So. Did we have fun?
Let's see. There was Jose Reyes getting scratched before things even started, leading to the somewhat odd sight of Chris Woodward at the top of the lineup. There was Cliff Floyd turning over on an ankle and having to be helped off the field, leading to the somewhat odd sight of Endy Chavez in the middle of the lineup. Then there was Carlos Beltran showing the trainers what he'd hurt after landing hard on the warning track, at which point I may actually have blacked out for holding my breath.
I didn't think any of that was fun.
Oh, the non-injury part of the game? There was Pedro realizing he'd come out of the bullpen weaponless and trying to make it up as he went, only to have even his legendary improv skills desert him. (I tried to convince myself that having been lights-out in May with nothing to show for it, Pedro would logically get a win when he didn't deserve one. Guess not.) There was Heath Bell, doing very little to indicate he's about to reward the faith statheads and stathead wannabes keep putting in him. (Imprison Heath Bell!) And worst of all, there was Jose Valentin trying to figure out what to do with a glove that had suddenly turned to stone.
That wasn't any fun either.
Our 7th-inning insurrection? OK, that was fun — I dared to hope after Saito came in and promptly walked Wright, bringing the tying run to the plate. But is it a crime to have wished for more fun? When Valentin came up, I was thinking redemption, atonement, and all those good qualities baseball can provide to the patient and the pure of heart. And then … Martin set up on the outside corner … and Saito threw a fastball that missed. In fact, it had a good chunk of plate … and Valentin popped it up.
That was particularly no fun.
After Valentin's pop-up came down, I was thinking that tomorrow's the rubber game. Because much as I like Milledge, and much as I believe in our team's heart and moxie and can-do spirit, the baseball gods had spoken.
The Spanish explorers who first “discovered” the region that came to be known as Los Angeles had a term for last night:
EL SUCKO!
Oy. I hate West Coast road trips – I fall asleep with the radio on and the game seemingly going well after a rough start, and then BAM! I wake up to discover that the game was a messy loss that stinks about as badly as the charred-beyond-recognition former food one of my roommates inexplicably left in the microwave.
I bailed right after Nomaaaaaaaaaah's HR in the 1st.
I said to myself, “Self? Pedro ain't got it tonight.”
And went to bed…
I dozed off in the second inning with the TV on, and awoke this morning just as SNY was starting a showing of the “fast forward” version. You thought it was ugly live – – try the distilled version. “We now skip forward to the next calamity …” It had all the morbid fascination of watching a 30 car pileup on the Van Wyck Expressway.
The homers off Pedro and the clanks at second base were bad enough. When I saw the batted ball catch Beltran in the heel as he tried to advance to third, I knew that the seventh seal had been broken and demonic bad luck were stalking the team, it being 6/6/6 and all.
That's a good point. Somehow the Angels managed to club the Devil Rays on 6/6/6, but I should've guessed there'd be evil afoot. Evil, evil, evil–one of Pedro's worst starts as a Met…and it's not like he was the third best pitcher in baseball or anything, lately, heh. And Valentin, our supposed rising savior at second who we didn't waste our summer praying in vain for, was as bad as you can be. I'm not one for condemning a guy for one bad game…but that was a pretty bad game, I mean, it was the old Kaz in the field and the new Kaz at the plate.
It was also 62nd anniversary of D-Day…apparently nobody told the Mets.
We shoulda brought up Keppinger. He's still technically No. 6.