Postgame, Game 1: Strictly Business.

If you really wanna get down, well, look up. I dunno, man. I'm ecstatic but there's a lot going on right now with me, almost all of it good. But...

Anyone know the song "Overjoyed" by Stevie Wonder. I like that song, and yet I'm listening to The Secret Life Of Plants right now, a challenging and possibly awful record right now. Thank God you meddling kids didn't buy this when I was chilling (or attempting to) and selling some stuff I thought I could live without on Bedford Ave with my friend Harry. Some girl named Madox (Or...wait...Maddox? I hope it wasn't the latter.) took pictures of me thinking I might fit into...I dunno, some magazine I'd regret later. It didn't happen, and the money would have been nice, but I'm pretty average looking to myself, and imma go bald soon enough. Whatever, I was desperate (for $$, mainly) and it was flattery. Hope someone out there is enjoying "17 Days" right now, because I would love to flip that 45 on 33 right now.

Beckett was masterful.

Coco made a few plays you didn't even notice. Someone make this man a cereal already.

Ellsbury was nicely deployed. Someone buy Tito Francona a shot of this if he needs one after Friday...not that you'll see him around Boston. One of these days Jim, who sent me a genuinely...great? Globe piece on Mike Lowell and the shit he's been through, will set me straight on Boston, a place I love and fear and just don't know very well.

You know where I'm from if you've been following this thing from the start. And you haven't. (Unless you're Josh Wilker, I guess.) Me and Mo, man. Norwalk, CT. The Martime Center is pretty close to where I was born. Pretty shiny aquarium.

I'm tired. This doesn't all make sense to anyone but me, but this is ten minutes of writing and linking, roughly. I didn't mean to end up having just gotten home at this hour, but Erik Marcisak means more to me than I can say, so I stayed in the bar and stuck to two beers. Er, and a vodka Rick Younger bought me. I don't like vodka that much, but clear is better than brown as far as water goes, and a shark on whiskey is mighty risky:



And one more thing. Mets fans, seriously...



The next imaginary round is on me.

Night.

N.Y. Metropolitans Game #162: Ya Gotta Believe...But Ya Gotta Play All 162 Games, Too.

Oh, goddamnit. Glavine...

Erg. And I saw John Maine pitch the best game I've ever seen in person yesterday. And...

And Philadelphia is a city in need of a championship, but that lack of success has made for some sour souls...

And...

Fuck.

I'm looking at this picture and it looks sad to me, when I should actually be infuriated. See, I have a traumatic memory with a Mr. Met. It was a Binghamton Mets game. I was ten. Some kid was having fun with Mr. Met shooting a Super Soaker at him, which I did not understand was clearly something prearranged. So innocent Joshua Lee Drimmer, not yet jaded, sarcastic, cynical, or ever confused for anything resembling cool, thought, "Ooh, cool. And I've got this cup of water..." And yeah, so I kinda splashed him. And a voice came from Mr. Met like that ol' voice of death and ice cream, a scary fuckin' thing to hear coming from such a friendly, jovial, baseball-headed...well, not man...suit. You know, like Tom Carvel's voice...but angry...



And this voice was not offering me the crappy ice cream Patton Oswalt waxed not-so-nostalgically on a couple years back on Feelin' Kinda Patton. It wasn't friendly if creepy. No, it was saying, in a gravely, cigarette-destroyed yet LOUD voice,

"GET THIS KID OUTTA HERE!"

And I was taken out of the game, to great embarrassment since the summer camp kids I'd come with watched me leave, crying. They let me back in, but there's still a man somewhere in Upstate New York who I hope is suffering a very random stabbing pain right this moment, preferably in the taint. (Just one quick jab. I'm a kind soul:)

So you can see how sad I truly am for New York's "other" team. You know, the one that actually does deserve better.

And this is all I have to say about John Maine. I have seen the future. Maine's the name. Effective wildness (for now) is the game. Hey, it's worked before. And it can be solved.

But the present is nothing but pain. We Sox fans know this pain from a long history of collapse and near-misses. I'm so, so sorry.