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have a good time (but get out alive) | metsgrrl.com

have a good time (but get out alive)

Today, at PNC Park, one of the ninety ceremonial opening pitches was thrown out by none other than Punxsutawney Phil. You know, the groundhog? The “renowned meteorological expert” and his “inner circle” who comes out on February 2nd every year and tells us if there’s going to be six more weeks of winter or not.

You think I’m kidding? Check this out:

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Unlikely as it may seem, this was not the most ridiculous sight at PNC Park today. No, the most ridiculous sight at PNC Park today was the Metropolitans 1) not clinching AGAIN, 2) getting beat by the Pirates, and 3) GETTING SWEPT BY THE PIRATES. the PIRATES!

I’m sorry. Say whatever you want about the Pirates, but they s-u-c-k SUCK. The only thing they will be playing in October is golf. They are thoroughly and completely eliminated from post-season play. Their fans could get all excited about today’s game, and carry their brooms to the ballpark (oh, and they did) – but how often do they get to do that – except, maybe, if they were playing the Washington Nationals. People would hiss “the Mets suck!” and I wouldn’t even get riled. Okay, maybe I got a little riled when someone yelled “Beltran, you suck” and I turned around and stared at him in disbelief, muttering that you could probably say a lot of things about Carlos Beltran, but statistically and objectively, the man does not suck. Say you hate him, say he’s ugly (also not true), criticize his fashion sense – but he doesn’t SUCK.

The Pirates, on the other hand – suck. The two kids who sat next to us Friday night admitted as much, that they were playing uncharacteristically well on that particular evening.

It was a gorgeous fall day, sunny and warm, and our seats were TO DIE FOR. To die for! Acquired on the Pirates version of the ticket marketplace, we paid $34 for two seats SIX ROWS BEHIND THE METS DUGOUT, even with the on-deck circle. The photographic opportunities were jaw-dropping and quite frankly, overwhelming.

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[DO NOT STEAL THESE PHOTOS FOR YOUR BLOG. NO I AM NOT GIVING YOU PERMISSION.]

We could hear Willie clapping when the Mets did something well, which means that I heard him clap exactly once early in the game, when I delightedly noted said observation in my notebook. It also meant that Willie could hear TBF, most likely, when he offered some thoughts later in the game about Mr. Randolph’s apparent unwillingness to use a pinch hitter for Kelly Stinnett.

I hate Kelly Stinnett. At today’s game, I announced that I hated Kelly Stinnett more than I hated Victor Diaz last year. “Wow. And you *really* hated Victor Diaz,” TBF said in awe. I hated Victor Diaz because without exception, he fucked up every play that ever came anywhere near him at any game I happened to be at. I didn’t start standing up and screaming at players until I started watching Victor Diaz.

Mr. Diaz has now been replaced by Kelly Stinnett. That overthrow today almost caused me to throw up. Maybe if it had happened in a game where we had managed to get one, just one, run —

No, that’s not true. I would still f’in HATE Kelly Stinnett because he’s freaking lousy.

the only consolation today was that the majority of the fans in our section were also Mets fans. so we didn’t have to listen to trash talking all by ourselves, except for the guy in the section behind us who greeted Mr. Lo Duca’s presence with the comment, “Hey asshole, how’s your family?” I assume someone said, “Hey moron, how about the 300 children in your immediate area?” because that was the end of that theme. We, on the other hand, almost gave a standing O when we saw #16 emerge from the dugout and enter the on-deck circle.

And Lo Duca, of course, got a fucking hit. As did Endy, good old reliable Endy Chavez,. who hit and who fought and who hustled and ran down every single hit he got – unlike Mr. Reyes, who got a hit that the 2nd baseman bobbled, and Jose being Jose, might have been safe at first if he had run the way Jose Reyes is supposed to run.

I guess I can’t blame them for being disheartened but I do blame them for whatever malaise that overcame them that they could not shake. There were at least a thousand Mets fans at the games yesterday and today. Some of them, like us, had planned the trip to PNC for the hell of it, but more than a few drove out because they wanted to see their team clinch on the field. Instead, we had to suffer through the indignity of being beaten by the Pirates, and the Pirate Parrot playing air guitar on top of the Pirates’ dugout with a broom.

At road games where we lose, TBF usually hightails it out of the stadium before the last hit gets caught or the last out is played. I refuse to do that. As much as it made my skin crawl to watch the Pirates run out of the dugout last night and celebrate as though it was a game that really mattered, we stayed until the bitter end and I made it a point to conduct myself out of the ballpark with dignity. Today, we did likewise, although I refused to watch what was happening on the field, but did stop to console a woman in the section behind us, there with her family, who had the same kind of outrage I did when I saw Ricky Ledee climb up the stairs from the dugout in the 9th inning. I tapped her gently and said, “We’ll do it tomorrow.”

As we were walking out of the park, heading across Roberto Clemente bridge, TBF took out the phone and started dialing. “‘We are experiencing unusually high call volume.'” he related. “How much do you want to spend?” he asked.

I sighed, and for a millisecond, contemplated a boycott.
“Just get us on the mezzanine,” I finally said.

We’ll see you there tomorrow.

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