Monthly Archives: April 2009

Baseball, Pointless Nostalgia

Shea It’s Still So

A tweet by mr_met alerted me to this post over at the No Mas Scorecard–which I should have alerted myself to much sooner, as I’m a big fan of No Mas, their t-shirts, and their general outlook on The Sporting World. No matter; I shall endeavor to make up for lost time.

No Mas, Paul Lukas (Uniwatch guru), and The Reverend Vince Anderson have teamed to campaign the Mets to rename their new ballpark after their old one. Or, more importantly, to name it after the man without whom the Mets wouldn’t exist: Bill Shea.

I am totally on board with this movement. For one thing, it would remove the association with corporate cockfucks Citibank, which will continue to dog the team until they change the ballpark’s name. For another, it acknowledges that yes, the Mets do indeed have some history they should be proud of and celebrate.

I have very few complaints about CitiField as a place to watch a ballgame–and as noted elswhere, I think a lot of the criticism of the place is nitpicky and way out of line–but the Wilpons’ lack of acknowledgment of this history within it really bugs me. Supposedly, they’re working on some sort of Mets Museum, but quite tellingly, they didn’t make any formal announcements about it until fan outcry about the lack of Mets material in the stadium.

callitshea.jpgI get the impression that, in the absence of such an outcry, management would be totally happy with the current memorabilia-free state, which is a real shame. Go to any new ballpark, and it has some kind of feature on either the team, or the town, or both. The Nationals have been in DC all of 5 seasons and their new stadium has such a display. If they can do it, the Mets sure as hell can.

The Calling It Shea Project’s platform is a little murky, but part of it involves the sale of the t-shirt pictured here. Ten percent of the proceeds go to Food Bank NYC. Your dough could go to far worse places, so if you think Shea should be celebrated for his efforts in perpetuity, express it in t-shirt form.

1999 Project

1999 Project: Games 9 and 10

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

April 14, 1999: Mets 4, Marlins 1

Orel Hershiser reminisced fondly about his heroics in the 1988 NLCS before making quick work of a young Marlins lineup. He used only 10 pitches to work through the first two innings, and didn’t allow a hit until the fourth. The Mets gave him a lead on RBI doubles by Todd Pratt and Edgardo Alfonzo, a bases-loaded walk, and a homer by Robin Ventura.

All of this allowed John Franco to notch his 400th career save. It was an atypical Franco save–that is to say, nigh-drama free, except for a two-out double. After the game, the Brooklyn native felt like celebrating his milestone:

The Mets gave Franco three bottles of Dom Perignon and he poured it into plastic flutes as his teammates clapped. Franco held up the Champagne and said, ”This is the first of many celebrations, boys.”

Thumbnail image for 99_franco_400_save.pngWith reliever Greg McMichaels ailing, Steve Phillips was rumored to be interested in the Braves’ Mark Wohlers. I found it amazing that such a trade could even be contemplated back then. But then I remembered that there was really no Mets-Braves rivalry to speak of until this season.

April 15, 1999: Marlins 11, Mets 4

The Mets’ five-game winning streak ended in embarassing fashion. Starter Masato Yoshii was cuffed for eight hits and four runs in five innings, then the formerly spotless bullpen was torched for seven runs of their own. (Granted, most of those relievers were mopper-uppers like Rigo Beltran and Jose Manzanillo.) Future Met Luis Castillo reached base six times. The most humiliating run was the Marlins’ 11th and final one, as it was driven in by reliever Brian Edmonson.

Backup-backup catcher Mike Kinkade symbolized the Mets’ futility when he tried to toss the ball around the infield after a strikeout, but only succeeded in sailing a throw into the outfield. The gaffe drew mocking applause from the crowd, the only kind heard at Shea that day.

The day’s only good news came from a pregame batting session with Mike Piazza, who took 50 swings in the cage and proclaimed he “felt good”.

Baseball

The Unhappiest Man in the World Returns

I ain’t gonna lie: The Opening Night loss really bugged me.

Part of it was because I’ve only gotten the chance to see a few Mets games from beginning to end so far, and they’ve won only one of them.

Part of it was the team’s general lack of urgency, an eerie reminder of recent seasons.

Part of it was battling back from a 4-run deficit, only to see it depart on a petty balk that might have gone unnoticed were it not for that cancerous little midget David Eckstein. (If I hear one more broadcaster call him a “winner”, I will Elvis my TV).

Part of it was I knew it would sour my whole day, despite my best efforts to prevent such meaningless events from negatively affecting my life.

But mostly it was because I knew the media doo-doo storm would be in full poo-flinging swing. I knew that the Mets would be absolutely murdered in today’s papers, on the local sports channels, and by the radio yakkers, all of them spewing forth with absolutely no perspective whatsoever.

I avoided all three outlets like the plague for most of Tuesday, because I knew what they would say, and I knew it would just anger me. Sometimes, getting annoyed can spur you on to do great things, but Tuesday was not such a time. I wanted to coccoon and wait out the media maelstrom until the next game.

wmatthews.jpgBut for reasons I still don’t fully understand, I visited Newsday‘s online site late in the day. I felt drawn there by evil forces I couldn’t resist, like Frodo aching to slip on The One Ring. And while there, I saw a link for a Wallace Matthews article entitled “Citi Field lacks real Mets fans”. And god help me, I clicked and read.

I shouldn’t be mad at Wallace Matthews for this literary abortion of an article. I’ve documented this fact at Scratchbomb enough times: The man lives to eat joy and shit out despair. I knew exactly what he would pen on such an occasion. And yet I read it anyway. I’m at fault here, not Matthews. He’s just doing what comes naturally to him, like a dog eating its own vomit.

For Wallace Matthews, the Mets opening a new stadium with a listless, embarrassing loss is like eight Christmas mornings rolled into one. Except in Matthews’ version, there are no presents under the tree for anyone and he gets to tell all the children in the world that Santa Claus was raped and bludgeoned to death.

With all that said, let’s dive in, shall we?

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