When the rains finally stopped, the reign began: John Maine was terrific tonight [1], though it took a great catch by Cliff Floyd (who should be sick more often, apparently) and a nifty block of home by Paul Lo Duca to elevate him to terrific from just very good. Rookie pitchers, particularly ones being rebuilt after a falling-out with their previous clubs, tend to follow the one step forward, two steps back model, but Maine's seemed to grow in confidence with each gradually better outing, and it seemed obvious from the gun tonight that he had good stuff. Which was good for all sorts of reasons: Who knows what awaits our bullpen this weekend, between El Duque and another rookie in Pelfrey and rain expected at least through Saturday?
The breather was appreciated. So too was the possibility that we might do just fine at the trading deadline by keeping all current hands on deck. I'd trade Milledge and Heilman for Dontrelle Willis in a heartbeat, but that's unlikely to happen; I wouldn't trade anything for Livan Hernandez. (OK, maybe Jose Offerman and Michael Fucker. And Jose Lima too, to ensure Omar can't bring him back in September.) I'm well aware of the dangers of falling in love with a current team and seeing beloved players' fundamental flaws as quirks, but it's not a wild leap of faith to think that there's a 2006 keeper among Maine, Pelfrey and the soon-to-return Bannister — maybe even two. Shake things up for an obvious upgrade? Sure — our current rotation isn't exactly scary in a playoff situation. Trade away chips for a different maybe? Let's be careful, please.
Oh yeah, the cranes. It didn't get a lot of notice, but the IRS signed off [2] on the city's plans to sell $1.6 billion in bonds to pay for new stadiums for us and some other local team. Which means the heavy equipment out there in the parking lot should soon be doing more than testing landfill — and Shea has just over 800 days left of life, as marked by Merengue Nights, rain delays, grand slams, complete-game shutouts, visits from trainers, right fielders lost in firework clouds, and all the other bits and pieces that go into baseball games satisfying and un-.