Monday, September 18, 2006

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:

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.

[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.

Saturday, September 16, 2006

it’s cloudy out in pittsburgh

It’s all my fault. No, really.

It’s all my fault because I didn’t wear my lucky baseball jeans. I started wearing these last year because they were stretched out perfectly and I could roll up the legs when it was hot and they became the baseball jeans. Unfortunately, though, the baseball jeans have major holes that I have not yet had time to patch, so I didn’t want to sit in them for a seven hour drive to Pittsburgh, and I decided that I would just pack them and wear them to Sunday’s game.

So, there, I admitted it. Blame me.

PNC Park is fantastic. The drive was a breeze. The entire day was wonderful. There are so many Mets fans here we started joking that this was Shea Stadium West. Our seats (front row, right field bleachers, bought from a season ticket holder on eBay) were grand.  We got into the park early and were behind the visiting team’s dugout before 90% of the park (season ticket holders can get into the lower seating bowl 30 minutes before everyone else). A group of happy, rowdy Mets fans showed up not long afterwards (you probably saw us on SNY or the local news), and we proceeded to do the roll call for the entire team while they were stretching. I mean EVERYONE, from Jerry Manuel to Endy Chavez to Mike Pelfrey. The players tried to keep their composure, but the ebullience and good-natured enthusiasm radiating from the crowd - at an away game! - kept cracking them ALL up.  TBF caught a ball from Cliff. I would be jealous except the one-handed, barehanded catch was so impressive it overshadowed any residual envy I might be feeling. Everything was great.

The game, however, was another story altogether.

Despite Willie assuring us during BP that tonight was the night - WILLIE! Willie Randolph, who is never emotional, never gives anything away - I had a pit in my stomach from the first inning on. 
TBF: “Are you okay?”
MG: “I’m fine.”
TBF: “Are you sure?”
MG: “I don’t like how El Duque looks.”
TBF: “It’s the first inning.”

later:
TBF: “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”
MG: “I’m a little tired. I could use some coffee.”
TBF sprints to the nearest concession stand before I could say boo. I wasn’t really that tired, it was an offhand comment, but clearly my mood was alarming enough to cause concern.
TBF: “Is that better?”
MG: “Where are the hits?”
TBF: “It’s tied, 1-1. It’s the *Pirates*. We have the best bullpen in baseball.”

I just couldn’t shake it, you know? I kept sitting there, fidgeting, couldn’t get comfortable (and we had TONS of room, once again, a set of bleacher seats far more comfortable than our mezzanine seats). Keep fiddling with my notebook, my camera, the binoculars. Drink water, close the bottle. Sit up. Lean forward. Binoculars.  TBF is keeping score, as usual, and talking to the usher. He keeps asking me if I’m okay, I reiterate concern, he counters with some statistic that is meant to be comforting. I squint. I look for the pitch count, to anchor me in the game. Something was just wrong. Something didn’t feel right.

By the 9th inning I was trading insults with the amateur hecklers behind us. One guy had it in for Cliff, yelling something about how much he got paid. My response: “Yeah, it’s 100 times more than you make at the 7-11.”
“Cliff, how does it feel to be mediocre?”
“You mean like all of the players on the Pirates?” TBF responded.
“You don’t deserve to be a Mets fan,” this 7 year old kid (really!) started.
I turned around. “No, actually, this is what being a fan is, you defend your team.”
He didn’t have much of a response, and I felt kind of bad.
“And that’s how we do things in Flushing,” I announced, turning around and waiting for Heilman to get that third out.

You know how the rest of it went.

I can’t even say “oh, it was a pitchers’ duel” because we just SUCKED. El Duque did not have it. Mota did not have it.  We thought Heilman would save our souls but as soon as I saw that ball headed our way I knew that we were finished.  We gathered up our Jack Wilson bobbleheads (NOTE TO SHEA: EVERYONE GETS A FREAKING BOBBLEHEAD, NOT JUST KIDS) and sulked our way across the Roberto Clemente Bridge. “Tomorrow,” every Mets fan we ran into assured us, “We’ll get them tomorrow.”

Yeah, but it was supposed to be today.

I have AMAZING photos, but managed to forget the card reader in Brooklyn. They will accompany my PNC Park writeup, after we clinch TOMORROW

please?

Friday, September 15, 2006

OMG HERE THEY ARE

Link is here.

TBF: “We are taking the Midtown to the Lincoln tomorrow so we can stop at the Clubhouse Shop on 42nd Street and get shirts on the way to Pittsburgh.”
“We need to be on the road early.”
“They open at 9am, I checked.”

I WANT ONE NOW

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this is it, this is really happening

I’ve been dutifully following the Magic Number, and making TBF explain it to me and having me explain it back to him for what seems like forever.  I understood it well enough to explain it back to one of my seatmates (one of the sisters) the last time we were at Shea.

But now, that time has come to an end.

Last night, watching the Braves and the Phillies. TBF starting to root for the Braves, until he caught himself.

Putting the game on mute while I did some work sitting on the couch. I look up.
“4-1. Final.”
“That’s it, then.”

Down to 1. One.

And tonight it could be down to zero.

Riding the subway this morning, reading the newspapers over people’s shoulders, getting indulgent smiles when people spot my necklace. Getting to work, and having one of our designers, who is so far from sports or baseball as it could possibly be, try to start talking about the Magic Number to me. (She is going to help me design a logo and do some work on the site, so she has been spending time looking at the blog and mets.com.)
“I was reading over someone’s shoulder on the train. I wanted to remember so I could walk in here this morning and say, ‘So, I hear the Magic Number is down to 2’”
“It’s down to 1, actually, but that’s sweet.” I am touched.

All I can think is: how odd is this? This is not how it works, right? It’s almost not fair, me coming in so late to the party, and being so richly rewarded. It’s not like I expected this, you know - in fact, I expected quite the opposite - but it almost feels like I’m not entirely entitled to crash your party. I would resent me. I’m the girl who started listening to your favorite band right before they became big - so you can’t entirely resent me - but it’s because of people like me your favorite band now plays bigger places or the smaller places they keep trying to play are too crowded.

Oops. Sorry. Guilty as charged.

Selfishly I was wishing for rain in Pittsburgh, or that something happens tonight and somehow we don’t win, just because I wanted to be there tomorrow night and see them celebrate on the field for myself. We were going to bring signs and feather boas and little bottles of champagne, but instead we’re down to my vintage 1986 satin jacket (picked up on eBay last winter - TBF chuckles every time he sees it, recalling that his best friend had one when they were kids) and my brand-spanking-new Jose Reyes jersey.

That’ll do.

Wednesday, September 13, 2006

FLORIDA SUMMARY.

onto pittsburgh! see you there!!!

Monday, September 11, 2006

no, really, was there a game tonight?

This just in from a friend today:

(For those who don’t understand, see this post.)

No, really - was there a game tonight?

Sunday, September 10, 2006

hell, i still love you, new york

Mets Grrl has never left a game early.

I have suffered through freezing cold, rain, wind, drunk morons two rows behind her who offered vividly and gratutiously obscene suggestions as to what couples featured on the Kiss Cam should be doing, Yankees fans in the section on a random Tuesday night taunting us between every at-bat, long subway rides, countless hauls through the long transfer from the 7 to the G, endless waits at Court Square for the aforementioned G, multiple 7 inning stretches, 15 innings, 16 innings, Merengue night security pat downs, and 11 games by herself (including one trip to Philly) before TBF moved back to NYC.  I have endured through multiple - at least half a dozen - Steve Trachsel starts this year.

Never. Not once. Did I leave the game early. Never did I consider leaving the game early, even as I put on another scarf or hat or pair of gloves or warm socks, or eyed the Armitron digital clock out in right field as the hours ticked away.

Today was the first day I broke that rule.

It didn’t help that I worked another 70 hour week, including Friday night post-game for a few hours and most of Saturday. It didn’t help that there had been two and a half weeks of this punishing pace. And, it didn’t help that TBF and I had a rock-and-roll related obligation last night that got us home at 4:50am, after mass consuption of different types of alcohol and assorted pre-, during, and post-show reveling.  We were so hungover this morning we called car service to get to Shea in time, since the MG mobile is in the shop, and we could not get ourselves out of the house until about noon.

The simple fact is this: none of this would have mattered if the Mets had kicked ass. I would have sat there with a blistering headache for six hours if the game had been decent.

Wait, check that.

None of this would have mattered IF THE GAME DIDN’T SUCK SO COMPLETELY AND UTTERLY THERE ARE NO WORDS TO DESCRIBE IT. Nevermind that the outfield was that nail-biting combination of Tucker and Milledge (note to #44: watch ENDY hustle and maybe you’ll learning something. Maybe you should be carrying HIS bags, rookie). Today was the day that not only did Trachsel suck in every possible way, throwing 57 pitches by the third inning, but it was also a day that the Mets did not bring the much-vaunted league record breaking run support behind him. Today was the day that the whole “The Mets do great when Trachsel pitches, what are you talking about” theory gets chucked off of the top deck. Seriously, bite me.

And I am still cranky that it was David Wright bobblehead day.  The freaking bobblehead box says “DANGEROUS - NOT A TOY - DO NOT GIVE TO CHILDREN UNDER 3” and “NOT RECOMMENDED FOR CHILDREN UNDER 8” but yet they were given out only to children under 12. I wanted to stand just inside the entrance with a $20 bill and wave it at kids, but the number thrown at me by their parents was $100.

Which is, I’m sure, the price some of those same parents are listing the bobblehead for on eBay right now.

We left at the end of the 7th inning and right now I do not feel bad about it at all. When I left I looked about as miserable as Mr. Carlos Beltran did, stuck on the bench in the dugout.

This being the closest home game to 9/11, the team sported baseball hats supporting the various emergency services, and pre-game music featured “The Rising” and “New York, New York” by Ryan Adams, both of which MG appreciated.

The whole reason TBF and I planned our roadtrip to Pittsburgh next weekend was because he wasn’t going with his best friend because the Mets were going to clinch well before then. Now I’m not even sure that they’ll clinch next weekend, at this rate.

feh.

Friday, September 08, 2006

the brooklyn dodgers of los angeles

We were in very high spirits tonight. I actually had a night off from work. I got to ride out to the game with TBF. There was no rain in sight. It was a pleasant fall evening, the train was not packed with tennis fans, we got to Shea in enough time to cash in our rained-out game tickets, eat something, and have time to spare. I sat back in my seat, breathed in the green, and was ready to watch my Mets play another magnificent game, especially after last night’s wonderful performance.

Riiiiiight.

The only good thing about the night was
1) I wasn’t working
2) I was with TBF
3) It wasn’t raining
4) There was (something resembling) baseball.

To add insult to injury, there was a row of obnoxious Dodger fans representing in our section, the ones that have to applaud every play. Then again, I would have stood up and applauded three home runs (or however many there were, I stopped counting at one point and actually considered going home after, oh, the third).

There’s another game on Sunday, but it’s the mound dawdler, so we are not entirely buoyed by this thought. However, again, it is baseball, and it is the Mets. I am going to will myself to be cheered.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

A COMMENT ON TODAY’S DOUBLEHEADER.

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radio radio

In the past, Metsgrrl would have rather stuck a fork in her eye than listened to sports talk radio. I remember when WFAN first went on the air - didn’t it replace a country station? - and all I could think was: wow. Talking about SPORTS all the time? 24/7? How is that even possible?

Now, understand that I *like* talk radio for certain things. I used to stay up and listen to Art Bell back in the late 90’s (and still love turning it on to hear about what’s going on in Area 51 these days).  Back before I could afford a tape deck in my car, it was a tried-and-true method to stay awake by listening to right-wing talk radio in the middle of the night. I love the concept of radio, how it’s free, how it goes everywhere, how it brings together people who would never otherwise encounter each other.

But talking about SPORTS? All the time? How would that even be possible?

Last summer, TBF introduced me to the concept of the Fan. First it was, “Let’s see if we can hear Willie’s manager’s report on the way to the game.” It was fine with me, even if I didn’t understand much of what he was talking about. Then, I was treated to the post-game phone calls, which I enjoyed from the whole human-interest and personality angle, because I certainly couldn’t appreciate what they were talking about. I could, however, amuse myself at TBF’s rantings at morons.

This year, however, it all changed. My late night insomnia was now entertained with 66WFAN instead of Coast-to-Coast AM. And, mostly, it was entertainment, because as all of you of course know, maybe one caller out of TEN actually knows what the f they’re talking about. I learned to appreciate the difference between the likes of Steve Somers, Tony Paige and Richard Neer (the latter which gives me slight deja vu, having grown up listening to the old WNEW-FM back-in-the-day). I don’t develop the requisite hatred toward Mike and the Mad Dog, but instead nurture an ennui, if you will, because I decide I just can’t spare the energy to go there.

TBF, however, needs to declare 660 off-limits occasionally. He will yell over, “Don’t turn the Fan on tonight, Melky Cabrera just hit a walk-off home run.” One night, we were falling sleep; all is peaceful. The cat is curled up at the end of the bed. The radio is on TBF’s side of the bed, and all I can hear is “Jeter” “Yankees” and I’m not paying attention, until…

TBF sits upright in the dark.
Now I’m wide awake. “What’s wrong?”
“Hand me the phone.”
“What?”
“I’m calling the Fan.” He gets out of bed.
“No, you’re not.”
“They’re IDIOTS. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”
“Too small. Throw ‘em back. Not worth it.”
He grudgingly assents and gets back in bed.

But the real sign of the times was the night I was falling asleep and TBF comes to turn out the light and turn down the radio, and apparently in my sleep I mumbled something about the idiots calling to criticize Willie on a night he actually did a good job.
“They’re stupid.  You should call,” I mumble.
“Shhh. Go to sleep, Mets Grrl.”

Right now, I am sitting up writing this, because TBF is on hold in the bedroom, waiting to talk to Steve Sommers, about our favorite household subject, the pitching rotation for the playoffs. The pressing issue is, of course, is that Mr. Mound Dawdler has significant seniority on the Mets, but TBF feels that the manly thing to do would be for said turtle-pitcher to approach Mr. W. Randolph and tell him that he should not be part of the playoff rotation.

If any of my friends really knew that this is how we spent our evenings—no, wait. They’d NEVER believe me.

But you do, don’t you?