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WEDNESDAY WEEK. [8-25-10] | metsgrrl.com



At this point in the season, it is just about watching baseball. It is hoping that someone can shine, or excel, or show promise for the future. It is not about believing, or hoping, or even idly musing. Mathematically the Mets may not have been eliminated, but in mind, body and spirit, the 2010 are long gone, no matter what Jerry says. I would believe if I thought it would do any good. But if belief mattered, Citi Field has already levitated multiple times on the power of positive thinking.

The good: Carlos Beltran has begun to act like his old self, catching balls with grace and effort, gliding through the outfield like a gazelle. There is a touch of the tentative there, but there is enough glimmer of the old Carlos to make me hope.



It was respectably full for a Tuesday night on a day that rained all day, and was grey and cloudy and ominous. People who have to travel or cart children make decisions about whether they’re going earlier in the day, even if it turns out to be fine come game time, you have to make that call at some point. It is summer, so it is tourist season, it is foreign tourist season, it is the season for hipsters to come to the ballpark, drink too much beer and dance like the whitest white people in the world when James Brown came on the loudspeakers during the short-lived rally. I would never argue with James Brown being played anywhere, at any time, for any reason, but have you ever noticed that despite the song’s title being “Get Up (I Feel Like Being A) Sex Machine, Pt. 1,” the song is looped and edited so that you never, ever hear the words “sex machine”?

Speaking of music, there was something up tonight with the at bat music; at least for the first half of the game, everyone – including Carlos “El Esta Aqui” Beltran, including Josh “Rock You Like A Hurricane” Thole – was coming up to really bad reggaeton. “It sounds like the kind of music that you’d hear on that SNL sketch about Antonio Banderas,” TBF said after the third at bat. Maybe someone lost a bet? Maybe someone was trying to shake it up? Was there a clubhouse meeting? Or did they just decide that not enough people were coming that it didn’t matter what they played, because no one would notice?


The good: The Marlins are 14th in the league in fielding percentage. Cameron Maybin.

The bad: We had embarrassing errors of our own that I am choosing not to mention.


There were groups wearing matching tshirts decorating the upper deck with blocks of color. One particularly active group was engaging in a call and response with a less organized group (no t-shirts) two sections over.
“ANGEL!” the girls would chant.
“PAGAN!” the guys would follow.
“CARLOS!” said the girls.
“BELTRAN!” the guys would reply.

The only problem was that they were pronouncing “Pagan” as “Pagan and not “Pa-GAN,” but I forgave them because of enthusiasm and new blood, and because the guys started chanting “Tho-le, Tho-le, Tho-le, Tho-le” to the tune of “Jose, Jose, Jose” during that last inning. It was hilarious.


Not hilarious was the gentleman one section over, accompanied by his friend in a Bernie Williams jersey, who spent most of the evening complaining that no one was as enthusiastic as he thought we should be. I always want to say to these people, “Be the change you wish to see in the world” but I realize that it would go right over their head. He tried to start chants of:

  • “Fire Jerry!“This costs money! This costs money!”
  • “Why am I here? Why am I here?” (interjected with “SNY! SNY!”)

We were grateful for the almost-rally for several reasons, one of which was that the crowd became loud enough to drown him out.


There were Marlins fans in our section. There were people that I thought were Marlins fans, because they cheered their runs, but I later realized were just a family of German tourists who were applauding everything. I felt bad for glaring at them earlier while they were applauding Hanley Ramirez.


In short, it wasn’t much of a game. It could have been, but it wasn’t. It’s not even something I get upset about any more, not the players left on base, not the missed opportunities, not the deflated rallies. It is ritual and it is routine, and sometimes the routine is balm enough. TBF got clipped by a motorcycle when he was riding his bike on Sunday, training for an upcoming bike tour. He is scraped and bruised but aside from a broken nose, he is basically okay. He wears a helmet. He does not have broken limbs. He was glad for the empty row in front of us to stretch out his battered legs but I was just glad he felt well enough to come tonight. That was not the case last night; he was urging me to go, because it was Dickey v Johnson (make your jokes now). When I refused to go without him, he started to plead his case that it would be a short game and he could make it, even though we both knew he couldn’t.

Tonight I was just glad that we could be there, even if he had to wear an older hat because his normal hat won’t fit over the bruises, even if we had to use the elevators, even if it was a bad game. At least he was still there and it was still baseball.

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