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.

Now That is a fun, fun fact.

From today's Herald...

"...The slugger’s .333 average would be the highest for a left-handed Sox hitter since Mo Vaughn finished at .337 in 1998..."



If you don't know which present-day slugger we're talking about here, but are still a Red Sox fan, I recommend reading a site closer to your intellectual speed. I love David Ortiz and Mo Vaughn for different reasons...and the same reasons. I can only hope that in 2015 I've got another big, slow, powerful quasi-first baseman with bat control to root for. Strongly agnostic as I am, that would be what I call a holy trinity.

Since 2004, I've shed a lot of superstition. I don't deeply believe in signs (or at least don't think we realize how many of these "signs" are actually Yield and Stop signs). I do believe that there is such thing as pure coincidence. But I also remember seeing Johnny Damon hit two home runs off Javy Vazquez in a June 2004 game at the Stadium, otherwise a miserable Derek Lowe experience, especially every time Javy struck a Sox out and the scoreboard flashed "Javy Nice Day." Complete with stupid 60s tie-dyed swirls and, you know, the Wal-Mart mascot. I wanted deeply to stab myself with my scorecard pencil; I settled for breaking it in six and burning the half-finished scorecard later. Goddamn it, Derek.

(I don't wear t-shirts like this anymore, but my is it brilliant.)



The point is game 7 of the 2004 ALCS. Johnny Damon and his two home runs. And, oh, the grand slam that basically shut the door until the Pedro Martinez Experience brought slight unfounded flashbacks of 2003.

You know damn well who threw that fat pitch that still hasn't landed (and never really will) in the happiest corner of my mind's eye. Yeah. Javy nice day to you too. Enjoy your 70s hangover while you're at it.

Is David Ortiz's amazing transformation into a genuine Triple Crown threat a sign? And the 12 years since 1995 thing?

Did this blog's creation make this happen? Does this mean that like 1995, we might (gulp) catch a bit of a whompin' from the Injuns in the ALCS if, new Mo willing, we get there?

No, not really.

But it's still giving me a grin as big as The Ritz.

One game left: Super Job!!!

A good day, and the last regular season game with any significance at all, thanks in part to J.D. Drew doing my initials proud with a blast of...power? Does that make...five, tools? (Stay tuned. Hell yes I want more!!!!!![?!?!])

So yeah, it's official. The possible ALCS matchup you probably don't really crave, Sox v. Injuns, would include four games in Boston. Best record in The league. And the leagues. Gold stars and scratch n' sniff stickers all around.

I'll take the time later to describe the greatest pitching performance I've ever seen live (and yeah, I saw me some Pedro) because a thing of beauty is a joy forever. My man John Keats said that. John Keats yo.

Fuck to the yeah.

Boss Vaughn is happy. I'm happy. Now let's bust some heads.

Three games to go: My People...Hold On

Yeah alright, I'm a little...nervous isn't the word. Tired, maybe, since I'd rather be focusing on the amazingly entertaining mediocrity of that AAAA league we call the National League (the Rockies haven't lost since September 15th!) then semi-sweating the last three games. Sure, Joe Torre showed some nice signs of not giving a fuck last night (your closer for the night: Jose Veras...and Joba's pitching the 8th instead of the 9th in that configuration...why?), but teams can stumble into victory, especially when the competition is the Tampa Bay Rays nee Devil Rays.

(Incidentally, Paul Lukas' Uni Watch is right: Tampa's new, no longer devilish look is borrrring. At least a crazy minor league look would be entertaining...and appropriate considering the franchise history.)

It's a different scenario thanks to the playoff system and the fact that, really, the Sox can't blow what matters: we're in. But the difference between facing the wounded Angels and trying to negotiate the tilted-cap Scylla and young Charybdis is...significant. And boy oh boy do the Sox have a recent history of collapse.

A little funk to pep you up for tonight, which will hopefully be at least half-magical. We are standing on the verge of getting it on, my people. Hold on.

Greatest name in sports?

Coco Crisp, meet Lance Broadway, fresh off his first major league win. Lance Broadway, Coco Crisp, nicknamed partially after the Cocoa Krispies monkey. You make the call.

(Shame he doesn't play for one of the New York teams.)

New York Yankees 1, Geography and the Divisional System 0

Now that is true greatness. The Yankees' greatness transcends SPACE! Say what you will about the Yanks' impressive run from below .500 to the Wild Card, but the plotline we never saw coming was their entry into the AL West race.

Somewhere in a third-world country where shirts like this get dumped, there's some guy with an amazing collection, including Buffalo Bills World Champions gear and Boston Red Sox 1986 World Series Champions shirts. Mercy, mercy, mercy. (R.I.P. Joe Zawinul.)

(Oh, and thanks to Jim.)

Four games left: The Love Movement.

Fun fun game last night. The offense came alive, thanks in large part to another big game by Manny "Christmas In September" Ramirez's big game, and Dustin Pedroia and Mike Lowell, one coming out of a slump, the other becoming the drug-free Butch Hobson in tying his record for RBI by a third baseman.

So I'm in love. I know I won't feel this way later, and I'm not fully comfortable with our #2 and #3 starters (Schill and Monster Zero) (Oh, has any announcer pronounced Dai-SU-ke's right this year? Maybe that SportsCenter guy who loves pronouncing Spanish names properly?) (How many parenthetical statements can I make in a row? About three.) in the playoffs. But a healthy lineup that can bash like this every now and then, an Okey-dokey bullpen in spite of the the queasy bespectacled mad Canuck's struggles and, yes, the SI curse (excellent article, by the way; really explains why the hop in Pap's fastball makes him so unhittable), and enough starting pitching makes me feel infatuated with our chances again. These are good times and a true delight to watch.



Scott Kasmir and Josh Beckett willing, tonight might be the night we party like it's 1995, one of the years the title of this blog pays tribute to, and the first year I saw the Sox in the playoffs in my real first days of true baseball fandom. Beware, Anaheim Angels of Los Angeles. Beware.

No Context Necessary #7

Six games left.

Time to hang up the inspirational poster on the bar wall.

Today is a good day because...

...today we can't lose.

Second-hand news.

One quick post before I'm off to Chicago this Labor Day weekend, for those of you who haven't yet subscribed to Baseball Prospectus. Will Carroll reports that "As expected, Manny Ramirez will miss about a week, but won't go on the DL. The Red Sox don't just seem calm about this, they almost seem disinterested." When YES showed Manny sneezing and wincing afterwards at the game yesterday, it's was not a good sign: this brightens my day up a bit.

Brewers are under .500. Man. Looks like all the urine-stained pants of Milwaukee are just due to overconsumption of shitty beer, not pennant chasing.

Happy end of summer madness, all. It's gonna be a good September.

GAMES 133-134: And let us never speak of that series again.

Just leave New York. Don't think about how Roger Clemens shut the lineup down even when he couldn't find the strike zone and Chien Mien-Wang then confirmed with even more no-hit innings that yes, it's not you, it's us. Don't think of how wasted Curt Schilling's outing was, or how if it wasn't for Kyle Farnsworth (best picture ever of him here) we would have been shut out twice, having wasted our offense on the White Sox. Don't consider the fact that a sweep was the ONLY outcome that could constitute genuine failure, and just like that, it's 5 games again and Yankees fans are taunting me all around my cubicle. And don't let me keep thinking just how long indefinitely is. Just leave this magical city. There's nothing for you here right now:

No Context Necessary #6

GAME 132: The Legend of Joba Chamberlain!

Good game last night: Andy Pettite remains the Yankees' best starter, Daisuke frustrated the hell out of me with that first inning but settled down thereafter and was just left in a little too long, and my feeling that this was the game of the series the Sox were going to lose came true, but when you're 7 games up, you can concede when the better team for the night won. The Yankees capitalized on their opportunities. They were the better team.

I actually listened to the last few innings on the radio because I was tired, have no TV at home, and didn't really feel like buying another beer to hang around the Boulevard Tavern for the last innings after the Damon home run. As such, I didn't actually see Joba Chamberlain get himself in and then out of trouble with that tremendous fastball/slider combo (I have watched him pitch before, for the record, and yes, his stuff is filthy), but did hear John and Suzy repeatedly talk of this as another inning in "the legend of Joba Chamberlain."

Legend? Legends aren't true, usually involve people who are long dead, and are retold in shitty CGI. Joba Chamberlain has pitched a grand total of 10 innings, two less than there were labors of Hercules. Those ten innings have included 17 Ks, and yes, this kid could be good, but Legend, John and Suzy? Combined with a new annoying catchphrase ("Nice job-a, Joba!"), the evidence seemed to point to a foregone conclusion, namely, Sterling's douchery. What legend?

But lo, my ceiling opened and from the skies came a scroll. This is the true legend of Joba Chamberlain. Read only if you dare tempt that the prophecies may not come true:



...and O!, in a summer where the actress Julia Stiles doth star in a fine 111-minute chase sequence so too there will come a Pitcher of similar heavy brow, a mammoth being, a paragon of action and masculinity, a human manifestation of a large Plate of Ribs, a Native American playing the American Pass-Time.

He could hurt a Horsed Hide through a ring of arrows and past the behemoth David Ortiz, or at least cause the beast to hit a weak fly out! Woe to the three-headed Beast Eric Hinske, the snarling but Docile J.D. Drew, and all the other Monsters of the Eastern American League, for this Fire-balling Hero Slayed them all, for upwards of One inning every two days!

Away, you Banshee Blue Jays!

To Hades, you Devilish Rays!

Begone, Bloated Boston and Diseased Baltimore!

And the Bronxians did rejoice, and Wankerias, Royal Jester, did add a new Pun to his list, which his most ardent and true audience, himself, did find much delight in. Young Joba was slain fighting a mighty dragon and the Bronxians still finished Two Games behind Neptune's warriors but a Legend was Born!

And they lived happily until they died. Which was five minutes after this sentence was typed.