Sad a statement as this may be, for
many of us our world begins and ends with the
Mets. But, alas, there are only so many times
in a day that we can refresh our browsers over
on our favorite Mets related blogs and expect to
see something new.
The Metwork was created for
the spaces in-between. Of course, we'll always
post important Mets updates throughout the day
but here you'll also find posts on current
events/breaking news, film, T.V.,
original essays and other weapons of mass distraction.
Who's Running this Ship Anyway?
The Metwork was conceived by Internet-a-phobe Benjamin Truman with the encouragement of his consiglieres Gardner Sparks and Siddhartha Finch. Gardner and Siddhartha live in Los Angeles while Ben lives in an underground bunker at an
undisclosed location.
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When it first happened, I was inconsolable. But it wasn't like last year... I wasn't sad. I was, and still am, pissed off. Last year I wasn't willing to talk about it because I thought I would get depressed or maybe even cry. This year I wasn't willing to talk about it because I was afraid I would kick a puppy. But I've been feeling better, lately, as I think a lot of Mets fans are. The Phillies got swept (and I was at a bar sitting next to 4 obnoxious Phillies fans during game 3, so I made sure to twist the knife a bit), the Yankees got eliminated, and Pushing Daisies premiered. But there are still those moments that sort of creep up on me. I'll be in the shower, and a thought will come into my head about some reading I did for Labor Law then... unions... then... the MLB Players' Association... then... Tom Glavine... GODDAMNIT!
Yesterday I finally got my refund for the NLDS tickets I was "fortunate" enough to win the opportunity to buy. Wow, thanks Mets. Only 3 weeks since I purchased them and a week and a half since the Mets were eliminated and three days after the NLDS was complete. Thanks. While we're at it, can I have some more refunds?
I'd like to get refunded for the $200 I spent on the train ticket to New York on the last weekend of September. All that time and money going up there was wasted, as it was spent seeing the worst baseball game I have ever attended. I went to the game expecting that it would take a miracle to get the crowd out of it and it sure did, in the form of 7 runs in the first inning. Really, Tom Glavine? You wouldn't do anything differently? Really, offense? You can't score off the Marlins' bullpen?
I would also like the Mets to refund me the money I spent going a game in Philadelphia to see the Mets get their collective asses kicked. I also went to some games in Chicago and Detroit, but at least there the Mets actually showed up and I wasn't getting heckled by fat, unemployed, cheesesteak eating machines. So I don't need that money back. Just the Philadelphia game would be great, thanks.
Oh, and I'd appreciate some of the money I spent on alcohol during the past week and a half. Every time I've been in a bar recently, there's been some sort of playoff baseball game on. I thought that if I drank enough I would hallucinate and see some Met uniforms on the screen, but alas, it didn't work, and I wound up instead with pictures of strangers on my camera and some really awful headaches (which reminds me, money for Advil would be appreciated as well).
I understand with the bureaucracy that is the Mets organization that I might not get this money for a couple of months, but I'll wait. Just like I waited for my first refund. Just like I waited for Delgado to get out of his slump all year. Just like I waited for Milledge to get playing time. Just like I waited for Mota and Schoeneweis to show me why they're worth anything more than a small slurpee from 7-11. Just like I waited for Reyes to get out of his second half slump and play like the MVP candidate I know he is. Just like I waited for the Mets to actually play to their potential for 5 months.
Let me start by saying this is two years in a row I’ve gone to the final game of the season and, yes, Sunday’s game hurt much worse than Game 7 of the LCS.
Why you ask?
Simple. Last season the Mets were so good and the core was so solid, plus the unexpected welcome party for John Maine and Ollie Perez, they had me thinking the playoffs would be a perennial right of passage. I couldn’t wait to make my annual Mecca to St. Lucie to get the season started.
What happened the last two weeks is inexplicable, I mean losing to the Nats and Marlins every night was as painful as a Sunday morning trip to the can following all you can eat/drink wings and Bud Light pitchers at your local watering hole, but unbelievably this run lasted for weeks. Every half inning was like a half an hour. I mean I begged for a 1-2-3 inning like I beg my dog to take a dump outside during a Nor’easter.
But sadly, the days went by and the lead wilted until there was nothing left but the city of Brotherly Love giving us the collective middle finger.
Yet as I strolled out to my car yesterday amidst some Yankee fan in a Clemens jersey mocking a group of lame Met fans, I searched for something, anything to give me hope.
“I’m the Cliff Clavin of useless sports knowledge for crying out loud,” I thought aloud. “This may be a historic collapse, but I must have gone through this before!
So as I dropped a buck into the guitar case of pseudo Jimi Hendrix and asked him to play “Little Wing”, I thought back to worst performances from good NY teams over the years.
The 1997 Knicks came to mind. Damn they were good. They were like 12 deep with Buck Williams playing like a kid and when Starks sucked here came Allan Houston off the bench. That team was so good, I once won a 32-team, $20 a man NBA Live 97 tournament in college with Starks and Houston in the backcourt. But of course, after handing Chicago a late-season Windy City-ass whooping, Charlie Ward gets hurled into the stands, Ewing’s shadow appears on the court getting him suspended and another title hope gets crushed. I took solace in the fact that Stern would never have let the Knicks beat Michael, but in my mind they would have and that’s all that matters.
How about the Giants defensive exhibition against the 49ers in the 2003 playoffs? They were good with a gun-slinging Kerry Collins, Tiki and Strahan and a lunatic Jeremy Shockey. They got us all pumped up pounding the Eagles at home and jumping on the Niners, only to watch it all slowly slip away on a bevy of Garcia-to-Owens slant patterns with a side of bad kicking. They were good, but had way too many holes to ever bounce back to the Super Bowl caliber team they were a few years back.
Then it hit me. This Met team has a solid core of players, some in their prime, some approaching and some past. They were a team ready to be called champions whose dreams were shattered by an unsuspected turn of events (see a Yadir Molina HR.) They are a team who battled the elements of a year whose expectations were heavier than the cast of THE BIGGEST LOSER and ended the season just that- losers.
This team is a carbon copy of the 1993 New York Rangers.
Yes, the Rangers had Messier, and they had the jinx, but bear with me on this one. First of all, Met fans are a jinx all by themselves, or at least some of them should be. How else can you explain booing Piazza, Beltran and now Reyes. You want to boo a guy for not hustling, by all means, but spewing two months worth of venomous frustration at one of the two faces of the franchise is inexcusable. Yes, he’s the engine that starts the motor and yes he popped out waaaay to much down the stretch, but c’mon, it’s Reyes. His smile makes you want to come to the ballpark. How can you expect a guy to play well at home when he knows boos will rain on him if he pops up. Or how about Aaron Heilman? The guy has a 3.00 ERA over the past two years, has sucked up not being started like a professional, and gets booed for giving up a run in the 8th in June. Beltran? The guy’s was the player of the week, had 30 plus HR’s and over 100 RBI’s again and he gets less an ovation than Moises Alou from the Shea faithful before the game yesterday?
And you wonder why this team can’t win at home? Do you think maybe it’s not Willie or Omar or whomever. Do you think it’s the idiot in the third base field box who’s questioning aloud why Glavine started yesterday AFTER he gives up 7?
And there are a lot of you out there.
But I digress. The Rangers fans and the 54-year jinx had took a toll on that 1992-93 team after Richter gave up that fluke goal in the 1992. Neil Smith, never one to rest on his laurels a la our man Omar, made key changes, allowed for younger players to step up (Kovalev, Zubov) and the rest is history.
Fear not Met fans, the REAL ones. The one’s who understand baseball enough to realize expectations can be a the worst kind of rally killer, this team has a great core and will have its sights on making up for horrible finish.
I’m going to book my tickets to in St. Lucie.
Tommy
Dee is a contributing editor with Maxim Sports Online and
hotfootblog.com and
his
blog truesportsfans.blogspot.com
has appeared several times on Deadspin. Now you can find him lurking
in the shadows of The
Metwork as well. He will return in March with more Out of Left Field essays. .. Also check out
Tommy Dee's radio showon Blog Talkradio.
When I googled "comeback," (in order to get some links about the Red Sox comeback in 2004 to see if I could finally get my Yankees' fans "friends" to shut the f up) I got two pages of links to sites about Britney Spears, proclaiming how how her divorce with K-Fed was going to spur her on to this great comeback, how Britney was going to make a comeback at the VMAs (we all know how that turned out), and a couple saying that she was just never going to make a come back. The girl started out great -- was on the top of her genre and had no competition for her spot. Then came the collapse. Marrying some dude in Vegas, marrying some dude who was probably raised by a Vegas showgirl, having two kids, befriending Paris "Herpes" Hilton and the like. Her empire came crumbling down. Then all of a sudden, people like Jessica Simpson are getting more respect than Britney. You know things aren't good when you look bad even when compared to someone who thinks that Darfur is a new restaurant on the Upper East Side.
The analogies are obviously there. For months, the Mets had nobody in the NL East coming close to them. Sure, they had a couple of signs of weaknesses, but for the most part when they were healthy they played consistently good enough ball. And even when they didn't, the rest of the NL East was playing worse, keeping the Mets alone in first place for the vast majority of the season. Then, all of a sudden, the cracks began to turn into canyons. Nobody can get an out. Nobody can add those late runs. Then all of a sudden the division race is tied up and, teams like the Phillies are getting more respect than the Mets. You know things aren't good when you look bad even when compared to a team who has a relief pitcher that beats up his wife and calls reporters retarded. A team from a city that is the fourth best city in the Northeast. A team from a city that only has the Liberty Bell going for it. It makes me sicker than Britney after a night of percocet and Schlitz.
However, let's not forget the Drew Barrymore story. Drew rocked the scene at 7 years old when she starred in ET. But then she was hopped up on all sorts of booze and drugs -- started smoking weed at 10 (!) and doing cocaine at 13 (lightweight). She was out of rehab by 14, took time off, got her crap together and BAM. Now she's awesome (other than that whole Tom Green thing, but what can you do?).
That's a comeback story. THAT is going to happen with the Mets this weekend (especially given their long and storied history with cocaine). The Mets are going to bounce back. They're going to flash David Letterman. Jose Reyes is going to start swinging the bat like a professional athlete instead of a henchmen in OJ Simpson's posse. Billy Wagner's back is going to stop spasming. Glavine is going to go back to form on Sunday. They have to. They have too much talent not too.
And the Phillies suck harder than Britney Spears on a vodka lollipop.
Editor's Note: Yes, we're breaking the silence---only because TD has the answer.
You Better Believe- These are the Mets People
Since
the recent skid has left me speechless and, okay I'll admit, pondering
enrolling Judo classes so I can kick any Phillies or Yankee fan I come
across. Enough of this boycotting posts nonsense- we're Met fans
people. Take after Barry Sanders handing the ball to the ref after a
touchdown.
Act like you've been there.
So to help put
this minor setback in perspective I enlisted the help of my Met Sensei
Andrew Smith who, this morning, e-mailed me his thoughts from his law
class last night, on how it feels to be a Met fan.
Sweep the leg! (and hopefully the Marlins)
"Alright, well the last 5 days have been pretty brutal. Last night, I was in class from 6:30-10:30 and I watched it all on gamecast. When I saw the "Pitch 8- Swinging Strike" to Gotay I almost started wailing like Nancy Kerrigan "WHYYYYY." As if my fidgeting in my chair all night wasn't enough for my professor. My body felt like I had just played 9 innings, and I didn't even watch the game.
Then, I got in the car and turned on Sterling and Susan and in a span of two minutes I heard how it was such a gutsy performance by Mike Mussina and how the turnaround of Bobby Abreu has been so remarkable and how Doug Mientkiewicz has had a miraculous return from a broken wrist, and I thought to myself..... 'Man, we have it great.'
These last five nights have been what being a Met fan is all about. What other fans in the world have to watch giving up a 3-run bomb to an overweight second baseman with a doo-rag? What other fans in the world have to rely on a start from a headcase lefty with a 6.70 ERA on three-days rest in Game 7 of the NLCS? And this has been for years! Astros taking us 17 innings in 86, Red Sox up 3-2 coming into Shea for 6 and 7. 1998, we were 1 game out of the wild card on the last day and had to start..... Armando Reynoso. 99 against the Braves, 00 going to the World Series with a team that should have won 70 games, the list goes on and on. This is why we are Mets fans.
Think
about the way we could have it, yeah the three young pitchers on the
Yanks are going to be awesome and I'd give my left nut for Chamberlain but....we could be beating Baltimore 12-0 in a pennant race and cheering Bobby Abreu and Jason Giambi and talking about the "gutsy" performance from a 6th starter making 18 million. How fun is that?
To me, the only question is going to be which Met hits the 3-run homer in the 9th inning to turn the tide tonight, or which Met makes the diving catch to save 3 runs after Wagner walks the bases loaded. Ya gotta believe."
In other words, the spirit of Armando Reynoso will make it alright.Tommy
Dee is a contributing editor with Maxim Sports Online and
hotfootblog.com and his
blog truesportsfans.blogspot.com
has appeared several times on Deadspin. Now you can find him lurking
in the shadows of The
Metwork as well. .. Also check out
Tommy Dee's radio showon Blog Talkradio.
I just have to take the opportunity to kick the Phillies when they are down after a horrid loss to the Braves yesterday. This is just the latest in a series of setbacks for the city, after all Rocky himself, Sly Stallone, was caught with human growth hormone earlier this year.
That should have been a sign.
Who's put this Philly collapse in the best perspective? My friend Jonathan, who said to me:
"Remember, Utley's first name will always be CHASE, and Shane's last name will always be VICTORY- NO."
That pretty much sums it up.
Tommy
Dee is a contributing editor with Maxim Sports Online and hotfootblog.com and his
blog truesportsfans.blogspot.com
has appeared several times on Deadspin. Now you can find him lurking
in the shadows of The
Metwork as well. .. Also check out
Tommy Dee's radio showon Blog Talkradio.
Chase Utleys game-winning single last Thursday made a few things painfully obvious to Mets fans.
First off, we dont match up well against the Phillies. Its true, for whatever reason Pat Burrell sheds the label of being the most frustrating athlete in Philadelphia since Eric Lindros and takes on this Ruthian persona whenever he plays the Mets. I mean come on, 41 home runs against us in his career? Philly fans have to scratch there collective heads when watching Burrell stink up the joint the rest of the year. And how about Chase Utley? The guy has officially passed Tommy Herr as the biggest Met-killing second baseman in history.
Secondly, Billy Wagner gives me the creeps. Every time he comes in to face a batter in a big spot he cant get it done. Whether its So Taguchi, the Yankees, or an appearance in the All-Star game, Wagners slider seems to find the middle of the plate and subsequently the middle of someones bat causing me ageda. Seriously Billy, what happened to that change up you were working on? Why have you continued to give hitters a 50/50 chance of getting a hit? I mean its literally a coin flip. But other than Mariano, hes still the best there is. Who else would you want on the mound?
Thirdly, some Mets fans shouldnt be allowed to watch games. Ive been to several recently I had the pleasure of listening to some blow hard idiot in a John Franco jersey scream and curse at Carlos Beltran for 6 innings.
You stink Beltran!
Hmm. Really? Beltran was just named NL Player of the Week, but that wasnt the problem. The problem was the guy was actually yelling at Carlos Delgado. Speaking of Beltran, my buddy Drew had the pleasure of listening to some clown lambaste Beltran in a game against the Padres last month when Beltran lined a hit to drive in his 5th RBI of the game leading the Mets to a 7-6 win.
You better have gotten a hit there Beltran!! this guy yelled. Or those OTHER RBIs wouldnt have meant sh*t.
Or it would have meant we would have lost 6-3.
Whichever.
Seriously, Mets fans are ridiculous and going to games has become a painful task, traffic and parking aside. I find myself getting more pissed off at guys yelling at our team than cheering for the action on the field. Maybe its just me fellas, but when I come to the ball park and the pitching match up is Jake Peavy against Brian Lawrence, I think I know how this book is going to end.
All this negative energy had consumed me especially after the sweep in Philly. I couldnt recall feeling this low since 2000. Dont get me wrong, last year hurt, but there was a I cant wait until next year vibe that stuck with me until spring training. Getting swept in Philly and heading to Atlanta up just two games made me sick to my stomach. But after a brief conversation with my boy Jonathan, one of my Met voices of reason, he assured me that everything would be alright.
Turns out he was right.
With his performance the other day, Pedro is back at long last. We watched him for a year and a half get guys out topping out at 84 or 85 MPH. When I saw the gun in the 5th inning get to 90 I nearly shed a tear. He is really back.
And this changes everything.
Watching those 5 innings, along with a Phillies loss in Atlanta and a Yankee loss to Seattle- man, it had to make Mets fans smile.
Some of us anyway.
Tommy
Dee is a contributing editor with Maxim Sports Online and
hotfoot.com and his
blog truesportsfans.blogspot.com
has appeared several times on Deadspin. Now you can find him lurking
in the shadows of The
Metwork as well. .. Also check out
Tommy Dee's radio showon Blog Talkradio.
Some
would say we are a society preoccupied with death. The fact is we are
not nearly as concerned with death as we should be. We live in an
almost constant malaise of denial about our mortality. Death becomes
like a 30th birthday to a twelve year old--a fate so distant as to
approach fiction. Oh, but it is coming my friends. Hard and fast.
Distract yourself with the pleasant accoutrements of life all you like.
No number of handjobs and frappuccinos will protect you from your
inevitable dirt nap. And when it comes, it will take everything. Every
speck of your accumulated humanity extinguished in an instant. Your
existence no longer a function of self, but rather a function of memory
for those left behind. I should hope you're growing concerned.
And
what are we doing about this? Sure we're working on the cure for
cancer, AIDS and the Ebola virus, but isn't this just a further attempt
to delay the inevitable? I don't quite understand. Why is the
predominant paradigm 'why die now when you can die later' when it
should really be 'let's not fuc#ing die AT ALL.' Screw Jerry's
Kids and the March of Dimes and Homeland Security, I want to see the
National Department of Never Fuc#in' Dyin'. Correct me if I'm wrong,
but shouldn't the instantaneous vaporization of our consciousness take
priority over the dildo you just tried to smuggle through LAX?
But
what of the soul? You mean that thing we can't touch, taste, hear, see,
smell, photograph, biopsy, or x-ray that just happens to make
everything okay? You mean that invisible escape-pod that will jettison
itself from this mortal coil along with all your happy memories, and
ultimately soft-land on a cloud where you will be forever handsome?
Right, the soul. Are you really supposed to believe all this?
What if I were to tell you...yes. Yes, you have a soul. Yes, life is fair. And, yes, I can prove it.
You
see, there is too much symmetry not to be the product of intention.
Look around you. See the inevitable and inescapable truth that all
things live and die by the same equation. Such an obvious congruence
that we all seem to miss. You beg God for a modicum of hope for
eternity, and she drowns you in an ocean of assurance. Open your eyes.
Do you not see sunrise and sunset, the seasons as they pass and the
inexhaustable harvest of life from death? Are you really so
recalcitrant and jaded as to believe an omniscient god incapable of
metaphor? Wake up ass#ole, God is winking at you.
But what
now? Are you in need of further guidance? Forget the atheists and the
devout. They are the same, only choosing different means to deny their
ignorance. The atheist being so frustrated with the answer as to deny
the question, and the devout man being so frightened of the question as
to fabricate the answer. At least the atheist moots the debate,
while the devout man resorts to the masturbatory exercise of
scripture--a two-thousand year old bouillabaisse of accumulated
self-serving bulls#it bearing no resemblance to its original
conception.
Now armed with the breadcrumbs of God's divine
metaphor, it's time to embrace the agnostics and their brass balls of
admitted blissful ignorance. From here you can begin to understand that
life is not something to be successfully navigated, but rather
something to be artfully failed. Granting the inevitability of our
impending collective deaths, life is very much a meaningless
proposition in and of itself. Thus, quite simply, its purpose can only
be the measure of our performance in the face of its limitations.
The Mets finally made it down to my neck of the woods for the first time this season since April.I dragged friends to all three games at the worst stadium in baseball, which was made easier by the fact that Saturday was Abe Lincoln bobble head night, and tickets were $5 on Friday (Interesting note:The $5 tickets had $10 coupons to Modell’s on the back.So when you really think about it, the Nationals were actually paying people to go to the game).As such, I have a couple of observations….
-Obviously it was a 50/50 split of Mets and Nats fans all weekend (with maybe even more Mets fans on Saturday), which was awesome.All over the city, all weekend, Mets shirts and jerseys were everywhere.Once I had a fleeting thought that I was in New York… then I tried to find a store open after 1am, remembered that I live closer to George W. Bush than any decent pizza place and cried myself to sleep.
-Cowbell Man was there!Also there was some Larry the Cable Guy doppelganger sitting behind me who seemed to have some sort of epileptic seizure every time a Mets batter stepped into the box.He screamed that each player, especially Jose Reyes for some reason, was “the worst player ever.”No, really.Ever.The saddest part of the whole thing was his girlfriend sitting there, totally unfazed.She seemed so despondent, yet used to it all.She had a look in her eyes that would suggest that she couldn’t wait to go home, drink enough wine coolers to make even Tony LaRussa think about getting a cab, and watch “Sleeping with the Enemy.”
-Austin Kearns’ music is some country song about taking off your shoes.That crap would never fly at Shea.
-My favorite interaction of the weekend was with a guy wearing a shirt that said “Mets suck” on the front and “Deez Nats” on the back.I asked him, if the Mets suck and the Nationals are 14.5 behind the Mets…. well, what about the Nats? He responded by showing me the back of his shirt, saying “No, get it? Get it?” and proceeding to point to his groin.Touché, my friend, touché.
After watching the first two games in Pittsburgh this week I felt sorry for the Mets bullpen, and was about to plead for the organization to pay them time and a half. Then, of course, Thursday night happened.
The votes are in and Mota is the leading candidate for the Brady Anderson Award. That is given to the major league player who should be teaching gym class at his alma mater the year after quitting steroids.
Just when you think that losing to Pittsburgh after blowing two big leads wasnt bad enough. Carlos Zambrano is staying in Chicago.
With the way he floated around the bases the other day after his dramatic game-tying, two out 3-run home run, it struck me that Shelly Duncan has to be related to Sandy Duncan, who played Peter Pan on Broadway for years. The resemblance was uncanny.
Great precedent set by Bud Selig deciding not to suspend Jason Giambi for his head scratching self-implicating comments about using the juice. Make sure your appointment book is open and your assistant doesnt have any vacation days left Bud, seems like your going to be getting a lot attention from players looking to get stuff off their chests before their names get exposed to the public.
Way to go Bud, forget Tony Danza, you're the boss.
Finally, I heard Jose Offerman was in a foul mood because he had to sit in traffic on the LIE and after getting hit with the pitch, he decided it wasn't his day and had enough, hence his Michael Douglas "Falling Down" reaction. Turns out his two hits, on the pitcher and the catchers head, was the most solid contact he's made since he was in Beantown. We know catchers in general arent the smartest bunch what with the whole tools of ignorance thing but here's a suggestion to that Bridgeport catcher. Next time you see a maniac wheelding a bat running towards the pitcher, um, wouldnt it be a good idea to keep your mask and helmet on?
Tommy
Dee is a contributing editor with Maxim Sports Online and
hotfoot.com and his
blog truesportsfans.blogspot.com
has appeared several times on Deadspin. Now you can find him lurking
in the shadows of The
Metwork as well. .. Also check out
Tommy Dee's radio showon Blog Talkradio.
So I spent some vacation time this
week and recharged the batteries after spending a few days in Saratoga
betting the ponies. The big buzz was that Bill Parcells, now a local fixture, was in the
area but was nowhere to be found. Neither was his caddie, er, friend
Mike Francessa, and
believe me I checked all the concession stands looking for him.
Saratoga is a great town, kinda feels like what Cooperstown would be
like if it was bought by Donald
Trump.
Anyway, I was glad to unwind
Sunday knowing the Mets game was going to be on at night. Congrats
to Tom Glavine on
finally reaching 300, bringing his overall record with the Mets to
58-54. Now, Im one of those guys who cant really get excited about
players who sign with teams later on in their career having already
establishing themselves long-term in another city, but seeing Glavine
with his family makes me proud he signed with the
Mets.
And it pissed me off I felt the same way when
McGwire broke
Maris' record.
Its the same Three Card Monty I just got robbed sense I felt after
my brother told me professional wrestling wasnt
real.
Watching Glavine, one of the most professional and
prepared guys there is in sports, makes me realize you cant emphasize
how much steroids are ruining sports. If everyone were taking them it
would be better than just some of them. Seriously. If
everyone wants to cheat, then change the rules so that its a level
playing field. Guys are still going to find a way to get their hands on
them, so whats the sense of half-assed policing? Make Vince McMahon the
commissioner and get on with it.
That said, to think
that Glavine could win 300 games pitching against juiced up cheats,
despite not being able to dent the side of a car with his fastball,
makes this all the more impressive.
How about Tommy
boys wife? Talk about impressive. ESPN showed her so many times youd think they
were auditioning her for sideline reporting. Watch your back Rachel
Nichols.
Speaking of ESPN. I know
Joe (Captain)
Morgan isnt the
most credible guy behind a microphone, but the one thing he has to know
is hitting. Yes, we understand Captain Morgan may have been sipping the
sauce when he claimed Castillo's time spent in the Metrodome had
something to do with struggling to catch a wind-aided pop up, despite
the fact he played for the Marlins for years. But when he says that
adding Castillo to the top of the lineup with Reyes is going to be
lethal and will give Carlos
Delgado more opportunities to drive in runs, an area that
he excels, it makes it even more clear to me that Omar made the best trade at
the deadline.
Whenever the Braves come to town it
reminds me of the time when I was sitting in the box seats behind the
Braves dugout a few years ago. Following a tough Mets loss, and a bevy
of Bud Lights, a fan yelled to Bobby
Cox, who was doing a post-game interview with Matt Loughlin, "Good win
Bobby, now you dont have any reason to go home and beat your wife!,"
and he looked at me with a sad face similar to the one Strawberry had on The Simpsons when Bart kept chanting "Darryl,
Darryl."
Homer was right, these guys have feelings
too.
Looks like the NL Central will come down to whose teams
bullpen sucks the least, the Cubs or Brewers, meaning I should have traded Francisco Cordero in my
fantasy league weeks ago. And is Ryan Dempster (aka the Cub Dumpster) channeling
Mel Rojas or
what?
VH1 has another smash-hit reality show on its
hands in The Pick Up Artist. Not sure if youve caught
this slice of hilarity yet, so heres a quick synopsis. A guy called
Mystery has apparently figured out a system on how to walk up to any
unapproachable girl, initiate conversation and close the deal. So hes
enlisted a bunch of nerds in hopes that one of these hopeless cats can
obtain the tools to become a master of the art of picking up chicks. No
real mystery here fellas, Im sure the years of playing Dungeons and
Dragons dont help when trying to reel in a hot chick, but I was always
under the impression that you really only needed two things to ensure a
hot girls attention: A rich dad and a Mercedes
convertible.
Finally congrats, also, to Double Play Rod for hitting
number 500. Who would have thought that the skinny 18-year-old kid, who
looked so overmatched in that 1995 playoff series against the Yankees, would be the
fastest to 500? Although, how long will it take, post Conseco's second book, for
his image to be further tarnished?
Sometimes I feel
bad for Alex, but guys with that much confidence dont need pity. Yet,
to think the only way for him to truly become a great Yankee, and be
absolved of all the negativity he has endured in the fall, he's going
to have to hit a come-from-behind walk-off in Game 7 of the World
Series.
Aint expectations a
bitch?
Tommy Dee is a contributing editor with Maxim Sports Online and
hotfoot.com and his
blog truesportsfans.blogspot.com
has appeared several times on Deadspin. Now you can find him lurking
in the shadows of The
Metwork as well. .. Also check out
Tommy Dee's radio showon Blog Talkradio.
Although I have seen the Mets play in 4 cities so far this
season, Saturday’s double header was occasion for my first trip to Shea of
2007.A doubleheader ensured that I
would spend as much time at the stadium as on the bus from DC, so I could not
pass it up.As such, I have a couple of
observations…
-I saw someone with a Mo Vaughn t-shirt.This really confused me – I couldn’t help
wondering if he was rooting for or against the Mets.I could understand if you threw down a bunch
of money for a jersey; you don’t want it to go to waste.But a $20 t-shirt that he bought at
Models?Toss it.Or better yet, Shea Stadium could have an event similar to Disco Demolition Night – everyone bring your
Vaughn, Looper, and Alomar paraphernalia and they can be detonated on the
field.Apparently, that ended really
well in Chicago.
-It was pretty surprising that there weren’t more people
tailgating in between games.This might
have been a result of the cops doing laps to make sure those who were
drinking beer were living in a state of constant fear of a ticket.That was really fun.(On a side note, my arms are all bruised up
from playing catch with a football in between games.It seriously looks like I hung out with Brett
Meyers all weekend.)
-My friend pointed out that they took down the banner
inside Shea of Ventura’s Grand Slam Single and replaced it with a banner of the
1986 ticker tape parade.Seems odd.Also odd:the videos of random celebrities saying “Lets Go Mets.”
-There were a lot of people at the night game with
Yankees garb on.One guy sitting a section
over from us was wearing an A-Rod jersey and kept getting up and pointing to
the name on the back, drawing choruses of boos.After he did this
a couple of times, the guy sitting behind him tapped him on the shoulder and
then kicked him in the face.Blood was everywhere.It was unreal.I mean, the guy with the newly broken nose
certainly deserved some sort of repercussions for his actions, but to be kicked
in the face??Wow.A kick in the face is a pretty bold statement;
I can only think of like two people I know that actually deserve a kick in the
face. (One of them is the guy who sat
next to me on the bus back to DC who smelled like mildew and drooled on my
shoulder.Thanks for that!)
-The crowd seemed to be really receptive to Lastings
Milledge – he got big cheers whenever he got to the plate. It’s good to see
that the fans are able to see what Milledge is doing on the field and is not buying what the media is trying to sell to them.
Finally, seeing the construction at CitiField was
awesome.But I think we’ll all miss Shea
a little more than we realize. Or at least I will, considering now I'm back to watching games at RFK.
So I showed up at Shea Monday night, having
been invited by my friend Keith who told me that he had tickets in the
"Diamond Club" section. Good seats. So as we come upon the line to get
in, you know, the fondle line where everyone his searched, I came to
the realization that if security took the same amount of time searching
the good-looking women as they do the 65-year-old men, Id probably be
rounding first and heading towards my second beer already. And theyre
not even slick about it. But hey, who am I to complain about the perks
of their job?
Anyway, so were waiting for the
elevator and the door opens and guess whos standing there: Omar Minaya. Sure enough as
were on our way up to the 4th floor, we see Xavier Nady's first inning
RBI rope on the television elevator. Without hesitation my friend Keith
looks at Omar and half jokingly screams, "Omar! How could you trade Nady! What's wrong with
you?"
Half in shock I look at Keith
and hes loving it. Keith is a huge Met fan, and loves O, but has never resisted
breaking anyones balls. He's also the same guy who hated the Jae Seo and Kris Benson deals so I
wasn't 100% sure he was kidding in blasting O. So as we get off the
elevator I say to him, "I think you pissed him off..." Yet
as soon as the words come out of my mouth theres Omar walking past us,
smiling.
"Omar", I said as I patted him on the
shoulder, "Don't worry about this guy. Do you want me to take him out
back, you know, and kick the sh*t out of him." ( Channeling Rick
Vaughn.)
"Nah. No problem, guys, O said. Enjoy
the game."
Thats what you have to love
about the guy. He just gets it. He gets New York and he gets the fans.
Do yourself a favor if you havent already read Gary
Smith's story on Oin last months
Sports
Illustrated.
..
I've said this in Spring Training, Opening Day, last
week and before last nights game: Lastings Milledge needs to play every
day.
Speaking of Milledge, allow me the opportunity
to jump on that Blastings
Thrilledge nickname bandwagon. Why cant that be his rap
name?
And watching him crush that hanging curve last
night makes you realize just how far Tommie Agee's upper deck blast
was.
On the other hand, watching Shawn Green play right field
reminds me of the kid who your Little League coach used to try and hide
in right field. Matter of fact, he plays the position like Steve Martin's kid in
Parenthood.
..
Love
to see the Maine Event
get back on track after a couple of shaky starts. The best
part of the night was the home run he hit. After circling the bases,
there is Jose Reyes
waiting to congratulate him, the captain of the handshake
brigade, and the thought that entered my mind right away was, "what
kind of crazy-ass handshake do these two guys have?" Turns out
apparently its the 'Hi, my
name is John Maine. I pitch for the Mets' formal shake to
Reyes' 'I know'
reaction.
Classic.
..
Love
the Kevin James
spots on Diamond Vision where he grabs a microphone and busts into a
Chris
Farley-esque "Let's Go Mets" chant. In truth,
James' career as the down on his luck, funny fat guy has skyrocketed
since Farley checked out early. He completely owns that market now
unless Ralphie
Mae's career can somehow gain some
momentum.
Since everyone by now has chimed in on
just how ridiculous this "Who's Now" nonsense is, I'm going
a different approach. Soon we will be able to say, "Remember
when ESPN played
highlights?" much like we say "Remember when MTV played
videos?" And for some reason I get the feeling we will be
witness to how much money ex-athletes spend on their kid's 16th
birthday party.
But let's look on the bright side,
Stuart Scott is
positioning himself quite nicely to expand to bigger and better things.
You know what that means.
Watch your back Byron Allen. Here comes
basic cable Boo-ya.
Tommy Dee is a contributing editor with Maxim Sports Online and
hotfoot.com and his
blog truesportsfans.blogspot.com
has appeared several times on Deadspin. Now you can find him lurking
in the shadows of The
Metwork as well. Also check out
Tommy Dees radio showon Blog Talkradio.
First of all let me tell you how happy I am to have yet another great forum to convey some thoughts. I somehow watched game 6 1986 from the last row of the upper deck behind home plate, yup the row where, if everyone stands up, you cant see a freekin thing but a skewed image of the Empire State Building through a hole in the fence. Ironically, since then I have always had a distorted view of the Mets in general and have translated that experience in an equally distorted view on all sports as well, which some might say is, well, out of left field.
Thoughts from the road trip.
While many sports fans around the country cant possibly take Dodger fans seriously, who on earth can take FOX sports seriously? Im all for edgy comedy as long as it isnt forced, and the boys at FOX should change their slogan to We Heart Forced Humor. For some unknown reason FOX decided they wanted to honor the 25 anniversary of Fast Times at Ridgemont High by putting a Spicoli look-a-like in the outfield bleachers. Yup, you got it guys, nothing screams crap-my-pants comedy like Matt Vasgersian (Who?... Exactly) and Tim McCarver forcing quotes from a movie that has the best lines this side of Caddyshack. Thus proving, once again, that if there is a way to royally screw something up (think McCarver leaving the Mets broadcast team over a contract dispute) good ole Timmy can get it done anytime, anywhere.
Speaking of McCarver, I often felt bad that he has become the butt of so many ya dont say jokes and internet fodder for stating the obvious, but during Saturdays telecast Timmy pumped out this gem. After Dodger pitcher Eric Stultz walked David Wright to lead off the second inning the ever pontificating McCarver bellowed:
"Thirty-nine percent of leadoff walks have scored this year in the major leagues; that's about forty percent of the time!"
Where would we be without you Timmy?
Editors note: I saw it live and immediately sent a text message to my friend Andrew but I would be remiss if I didnt credit my friend Phil Mushnick of the Post.
Shout out to FOXs cameramen for spying on Alyssa Milano all day. She and Jessica Biel can be my double-play combo anytime. Ive had a crush on her since Tony Danza was driving a van in Connecticut. Crush aside, with Carl "The Wallet" Pavano's struggles in pinstripes and Zito trying to figure out the National League- isnt it time we declared a Milano Jinx?
Speaking of crapping in your pants, anyone catch the final round of the British Open yesterday? Rumor has it both Paddy Harrington and El Nino were signed to endorsement deals with DEPENDS right after the trophy ceremony. Perfect for Sergio who is in discussions with KLEENEX lined up as well.
Going to the game at Shea Tuesday night and cant wait. Funny though, I get as excited for Premio Sausage and Peppers as much as I do hoping to hear Ramon Castro come to bat to Darth Vader's entrance music.
But thats just me.
Tommy Dee is a contributing editor with Maxim Sports Online and hotfoot.com and his blog truesportsfans.blogspot.com has appeared several times on Deadspin. Now you can find him lurking in the shadows of The Metwork as well. Also Check out Tommy Dees radio showon Blog Talkradio.
Why we insist on living within the comfortable illusion of human
intimacy is perhaps existence's most confounding mystery. We engage
ourselves in innumerable relationships and interactions, and, of
course, what we perceive to be a requisite volley of conversant
exchange. Whatever part of us it is that conceives the impossible
amalgam of joy, desire, pain, want and pleasure also propagates an
explicable need to share our personal albatross of emotion with others.
Not finding answers within, we can only hope to find them from without.
And thus was born the illusion of which I speak--the illusion that I
can somehow hear you or you me. Clearly friends, we are merely engaged
in dueling monologues.
I think therefore I am? Does this
prosaic exercise in semantics truly reflect a justification of your
existence? An honest assessment of your mortal predicament would more
accurately proclaim, "I lack therefore I need." Would it not? From the
first cry leaving your mother's womb to last night's dressing down of
the valet who dinged your Prius--all your lamentations have a familiar
chorus. Time marches forward but the song remains the same. I am not
whole. Someone, anyone, help me fill void. Considering this, I suppose
our collective need to solicit the charitable intimacies of
interpersonal communication would make sense---that is if anyone was
paying even the slightest bit of f*cking attention to anything you had
to say.
Yes, I know what you're thinking. People do listen to
what I have to say. I express a need, explicitly or implicitly, and
those around me respond. I go to Starbucks, I order a cappuccino, the
barista gives me a cappuccino. I ask my girlfriend to bl*w me, and,
assuming she still holds some flight of fancy for my c*ck, the d*ck
gets sucked. Grandma died and boy is the Synagogue packed. What a
lovely old bird that one was. She will be missed. Uh-huh.
What
we fail to recognize is that every need you share, express, emote,
excrete, and/or insinuate is beamed through the self-indulgent prism of
everyone else's wholly singular existence--which, I'm sorry to inform
you, doesn't give a flying f*ck about you. This isn't to say your
existence will be discarded or your emotions payed no heed. Of course,
this could not be the case as evidenced by the still abundant bounty of
cappuccinos, bl*wjobs and tastefully embalmed grandmothers. In order to
appreciate the reality of the situation, one must recognize the subtle
disconnect between selflessness and selfishness. There is no
selflessness. Ever.
Every decision, response, remark, action,
reaction and endeavor is processed through an inescapable matrix of
self. Ask me what an apple tastes like and I'm not going to tell you
what it tastes like to you. I can only tell you what it tastes like to
me. This truth can be extrapolated to the point of absurdity and never
lose an ounce of its efficacy. Understand that your investment in the
intimacy of others will never yield an unpolluted return. It will yield
a construct of another, for another. The trick then becomes the
acknowledgment of your predicament, and the ability to divest one's
self from the illusion.
I think we're all familiar with the phenomena of deluded nostalgia. A
time certain passes, and one's mind begins to sift through distant
blissful memories absent the realities of the feeble human condition.
Ultimately, we succumb to the gravity of a past born more of fantasy
than fact, and are somehow surprised to find ourselves disappointed in
this indulgence.
Probably the best example of this process can
be seen when we have a sudden itch for the company of a former girlfriend. Rather than logically reminding ourselves why this person was
long ago dispensed with, we conveniently create excuses to ignore the
memory's evidence of a past not worth re-engaging.
And the
result? I'm sure we've all experienced the exquisite pain of a "what
the f@#k was I thinking?" morning after. Suffice it to say, waking up
with someone previously relegated to a lesser priority than the
efficient tandem of your right hand and fertile imagination has a way
of intimately acquainting you with the concept of regret. The fleeting
spoils of your conquest of obsolescence aside, no measure of
rationalization will return you to a comfortable distance from this
once vanquished albatross. Now, with little more than a swift stroke of
your less than magic wand, the pleasant sanctuary of your individuality
must again suffer the infestation of unwelcome company.
Ironic,
is it not? Our formidable capacities for logic and reason subjugated by
the caprice and whimsy of our fickle lusts. In the final analysis, it
appears salvation rests in our collective acknowledgment of this
inevitability. No matter how furiously we resist, we shall always be
beholden to our biological imperative. Spare yourself Darwinian concepts of
evolution. Yes, we may evolve, but our c@#ks are permanently transfixed in
the Jurassic period. At the end of the day we are little more than overqualified roadies on a "Spread the Seed" world tour, and perhaps we should just learn to dig the ride. Higher minded concepts of manhood and chivalry
aside, aren't you tired of driving your Porsche with the emergency brake on?
And, yes, this entire essay was merely a pretext to analogizing the penis to a high-performance sportscar.
As we all prepare for another weekend of voluntarily poisoning ourselves, I
thought it would be appropriate to offer up my own thoughts on the
subject.
And what is the poison of your choice: Beer, Cocktails,
Wine?
I,
for one, can find happiness at the bottom of any of those glasses.
Accordingly, my preference will always be in some fashion related to
the context.
Beer: What red-blooded
American male doesn't like beer? Despite the promulgation of nationally
distributed micro-brews over the last decade or so, ordering one's self
a brew remains a relatively simple pleasure. If all else fails, just
point the bartender towards the coolest looking tap and wink. It's
unlikely you'll end up disappointed (unless, of course, you just
pointed to the Espresso Pumpkin Spice Lager or some other brewer's
alchemy experiment gone awry). But, that said, beer does have it's own
Achilles' heel--namely the quantity of which must be imbibed in order
to reach a reasonable state of inebriated bliss (or, as my less
eloquent friends refer to it, "buzz"). After about my fifth pint of
Stella Artois I start to feel like an incapacitated water buffalo, any
and all initiative to get laid evaporates from my loins, and my
attention turns to the left-over General Tso's chicken chilling to
perfection in my lettuce crisper.
Cocktails: Because "cocktails" represent such a
wide variety of drinks, it will be difficult to reduce them to a
context worthy of analysis and critique. So, for our purposes, we will
assume cocktails refer to "hard alcohol" and "common mixed-drinks."
Perhaps the greatest strength of cocktails are their efficacy. A double
pouring of Jameson (served neat) doesn't f$#k around. From the moment
they pass your lips, cocktails embark on a kamikaze search and destroy
mission toward your liver and/or any other vital organ that stand in
their way. Along its brutal path of liquid vengeance, no prisoners are
taken--not even the innocent citizens of your psyche (such as
discretion, logic, judgment and will power). One need only look to the
words used to describe them or their effects to heed adequate caution:
Would you like a Hurricane, or perhaps a Wallbanger? Either will do the
trick if you'd like to get hammered, blitzed, or wasted.
Wine: Wine is the "hot thirty-five year old
divorcee" of the adult beverage scene. Yes, she looks good sitting next
to you at the restaurant, but she also has a lot of baggage you're
going to have to deal with if you want her. Simply put, ordering a
bottle or even a glass of wine is no small affair. Suffice it to say,
screwing it up among the wrong crowd is akin to whipping out a limp
c@#k at an orgy. Would you like a Merlot? Pinot Noir? Cabernet? Shiraz?
Hold on a second, aren't you eating fish? A Chardonnay? A Colombard?
Why not a Marsanne? And don't forget the matter of a proper year. I
don't know about you, but I gauge the quality of my years on how often
I got laid and if the Mets made the playoffs--which, needless to say,
probably doesn't translate all that successfully to the selection of a
vintage.
--------
So, in the
final analysis, I suppose it really doesn't matter. Then again, as my car has become a literal extension of my physical embodiment, I
might as well just order a Pepsi.
Comments or Suggestions?
When it first happened, I was inconsolable. But it wasn't like last year... I wasn't sad. I was, and still am, pissed off. Last year I wasn't willing to talk about it because I thought I would get depressed or maybe even cry. This year I wasn't willing to talk about it because I was afraid I would kick a puppy. But I've been feeling better, lately, as I think a lot of Mets fans are. The Phillies got swept (and I was at a bar sitting next to 4 obnoxious Phillies fans during game 3, so I made sure to twist the knife a bit), the Yankees got eliminated, and Pushing Daisies premiered. But there are still those moments that sort of creep up on me. I'll be in the shower, and a thought will come into my head about some reading I did for Labor Law then... unions... then... the MLB Players' Association... then... Tom Glavine... GODDAMNIT! 
So as I dropped a buck into the guitar case of pseudo 
You
see, there is too much symmetry not to be the product of intention.
Look around you. See the inevitable and inescapable truth that all
things live and die by the same equation. Such an obvious congruence
that we all seem to miss. You beg God for a modicum of hope for
eternity, and she drowns you in an ocean of assurance. Open your eyes.
Do you not see sunrise and sunset, the seasons as they pass and the
inexhaustable harvest of life from death? Are you really so
recalcitrant and jaded as to believe an omniscient god incapable of
metaphor? Wake up ass#ole, God is winking at you. 
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