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.
Not positive about this, but I think the “sudden” realization by Mets fans about Piazza's “Met mortality” (as Cohen may have put it) was spurred on by all the articles and talk about his “final” all-star appearance (and also perhaps the appearance itself). It's a pretty savvy town…and it reads the papers. I'm just guessing that's where this all-at-once loving attention has come from. The home runs haven't hurt. But whatever it is, I hope it continues at least until the third double play.
I have to be really careful about what I say in front of the media. But come on, those uniforms!! They were making me ill!! And you forgot the bimbo-cam. Coupled with the drunkenness (the guys next to us had at least 2 6-packs each, and got up about 10 times), it made me feel like I was at a frat party. When will the powers that be realize that it's offensive and alienating to at least half the crowd when the cameraman zooms in on every blonde in a tight tank-top? Last night they showed the same blonde about 6 times (plus others), and the drunk frat boys got more lewd each time. Do we really need that in an already overly alcohol-soaked atmosphere? We came for a ballgame, not a sleazy leerfest. A little variety, please.
But yeah, THE BEEEEEEEZ!!!!!
Sleazy Leerfest? Hey, that's was my porn name!! No, really, Sleazy Leerfest sounds like a promotion I can get behind, if ya know what I mean!!
OK, OK, enuf dirty stuff. Based on what all of you folks have described about Shea over the last few years (my last Shea experience involved a luxury box, top shelf booze, chicken picata and amaretto cheesecake so I'm in no position to complain; talk about your Sleazy Leerfest. OY!!) it's obvious that the Mets powers that be spend no time at all reviewing the state of their product except in the lower field boxes and the high priced luxury boxes in the sky. It's like the Home Depot people only visiting their flagship store and their newest store, never entering the 2500 stores where they do most of their business. Of course, as long as the drunks keep shelling out $7-10 per beer a few dozen times a night the Mets have no incentive to make Shea family/non-alcoholic/Laurie friendly. But it's still a sad state where committed (well, maybe someday) baseball fans remember the ugly things happening around them more than the game itself. It would be nice if there was some way to get the Wilpons and their crew to acknowledge these issues and at least promise to do something about them.
Sincerely,
Sleazy Leerfest, Esq.
from your loyal..and appreciative reader….since you brought it up…~grins~lets re-evaluate your relationship to the Gemara, if we might…austere maybe, sometimes downright scintillating….it depends on the level of your ability to “grok” its meaning fully….plus in a larger sense, I'm trying to protect and secure your/our relationship to the “big boss” and as it directly translates to the fortunes or misfortunes thereof of our lovable Mets…remember your the one who expressed the theory of micro-macro fusion of one person's actions on the whole event horizon….so just for the record I'm encouraging you to embrace (in your spare time of course), the Talmud. Torah. Tanya and Tehillim to insure the outcome of our Team…classes available anytime….~smiles and bows~
Last week a guy three rows behind us openly smoked a full pack of cigarettes and no usher or “fan relations” rep was anywhere in the vicinity to get him to stop. Last night there were a few old men near us getting mighty miffed at the beer-fueled, profanity-laced shouting from our moronic section-mates. No amount of steely stares could penetrate the heady combination of testosterone and like two kegs of beer per moron. I mean, really… how much beer does one really need to consume in a 2-3 hour period? These guys actually have a beer in each hand at all times.
Wilpon and Co. are quick to take our money, but not to enforce the phony rules they painstakingly print in microscopic type on the back of our ticket, which state that “the use of abusive language… and drunken or disorderly behavior, among other things, are prohibited.” All of this crap is allowed, but God forbid I should attempt to come in with a can of Sprite.
We, sir, will take all the help we can get.
If Wilpon really cared about the abusive language rule, do you think we would have gotten 2002-2004? No.
A reminder to all our fans: Abusive language will not be tolerated although we will do our best to inspire it.
I manage to get by quite nicely at the ballpark without utilizing either alcohol or offensive language, thank you very much. It's called “being an adult,” and recognizing the boundaries of appropriate behavior in public.
I waited 20 minutes in the sweltering heat for the 7 train yesterday, but somehow I managed to refrain from getting drunk and yelling “F**K YOU!! You F**king suck!!” at the conductor when the train finally arrived. Perhaps other Met fans could work on similarly not acting like rabid animals every time something doesn't go perfectly. If I can do it, so can they.