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.
We’re off to see the Wizard, although it will require a trip to Philadelphia to do it. Nothing here to see until Monday. Enjoy your weekend. Go Rockies.
If everyone who read this blog regularly donated $2 to DonorsChoose, we would be able to buy some baseball equipment for an underprivileged high school in Brooklyn that wants to start girls playing softball. The teacher who’s sponsoring one of the programs describes her dream in her own words:
In order to ensure not only our success as a team but also the confidence of each player at bat, we are in need of a pitching machine. This would be a great help since I will be the only coach and cannot pitch while assisting the girls with other skills. I hope that the machine will help find our next “Michele Smith” or even our next female “Hank Aaron”!
$2. I know, money is tight. But $2 is HALF of what you would have spent to get to Shea for the playoffs just for one game.
I don’t see this money. I don’t touch this money. I get nothing from it. Everything is handled through a reputable 501(c)3 charity. You can send in a check, you can use a credit card. Please, at least click through and read about the two projects before you decide it’s not for you. Just $2!
Next week, we return to content, as I review 2007: The Year That Wasn’t.
Last year, after game 7, to cheer myself up I asked certain frequent fliers if they would out themselves in the comments - folks with distinctive enough IP addresses and/or domains that they were noticable. A lot of you de-lurked last week but I would love to hear from more folks. You don’t have to enter a real email address in the comments field & you don’t have to use your real name, but I would love to know who you are, how you found metsgrrl.com, and where you’re from (if you’re not from around here) - especially if you’re not a Mets fan and came here from another site. So, c’mon, delurk! Just once.
He called the Mets Monday morning, inquiring about his refund for his post-season tickets.
We already knew the answer from last year. Single game tickets will be automatically refunded to your credit card “in a few weeks.”
IN A FEW WEEKS? WHAT ELSE COULD YOU PEOPLE POSSIBLY BE DOING WITH YOUR TIME RIGHT NOW? <-- TBF
You get to make money off the interest from the money we paid you when you LOST in spectacular fashion? <-- MG
No one in the ticketing office has ANYTHING else to do EXCEPT PROCESS REFUNDS. I am quite sure that the phone is not ringing off the hook from people wanting 2008 season tickets, and even if they were, YOU PROCESS REFUNDS FIRST. Quickly. Immediately.
HOW MUCH MORE COULD YOU POSSIBLY WANT TO PISS US OFF?
Of course, you can always have your post-season payment roll over towards your 2008 plan. Which would be fine, but it’s not due until DECEMBER, and I am not quite sure, again, why the Mets are entitled to make money off of my money. In order for me to get a refund, I have to send them a letter requesting one, which, of course, most people won’t do. I, myself, am weighing the opportunity cost of the time and effort involved to write the letter, send the letter, follow up on the letter, and wait for the check, when I will have to turn around and send it right BACK to them, versus the interest I could make for that period of time. It’s probably not worth it, but it’s the principle of the thing.
Some people call WFAN, others call the Mets. *sigh*
If we still had these, they would represent $2.
