By Bill Ribas
The latest news out of Flushing is that Johan Santana is headed for an MRI, the hope that it’s only bone chips, or maybe some of the stitching of his jersey is getting caught on his elbow when he throws. Who knows. As a Mets fan, I have endured the lows of poor play, the highs of championships, but never anything like this year. The laundry list of players out at the moment, sans Santana, seems interminable: Beltran, Cora, Delgado, Francoeur, Maine, Martinez (Ramon), Martinez (Fernando), Niese, Nieve, Putz, Reyes, and Wright. That’s a dozen guys right there, although Francoeur should be okay in a day or so. During spring training, on paper at least, things were looking up. After disappointing finishes the last two years, this seemed like the time of redemption. Put it all behind you boys, and let’s get out there and win a pennant.
Of course, no one expected the curveball delivered from Citi Field. Instead of romping along, winning, say, 2 out of every 3, the season has played out like a continual “man gets hit in groin with football” clip featured on the Simpsons. An injury or two over the course of a season is expected; Having the bulk of your squad taken out like swine flu blowing through the clubhouse is not.
This latest series with the Phillies should have been a hoot to watch. With all the trash talk between the two teams over the last few years, a heated rivalry has emerged, and this could have been the time in the season to put them away, quell the stories of tanking last year, and continue on the road to the World Series. Not a chance though. To heighten the tension, the Phils acquired Pedro Martinez late in the season, who had his moments with the Mets, but tired toward the end of his tenure. Still, at this point he was relatively fresh, and a loss to him by the Mets would be yet another nail in the (by now) heavily studded coffin. Mets Pitcher Oliver Perez must have watched “Rocky” the night before, because only such a lingering and heartfelt love for Philadelphia explains his lasting just 2/3 of an inning, and giving up 6 runs before shuttling off to the showers in the top of the first. By the middle of the game, I couldn’t take it anymore, stopped the recording, and went outside. I figured maybe (the eternal hope), they’d come back and win late in the game. They did try, but the news on Sportscenter later that day was an unassisted triple play by the Phils to end the game. Once again, history made at our expense. Ugh.
Yet I maintain that being a Mets fan makes me a better person, learning time and again to live with disappointment and loss, and that tomorrow is another day, time marches on, and that maybe those horrible calendars at Hallmark stores filled with catch phrases and slogans, laced with pictures of puppies and kittens aren’t so far off the mark. Baseball is, after all, only a game. I have seen fans who get way too involved emotionally in the game, lurching out of their seats on the couch as if they have been shot in reaction to a play. I have seen how every loss the Yankees have turns a friend of mine into an insufferable lout, moody beyond words, and pretty much unbearable to be around until the next game begins. For me, so the Mets lost half their bench, the bulk of their power and speed, starting and relieving pitching? No worries. Even the replacements brought up from Buffalo get hurt? Just a scratch. Santana has a bad arm and may be out for the season? What else can you throw at me?
I even thought of going to the Red Wings game last Sunday to get Bill Buckner’s autograph, not to feel better about myself, but to meet the man who undoubtedly relives a baseball nightmare daily. Not known for his statistics as much as a famously missed a ground ball back in ’86, Buckner made my day, essentially opening the door for a Mets World Series win. As Buckner has probably winced continually over one play almost a quarter century ago, so I wince daily at the travails of the Mets. I didn’t go see him, but I imagine I know how he feels, as I do, as the nightmare of this Mets season continues to relive and reinvent itself. I will still pull for them every day, as I have since way back in ’69, when they cleaned the clocks of a Baltimore powerhouse, because it will happen again, they will win the Series, and life will be that much sweeter, if only for a moment.
As I watch ESPN this morning, Santana is done for the season, Wagner is off to the Red Sox, and Sheffield leaves the game midway with back problems. I remain unfazed, ridiculously optimistic (I haven’t done the math but I’d guess the wildcard slot is still mathematically available), and look forward to tonight’s game.
Don’t know who cut the deal with ol’ lucifer for that ’86 team, but it sure was a doozie. Of course, I feel little pity for y’all Met fans. I was singing nah nah nah nah during game 6, when everything imploded.
Did you see Castillo’s play tonight?
Bill Buckner – has any guy every made as much of a living out of personal misfortune?
I don’t think there was a deal with Lucifer for the ’86 team, I think the talent was there. But that is the beauty of the game, that anything can happen, and usually anything does. the 86 series, and the playoffs, still rank as number 1 in my book on both sides.
And no, I missed Castillo’s play, although I have the game recorded. I started watching, heard that Perez was out for the season (go figure), and that kind of killed it a little. So I watched Futurama with the kids.
And if Buckner has made a good buck, I say fine. But it’s a double edged sword. How he got so recognized, I’m sure, is not what he intended. And you know how brutal sports fans can be. Ah well.