The Mets are playing the way they're supposed to and have won three in a row. They're two games over .500, a half-game out of third, five from the Wild Card, 5-1/2 away from first.
To reluctantly paraphrase a Yankees fan overheard in the upper deck six years ago who was desperate to downplay the significance of what Matt Franco had just done to Mariano Rivera, t'row a pahty — the Mets are in fourth place.
It's all very nice, but I won't be wondering who let the dogs out for at least a little while. Excellent game, don't get me wrong. The Mets are warming up and the weather at Shea, like its primary tenant, proved bearably hot. Good stuff. But Dr. Freud would caution us that sometimes a three-game winning streak is just a three-game winning streak. Let's make it four before breaking down the Doors.
'Twas another Six-Pack night, a fantastic merchandising gimmick. Without them having been slipped in among the Braves, Yankees and Home Opener, I can't imagine 31,000-plus would've shown up at the end of a 90-degree day to watch the Padres no matter what the standings say about them. I wouldn't have gone out of my way for San Diego. Six-Pack partner and FAFIF Comments doyenne Laurie surely wouldn't have. “What am I doing here?” she asked after attacking…
• the Padres as worthless adversaries and human beings
• the pukey Padre road togs as something out of a diaper
• our various Section 9 neighbors for their steady, two-fisted support of your local Anheuser-Busch brewery (indeed, we were a sober sandwich between two slices of drunk)
• the guy in the next row who last week thought Jose Offerman was Marlon Anderson
• the heat
• the humidity
• the tobacco industry's clientele
• and the Texas Rangers
All valid targets. I was impressed.
“You're a one-woman show.”
“That's not a compliment, is it?”
“Sure it is.”
We had fun. We had seven runs of fun. We should've had eight. That balk business was loopy. Jose dancing off third was something out of the Bobby V playbook, which made me slightly misty for (everybody, all at once) Steve Bieser. Whenever a dispute with an umpire gains steam, I grab for my radio. By the time I untangle the earbud cord, Gary is halfway through explaining all that went wrong. Then I parrot it like I really heard everything he said and really understand what I'm talking about.
“Meriweather made a horrible call! You can't reverse a balk! You can't consult on a balk! You can't argue a balk! Bochy should be thrown out! C'mon Willie! C'mon Jose! Fight! Fight!”
Honestly, I had no idea, but Gary Cohen is my rabbi. I would rely on him to interpret the Talmud if I had any desire to know anything about that austere document. I just know that a Mets run disappeared without the Padres doing anything to erase it. Somebody should've paid dearly. I'd wanted Glavine to dust the first Padre hitter he saw. What that had to do with Chuck Meriweather is still not apparent to me, but it was kind of warm and all I was drinking was water.
Which reminds me…concession tip for non-Friday night/non-Saturday afternoon games: the Kosher hot dog stand beats Nathan's hands down. I have the most gruesome ketchup-mustard stain to prove it. The creepy Jews For Jesus pamphlets (which include a New York Baseball Trivia Quiz chock full of misspellings) that have been handed out of late by earnest zombie types — the ones not hawking credit card applications — on the 7 extension can be used to soak up your dripping condiments.
Where was I? Oh yeah, Glavine didn't hit anybody but the Padres didn't do much to Glavine. Maybe he's an older version of Barry Zito at this point of the season, a good pitcher who has found a way around whatever was bothering him. I'd hate to show Glavine that much appreciation except he is here and is wearing whatever combination of shirt and cap that marks him a Met. We're paying him, he may as well earn it.
Juan Padilla may just turn out to be this year's Bartolome Fortunato. Bartolome Fortunato turned out to be last year's Jose Parra when Jose Parra couldn't handle the pressure of being Jose Parra for very long.
Hence, the Pythagorean Theory of middle relief suggests Juan Padilla may already be Jose Parra. As long as nobody's DeJean, we'll be fine.
Carlos Beltran has gotten it through his head that he wasn't playing behind Tom Glavine Wednesday night. He was playing behind Pedro Glavine. Thursday's starter is Pedro Ishii, followed by Pedro Zambrano. Whatever it takes, CB. Whatever it takes.
And dear old Mike, driving in three runs, homering and answering another cry of “Encore! Encore!” It seems to have dawned on everybody all at once that Piazza is a dish likely served not at all next year, so he's getting a hero's reception every time he shows the back of his head. (Laurie didn't mind Heilman's extended stint of relief because, she let on, where there's crouching Mike, there's hidden pleasure.) Surely grateful Mets fans will continue to shower their all-time great with the love and respect he deserves for the rest of the season.
Until he grounds into a couple of double plays. I think they'll give him a pass on the first one. But he'll hear it once he fails twice. That's love and respect Shea Stadium-style in 2005.