I'd feel better about our long-term future if I hadn't learned that Mike Pelfrey is the third Met rookie pitcher to win his first two starts in the Majors and that the previous two to do so were Dick Selma and Gary Gentry. Fine fellows, representative careers: Selma was the second-best hurler to emerge from the Fresno throwing scene of the early 1960s; Gentry played a key role in the Salvation Miracles Revival Crusade of 1969 — but I'm thisclose to raising funds for the Pelfrey Wing at Cooperstown (it will flank Milledge Manor, construction temporarily dormant) and I'd prefer a template for his professional future that includes Tom Seaver and, total life screwup aside, Dwight Gooden.
One salvation miracle at a time. Strapping, young Mike Pelfrey may have just revived the concept of the fourth starter as a dependable entity, and that's the only crusade that matters this week. At the very least, he is 2-0, he will start on Sunday (in front of me, yay!) and he was way better this time than he was the first time. Not as nervous. Sharper for sure. Improved by leaps. Bounds will have to wait.
Kid has heat. Kid has heart. Kid has a changeup. Don't know that you could ask much more from the kid save for not getting hurt, not hiding hurts, not ordering the chicken, not wearing an illegal undershirt, not teasing, not imploding, not exploding, not aging, not drowning in a sea of his own shvitz, not referring to any time as Pelfrey Time and not staring at his shoelaces when tying them will suffice. In other words, copy only the admirable traits of your moundmates and then just be yourself. You look good doing that.
Carlos Beltran looks great doing that, don't he?
I got a kick out of how Gary & Keith were debating whether or not there was such a thing as a “clutch hit” bare moments before the Beltran Blast…
Hey Greg, I'll be at Sunday's game too. Now the pressure is really on Pelfrey if we're both there.
Memo to food court at Shea: Time to roll out the Beltran Sandwich, double salami with mustard on pumpernickel.
Listened to Big Pelf's extended settling-in period on my slowly dying portable radio as I strolled across the Brooklyn Bridge on the way to a bar (of course) — in this case, the fabulously divey Nancy Whiskey Pub. (Which has not a touch of nancy about it, though it does have whiskey.) The battle with Dunn took me from about White Street to the edge of Lispenard, and I wondered if I'd walk in despondent over a double up the gap or triumphant at Pelf's escape. Or if I'd wind up lingering outside waiting for the die to be cast, which seemed more and more likely as Pelf held an audience with a) his shoelaces and b) Lo Duca.
At the corner of Lispenard, Dunn obligingly struck out as the light changed. I threw up my hands in triumph and walked in the front door, ready for a frosty beer. Life is good sometimes.