My first year at Shea, I loved wrapping my vocal chords around the complex Latino names. Heck, what am I saying - I still love it. So the first time I saw the Rockies, the exchange was something like this:
“Yor- WHAT?”
“Yorvit Torrealba.”
“WTF?”
“Yorvit. He’s Venezuelan.”
“What a great name.”
When the rumors started floating around, I immediately thought of Rockies fan and MG reader Kelsey, who has a Yorvit-inspired email address (or at least she uses it to comment on MG). I wrote her at that address and said, “What are you going to do now?” About an hour later, this comment showed up:
have fun with torrealba. he’s not really all that consistent at the plate, and he can’t throw out runners to save his life, but he’s a good game caller and plays with heart and just seems like a good dude.
sorry this comment has nothing to do with this post.
And you should read the article, because it does tell you more about the guy who’ll be behind the plate next year. And since we’re losing a guy with heart, I’m glad to hear we’re getting another one.
I have been waiting for this exhibit to arrive at the main branch of the New York City Public Library for months, because the centerpiece is the original scroll manuscript of On The Road, which is something I have been dying to see. Yes, I know the legend may eclipse the truth, but it still has iconic status for a writer. And the fact that I now work right by the NYPL and pass Patience and Fortitude every morning made it super-convenient. I saw the banner advertising the exhibit Thursday night on my way home, and decided that I would be dropping by on Friday during my lunch hour - not even realizing it was the first day of the exhibit.
I spent 15 minutes with the 60 feet of the 120 feet of scroll that is unfurled, and browsed some other parts of the exhibition. I mean, I can visit as often as I want over the next six months so there was no real need to see it all in one day. But as I was leaving, something caught my eye, and I went closer.
Wait, is that a SCORE CARD?
So there is an entire segment of the exhibit devoted to Kerouac’s life as a sports fan, and an avid participant in fantasy sports. But not fantasy baseball as we know it today, a world which was constructed out of Kerouac’s imagination. From the exhibition guide:
Fantasy baseball, however, maintained its hold on him to the end of his life. In the “publications” accompanying the game, Kerouac provided the players, coaches, managers and owners with far more detailed biographical histories than he did for the fantasy horse-racing participants.
I also learn that he dreamed of becoming a sports reporter. And in another Kerouac biography, the biographer notes: “In a profound sense, it was sports, more than anything else, that galvanized Kerouac as a writer.”
I have read about half a dozen Kerouac biographies and had never run into this. Then again, if I had, it would have been years ago and I would have probably skimmed over it. I’m sure you’re all sitting there saying “Doh” but this was news even to TBF. I found this article online, but that’s all I came up with. So if you have more, send it along!
As the perennial newbie, I am still struck at who embraces baseball to their heart, and what it ends up saying to me about that person. Here, it’s an astonishing bit of insight. I can see the point that having something that was intricate enough to require devoted study could galvanize him to create a worlds and to consider thoughts and motivation, which of course is the perfect training for any writer. But it was the last thing I expected to run into today, and I’ll be back more than once to that section of the exhibit, likely with TBF in tow, to explore further.
Hello, Cranky MetsGrrl here. I’m cranky because I have to get off the subway in the morning and see this cover, along with the competition’s “SHEA HELLO”. Cranky because - HELLO! SCOTT BORAS REPRESENTS OTHER PLAYERS IN BASEBALL, INCLUDING SEVERAL ON THE METS, and, well, Omar might need to discuss those players with him. And cranky because the coverage of the Winter Meetings is just beyond overblown. I’m waiting for the beat writers to start publishing the GM’s tee times because they have run out of things to talk about.
Truth is I won’t stop being cranky until Opening Day.
This wasn’t as bad as TBF made it out to be, grumbling about David Wright laughing about the inglorious end to the season. I felt he was light, but not too light; serious, but not too serious. I am not expecting sackcloth and ashes, but—
Wait.
No, I am expecting sackcloth and ashes. For a little while longer yet.
PEOPLE I DO NOT WANT TO SEE PLAYING ON THE 2008 METS.
1) Alex Rodriguez.
2) Roger Clemens.
3) Ty Cobb.
4) Alex Rodriguez.
5) David Eckstein.
6) Brett Myers.
7) Any other baseball player who beats his wife.
8) Alex Rodriguez.
9) Alex Rodriguez.
10) Alex Rodriguez.
What are we f’ing smoking that we are all suddenly willing to ransom the farm for A-Rod? (Yes, this means you, David Wright.) I am chalking it up to cabin fever and the sudden emptying of our October dance cards.
TBF and I went on a mini road trip Saturday night, and actually started talking baseball as we were heading back to Brooklyn and trying to find the game on ESPN radio as we driving back. My question was, “Who on earth is Omar really going to find in the offseason?” and his answer was, “That’s just it. Nobody.”
We are not trading Jose Reyes for Johan Santana and 12 bags of baseballs. Let’s climb down from the tree, and start counting the days until pitchers and catchers.
I know I have been quiet. And I would say I have been busy but the truth is that I am still a cranky 5 year old. But now, thank god, it’s over, and I feel like writing a little bit again.
So it is October, and we find ourselves in the improbable place where I am coming home and turning on the baseball, and TBF, not wanting any part of it for more than an inning or two, comes over, sits down, watches and then leaves. He has no interest, and I cannot give it up yet. How is this possible?
I wish I had some kind of strong loyalty to one team. I like Eric Byrnes, so I was sorry to see the Diamondbacks lose; I like the underdog story that is the Rockies (at least until I found out about the whole bible class in the clubhouse thing), and there’s a MG reader named Kelsey with a great Rockies-related email address who chimes in now and again, and I love that. I know a little bit about the Indians because of one of my favorite bloggers (who stopped towards the end of the season), and love that they have a pitcher whose name is “Fausto,” and am fascinated that “Asdrubal” is the name of a Carthaginian general, the brother of Hannibal, and means “God helps”. (However, I am NOT thrilled to hear how badly they mistreated some of my compatriots at the Jake last night.)
And now that the Phillies are out of it, I am once again on speaking terms with TexasGal, who runs the delightful Center Field and roots for the Cubs, the Phillies and the Red Sox. I realize that that triumverate breaks all sorts of sacred Bill Simmons guy rules but I have to tell you that I don’t give a crap, and I’m convinced the whole reason the rules exist is that no guy could multi-task multi-team the way Texy does. Any woman whose souvenirs of a playoff game are a sunburn, no voice, scorecards and a 2/3 empty bottle of Bushmills is my kind of gal, no matter which team she roots for (well, except for the Yankees. And we were both walking on eggshells for a few weeks there with the Phillies and all.)
It is because of Texas Gal that, when on a job interview for my current position, I could do 10 minutes on Jonathan Papelbon and Jacoby Ellsbury (the interviewer was from Boston). It is how last week, on a night TBF was trying to gently remind me of how early I had to get up the next day, I refused to budge because I wanted to see Papelbon pitch, and whined about it, and when they flashed to the bullpen I cried out, “Cinco ocho!” and TBF froze in his tracks. “How the *hell* do you—oh, nevermind.” (Texy designed some shirts recently that I covet, but will never own, because when on earth would I wear them?)
Unlike TBF, I do not hate the Red Sox. I realize you will all tell me that it’s a matter of time, but between Texy and my dear friend Lisa (who was in town last week for Springsteen, and I had to research Red Sox bars for her), I do not know that I can hate them, and right now I am going to live vicarously through someone because I don’t have any emotion of my own to bring to things. (I will, however, refrain from describing Papelbon as a dandelion out of deference to his delicate sensibilities.) Well, that’s not exactly true: I can bring the lump that welled up in my throat last night in Cleveland during the last out against Boston, knowing what the streets look like around the ball park and imagining the chaos. I can bring the tears welling in my eyes when the cameras in Colorado go to a shot of two women wearing matching lavendar wigs, hugging each other and jumping up and down, waving brooms. And I can read Texy and anyone else in Boston or Cleveland or Colorado and be mighty glad for them, because, well, I know what it was like last year.
The emotion I can bring is that it should have been us, and it’s not, and there’s a whole lot more baseball we’re not going to be part of. Turning on a game is like going to a minyan in a strange synagogue; the prayers are the same, and a lot of it is familiar, but it’s not your minyan in your synagogue (translation: your service in your church for the goyim amongst us). I like that I can watch a game and talk about it and enjoy it, but it’s just not the same, no matter how many times Tommy LaSorda or Dane Cook or whatever godforsaken spokesidiot comes out and tells us that WE HAVE TO WATCH (when us watching isn’t the problem, it’s the rest of America that thinks baseball is boring - but that’s another article).
When Ray mentioned it, I entered my email address into the Indians’ lottery (although, thanks to TBF, we were already entered in the lottery of any team where it could have possibly mattered). I gotta tell ya, if we had had a chance to buy WS tickets, I would have gone for it. It would have been a poor substitute but it would’ve been something, would’ve been BASEBALL, would’ve been one last gasp of green and blue before Spring Training rolls around.
When I heard about People Magazine’s “Sexiest Fan Contest” - um, well, how do you think we reacted to this at MetsGrrl headquarter? While I’m not about to start my subscription to People magazine any time soon, I am delighted to say that it’s not full of bimbos in bikinis (or even guys in Speedos), and am even more thrilled that there’s a Mets fan represented!
So go VOTE for Brian. You can vote 5 times a day. C’mon, you don’t want the guy with the Yankees hat to win, do you?
For those of you who don’t watch Saturday Night LIve (and for those of you who might normally, but avoided it due to Jon Bon Jovi hosting), these are priceless (there’s two in the clip, one right after the other) - making fun of Dane Cook (which is really not that hard):
Well, we had to watch something inbetween breaks for Cleveland-Red Sox.
So, my weekend hiatus turned into a week-long hiatus, and I’m not sure I have anything more to say right now except, at least I am able to watch baseball again. TBF and I originally were all “We have NO interest in watching the playoffs, what could you possibly be talking about” and then found ourselves watching with more than casual interest, debating strategy and rules and dumb things said by the commentators. But it’s done through this blase, objective, unemotional filter that feels just plain wrong.
I’ve got half-written posts and notes about things I plan to write about, but a break right about now might be okay, I think. Plus I have two overdue Springsteen pieces and a third will be due at the end of next week.
It is still heartbreakingly sad, but not agonizingly so any more.
It was bad enough that I had to be in Philadelphia, bad enough that I had to drive by Citizen’s Bank Park, bad enough that I spent almost the entire day on the other side of the complex from Citizen’s Bank Park, bad enough that every third person in a large crowd of people tailgating or waiting to get into the Wachovia Center was wearing some kind of Phillies regalia, bad enough that we had to endure watching Bruce fucking Springsteen BLESS THE PHILLIES onstage (no, seriously; he asked how they were doing and then made the sign of the cross with his microphone. I almost threw up a little bit in my mouth when he did that), and ultimately, bad enough that we shouldn’t have been at the concert because it should have conflicted with our playoff plans (because otherwise, no sane individual within 3000 miles skips Springsteen in Philadelphia for any reason whatsoever).
But the piece de resistance was after the concert, having to go over to McFadden’s, the bar in Citizens Bank Park, to watch the Phillies-Rockies game. This was not part of our plans, but I magically discovered two incredibly good friends in town for the shows. One is a from-birth Mets fan, the other a from-birth Red Sox fan. And they were going to McFadden’s, and TBF wanted to go to McFadden’s, so I acquiesced. Once we walked in the bar and were surrounded by people in red and white or baby blue and maroon, I didn’t know how I was going to get through it and was totally regretting saying that I was okay with it.
We sat outside on the patio, where they had large screen tv’s set up with the Phillies radio broadcast for audio, and quietly, very quietly, talked Mets and Red Sox and baseball, cheering in whispers. When it came down to that last out, Shane Victorino at bat, things got very, very quiet. Around us, rally caps were on, all eyes glued to the screen.
“I almost feel bad,” I said.
“No, you don’t,” said Karen.
“A little bit,” I insisted.
“No.” TBF was adamant. “Fuck them.”
And they were right, you know, but, still, I have been them, and I had to have some tiny sliver of empathy, because I’m not inhuman. Just a tiny one.
The last out, and final, stunned silence. Everyone starts filing out, quietly. Some of them are still standing there, eyes glued to the tv screen, expressionless, reminding me of TBF after Game 7 and after last Sunday.
We walked out of the bar and started towards the parking lot, and when we got far enough away, I stopped for a minute to do the happy dance.
A little empathy, to be sure, but it’s still the Phillies.
Hello, Cranky MetsGrrl here. I’m cranky because I have to get off the subway in the morning and see this cover, along with the competition’s “SHEA HELLO”. Cranky because - HELLO! SCOTT BORAS REPRESENTS OTHER PLAYERS IN BASEBALL, INCLUDING SEVERAL ON THE METS, and, well, Omar might need to discuss those players with him. And cranky because the coverage of the Winter Meetings is just beyond overblown. I’m waiting for the beat writers to start publishing the GM’s tee times because they have run out of things to talk about.
