Tag Archives: pointless nostalgia

1999 Project

The 1999 Project: A “Humble” Introduction

mora_cedeno_rocker.jpgToday I unveil The 1999 Project. Not to be confused with the Manhattan Project, the Montauk Project, or–god forbid–the 9/12 Project.

In case you hadn’t peeked at a calendar lately, it’s the year 2009. That means it’s ten years since the year 1999. That may or may not mean much to you. To me, 1999 means a lot. It was the year I finally dove headfirst back into baseball.

I loved baseball as a kid, but drifted away from it in high school and most of college. I dipped my toe back in the water a few times in 1998. That was the year the Mets acquired Mike Piazza and Al Leiter, and the first year they seriously contended for a playoff spot in many a moon. It seemed a good year to reqacquaint myself.

It was also, unfortunately, the year where they lost their last five games–when even one win would’ve meant a three-way tie for the wild card–and finished one game out of the postseason picture. The newspapers, and many fans, called it a choke job, a collapse. Oh, if they only knew what a real collapse looked like…by having the definition drilled into their heads two years in a row…

But 1998 was almost worth it for the insane, monstrous glory and agony that was 1999. If any year of Mets baseball was going to bring you back to the fold, this was it. 1999 remains my favorite season.

I wasn’t born in 1969 or 1973. I wasn’t old enough to appreciate 1986. But in 1999, I was fresh out of college, on my own, entering the workplace, and rediscovering a team that made itself impossible to not like. The fact that they didn’t win the World Series, or even get to it, almost seems beside the point.

For a while, I thought 2006 would take the place of 1999 in my heart, but Yadier Molina, Adam Wainwright, and Guillermo Mota conspired to take it out of the running. 1999 still reigns supreme.

And Bobby Valentine remains my favorite Mets manager of all time. Probably the only true genius who ever helmed the team. He had one sort-of ace (Leiter) and one bona fide slugger (Piazza), and that was pretty much it. He built the 1999 Mets into a 97 win team with a great bullpen and solid defense (The Best Infield Ever), while dealing with fair-to-middling starting pitching and a completely anonymous outfield.

Several years later, once the 1999 Mets had scattered to the four winds, I made a concerted effort to get jerseys of all members of its vaunted infield. I only got halfway there: Robin Ventura and Edgardo Alfonzo (my favorite all-time Met). I can understand not being able to find a Rey Ordonez jersey, but no eBay love for Jon Olerud? That still shocks me.

So as I noted the passage of time this New Year’s, I said to myself, “Self, why don’t you do a retrospective of your favorite season?” Methought, with the assistance of Retrosheet.org and a few newspaper archives, I could reconstruct the season from beginning to end.

I’ve played around with this idea in my head for months. Seriously, for months. I weighed the pros and cons of this project endlessly. I considered the glory of success, the ignominy of failure. Because if I say I’m going to do this, I have to do it, for all 162 regular season games (technically, 163) and beyond.

What put me over the edge was my recent devouring of Faith and Fear in Flushing (which I promise to give a proper review very soon). Greg Prince’s breathless account of that year was enough to convince me that this project should be done–nay, must be done. Particularly his description of Game 6 of that year’s LCS as the best game he’d ever seen, even though the Mets lost it–and thus the series–on a bases-loaded walk.

(Pause here to bite your knuckle and curse the memory of Kenny Rogers.)

I will probably do one post a week, chronicling the games that were played during that 7-day period (I realize that the weeks probably won’t line up the same way, in Sunday-to-Saturday terms, but if I don’t mind that detail, neither should you). But I also reserve the right to concentrate a daily post on particularly awesome or heartbreaking games.

I also figure this will help me keep perspective and not worry too much about the state of the current Mets, which I otherwise would have great difficulty doing. I have certain thoughts about this year’s team that I’d rather keep close to my vest, having been burned by two years of…

Jesus, how can you even describe the last two years? It’s like the famous banner lofted by the original Sign Man at Shea after the conclusion of the ’69 Series: THERE ARE NO WORDS. No, there are not, but for all the wrong reasons.

Without further ado, let the pain begin!

Baseball

Michael More, Roger, and Me

piazza_si.jpgA recently leaked excerpt from Jeff Pearlman’s upcoming book on Roger Clemens (The Rocket Who Fell to Earth, which sounds less like a sports tome and more like a David Bowie album) alleges that Mike Piazza used performance enhancing drugs. And by alleges, I mean Pearlman says Piazza totally did them.

Although–unless there’s more in the book than the excerpt contains–the accusations come mostly from unnamed sources, all of whom say some variation of “Yeah, we’re pretty sure he did it,” without any specifics. Same goes for the one former player who went on the record: Reggie Jefferson, who’s most famous for having a hissy fit and quitting baseball for good when the Red Sox left him of their playoff roster in 1999.

And if you want an idea of how much of a douche Jefferson is, consider the first line of the article linked above: “This is not how Reggie Jefferson expected to begin the playoffs, taking care of his newborn infant daughter in Tampa.” ‘I coulda been playing against the Indians right now, but NOOOO! I just had to come home and take care of this stupid baby!’

However, according to Pearlman, Piazza confided that he used PEDs on occasion to reporters off the record. Pearlman’s theory is that Piazza did this to make it an open secret and thus cut off further questioning on the subject.

Bottom line: You can’t imply something like this in a book and not be damn sure you won’t get sued over it. And the best way to ensure you won’t get sued is to print the truth. So I felt it only fair to address this subject, since I’ve hammered Roger Clemens at every opportunity. And hammered. And hammered.

Part of me wants to split hairs and say that it’s unclear when Piazza used PEDs and for how long, whereas Clemens’ use is pretty well documented: the post-Boston tail-end of his career, when it looked like his career might be over.

I’m tempted to say that you could jam needles in your ass til the cows came home and it still wouldn’t enable you to differentiate a fastball from a changeup in a split second, while Clemens used PEDs to pitch effectively way beyond retirement age.

But who’s to say that PEDs didn’t help Piazza recover more quickly from the various dings and cuts associated with catching? And how do I know it didn’t help him bat better (as opposed to slug better, which I’m sure it did)?

So am I now forced to admit that Mike Piazza is really no better than Roger Clemens? No, I am not.

First off, the use of PEDs doesn’t upset me. As far as levels of cheating go, I put it below spitballers and bat corking. To me, it’s more like the widespread use of amphetamines in baseball, which goes all the way back to the 1950s. They’re both artificial chemical means to improve one’s performance.

Plus, MLB’s anti-drug policy was such a joke for so long that it practically dared players to do steroids. It was like putting a sack of money out on the street, with a sign that said PLEASE DON’T STEAL.

Granted, I like baseball better now that it welcomes Good Pitching again. Now that batters no longer look like overstuffed sausages stitched together. Now that we have fewer of the Mark McGwire style players–guys who can hit titanic homers and do absolutely nothing else. Now that players no longer shorten their lives to hit a few more dingers.

But I’ve never gotten fist-shakin’ angry over the whole steroids thing. Because first of all, baseball ain’t the only offender on the PED front. How many linebackers you think aren’t juicing? Football fans don’t give a shit, though, because no one cares about numbers in football. No one cares about the players in football. Fans just wanna see Football:The Sport presented to them every Sunday in the fall, by any means necessary. Sometimes I wish baseball fans could look at their sport the same way.

And if you know anything about the history of baseball, you know that steroid use is way low on its list of crimes. For 15-20 years, tons of guys did steroids. And yet the game endures.

What tons of guys didn’t do is try to end other players’ careers by throwing at their heads, because they couldn’t get them out any other way. Or start some weird drama by hurling a shattered bat during a World Series game–and somehow not get kicked out of that game because they’re too big to get kicked out of such a huge game. Or get all their reporter buddies to write glowing articles about how they owe all their success to an intense workout regimen. Or protest their innocence when all the evidence pointed elsewhere. Or cajole Congress into giving them hearings to prove their innocence because they’re tight with the sitting President’s family.

Nope, last I checked, there was only one very special breed of asshole who did that.

There are several levels of Sports Hate. Lowest are the guys you really don’t hate, you just hate the fact that they always beat Your Team, and your hatred is actually a sign of respect (for me, this would be John Smoltz).

Then there are guys who you hate because they always beat Your Team, and who you can’t prove are douchebags, but you just know they’re douchebags (Greg Maddux, Derek Jeter).

Then there are guys who you hate because they always beat Your Team and you know they’re douchebags because they’ve provided ample evidence (Chipper Jones, Barry Bonds).

And then there are enormous douches whose douchiness breaks the lowly bonds of douchery and passes into supervillainy. Roger Clemens resides in this pantheon, and I have no problem singling him out for an extra fiery, hellish hate that rages like a thousand suns.

If I have to readjust my thinking on anything, it’s my attitude toward fans of players on other teams who juiced. We all know the obvious offenders, and I’ve wondered to myself, “How could those morons root for [fill in the blank]?”

I now realize I was one of those morons. I mean, I always knew I was. I just never had to confront that reality head-on like other fans did.

As usual, Faith and Fear in Flushing said it much better than I could. Ultimately, what did any of these players really do, other than hit baseballs really far and make people happy? And how many of them jacked those homers off of players who were just as “dirty” as them?

So if you cheered for Bonds or Sammy Sosa or Mark McGwire or Brady Anderson or Ken Caminiti, I won’t judge you for that.

In turn, don’t judge me for rooting for someone who almost single-handedly willed the Mets back from the dead in 1999. Someone who put the capper on a 10-run rally on our Most Hated Rival. Someone who hit the most titanic homers I ever saw, and the most important one I ever saw.

So, we got a deal?

Baseball, Pointless Nostalgia

The Fantasy Wisdom of Yesteryear

rotisserieleague.jpgFirst off, kudos to those who joined Scratchbomb’s official fantasy baseball league, The League of Calamitous Intent, and drafted with us this past weekend. I thank you for choosing The League of Calamitous Intent as the instrument of your demise.

Round this time of year, I always read two books: the newest edition of Baseball Prospectus, and the 1994 edition of The Official Rule Book and Draft-Day Guide for Rotisserie League Baseball.

I was not into fantasy baseball in 1994. Back then, it was still referred to as “rotisserie baseball” and it seemed to be fading as a pop culture relic of the 80s, like Family Ties and the omnipresent threat of nuclear holocaust. Even at its height, rotisserie baseball was a niche hobby amongst dedicated nerds, sort of a slightly more athletic Dungeons and Dragons. But it’s virtually indistinguishable with the brand of fantasy baseball that went mainstream with the rise of the intertubes in the late 90s.

I found this book at my in-laws’ house, which is weird because they’re not really into baseball. But I don’t look gift horses like these in the mouth. It’s an awesome time capsule of the waning days of the first fantasy baseball explosion. It also has a bittersweet tone if you remember that the 1994 baseball season didn’t end with a World Series, but with a strike.

This book is clearly a spiritual godfather to Baseball Prospectus.  it doesn’t have any predictive stats like PECOTA, merely hunches as to what various players will do and what you should pay for them in keeper leagues. But its pithy descriptions of players will ring familiar to any BP reader.

The Guide gives praise where praise is due, of course, but its most entertaining assessment are its bitchiest.

WALT WEISS: Eureka! He played a full season without spending a minute on the DL! Alert the media!

SAMMY SOSA: Ninety percent of Sosa’s production came in spectacular but brief bursts followed by long, yawning chasms of nothing. His outfield play can charitably be described as inconsistent. He is constitutionally incapable of hitting  cutoff man. And his teammates consider him a selfish, mindless player. Hey, nobody’s perfect.

MARK WHITEN: He had a big season one night last September.

KEVIN McREYNOLDS: Someone wake him up and tell him his career is over.

HAROLD BAINES: Your grandmother has nimbler knees, but as long as he can stand, the man will be able to hit

PAUL O’NEILL: Watch him enough and you realize sitting him against the tough left-handers makes sense. O’Neill gives new meaning to the word intensity. When he runs into a bad streak, the look on his face causes small children in the stands to burst into tears.

FRANK TANANA: About one of every four outings, this master craftsman gives a clinic on pitching. The other three, watch out.

But some of their funniest assessments are extremely brief dismissals:

DAN PASQUA: Pass.

KEVIN MAAS: No Maas.

JOE HESHKETH: Smeshketh

And there are also some prescient reviews of up-and-coming prospects:

CHIPPER JONES: Long regarded as the best minor league prospect in baseball….The early line has him sticking with the big team this spring, playing a little backup infield, then moving over to third if Pendleton continues to show signs of slowing down. Another scenario has Jones pushing Blauser  over to second. Still another has the Chipster going straight to Cooperstown without bothering to play major league ball.

MANNY RAMIREZ: Not a bad major league debut in his hometown, was it? Kid from New York shows up in a Cleveland uniform to play in Yankee Stadium for the first time, packs the stands with friends from the old neighborhood, and proceeds to hit two home runs and a double and drive in five runs. That’s the way we want to break in. At the plate, he resembles Juan Gonzalez, with his front-leg kick and solid 190-pound frame. His numbers also remind us of Gonzalez. We’re pretty excited.

CARLOS DELGADO: Not just a powerful bat, but a powerful left-handed bat. The only thing holding him back is his defense, and he’s learning.

JIM THOME: The old Indians never would have let this guy languish long enough to lead the International League in batting average and RBI. Come to think of it, the Indians didn’t leave him down in 1992. Now AL pitchers will be suffering from (dare we say it?) Thomaine.