Wednesday, July 07, 2010

MILEZ IS DED. [7-7-10]

Mets v Reds
7-7-10

“SOH-DAH! WAH-TAH!”

Tonight, the “SOH-DAH!” girl’s cry was augmented by “WAH-TAH!” If you sit upstairs, in the People’s Seats, you know the “SOH-DAH!” girl; some day I will find a way to record her, probably by walking up to her, turning on my phone’s recorder, and asking her to do her thing. I mention her here because when I mentioned her on Twitter, I was greeted with a dozen messages of “I LOVE HER!” and “I KNOW HER!” and “SEE, WE’RE NOT THE ONLY ONES!”

TBF hates her. He never ever noticed her until the one game I started mimicking her. Now he can’t not hear her. “Oh GOD!” he always exclaims, as though he is in some type of extreme pain. “Make it stop!”

I am focusing on my favorite vendor in the Promenade, and not the game right now, because I am still getting over our loss to Bronson Arroyo. I am still getting over his ridiculous leg kick, his execrable guitar playing, his questionable song choices, his consistent ability to get the Mets to hit up the middle, smack into a waiting infielder’s glove. (I will not criticize his hair length, because it is not 1950. Seriously, people, get over it.)

I knew this game wasn’t going to be easy, but I didn’t think it was going to be as hard as it was. I didn’t know that Angel Pagan’s first inning HR was going to be the only one. I didn’t know that Jon Niese was going to try to follow Johan’s example and help his own cause, but I also didn’t know that he was going to execute the finest example of a TOOTBLAN [Thrown Out On The Basepaths Like A Nincompoop] I have seen on the Mets in a long time. I know the TOOTBLAN is a Cubs-centric statistic (thanks to Ryan Theriot), but Jon Niese deserves it for that solidly boneheaded move. I swear, he just wanted to get dirt on his uniform. I hope everyone in the dugout gave him endless amounts of crap when he got back there.

It was not as hot at Citi tonight as you would have thought, with temperatures hitting 100 in Central Park again, and 101 at LaGuardia, there was a slight breeze when I got off the 7 train. I said “slight”. I will not go into my tirade about the need to confiscate open water bottles, because any sane individual would be carrying a water bottle on the New York City subway in this heat, because I am tired of arguing with boneheaded security moves at Citi Field. (I understand the need generally, but you could check them, and if they’re FROZEN, then they’re not alcohol, and the whole “well if they’re frozen then they’re hard and can be used as weapons” just makes me want to smash my head into a brick wall. WHY DO YOU WANT US TO HATE YOU?)

[Sorry, I said I wasn’t going to do that.]

The park was still empty, except for Row 14 of my section, my row, where every seat was filled, in a row where every seat is never ever filled. On a hot night, that’s exactly what you want.

It seemed a shame that the 3rd place Mets were playing the 1st place Reds and yet no one came out. It was not that hot. It was actually pleasant as the night went on. That 10 degree difference caused by the wind off Flushing Bay that works against you in April worked for us tonight, big time.

Jon Niese was not terrible tonight, not by a long shot. And not as bad as the idiots around me seemed to believe he was when he gave up the second hit. It was one of those moments you want to turn around and say, “What is your problem? Have you paid attention at all to what he did tonight?” and read them his line but you realize it would be lost on them. They would rather boo and complain than look at what actually happened and think, “C’mon, buddy, get it back together.”

[I hate that fans have nowhere to hang K cards any more. Don’t tell me about the tiny corner of the last section of the promenade where they let you hang them under the stairs. K cards, off the railing, not blocking advertising, will not hurt anyone. They are a proud baseball tradition, and anyone who bans them hates baseball. ]

Every time we thought we were going to rally, people would ground into double plays. Citi Vision was telling us to LET’S GO METS in about sixteen new flavors, all of which are dreadful. I do not understand why people will not cheer of their own accord, but will do anything the stupid screen tells them to, exactly when it tells them to. This includes clapping at the second strike.  Is this television’s fault? (Is this too much “old man yells at cloud”? Probably.)  Matthew Morrison appears on the screen to exhort us to “LET’S GO METS!”
“Who is that, and why do I care?” TBF asks.
“‘Glee’,” I said.
“Again, who is that and why do I care?”
“I already told you.”
“Why don’t they get Eric Holder or Elena Kagan to do that?”
“Can they do that?”
“Sure, why not. What’s-his-name wears a White Sox hat all the time.”
“You mean THE PRESIDENT?”
“Yeah. Him. See? You knew who I meant.”
I didn’t want to point out that while we would be thrilled by this, neither the current Attorney General of the United States nor the future Madam Justice of the Supreme Court were liable to get very many other people out of their seats and rocking. (More’s the pity.)

I was about to write about the last innings of the game, but I realize that starting to type about Jerry’s inability to execute a double switch or muster any tactical competence whatsoever is going to give me a headache.  I am irked at the loss. I am irked that the Reds took 2 out of 3. I am nervous about the weekend, nervous about Carlos Beltran, nervous about the All-Star Break, nervous about the road trip.

(I am speechless at Jerry’s announcement that Carlos will play the first two games after the break, and then REST TWO GAMES - the latter two games being the ones I WILL BE AT and am packing a Beltran shirt for. Is it too much to hope I can wear it in Phoenix or Los Angeles?)

I do not think I will be back at Citi before the break, but it depends on how the weekend goes. I know TBF is itching to show up on Sunday if we take the first two games against the Braves. It will be unlikely that I will also stay away if that’s the case. It seems silly, sometimes, to chase the streaks, to add all these extra games, but when you miss a game like Tuesday night’s, it just makes the urge worse, not better.

Finally, to make you feel better, I offer Bronson Arroyo murdering “Black” by Pearl Jam. It is horrible. It will make you cackle with glee.

[Hat Tip to Ted Berg for putting me on the hunt for more terrible Arroyo vids; see Ted’s selection on his site.]