that
sparked a comeback win in Houston).
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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?
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 Buychronicled 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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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!”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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…
Over the years, I have
read and enjoyed all of your books and think you are exceptional author
who is connected to the Mets “vibe.” You are not self serving in your
commentary but real, funny and full of Mets passion and emotion. Some of
your Mets stories and memories remind me of my own stories and
memories—which is probably why I love reading your books!
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.
If he is right, I can not wait to hang out in McFadden's in
2014, it should be a mob scene!
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??????
I had to endure the pain of watching a trio of has beens and
never weres playing first: John Wockenfuss, Len Matuszek, and a
way-past-his-prime mid-season pickup, Al Oliver. Sammy was a
triples...and strikeout...machine. John Denny and Lefty were washed up,
and Al Holland’s girth wasn’t so “cute” anymore.
Meanwhile, over on Addison and Clark, HOFer-in-waiting and
cup-of-coffee Phillie Ryne Sandberg joined Dallas Green and gave the
Northsiders a season to remember. That year jettisoned my beloved
Phightin’s into a two-decade-plus dark age, save for that
lighting-in-a-bottle campaign of 1993, which ended with a thud when
Mitchy Poo threw his non-sliding slider to Mr. C. (ha....a jump the
shark episode reference there), who launched his moonshot 30 rows back
over Inky’s head.
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 Kneads
Needs an Editor
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.
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.
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?
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.
I bought a dog who would follow me—and
lead me—into a new millennium.
I won Opening Day tickets for the Salem
Buccaneers on an AM radio contest. The questions: “Who was the first
player to homer in his first two World Series at bats?” and “Who is
the only pitcher to appear in all seven games of a World Series?”
(Answers at the end.)
I graduated from college with an English
degree.
I became an uncle for the first time.
And the second.
My sister got married, leaving me as the
only member of my family of six who was not married. Gulp.
I went back to Colorado, following a
girlfriend, and was soon thankful for other friends who’d moved to the
Rocky Mountain state.
I worked as a security guard, armed not
with a gun but a radio and a large supply of paperback books.
DBird and I, plus Gilbey, traveled the
width of California, Oregon, Utah, Montana, and other locales that
still leave me breathless.
I saw the Mets play on the road for the
first time. They beat the Dodgers in Los Angeles. In San Francisco
they set a club record nine runs in the first inning, which I
completely missed while my group haggled with Candlestick scalpers in
the parking lot.
After a summer and fall of searching all
over the country, I got my first full-time journalism job.
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…
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.
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.
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.
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!
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.
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.)
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.
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 Edendelves 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 articlealerting 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.”
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,
“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.”
“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.”
“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.”
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.
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.
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.”
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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.
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:
I could have transferred to CU at that late date
in my damaged academic career, or
I had gotten the job I interviewed for at the
newspaper.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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:
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.
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.
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.
--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.
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.
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.
“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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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
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!
December 6, 2010
Dear Santa,
While
watching
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeerwith 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.
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.
A
team that wisely controls its wallet in December and opens it in June,
when the amateur draft acts as the catalyst to turn organizations
around better than a few fly-by-night free agents at the apex of the
market.
A
team that doesn’t throw its money away on “good clubhouse” bench guys
or “situational relievers” that can be found in the three-for-a-dollar
bin at any After-Christmas sale.
A
team that doesn’t let attendance concerns cloud player moves. Of the
many connections in the supposed Moneyball‑Oakland relationship
that pundits have been pointing out since the Mets regime change, one
thing that never seemed a concern in NoCal was whether personnel
decisions affected attendance. There were more Raiders fans in San
Diego for their rout of the Chargers Sunday than A’s fans at Oakland
Coliseum on Opening Day.
A
team that’s willing to suck it up a little now for the greater good
later, so when my son hits those first peak baseball fan years—age 9
or 10 in 2012 or 2013—there’ll be a team worth his attention (and
mine), instead of the same old tire that’s been patched over and over
again using the world’s most expensive—and ineffective—duct tape.
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).
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.
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.
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.
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.