1999 Project: Games 57-59

Click here for an intro/manifesto on The 1999 Project.

June 7, 1999: Mets 8, Blue Jays 2

The Mets had just snapped an eight-game losing steak and left the limelight of the Subway Series behind. But the media (and the front office) weren’t ready to let the team off the hook just yet. Fred Wilpon (at the time a co-owner of the team, along with Nelson Doubleday) gave Bobby Valentine a tepid vote of confidence, but didn’t guarantee the manager would finish the season with the team.

To many writers, Valentine’s exit was not a question of if, but when. His recently departed coaches attested to his managerial skills, but their praise could do little to ensure his future. Meanwhile, Bob Raismann raked ESPN’s Jon Miller and Joe Morgan over the coals for their failure to ask Steve Phillips tough questions during their Sunday night telecast.

Amid this maelstrom, the Mets had another interleague matchup, welcoming the Blue Jays to Shea. Toronto was a team mostly bereft of stars, save for their slugging first baseman Carlos Delgado. They also had a promising young pitcher, Roy Halladay, who started the first game of the series. But Doc was not yet the ace he would become, and the Mets touched him up for six runs and three homers (one by Mike Piazza, two more by Benny Agbayani) in five innings of work.

Almost as encouraging as two consecutive offensive explosions were two quality starts in a row. Orel Hershiser was certainly not overpowering, but the six innings and two earned runs on his record were more than appreciated by the Mets and their taxed bullpen.

After the game, the crafty pitcher told reporters that when his shoulders sagged on the mound, that didn’t mean he was tiring.

I looked like that on purpose. I’m kind of carrying myself out there like I’m tired, but I’m not really tired at all. I’m doing that to conserve energy before the pitch, because if I go out there and get all into it the way I feel emotionally, then I feel like I’m expending energy. So on hot days, it looks like I’m tired, but I’m not.

June 8, 1999: Mets 11, Blue Jays 3

Jason Isringhausen pitched 5 2/3 solid innings, allowing only two runs on two hits. Mindful of his injury history, Valentine removed the righty once he’d hit the 100 pitch mark. Bolstered by a homer by Edgardo Alfonzo early and another by Roger Cedeno late, it was good enough for his first major league win in almost two years.

Izzy pitched knowing that Bobby Jones had just been cleared to throw again, thus jeopardizing his spot in the rotation. That, and his history of misfortune, weighed heavily on his mind. “I get teased that every time I go out there, there’s a black cloud over the stadium,” he told reporters. “At times, if I didn’t have bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all.”

June 9, 1999: Mets 4, Blue Jays 3 (14)

Even in a season rife with straight-up insane games, this contest stands out, and provided a signature Bobby Valentine moment. The fact that Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez threw out the first pitch is probably the least crazy detail.

The Mets were down two men before the game even began. Agbayani had been hit near the eye during batting practice and had to sit out. It was also announced that Bobby Bonilla would sit for the next six days for undisclosed reasons (the team denied insubordination was the cause).

David Wells made his first start in New York after being traded to Toronto for Roger Clemens. As Faith and Fear in Flushing noted, there were a considerable number of Yankee fans at Shea to cheer on Boomer. They had plenty to cheer about for the first eight innings, as Wells kept the Mets off the scoreboard. The Blue Jays got to Rick Reed for two solo homers and an RBI double, which looked like all the offense Wells would need.

But much like Curt Schilling did in May, Wells made the mistake of trying to throw a complete game. After John Olerud reached on a fielder’s choice, Piazza hit a single to bring Robin Ventura to the plate as the tying run. Wells still managed to get Ventura down to his last strike, but after fouling off five pitches, the third baseman ripped a double to score two runs.

Wells was removed for closer Billy Koch, but Brian McRae hit a double of his own to score pinch-runner Luis Lopez and tie the game. And then the fun really began.

As the game dragged on into extra frames, Valentine was forced to be creative, and in some cases reckless. He used Todd Pratt as a pinch hitter in the eighth inning, thus burning his only backup catcher. Even Jason Isringhausen was prepared to enter the game as a pinch runner.

Perhaps that’s why he got punchy in the top of the twelfth, when home plate ump Randy Marsh awarded Craig Grebeck first on catcher’s interference. Valentine argued the call vociferously and was ejected.

Thumbnail image for bobby+valentine.jpgReliever Pat Mahomes escaped that jam, and Valentine thought he’d found a way to escape his own predicament. He reentered the dugout wearing sunglasses, a Mets t-shirt, a black cap with an inscrutable logo, and an extremely fake painted mustache. This might have made his team laugh, but it didn’t amuse Marsh, who ejected Valentine for a second time. (The skipper’s costume hijinks would eventually lead to a suspension.)

In his absence, Mahomes pitched two more scoreless innings, and the Mets finally got their chance in the bottom of the fourteenth. Walks to Lopez and McRae started the inning, and after Cedeno bunted them over to second and third, the anemic bat of Rey Ordonez somehow managed to poke a single over the drawn-in infield to score the winning run.

Four hours and thirty-five minutes after first pitch, the Mets had an improbable victory, a three-game sweep of Toronto, and a four-game winning streak. The problems of the previous week weren’t quite in the rear-view mirror yet, but this was a good start.

Government Just Doesn’t Work. Except When It Does

abcnorio.jpgLiving in NYC, I’m never at a loss to find something to complain about, as far as local government is concerned. Oh man, the government. Don’t get me started about the government! I believe Mayor Bloomberg got most of his philosophies by watching Brazil and studying how to make citizens pay for their own punishment.

But occasionally, the city gubment can do good things. Like this past week, when they awarded a $1.65 million grant to punk landmark/Lower East Side community center ABC No Rio for construction of a new building.

After technically squatting at 156 Rivington Street for much of its existence, ABC was sold the site for one dollar on the condition they make necessary repairs. Problem was, the building was in need of more than a few repairs, and costs ballooned exponentially the longer it took them to raise the necessary funds. Then, a city architect told them the whole building would have to come down (which, if you’ve ever been inside it, should come as no surprise).

That seemed to be that, but thanks to grants from the Manhattan borough president’s office and the work of city councilman Allen J. Gerson, ABC will be able to build the new facility they need. I didn’t know you could even bribe the necessary city officials for less than $2 million, but apparently the grant will cover the cost of a smaller one-story facility with a basement (as opposed to the four-story tenement that’s housed ABC since 1980).

Having seen many, many shows there (and played in a few), I’m very happy that ABC can continue to exist in a city that seems bent on destroying everything organic and interesting. So kudos to everyone involved for finding a way to keep something vibrant and important alive in Manhattan. I don’t know what horrible, unspeakable deeds you committed to make this happen. I’m just glad that you did them

Off to Never-Neverland

moonwalker.pngSince I spent several hours yesterday writing totally insensitive tweets about Michael Jackson’s death (like this one), I thought it would be a good idea if I spent five minutes not speaking ill of the dead.

I “liked” Michael Jackson when I was a little kid. I put “liked” in quotation marks because in the early 80s, saying you liked Michael Jackson was equivalent to saying you liked food and water. It wasn’t an expression of taste so much as an admission of being alive.

One Christmas, I received my first non-kiddie albums ever: Thriller, Off the Wall, and a Jackson 5 greatest hits collection. This last one contained several infuriating “medley” tracks that compressed four or five classic tunes into one ungodly super-mix, thus introducing me to the effed-up world of endless album repackaging. This might have also been the Christmas when I got both Atari and the Castle Grayskull playset, thus making it The Greatest Christmas Ever.

It’s hard to comprehend now just how big Michael Jackson was back then. And there probably will never be anyone that huge again, because the media has grown so enormous and ghettoized. Michael Jackson conquered pretty much Everything in the 80s, but nowadays there’s a lot more Everything to conquer, and all of it is so compartmentalized. During the height of his fame, there was one music-related channel. Now there’s dozens, and the one that made him famous spread itself so thin with reality nonsense and game shows that it doesn’t even feature music anymore.

When I heard Michael Jackson died, I felt a vague sadness, if for no other reason than it made me feel horribly old. But I also felt something else that I couldn’t really articulate, until The Wife said it for me: “I’m kinda glad he’s dead.”

She didn’t mean it like “good riddance!” She meant that this was possibly the best thing that could have happened to him. Because let’s face it: Was anything good going to ever happen to Michael Jackson ever again?

He’d become a walking punchline long ago, so much so that Neverland Ranch Sleepover jokes became the touchstone of cheap hack comics (as Tom Scharpling and Drew Magary tweeted separately, Jay Leno just lost a huge amount of material for his new show). Once joking about you has become cliche, you really only have one choice: Go along with the gag. Poke fun at yourself. You might as well, because no one will ever take you seriously ever again. This is called The William Shatner Principle (or the Gary Coleman Corollary, if you prefer).

The problem with Michael Jackson is, he wasn’t a joke because he was a bad actor or because he pissed away all his money. He was a joke because he was a suspected pedophile. What could he do? Guest-host Saturday Night Live and play Father O’Hallihan, the Boy-Touching Priest? Appear in a fake viral video for NAMBLA? Get a sitcom role as the elementary school principal with the wandering eye? That would’ve been horrifying.

thriller.jpgEveryone loves a comeback story. America is the birthplace of the comeback story. We love to tear down heroes just so they can rise again and make us feel warm and fuzzy. But you don’t come back from something that awful. You just don’t. Even if Michael Jackson was somehow “cured”. Even if it was proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that he never molested any child ever, how could that stain ever go away? How could you ever feel good about him ever again?

As horrible as Michael Jackson’s alleged crimes might be, the man never stood a chance. The poor guy was doomed the minute his crazy father forced his brood into show business. He had to sing insanely passionate love songs at age eight. Even the kids on Toddlers and Tiaras aren’t destined to be warped the way he was.

Listen to this Jackson 5 cover of Stevie Wonder’s “I Don’t Know Why I Love You”. It’s great and creeptacular all at the same time. The kid singing this song is throwing his whole heart and soul into it–but what kind of heart and soul do you have when you’re ten years old? How did he have any idea of the heartbreak and longing contained in this song when he sang it?

Of course someone who grew up like this would regress into a twisted, Peter Pan-esque perpetual childhood full of llamas and caroussels and Elephant Man bones. As nuts as he was, we’re probably all lucky he didn’t grab a sniper rifle, climb a bell tower, and start picking people off (while moonwalking).

The way it ended for Michael Jackson is the only good way it could have ended. He dies young. We remember that he had some great songs. We forget the bad stuff for a while. Hopefully, he’s at peace now, free of whatever demons plagued him in life.

Plus, a million lousy standups have to retire their lazy, unfunny, outdated material. All in all, a win-win proposition for the human race.

Oh, and Off the Wall was the best Michael Jackson album. I will not debate this.